“You’re probably right,” replied Emma at last, gulping. A group of zombies had broken away from the growing host and – having seen her standing in plain sight – were running their way.
“Oh fuck!” she said, eloquently. Turning back to John, she found a coward shaped hole in the air where he had been, swiveling to look at the door they had come through she was just in time to see his metaphorical yellow streak exit along with the rest of him.
Darting the same way, she started pelting down the stairs – they were so small she felt more like she was sliding down them than running. Up ahead she heard thumping of frenzied feet coming up to meet them. John used his forward momentum to swing using the banister and planted a neck breaking foot in lucky contestant number one’s face. Any smugness he felt was probably cut short when the bannister gave way under his extreme density and he rolled through the remainder of their adversaries, bowling them all over through strategically planting his face into the staircase again and again.
Emma wanted to yell strike but doubted he would see the humor when he got back up. She instead opted for using every Zombies head as a stepping stone on her remaining trip down the stairs – she doubted the damage would take long to heal given what she had seen previously, but maybe it would slow them down for a few crucial seconds.
Emma grabbed John and dragged him to his feet “God it is like picking up a statue,” she grunted.
“My face is aware of that, thanks,” John answered, still a little stunned. He had planted with his full weight a number of times.
Exiting through the small front door, Emma swung erratically at the sound of automatic gunfire chattering in the distance – it was coming from the barrier as the National Guard must have finally received permission to open fire into the former civilians. From the top of the stairs, Emma could just see the outlines of the retreating military police, drawing slowly back toward the barrier as their comrades tried to keep the growing numbers away from them.
Turning back towards the soon-to-be path of their retreat, Emma was treated to a second surprise - walking out of an alley with four other members of Boston’s seedy underbelly was Steve. Emma was incensed to note they were laughing.
Steve turned in time to see Emma staring at him but his gaze slid past to something behind her – by his widening smile she doubted the object of his attention was set to work in her favor. With a small flick of his hand in a wave he turned and started to run up the street away from the barrier.
With all due dread, Emma turned. The barrier was offering no quarter to the newly turned monsters – and the frustration was showing. Fighting was breaking out among pockets of the creatures. One of the nearest groups – Emma counted five active participants and one trampled less active member - had apparently decided John and Emma looked like snackie smores and were barreling down upon them at an alarming rate of speed.
For a brief second, Emma wondered if they could take them. Probably… maybe some hidden mechanism in her brain offered. On the one hand these hapless bystanders have not had long to firm up and develop extra muscle mass she thought to herself in the blink of an eye. On the other hand, however, they also feel very little pain, are completely relentless and outnumber us 3 to 1. 2.5 to 1 if I don’t count the guy crawling towards me behind his fellows.
“I say we run,” said Emma turning to John, only to find him gone, again. Turning, she found him jogging up the hill in the general direction that Steve had gone, away from the Zombies formerly known as People behind them.
“Stop leaving me behind!” she called after him as she ran to catch up.
“Stop being so slow!” he answered, still keeping up his pace.
Turning a corner on the cobbled street, Emma intelligently noted “Awk!” as a hand grabbed her by the throat and shoulder to roughly drag her into cover behind a concrete barrier.
“Shhhhhhh,” asked John politely, and seconds later the drove of Zombies tore around the corner, almost on all fours as they ran hunched forward.
Emma sat quietly as they rocketed past, breath held almost melodramatically. Within another thirty seconds they were out of sight, past yet another bend in the road. Part of Emma felt sorry for them, knowing that the people they were yesterday were still trapped inside somewhere. The pragmatist in her hoped they ran into another barrier manned by people with heavy weaponry. They were too dangerous to just be rolling through the streets of Boston.
Getting out of his cover John walked into the street, leaning slightly to peek more fully around the same corner the Zombies had disappeared around.
Satisfied, he turned to Emma, a dark look upon his face.
“Now we just have to find where that idiot Steve went,” he told her, just seconds before being bitten on the ankle by the semi-incapacitated Zombie, crawling around the corner to attack under the radar.
A cracking of bone accompanied the event. Apparently, this Zombie was following the crowd at a more sedate pace.
“You’re wasting your time on me pal,” John said, before kicking the unfortunate creature’s jaw into its brain with his spare foot. Eric the half-Zombie rolled peacefully to the side, worldly considerations permanently forgotten.
“Are you okay?” Emma asked, steadying the bleeding John with an outstretched hand.
“Yeah I – ow,” he said, limping over to momentarily sit on a barrier. “He really got in deep there.”
Looking at John’s ankle, Emma did not like what this represented for their chances of survival, should the remainder of the Zombies that had previously chased them around the corner double back there was no way they could now outrun them.
Emma looked up to see – right on cue – the group of five Zombies lope back into sight, obviously looking for their missed prey. Emma’s eyes locked with the lead member for just a second and something passed subconsciously between them. But for the grace of God, she thought to herself our situations could be completely reversed.
Here stood a hapless bystander transformed by the same virus that had so altered her. Yet by a single week’s difference in their conception, here they stood as absolute enemies.
The moment passed as she knew it must, the crazed people facing them had no choice but to seek whatever Serotonin they could eke from her brain. They broke out into a run towards Emma and John, the intervening 50 yards would not grant much preparation time but the beleaguered duo tried to ready themselves as best they could.
Emma was surprised therefore when a few seconds later a couple of people blundered out of a bank right in the path of the Zombies. Emma instantly recognized them from the hard faces that had surrounded Steve not moments earlier.
The thugs were only momentarily startled though. The leftmost of the Steve’s men – a rough looking black man wearing a close fitting black skully – punched a slender female Zombie hard enough in the chest to break her ribs and collapse her lungs. The Zombie, a petite thing, crumpled to the ground and lay gasping for a moment before slowly dragging herself after whichever set of legs was closest, her breaths shallow as befitted someone just had her oxygen capacity cut by about 80%.
“It’s nice to finally catch a break,” Emma said after a few seconds of watching.
“Speak for yourself,” replied John, leaning back on the barrier and re-inspecting his ankle and re-aligning a broken bone by hand - for quicker healing. He had the good grace to wince as he did so.
Emma watched as a heavier Zombie, a white man who looked halfway between linebacker and couch potato, broke through the guard of the other henchman of Steve’s, clawing at his face to the sound of screaming. This was enough of an entrance for a different member of the pack to jump on the distracted man, bringing him to the pavement with a wet sound from his head. He and the heavier zombie instantly set to the exposed cranium with shoving and hissing.
Surprisingly, the other henchman was able to hold his own against attacks from the two remaining members of the pack – their seeking hands met air o
r firm blocks. Another slight Zombie, this time a man who had the aura of graphic design about him, tried jumping at the thug in frustration but found himself redirected headfirst into a wall. He lay crumpled after the impact so Emma could only assume the impact had been enough to render serious damage.
Without knowing why, Emma broke into a run towards the conflict. As usual, she had no plan for how to handle the situation or this new highly competent foe.
Hearing her running footsteps, the man turned to face the latest attacker. Emma pulled up short, unsure if she should try barreling into him but some hidden voice of common sense told her not to, that he could potentially misdirect this momentum against her so the two circled warily for a moment neither throwing a punch.
When the attack came, it was from an unexpected vector, a grabbing Zombie – the one whole lungs he had smashed earlier – grabbed his ankle (Emma mentally noted to pay much closer note of downed Zombies after these two close calls) setting him temporarily off balance.
He put a toe into the struggling downed Zombie’s temple – ending her grasping as Emma stepping in and delivering a hefty hook directly into the surprised man’s throat, making his eyes bulge.
Emma once more locked eyes with the previous leading Zombie, a seemingly Indian man with hefty stubble. He grabbed the choking thug and punched him repeatedly in the back of the head until he was able to claw his way in.
Hearing a wet sound from behind her, Emma turned to see John awkwardly hobble away from the smashed face of one of the feeding Zombies.
As much as Emma hated the necessity, she knew that stemming the Zombie population was necessary. She didn’t even look away as he performed a similar action on the other feeding attacker.
Walking over, Emma saw him ready to perform his finisher one last time, this time on the feeding Indian man.
“Not this one,” she told him, surprising herself as much as him.
“Why?” he asked, emotionlessly.
“Sometimes you just have a feeling, you know?” she replied.
“Not really,” he answered, looking around “But no problem, I can’t see this situation getting unfucked anytime soon.”
Emma had to admit he had a point. Looking around herself, she spied a bag the first thug had dropped as they entered into the conflict. Unzipping it, Emma was unsurprised to see it filled with an untidy mess of cash.
“Don’t you get sick of being right at times like this?” John asked, peering over her shoulder.
“You know, I really do,” she answered earnestly, rustling in the bag. Eventually she threw it onto the top of a bus stop – to be collected later.
* * * * *
Roaming the streets under the circumstances seemed like a bad idea. To get a better view, Emma and John had broken into a theater and gotten onto the roof. A sign close to their position proudly proclaimed in 5 feet high led letters that the ballet was coming soon. Somehow, Emma doubted it.
“Any sign of that punk?” asked John, Steve had obviously rubbed him the wrong way with his shenanigans. He had to ask because he had foolishly parted with his binoculars once more.
Emma didn’t answer, intent as she was upon a large group of police, deployed with riot shields, backing slowly up the street. They were backing up under the sheer press of Zombies pressed against their plastic shields – the disparity of numbers was somewhat jarring, hundreds of them were pushing, trampling, snapping their jaws driven by raw need. Seeing so many of them in that state, together, was just plain weird.
The front of their line was like a meat grinder in slow motion, every so often a Zombie – face pressed against the hard clear plastic of a riot shield – would trip and go under the feet of the next eagerly awaiting customer.
They didn’t seem to get back up; instead they were lost among the dark tide crashing against the humans - slowly the police were being pushed back to Emma and John’s position.
“No sign of him,” she finally answered, her brain finally taking the time to replay John’s question from a minute before. “It seems like they have things.. I guess sort of under control.” Emma added, cautiously “If they get people with guns up here,” she added and John nodded.
“How many do you think there are?” John asked, signaling that he would like his binoculars back but as of yet not receiving them.
“At least three hundred, maybe four,” she answered. Looking at a face pressed against a riot shield, she saw it draw back and cough violently. Blood spray splattered the plastic.
She trailed off as she saw another Zombie cough and this time it went through a crack between two shields and splattered the face of a cop, who instantly turned and dropped to one knee then fell to the ground, rolling in agony.
“Oh shit,” she said, intelligently. John reached for the binoculars and instantly found his hand slapped away “No take backs!” she said before thinking.
The squabbling instantly reminded her of her sister and injected a degree of melancholy into her day. She handed the binoculars back to John without a word – he didn’t question the good fortune and focused in on the scene.
Even without the binoculars, Emma could see in broad strokes what was happening. The weakened spot in the shield wall became a leak, which became a rupture. Soon, Zombies were pouring through the gap and jumping on anyone in their way – the whole scene was a bloodbath.
“Why are they – why do we cough up so much blood?” she asked, remembering her own cough and red tinted hankies.
“They haven’t had any Serotonin so they aren’t healing. One of the genetic time bombs the virus delivers is a propensity for pulmonary embolism – the arteries in the lungs are weakened and explode. Of course if a Zombie has enough Serotonin in their system they will be making a supply of stem cells that keep it healed.”
That explained everything neatly to Emma. Every time she got close to losing control her lungs started grating and the bloody cough would start.
“I can see at least ten down there with blood pouring out of their noses. If they don’t feed in the next ten minutes or so they will be dead anyway,” she commented, wondering if one day a vein in her lungs would flat out explode instead of rupture.
John whistled, looking at some scene through the binoculars. Emma waited patiently but when he didn’t expound, she gave a small cough.
An unfortunate reminder, under the circumstances.
John jumped before handing the binoculars back to Emma, pointing so that she could follow.
Focusing in, Emma could see a set of three distinctly military helicopters flying directly towards them and the carnage below.
“So what do we do now?” she asked him.
“I suggest,” he offered “That we ambulate. I recommend we shuffle off as far and as fast as our legs take us.”
“What about Steve?” she asked.
“Fuck Steve,” he answered with appropriate gravity before loping off towards the door that had led them onto the flat rooftop.
Barging out through the front door, they were instantly in chaos – she couldn’t see any sign that the police had ever been holding this mob back just a few moments previously. Emma coughed briefly into her hand as she looked around – to see a group of Zombies looking their way.
Not wanting to chance it, Emma started to run. Glancing behind, she noted the Zombies were running after her – and catching up quickly. “I miss Zombies being slow and shuffling,” she screamed out in frustration.
John stopped and ripped the circular top off a public trash can and turned, throwing it like a discus into the group following. The lid was bent, poorly balanced and twisted in the air but still sheered a leg off of the lead pursuer – most of the group went down in a howling heap.
“There you go – slow and shuffling,” he answered, turning and running again. The solution was elegant but short lived, however. Most of the screaming mass was up and chasing them within seconds.
A swooshing noise announced a
helicopter passing overhead. Looking up briefly while running, Emma saw something black and very army issue. A machine gun chattered to life somewhere over their heads and Emma turned just in time to see the back half of their pursuers disappear in a spray of red. Emma idly wondered if they could heal from something that devastating.
Turning a corner, they both stopped short in horror at the site of a bloodbath.
Apparently a group of humans had decided to hole up in a small corner Starbucks. Zombies had smelled their prey and cracked open the hiding place not unlike an ant hill.
Furthering the analogy, humans were tumbling out, seeking alternate shelter. Some were not content to go quietly into the good night and the crack of gunfire held off the hungry monsters from a hardened group of four or so men and women, who headed back for an alley.
Given the abundance of alternative food sources, the hungry monsters were mostly okay with letting the pricklier group go, focusing instead on the less organized men and women trying to make a break in ones and twos. The result was a slaughter.
“Uhhhhh,” said Emma intelligently, chopper blades thumping overhead and blood thumping in her ears. She coughed and felt sticky red blood on her lips.
“What?” prompted John.
“Did.. did I mention I hadn’t eaten in a while?” Emma answered, looking at the mass of striving humanity in front of her. All she could see was red.
“Fuck not now!” yelled John in frustration but his words were lost on Emma. She was running at a speed she had previously been unable to muster towards the growing pile of groaning, screaming humans – some had managed to escape but the growing majority had been beaten, torn or maimed into submission. The feasting second wave of Zombies showed no discrimination, they ripped into the mass whether the humans in question were dead or merely stunned.
Even more disturbing to Emma – trapped inside her head - was seeing the ones who had been left for a minute or two. So many of them were infected just by blood spray in the area – about half of them would roll over, suddenly oblivious to their pain and fall onto another hapless survivor where the ripping would begin anew.