“At the library?” he asked incredulously, voicing concern with her methodology for finding a gang-banger.
“They have computers – if the internet is not down. They also have indexed every newspaper for the last 15 years, we can do a search to see if he has been mentioned in the local papers. He’s a crook, so it stands to reason he might have hit print.”
The only problem with this brilliant plan, she reflected later as she stood sadly outside the library, is that it kind of requires the library to be open. She half-heartedly tugged the door again to see if it had changed its mind on the matter of being locked. It sadly had not. Libraries closing because of a small state of emergency, what was the world coming to?
Looking around, she saw John’s feet at her eye level and rapidly raising upwards. He had started scaling the ironwork – it wasn’t more than a few minutes of Emma anxiously checking behind her to see if anyone had appeared before he had vaulted over a balcony onto a small stone shelf outside of a window, 30 feet or so above ground level. Looking down at her he winked cheekily, as if to prove how easy this is for someone who isn’t afraid to travel on top of a moving train.
Turning his head away he bought his elbow into sharp contact with the glass. There was a smash but the glass indented only slightly.
“Plate glass,” she offered, raising her voice to be heard but quickly and anxiously checking around for intruders at the noise. In honor of their surroundings, she briefly shushed herself.
John grunted and stepped up onto the balcony he had previously leapt over. A grimace was discernable on his face even from the distance but it didn’t stop him from launching shoulder first at the glass, which gave way before him.
A few minutes later he was unlocking the door and letting her in, rubbing his shoulder the whole time.
“I swear I am getting beaten up a whole heap more since I have known you,” he said with one last twist of his arm. Apparently it passed whatever test he had mentally asserted on it because he quit fussing with the limb and let it finally drop to rest beside him.
Carefully locking back up, Emma and John looked at the huge empty room before them. Emma thought with the large high windows and stonework that it resembled a shrine to knowledge.
“So… what is Steve’s full name again?” asked John awkwardly, breaking the silence.
“Kerchak… Steve Kerchak” replied Emma. John just nodded and headed back in to the library, his fingers dusting the spines of books on one shelf.
Now that she knew John’s real age, this was one of the moments that she could truly see him as the child he was, rather than the adult his body made him. His fingers trailing lazily he could have just as easily been trailing them in a stream as he lay on the bank, or running them along a railing of the school yard he should have been playing in.
He turned around at an intersection and catching her gaze quizzically pointed one arm each way; he looked like an Egyptian hieroglyphic. The moment was lost in his goofiness but Emma smiled anyway then in an over-exaggerated gesture shrugged her shoulders so he could see them. She had never actually been in this library before, normally going to the one at her college when she had something to look up.
She could just make out his return shrug – he took a step right, did an about turn and went left. Emma walked over to where he had been and took the right instead.
The Boston Public Library was big, an edifice to learning from before a time of computers and easily accessible knowledge.
It took them just less than 20 minutes without any help to locate the small bank of three computers on the second floor close to the microfiche area that were dedicated to newspaper archive and indexing.
Typing in Steve’s name, Emma was within seconds rewarded with a couple of hits. He had made the papers a couple of days ago, about the time she had seen him on the local news, and Emma discarded this almost instantly.
The older hit was from a few years previous. Scanning the article, Emma gathered Steve - at the time enrolled in college – had been arrested for battery.
Two arrested, one in hospital
Two local youths were arrested for battery at a Cambridge bar, the Windsor Tap, on Tuesday the 15th. The aggressors, Steve Kerchak and Singh Patel were said to have punched another man and bashed his head into a wooden column leaving him unconscious. The man, whose name has not been released is still in hospital with a concussion.
The Windsor Tap has seen more than its share of violence, according to city officials. A discussion on whether the Windsor should be allowed to retain its liquor license is still underway, a prudent precaution given its history.
Switching to a web browser Emma had a moment of finger crossing that the library still enjoyed internet access in the pandemonium and then Google loaded, silently asserting its search engine dominance. With a small whoof of expelled breath she didn’t know she had been holding, Emma typed in Singh Patel.
Singh gave no results in the Boston area, which she guessed meant he had changed location or it was a different Singh. Patel was a common name; she seemed to remember, so it was probably the latter.
Going back to the newspaper archive, Emma did a further search on the Windsor Tap and was rewarded with a second article - apparently the city council had followed through with the threat and closed it a month later. The owners were mentioned by name when they condemned the decision – a Ron Smith and David Hoon.
Ron Smith and David Hoon, two of the owners of the Pelham arms. Emma doubted that was a coincidence. Remembering David Hoon, Emma was struck with a feeling of annoyance – she knew at the time that the short little man had been lying to her.
Seems like leopards don’t change their spots after all she thought to herself with a quiet chuckle. So Steve took to drinking at their new bar, what is the chance of that, if he didn’t know them on some kind of level?
Doing a quick Google search, she quickly discovered an awful page dedicated to the Pelham Arms – whatever they had paid for the atrocity in black was too much. Reading the ‘About’ page Emma quickly discovered they had been joined by a third partner (presumably so that he could be the licensee) named David Tate.
“Hey John,” she said finally, breaking her silence.
John was on a seat down the bench, good naturedly rocking back on a chair’s back legs by holding his feet under a table.
“Hmmmm?” he answered, looking over to her, completely failing to return the seat to its upright position.
“I think we are going to have to go visit the Pelham Arms,” she answered matter-of-factly.
“Because that worked so well last time,” he retorted and returned to his rocking, using the toes on one foot to balance this time.
“It is only a couple of miles from here…” she responded.
“Across the Charles River. So we will be taking a narrow bridge filled with either a bunch of Serotonin deprived nutbags or military types vigorously enforcing martial law. That sounds like fun.”
“I have no choice! I think the people who run it know Steve. They might have a clue where he is hiding!” she replied, emphatic in her conviction.
“Face it Emma,” he answered. “The genie is out of the bottle. Smart thing to do is get as far away from here as possible. Maybe we could try and find Derek and see if he is cooking up a cure for the more extreme symptoms of his virus.”
Emma was stunned, she hadn’t imagined John would cave so easily on the subject of finding Derek but here he was suggesting it. She remembered how she had forgiven John though and understood – we are all slaves to the urges that drive us. Both John and Derek had tried to channel them for good, in their own way. It was hard to not respect that.
“That is a smart course,” she responded carefully, genuinely feeling the wisdom in John’s words. “But suppose we can stem the tide of this single-handedly? What if we do nothing and Steve decides to take his show on the road. His gang could split off to all four corners of the
globe, spreading this everywhere. If we take out Steve we could stop that, within a day.”
“You are right, we could. But we could also buy the farm – those military people are not playing out there, and neither is Steve. I didn’t sign up to be murdered by some Zombiefied street gang. I don’t know … I just get a really bad feeling about it.” It was rare to see John not joking around. He looked different somehow.
“I promise if it looks too dangerous we will go with your plan, exit Boston as fast as we can,” she re-assured him.
John thought for a moment then nodded swiftly and rocked forward to using all four legs of the chair again “Then we had better get on it, I doubt things are going to get better with time.”
Chapter 20
John might as well be a prophet Emma thought to herself darkly. The bridge was absolutely littered with bodies in various states of dishevel. Looking to the far end about a half mile in the distance, Emma could just make out in the late afternoon light a military blockade made of several serious looking dark vehicles. She doubted any of them were the welcome wagon.
Looking down, Emma noted a meaty jawbone chilling by her foot. She kicked the grizzly reminder a few feet further away.
“Maybe… we could commandeer a boat?” Emma posed the question.
“I don’t swim,” replied John.
“That’s the point of the boat,” replied Emma, enjoying the chance to stick it to John for a change.
“Right now? I could easily see them,” he nodded his head in the general direction of the blockade “sinking it, you know, just in case.”
“Why the hell would you own binoculars that float if you can’t swim, anyway?” answered Emma, frustrated at the latest roadblock. No pun intended.
“I don’t know,” replied the 12 year old, turning brightly to her. “I guess I just never found the time.”
“Shut up,” Emma replied, noting his sarcasm and yet another damned exchange lost. It was embarrassing having a pre-pubescent kick her ass linguistically and physically on a daily basis.
“I say we just play the innocent survivors,” John commented, trying to cancel out his earlier pessimism. “It’s not like we have any bite marks.”
“Do you think they are letting people through?” Emma asked.
“I should think so… they probably can’t cold bloodedly mow down regulars, right?” he didn’t sound convinced.
They looked speculatively at the blockade for a moment.
“I love this plan,” said Emma, taking off her light jacket and dropping it to the bloody ground. “Very excited to be a part of it!”
“Well, that makes one of us,” answered John staring at the blockade, mentally daring it to make a move. It just sat there, defiantly.
“No time like the present,” Emma recited, then took off at a jog for the barricade. As she did so, she waved her hands above her head. Best not to be taken for a regular Zombie she derided herself mentally.
A couple of minutes and about a fifth of the distance later, Emma heard a megaphone kick into power from the barricade but she couldn’t make out the following words – they were still a good 500 meters distant.
Turning to John, Emma asked “You don’t suppose they are trying to tell us to go back do you?”
“No clue,” he replied, jogging easily.
A chatter of automatic fire seemed to answer the question for them and they came to an abrupt stop.
“Well that’s rude,” said Emma, indignant.
“The standards for rude have probably shifted in the last couple of days,” he answered, not at all out of breath. “Rude right now is probably more in line with shooting someone before giving a warning. I am just happy they are not trying to aerate us, let’s head back and try a different bridge. More of a detour but maybe a better reception,” he said, turning.
“Oh fuck,” he added.
Looking behind, the source of his consternation was clear. A tribe of Zombies was on the bridge racing their way – they couldn’t be more than a hundred meters distant.
“Don’t look, hoof it!” John said, taking off toward the blockade.
“So,” Emma puffed “the gunfire was to warn us?” She felt justifiably nervous about running toward the guns.
“It worked didn’t it?” he answered.
Looking back over her shoulder, Emma could see the pack had closed the distance by 10 meters.
“Why are they so god damned fast,” she yelled, aggravated.
“Shut up and run faster!” John answered over his shoulder, he was already 10 feet ahead of her.
It’s funny how single moments can define your life Emma thought to herself, putting her head down and pumping her legs as fast as she could.
Visions passed by her eyes. The night Michelle died. The day she was ambushed by John and changed into her current configuration. The day she freaked out and killed the punks in the park, accidentally creating Steve and everything that had followed.
Now she was running for her life from a group of Zombies, afraid of being torn apart for the scraps of spinal fluid in her system. She could feel the muzzles of rifles pointed her way, waiting to put her down if the Zombies caught up.
John was now about 15 feet ahead of her, the blockade was about 300 meters distant. Emma risked a glance behind her, risk being the operative word as she had to slow to be able to look. Three of the pack had sprinted ahead of the rest and were less than 50 meters behind her now.
Damn my short legs! Emma screamed inside her head, put her head down and tried to drag any extra speed she could out of her body. The silver lining was most of the twenty or so strong pack had fallen further behind but Emma was not feeling bright and sunny at the moment.
Back in the gym before any of this started she would run for 25 or so minutes and cover an entire 5K. That means on average it took her 2.5 minutes to traverse the length of this bridge.
By contrast this run was undertaken at nearly double her usual speed. To evade her pursuers, Emma would have to make this run in nearly 90 seconds.
Ninety seconds does not sound like an unreasonable amount of time to run flat out in order to stay alive. Emma, if asked previously, would have thought it very possible to sprint at nearly double speed for a minute and a half. She would have thought this while calmly running on a flat treadmill, in an air conditioned gym, wearing appropriate clothing while totally not being afraid of being eaten or shot.
To not put too fine a point on it, Emma was right now panicking her metaphorical balls off.
The seconds ticked down as she ran, more slowly than any other time in her life they passed by. More slowly than when she was first infected and lay on the road, arching in agony. Soon her lungs burned and her sides presented her with stabbing pains as her shallow gasps inflated them too fast.
200 meters passed and then 100 meters. She didn’t dare another look behind it was that close.
“Open the Barricade!” she somehow gasp-yelled as she got to 50 meters.
“Open the way-Erk!” she eloquently followed as she was tackled from behind by a Zombie who should have run for Kenya.
They rolled over and over on the concrete, scraping and bumping as they went. The end result had the Zombie on top of her with her face down into the bridge.
Within a second, she felt his teeth break into the flesh over her left shoulder blade – a sickening steady pushing/burning sensation – just before her right elbow flew back and broke the Zombie’s jaw.
The force rolled him off her back, she scrambled up and tackled him in return, her heavy structure easily bringing him down. A second later her forehead smashed his nose as she head-butted him. Her fist provided the coup de grace, smashing through his already weakened skull and into his brain.
She looked up to see a second Zombie bearing down on her – she almost closed her eyes but something primal took over and she rolled to the side, missing the collision by a quarter second leaving the new equally crazed
assailant to scrape his face along the tarmac before rolling into a heap. When he jumped up his right cheek was exposing bone and his whole face was ragged and missing skin and sinew.
It didn’t slow him even slightly, he stepped purposefully towards Emma, stymied only by John grabbing his head from behind. With a vicious twist he broke its neck.
The third in the Zombie three pack stepped up – a big brutish looking man with cuts on his arms from struggling through god knows what in search of food. His lower face was covered in blood and Emma suspected it was all his own. It trickled out of his nose and mouth and a whuffing noise accompanied each inhale and a rough cough on each exhale, mists of blood spraying with the air. The virus had done an incredible number on his lungs, so how he managed to run as fast as he did was anyone’s guess.
With one more step he lashed out with a slow but incredibly powerful haymaker, a punch that had the force of his entire body behind it. Emma blocked and felt a crunch from her arm, possibly a small fracture. She couldn’t imagine what that would have done to someone’s arm that lacked her newfound density.
While the shambling man was off balance, Emma lashed out once, twice, three times – quick powerful jabs to his chest. The third one rewarded her with harsh snapping and her assailant went down as his already weakened lungs proved a prime target for puncture.
Looking up while gasping for breath herself, Emma saw more of the pack running in. No time for breathing! She thought to herself and broke into a run towards the barrier, John beside her.
The hastily erected blockade was fashioned out of a number of barriers attached to black vans – possibly liberated from the Police. As they neared it a van scraped forward just enough to allow them passage through. If passage meant bouncing from one hard, dented, metal surface to another repeatedly like an ill formed pinball. After the two had passed, the truck that had moved slammed back with a crunch of metal and an agonized scream of a partially trapped Zombie who had made a dash for the gap.
Boxes piled next to the stationary van allowed two officers in full riot gear to clamber onto the top. The chatter of rifle fire tore through the air a second later. Wailing and screaming quickly accompanied it and spoke the fate of the remaining infected.