The Undertakers

by Ty Drago

  Tom swung the arm like a baseball bat, with terrific force, catching Booth squarely in the side of his head.

  There was a sickening crunch that made me wince.

  When I looked again, Booth was standing completely still. His head was sideways, half-hanging off his neck, his eyes unfocused. Tom looked him over for a few seconds. Then he dropped the severed arm and stepped close to the helpless dead guy.

  In his native tongue, Booth slurred, “No. Can. Kill. Me.”

  The Chief calmly placed his open palm on the Corpse’s quivering chest. “Don’t want to,” he said. Then he pushed.

  Booth toppled like a tree, landing on his back, his head lolling horribly on what was left of his broken neck. Still, he didn’t—couldn’t—move. He was trapped inside a human body, and a human body had its limits.

  Tom knelt down beside the fallen Corpse. When he spoke again, it was through clenched teeth. “What I want is for you to get this message, you decaying sack of meat. We been fighting now for three years—but it’s been what you might call a defensive kind of fight. Well, that’s done.

  “As of this moment, the Undertakers declare war on your kind. As of now, we’re going to start hitting back—hard. Maybe I can’t kill you, but I can kill your plans. You think we were trouble before? Well, now we’re going to be a hornet’s nest. Everything you build, we’ll tear down. Every victory you think you’ve won will turn out to be a defeat in disguise. Everywhere you turn, whatever you do, there we’ll be. You want to know why?”

  Tom leaned close. “Because you’re tearing up folks’ lives. Because you’re killing innocent kids. Because you’re messing with our city and our world. And the part that bugs me most? You’re a tourist!”

  Then he straightened, turned his back, and said to Sharyn, almost casually, “Got your sword back, sis?”

  She grinned and held up Vader, recovered from where it had fallen from my grasp. “Got it!”

  “Use it.”

  As the Angels gathered around and Sharyn went to work, Tom went to Helene. He pressed his fingers to her throat and then his hand to her forehead. Then he turned to me. “She’s got a good bump, but she’ll be okay.”

  Relief washed over me. Elsewhere in the room, hidden behind a circle of Angels, Sharyn’s sword was going up and down, over and over. I realized with a shudder that she was doing more than just decapitating Kenny Booth. She was cutting him to pieces.

  But it won’t kill him. He’ll be good as new by morning.

  Unless—

  Tom came and stood over me, smiling and offering his hand. I took it, and he pulled me to my feet. “You cool? We saw what was going down through the windows while we were coming up the hill out back but couldn’t get here in time to stop it. You breathing okay?”

  My throat was sore, but I was getting air. I nodded.

  “Nothing broke?”

  “I…don’t think so.”

  The Chief shook his head, marveling. “Ian’ll be beside himself. He was sure you came out here with a busted arm.”

  “I’m fine.” Then, lowering my head, I added, “Tom, I’m sorry.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t be. It’s me who’s sorry. I’ve been so busy trying to play it safe that I forgot the first rule of any army. You never leave a soldier behind—whatever the odds. It took my sis to bring me around. After you left, she cornered me. She told me what you’d done and what exactly she thought of my defensive war.”

  I was shocked. “She shouldn’t have done that!”

  “Yeah, she should’ve. I needed it. She told me that Will Ritter was twice the leader I was because you were willing to go into the heart of the enemy camp—alone—to rescue a comrade in trouble. She was dead right, and I’m ashamed that it took me so long to see it.”

  I felt a glow of pride, but it didn’t last. Suddenly alarmed, I cried, “Tom! There’s two more Corpses in the basement! I hit one with saltwater, and Helene dropped the other. But with the way these things heal—”

  The Chief held up a hand. “No sweat. It’s cool.”

  “But—”

  Tom reached out and slid a hand into the breast pocket of my jacket—a pocket I almost never used. It came out holding a rock.

  Except, of course, it wasn’t a real rock.

  I gasped. “You planted a bug on me?”

  “Sharyn did,” he replied, “when she hugged you outside Haven right before you split. She figured it might come in handy. But it’s short range—so we couldn’t pick nothing up until we got right up to Booth’s front gate. By then you and Helene had escaped into this room and were already in trouble. But we did hear Booth talking all about his dudes in the basement. The same Undertakers that I sent to handle the front door guards took care of them too. They won’t be going no place for a while.”

  I looked from him to the rock and then back again. I laughed shakily. “Well, in that case, what the heck took you people so long?”

  A perplexed look flashed across Tom’s face. “Funny thing. We drove up here in one of the vans and got most of the way up Ridge Avenue when the engine suddenly died—along with every other car on the road, the streetlamps, and even the lights in the neighboring buildings. No matter what we did, that sucker wouldn’t start again, so we had to all come the last quarter-mile on foot!”

  I stifled a laugh. I’d have to explain that—later.

  “Well, your timing was perfect!” I exclaimed. “That was one awesome entrance!”

  “That was Sharyn. She’s got this thing for being dramatic. Speaking of which—yo, sis! You done over there?”

  The dreadlocked girl raised her sword. The blade wasn’t bloody—Kenny Booth had no blood—but the girl wielding it looked like she’d broken a sweat. “I think he got the message!”

  “Cool! Let’s move out!”

  Sharyn issued the retreat order. The Angels immediately turned and exited out through the shattered sun room windows. As Tom went to Helene, scooping her up effortlessly in his arms, I ran over and recovered my fallen pocketknife.

  On the way back, I looked down at what was left of Kenny Booth. There wasn’t much. Sharyn’s efforts had reduced him to a pile of parts—a collection of twitching gray bits of human being. I felt bad for the guy—the living human—who’d once owned that body. But at least the thing inside it now wouldn’t be going anywhere. Something told me there wasn’t another handy cadaver for him to Transfer into here in this sun room.

  “Nothing a couple of Sweet-Rox won’t fix, right, Mr. Booth?” I asked.

  One of the milky eyes inside what little remained of the Corpse’s head fixed on me.

  I grinned.

  “Coming?” Tom called.

  “Yeah!”

  Together the two of us—with Tom carrying Helene—exited through the shattered windows and headed down the hill after the rest of the Undertakers.

  Halfway across the lawn, however, alone and out of earshot from the others, Tom suddenly stopped. “Hey, bro—hold up.”

  I paused, curious. He studied me for a moment and then said, smiling, “Know what I think?”

  “What?”

  “I think Karl Ritter would’ve been proud of his son tonight.”

  I looked back at him. Tom stood bathed in the glow of the moon, with Helene’s limp form cradled in his arms. That image of the Chief of the Undertakers seemed somehow to define him, and it was one that I knew I would remember for the rest of my life.

  You came for us tonight. You may say that Sharyn talked you into it, but I don’t quite believe that. Nobody could talk you into anything if you didn’t already secretly want to do it. You wanted to come. You just needed somebody to show you how.

  You’re the Chief of the Undertakers—my Chief—and I promise you this: I’ll fight for you. I’ll never betray you again. And if necessary, I’ll die for you.

  I met Tom’s eyes, feeling more grown-up than I ever had before.

  Quietly I replied, “I think he would’ve been proud of both his sons.”

/>   For the first time since I’d known him, Tom’s face crumpled. A tear—just one—traced a path down his cheek.

  “Will…” he whispered. “You honor me.”

  “Come on,” I told him. “Let’s go home.”

  CHAPTER 48

  Pop Goes the Weasel

  I stand here before you all today, the victim of what can only be called domestic terrorism.”

  I stood beside Helene, watching the television along with pretty much every other onsite member of the Undertakers. We filled the new TV room, which was a bit roomier than the old one had been—although, overall, the new Haven wasn’t as large as its predecessor.

  Just more interesting.

  Late last night, the Undertakers had forever abandoned their Green Street warehouse, having moved—lock, stock, and barrel—into a forgotten subbasement of Philadelphia’s enormous City Hall. Located on Broad and Market streets, the mammoth century-old building concealed entire levels beneath its official cellar that hadn’t been used or even visited in fifty years or more. This Haven wasn’t a single big room but rather a warren of passages and chambers of varying sizes.

  At least now there’d be some more privacy for everyone.

  Not that our new lair was perfect. Far from it.

  For one thing, the Undertakers weren’t leasing this space, as we had on Green Street. Instead we’d become what Tom called squatters, tapping into the city’s utilities without anyone knowing about it. It was, he’d explained, a somewhat more wobbly existence—but at least the Corpses couldn’t dig through city records to find us.

  For another thing, the living conditions weren’t quite as comfortable. The brick walls were cold, the air dank, and the lighting lousy. Worse, for now at least, the only way in or out of New Haven was through an abandoned service tunnel that ended at a neglected metal door half a block down a subway tunnel that serviced the Broad Street Line.

  Getting all the equipment in here had been a ton of work, although Tom’s decoys had done their job well. We were pretty confident that the Corpses had lost us in the maze of darkened city streets. Even so it had taken the rest of the night to smuggle everything out of the truck, down an unused service stairway, and safely into underground Philly. Lookouts had been posted all up and down the surrounding streets, and their frequent warnings had really slowed down the effort.

  And finally, there was the issue of the cats.

  Apparently City Hall’s basements were infested with them—big, wild cats that had originally been introduced down here to deal with the rat problem. They’d since had kittens, and those kittens had produced kittens, and so on, until there were whole generations of them in these tunnels that had never seen sunlight. For the most part, the creatures stayed out of view, although a few of the kids claimed to have caught glimpses of their small, darting forms in some of the more remote corridors. Others had reported hearing strange meows in the dark—very creepy sounds!

  The Monkeys were already working on these problems. Soon there’d be new, concealed entrances at carefully selected spots in and around City Hall. Cameras and motion sensors would watch for intruders. Portable heaters and gadgets called dehumidifiers were already helping with the cold moist air. Special traps would capture any wild cats that got too close. These would be released elsewhere.

  Inside of a week, Tom promised, we’d be secure and comfortable, and nobody would ever know we were here.

  “Last night my home was the site of a ruthless attempt on my life by a gang of underage criminals calling themselves the Undertakers.”

  It was six o’clock on Tuesday evening, almost exactly twenty-four hours since the battle in Roxborough. That was how long it had taken Kenny Booth to Transfer to a new body. The cadaver behind the NBC-TV podium, dressed impeccably and wearing an expression of righteous indignation, was obviously Type One and would no doubt last its Corpse master a good long time.

  “As yet the police don’t know who they are. But their motivations were made clear to me. They want me to withdraw from the mayoral race. They want me to abandon my promise to the people of this city to bring order to these streets again. They invaded my home, injuring my staff and causing many thousands of dollars worth of property damage—all in a cowardly effort to intimidate me into submitting to their demands.”

  “Nice tie,” Chuck Binelli remarked.

  “Yeah,” Burt Moscova agreed.

  “But I say to them and to you, the people of Philadelphia, that I will not surrender my values to these terrorists. I will not abandon what I know I must do. I have dedicated my future to this glorious city, and nothing and no one will turn me from that path!”

  On the television, Kenny Booth the Corpse grinned hideously. At the same moment, I was grimly aware that a city full of Sightless people was watching a good-looking television journalist flash his brilliant, toothy white smile. Of course I could have crossed my eyes and witnessed that smile for myself.

  I didn’t bother.

  “I hereby reaffirm, with all my heart and at no small personal risk, my candidacy for mayor of Philadelphia!”

  Cameras flashed. Booth fielded questions. He looked entirely comfortable, entirely in control, a man—a dead man—in his element.

  The mood in the new TV room was somber, to say the least. Nobody said anything. Everyone simply stared at the screen, scowling or sighing or shuffling their feet.

  Then from the doorway, a strong voice spoke. Every head turned.

  “Don’t sweat it, Undertakers,” Tom said. With his sister alongside him, the Chief moved among us, looking every bit as confident as Booth had just now. He came at last to stand right beside the TV, which still showed Booth singing out answers to questions with all the flair of a movie star. Sharyn, in the meantime, took the remote control away from Alex and muted the sound.

  “Booth can babble on all he wants!” the Chief of the Undertakers declared. “We got our new crib and our new plan. We’re going after them. We’re going to start hitting back at the Corpses with everything we’ve got. Somehow we’ll find a way to make the whole world See the way we do. In the meantime, though, we’ll be kicking old Booth in the butt every chance we get.

  “By now y’all have heard the other promise that Booth made to us last night, away from cameras and reporters. Starting today they’ll be coming after us. They’ll hunt us down if they can. The gloves are off. This is now open war. Well, I say, bring it on, Deaders! We’ll be ready!”

  He didn’t quite get cheers, but there were at least smiles and a few supportive words as he crossed the room again and came to stand beside me, Sharyn, and Helene.

  “We’re with you, Chief,” Helene whispered.

  “I know it,” he said. “Thanks.”

  “Can you turn the sound back up?” someone asked.

  “What for?” Sharyn demanded.

  “Come on!” That one came from Alex, who was frowning impatiently.

  With a groan, Sharyn switched off the mute. Booth’s voice once more filled the room.

  “No, I don’t believe in personal vendettas. The damage done to my home is repairable, the cost covered by insurance. The injuries to my brave staff members were, overall, not serious, and all will make full recoveries. As for my own hurts”—he grinned again, looking right into the camera—“let’s just say I heal quickly.

  “I’m not interested in vengeance—only justice. And once I’m mayor, I will vigorously pursue justice against the so-called Undertakers and against anyone else who breaks the laws of this fine city.”

  “Hypocrite don’t seem to say it,” Sharyn observed.

  But I barely heard her. I was watching Booth, who had fallen back on his famous trademark. The bag of Sweet-Rox was once again in his hands, and between questions, he’d begun tossing back big handfuls of the colorful candies.

  “I swear to y’all,” Tom remarked to no one in particular, “sooner or later we’re gonna get that dude.”

  I felt a slow smile spread across my face. “With a little
luck,” I said, “it might just be sooner.”

  On the TV, Kenny Booth suddenly started coughing. He excused himself and tried to recover. The coughing worsened. Within seconds he was gasping and clutching at his throat. Someone screamed for the paramedics. Someone else demanded that the cameras be shut off, but they just kept running. The gasps turned into gurgles, and the gurgles into strangled croaks. Booth’s expression had gone from confident to confused to terrified in the space of a few seconds.

  Then, with maybe a million people watching, Kenny Booth exploded.

  It happened so fast and so completely that nobody—not us and not the people on the TV with the candidate—realized it right away. One minute, Booth was standing there, gripping the podium, looking pained and desperate. The next, he just sort of burst like an overripe melon.

  This was a Type One cadaver—and a fresh one at that—apparently not even embalmed. There was blood. A lot of blood. It splashed the walls, splattered the camera lenses, and covered the podium like a coat of red paint.

  On the NBC-TV sound stage, pandemonium broke out. People ran in a dozen directions at once—some screaming; others shouting orders. The cameras bobbed and then steadied. After several tense moments, another newsman—nicely human this time—stepped into the frame, a stunned expression on his face. Booth’s blood was on his face and clothes.

  Blood that he could obviously see and feel! Booth’s illusion was gone.

  When he spoke, his voice was flat with shock. “Ladies and gentlemen, something terrible has happened. It seems that Kenneth Booth has…” As if just now realizing it was there, he began to wipe at the blood on his face with one trembling hand. “My God! Get this off of me! Somebody—”

  What he said after that, I don’t think anyone in Haven heard. We were all staring at the podium—at the spot where Booth had been only moments before, at the gore he’d left behind.

  Something stood there.

  The shape was roughly man-size but without mass or substance. We only saw it for a few moments, but in those moments, we could all tell two important things. First, whatever it was, it wasn’t human—wasn’t anything like a human. And second, it was dying.