Around five in the evening, Tina called. “Brendan says to meet at Munchies at nine. Can you be there?”
Munchies, a popular zombie snack shop with a seemingly endless supply of junk food, was on the north side of Deadtown.
“He does know they fixed that dead spot, right?”
“Yeah, yeah. He’s got a different plan.”
“What is it?”
“He’ll tell us at Munchies.”
An hour before curfew, Kane and I stood in the doorway of Munchies, watching a roomful of zombies chow down before they had to go home for the night. Waitresses carried trays overflowing with nachos, cheese fries, sliders, onion rings, popcorn—anything that fits into the category of “munchies.” You’d think the zombies believed they’d never have a chance to eat again. But it was probably a pretty typical night.
Tina waved to me from a table of teenage zombies. The plague had happened on a school day, so not many kids had been zombified. But there were a few. Some, like Tina and her friend Jenna, had cut school to go shopping or hang out in Boston. Others had been in town for college or job interviews. Now, they all lived in a group home in Deadtown.
Tina wore a tight, strapless pink dress with rhinestone accents. She looked like she was going clubbing. Maybe that was the plan after they slipped outside. Maybe college kids were dressing up like zombies these days when they went out to dance, and this group would fit right in.
More likely, I’d be flying out of Deadtown tonight.
Kane sat on the sidewalk outside while Tina introduced me to her friends. I knew a couple of them already, but Brendan, the group’s leader, was new to me. He was about five ten, with curly red hair and a complexion that had probably been freckled before he got the plague. “Sit down,” he invited.
“Thanks, but I’ll stand.” Sitting down was a little iffy with the Sword of Saint Michael strapped to my back.
“Don’t ask her to take off her hood,” Tina said. Everyone stared at her for a moment, then went back to eating. Tina says Tina-type things. Sometimes it wasn’t worth the effort to try to understand.
“Okay,” said Brendan to the group. “Name something Boston’s famous for.”
“Baked beans.”
“The Red Sox.”
“Clam chowder.”
“Lobsters.”
“Boston cream pie.”
I noticed a disproportionate number of the answers were food-related. But then, we were in a place called Munchies at a table full of zombies.
“Try this,” Brendan said. “Potholes.”
Everyone nodded, including me. Neither I nor the Jag would argue with that one.
“So I was thinking about our little problem with the fences,” Brendan went on. “Can’t go over it, can’t go around it . . .”
“Gotta go
under
it,” someone finished.
“Exactly. And the best way to get under the fence is with the help of our friend the pothole.” He surveyed the group, making sure everyone was with him. “I went online and checked the street-repair schedule for the Department of Public Works, with a special focus on their pothole remediation crew. And I found the mother of all potholes, right here in Deadtown. It’s low on the priority list, because it isn’t on an active roadway.” He leaned forward. “It’s under the fence.”
“So we’re going to crawl under the fence through a pothole,” I said. My voice sounded skeptical; I’d seen some big potholes in Boston, but this sounded a little nuts.
He nodded. “After we help the pothole along a little bit. I checked out the site. We need to make the pothole deeper and longer. After we do, it’ll be a snap to get through.”
“What about the cops?” asked my skeptical voice. A couple of the kids glanced at me like I was a spoilsport. So be it.
“I timed the patrols. They go by every eight minutes. That gives us six good minutes of digging time between passes. With zombie super-strength and two people digging, it’ll take two, maybe three patrols to make the hole big enough.”
“You don’t think they’ll notice the pothole getting bigger?”
“No, I don’t, actually. They’ll be looking at eye level, not checking the ground.”
“What makes you think that?”
“That’s my job,” Tina said. “Distract the cops.”
Ah. So that explained the tight dress. Tina had a sexy figure. If she were still human, she’d have legions of boys eating out of her hand. But did she really think human cops would ogle a zombie?
I’d promised Mab I’d give the kids’ plan a chance. But now that I’d heard it, I wanted to tell them to give it up and go home. The norms weren’t fooling around. There were cops with guns, soldiers with guns. They carried the exploding ammunition that could kill a zombie. There’d be serious consequences for any paranormal caught outside of Deadtown tonight. Consequences, hell. Some of these kids could die.
I’d check out the site, and then I’d try to talk the zombies out of it. Whether or not I managed to dissuade them, I’d go home and lock up my weapons. I’d go up to my building’s roof, shift into a bird, and fly out of Deadtown.
But when I arrived at the site and saw Brendan’s pothole, damned if I didn’t think it might work. It really
was
the mother of all potholes. And the site itself was isolated, without a lot of activity on either side of the fence. We moved a little way down the block and waited for the patrol to pass. After it did, Brendan checked his watch. Two zombies grabbed shovels and started digging, being careful to stay clear of the fence itself.
After six minutes, Brendan signaled, and they faded back into the shadows. The patrol went by. The changes to the pothole were on the Deadtown side, and neither cop noticed. They didn’t care what was on our side of the fence.
A minute after the patrol passed, Brendan gave the signal. Two other zombies rushed forward and started digging. They made good progress. I saw gravel fly up on the other side of the fence.
This time, when the patrol was due, Tina sidled up to the fence. She struck a sexy pose, jutting out her hip and showing a lot of leg, and asked if either cop had a light for her cigarette.
Cigarette? I was planning a future lecture against smoking when I remembered zombies couldn’t get lung cancer. Okay, whatever.
One of the cops said, in kind of a nasty voice, that she should try touching her cigarette to the electric fence. She laughed like she actually thought it was funny, flinging back her hair, and then walked with them as they moved on. She asked if they liked monster rock and talked about how she used to sing with Monster Paul and the Zombie Freak Show. Down the block, one of the officers laughed, and Tina joined him.
The girl had a talent for flirting.
The zombies finished digging the hole, and the first ones slipped through. “You next,” Brendan said, touching my elbow. It was a little difficult with all the weapons, but I wriggled through. Kane was out a minute later. We ran toward the Common, staying close to the dark buildings.
Somewhere down the block, Tina’s laugh rang out.
THE BOYLSTON STREET T STATION WAS CLOSED, BOTH INBOUND and outbound. I didn’t know how Daniel had managed that, but it was a good idea. Anyone waiting on the platform would be a sitting duck for the Reaper.
Printed signs taped to the locked glass doors directed would-be passengers to Arlington or Park Street T stations or the Silver line bus stop. Not that anyone was around. The Common was completely deserted. Lynne Hong had gotten the message out, and Bostonians weren’t taking any chances tonight.
For an hour, Kane and I wandered the park’s paths and ventured down Boylston or Tremont a little way, never straying far from ground zero between the two subway entrances. Just a woman out walking her dog. I’d brought along Juliet’s silver chain because it looked a little like a leash—but more important, it had been a good weapon against the Old Ones. It hung from my coat pocket.
Two patrol cars passed. One slowed when it saw us; the other cruised right on by. There were no taxis—not surprising after what happened to Mack—and very few cars. The occasional bus that went by was empty except for a single uniformed cop in one of the front seats. Getting cops on the buses that traveled through this part of town must have been Daniel’s doing, too, like the shuttered T station. Shops and restaurants were closed. I’d never seen the streets so quiet and empty.
The
slap-slap
of footsteps heading toward us from the heart of the Common echoed like gunshots in the silence. With a glance at each other, Kane and I took our positions. He crouched in the shadow of the low brick wall that marks the edge of the Common. I drew my gun—bronze bullets, no vampire made that much noise—and slipped behind the outbound T entrance, where I could peer around the corner without being seen.
The footsteps were hurried but irregular:
step step pause, step, pause, stepstepstep
. Within moments, a man’s figure staggered from the shadows into the light. He appeared to be about forty, balding, with glasses and a scruffy beard. He wore a light khaki jacket over a sweatshirt and jeans, and he carried a bottle in a brown paper bag. About three steps into the light, he tripped on the pavement and sprawled facedown. There was the crash and tinkle of breaking glass.
Not the Reaper. A drunk.
I holstered my gun and stepped into the light. The man had pushed himself into a sitting position and was holding up his dripping bag, staring at it sorrowfully. The smell of whiskey washed over me from ten feet away.
Down the street, headlights approached. I glanced at my watch. One o’clock. It was the last Silver line bus of the night. And I’d make sure this drunk was on it.
“Come on,” I said. “You’ve got a bus to catch.”
He squinted at me through crooked glasses. “Are you the Reaper?”
“No, I’m your ticket home.”
“I’m here to fight the Reaper.” He dropped the sopping bag and gave a couple of exaggerated punches. I grabbed his outstretched arm and hauled him to his feet.
“Wow,” he said. “You’re strong. Wanna fight?”
I didn’t answer, just dragged him toward the bus stop.
“Noooo!” he howled. “Where’s the Reaper? Lemme at him! I’m gonna kill the bastard!” He swung at me with his free arm, dug in his heels, let his knees collapse. Nothing slowed our progress. And nothing short of a knock-out blow would shut him up, either. I was tempted, but I just kept dragging.
“What the hell is all that noise?”
I knew that voice. Beyond the struggling drunk, Norden glared at me. It was kind of good to see his scowling face. The bus was almost at the stop.
“He wants to be a hero,” I said. “Help me get him out of here.”
Norden waved the bus to a stop, then grabbed the drunk’s legs and helped me carry him on board. While I gave the bus driver two bucks for the fare, Norden and the uniformed cop wrestled the guy into a seat and handcuffed him to it. He yanked at the cuffs and yelled for the Reaper to come out and fight.
“Don’t let him out until the end of the line,” Norden said. “If you can stand his racket that long.”
“If he doesn’t settle down, he can spend the night in the drunk tank,” the cop replied. “You hear that?” he shouted over the yelling. “No Reaper for you tonight. I’ll have a patrol car waiting at the end of this bus ride unless you shut it right now.”
They were still arguing as the bus closed its door and pulled away.
Norden wiped sweat from his scarred face with the back of his arm. “Damn crazy drunk.” His voice sounded breathy, like dealing with the guy had winded him.
“McFarren told me you quit the Goon Squad. You’re the first cop I’ve seen all night. Other than the ones on the buses, I mean. Where’s your partner?” No cop would be patrolling this area tonight without backup.
“You’re here alone.” Norden couldn’t seem to get a breath. “What the hell are you doing out here, huh? You should have stayed in Deadtown. With all the other freaks.”
I felt, more than saw, Kane’s ears prick up. A growl rumbled from his throat.
Something felt wrong. What
was
Norden doing here by himself? He mopped his face, his handkerchief wiping the scars. Scars he’d gotten at the Paranormal Appreciation Day Concert, in the middle of a Morfran attack.
I heard a distant cawing, like a flock of crows perched somewhere in the Common.
Oh, no.
I reached for my gun.
Kane growled again, and sprang. So fast his movement was a blur, Norden pulled out his gun and shot him. Kane backflipped and, with a piercing yelp of pain, landed on the far side of the wall.
Norden knocked my gun from my hand and jammed his own under my chin. “Hands up, where I can see them both.”
I raised my hands, straining to hear anything from Kane.
“Let’s go see the werewolf,” Norden said. He dragged me over to the wall. Behind it, Kane lay on his side, bleeding from his shoulder. His ribs moved rapidly as he panted. Norden let go of me, but the barrel of his gun still pressed into the flesh under my jaw. He pulled a second gun, aiming it directly at Kane’s head.
“Don’t move,” he said. “You so much as twitch, and I blast a silver bullet through this werewolf’s skull. Understand?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
“You tried to make it look like a dog,” he muttered. “But I know it’s a wolf. They said there’d be a werewolf.”
“Who did?”
“They. Them. The voices, the birds.
You
know.” He voice rose in pitch, and he pressed the gun into me so hard I had to rise up on my toes. “Or they know you. They told me you’d be the fifth.”
“What birds, Norden?”
“Black birds. Big ones. They live in my head and caw at me. They scratch the inside of my skull. They . . . they tear at my nerves with their beaks.” He shuddered. “When I’m around zombies, the birds scream with hunger. They make me . . . they make me want to eat dead flesh.” I could smell the fear and desperation in his sweat. “And kill. I never killed before, not even on the job. But the birds . . .”