Young Writers Society

— Chapter 3.2: “Jane Doe” —

~ Crotalus atrox ~

She hated hotels. It was official.

Granted, there were worse places to be, but the bug-infested, cheap room she was able to get with what little money she had was anything but ideal. The springs on the mattress were so close to the top that they dug into her leg when she sat down and she saw at least seven cockroaches from when she came in. But it was only for one night, and it was all she had, so it had to do.

First things first: she needed a plan. She needed to figure out how, when, and where she was going to kill Kennewick, and before anything else, she needed more than a name. She needed a face and a family and a life.

If only she could remember how to get those.

Well, there was only one place to start, and that was with the internet. She dug the phone out of her pocket that she’d taken from the woman she’d jumped earlier in the morning and flipped it open.

As luck would have it, he wasn’t hard to find. Evidently he was quite the well-respected doctor and professional, renowned for his work developing a cure to a plague that struck the outskirts of Germany every couple decades. It was a particular strain of the pneumonic variety of the Black Death that evolved more quickly than baffled doctors could keep up with. Then Kennewick came onto the scene and within five years solved the issue with a bunch of medical gibberish that she couldn’t understand a word of. This, she concluded, was rather puzzling and suspicious. It was possible that he was simply a medical genius but she suspected there was more to the story than met the eye that was likely illegal — or, at the very least, kept classified.

She was more inclined to believe the latter possibility, since it at least justified killing him and he was obviously not the most ethical of men as it was. After four years under his ‘care’ she knew damn good and well what that creature was — and he wasn’t human. Not in any sense of the word, probably even the literal one.

Currently, he was supposedly employed at a laboratory in the City by the Bay, San Francisco. She’d have to either steal a vehicle or steal money for public transit fare. Though the former might have been simpler and even faster, she didn’t want to be more conspicuous than she already was. She needed to play it safe for now and lay low.

Twelve hours later, at seven o’clock in the morning, she had sixty dollars in her fingers that would be exchanged for her ride from Los Angeles to San Francisco by train. She’d pickpocketed the wallets of a few passers-by in the city on her way there that morning. It was surprising how unobservant they were. There’d been a day when people would’ve been watching for those like her on these streets — but that was a long time ago. No one bothered now. No one knew to.

She strode down the pavement towards the subway with her head bent and fingers tucked into her pockets in the hopes of remaining unnoticed. She just had to get to San Francisco for them to lose track of her, so long as she didn’t let herself get recognized or her face seen by any cameras.

As it turned out, this was more difficult than she’d initially anticipated: outside of the train station there were two police officers who were checking the identification of all individuals going in and out. This, of course, had caused a rather large line, but there was no way she’d be able to get on that train with two cops standing between her and her transport. Chances were there’d be more at other stations and the longer she tarried the more she’d tempt fate. It was early enough in the chase where they were vigilant and late enough where they were prepared. She’d done a fine job of making a mess this time.

Of course, she could lure them away. There were plenty of trains going to plenty of places — once she got in they’d have a hell of a time tracking her so long as the cops didn’t see her in the bright yellow hoodie. This, however, was playing with fire, and she was well aware that if she made even one mistake and failed in escaping it would be the end of her little escapade and a final execution of her liberty.

But if she didn’t try this she didn’t have a chance of success, and staying in L.A. for very much longer was a death sentence.

She slipped the money in her back pocket and approached the officers before shedding her hoodie and leaving it near the entrance. Neither one of them so much as looked up when she came near, too busy focusing on their work — there was no doubt in her mind that they were new at this. Any experienced officer would’ve looked up the moment she was within three feet of them.

This, however, worked greatly to her advantage: she was far more experienced at running than they were chasing.

Now that she didn’t have that distinctive sweatshirt it was a simple matter of getting their attention. Some might’ve thrown something, or moved a distance away and yelled, or broken something, or set a fire, or any other possibility of many. She, however, chose the riskiest and most daring way possible. Playing with fire was part of the fun, was it not?

The woman leaned over the small fence separating the stairs from the sidewalk and tapped the closest policeman on the shoulder.

“Excuse me, are you looking for someone?” she inquired in a singsong voice. She could feel her heartbeat rising, the adrenaline pumping, the blood rushing through her ears. It was this she lived for. This thrill, this danger, this hunt.

Before the man had time to fully register that he was looking straight at the face he was supposed to be arresting she was sprinting down the street at full speed.

The chase was on.