Secret of the Corpse Eater

by Ty Drago

  It’s a job nobody wants.

  And after spending just one hour in there, I totally got why.

  For about ten minutes, it was cool. The US Senate! One-half of the Congress, right? Maybe even the “better” half, since there are only a hundred senators and 435 congressmen. That should mean it’s a much bigger deal to be a senator, right?

  Yeah, right.

  After those first ten minutes, Sharyn and I swapped unhappy looks. There were perhaps ten people occupying those desks down below, with one guy on his feet talking about agriculture or something. Even he looked bored.

  After the first half hour passed, Sharyn had fallen asleep—and I was fighting just to get oxygen to my brain.

  Want to know what kept me awake?

  I got pissed.

  I mean, I’d always known the adult world was clueless. But, until this moment, getting stern looks from armed guards every time I stifled a yawn, I’d never realized how clueless.

  Ian was dead! Half of me wanted to jump to my feet and tell them that, scream at them to open their freakin’ eyes! An Undertaker had given his life, and they didn’t even know about it! No purple heart for Ian MacDonald. No flag-draped coffin. We couldn’t even tell his parents!

  Meanwhile, down in that chamber, a dude in a tailored suit kept droning on about farm subsidies, whatever they were.

  But all that changed when the chamber doors opened and two well-dressed dead people walked in.

  I sat up straighter and nudged Sharyn who, giving her credit, pulled off a pretty decent, “I was awake the whole time,” thing and leaned forward in her chair.

  Two Corpses, a male and a female, marched down the chamber’s center aisle as the dude giving the farm subsidies speech, seeing them, faltered.

  The female smiled at him—a really awful thing.

  “Excuse me, Senator Cabot,” she said. “I apologize for interrupting.”

  “Of course, Senator Micha,” the speaker replied.

  “I wonder,” the thing calling itself Lindsay Micha asked, “if you would mind yielding the floor to me, just for a few minutes.”

  Farm Subsidy Guy stiffened. He minded a lot. But he said, “Certainly, Senator.” Then he addressed the guy in the president’s chair. “With your permission, Mr. Acting President.”

  “Of course,” Big Chair Guy said.

  Beside me, Sharyn whispered, “Did I miss something? That dude’s the acting president?”

  I didn’t bother to respond. Instead, I took the opportunity to cross my eyes and have a look at the creature who was now addressing the Senate—at least, what little of it was on hand to listen.

  “My colleagues and fellow lawmakers,” she said in her dead, raspy voice, which I was sure rang clear and true to these blind grown-ups. “I apologize for my absence over these past months. I was addressing personal and professional issues, which have occupied all of my energies.”

  Micha’s Mask was of a woman about sixty, short and slender, her gray hair expertly styled. She stood straight and confident, smiling and making eye contact with everyone. A solid public speaker.

  “But all that’s in the past,” she went on. “I’ve come today to tell you that I will be holding a press conference in one week, at which I will make an announcement … one that has me and my staff very excited.”

  Sharyn whispered, “Don’t they … like … televise the Senate like all the time?”

  I nodded. “C-SPAN, I think.”

  “That means she’s on camera right now. Any Seer watching will dig that she’s a deader. Ain’t she been off the grid all this time to prevent that?”

  I nodded again. Apparently Senator Micha wasn’t worried about Seers anymore.

  “Shhh!” a guard hissed.

  We shushed.

  Lindsay Micha talked for ten more minutes, describing some of the stuff she’d been up to while out of the public eye: drafting bills, attending closed committee meetings, and—most especially—talking strategy with her staff. “But as to the nature of those strategic discussions,” she added, still smiling, “I’m afraid you’ll all have to wait until next Tuesday. Thank you for your time.”

  And, just like that, the Corpse Who Went to Washington left the chamber the same way she’d come in. After a minute, Farm Subsidy Guy picked up where he’d left off.

  A little later, the guard led us out.

  And that’s when our first day as Senate pages really began.

  Our first assignment was to deliver a sealed envelope to the Hart Senate Building, a four-block walk from the Capitol. “What’s in the envelope is not your concern,” Stanz explained. “Usually, new pages are escorted on their first deliveries … but as there are two of you, I’ll skip that part. You don’t stop for anything—not soda, not texting. You don’t put that envelope down, and you don’t surrender it to anyone except the senator to whom it’s addressed or one of his staffers. Understood?”

  We understood.

  Hart and Dirksen were connected, which made going from one to the other pretty easy. This was handy since, by the time we got there, passed through security, found the right senator on the right floor, and delivered the envelope, lunchtime had arrived.

  Pages ate in a cafeteria in the Dirksen basement. It’s nicer than it sounds, a couple of steps up from a school lunchroom and way better than anything Haven has to offer. There were already some pages there, including Devon and Patrick, who waved us over.

  The food was simple, but decent. Between sleeping in a bed last night and eating something that wasn’t microwaved, I thought I might get used to the page lifestyle.

  Then the questions started.

  “So, where do you guys come from?” The asker was Hayden, a girl at our table.

  “Philly,” Sharyn replied.

  “How do you two know Senator Mitchum?” Devon asked.

  Sharyn and I recited our cover stories, including our separate—and completely manufactured—relationships with Hugo Ramirez.

  Hayden asked, “Did you two know each other before you both became pages?”

  “No,” Sharyn said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  Crap.

  Patrick leered. “Oh! So that’s how it is!”

  “No!” Sharyn and I exclaimed at once. Then, her face darkening, the fake “Kim Baker” improvised. “I mean, we’d met … sure. But I don’t think I’d said more’n two words to W—Andy, not until we both ended up on the train coming down here. That was yesterday.”

  “Sure.” Patrick grinned.

  Devon said, “Better not try any … private stuff in Webster Hall. That’s a major infraction. You’d be on a train back to Philadelphia by nightfall!”

  “It’s not like that,” I said, my cheeks burning.

  Devon shrugged. “I’m just saying.”

  “Wow!” Hayden exclaimed. “Check out this guy!”

  We all turned toward the cafeteria door. My heart leaped into overdrive.

  A huge dead man had just appeared at the entrance to the Dirksen cafeteria.

  The Corpse wore the uniform of a Capitol cop, though how they found one to fit his frame was a mystery. He was enormous—an early Type Two, still juicy and very strong. But that wasn’t what made my heart sink.

  I crossed my eyes, though I needn’t have bothered. There was only one deader I knew who favored host bodies that big.

  Sharyn whispered to me, “His Mask looks kinda familiar.”

  It ought to. This was the Corpse who’d nearly killed her during a scrape at Eastern State Penitentiary in Philly, the same guy who’d dogged Jillian, Helene, and me on South Street.

  “We need to talk,” I whispered back.

  Spring in DC is some kind of big deal.

  Big, pink blossoms filled the cherry trees that lined the National Mall from the Lincoln Memorial on one side to the US Capitol on the other. People came from all over the country to see these trees. Thousands of them. They crowded the Mall, which made it hard to find a quiet meeting place.


  Or so I thought.

  It was Sunday, six days into our Washington mission, when Sharyn and I—trying to strengthen the idea that we were just acquaintances—made separate plans for the day. Sharyn told the proctors she wanted to visit a friend, which was sort of true. But since I couldn’t use the same excuse, I announced my plans to check out the National Portrait Gallery, thereby virtually guaranteeing none of the other pages would want to tag along.

  Sharyn split Webster Hall first. I went maybe an hour later.

  We met up on the Mall, safely concealed in the crowds wandering the big, grassy park between the Smithsonian Aerospace and Natural History museums. There we found the pre-arranged bench under the pre-arranged blossoming cherry tree at the prearranged time. We hadn’t figured the bench would be available, not with all of these people around. But it was.

  The fresh paint sign might have had something to do with it.

  Sharyn grinned and sat down. After a moment, I joined her. The bench, of course, was completely dry—though it had obviously been scoured, probably during the night, to make it look newly painted.

  “Sweet scam,” Sharyn remarked. “Simple but effective.”

  “Thanks,” a voice replied. Then a figure squeezed in between us. “As your brother says, when it comes to plans, the simpler the better.”

  I almost didn’t recognize Special Agent Hugo Ramirez.

  “What’s hangin’, Hugo?” Sharyn asked, smiling. “How long you been combin’ your hair with a buff rag?”

  Ramirez was totally bald.

  He ran one hand self-consciously over his smooth scalp. “When you go into hiding, one of the best things you can do is change your hair. Couldn’t dye it. Blond or redhead wouldn’t match my skin tone. So I shaved it.”

  Sharyn rubbed at her own short hair. “At least it was your call. I just woke up and bang, the dreads I’d worn since I was twelve were all over the infirmary floor!”

  Again: another story.

  “I know,” Ramirez told her. “I was there. Listen kids, I’m glad you called this meet. I’ve got some things to tell you both.”

  “Mind if we go first?” Sharyn asked.

  He sighed. “Go ahead.”

  So I did. “One of the proctors is a Corpse.”

  Ramirez looked stunned. “Are you sure?” Then: “Sorry. Of course you’re sure.”

  “And not just him,” said Sharyn. “Some of the Capitol cops are deaders, too. More than you’d think.”

  He replied, “That much I do know. The thing is … there was an … incident in the Capitol last week.”

  “An incident?” I asked.

  “A murder,” he said.

  Now it was our turn to look stunned.

  “And, while I’m not 100 percent certain,” he added, “I think the victim was a Corpse.”

  Sharyn asked, “How ya figure?”

  “Well, officially, this murder never happened. By that I mean no body has been found there. What was found turned up some blocks away, in a commercial Dumpster. And even that was just … well … parts. Apparently the victim was mostly … devoured.”

  “Devoured,” Sharyn echoed. “As in eaten?”

  Ramirez nodded again, looking sallow. “One leg below the knee and half an arm … that’s all that was recovered. But the initial examination, conducted right after the murder, showed that both limbs had been dead for nearly a month.”

  “I don’t get it,” I said. “If this guy supposedly died last week, but the cadaver they found is a Type Three … then what makes you think it’s even the same dude? Heck, how do you know for sure that anything went down in the Capitol in the first place?”

  “That’s the Capitol Police Board’s official stand on the matter,” Ramirez replied. “Which is why they’re leaving the case to the DC cops. Thing is: the arm wore a watch belonging to a Capitol cop who went missing in the Rotunda last week. So, as I see it, either he walked off his job in the middle of the night and, for some reason, decided to put his watch on the wrist of disembodied arm that must already have been devoured and trashed …”

  “Long shot,” Sharyn admitted.

  “… or,” Ramirez said, “he was one of Cavanaugh’s people, got eaten in the Rotunda, and then had his … leftovers dropped into that Dumpster.”

  The Rotunda is this huge round room that sits right under the big, white dome in the center of the Capitol. It’s kind of a reception hall, exactly halfway between the Senate and House Chambers, and directly atop the Capitol “Crypt,” which is where George Washington was supposed to have been buried.

  Except he wasn’t. I used to know why not.

  “Sounds like more questions than answers,” Sharyn said. “Any way to be sure?”

  “Maybe.” Ramirez showed us a cell phone photo of a guy in the black cop uniform; it looked like a yearbook shot or something. “This is the missing Capitol policeman,” he said. “His name is …was … Richard Camp. Have a look with those magic eyes of yours.”

  We looked.

  “Yep,” I said.

  “He’s a deader,” Sharyn said.

  Ramirez nodded. He looked tired. “Camp wasn’t alone when he was attacked in the Rotunda. His partner was with him. He’s the reason this whole thing came up … his story about what happened that night hasn’t been sitting well with the Capitol Police Board.”

  “Are we sure he’s human?” I asked.

  Wordlessly, he showed us a second cell phone photo. Another Capitol cop in uniform. Another yearbook shot.

  “Human,” Sharyn and I said together.

  Again he nodded. “I figured. Camp was pretty new. He’d only been on with Capitol cops for six months. But his partner’s record shows five years of good service. That’s long before the invasion started. Thing is, he’s been completely discredited because of the story he tells.”

  “What story?” asked Sharyn.

  “Well, as pages, you’ve both been to the Rotunda.”

  “Plenty of times,” I confirmed.

  “But what you might not have noticed is that there aren’t any lamps in there. The only light is what filters in through the rows of windows in the dome. That means on a cloudy night it can get very dark. Well, that’s how it was the night someone killed Camp. Except that, according to the partner, Camp wasn’t killed by a someone. He was killed by a something.”

  Sharyn blinked. “Say what now?”

  “According to the partner, a … creature came out of nowhere, dropping down on them from above. One second it wasn’t there, and the next it was on top of his partner, eating him. Camp was kicking and screaming.”

  “Jeez,” I muttered. “That’s crazy!”

  He replied, “That’s what the chief of the Capitol Police says.”

  “Could the partner describe this … thing?” Sharyn asked.

  “Yes, for all the good it’s done him. He’s suspended temporarily, pending a full investigation. The Capitol Police Board’s very tight-lipped about the whole affair. They figure this guy’s either in shock, completely insane, or implicated in his partner’s disappearance somehow. I haven’t talked to him personally, but I’ve read his report. He claims to have shot at the thing, but that the bullets did nothing … nothing at all.”

  “Jeez,” I muttered again.

  “Apparently the … ‘monster’ is the only word I can come up with … ignored his attacks, even going so far as to push the partner out of the way. Gently but firmly, was the way he described it.”

  “Not wonder they think he’s nuts,” I said. “But where’s the arm in the Dumpster come into it?”

  “It was found two days ago and turned in. Frankly, it wouldn’t have been tied to the Rotunda incident at all if it hadn’t been for the victim’s watch. After all, as far as the Capitol Board is concerned, it can’t be the same man. The arm’s been dead too long.”

  “But you knew better,” Sharyn said with a grim smile. “You have learned much, grasshopper!”

  He smiled thinly. “Let’s just sa
y I have a clearer understanding of how the world really works.”

  “But what’s it all mean?” she asked. “What’re we dealin’ with here?”

  I digested what Ramirez had told us; no pun intended. Then I said, “Sounds like some … thing … had a Corpse for lunch.”

  Gross. Seriously gross.

  I mean, we lived lives that put us up to our armpits in “disgusting.” But even by our standards, this was awful.

  “Could the deader still be alive?” Sharyn wondered, looking a little green. “In that leg or arm? Or did the Malum inside get iced during all the munching?”

  “That concerned me, too,” replied Ramirez. He held up his phone a third time. “This is a crime scene photo, taken at the Dumpster when the … remains were found. I should warn you both, it’s hard to look at.”

  Sharyn and I looked.

  An arm and a leg. No biggie.

  “Seen worse,” Sharyn said. I nodded agreement.

  Ramirez nodded, too, though for some reason he looked unhappy about it.

  “But no Mask,” I told him. “No sign of Corpse illusion. Camp’s not in there. He’s totally gone.”

  Sharyn added, “So it figures that, whatever wasted this deader, did more’n eat his host body. It ate him, too.”

  “But what is it?” I asked. “I mean, do we gotta add a ghoul to our list of things to worry about?”

  Ramirez didn’t reply.

  “Nobody at Webster Hall said nothin’ about this,” Sharyn pointed out. “You’d figure that kinda news would totally stoke the gossip train!”

  “Webster Hall doesn’t know,” Ramirez replied. “Very few people do. Remember, as far as the Hill is concerned, one of their cops is missing and another is either crazy or guilty. In their eyes, there is no monster running round the Capitol, eating walking-dead men. So there’s no reason to warn anybody about anything.”

  “What exactly does Camp’s partner say he saw?” I asked. “What’s this ‘monster’ look like?”

  “Man-sized but with something like ten legs and a weird head that seemed to be, in his words, ‘everywhere at once.’”

  “What’s that mean?” Sharyn demanded.

  “Not a clue. But you can see why his superiors assume either he’s lying … or has completely lost his grip on reality.”