by Ty Drago
Big mistake.
Sharyn was a tall girl, dark-skinned and athletic, with kinky black hair done up in dreadlocks. At seventeen years old, she and her brother, Tom, ran the Undertakers—and had ever since my dad had been killed by the Corpses.
She was also the best fighter I’d ever seen. Well, maybe the second best.
Moving with catlike grace, she sidestepped the attacking Deader. Her sword slashed in a silver blur. And this time, it was his right arm that hit the concrete.
The Corpse swayed on his feet, his milky eyes literally radiating hatred. In English, he hissed, “Stupid girl! You can’t kill me!”
Sharyn smoothly sheathed her sword, and from inside her coat, she produced a mean-looking hypodermic. The needle had to be ten inches long, and its syringe was filled with clear liquid. Grinning, she held it up. The Corpse’s eyes followed it.
“Wanna bet?” Sharyn chirped. Then, in one fluid motion, she turned on her heel and backhanded the needle into the Deader’s chest, slamming the plunger home. “Watch this, Will!”
Dead Cop peered down at the big hypodermic sticking out a few inches below his collarbone. For a moment, the menace left his expression, and he looked as befuddled as a dead and desiccated face was capable of looking.
Then he exploded.
Once second, the mutilated, walking cadaver stood rooted on the alley floor, and the next, pieces of him went whizzing off in every direction. There was very little blood; the cadaver had probably been embalmed weeks ago. But the parts themselves were plenty gross, and I ducked and threw up my hands to keep from getting smacked by chunks of flying dead guy.
In Dead Cop’s place—for only a second or two—stood a human-sized figure of dark energy that glared savagely at Sharyn. I could almost feel the evil radiating off the alien thing as, without a host body to sustain it, it shriveled up and vanished with an odd little pop.
“Ta-da!” Sharyn declared.
Then she bowed. There was Corpse stuff all over her.
“What was that?” I asked.
“Later,” she replied. “For now, let’s split. There might be more of ’em on the way.” She started to turn, but I put my hand on her elbow.
“Is Helene okay?” I asked.
Her smile widened, as if I’d just passed some kind of test. “Yeah, she’s cool. Lost the Deader cop about eight blocks from here. Would have come back looking for you, but I called her off. I was closer.”
I might have asked how she had found me, but I already knew. My wrist radio had a built-in GPS chip that apparently still worked despite the rest of the gadget being toast. Thank God for Steve Moscova, who made each one of them by hand.
“Sharyn…” I stammered awkwardly. “I know we broke the rules and regs. But don’t blame Helene. It was my idea.”
“That right? ’Cause when I radioed Helene a few minutes ago, she told me it was her idea. Funny thing, huh?”
“She’s just trying to cover for me!” I protested.
“’Course she is, little bro. By the way, here’s a little something of yours I found on the street.” She pulled my pocketknife out of her coat and handed it to me. “Figure you dropped it while you was playing around with Big, Dead, and Ugly.”
“Thanks,” I said with relief, welcoming the familiar weight of the gadget in my hand.
“No sweat. Now…you got something for me?”
“Huh?”
She chuckled. “The mystery wallet, little bro…the thing that might just make this stunt of yours worth it. You got it?”
For a mouthful of bitter seconds, I was afraid that I didn’t, that it had been lost somehow during the fight with the Deader! But then my shaking hands found it right where I’d put it—in the inside pocket of my coat.
I handed it to her, and she opened it, holding it up to the meager light from the street.
After a moment, her face split into a wide grin. “Oh yeah, dude. Totally worth it!”
Chapter 6
Totally Worth It
“Come on,” I begged. “What was that trick with the needle?”
Sharyn only grinned, steering the bike we both rode right off Sixteenth Street and down the ramp of an underground public parking garage beside Love Park, leaving behind the night, the open air, and—overhead—Philly’s massive city hall, which loomed like a dark fortress.
The largest municipal building in America, Philadelphia City Hall occupies four full acres of land in what the town’s founder, William Penn, named Centre Square. It’s a huge, seven-story structure more than a century old, topped by a five-hundred-foot tower featuring a thirty-seven-foot likeness of Penn himself—the biggest statue on any building in the world.
All this appeared in the tour books. What didn’t, however, was the Philly that hid below the streets. Down there, tunnels connected subways to shops and food courts. Some of these tunnels were generations old, and together, they made a labyrinth that few people knew of and even fewer knew well.
This was our city.
At the lowest level of the parking garage, tucked away in a shadowed alcove, stood a heavy steel access door. This opened into a long, unlit passage that smelled of dust and urine. The passage ended at another door, which Sharyn opened with a key. Beyond that lay a flight of stairs and a hanging plastic curtain carefully painted to resemble a brick wall—an effective illusion that she brushed aside with a wave of her hand.
Haven occupied a subbasement sixty feet below City Hall. Before Tom Jefferson, Sharyn’s twin brother and the chief of the Undertakers, had discovered it a few months ago, it had been long-abandoned and forgotten.
Except by the cats.
Yeah, I said cats—that had been introduced down here decades ago to deal with the rat problem. Now, after countless generations of living their whole lives in darkness, these “kitties” had left cute and fuzzy behind in favor of ugly, scary, and mean.
Since moving in, we’d run into our share of what Helene sometimes called “devil cats.” Eventually the Monkeys—the Undertakers crew responsible for building and equipment maintenance—had whipped up some traps. They snagged about three cats a week and then relocated them to a part of the basement we weren’t planning on using. It was a tricky job and even a bit dangerous—but I suppose it beat wrestling with Deaders in alleys in the middle of the night.
After we walked our Stingray through the “brick wall,” Sharyn and I were immediately greeted by Helene. She took one look at us—at me—and the relief on her face made me just a little bit uncomfortable. Beside her, a hulk of a boy with short-cropped blond hair and a neck as thick as a watermelon occupied the only chair. He was on guard duty.
This small, dimly lit room marked the gateway into Haven. There were three such gateways.
“Will!” Dave said, jumping to his feet. “Heard you guys had some trouble.”
“Hi, Dave,” I replied.
“Nothing we couldn’t handle, Hot Dog,” Sharyn said, breezing past him. “Will, get that bike put away, and let’s talk to my bro. He’s in the caf. You got five minutes.”
And just like that, she exited into the hallway, leaving behind only the three of us.
“I hate it when she calls me that,” Dave Burger grumbled.
“Which is probably why she does it, Burgermeister,” Helene replied, smiling.
Dave immediately cheered up. “Burgermeister” was a nickname he did like. “Ran into a Deader, huh?” he asked.
I nodded. “Type Three. A big one. Dressed like a cop.”
His eyes lit up. “Yeah? What happened?”
“What usually happens,” I replied, feeling tired and—yeah—a little grumpy. “Sharyn showed up in the nick of time. Only this time, she actually killed one.”
“Killed a Corpse?” the Burgermeister blinked. “You mean ‘killed him’ killed him? Like Booth?�
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I nodded.
Helene and Dave swapped identical looks of astonishment. “How?” they demanded in perfect unison.
“Sharyn wouldn’t tell me. She stuck him with some kind of needle.”
“Yeah?” Helene said, smiling. “Some new weapon maybe?”
“Maybe, but to use it, you gotta get real close!”
Dave’s big, round face darkened. “Wish I could’ve been out there with you.”
I punched his big shoulder, a gesture I knew he appreciated. Dave had been wanting to get into the Angels crew since we’d both been recruits.
Notice I said “recruits,” not “volunteers.” Nobody “volunteers” to live in a dank, cold, subterranean dungeon, fighting for their lives against an ever-growing invasion of the reanimated dead. No, every kid in Haven was here because he or she had to be, not because they wanted to be. Each was a Seer who’d been lucky enough to escape the Corpses and get found instead by the Undertakers.
If we went back to our homes, the Corpses would find us and kill us for what we could see—and probably kill our families too.
We stayed and fought because, really, what else could we do?
“I wish you could too,” Helene told Dave. “But keep up your training. Sharyn’ll hold another tryout in a couple of months.”
“I’m too big,” he said, still looking sour. “And too slow.”
“Big’s not a bad thing,” I replied. “And some more training will help speed you up.”
He looked pointedly at me. “Not that kind of slow.”
“Oh.”
Helene gave me a glare. “I’m sure it’s nothing like that,” she said to Dave. Then, glancing at her watch, she added, “Come on. Let’s get to the cafeteria. Time’s up.”
The Burgermeister brightened again, his blues apparently forgotten. He was like that. “Yeah! Come on, Will! Tom wants to see you!” He took my arm in one of his beefy paws and pulled me toward the open doorway.
“Hold up, Dave! Aren’t you on gatekeeper duty?” I protested.
“The gate can keep itself for a couple of minutes,” he said.
“But the bike…”
“Leave it!” Helene exclaimed. Then she was behind me, pushing. Together, they half-carried me around a corner and along one of the main corridors.
These two seemed awfully determined to get me into the cafeteria in a big hurry.
What in the world was going—
Oh no.
“Surprise!”
The single word was shouted by almost a hundred voices. Though it was the middle of the night, pretty much every on-site Undertaker was in the cafeteria, a lot of them wearing stupid pointed party hats. Balloons had been tied to the ends of the long tables, and a big banner covered the back wall, blocking most of the dirty bricks.
Happy thirteenth birthday, Will!
“Oh crap,” I muttered.
Helene and Dave started laughing. Someone took my picture, the flash blinding me. Then Sharyn stepped up and pulled me into one of her long, uncomfortable hugs. I squirmed. She didn’t care. Finally, she released me and stepped back, holding me at arm’s length. “Happy birthday, little bro,” she exclaimed. “Come on! We got cake!”
They dragged me over to the nearest table, where a big white sheet cake waited. Looming protectively over it stood a tall, slim kid wrapped in a soiled apron. This was Nick Rooney, boss of the Moms, the crew responsible for the cooking, the cleaning, and—well—picking up after everybody else.
“Hasn’t been easy,” Nick told me, grinning, “to keep everyone away from this cake until you finally showed up! Gather ’round, everybody. We got some singing to do!”
They gathered—the Undertakers—and as they did, I couldn’t help but notice their faces. Some, like Sharyn, Dave, and Helene, wore smiles. But others had more vacant expressions, and I could tell they were feeling what I was feeling. Celebrations didn’t belong in Haven. There wasn’t anything about our life here that warranted celebrating.
We just wanted to go home.
Helene was good at hiding it, but I knew she felt the same way. And the Burgermeister too, who talked about his grandmother—his only family—more and more these days. Tom and Sharyn had been orphaned young, so maybe they had an easier time accepting the situation. But for those of us who’d abandoned our families to live in this dank basement and fight our lonely war, the last thing we felt like doing was singing “Happy Birthday” to anyone.
“Please don’t…” I muttered.
They did.
The Undertakers were a resistance group, fighting the Corpses any and every way they could. As an organization, they were smart, resourceful, and brave.
But they couldn’t sing.
“Happy birthday to you” seemed to take a really long time, and when it was over, Sharyn yelled for me to make a wish.
So I wished.
I wished the same wish I wished every night when I closed my eyes—the same thing that I knew every kid in the room wished.
I wished to go home.
For four months, I’d been living as a runaway. Thanksgiving had come and gone. Christmas had come and gone. New Year’s had come and gone. Heck, I’d even missed Groundhog Day. Somewhere out there, my mother and my sister carried on without me. Not a day went by when I didn’t think about them. It was like a black hole in my gut, a big emptiness from which nothing could escape—certainly not joy and especially not on special occasions.
Like my birthday.
Then I halfheartedly blew out the thirteen candles.
Everyone clapped. Some of them even looked like they meant it.
It should have been a good moment. It wasn’t.
It sucked.
“That’s enough,” a voice said. “Give the man some air.”
A tall figure—taller even than Nick—pushed his way through the crowd and came to stand beside Sharyn. Side by side, it was easy to see the resemblance between the two of them: the same coffee-colored skin, the same intelligent dark eyes. But where Sharyn Jefferson gave off this air of reckless adventure, of finding fun in any situation, no matter how scary—her brother gave off something else altogether.
Tom Jefferson, the Chief of the Undertakers.
“Happy birthday, bro,” he said to me, smiling knowingly. And in that smile, I saw—with relief—he knew what I was feeling. Tom “got it.” He usually did.
“Thanks,” I replied.
“Nick,” he said. “Why don’t you start doling out the cake and ice cream? Will, Helene, and me got something to talk about.”
“Ease up, bro,” Sharyn protested. “It can wait until after the party.”
“No, it can’t,” Tom and I replied at the same time, which Sharyn seemed to find hilarious.
“Two of a kind!” she laughed. “Okay, we all can party without you for a bit!”
Tom nodded to Helene, and then he led the two of us out of the noisy cafeteria and down to his office. It was near the west entrance, the one we’d come in only minutes ago. Bigger than most of Haven’s chambers, it served as Tom’s sleeping quarters and command center.
There were no doors in Haven, mainly because when we’d found this place, all the doors had either been long since removed or had rotted into nothing. Instead, we used curtains or heavy blankets draped across the thresholds for privacy. Tom held his open for us, and Helene and I ducked under his big arm and stepped inside.
Tom kept the place pretty sparse—just a desk and a few folding chairs set up around a small conference table. On one wall was a bulletin board that someone had scrounged up. It was layered with printouts and newspaper clippings about the Corpses and their goings-on around town. On the opposite wall hung another curtain, this one leading to the adjacent room, where Tom did his sleeping and dressing.
“Spill,” he said, facing us. “I want to know everything that happened, moment by moment, from the start of your recon to the minute you got back.”
It was a familiar drill.
Helene, as senior trainee, spoke first. She told him about us spotting the four Corpses in the cop car and following them to Eastern State Penitentiary. She described watching the Corpses carry their human captive through the prison gate and about the “something” that was dropped.
Then she looked at me.
With a sigh, I explained my decision to retrieve the mysterious something and about how I got spotted and almost caught. Then I related our escape, the decision to split up, and my one-on-one battle with the big Deader. Like Helene, I left nothing out. There’s been a time, not too long ago, when I might not have told Tom everything.
Those days were over.
“I know we broke the rules and regs…” Helene began.
“I broke them,” I said. “Helene tried to talk me out of it.”
Tom nodded, considering. Then he said, “Look, you two. I ain’t saying it wasn’t an acceptable risk—” Helene flashed me a smile. Then Tom continued. “—for experienced Angels.” Her smile disappeared. “But for a couple of trainees, it just wasn’t a smart move. Gettin’ that wallet wasn’t worth your life, Will, or yours, Helene, and that was almost the price tag. So here’s how it is: You two are still on the Angels crew, but neither of you will be going out alone. For the rest of your training, you’ll each do your recon gigs partnered with an experienced Angel.”
“But don’t you need the others for combat and rescue missions?” I protested. “Isn’t that the reg? Angels for rescue, trainees for recon?”
“Regs sometimes need to change,” Tom replied evenly. “If this is what keeps you both from taking risks you ain’t ready for, then this is how it’ll be.”
I started to argue further, but Helene elbowed me in the ribs.
I shut up.
“All that said and done,” Tom added, “my sister gave me the wallet just now. Do either of you know what it is?”
We both shook our heads. “Sharyn took it from me back in the alley,” I said. “She looked at it and told me what I’d done had been ‘totally worth it.’” I paused a moment to give Tom a pointed look that he firmly ignored. “But she wouldn’t show me what it was.”
