by Ty Drago
No elevator had ever moved more slowly.
I stopped at Command but didn’t bother pushing aside the doors. Instead, I yelled through the latticed gate at the strangers who manned the ham radios.
“Amy?”
A couple of them glanced my way. I could read distracted worry in their eyes and guessed the reason. More bad news was coming in from around the globe.
The end of the world.
“Amy?” I called again, more urgently this time. “I need to find Amy!”
None of them said a word, though one—just one—pointed upward. At the ceiling. At the Observation Deck.
I hit the button and started the elevator moving again.
Vader felt heavy in my hand.
Another floor up, I pushed the door aside and rushed through the cast iron elevator house and out onto the Observation Deck’s narrow walkway. It was full dark now, and rain had begun to fall from a cloudy sky. It pelted the metal plates at my feet with a sound like falling marbles. The wind was strong enough to blow my hair into my eyes.
I looked in both directions. No one.
Moving as quietly but as quickly as I could, I followed the circular walkway around counterclockwise, until I was facing east, same as with Maxi Me that afternoon. In that direction, the darkening sky still looked clear. I could even see moonlight shining off Independence Hall’s pointed steeple. The rainstorm was rolling in from the west, from behind me.
Still no sign of anyone.
Except there was a radio on the floor.
Frowning, I picked it up and put it to my ear. Nothing. An open channel, but no person at all on the other end, not even the sound of breathing.
At least, no living person on the other end.
A voice, raspy and dead, spoke across the open channel, “Time to die, whoever you are.”
Recognition shivered up my spine.
Corpse Helene.
At that instant, I heard a sound behind me, like a hammering, getting closer.
Running footfalls.
Instinctively, I dropped the radio and ducked as something cut the air above my head. I stepped away, putting distance between my attacker and me. Then I spun around, Sharyn’s sword at the ready.
Amy Filewicz glared at me. Her blond hair was wet with rain and she held a wicked looking combat knife in her hand. I wish I could say that her eyes were crazy wild, or maybe blank from external control. But they were cold and calculating. The radio on the walkway had been a trick. She’d heard the elevator arrive and had seen me head counterclockwise, so she’d left her radio as a distraction and had then come around the walkway behind me.
Good stealth strategy.
Very Undertaker.
“Amy,” I said. “Listen—”
She came at me fast. No battle cry. No tearful rage. Just a measured attack. The knife flashed and, almost without thinking, I raised Vader and parried. Metal hit metal, the sound like the clang of a bell.
I retreated a step. She came again. Another lunge. Another parry. More retreat.
She was driving me backward, but at least I knew I wouldn’t run out of room. We were on a circular walkway, after all.
“You’re too late!” she said through gritted teeth. “I told them the whole plan back at CHOP. Project Reboot. All of it. That’s why they’re hitting Haven tonight!”
“I figured,” I replied, ducking another slash and giving her a shove with my shoulder that knocked her against the railing. She recovered quickly, chasing me back with the tip of her knife before I could move in for a follow-up strike.
The woman was a better fighter than I’d thought.
Great.
“When did they get to you?” I asked her. ”When did they stick that pelligog into your body?”
She grinned. “You mean when did they open my eyes? Make me see the truth of things? It was right after I brought you through the Rift.”
I’d figured that too, remembering those scary minutes back at Children’s Hospital, when we’d lost track of Amy. Then, suddenly, there she’d been, having miraculously escaped the Corpse horde. There’d even been radio contact, despite the supposed deader “jamming.” And in the shock and confusion of the moment, I hadn’t given any of it a second thought.
Stupid.
“Seems to me,” I said. “You and I have played this scene before.”
“This time I’ll get it right!” she exclaimed. Then she rushed at me again, her knife slashing the air.
I tried to dodge, but she was too quick. Her blade found my shoulder, cutting right through my shirt and slashing the flesh beneath. Pain, as hot as if I’d been burned, lanced down my arm.
My every instinct was to retreat again, but I didn’t. Instead, I pivoted and slammed a knee into her midsection. With a groan, she doubled over, the knife clattering from her grasp. But before I could bring my elbow down on the back of her head, she cupped both her hands behind my knees and pulled, sweeping out my legs.
I landed hard on the walkway, the breath knocked out of me. Wheezing, I struggled to bring Vader up, but the woman lunged. One hand caught my sword wrist and the other my throat. Her teeth were bared. Her eyes, always so beautiful, had turned as hard and unyielding as iron.
“To think,” she growled. “All the times I rushed to help you, just because ‘Big Chief William’ told me to. If only I’d let you die, none of this would have been necessary!”
Desperately, I pulled at her wrist with my only free hand. But she was leaning down with all of her weight, crushing me beneath her, using the webbing between her thumb and forefinger to close my windpipe. A good tactic, though not one I’d ever used myself. After all, this kind of thing only works on living humans. The dead don’t breathe.
“The Earth will be cleansed,” she whispered savagely. “None of you can see the beauty in that. Neither could I, until last night. But now … now it’s so clear.”
So I gave up on her wrist and punched her in the throat.
After all, she needed to breathe too.
With a gurgle, Amy fell off of me. Welcome air poured into my lungs. For an instant, my vision blurred, but I pushed the dizziness away by an act of sheer will. Passing out now was not an option.
Rolling over, I threw myself heavily onto her back, straddled her, and pressed Vader’s point against the base of her spine, right on top of the checkmark-shaped scar that Sharyn had felt earlier. Back in my day, it had been Amy who had realized that the pelligog left behind that particular scar when they entered a human host. Amy must have realized that Sharyn had noticed it on her, which was why she’d locked the former Angel Boss’s bedroom door.
“Move,” I coughed, “even twitch, and I’ll slam this right through your spine.”
She went still.
I said, “I’ve got one question for you.”
She didn’t reply.
“Just one question, Amy.”
Still, she’d didn’t answer me.
“Come on,” I pressed. “It’s our favorite game.”
Finally, she said, “What question?”
“I get that you came up here to signal the Corpses that the Undertakers were on their way to Independence Hall. But why’d you stop to see Sharyn along the way?”
I could read only half of her face, the side facing upward. One eye. Half a nose. Half a mouth. But even with only that to work with, I could tell that my question surprised her. At first, she didn’t respond. So I pushed things a little further.
“Why take the time? And, when you thought maybe Sharyn was onto you, why just lock her in her room? Why not kill her? Oops. I guess that’s three questions, huh?”
She didn’t move. She didn’t speak.
I jabbed her in the back with the point of the sword, drawing a bead of blood. “Answer me!” I cried. “Now!”
“Go ahead. I’m not afraid to die,” Amy told me. She was trying to sound cool about it, but I caught the quaver in her voice.
“Answer,” I said. “And then I’ll decide.”
“I didn’t want to kill her,” she told me, a million emotions behind her words. “I know I should have. The smart thing would have been to smother her with a pillow. But I decided to lock the door instead. I … don’t know why.”
“Maybe I do,” I said. “This is the second time the Corpses have infected you with one of those things. The first time it was in you for almost two weeks. I’m wondering if, in that time, you built up … I dunno … an immunity or something. Not enough to let you resist them, but enough to keep you from killing a fellow human being just ‘cause that hive mind you’re plugged into told you to.”
Again, Amy didn’t reply.
“Come on, Filewicz,” I said, prodding her with the point of the sword. “You’re a doctor. What’s your take? What would Ian’s diagnosis have been?”
She stiffened.
For a moment, I thought she might actually see the light, that some part of her was strong enough to beat back the pelligog’s influence.
But then she said through clenched teeth, “I made a mistake not killing that old cripple. It’s not one I’m going to repeat!”
And her elbow came back at me, hard and fast. If it hadn’t been raining, I might have spotted it. But water was in my eyes, and her blow nailed me right on the temple. I instantly saw stars.
I felt her roll out from under me, her hand scrambling for her fallen knife.
Then, just as my head cleared, she turned and lunged. Her blade sliced the air, aiming for my throat.
I had no choice.
Please believe me. I had no choice.
Vader came up, almost on its own accord. The blade caught her an inch below her navel—and went all the way through.
Amy gasped and toppled over, dropping the knife a second time. She landed on her side, her back against the railing. We were almost nose-to-nose. The look in her eyes changed from fury to realization, and then to profound relief.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Sitting up, I looked over at the tip of Sharyn’s sword, which protruded from the small of Amy’s back. Pinned to it, squirming as it died, was a small ten-legged creature with a long, pointed proboscis.
The pelligog.
A “lucky” stab.
One that would haunt me to my grave.
“I’m so sorry,” I told her. I considered pulling the sword out. But, at this point, what good would it do? She was in enough pain already. So instead I shifted around and sat with my back against the railing. Then I let Amy rest her head on my lap.
“Will,” she said weakly. “I told them everything. I even gave them the radio frequency so they could jam it. There’s no way to warn Emily or the chief …”
“Shhh. It wasn’t your fault,” I replied, and I meant it.
“You were … right,” she whispered, her voice failing. “Some part of me was fighting it. But … I wasn’t strong enough. I’m … never strong enough.”
“You’re an Undertaker,” I said, and I meant that too. “You’re plenty strong. It’s okay, because I’m gonna make it right. I’m gonna make all of it right.”
She didn’t answer.
“Amy?”
Still, she didn’t answer.
And sitting there, the tears on my face mixing with the falling rain, I knew why.
Chapter 15
Heading East
I took back Vader, but left poor Amy’s body there—what else could I do?—and rode the elevator down to Professor Moscova’s lab. I didn’t stop along the way, not even to tell anyone in Command what had happened. Amy deserved better. But these people were grownups, and grownups ask questions. It’s in their DNA.
I didn’t have time for questions.
Not surprisingly, I found the thirteenth floor empty. I spared just a minute to look around the octagonal room, scanning for something that resembled an electric javelin.
Zip.
Whatever Four was, it wasn’t here.
So I suited up. I started by pulling off my shirt and checking Amy’s cut, which turned out to be pretty shallow. So I wrapped it up with some bandages that I found on one of the shelves, probably there in case the professor nicked himself on one gadget or another.
After that, I took the last of the Maankh belts, loaded with the last of the Maankhs, and fitted it around my waist. It was heavy, but snug. Then I fished a couple of Emily’s Hugos off one of the crowded shelves, figured out how to clip them onto the Maankh belt, and rode the elevator down to the ninth floor. Once there, I tiptoed my way through the mostly sleeping refugees until I reached the heavy metal door with the camera.
Haven’s only entrance.
Emily had told me that the door’s camera used facial recognition software. And, since my face wasn’t on file, if I left Haven I wouldn’t be able to get back in. But, the way I figured it, if I didn’t somehow warn her and the others before the Corpses sprung their trap, it wouldn’t matter much anyway.
Well, except for the whole “die here in the future and miss the rest of my life” thing.
That kinda matters.
I pulled the heavy door open, stepped out onto the landing and let it slam shut behind me. Then I started down the long spiral staircase.
Oddly, it turns out that going down a steep staircase isn’t really much easier than going up. You just use different muscles. And those muscles were screaming at me by the time I reached the old 15th Street subway platform.
One of the canoes was missing. No surprise there.
I climbed tentatively into another. It was a long boat, and I’d never paddled one of these things in my life. Then again, just yesterday—okay, thirty years ago—I’d learned that I could row a scull, a kind of racing canoe, so maybe I was more nautically inclined than I gave myself credit for.
That’s another story.
I untied the dock line, grabbed one of the paddles, and pushed awkwardly out into the current of the underground river.
Lucky for me, the current did most of the work, carrying me deeper under the city and further away from the Schuylkill River that sourced it. I’d taken one of the electric lanterns from the dock and hooked it onto a pole at the front of the canoe. Good thing, too, since it was seriously dark down here.
It only took me a few minutes to reach the 8th Street subway station.
5th Street’s station might have been quicker, since it was closer to Independence Hall. But, before they’d left, William had sketched out their attack plan. They would canoe to 8th and Market, head up to street level, cut over one block to Chestnut, and then turn east, hitting Independence Hall from its flank.
5th Street, he’d said, was too heavily patrolled.
So I figured on doing the same thing, following in their footsteps as quickly as possible.
A solid plan, right?
Except that’s when the paddling got hard.
The current that had helped me along for the last seven city blocks, now seemed dead set against me docking beside the other canoe that was already tied to the 8th Street platform. I paddled like a madman, until fresh sweat stung my eyes, but it still seemed as if I was going to get swept away downriver.
At last, I managed to cast my docking rope around a rusted old railing post and halt my momentum. The stop was so hard and fast that it almost knocked me out of the boat. At last, I regained my balance and, abandoning the paddle altogether, pulled furiously at the taut line, dragging the stubborn canoe, inch by inch, toward the platform.
I made it.
Standing up precariously, I said a little prayer and jumped over the narrow gap that remained between the canoe and the concrete dock. Not the most graceful leap in the world, but it got me there.
Blowing out a sigh, I thought, And that was the easy part!
There were fresh footprints left on the dusty floor—three sets of them—and, following them, I discovered yet another rusted sewer ladder that took me up to
street level.
There was, of course, a manhole cover. So I pulled out the Hugos, fitting one onto each of my hands, and hit their only control button with my thumbs. Instantly, both gadgets hummed to life, vibrating hard enough to make my palms tingle. As I pressed them to the underside of the cover, I watched it rise smoothly from its mounting, as if it weighed nothing at all.
Nice work, little sister!
I moved the manhole cover aside as quietly as I could and poked my head up.
The city was dark and eerily silent. The rain clouds were still moving east, and drops of water began to pelt me as I dragged myself up onto the street. The intersection of 8th and Market stood empty. No Corpses, which was good news.
But no Undertakers, either. I hadn’t been able to catch up with them.
Not really a surprise. But a dude can hope, right?
I was about three blocks west and one block north of where I needed to be. So, keeping low and darting from deserted storefront to deserted storefront, I made my way toward Chestnut Street.
Chestnut Street was—or had been—a shopping district, lined with stores and restaurants. They were all gone now, most of them burned down to nothing, little more than square wells of thick shadow on both sides of the narrow road.
Peeking around the corner from 8th, I scanned the darkness.
No one.
Then, abruptly, someone.
A pair of Corpses, early Type Fours by the look of them, were loitering in the middle of Chestnut Street, about halfway between 7th and 8th. It was so dark that I might not have noticed them if they hadn’t been sharing a flashlight. Both were facing away from me and casually chatting, though not in English. Instead, they used Deadspeak, that weird telepathic language that was the Malum’s native tongue. I did my best to eavesdrop without being seen, but they weren’t saying anything very interesting.
In real life, unlike on T.V., the good guy rarely overhears exactly what he needs to know. Trust me. I’ve done the research.
These particular deaders seemed to be discussing what it was they most missed about their true Malum bodies. Specifically: pooping.
Yeah, I know. Sorry.
