Secret of the Corpse Eater

by Ty Drago

  Where was Lindsay? I mean, what was the point of setting bait if you weren’t around to make the kill!

  Then something flashed across my peripheral vision, too small to be the Corpse Eater. It was bouncing from column to column, a flurry of movement both quick and nearly silent.

  The figure vaulted over the Capitol model, swung smoothly around a final column, and then delivered a kick to the side of the Type Three’s head that snapped his spine in two. I actually heard it crack.

  The Corpse fell off of me.

  An instant later, Jillian asked, “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” I replied, sitting up and wiping God-knew-what off my face.

  She pulled me to my feet.

  “What happened to the lights?” I asked.

  “Helene … that weird pocketknife of yours.”

  An electromagnetic pulse; should’ve figured that. “Where are they all?”

  “I’m not sure,” Jillian replied. “After you pulled that stunt in the chamber, Helene sent me after you. She must have figured I was the only one who could keep up. Sorry, I got here as fast as I could.”

  “You got here when you had to,” I said. “Totally Undertaker.”

  She smiled.

  Then a dark figure rose at her shoulder.

  “Watch it!” I yelled.

  Jillian ducked as the Type Four, recovered from my skull shot, made a clumsy grab for her. Then, before I could jump to her defense, the girl ran straight up a nearby column, executed a perfect backflip, and landed on the Corpse’s shoulders.

  For a split second, the deader’s eyes met mine. He looked astonished.

  “Yeah,” I told him. “Cool … ain’t she?”

  Then Jillian, with a single hard twist of her legs, broke the deader’s neck. He dropped like a forgotten puppet, and she went with him, landing easily on her feet as he collapsed beneath her.

  “You gotta teach that to me,” I said with a laugh.

  “Listen,” she said. “That stuff that went down in the Senate Chamber is drawing most of the attention … for now. But I figure we got about five minutes before the whole place is flooded with security. The US government takes this building seriously.”

  She was right, of course.

  “I have to find Lindsay,” I said.

  Jillian gaped. “Are you kidding me? Let’s just get out of here alive, okay?”

  “She’s not a monster. She’s a friend, and I’m not leaving without her. She’s gone after Micha … the dead one, I mean. You find the others. Tell them what’s going on.”

  Jillian glowered. Then, with a heavy sigh, she said. “Uh-uh. I’m coming with you.”

  “You don’t have to,” I told her, meaning it.

  “Of course, I do. I’m an Undertaker,” she replied, also meaning it.

  “You got a weapon?”

  She grinned. “Will, know what I’ve found out lately? I am a weapon.”

  “Now you sound like Sharyn.”

  The girl considered. “I guess I’ll take that as a compliment, even if she does hate my guts. Come on, let’s find your friend.”

  That was when my friend appeared, flying past us in a blur of legs, eyes…

  …and blood.

  I watched Lindsay sail by as if in slow motion. She bounced off one column before slamming into another. Then her strange body crashed to the floor, smashing the Magna Carta exhibit.

  As I turned to her, Jillian grabbed my arm. “Will, don’t!”

  But there must have been something serious in the look I gave her, because she backed right off.

  I ran to my fallen friend.

  Four of the Corpse Eater’s legs were gone. They looked like they’d been ripped right out by the roots. She was bleeding, a strange, syrupy stuff the color of muddy water. It flowed freely, soaking my pants as I knelt beside her.

  Her head—that strange head of her—lolled miserably, but managed at last to fix me with its green eye.

  “Lindsay,” I said, my vision blurring. “What … happened?”

  A voice spoke: “I happened.”

  Corpse Micha melted out of the shadows behind Jillian. Before the girl could react, strong, dead fingers coiled in her hair, twisted roughly—and slammed her forehead into the nearest column. I heard a sickening thump.

  Then Jillian slid to the floor, knocked senseless by a walking cadaver.

  Crap, Jill. Now you’re an Undertaker.

  I stood up and put myself protectively between the two Michas. “Back off,” I warned, hoping I sounded intimidating.

  Corpse Micha laughed. “Or what, little man? You’ll electrocute me with your amazing pocketknife? Squirt me with your clever toy pistol? Or perhaps you’ll stab me with one of those saltwater syringes?” She tilted her Type Three head in a mockery of consideration. “Yes, my sister has fully informed me of your juvenile arsenal. Except you don’t have any of those weapons just now. Do you, William?”

  I tried to think up some clever response that might buy me time.

  Nothing came.

  One of Lindsay’s remaining pincers tugged on my pants. Looking down, I saw that her head now showed its yellow eye.

  Once again, something flashed through my mind—more idea than language. Then my friend’s head dropped to the floor and all her remaining limbs went limp with a horrible finality.

  “No …” I muttered.

  “Step aside,” Corpse Micha said, advancing. We were maybe ten feet apart.

  “What did you do to her?” I demanded.

  “Showed her who her Mistress is,” the fake Lindsay Micha replied. “She cornered me down the House corridor. So I begged for my life. I threw myself at her feet and told her how sorry I was and how I would make amends if she’d only let me.” The Corpse grinned savagely. “And she hesitated … just for a moment, lowering her guard. I’m no mere Warrior Caste, little man. I’m a Royal. That moment was more than enough.”

  “Tough talk,” I said. “’Cept I seem to remember you running out of the Senate Chamber, screaming ‘Protect me! Protect me!’”

  Her dead face twisted in anger. “That was before I knew my enemy,” she hissed. “Before I realized how … human … she really was!”

  This last statement hit me hard. I remembered the fallen man in the Rotunda, and how I’d managed to convince Lindsay not to eat him. I’d appealed to her human side, her sense of mercy—and had patted myself on the back for it.

  But her human side was a double-edged sword.

  Corpse Micha said, “And now I’m going to remove the rest of her legs.”

  “Haven’t you done enough?” I snapped. “She’s already dead!”

  “No, she isn’t. Merely too weak to fight. You see, little man, her form is our form. And it’s strong, far stronger than your own flimsy flesh.” She spread her arms inside her torn and soiled suit. I saw the muddy syrup soaking the fabric.

  My friend’s blood.

  “I need her alive,” the deader explained. “If she dies, then my Cover dies with her. And I like being Lindsay Micha. I just need to make sure she’s beyond any hope of causing further … mischief.”

  The idea of the real Lindsay forever locked away somewhere, a helpless cripple, while this—thing—that wore her face won the White House turned my stomach way worse than any ride on a monster’s back.

  “No,” I said.

  “No?”

  “I said no. You’ve done enough to her.”

  Corpse Micha took another step forward. “Brave words. But courage only goes so far. Besides, I think you misunderstand the situation. While I have no intention of killing that abomination at your feet, I have every intention of killing you.”

  “Oh yeah?” I said, feigning a cockiness I didn’t feel. “I’ve heard that one before. Take your best shot, wormbag.”

  She lunged, coming at me terrifyingly fast. Fortunately, I’d known it was coming.

  I threw myself to the right. Not a step. Not a jump. A throw—one that sent me skidding painfully across t
he stone floor. At the same instant, the Dead Royal hit the spot where I’d been standing with enough force to crack the wall beside the already ruined Magna Carta display.

  I’d hoped the collision would stun her. It didn’t. Grinning, she righted herself and spun to attack again.

  That’s when a pair of pincers took off both her feet.

  Lindsay’s idea—the message she’d transmitted to me right before playing “dead”—had been simple: Get her close.

  Helpless? I thought. Too weak to fight? Don’t think so.

  “What?” Corpse Micha screamed. “No!”

  She toppled like a felled tree.

  As the real Lindsay scrambled atop her, the fake one lashed out, trying to grab—and maybe rip away—yet another leg. But this time there wasn’t going to be any hesitation. The Corpse Eater caught the attacking hand and cut it clean off. Corpse juice went everywhere.

  Then, just to be sure, Lindsay did the same with the other hand.

  Now who’s limbless?

  The deader, of course, felt no pain. Nevertheless she wailed, “Wait! Please! I’m sorry!”

  No mercy this time, I thought. And, for some reason, that saddened me.

  Lindsay pinned down her struggling, screaming adversary. Then she brought her face close. I’d expected Lindsay to eat her. But apparently it didn’t work like that. This wasn’t about consuming the body. This was about consuming the Mask.

  A single word drilled into my head: whole.

  It took only a few seconds, but those seconds seemed to go on and on. Energy—not light, exactly, but somehow bright like light—passed from Corpse to Eater. Lindsay’s head begin to shimmer.

  Then the fake Micha went limp, and I didn’t need to cross my eyes to know that her stolen Mask was gone.

  That was when the real one transformed.

  Lindsay rolled off her Xerox, a normal woman again, her body maimed. Her entire left arm was gone, the stump bleeding something awful. But at least now the blood was human red.

  “Finally,” I heard her gasp. “Finally …”

  “Lindsay?” I said, kneeling beside her a second time. She was naked, as usual, but I didn’t even notice. It didn’t matter.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, looking up at me.

  “Hang on,” I said. “You’re going to be fine. Just —”

  “Hush,” the woman said with a thin, sad smile. “It’s … all right. I’m … whole … again. I’m—” More blood trickled out the corners of her mouth. I couldn’t even imagine how the damage done to her gravveg form had translated now that she was human.

  But I knew mortal injuries when I saw them.

  “Will?” She coughed.

  “Yeah,” I said, wiping impatiently at my blurring eyes.

  “I … would have been proud … to call you son.”

  Then Senator Lindsay Micha died.

  My shoulders sagged. My head fell to my chest. I held her hand—her limp, lifeless hand—and gave it a final squeeze before letting it fall. Finally, I took off my jacket and draped it over her naked form.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  Small fingers locked around my throat. Gasping, I clutched her wrist, but the grip was like iron.

  “I’m not,” the dead woman hissed. But, of course, it wasn’t my friend anymore.

  It was Corpse Micha.

  Stupid!

  Lindsay hadn’t eaten her imposter. Maybe she’d lacked the strength, wounded as she’d been. Or maybe her human half had simply gotten tired of killing. But whatever the reason, she’d taken only what she’d needed to be whole again—only what’d been stolen from her.

  And had inadvertently left behind the broken shell of a cadaver, and the thief trapped inside.

  Waiting for the body of the real Lindsay Micha to become available.

  “I told you I’d kill you, Mr. Ritter. And I always keep my promises.”

  Then the thing that had been my friend leaped to her feet with lethal grace, taking me right along with her. She pressed my back against the nearest column, hoisting me higher until my page shoes left the floor—all with the strength of her one remaining hand.

  I kicked. I squirmed. I used every trick I knew. Nothing worked. She was right. This wasn’t some Warrior Caste thug. This was royalty.

  And royalty, at least Malum royalty, were tough!

  “You’ve cost me my Cover, little man. And I’m going to punish you for that,” she purred, completely oblivious to my struggles. “But I think I’ll leave your neck unbroken. That way, your body can serve as host for one of my fallen minions here. That seems only fair, doesn’t it?”

  I punched her in the face, putting everything I had behind it. The nose broke with a muffled crunch. But it had no effect. Zilch.

  I was going to die.

  Already, stars flashed before my eyes. There was a roaring sound behind my ears.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” Corpse Micha said conversationally. “Aren’t you the boy who killed Kenny Booth? And didn’t you also take a bullet meant for the First Lady of Pennsylvania? I recently met her, by the way. She still talks about you … though, of course, she doesn’t know your name. I don’t suppose she ever will.”

  Babbling. She’s killing me by inches and babbling. I’m being murdered by a babbling, preening, self-important, alien princess.

  This is my life.

  This is my death.

  “My sister will be beside herself when she hears I’ve killed you.” The deader giggled. “I can’t wait to see her face! Oh, little man … I’m afraid you’re starting to go purple!” My vision darkened from the edges inward—agonizingly slowly. Her words sounded distant, as if she were down a long tunnel. “Don’t worry. It’s a color that will suit one of my minions just fine.”

  Often before, when I’d found myself right here, right on the edge of nothing—and it happens more than I like to think about—my mother’s face came to me.

  This time, however, a different face appeared. And in that face, that beautiful face—might as well be honest, now that I’m dying and all—I caught of glimpse of everything I wanted but wouldn’t get. Heck, I’d never even be able to tell her how I really felt.

  That regret was even more crushing than Corpse Micha’s hand.

  Then the face spoke. That puzzled my oxygen-starved brain, especially since the words didn’t seem directed at me.

  “Yo, wormbag!” the face said. “Hands off the boyfriend!”

  Corpse Micha’s expression changed from smug to perplexed. Her stolen eyes—Lindsay’s eyes—went wide. Suddenly, blessedly, she released my throat, and it seemed as if the floor rushed up and slapped me in the face.

  Lying there helpless, air rushing into my aching lungs, I watched as the Royal deader staggered and turned.

  There was a Ritterbolt in the middle of her back.

  She tried to reach it, but human arms just don’t bend that way. Besides, half dead as I was, my vision had cleared enough to see that the syringe was empty. It was already too late.

  I wanted to say something clever. But all that came out was “Uhhhnnnn.”

  Lindsay Micha’s body exploded. She’d been freshly dead—the ultimate Type One—and pieces of her went everywhere. Blood painted the walls. Nothing at all was left behind but some bone fragments, a few scraps of tailored clothing…

  …and the thing itself.

  Dark energy, roughly woman-sized. Though it didn’t have any visible eyes, or a face at all for that matter, I could sense that it was glaring at me. Hatred and fear radiated off it as the unprotected Malum searched desperately for a replacement host that wasn’t there.

  Then it was gone—just gone. In agony and terror. Gone.

  Someone knelt beside me, cradling my head. “Will … can you hear me?”

  I looked up into Helene’s face.

  “So,” I croaked. It hurt to talk, but I did it anyway. “I’m your boyfriend?”

  “Shut up,” she said.

  So I shut up—an
d kissed her. Just reached up, maybe a little clumsily, put my hand around the back of her neck and pulled her lips down to mine. She resisted, but only until she figured out what I was up to. Then she kind of fell into it. And it was nice—even if it did keep me from breathing for a little longer than I would have liked.

  Finally I coughed and she pulled back. “Sorry,” she said, her face flushing. Then her eyes widened. “Hold up a sec! Where’s Jillian?”

  “Over there,” I said, pointing feebly. “Corpse Micha clocked her. We gotta—”

  That’s as far as I got before the lights came on.

  And then went off again.

  “That’s Sharyn,” Helene said, talking fast. “After Jillian went after you, I went after her. But there was a panic in the building, and she was faster than me.”

  I sat myself up, coughing again. She waited.

  “I’m okay,” I said.

  “Anyway, I bumped into Sharyn. In all the confusion, she’d managed to get into the Rotunda with Aunt Sally. We traded. She’s got your pocketknife. She’s keeping the lights out so we can all get out of here.”

  “Good plan,” I said.

  “Where’s Senator Micha … the real one, I mean?”

  I shook my head. Way too much to explain. Way too soon. Instead, I told her, “I really thought I was going to die that time.”

  “I kinda promised your mom I wouldn’t let that happen.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Right after she hugged me.”

  “My mom hugged you?”

  “Yeah.”

  I sighed. “My life’s getting really weird.”

  She laughed. “No kidding. Come on … let’s grab Jillian and bail.”

  Except, about then, every cop in the world came pouring into the Crypt from all directions. Their guns were drawn and they looked scared—not a great combination. And all of those guns were pointed right at us.

  “Or not,” Helene said.

  Bob Mittenzwei

  When Capitol Chief of Police Bob Mittenzwei opened the door, the older of the two men viewing the bank of camera monitors turned to face him.