by James Ponti
“Do we have any idea where he is?” I ask. “Has anyone seen him tonight?”
“I did,” Alex says. “He was already on the stage, doing a television interview.”
The stage was built right at One Times Square, the old skyscraper that used to be home to the New York Times. This is where the crystal ball has dropped every year since the newspaper started the tradition in 1907.
“And that’s where he’ll be at midnight when he presses the plunger to make the ball fall,” Grayson adds.
“Is there any way we can charge the stage?” I ask, even though I’m pretty sure I know the answer.
“No,” Alex replies with a chuckle. “In addition to the million people in the crowd, there are also police everywhere. We’d never get within a hundred feet.”
“We’ve got to think outside the box,” Natalie says as she starts to pace. “We’ve got to be creative.”
“I know,” offers Grayson. “Let’s play One Foot Trivia.”
Natalie looks at him and frowns. “That’s not what I meant,” she moans. “This is serious.”
“I am being serious,” he says as he lifts one foot in the air and begins to balance. “We always answer the hard questions when we play One Foot Trivia. Maybe it will help us find the right answer if we play now. Who’s with me?”
“Not me,” says Alex, shaking his head. “Games aren’t going to help us any.”
I go to shoot down the idea too, but then I think about the fact that everyone trusted me when it seemed like an unwise thing to do. I figure the least I can do for Grayson is return the favor.
“I’ll play,” I say to him. “I’ll try anything that might help.”
“Thanks,” he says. “The category is Times Square.”
I lift my left foot and look him right in the eye. “Go.”
“How do you get to One Times Square without actually going through Times Square?” he asks.
I wobble for a moment and start brainstorming. “Helicopter?”
“Won’t work,” he replies. “We couldn’t get one, and even if we could, we wouldn’t be able to navigate through all the buildings and land there.”
“Come on, guys,” Natalie says frustrated. “You’re wasting time.”
“I don’t see you coming up with any answers on two feet,” Grayson says defensively. “Keep trying, Molly.”
Natalie and Alex have had enough. They turn away and start pacing again, but I’m sticking with it. As I try to keep my balance, I wobble some more and almost put my second foot down. I have to bend over to keep from falling, and when I do, I get a glimpse of a newspaper vending machine. Something about it catches my attention. It’s the New York Times. Suddenly, my brain races back to the last flatline party we crashed, and much to my surprise, I come up with the answer.
“You go underground and enter through the giant room with all the old printing presses left over by the New York Times!” I practically shout, thrilled with the realization. “Just like we did when we crashed the flatline party.”
The others all turn to me with amazed expressions.
“That would work,” says Alex. “That would absolutely work!”
Natalie goes over to Grayson and gives him three quick high fives. “I take it all back. I freaking love One Foot Trivia.”
“I know,” he says, beaming. “It’s amazing. There’s nothing it can’t do.”
When we crashed the flatline party, we got there by using the trapdoor inside of the Times Square subway station. But Alex points out a problem. “Times Square station is closed on New Year’s.”
“That’s right,” says Natalie. “I forgot about that.”
Grayson smiles.
“But Bryant Park is open,” he says. “We can go underground there and sneak over to Times Square through the walkway that connects the stations. And since the station’s closed, there won’t be any people on the platform when we want to use the trapdoor.”
No one says another word. There’s no time. We just start racing toward the Bryant Park subway station.
“What time is it?” I ask between heavy breaths as we reach the entrance.
“Eleven eleven,” Natalie answers without breaking stride. “We’ve got forty-nine minutes.”
The Power of the Press
There are a couple of transit cops we have to avoid, but since they’re watching a small television broadcasting the New Year’s celebration, we’re able to slip by them and move unnoticed into the Times Square station. We hurry past the darkened Spanish music shop and down two flights of stairs before we make it to the southbound platform. Just as Grayson predicted, there’s not a person in sight. Alex lifts the trapdoor, and we silently disappear down into Dead City.
“I forgot how ugly this place is,” Natalie says as she scans the abandoned tunnels that run beneath the station. There’s trash and graffiti everywhere. And lots of rats. I can’t see them, but I can hear them scurrying along by my feet.
I try to block the image of the megarodents out of my mind and ask, “Does anyone remember the way?”
“We followed the music from the party,” Alex says. “Unfortunately, there’s not a flatline party again tonight.”
“No,” Natalie says with a grin. “But there is music. Listen.”
We listen for a moment, and sure enough, we can make out the faint echoes of a rock-and-roll song playing in the distance. It’s coming from the band performing live on the stage in Times Square. All we have to do is follow it, and it will lead us right where we want to go.
“Remember, we’re not the only ones who’ll be coming this way,” Alex reminds us. “Any zombies coming from Dead City are going to take this same route.”
We try to move quickly while still being careful, but it’s not easy because the tunnel is so dark. We all hold our phones out so that they cast some light ahead of us, and we keep following the music, which gets louder as we get closer.
“There it is,” Grayson says, pointing toward a doorway ahead of us. “I remember that sign.”
Sure enough, there’s an old metal sign with faded lettering that reads NEW YORK TIMES.
“I remember it too,” I say. “We’re almost there.”
Once we reach the door, we pick up the pace and hurry through a series of hallways as the music continues to get louder and louder until we step out into the massive printing press room.
“Found it!” I say with a proud swagger as Natalie and I share a fist bump.
The room is two levels high, and even though there are security lights hanging from the ceiling, they’re barely bright enough to illuminate such a large area. The lights sway back and forth and cast twisted shadows across the hulking presses.
“Eleven thirty-five,” Natalie says, checking the time on her phone. “We’ve only got twenty-five minutes to get up to the stage and warn the mayor.”
“Yeah . . . about that,” a voice says from in front of us. “I think we’re going to have to say . . . no on warning anybody.”
Just then a bank of much brighter lights turns on and floods the area. I have to blink a few times for my eyes to adjust, but when they finally focus, I see none other than Ulysses Blackwell standing in our way. The banker who once wore ugly polyester suits is now dressed for success in an expensive business suit, a red power tie, and a thick charcoal gray overcoat.
“It looks like someone’s running for mayor of Dead City,” I whisper to the others.
It would be one thing if Ulysses was alone, but he’s flanked by a rather imposing collection of Level 2 thugs, including his bodyguard cousins Orville and Edmund.
“Eleven,” Alex says, giving us a quick headcount.
“Which is much more than four,” Ulysses interjects. “You see, I work with numbers, so I can tell you that the math doesn’t really work in your favor. That puts you in a bit of a rough spot.”
“He’s right,” I say to the others. “Any suggestions?”
Alex barely moves his lips as he whispers a one-word answ
er. “Stall.”
At first I don’t get it, but then I realize what he’s thinking. If we can keep Ulysses busy past midnight, we can keep him from appearing at Verify and taking over Dead City. I think back to when I had to stall the security guard at the Flatiron Building. Like it or not, it turns out that I’m the team’s “staller.” The trick is to talk first and talk fast to try to control the conversation.
“You know, we’ve never formally met,” I say, stepping forward. “You’re Ulysses, right?”
“Nice try, but I don’t really have time for chitchat.” He turns to his cousin. “Orville, you want to take care of this?”
Orville flashes a terrifying grin of crooked orange-and-yellow teeth, many of which are broken in half. He starts to limp my way. But he’s not really coming at me. Instead, he’s focused on Natalie behind me. He no doubt wants to finish what he started the last time they fought. I know that if that happens, Alex will jump in, and there’ll be no stopping the battle from playing out. With eleven against four, we’ll be finished in minutes, and Ulysses will have plenty of time to get to Verify.
I decide to try option number two.
“And you’re Orville,” I say, trying to intercept him. “You know, we don’t need to fight. There’s no reason why the living and the undead cannot work together. All we have to do is . . .”
Orville doesn’t even wait for me to finish. He just reaches down, picks me up, and throws me against a rusted old printing press. My body makes a pair of loud thud noises. The first is when I hit the press, and the second is when I crumple to the floor.
As much as I’d like to lie on the floor and moan, I see Alex start to make a move toward him, and I bounce back on my feet.
“No!” I call out forcefully, trying to keep the fight from beginning. “Orville and I are just negotiating. I made a suggestion, and he rejected it. Now I’m going to make a counteroffer.”
I’m more than a little woozy, but I somehow manage to stagger toward him. I check my watch, there are still twenty-two minutes left until midnight. I don’t know how many times I can take getting thrown through the air. But at the current rate we’re going, that would take a lot more thuds.
“Seriously,” I say, offering Orville a handshake. “We can do this peacefully.”
Once again, Orville picks me up and holds me high in the air. Then, just as he’s about to throw me for a second time, a woman’s voice calls down from above.
“I would suggest putting her down . . . gently,” she says. “Consider that a warning.”
All eyes move to the metal catwalk that winds through the printing presses on the upper level.
“Is that who I think it is?” gasps Grayson.
“Yep,” I call to him. “It’s my mom.”
“But how . . . ?”
“It’s kind of a long story,” I say, cutting off the questions for now.
“I’m sorry,” Ulysses interrupts, turning to my mother. “My cousin Orville’s not much of a talker, but I’m curious: What kind of warning are you giving us?”
“A simple one so you’ll be sure to understand it with your tiny zombie brains,” she says with badass confidence. “If you mess with my daughter, you mess with me.”
Ulysses laughs and goes to say something else, but she cuts him off and continues talking.
“And if you mess with her team, you mess with mine.”
Suddenly, a host of past Omegas start to step out from the shadows and behind the printing presses. I don’t know if it’s my mother’s actual team or just people she pulled together from all the Omegas in the crowd, but there are eight or nine in total. I recognize some of the faces, like Dr. H and Liberty, but am totally surprised by others like Jamaican Bob, the security guard from the morgue. None, however, is more surprising than the man who walks right up to Orville: a man who hasn’t left Roosevelt Island in decades.
“Dr. Gootman?!” I say, surprised.
“Actually,” he replies, “for tonight, I prefer Milton.”
Orville drops me to the floor (thud number three, but still a welcome development), and he turns to face the cousin he hasn’t seen in more than a century.
“Hello, Orville,” Milton says. “Edmund, Ulysses. It’s been a long time.”
“You have no business being here,” Ulysses thunders as he storms over to him.
“Well,” Milton replies, refusing to back down, “you have no business trying to hurt these children.”
The two of them stand face-to-face for a brief but tense moment until Alex walks over and interrupts by tapping Ulysses on the shoulder.
“By the way,” he says, “when you add in the new people, the math turns out to be pretty good for us.”
Without hesitation, Alex throws a punch that sends Ulysses sprawling across the floor and then moves right at Orville.
“You’re pretty good at beating up girls,” he says. “But how are you with guys closer to your own size?”
Orville and Alex grab each other, and within seconds, the entire room bursts into a rumble. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before as little pockets of action erupt all around me. I see my mom leap down from the catwalk and start throwing punches at Edmund while Liberty joins Alex in fighting Orville.
Ulysses gets up from the floor, and the moment he realizes that he’s lost control of the situation, he tries to make a run for it toward Times Square. He’s cut off by Grayson and Jamaican Bob, who make a rather unique pair. Neither of them is actually fighting much, but they still manage to trap Ulysses in between two printing presses.
I’m so swept up in the action that’s unfolding in front of me that I don’t notice the zombie who comes up from behind and knocks me into the printing press. (That’s one thud too many.)
“You got lucky there,” I say, rubbing my jaw as I get up. “But that luck’s about to change.”
I charge at him and pull out some of my best Jeet Kune Do moves. He has no idea how to fight back and after three fake outs, he leaves me an opening, and I land a punch that knocks him out cold. I’m about to go in for the kill when I hear it.
The scream belongs to Natalie, and it’s bloodcurdling.
I leave the zombie and race over to where she is. I find her unconscious on the floor, one trail of blood trickling from her nose and another from her mouth.
“Natalie!” I cry out.
I look and see that Edmund is the one who had done this. He’s sneering down at the two of us, his red hair wild and his eyes burning orange. I get up to fight him, but I never get the chance. Instead, Alex swoops in from out of nowhere and dismantles him with the most furious attack I’ve ever seen. It could be a commercial for Krav Maga. Edmund never even gets a single punch off.
When the flurry ends, Alex steps back, and Edmund’s dead body falls to the floor in a heap.
Both of us rush back to help Natalie, but Dr. H and my mother are already tending to her. They’re both excellent doctors, so that’s a relief, but I can’t tell how serious her injuries are. She keeps opening and closing her eyes, trying to focus.
“What time?” she asks.
It seems like an odd question, but I look at my watch and answer, “Eleven fifty.”
Finally, her eyes find me and open wide. She’s fading in and out but manages to say two words: “Verify . . . Milton.”
It takes me a moment to put it together, but when I realize what she means, I begin to nod. “That’s brilliant, Natalie. That is brilliant.”
“What?” asks Mom.
I look around and see that most of the zombies, including Orville and Ulysses, have run into the darkness of Dead City. With Edmund dead, the only member of the Unlucky 13 left is Milton.
“If we can get Milton to Verify,” I say to her, “he’ll take charge of Dead City. He’ll become the new mayor.”
Realizing that I’ve gotten the message, Natalie flashes a blood-smeared smile and passes out.
“Is she okay?”
“Yes,” Dr. H assures me. “She just ne
eds to rest.”
“You take him,” Mom says to me. “Get Milton on the stage.”
I look down at my best friend, bleeding and unconscious. I think about her parents playing golf when she was injured. “I can’t leave her,” I say. “Someone else can take him.”
“We’re doctors, Molly, we’ll take care of her.” I realize she’s right.
“Dr. Goot—I mean, Milton—we better hurry.” I turn to the boys. “Come on, we might need some help.”
The four of us race out of the printing press room and then out of One Times Square. The stage is right in front of us, and as we’re heading there, I try to figure out a plan of attack.
“How do we do this?” I ask. “How do we make sure people see him?”
We scan the stage and are almost blinded by the lights of a row of television cameras.
“Action News reporter Brock Hampton,” says Grayson. “He’s the one who confirms all the Verifies. He said he’d be up here broadcasting all night long. Even a reporter as bad as he is will jump at the chance to have the first-ever interview with Milton Blackwell.”
“Perfect,” I say. “Let’s find him.”
There are only a couple of minutes left before midnight, and the crowd is buzzing with excitement.
“There he is!” Alex calls out, pointing toward one of the reporters doing an interview. “He’s interviewing the mayor.”
I try to give Milton instructions as we hurry across the stage. “All right, you’ve got to do an interview with Brock Hampton.”
“But the undead don’t know who I am,” he says, raising his voice so that he can be heard over the all the noise.
“They don’t know what you look like,” I reply. “But they definitely know who you are. Just look into the camera and tell everyone that your name’s Milton Blackwell and see what happens from there.”
We reach the interview site right as Brock is finishing with the mayor.
“It’s really going to be an amazing year,” the mayor says. “And so much of the credit belongs to my good friend here.”
