There is still no direct indicator of The Cold Boy’s presence, aside from the continued inexplicable frostiness of my surroundings. I have no thermometer with which to measure the exact temperature, but I do know that it is very near freezing. Fortunately, I foresaw this eventuality. When I was preparing these archives for their secondary duty as an emergency shelter, I installed both a generator and an electric heater. I have no need of the generator as of yet – the electricity in the house is still functioning – but the heater is proving quite useful.
All in all, save for the blank patch in my memory of last night, things have been much quieter since I published Michael Sullivan’s journal.
It is here that I must pause in my work once again, however, to note that the computer that I am utilizing lacks any kind of printer or scanner attachment. This means that photographs, forms, and the like can only be reproduced inasmuch as they can be translated into textual descriptions. Undoubtedly some detail will be lost in the act, but I have no choice in the matter; I can either supply you with a bastardized, incomplete version of the accounts, or I can give up and leave them in the cabinets for Aqualung.
There is a microphone attachment on the computer, fortunately. There are several audio tapes which I may be able to upload, assuming that the quality of the recording is not so low as to be unintelligible when transplanting it from the tapes to the computer. It may well be.
But, for now, I have another document for your perusal.
DOCUMENT ARK-003: WATERMAN, CHRISTIE
[This document is one of those hand-written by one of my two most reliable contacts. I believe that, in the common parlance, she would be referred to as a “Runner”, though I believe that “Hunter” may be more accurate.
This particular document is a cheap notebook used as a journal, covered in Christie’s handwriting. As before, the entries are undated. There are many before and after this portion of the book, but I have omitted these. Translating them would take time that I simply do not have, and they are not relevant to the subject of this particular post.]
James got himself hospitalized. Hit by a bus running from the Trumpeter. Fucking grand. It’s always cold in hospitals, everybody’s drinking from the same water source and eating the same food, they keep you alone in your room for hours, and they don’t let you take stuff like guns inside. And they start looking for insurance information and trying to bill you, so they put you on the map for the Proxies as well.
Phil managed to get all of James’ stuff before the ambulance got there, so we’ve still got his guns and clothes and everything. Everybody else just thought he was a mugger. Whatever. Not like we haven’t had the cops on us before. We’re Bonnie and Clyde Plus One, or something.
We’ll wait a day before we try and get him out. Trumpeter’s around here somewhere. Got to make sure he hasn’t found out where me and Phil ducked off to after we looted James. Plus he actually does need casts and X-rays and all that shit. But we can’t leave him in there too long. Popsicle Man has always had a soft spot for James. Leaving him alone in there isn’t a good idea.
Trumpeter found the hideout. Shot the fucker in the leg, then ran.
Another night of sleeping in the alleys to get away from the Angelproxies, then. Joy.
Double triangles all over the alleys here. Thicker around the hospital. Fuck this town.
Managed to get in to see James an hour ago. Not murdered or frozen, but he’s out of his mind on painkillers. Both legs broken.
Double triangles in the hospital, too. Scratched into benches, bathroom graffiti. Getting James out later today. Trumpeter’s got too many friends here to wait. Plus it’s fucking cold in that hospital. Longer he’s alone, more likely Popsicle Man turns up. Or the Cult of Archie. If he’s recognized, he’s dead. Or we’re being set up.
Can’t abandon him though. Even if it’s a trap. Don’t need the Choir on our asses on top of everything else.
Spotted probable angels in the alleys. Tramps. This is so a trap it’s not even funny.
Trap sprung. Trapped in James’ room, got him in a wheelchair but the door and window are blocked now because Trumpeter’s called down the cops on us saying we’re kidnapping a patient. Technically true, except I think James would want to go with us if he weren’t passed out.
Temperature just dropped like a fucking rock. I think Frosty the Snowboy is going to make an appearance. Fuck. This. Town.
I don’t even know.
One second we’re in that hospital room, the next I’m freezing my ass off and everything goes white, and then we’re out in the streets and running.
We’re out of the city now, at least. I think Cold Boy just bailed us out. What the hell? If he wanted us, he had us. Instead he lets us go.
Or he could have just left us there to get a bear-hug from Archie. Why did he save us? They don’t help people. So why?
The only thing I can think of is that he figures it’d be worse for us to live a while longer than to go ahead and embrace the Archangel. I know he wasn’t helping us. I don’t think they really know what “helping” IS.
I think we just got to see the Fears' equivalent of CTF. With James as the flag. So they mark territory or something? I guess that means Cold Boy wants James. Or all of us. And that he's willing to go up against Archie to keep us. I don't know. I don't understand how these things think. I don't even know if they DO think.
But we're not going to be splitting up again any time soon, I know that.
END OF DOCUMENT