Secret of the Corpse Eater

by Ty Drago

  “While we were talking,” Jefferson said, “you went and had the building evacuated.”

  “Just this floor,” the Queen replied, “with minions stationed at every stairwell to keep anyone from coming up. This old building has paper-thin walls, but the floors and ceiling are nicely soundproof. Nobody will hear your screams, Tom. That I promise you.”

  Then her predatory gaze fixed on Susan. “You, however, will die relatively quickly. I’ve always admired your body. Now, at last, I’ll wear it.”

  “So, this was never about Will or some common enemy,” the boy said. “That was bait … to lure us here.”

  Lilith stood and came around from behind her desk, her manicured hands flexing like a raptor’s talons. “I saw an opportunity. I counted on your foolish loyalty to bring you running, and it did … although having Susan here was an unexpected bonus. Thank you for that. The important thing was to keep you … engaged … while my people emptied the surrounding floor of potential witnesses.”

  She expected to see Tom Jefferson tremble. But he didn’t. He simply raised his sword and said, “We’re not defenseless.”

  The Queen laughed. “A helpless woman and boy with a sword against the five of us … plus a dozen other of my best people, who are already on their way? I like my odds. D’Angelo, they’re all yours.”

  “One question?” Jefferson asked, his tone unsettlingly calm.

  Lilith regarded him. “Go ahead.”

  “Was it true … all that stuff about Lindsay Micha and the gravveg? Or was it just smoke and mirrors to keep us occupied?”

  “All true, of course! Why bother lying when I knew neither of you would leave this room alive?” Her tone hardened as she addressed her minions. “Kill Jefferson, but restrain the female. I’ll dispatch her myself … very carefully.”

  Then Jefferson did a truly remarkable thing. He smiled. “You’ve screwed up, Cavanaugh. When you told me to come alone, you figured I would.”

  “Yet you didn’t,” she said. “And I’ve already thanked you for it. Sadly, our dear Susan here is a nurse, not a soldier. So, for all intents and purposes, you are alone.”

  “I’m an Undertaker, lady,” Jefferson replied. “And an Undertaker is never alone.”

  Something cut the air past Lilith’s ear.

  An instant later, D’Angelo staggered back a step, staring down at the syringe—built to look like an arrow of some kind—that protruded from his chest.

  “What’s happening?” the Queen demanded.

  Then the chief of police exploded.

  Did you know that the US Senate has its own train?

  It runs underground, back and forth between the Dirksen and Hart office buildings and the Capitol basement. It’s there to let senators and their staff get around without having to navigate the DC streets—you know, the way regular people do. It’s quick, clean, and pretty quiet, as far as subways go.

  Best of all, it would let us get Lindsay Micha—the real Lindsay Micha, sort of—to her Hart office and, as Sharyn put it, “finish what Jillian started by gettin’ the 411 on what Corpse Micha’s up to.”

  A solid plan.

  Too bad about the trail of bodies.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself again.

  After the face-off in the catwalks, the three of us emerged onto a narrow, circular walkway with a low, domed ceiling. There was space here—a lot of it—though it took me a few seconds to realize where I was.

  The Apotheosis of Washington covered the ceiling—a massive fresco reaching out over the vast, empty air extending across to the opposite side of the catwalk. We were at the very top of the Rotunda, 180 feet above its tile floor. Peering over, I saw that the big, round chamber stood empty.

  I could tell by the amount of light that it had to be late morning. Was the Rotunda closed to tourists? Did the Capitol Police officially know that Charles O’Mally had been murdered, or had Corpse Micha somehow covered the whole thing up?

  Lindsay said to us, “I’m going on ahead to see how safe it is. You two kids stay here, just in case.”

  I expected Sharyn to remind Lindsay that, except for Sharyn’s page blazer, she was bare-butt naked—or maybe suggest that she flush all her “you’re kids so I have to protect you” crap down the proverbial toilet. But she didn’t and, as Lindsay moved away on bare legs and shoeless feet, I figured out why.

  It gave the Angel Boss and me a chance to talk.

  “Wanna tell me what went down?” she asked, standing beside me at the railing and gazing at the distant floor.

  “It’s a long story,” I said.

  “With you, ain’t it always?”

  If she was mad at me for bailing, it didn’t show—despite her promise to kick my butt. Sharyn could be like that: deal with the now now. The then will wait for later. If you know what I mean.

  “How’d you find us?” I asked.

  “Wasn’t hard. Figured you’d gone to check out the Rotunda. Figured you’d needed O’Mally to get you in after hours. Couldn’t raise you on your phone. Couldn’t raise him. So I guessed something bad had gone down. But there wasn’t much I could do ’til morning, so I stayed up and waited. I hate waitin’, but sometimes it’s all you got. Thanks for that,” she said sourly.

  “Sorry,” I told her, half meaning it.

  “Uh-huh,” she said, half believing it. “Anyhow, around two a.m., in walks our fave wormbag, Greg Gardner. He and I had us a little ‘chat,’ and … eventually … he told me what all went down in the Rotunda. Some story! Afterward, though, I was just as stuck as before. Nothing to do ’til morning.

  “I expected your roommates to give you up at lights-out, but they didn’t. Seems pages stayin’ out all night ain’t that rare. ’Course, that didn’t stop Lex from goin’ nuclear when you didn’t turn up at page school this morning. But I played dumb and ended up reporting for work at the Capitol with the rest of ’em. We were told right off by a Corpse Cop that the Rotunda was closed for the day … off limits.”

  “So they could clean it up?” I suggested.

  “Naw, that was done ’fore we ever got there. They shut it down ’cause they’re afraid.”

  “Afraid?” I asked.

  “Afraid of exposure. Afraid of her …” She threw a thumb in the direction Lindsay had gone. “Afraid of what she might do, or what normal folks might see her do. So they closed the whole place off and posted deader guards.

  “Well, given what Greggie told me and all the extra security, it wasn’t no stretch to figure you had to be up inside the dome. So, I headed here.”

  “What about the guards?” I asked.

  She gave me a look that said, Since when can’t I handle a couple of Corpse flunkies? And I shut up.

  Then she asked, “You got your sat phone?”

  “Lindsay kinda … mangled it … pretty soon after she rescued me.”

  Sharyn groaned.

  “Where’s yours?”

  “It fell into the toilet in the downstairs bathroom at Webster Hall while Greggie and I were … jammin’.”

  “So we’re cut off,” I said.

  “For now,” she said.

  “Where is Greggie?”

  “Back at Webster. I broke his neck in the john and then dragged his sorry butt down to the cellar for safekeeping. He’ll be needin’ a new body ’fore he goes anyplace.”

  “Nice,” I remarked. Then, after a long pause: “Sorry … about taking off the way I did.”

  “You weren’t ready to face your mom,” she said. “So you cooked up this excuse ’bout checkin’ out the murder scene. That sound right?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Yeah,” she said.

  “You figured that out?”

  “Heck, no. Tom nailed it. He’s got more of a head for all that psych stuff than me.”

  I groaned.

  She said, “First of all, Red … give your mother half a break. Ain’t too many moms out there gonna dig their thirteen-year-old son headin’ off to war.”
/>   “Fourteen,” I said.

  She frowned. “Fourteen? Since when?”

  “Since I got shot a couple months ago. Tom thinks the angel kept me in that white room for a lot longer than I thought. He says a wound like that would take … like … a year to heal, and that they might have kept me unconscious the whole time so I wouldn’t … I dunno … freak out or something. He says they must not have had an Anchor Shard, otherwise I wouldn’t have a scar.” Then, after a pause, I added, “He says he figured it out because I’d gotten taller—something like three inches—in just a few hours.”

  Sharyn took a half minute to digest this. Then she shook her head, more in wonder than disbelief. “Man, you live one wild life. I thought I was edge. But you—”

  “Think it’s true?” I interrupted.

  “If my bro believes it, then it’s probably legit. He ain’t wrong much. But really … does it matter?”

  I considered that. “A whole year of my life is gone.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But … compared to everything else, compared to Ian … I guess not.”

  She nodded. “Hard, ain’t it? Getting’ used to all the weird.”

  “Yeah.”

  Her manner turned serious. “Now … ’bout your mom. I know this stuff ’tween you and her ain’t none of my business. But after the stunt you pulled last night, I figure you owe me at least a quick listen. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “You know how many kids in Haven wanna see their folks again?” she asked. “And that’s just the ones who still got ’em. There’s me and Tom, who ain’t never had parents … at least, none we can remember. Then there’s kids like Alex Bobson, who saw the Corpses waste his. I know havin’ her there might be … crowding you … but ask yourself: Would you rather she wasn’t there?”

  I looked at her.

  She looked at me.

  “That it?” I asked.

  “That’s it,” she said.

  I gazed back out over the big, empty Rotunda.

  I thought about my mother, and about how we’d ended things last time we’d…talked. Would it really be better to have her someplace else? Safe, of course, but safely elsewhere. For months, I’d literally dreamed of seeing her again. But, along the way, had I somehow outgrown her?

  It was a sad thought, way sadder than you’d think.

  Sharyn said, completely out of left field, “Wish I’d had a Ritter. Would’ve loved to completely waste Gardner.”

  “Me, too,” I replied. “He’s the one who killed Mr. O’Mally.”

  “That sucks, Red. I liked that old guy.”

  “So did I.”

  “Sorry,” she added. “Forgot you don’t like bein’ called Red.”

  Ginger, I thought.

  “It’s okay,” I told her. And it was.

  Sharyn said, “In the meanwhile … just how solid is your friend Senator Micha? She don’t seem to have all her trash cans lined up straight.”

  “She wants to be whole, Sharyn. She wants to find the Third … …that’s what she calls Corpse Micha … and, I dunno, get herself back somehow. That much she’s clear on. But the rest of it … I’m not sure. She knows she changes. It scares her. But she also needs it, since Corpses seem to be the only things she eats. I mean … I haven’t had breakfast and I’m starved. She’s been up here for a week with no food or water.”

  “She ain’t human, little bro,” the Angel Boss said. “Not anymore.”

  “I know.”

  “In her way, she’s more alien than they are.”

  “I know.”

  Sharyn eyed me. “But?”

  “But she saved my life,” I said. “She didn’t have to … in fact it cost her a clear shot at the Third … but she did it.” Then, after a mile-long second, I added, “She’s my friend.”

  Sharyn nodded. “Then that’s good enough for me. Gotta get used to the weird, right? Besides, she wants to nail Corpse Micha. We want to nail Corpse Micha, or at least find out what she’s up to.”

  “On the Rotunda floor last night, Micha said she had ‘big plans.’”

  “Deaders with ‘big plans’ ain’t never a good thing.”

  Lindsay appeared at the archway to the downward staircase. There was stuff—Corpse juice—all over her arms and around her mouth. And she was naked again.

  Jeez.

  “Good news!” she said brightly. “The stairway’s clear!”

  “Cool,” said Sharyn.

  Our plan was to head to the Hart Building, where there were fewer police, dead or otherwise. Once there, we’d get into Lindsay Micha’s office. If we found it Corpse-free, then Sharyn and I could call Haven and riffle through some drawers, looking for clues. I hadn’t been in DC for long, but if my page duties had taught me anything, it was this: politicians—hopefully including dead ones—write everything down!

  And if we didn’t find the office deader-free—well, then maybe Lindsay and the Third would finally have their showdown.

  Something told me it would be a messy reunion.

  Of course, first we had to get out of the Capitol.

  And that’s when Lindsay mentioned the train.

  “It’s a short trip, and exclusive,” she explained. “There’ll be some people on it, of course, but far fewer than we’d encounter while trying to walk from here to Hart.”

  So, with Lindsay wrapped in my Capitol Cop coat, the last of our handy outerwear, we headed down the long, winding stairs between the inner and outer dome. As we neared the bottom, we came across—evidence—of Lindsay’s most recent meal. Shreds of police uniforms, with shreds of deader still inside them. I counted four pairs of shoes.

  Sharyn and I swapped looks.

  The Rotunda still stood empty. No tourists. No congressmen. No pages. And no cops, dead or otherwise.

  “The guards must’ve all split,” Sharyn remarked.

  “They ran,” Lindsay said, matter-of-factly. “They usually run when they see me.”

  I’ll bet they do.

  I said, “Let’s get out of here before they come back with reinforcements.”

  So we did, heading deeper into the Capitol, heading down.

  It was mid-morning, and even with the Rotunda still “officially” closed the building was crowded. Dozens of pairs of eyes fell on us as we navigated the corridors and staircases, but they were all living eyes, and they regarded us less with alarm than puzzlement. Two messy pages escorting a barefoot older woman wrapped in an oversized cop jacket was apparently a weird sight, even for DC. Go figure.

  Angels training: the trick in these situations is to act like you totally belong there.

  Well, we did and it worked. Nobody challenged us.

  Along the way we stopped at a janitor’s closet. I picked the lock with my pocketknife while Sharyn kept watch. Inside, as we’d hoped, we found a few pairs of overalls, one of which Lindsay hastily put on. The rest we stuffed into a green trash bag.

  Can you guess why?

  There was a Capitol cop—nicely human—stationed outside the door that led down to the subway. As we approached, he eyed us with bewilderment, but simply said, “Good morning, Senator Micha.”

  “Good morning,” she replied with an easy smile.

  The train platform looked like pretty much every city subway stop I’d ever seen, a little smaller maybe. And cleaner. There was nobody in sight.

  So far, so good.

  Then, suddenly, so far wasn’t so good.

  “Deaders,” Sharyn whispered.

  A pair of Type Threes, looking bloated and sticky inside their cop uniforms, appeared at the platform’s far end. At the sight of us they froze, their mouths hanging open, revealing loose, yellowed teeth.

  Then they did something I’d never seen Corpses do.

  They fled.

  In a blur of movement, the Corpse Eater exploded past us, catching the deaders before they got ten feet. It grabbed Dead Cop Number One and tore him in half as if he were a sheet of smelly, decaying p
aper. At the same instant, its awful, terrifying jaws closed over the skull of Dead Cop Number Two.

  The Corpse Eater threw back its weird, tooth-riddled head, lifting the deader right off his feet. Then, as Sharyn and I watched—transfixed—its mouth unhinged like a snake’s, opening impossibly wide.

  The Corpse struggled wildly. Muffled shrieks echoed across the empty platform.

  Then he slid down her gullet, disappearing as quickly and smoothly as if he’d been greased.

  The creature uttered a satisfied burp.

  An instant later the old woman was back—naked again, since the remains of her overalls now lay in a pile between Sharyn and me.

  “Come along, children,” she said, running the back of her hand absently across lips stained with Corpse juice. “The train will be here momentarily.”

  Sharyn and I dragged the remains of Dead Cop Number One into a shadowed recess at the rear of the platform. Of course this dude wasn’t permanently “dead,” just helpless. You couldn’t kill a Corpse simply by tearing him apart.

  I could only wonder about eating one!

  Lindsay donned a fresh pair of overalls, and just in time, too. As she combed her hair with her small fingers, somebody called her name.

  My stomach jumped up into my neck. I didn’t know it could do that.

  A guy in a suit approached from the platform staircase, a big smile on his face. He looked too much like a game show host to be anything but a Congressman. As he neared, his smile flickered as he took in Lindsay’s weird appearance.

  “Everything all right?” he asked.

  “Perfectly fine, Mike,” Lindsay replied with a smile so sincere and disarming that even I almost believed it. “Just your typical workday sob story. Let’s just say it involves an early committee meeting, a full pot of spilled coffee, an Armani suit, and quick trip back to my office to a change.”

  Suit Guy burst out laughing. “I’ve been there! Did I ever tell you about the time I set my tie on fire at a fund-raising dinner?”