by Ty Drago
“No!” I exclaimed, close to screaming. “She stopped being my opponent the minute I thought I’d hurt her!”
“You don’t want to be thinking like that,” Sharyn warned. “Not in combat.”
I struggled to my feet, leaving bloody handprints on the mat. I was shaking, but more with anger than pain.
A pair of gentle hands touched my arm. I flinched. From beside me, Helene said quietly, “I’m sorry.”
I tried to jerk my arm free, but her grip tightened.
“Turn around,” she begged. “Let me see how bad it is.”
Reluctantly I obeyed. Helene wiped the blood from my face with a towel, her fingers tentatively exploring the injury. She pressed up on my nose. It hurt but not too much.
She sighed with obvious relief. “It’s not broke. But you’re gonna have a shiner tomorrow. I’m really sorry, Will.”
I pulled away from her, my cheeks burning. A knot of outrage, hot and sour, had formed in the pit of my stomach. I glared at Helene, who offered up a small, apologetic smile. Payback had evidently been made. All was forgiven.
My outrage deepened.
“Let’s do it again,” said Sharyn from the shadows.
Helene shook her head. “No. I got carried away. We should call it a night.”
Tom stepped onto the mat. “Think you’re up for another match, Will?”
“Uh-uh,” I replied in a thick voice. “I…don’t want…to do this…anymore.”
“So don’t,” Tom replied, without expression.
Nodding, I left the mat. Helene trailed after me, but I wordlessly shrugged off her advances. At the moment I didn’t want or need her help.
Then I saw something that gave me pause.
A figure sat hunched over at the back of the room, near the closed hallway door. For a second I thought it might just be Kyle sitting in the dark and enjoying our little drama. But this person was too big to be the First Stop Boss. Besides, Kyle—I now saw—was off to the left, sitting at the edge of the light and reading a comic book.
So who—?
Then I recognized him. Maybe it was the slope of those huge shoulders. Maybe it was the silhouette of his oddly square-shaped head.
But the kid sitting quietly in the dark was Dave.
He wasn’t supposed to be there. Tom had made that clear. But here he was, showing uncharacteristic stealth and equally uncharacteristic silence. I knew he’d wanted to watch my private match; he’d said so about a hundred times. But this—
I almost spoke up. I almost announced his presence to Helene and the rest, flashes of suspicion and words like mole running through my head. Almost.
But then the Chief of the Undertakers remarked from behind me, “Of course, a Corpse won’t give a crap if you ain’t in the mood to fight.”
I froze.
“You lost,” Tom said gravely. “It’s humiliating. Believe me, I understand that.”
I didn’t turn around. My anger suddenly reasserted itself. So what if the Burgermeister wanted to watch? The knot in my gut tightened almost painfully.
He continued, “But if you plan on surviving, you’ve got to be able to go the distance in a fight—no matter what. Walk away now, and how do you figure you’ll ever have the stones to try again?”
“Tom,” Helene said, “don’t you think he’s had enough for one day?”
The Chief ignored her. “Well, bro?”
So, Burgermeister, I thought bitterly, you want to see a fight? Okay then! I’ll give you a real show.
Slowly I turned. Tom’s expression was stony as he met my eyes.
I suddenly understood that all my outrage wasn’t really directed at Helene. At the moment it wasn’t even directed at the Corpses for taking away my life.
It was directed at this kid right here—Tom Jefferson, Chief of the Undertakers—for pitting me against someone I cared about, a friend.
For wanting to make me into the sort of person who could hurt her.
“I won’t fight Helene anymore,” I said.
Tom looked disappointed. “That’s your call, Will. But—”
I cut him off. “But I’ll fight you.”
A leaden silence fell over the training room. Into it, Sharyn uttered an oath that sounded totally out of character. “Oh—fudge!”
Her brother’s dark eyebrows rose in surprise.
“Will?” Helene asked hesitantly. Off in another corner of the training room, I noticed Kyle’s attention snap up from his comic. He looked stunned.
I ignored them both. “What about it—Chief?”
Tom studied me. Finally, resignedly, he said, “You’re on.”
“Whoa, bro!” Sharyn exclaimed. “I don’t think—”
“It’s what the man wants,” her brother interjected calmly. He walked to the edge of the mat, picked up the tape, and started wrapping his fists. They were big fists. “Helene, I’ll need your helmet.”
Helene looked from me to Tom and back again. Then with obvious dismay, she removed her headgear and tossed it onto the mat.
Tom pulled off his shirt and retrieved the fallen helmet. As he slipped it over his head, adjusting it for size, I was struck by the incredible shape that this kid was in. His chest was broad and heavily muscled. His arms looked as thick as tree branches, especially compared to the twigs sticking out from my own narrow shoulders.
Apprehension gnawed at my anger. I pushed it away and stepped defiantly back onto the mat.
Tom positioned himself in the standard Undertaker fighting stance.
“Bring it, bro,” he said.
Seeing his expression—so passive, so controlled—fueled my already fiery anger. Uttering an outraged roar, I charged him, my feet pumping across the mat, my fists at the ready. The moment he was in range, I hurled a right-fisted punch at his infuriatingly calm face.
I was nose-down on the mat before I even realized it had happened.
“Don’t fight pissed,” Tom instructed. “It just makes you careless. Relax. Be calm. Be in control.”
“I don’t want a lesson from you!” I snapped as I climbed to my feet.
Whirling around I launched myself into a wheel kick. Tom smoothly sidestepped it and caught my foot in one vice-like hand. In a fluid motion, he gave my ankle a single hard twist.
My body spun in midair—once, twice—before again crashing to the mat.
This time Tom offered no advice.
Frustrated and furious with myself, I staggered back up and resumed my stance. The Chief stood just a few feet away, watching me with eyes like still, dark pools.
I feigned another kick and then instead stepped close and delivered a series of lightning jabs, each of which Tom easily, patiently blocked. I threw just enough punches to lower his guard. Then without warning, I leapt up and kicked him hard in the stomach.
It was like kicking a stone wall. I literally bounced away, lost my balance, and crashed to the mat. Tom staggered back a few steps, grunting in surprise. He coughed and smiled. “Didn’t see that coming. Not bad.”
I jumped to my feet again, my face burning. Tom was beating me, and so far, he hadn’t so much as thrown a punch!
“Fight back!” I exclaimed in frustration.
“If he fights back, he’ll waste you, Red,” Sharyn muttered.
“Please, Will…” Helene begged.
I ignored it all.
“Who are you mad at, bro?” Tom asked.
“You!” I screamed.
“Why?”
“Because you wanna make me into something I’m not!”
“And what’s that?”
“A fighter!”
Tom slowly shook his head. “I ain’t looking for fighters. What I need are soldiers.”
I yelled until I thought the walls would shake. “I’m not a soldier! I go to middle school! Middle school! This is your world, and I don’t want to be in it!”
Then I launched myself a third time, driving the heel of my hand up toward his nose, determined to knock the Chief of the
Undertakers’ head right off his broad, muscled shoulders.
Tom struck like a snake, cuffing me under the chin hard enough to snap my head back. My ears rang. I felt my knees buckle, felt a piece of the mat seem to rise up and smack my cheek.
Everything blurred. There was no pain—only a creeping numbness.
A voice spoke in my ear, calm as always. “You wanna go home, Will? Well, get in line. We all want to go home. But you know what the difference is between you and me? You got a home to go to. That’s something I ain’t never had. Think about that, bro.”
Then everything went black.
CHAPTER 22
The Pocketknife
Here he comes,” Tom said.
I opened my eyes. I was lying on my cot in the First Stop boys’ dorm. Dave stood close by, wringing his big hands. Helene and Sharyn were over by the door, apparently arguing about something. Tom sat in a chair beside the cot. His shirt was back on. There was no sign of either Kyle or Ethan.
I tried to turn my head. It throbbed something awful. I moaned.
“Sorry about the headache,” Tom said, smiling with relief.
I closed my eyes against the pain. “What did you do to me?”
“Gave you a chin tap. Your head snapped back hard enough to knock you cold.”
“A chin tap,” I echoed. “Did you mean to do that?”
Tom shrugged. “You made it plain that you wouldn’t let up, so I figured I’d better keep things from getting out of hand. If done right, a chin tap clicks off consciousness like a switch.”
“Is that a street karate move?”
He nodded.
“Where’d you guys learn to fight like that?” I asked.
Tom thought for a moment. “That’s a long story for another day.”
“Okay,” I said. “Guess this means you won, huh?”
“Depends. You still blame me for everything that’s gone down?”
I frowned, searching my feelings. “I guess not.”
“Then yeah, I won.”
“It’s funny,” I said, opening my eyes again, more carefully this time. “I remember being really pissed. But now it’s—I dunno.” I looked at him. “You said something to me right before I went out, didn’t you?”
“Wasn’t sure you’d remember that,” Tom replied a little sheepishly. “That was…selfish. I shouldn’t have said it. Sorry.”
I gave him a thin smile. “Maybe you were pissed too.”
“Maybe.”
Seeing I was awake, the rest of them closed around me. Helene’s eyes were red as if she’d been crying. Sharyn, of course, was grinning. And Dave was making a sour face, like he was looking at something really gross.
“What are you staring at?” I demanded.
“You got a black eye—and this bruise on your chin that looks like a cantaloupe.”
I gingerly explored my jaw, which earned me a fresh wave of pain. I winced.
Tom said gently, “Just let it be. You’ll be cool in a day or so.” He turned to his sister. “That fresh ice?”
“Yeah,” Sharyn replied, handing a couple of small ice packs to her brother. “Helene thinks he might need a doctor. I say, she’s nuts.”
“No, she’s ain’t nuts,” Tom replied. “But she ain’t right either. Will’s going to be fine. Trust me on this, Helene. I know how hard I hit him.”
“What about his eye?” she asked. This was, of course, the injury she’d given me.
“What about it?”
“Looks swollen.”
Sharyn grinned. “I like it. Gives him character.”
Tom said, “That ain’t bad either, Helene. No facial bones broken. It may not be pretty, but it won’t do him no harm. I promise.”
Helene nodded, but she didn’t look pleased about it.
Tom positioned one of the ice packs over the lower half of my face and the other carefully over my left eye. It felt funny. I reached up to adjust it. “Uh-uh,” Tom told me. “The swelling’ll go down quicker if you let it alone.”
“Okay.”
He smiled. Then he turned to the others. “Could y’all give us this room?”
Helene looked about to protest. But then Sharyn wrapped an arm around the smaller girl’s shoulders and led her out. The Burgermeister gave me one more unhappy scowl before following after them, shutting the door as he went.
Tom said, “There’s loyalty in that dude. Turns out that while we were in the kitchen before the match, he snuck by us and got into the training room. Very sneaky. But the minute he thought you were really hurt, he came charging out of the shadows. He looked more pissed than you and me put together. For a minute there, I was afraid I’d have to tap him too.”
“Where’s Ethan?” I asked.
“Ethan? In the kitchen. Sharyn chased him out when I carried you in here.” Wearing an odd smile, he asked, “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why ask about Ethan?”
I shrugged. It hurt. “This is the boys’ dorm. If he’s not here, I just wanted to know where he was.”
“Is that right?”
I looked at him. “What’s the smile for?”
“Forget it,” Tom said. “Listen up. What I want to say—”
I cut him off again. “Why Helene?”
“What?”
“Why, of all people—did you have to pick Helene to fight me? She’s the closest thing I’ve got to a friend around here.”
He frowned. “I’m your friend, Will. So’s my sister.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Yeah. I know.” Tom sighed. “Fact is, we picked Helene tonight because you two are friends. We knew you’d be nervous and figured a familiar face might make things easier. Sharyn and me didn’t know there was so much trouble between you two. Helene clued us in on that later, after I’d…” His voice trailed off for second. “Anyhow, that ain’t the reason I wanted to be alone with you.”
I managed another weak smile. “You planning on beating me up some more?”
But the Chief apparently wasn’t in any mood for jokes. “I owe you another apology.”
“For what? Knocking me out?”
Tom shook his head. “Nope. Ain’t even a little sorry I did that. No, this one’s because when you first hit our crib last week, I shoved some stuff at you that you weren’t ready for.”
“I don’t get it.”
“In more than two years, Will, nobody’s ever come to the Undertakers the way you did. Nobody’s ever skipped First Stop and rolled straight into Haven. And nobody’s ever been shown the shrine on their first day. Know why you were?”
“Because of my dad?”
“Right. And that wasn’t fair to you.”
I considered this. “I still don’t get it. Why wasn’t it fair?”
“You’d just had one nasty shock—worse than pretty much every other Undertaker. On top of the usual—getting yanked out of your home, your school, and your life without no warning and dumped into this new hard reality—you also wised up to the fact that your old man had this whole other…well, family. And that he had to keep us secret from you, your mom, and your sister.”
I swallowed. A half-dozen emotions spun through my head.
“Yeah,” I whispered.
“Well, all that was my fault,” Tom continued. “It was me who told Helene to bring you straight in. It was me who tipped you off to Karl’s gig with the Undertakers. And it was me who showed you the shrine up front instead of waiting until you were better prepped. All of it my fault.” His dark eyes lowered. “I did it because—well, I’ve been expecting you, bro. Karl’s only son. I always figured you’d get the Sight, join up with us, and someday become a great Undertaker. I see now how unfair that was. You were dead right in wanting to kick the crap out of me tonight. I had it coming. And I’m sorry.”
He met my eyes again, and it was clear that he meant what he’d said. “It’s okay,” I told him and was a little surprised to find that I meant it too.
�
�Yeah?”
I nodded. This time it didn’t hurt so much; most of my face had gone numb from the ice packs.
Tom blew out a sigh. “Thanks. In that case, I got a present for you.” He pulled something out of his back pocket and held it out to me. After a moment I took it.
It was a pocketknife.
Except that, close up, it didn’t resemble any pocketknife that I’d ever seen. About six inches long, it was made of silvery steel polished to an almost mirror shine. There weren’t any markings on it—neither from the Boy Scouts nor the Swiss Army. Instead there was a series of six small buttons set along its length, each one labeled with a number.
“Wow,” I muttered.
Tom said gravely, “Your dad made it two years back, about a month before he died. For my birthday. Sharyn got her wakizashi sword that day.”
“My dad made this?”
He nodded. “And it ain’t left my body since…until now.”
“It’s big,” I marveled. “How many blades does it have?”
The older boy shook his head. “This ain’t no normal pocketknife. See these buttons?”
“Yeah?”
“Watch.” Tom reached for the closed knife, his thumb tapping the button marked 1.
What popped out the end of the tool looked less like a blade than it did a thin, twin-pronged tuning fork.
“What is it?” I asked, frowning.
“A lock pick. It’ll pick most any lock in under thirty seconds. Takes some practice though. I’ll make sure you get time to work with it over the next week.”
“Wow,” I said again.
Another press of the 1 button and the lock pick withdrew. Tom’s thumb tapped button number 2. Two more prongs, much larger than the first, emerged from the knife’s other end.
“Another lock pick?” I asked.
“Nope. Watch.” Tom held the button down. An arc of blue electricity sprang to life between the tips of the two prongs. I gasped in surprise.
“It’s a Taser,” Tom explained. “One hundred and fifty thousand volts—enough to drop a grown man—or a Corpse—and keep them down for a while. But handle with care. Don’t mess with it until you learn how.”
“Jeez!”
Tom released the 2 button, and the Taser retracted with a snap. His thumb pressed number 3. This time a genuine blade emerged. “Five and a half inches of high-carbon steel,” he told me. “Ain’t much it won’t cut. It’s also balanced.”
