Secret of the Corpse Eater

by Ty Drago

  Parkour, I remember thinking vaguely and absurdly. Alien free running …

  The monster, with me in tow, took one more tremendous leap that carried us dizzyingly across the open space, filling the very top of the dome.

  Colors and shapes flashed past me, and I caught a weird glimpse of George Washington’s face, looking regal and serious, right before I was swallowed up by darkness.

  I was yanked this way and that, carried through almost perfect darkness. Somewhere below us, I could hear the frustrated howls of Corpses, including Micha’s raspy dead voice issuing frantic orders: “Find the abomination! Kill the boy and then restrain that … thing!”

  Then even these sounds grew muffled and finally silent as the creature took me higher into the smothering blackness. Sometimes we traveled on floors, other times on walls. Whatever this thing was, gravity didn’t bother it.

  A couple of times I tugged at the arms—or legs—that gripped me, but it was like fighting steel cables. The appendages didn’t even feel like living tissue so much as leather-wrapped rebar.

  No wonder it had been described as bulletproof!

  Finally, we stopped and I was let go. My body felt like warm Jell-O and I slumped to the cold, metal floor as if I had no bones.

  Slowly, I rolled over and sat up. My stomach stayed put, but it felt empty—the kind of empty you only get from throwing up everything except your shoes. The air was cold. There was no heat here, wherever “here” was.

  Patches of faint light streamed from somewhere far below us. Weird shadows splashed against sloping, metal walls, making every angle razor sharp and more than a little creepy. There was a door nearby, just a few steps to my right. But I was sure we hadn’t come through there.

  On my left stood a waist-high railing.

  I sat sprawled on a catwalk of some kind. Slowly, with my stomach grumbling but not really complaining, I slid over to the railing and peered under it. There wasn’t much to see: just a stairwell leading down into empty blackness. There were only two walls, both of which seemed to curve to the right and left, disappearing from sight. The nearest wall was sloped, like the surface of a basketball. The farther wall was also sloped, but the other way, as if I were inside the basketball. A basketball within another basketball—and with me in between them.

  Where in the world am I?

  Then something moved, and I froze. Despite the chill air, sweat sprouted on my forehead.

  In a horror movie kind of slow-mo, I turned and got my first really good look at the Corpse Eater.

  I’ve talked about the “Holy Crap Factor”—that special moment when your sense of reality takes a day off. Well, since getting my Eyes, I’d had more than my share of Holy Crap Factors.

  This one blew them all away.

  It had ten legs, just like Ramirez said. So did the pelligog, the small, spider-like things that Corpses used to control people. But that was as far as the resemblance went. For one, this creature was bigger—much bigger, maybe 130 pounds. Its torso was long and lean, with muscular, multi-jointed legs that seemed to stick out everywhere.

  Each leg ended in a pincer as big as one of the Burgermeister’s fists. Trust me: that’s big. When it walked, these pinchers opened and closed, grabbing the ground, or the wall, or the floor, letting it scuttle along on just about any surface. Each of these pincers looked sharp, like razor-edged shears.

  Basically, every inch of this monster was a weapon.

  But its head was the worst—a huge, round lump of hard, leathery skin without anything even remotely like a face. There were four eyes, all positioned evenly around its skull, and each one a different color: red, green, yellow and blue. It had no ears or nose, and its mouth—the same mouth that had swallowed a deader whole—looked like a thin slit.

  Okay, now brace yourself.

  You know how your own head sits on top of your shoulders? Well this thing didn’t have shoulders. So, instead, its head was somehow able to move around its body. As I watched, transfixed, the four-eyed round lump traveled along the torso, maneuvering in between and around the legs, before settling itself in the monster’s rear, facing away from me.

  There it paused, as if listening or sniffing the air—though, as I’ve said, it lacked a nose or ears.­

  Then its huge head rolled back along its body, sliding under the leathery skin, taking a different route amidst the legs, and faced me.

  It was the single freakiest thing I’d ever seen. And that’s saying something.

  The four eyes watched me—not all at once—but individually, with the head in which they were mounted rotating all the way around, giving each one a turn.

  Red. Green. Yellow. Blue.

  I swallowed. When that didn’t work—no spit—I tried talking instead. “Um …” I said. A wordsmith, that’s me. “Hi.”

  No response. It just stood there, so motionless that it didn’t seem to really be alive.

  Somehow, during that crazy trip from the Rotunda, I’d managed to hang onto my pocketknife, though any thought of zapping or otherwise attacking Mr. Ten Legs died between my ears. As still as it was right now, I’d seen how fast it could move and I wasn’t stupid enough to think I was faster.

  Then I remembered my sat phone.

  Keeping my gaze fixed on that blue eye, I slowly—I’m talking seriously slowly—slipped the phone out of my jacket pocket and opened it.

  It worked, meaning that the screen lit up. But there were no bars. No signal at all. Wherever I was, I’d been cut off from any help.

  I think that’s when I really got scared. I know that sounds stupid. I mean, I’d been alone plenty of times, often with a deader or two on me like white on rice. But this was different. Way different.

  There’s an old saying, “Better the devil you know.”

  Well, I knew Corpses. I knew them inside out and sideways, what they were—more or less, what they wanted, and usually how they would react.

  But now I’d come face-to-face—again, more or less—with something completely outside my comfort zone, so totally out there that I doubted you’d find it on the “there” chart. Ten legs, four eyes, and a head that rolled around its body like a roller-coaster car draped in cowhide.

  And I was totally alone.

  So yeah, sue me, I was scared.

  “Where are we?” I asked it, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice.

  No response.

  “Um … my phone’s got no bars,” I said, going for broke. “Don’t suppose I could borrow yours?”

  What can I say? I’m snarky when I’m terrified.

  As if in answer, the creature pounced, its movements so fast that they were hard to see. One second it was ten feet away, and the next it was right in my face. And I mean right in my face! It smelled like—nothing, absolutely nothing—no smell at all. Which, so far, was the nicest thing about it.

  Its head swiveled and it stared at me with its red eye. Big socket. No lid. No pupil. Just an oval of unbroken redness.

  Then it opened its mouth.

  This time the Holy Crap Factor almost landed in my pants.

  Teeth.

  Big, long, black teeth. Like individual steak knives. How could a head that size hold that many teeth that big? It was like the creature’s brain was housed elsewhere in its bizarre body, and this moveable “head” was really nothing more than tooth storage.

  Rows of them. Hundreds of them. And in the middle, not one tongue but three. They drooled out, moving independently like serpents emerging from the same basket. Except each was tipped with a miniature version of the same pincers as on its legs. These clicked open and closed as they danced around my head.

  I wanted to run, but where? So far all I knew of my location was a catwalk, two sloping metal walls, and a staircase that led down into darkness. There was that mysterious steel door, but what if it was locked?

  “Sorry,” I croaked. “No offense.”

  The pincer tongues touched my face here and there, never breaking the skin. Then, withou
t warning, they snapped back into the creature’s maul. Its teeth closed. The lipless slit returned.

  Its head rotated, revealing the yellow eye.

  For a long moment, the creature studied me. Then one of its legs rose, twisting along its many joints…

  …and stroked my cheek.

  Does this mean we’re … pals?

  “Um …” I stammered. “Thanks for saving me back there.”

  The leg paused. The red eye turned my way again. Was this good or bad? Did red mean bad?

  Then the leg moved downward with lightning swiftness, snatching the sat phone from my hand. I almost screamed. Honestly: almost.

  As the pincers closed, I heard the dull crunch of crushed plastic.

  The remains of my only link to the outside world—bars or no bars—dropped to the catwalk while its destroyer, still fixing me with its red eye, backed slowly away. Six feet. Eight. Ten.

  Then it stopped—and changed.

  The transformation wasn’t slow like you might see in the movies. One moment, I was looking at a creature more bizarre than any I’d ever imagined. And the next it morphed into a human being. A completely naked human being.

  The woman—it was definitely a woman, and not a young one—sighed and curled up into a fetal position. This was probably good, given her state of undress.

  For a half minute I didn’t move. I’m not even sure I breathed.

  Then her eyes opened blearily, as if just awakening from a deep sleep. At first she looked bewildered, and then resigned, as if she’d remembered where she was and didn’t like it much.

  Then she saw me, gasped, and sat up.

  “Who are you?” she demanded in a voice I recognized.

  “Senator Micha?” I asked tentatively. “Senator Lindsay Micha?”

  The woman stared at me, her face pale, her skin filthy. She trembled and tried to speak though, at first, nothing came out. Then, as if some wonderful understanding had dawned, she smiled with relief and said, “Of course! That’s who I am!”

  I knew I should run. Right now.

  I should make a break for the stairs and all but throw myself down them—be out of sight before this woman, or monster, or Incredible Freakin’ Hulk got her head on straight. Who knew? Maybe, in this state, she’d let me go without a second thought.

  It might be the only shot I’d get. I could almost hear my mother’s voice screaming for me to do it. For her sake. For Emily’s.

  But I didn’t.

  Instead, I asked, “You … okay?”

  She seemed confused, unnerved—but not really frightened. Her expression reminded me of the blank, vaguely curious look that Emily wore whenever she would fall asleep in the car and wake up someplace new.

  “What?” she asked. “Oh. Yes, I’m fine, young man. Thank you so much for asking.”

  Then she smiled that same smile I’d seen on the Mask of the other Lindsay Micha, the dead one, when she’d apologized to the Senate. Except this one seem genuine. Not a politico’s smile at all.

  This Lindsay Micha was truly grateful to me for asking after her welfare.

  And it was definitely not the smile of someone who knows she’s bare-butt naked.

  “Lemme … give you my jacket,” I stammered. I started taking it off, an awkward thing to do when you’re sprawled across the catwalk.

  “Your jacket?” she asked, sounding perplexed. “What for?”

  I paused, my already overburdened brain trying to come up with a reason—besides, of course, the embarrassingly obvious one. “Well … it’s cold in here.”

  Not bad.

  “I hadn’t noticed. Still, it’s gentlemanly of you to offer … so, thank you again.”

  She accepted the blue blazer, draping it over her thin shoulders. It helped, a little. “And whom exactly am I thanking?”

  “Huh?” Sorry. It’d been a long night.

  She laughed. She had a musical laugh, kind of like Sharyn’s. “What’s your name?”

  “Oh. Will Ritter.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Will. And, by your clothes, I’d say you’re a Senate page.”

  “Kind of. Not anymore, I guess.”

  Again she smiled. “I sense an interesting story behind your circumstances.”

  Look who’s talking.

  “Um … Senator —”

  But she cut me off. “Now I have to stop you right there!” she exclaimed, as if she were making a point in some big-deal committee meeting. “Given the peculiar circumstances of our acquaintance, I must insist that you call me Lindsay.”

  I blinked. “Okay. Sure.”

  “Weird” had just gotten a whole new definition in my dictionary, and guess whose picture was right beside it.

  Then Micha’s eyes lit up. “Why … you’re an Undertaker!”

  I gaped at her. “How’d you know that?”

  “I’m not sure. I heard it somewhere, but just now I can’t seem to recall the specifics. It’s very discommoding.”

  What the heck does “discommoding” mean?

  Then: Well, being crazy hasn’t done her vocabulary any harm.

  “How long have you been here … Lindsay?” I asked.

  “Here?” Micha looked around. “Always, I suppose. Or nearly so.”

  “Always? But, you don’t … you know … live here.” Then, after a pause, I added, “Do you?”

  The woman laughed. “Here? Oh my, no. I live everywhere. I know every inch of this building. Have since I was a little girl.”

  “A little girl?”

  “Lindsay’s father was a congressman for fourteen years,” she explained, a strange faraway look in her eyes. “Most representatives leave their families behind, but Lindsay’s mother had died in childbirth and Congressman Micha was a loving, doting single parent. So, when he came to Washington he brought his daughter, just four years old at the time. There, instead of passing her off to a string of nannies, as others did, he instead took her to work with him. Lindsay grew up exploring the halls of the Capitol.”

  Then she smiled proudly, like a Sunday School kid who’s just recited the Easter Story.

  “But aren’t … you … Lindsay?” I asked carefully.

  Her smile faltered. “No …” she said haltingly. “I mean … I used to be, but now the Third is …” A tear rolled down her cheek.

  The Third?

  “You’re Lindsay Micha,” I said firmly. “And you’re a US senator.”

  She looked beseeching at me. “Are you … quite sure?”

  The question was nuts. But then, heck, the whole situation was nuts. I nodded. “I’m totally sure. That other one’s an imposter. She’s not you. She’s nothing like you.”

  Micha rubbed away the tear. “Thank you, Will.”

  We both fell silent, settling back on the cold, metal floor of the catwalk. The woman’s eyes grew distant, and she seemed to drift away inside herself, maybe even forgetting I was there. Meanwhile, I got as comfortable as I could, what with my back rammed up against the railing—and considered her.

  Lindsay Micha.

  No Corpse had ever before, as far as we knew, mimicked an actual person, living or dead. And the fact that they’d done so to Senator Micha hinted they were up to something—no doubt something bad—and only Lindsay Micha could deliver it.

  Back in Haven, Tom had supposed that, after replacing the senator, the Corpses had killed the original. After all, why wouldn’t they? Cavanaugh’s crew had never been big on keeping prisoners.

  But then who—or what—was this? What was she doing here? And just what the heck was that thing she changed into?

  More questions than answers. Story of my life.

  “Thanks for saving me,” I said again.

  She started. “What?”

  “I said thanks for saving my life.”

  Micha fidgeted uncomfortably. “Oh, that wasn’t me. That was the First.” I could almost hear the capital F, like with “Third” earlier.

  “The First. That’s who rescued me?”
r />   She nodded.

  “And so … who are you?”

  “I’m the Second.”

  “The second what?”

  “The Second Head, of course!”

  I swallowed. “Senator Micha—”

  “Lindsay,” she corrected.

  “Okay. Lindsay. What happened to you?”

  She ran trembling hands through the forest of wild, gray hair atop her head. “I-I don’t know, exactly. I was … taken. But not by … people. Not proper people, anyway.”

  “We call them Corpses. With a capital C.” Then I told her some of it. The war. The Undertakers. My mission to DC. I left out Sharyn, as well as any particulars that might put Haven at risk. And she listened without apparent judgment—though I suppose if you were what she was, your horizons might be a little broader than average, too.

  Finally, I finished up with, “As far as we can tell, they kidnapped you and replaced you with one of their own. They’ve never done it before.”

  Micha nodded but didn’t speak, her body motionless. For a half minute she stayed like that, still as a statue. Then, finally, she said, “She fears you.”

  “Who?”

  “The Third.”

  “The Third Head?” I asked.

  She nodded again.

  “You mean the Corpse pretending to be you? That’s the Third?”

  Micha nodded slowly, the movement slight and very precise. Sitting there on the catwalk, wearing my jacket, and with the rest of her naked body thankfully bathed in shadow, I got the impression that she’d wound herself up real tight, like a tiger poised for the pounce. It wasn’t what you’d call a happy thought. “She’s afraid of the Undertakers. I heard it in her mind. That’s how I knew the word.”

  “I told you,” I said. “We fight her. We fight all the Corpses.”

  “Why were you in the Rotunda?” she demanded, so abruptly that I jumped. “It was after hours!”

  “I was looking for … well … you.” But even as I said it, I knew—for the first time—that it wasn’t really true. I’d told myself that was why I’d bailed on Sharyn and snuck out of Webster Hall. But now, in this strange place and with this strange person, I understood the real reason.