Boston Under Siege (Book 1): Virus:

by Willson, Fisher

  “Good thing you're a yogini, huh?” she said, twisting and shoving Mrs. Needlebaum's limbs in until she could lock the door.

  The zombie shoved against the glass, gnashing her teeth. Without skipping a beat, Ami added quarters, cranked the heat to high, and ran up the back stairs to her apartment where she kept a spare key under the mat.

  Chapter 21: Ichiro's Workshop

  In the back office of HQ, Ichiro sat up in the dark on the worn-out sofa and rubbed his eyes. He rummaged around on the coffee table then slid his hand between the cushions. “Where’s the remote, babe?”

  Alexx wrapped the Tartan throw tighter around her shoulders. “Come back. I'm cold.” Ichiro crossed the room to the fuse box behind the desk. Alexx groaned as he threw the main power switch. He collapsed back on the couch with his arms over his eyes as the overhead fluorescents hummed and flickered on. Alexx wrestled the blanket from under him. “Uh, turn it off, I’m sleeping.”

  A moment later, the printer spat out one of yesterday’s print jobs, and water trickled through a Rube Goldberg series of glass tubes to a coffee pot. Ichiro yawned and perched on the end of the desk waiting for coffee. “Timing sucks. Takes too long. Maybe one of those waterless tanks. Yeah, maybe. Wouldn’t have to heat the water that way. What do you think, babe? Babe?”

  Alexx made no reply.

  With coffee in hand, Ichiro entered the main garage. The third shift was still working on his prototype for a pulley and bike exoskeleton. He looked over the work. Skippy, the supervisor on the project, said they were almost finished, but were having trouble with the external arm. Ichiro suspected power fluctuations.

  “If the batteries are maintaining a charge the flow's supposed to take care of that. Let me look at the routing. What were you saying about the arms? Dude, let me get grab another cup of Joe, and I'll be right back.”

  Ichiro went back into the office and found Alexx had vacated the couch. He knew where he’d find her, curled up in his Barcalounger in the monitor closet. He opened the door and set a strong-smelling cup of coffee down next to the switcher. “Get up.”

  “No. I can’t function on two hours, and I can't sleep out there,” Alexx whined.

  “You turned the monitors off, not the feed, right?”

  “Give me a little credit, just because I’m asleep doesn’t mean I’m a dork.” Alexx settled back into her blanket. “Go do something else.”

  Chapter 22: School's Out Forever

  Outside a Catholic school, the sulfurous smell of zombie hit Trips’ nostrils. He pulled out his phone and tapped Ichiro’s Identifier app. It was a clever design that used body temperature to distinguish humanoid types. He scanned the area and clicked his tongue. “Yeah, I don’t like what I see. Not at all.”

  An angular messenger named Raphe with a waterfall of black hair sidled up to him. “What’s up?”

  Trips sucked his teeth. “Looks like we got humans in there, and a full house of zombies.”

  Alvarez and Hanson, their assigned army escort, met them at the front gate. The flaking iron squeaked in the breeze as the four of them entered the paved playground.

  Trips peered at the marble saint blessing the basketball court and pointed to smears of gore along the green algae stains at the base. Raphe nodded pointing out bloody footprints near the brick building’s subterranean windows. They stepped through the watery brown blood trickling in the sidewalk culvert and up the steps into the school.

  “Been a while since they ate fresh,” said Alvarez. The rotten smell was stronger as they entered the dark corridor.

  “Means they’re hungry.” Hanson winked and pulled on his breather.

  “Just hope we don’t need rescuing too,” Trips said, as he slid his sword from its scabbard.

  As Trips changed the range settings on his app, zombies popped up everywhere. Hanson powered up his gun, looking over Trips shoulder at the scanner. “Jesus. We should get out of here. Mark it overrun and firebomb the place.”

  Trips pointed at the screen. “Yeah, but see that? That’s a human.”

  “You going to trust your life to a piece-of-crap software?” Hanson asked.

  Raphe shrugged and blinked at Trips. “Your call.”

  Trips looked at the map then pointed where it indicated. “It’s been right so far. It’s only fifty meters.”

  “Go ahead; I’m with you.” Alvarez cocked his assault rifle and took a step back. “Won’t fire unless I have to.”

  Trips noticed all three of them were behind him. “Me first, huh? Hah. Okay.”

  He stepped ahead through the scrawled First-grader drawings littering the floor and glanced inside the classroom. Children zombies were busy eating guinea pigs and gerbils.

  “Beats eating paste,” said Raphe.

  Trips grimaced a half smile and rounded the corner. In the medical office, a zombie nurse was feasting on her patient. Past the offices, down a long corridor to the right, they heard a commotion.

  “This way,” Alvarez clipped the chain and nodded. “Guess it’s lunch munch time.”

  They could hear muffled epithets erupting interspersed with clanging crashes as they drew closer to the chained double doors.

  Trips tapped the app. “We’re right on top of it.”

  “Cafeteria.” Hanson smiled. “Kind of ironic, wouldn’t you say?” He stood to the side of the double doors. “Sounds like a Brit.”

  “Sounds like you.” Raphe grinned at Trips.

  Trips frowned. “Does not. You’re all daft.”

  Alvarez nodded. “Ready?”

  The four of them crashed through into the lunchroom. A large man held a beige fiberglass lunch tray high overhead, surrounded by ravenous zombie children. He slammed the tray down with each word: “I…am…not…your…pudding!”

  “Nor is he your meat,” Trips whispered, wide-eyed, unable to look away from the crazed man playing Wack-a-Mole.

  Alvarez shouted for Trips to move as he sprayed gunfire at the creatures entering the room from the far door.

  Mouth agape Trips couldn’t tear his eyes away as Hanson beheaded zombie children with a hunting knife and Raphe electrocuted them with a stun gun.

  Immobilized and sick, Trips didn’t move until a black-haired child took him by surprise. He swiped downward with his sword, slicing the tiny zombie in half. But they’re children!

  Several glommed on to him at once, hanging from his arms and gnawing fruitlessly at his Kevlar armor. He knocked himself free and skittered across the floor.

  Disgusting, cloudy cataract-eyed gray-faced babies. Trips vaulted over a laminate tabletop, threw it onto its side and plowed a few dozen children into the wall leaving them squirming behind it. He blinked as he stood next to the large man in the gray coveralls in the center of the room. “We’ve come to fetch you away from here.”

  The man hoisted a garbage bag of canned goods over his shoulder and picked up a galvanized pail. “There’ll be more wee ones comin’. Been on me tod too long, I’m acting the maggot. Call me Shamus.”

  Trips read the word “Janitor” in red script on Shamus’ uniform. He watched the man lumber toward an emergency exit.

  Alvarez kicked through the bodies toward Trips. “Told ya’ he sounds like you. Same accent.”

  Hanson nodded at a split open can of processed meat product on the floor. “So what’d you say there, Shamus? Want to come with us?”

  “I say follow me if ye want to live,” he pointed behind Hanson.

  Trips turned to see little gray zombie fingers breaking through a chained door.

  They followed.

  He looks like a beleaguered Santa with his sack of canned goods and straggly beard, Trips thought as Shamus ushered them into the furnace room. He locked the door and settled into his chair with a sigh.

  “You need to come with us. You can’t stay here,” Alvarez said.

  Shamus lit a briar pipe, glancing from Alvarez to Trips. “Highlander?”

  Trips chuckled and shook his head. “You might as
well be whistling jigs to a millstone.” He leaned against a concrete support beam, eyeing Shamus and glancing at the half window high in the wall. “Aye, but I can’t quite place you. You’re a Westerner?”

  Shamus nodded. “Dubliner, born and bred. I’d offer you a pint, but the larder’s flat-lined.”

  “We’re marking this place overrun. I’ve radioed it in.” Hanson turned to Shamus. “We’re your escort out. We have medics on standby.”

  Shamus turned to Trips. “Internment camp?”

  Trips shrugged. “Temporary housing in quarantine. Quite a bit better than here.”

  “Yes, well, thank ye very much, but no thank you.”

  Hanson looked flummoxed and then ran from the room clutching his phone. It was stuffy and quiet in the gloom of the furnace room. Trips watched the dust moats, wondering how Shamus could stand it. He hated the feeling of his hair grazing the ceiling.

  He glanced at Raphe and tilted his head. Raphe went to find Hanson. Trips knew Hanson was calling for backup because of resistance. It was protocol. He glanced at Alvarez, then smiled at Shamus and added a wee bit more Scots accent. “You know, there’s beer. And och, the breakfast. Farm fresh eggs, grilled tomato with rashers of bacon, marmalade, and crowdie with bannock.” He swallowed, making himself hungry, “Tattie scones, even bangers and mash. You name it.”

  “And it’s like a village,” Alvarez added. “Meadows, and cows.” He tilted his head. “Probably.”

  Shamus licked his lips, glancing from Alvarez back to Trips. “You’ve been there, have you?”

  Trips nodded, solemnly. “Aye. It’s one of those barracks out in Western Mass.”

  “Can I come and go as I please?”

  “Well, if you don’t come peaceable like, they’ll throw you in the brig. It’s like a town. Not that bad. They have a pub.”

  The door slammed, and Hanson leaned against it, sweat pooling under his eyes. “They’re right outside,” he panted. “I’ve called it in. They’re going to firebomb the place. Told them Evac eminent. We have twenty to get to safety.”

  Shamus gathered blood stained mop handle stakes. “Well, now you did it, haven’t you?” He moved equipment blocking a door. “This way, through the sacristy.”

  They bolstered Hanson between them. Shamus led them into the opulence of the priest’s vestments chamber where small zombies dressed for choir were staked to the walls. He led the group through a door of ripped out drywall into an airless underground tunnel.

  Trips turned on his flashlight and slipped his breather over his mouth and nose and inhaled deeply. He hated basements, wouldn’t use the subway, and he’d rather climb the stairs than take an elevator every time. As a child, he had nightmares about the mines where his grandfather worked. He’d see his fingers shiny and black from coal then an endless black rock tunnel. He’d awake screaming trying to claw his way to the surface.

  As they followed Shamus down the rock tunnel, sweat poured off Trips. He shook, convinced he felt his lungs collapsing. He ripped off his mask, sucked in a lung full of fetid damp air and licked the salty sweat from his lips.

  There’s not enough air. Shamus is leading us into a vampire trap. He glanced backward and whispered to Alvarez, “Maybe we should turn back. Shamus is crazy. He stayed behind. He’s leading us to our death.”

  “Ai!” Alvarez grabbed Trips arm as a rat scrambled over his boot heading in the same direction they were. “No, he’s not, put your breather on.”

  It’s not working,” Trips said, ignoring Alvarez’s directive. There was a rumble from above. Seconds later Trips rocked into the wall. Concussion bombs were laying waste to the contaminated area. He swallowed and got close enough to smell the sweat and death on the Janitor, but he couldn’t move past him. “Shamus, please, we’ve got to move faster. These tunnels won’t hold.”

  “Keep yer head,” Shamus said.

  A cloud of plaster dust sifted down as Hanson bent over coughing. “I’m sick. Go on. I’ll catch up.”

  “All of you, put on your breathers, now!” Alvarez commanded. Rats scurried in droves crawling over the men in the same direction they were heading.

  “C’mon! For Christ’s sake,” Raphe said, lifting Hanson’s arm over his narrow shoulder. “Let’s get out of here!”

  The earth trembled, and the old plaster walls covering the raw rock gave way in sheets. Trips tried to squeeze past Shamus. He was dizzy. He bent over breathing heavily. “How much farther?”

  “It’s just ahead, lad.” Shamus pointed into the dark. “The sewer, don’t you smell it? That’s the smell of freedom.”

  Chapter 23: It’s A Flambé

  Ichiro filled his mug with coffee and entered the garage. Checking the power converter, the capacitors, and the hookup, everything looked fine, but the voltage meter was still fluctuating. He cracked his back. Yeah, expected, but we can do better, he thought as he sipped black coffee. “Yo, Skippy, dude, can you hop on here,” he tapped the seat of a stationary bicycle, “just for a second, so I can take a look?”

  Skippy nodded in his welding helmet and pointed his acetylene torch at one of the other workers. Ichiro spotted her instantly. Kind of looks like Joan Jett. Ichiro nodded. “Sure,” he said, over the noise and motioned her toward the bike. He watched her walk over in her peg leg jeans and rolled up tee-shirt. As she got closer, he took in her jet-black eye makeup and side crop hair. He cracked a smile, definitely cute, he thought. She hopped on the exercycle. “Just for a minute or two. I want to check the motor.”

  “Ich, I know where we can get a shitload of exercise bikes,” she said, peddling too enthusiastically for four am, if you asked him.

  “Yeah?” He wiped the crooked smile off his face by sipping coffee.

  “My cousin's in Melrose. Like a hundred, well maybe like, twenty. His spa is going under.”

  “Huh. Okay. Find out how much. We'll take ten for a grand and all of them off his hands for say, fifteen. Yeah, no, say seven-fifty for everything.”

  “Sure thing, Ich. How's it lookin'?”

  He glanced at the meter. “Yeah, the diodes are heating up too fast, and the amperage is fluctuating, so I'd say we've got feedback in the loop. I’ll need to up the diodes stat. How's the grip? Feel okay?”

  The Joan Jett girl flipped her black hair back and forth, her pink tongue touching her upper lip as she thought about his question. Ichiro took a sip of coffee and raised his eyebrows waiting for her answer. “Feels like going up Summit Hill. No, well, maybe not that steep.”

  “Yeah.” He nodded. “Okay, got it – bit of a grind.” He flicked a switch on the meter.

  “Yeah, usually, I'd downshift,” said, Joan Jett, starting to sound slightly winded.

  “Yeah. Okay.” He grabbed the handlebars. “You can stop. Let me know about the thing with your cousin.”

  Joan Jett hopped down from the exercycle. “Will do, Chief.”

  “Yeah, don't call me that,” Ichiro said under his breath, switching out the diodes. He checked the solar power battery setup. It was all right. Next, he moved to a different workbench and checked the assemblage for the flamethrowers. He picked up some corroded aluminum and copper sprayers and brass pieces and looked over his shoulder. Yep, she was still following him around. “Hey, Punk Rock, c'mere.”

  “Yeah? S'up Ich?” The Joan Jett girl asked, pushing up her sleeves.

  He smiled inwardly, then looked at her. “What're you doing? You working with Skippy on the bot?”

  “Whatever you want, Ich.” She shrugged.

  Whatever I want. “That right?” He gave her a chin wag. “Okay, so see these here?” He indicated the buckets of zinc, copper and brass joints, and pipes. “All these parts need to be assembled into kits and cleaned.” He spread a blueprint of a flamethrower across the old wooden workbench. “Can you read a blueprint?”

  “Ah, dunno, Ich,” she said, wrapping a red bandana under her dark bangs.

  “S'easy. Look here.” He noticed she was concentrating very hard, in an a
dorable frown and pout. He smiled. “What's your name again?”

  She looked up at him with enormous green eyes. “Cynder.”

  Ichiro twitched a half smile. “Cynder? Like in Cinderella?”

  She rolled her eyes. “No. Like in Cynthia. Duh.”

  “Well, perfect name dude, cause know what you're building?” he asked, looking down at the blueprint and then back at her.

  Cynder shrugged.

  Ichiro arched an eyebrow. “Flamethrowers.”

  They grinned at each other.

  Chapter 24: Ride For Your Life

  When they got above ground, Trips wrote his number on a scrap of paper and handed it to Shamus. He sighed, slapping him on the back. “Be my pleasure to buy you a pint, mate.”

  “We’ll show ‘em how to take back Boston,” Shamus said, as he boarded the transport to the quarantine base.

  The days passed clearing the dead and quarantining the living, but the North End remained a war zone. It never let up. Cobbled roads were cratered and filled with water; more often than not the Federalist brick-row houses had blown out windows. Ironworks lay twisted in the street. Zombies were caged, people were quarantined, and the clean-up crews plowed away debris clearing the way for the troops heading deeper into the zombie zone.

  Trips was dispatched into a historic district of streets lined with posh restaurants, and old slate and copper guttered mansards. No sunlight penetrated the area. It was quiet and eerie in the clammy cold. “This is going to be a cavity search,” Alvarez said, showing Trips the schematic. Trips winced at the imagery.

  Alvarez cracked a half smile, his breath billowed in white clouds. “Word is last night command caught hell for the carpet-bombing.” He stretched his hand out far and wide. “It’s all under Federal jurisdiction. Not to be touched. Ain’t going to happen again, so we get to check every nook and cranny.”