by Ty Drago
Too late.
The silence that followed seemed as deep as the grave.
Ethan began to quietly sob.
“Well—what have we here?” the master hissed. Then mockingly, “Did I get to the truth?”
All of a sudden, I knew who was out there.
Get to the truth with Kenny Booth.
Apparently the news guy wielded some level of authority among his Corpse buddies.
Booth said pleasantly, “Mr. Ritter?”
My head nearly spun with terror. I fought it with everything I had.
We’re dead!
No! The Undertakers are coming! They have to be!
“Mr. Ritter,” Booth said again. “I know you’re in there.”
I figured I had two choices: talk or keep quiet. If I kept quiet, Booth would just send his rotting cronies into the Dumpster to find us. If I talked, however, I might be able to buy us a little time.
“I’m here!” I called.
“Ah!” Booth replied. I could almost hear the smirk. “And I’m guessing you’re not alone in there, are you?”
“Keep guessing,” I replied.
“Well, as it happens, Mr. Ritter,” Booth said calmly. “I don’t want them. All I wanted out of this little raid was you.”
I felt my stomach roll over.
“What for?” I asked, my voice cracking.
“Plenty of time for all that later. Come out now—unarmed—and maybe I’ll leave your little friends right there, safe in the trash. Now doesn’t that sound fair?”
I looked around, my mind reeling. Dave was shaking his head. The rest were looking at me with a kind of hopeful horror. Suddenly they saw a possible way out.
All they had to do was give me up.
“I…don’t think he wants to hurt you,” Ethan said quietly. “Maybe—”
“No way!” Dave exclaimed, leaving me almost weak-kneed with gratitude. The Burgermeister might not have been the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he had courage—and loyalty. Right then I needed plenty of both. “Say that again, and I’ll pound you!”
The smaller boy trembled but shut up.
“Are you listening, Mr. Ritter?” Booth asked.
“I’m listening,” I replied, steadying myself. There had to be a way out! Frantically I scanned the Dumpster. Nothing but smooth steel. Except—wait a minute. What was that thing jutting out from the far wall, right next to where Harleen was still cradling Maria?
Frowning, I stumbled past Ethan and Dave, carefully stepping over Kyle’s limp form. As they all watched, I knelt beside Harleen and examined the thing I’d spotted.
It was a lever.
And it opened a small hatch at the base of the Dumpster.
I waved Dave and Ethan over. The bigger kid glowered at the smaller one, but they both obeyed. Within seconds we were all huddled together at the rear of our steel cage—all except Kyle, of course.
I wonder if he’s dead…
No time for such thoughts!
Booth suddenly called, “I need a decision, Mr. Ritter! Shall we make a deal?”
I ignored him. Speaking in fast whispers, I explained to the other kids what I hoped was a halfway workable plan. I was still counting on the Undertakers riding to the rescue like Han Solo at the end of Star Wars Episode IV. The problem, of course, was that I couldn’t be sure that Haven even knew we were in trouble. True, they could use the GPS to track us here, but that required someone actually knowing that they needed to be looking!
So for now at least, we had to fend for ourselves.
Or die trying.
CHAPTER 27
Gambit
Okay…here’s…the…deal,” I said through the Dumpster’s wall. I was doing my best to sound terrified. It wasn’t hard. “I’ll come out. But you have to let my friends go!”
Booth replied, his tone utterly sincere, “Well, that just sounds right as rain to me, Mr. Ritter.”
“You promise you won’t hurt them—or even chase them?”
“If I have your promise that you’ll come out unarmed. None of those clever little water pistols.”
“Deal,” I said.
“Deal,” Booth echoed.
I glanced down at Kyle. The boy had stopped moving.
“Don’t forget him,” I whispered to Dave. He nodded.
I didn’t dare look at the other kids. If I did, I might lose my nerve.
“Be careful,” I heard Harleen say.
Nodding and trying to keep my stomach down, I began to scale the Dumpster’s inside wall. My sneakers caught and slipped more than once, but I finally managed to swing one foot over the top edge.
If Dave could have helped, it would have been easier.
But that wasn’t part of the plan.
“The water pistol, Mr. Ritter?” Booth said.
I wasn’t ready to look at him—not just yet. So, keeping my eyes averted, I pulled the gun from my waistband and let it fall to the street as gently as I could, hoping—praying—it wouldn’t break.
“Very good,” the Corpse purred. “Now watch yourself coming down. I don’t want you injured.”
I’m gonna die.
I tried to push the thought away like I’d been pushing away my fear and self-doubt all night. This time, however, the idea refused to be pushed. It kept coming back. I felt like crying.
Mom…I’m scared.
Closing my eyes, I eased myself down the far side of the Dumpster and dropped clumsily to the sidewalk.
The Corpses closed immediately around me. I found the strength to face them.
Dead Man Kenny Booth was by far the best dressed. He was also the freshest of the bunch. The other two wore police uniforms and were clearly Type Two. I could smell the decay rising off them, and the flies—a lot of flies—wouldn’t leave them alone. However, Booth was a Type One, wrapped in a cadaver so fresh that its original owner had probably died that morning. That and the way the other two had referred to him as Master made me think for the first time that maybe all Corpses weren’t created equal.
Almost without thinking, I crossed my eyes.
And Booth’s Mask was there—the familiar handsome face, perfectly groomed blond hair, and broad white-toothed smile that had made him the most popular TV news anchorman in town. This face—his illusionary self—seemed better suited to his tailored duds than the slimy, lifeless, milky-eyed reality.
I wonder what he sees. When Kenny Booth gazes into a mirror, which face looks back?
“Nice suit,” I muttered.
“Why, thank you, Mr. Ritter,” Booth said. “Clothes are rare where we are from. Most of my people find them a nuisance, but I’ve come to recognize their value. It’s not what we do that brings us power but rather how we are perceived by others. And good clothes are all about perception, wouldn’t you say?”
“I guess so.”
The dead man raised one fist, in which he clutched a box of candy—Sweet-Rox, to be precise, made right here in Philadelphia. Absently he fished out a handful of the hard, colorful, fruit-flavored morsels, opened his mouth absurdly wide, and tossed them inside, where his swollen tongue wrapped greedily around them.
He sighed.
I felt my stomach flip-flop.
The crazy thing was that I’d had seen Kenny Booth do this a thousand times. The whole city had. Booth gulped down Sweet-Rox by the fistful, even when he was on TV. It had kind of become his trademark—so much so that the candy company had hired him as their spokesman. This had caused a bit of a stink a while back, as I recalled—a television journalist pitching a commercial product. But I’d never been much for watching the news, so I didn’t remember how it all had ended.
Except that Kenny Booth was still on TV every night and still gulping his Sweet-Rox.
How dizzyingly weird it was to see the real Kenny Booth doing it—this animated carcass. It was like something out of a screwball nightmare.
“It’s the sugar,” Dead Man Booth admitted, as if reading my expression. “I crave it! It gives
me energy and keeps me sharp. Do you know what I mean, Mr. Ritter?”
Of course that didn’t make a bit of sense. He was walking around in a dead body that was no longer capable of digesting any sort of food. So there was really no way for Booth to get a sugar rush.
Nevertheless I replied, “Sure.”
“I’ll bet you’re a sugar man yourself, aren’t you?”
I shrugged but didn’t answer.
Still smiling, Booth faced his two cronies. “Climb up into that Dumpster,” he commanded pleasantly, “and kill the rest.”
“What?” I screamed.
“It stinks in there,” one of the Corpses complained.
Booth glowered.
“Then can we at least, you know—have some fun while we’re at it?” the other one asked.
“Indulge yourselves,” Booth replied dismissively. “Just make sure you get rid of the leftovers. I don’t want them found—ever.”
Cursing, I demanded, “Why didn’t you just do that right away?”
He grinned at me. His teeth were yellow. “And risk injuring you? My prize? Certainly not! Mr. Ritter, you don’t recognize your importance!” Then to his cronies, “What are you waiting for? Get in there and take care of those brats!”
“Yes, Mr. Booth!” they replied in unison.
I watched as the two dead cops flanked the Dumpster and scrambled up its sides. They moved fast—far faster than I had—clearing the top in seconds. They landed inside with dull thumps like hammer blows.
Booth’s smile turned cruel, expectant.
He’s waiting for the screams to start.
“You promised you wouldn’t hurt them!” I snapped.
The Corpse thoughtfully tapped his chin with one finger. Then his grin was back, wider than ever. “I lied.”
I pulled Tom’s knife from my pocket.
“So did I,” I told him.
Then I shoved the Taser’s twin prongs into Kenny Booth’s tailored midsection and pressed the 2 button home.
The stolen body stiffened. To my horror, partially congealed blood spilled from his mouth and nose. He toppled over. I knelt beside him, still pressing the Taser prongs tight against his stomach, careful to avoid direct contact. Tom had told me that enough Tasing could force a Corpse to Transfer. Well, that was what I was going for. Maybe I couldn’t kill this thing. But I could do what I could do.
From inside the Dumpster, I heard one of the Corpses yell, “They’re gone! There’s nobody in here!”
Booth’s body jumped like a landed fish, his eyes wide and sightless and his tongue protruding from between his teeth. The bag of Sweet-Rox flew from his grasp, scattering its colored contents along the street just as two rotting heads popped up over the rim of the Dumpster, confusion playing over their slimy features.
“Now!” I cried.
The kids ran from behind the far side of the Dumpster, having gotten out through the hatch while I’d been making my noisy climb out of the steel box.
“Run!” I shouted.
“What about you?” Dave called back. Kyle hung limply in his arms.
“I’m right behind you!”
Booth’s cronies spotted the running recruits and uttered matching cries of outrage.
Finally, reluctantly, I pulled the pocketknife away from Booth’s now-motionless form. Running back to the Dumpster, I snatched up my dropped water pistol. Then I fired a shot up at the first Corpse, who was trying to clear the rim. The saltwater nailed him squarely in face. He flailed and toppled forward, landing badly on the concrete right beside me.
I ran after the others.
After a dozen yards, I risked a hasty glance back. So far the Corpses weren’t following us. Booth lay exactly where I’d left him. Maybe he was trapped, with the body he’d stolen rendered useless by the Tasing. Maybe he’d stay there until another cadaver became available. Steve had told us that the Transfer range was short—possibly even line of sight.
All of a sudden, a chill danced down my back.
I looked for Dave and spotted him ahead of me. Kyle’s motionless form still hung in his arms.
“Burgermeister!” I called. “Watch it! I think he’s—”
That was as far as I got.
Kyle’s dead hands flew up and locked around my friend’s throat. Except it wasn’t Kyle anymore.
The First Stop Boss was gone forever.
This was Booth.
Dave gasped and dropped the boy, but the Corpse inside stayed with him, shoving the bigger kid back with astonishing strength. The Burgermeister fought furiously, but nothing he did seemed able to pry the hands off his neck. I ran toward them, screaming at the others to do something, but none of them moved. They simply stared, frozen with either shock or horror, watching the two boys crash to the street and start rolling in a frenzy of combat.
I reached them seconds later, with the pocketknife in one hand and the water pistol in the other. The pistol was close to empty, and I wanted to conserve it. On the other hand, if I Tasered Booth, I’d get Dave too—and that wouldn’t help our chances of escape.
So I chose the pistol, firing it right into what had been Kyle’s ear.
Booth let out a funny moan. His hands slipped from Dave’s throat. With a roar, the Burgermeister hurled the Corpse off him, sending the body flying through the air before it crashed to the asphalt.
“Thanks,” he gasped as he struggled to his feet, coughing. “I owe you one.”
“Forget it,” I said. “Let’s go!”
He turned to do just that—and stopped.
Two police cars, their lights flashing, cut across the intersection, blocking our way.
Maria started to scream.
Four Corpses emerged from the cars, all dressed in police uniforms. There were two Type Twos and two Type Threes—a messy bunch, all drippy and moist.
“Come on!” I called to the rest. “The other way!”
We all turned.
The second of Booth’s rotting thugs had escaped the Dumpster and was now standing fifty feet away, watching us. A couple of moments later, Booth, still wearing poor Kyle’s body, joined him. Both their faces split into identical toothy grins.
They had us, and they knew it.
“Everybody stay together!” I cried. I shouldn’t have bothered. The other recruits were already gathered close around me, all of them shaking with terror.
I still had the water pistol, although I didn’t think there was more than a single squirt left in it.
Booth and the Dumpster Corpse took a few wary steps toward us. I raised my gun and they stopped, although they kept smiling. Seeing Booth in Kyle’s body was creepy in the extreme. It was all I could do to remember that what I was looking at was a monster, not an Undertaker. Just to drive home the point, I briefly crossed my eyes. The look on the TV guy’s Mask did nothing to calm my fear.
Desperately I looked around. The surrounding buildings were all dark, with their doors undoubtedly locked.
We were trapped.
I swallowed down a rising panic.
“Nowhere to run, Mr. Ritter,” Booth declared.
The Corpses began to close around us, boxing us in.
“What do we do?” Dave whispered.
I don’t know! Who died and made me boss?
Kyle, that’s who.
“When I give the signal,” I said, willing my voice to remain steady, “we’re gonna run for that window right there.” I nodded toward a nearby storefront that—unlike its neighbors—had no bars on it. “When we get there, grab a rock or something and break the glass. Okay?”
Dave nodded. “No problem.”
Except it was a problem. The Corpses were fast, and I wasn’t even sure there’d be a handy rock for the Burgermeister to grab. Besides, I honestly didn’t think we’d get halfway to the curb before they jumped us. But maybe with luck, one of us would make it and be left with the barest chance for survival.
One out of six. Some leader I turned out to be.
My heart w
as pounding so loud!
“On three,” I said. “One.”
I felt the others tense up, ready to run. Apparently even Ethan and Maria trusted me.
“Two.”
I’ve gotten them all killed.
A voice announced, “What this? Y’all having a party?”
We spun around. So did the Corpses.
A half-dozen kids stood atop the police cars, Sharyn among them. She was clutching Vader in both hands. The rest of them all had Super Soakers—big ones.
The nearest of the Corpses pounced at her, moving with horrific speed. He leapt up onto the hood of the cop car, his teeth bared and his hands outstretched. I opened my mouth to shout a warning, but Sharyn only smiled.
“Let’s dance,” I heard her say.
Then in one fluid motion, she swung her sword and cleaved the cadaver’s head from its shoulders.
After that things happened very fast.
The remaining Corpses—all but Booth—launched themselves at the kids on the cars. Although their lips never moved, the air was suddenly awash with Deadspeak. No words this time—just roars of terrible, inhuman fury that almost sent me screaming.
But the Angels didn’t scream. Instead they raised their Soakers and fired.
These were no water pistols.
The streams of water that struck the Corpses were as hard and straight as laser beams. Each dead cop’s forward momentum suddenly stopped as if he’d hit an invisible wall. Almost simultaneously they crashed to the street, twitching helplessly.
The Angels kept on firing.
The Burgermeister literally shrieked with delight, clapping his hands together. The others only watched in mute amazement.
Moments later a half-dozen more Angels—these riding Stingrays—poured through the narrow gap between the police cars. They skidded to a halt in front of us.
“Need another ride, dude?” Chuck Binelli asked me with a grin.
I felt like sobbing with relief. I tried to say something clever, but it all came out as, “Ack!”
“Well said! Hop on!”
I wasn’t sure why I waited until the other recruits had all mounted their own rides. It just seemed like the right thing to do. Then finally I threw my leg over the back of Chuck’s banana seat.
