by Ty Drago
“No…” the FBI guy whispered.
“What’s the matter?” I asked. “See something you can’t explain?”
He started to answer. But then we both jumped as the newly risen Corpse launched herself at Tom.
He should have dodged. He could have. I’d seen him do it. One-on-one, I didn’t think there was a Deader alive—so to speak—who could have tagged him. No, he let this one hit him. It was part of the show.
But she hit him hard. Very hard. One moment, he was standing in the middle of the room, looking at her, and the next, he went airborne, slamming into the opposite brick wall in a shower of dried mortar. He landed on the bed, dazed but struggling to recover.
Dead Old Lady/Girl pounced on him, clawing at his face with grasping purple fingers. Her teeth snapped forward, going for his jugular. But at the last second, Tom managed to block her with his forearm. Hissing, she bit deep into the muscle just below his elbow.
Tom cried out in agony.
He slammed his left fist into her abdomen. Her body shuddered with the blow, but her jaws remained fastened to Tom’s arm like a pit bull’s.
Long enough, I decided. Either Ramirez was convinced or he was an idiot. No way was I going to watch the Chief of the Undertakers die to make a point.
“I’m going in there!” I announced.
“No!” the agent snapped. “Uncuff me. I’ll go in!”
I looked at him. He looked back at me. “You’ll run,” I said.
“No, I won’t. God help me, I swear I won’t. I don’t know what that…that thing…is in there. But it isn’t”—he swallowed—“natural.”
I wanted to believe him. Despite everything I’d been through over the past few months, however much I’d learned to rely on my own skills and my own courage, such as it was—the idea of surrendering this problem to the nearest adult was shockingly strong.
Unfortunately, I didn’t dare.
“Sorry,” I said, pulling out my pocketknife. Through the window, Tom had managed to get his feet up between himself and the Corpse and force her back, breaking her hold on his arm. A big chuck of his flesh went with her. Blood, Tom’s blood, flew in every direction.
Dead Old Lady/Girl slammed into the far wall but recovered instantly. She leapt at Tom again, snarling, her receding lips sticky red and her mouth a gaping maul.
To Ramirez, I said, “Move over. I need to open the door!”
“I can’t let you do this, Will!” he said, pleaded. “For your father’s sake!”
Bringing my dad into this was a low blow, though Ramirez probably didn’t get that. “Dave,” I said. “Grab him.”
The Burgermeister wrapped his arms around the FBI guy, lifting him completely off his feet. The cuffs rattled as they reached their limit, making Ramirez wince. But it gave me the room I needed to work the deadbolts and pull the door open. While it moved, Dave also moved, dragging the agent out of the way as I bolted into the room.
The Deader was on top of Tom again, her knees on his chest, one hand on his throat and the other trying to rake his face with her long gray nails. The Chief was bleeding badly from his mangled arm and a deep gash across his nose.
I couldn’t risk the Taser. With the two of them in physical contact like this, zapping her would zap him too. Instead, I popped the blade and lunged at the girl, aiming for the sweet spot at the base of her skull.
However, at the last second, she spotted me. Her head twisted grotesquely and seized my wrist in an iron grip. As she squeezed, I cried out, and the knife fell from my hand, bouncing under the bed.
With lightning quickness, her hand released my arm and clamped around my throat.
It was like getting caught in a steel vise.
Almost at once, I saw stars. A terrible pressure filled my head, as if my brains were being squeezed out of my ears like toothpaste from a tube.
Then, through my blurring vision, it seemed as if the girl grew a second pair of arms—these wearing the sleeves of a man’s white shirt. The new arms wrapped around her upper torso and, with a great heave, pulled her off of us. The grip on my neck fell away, leaving behind deep fingernail gashes but letting wonderful air back into my lungs.
My vision cleared.
Ramirez was holding the Corpse up much the way the Burgermeister had been holding him up a minute ago.
“What do I do with her?” he cried as Dead Old Lady/Girl thrashed like an enraged cat in his arms. He staggered to and fro, finally stumbled into a corner. “Come on!” he exclaimed desperately. “What am I supposed to do?”
I couldn’t speak; my throat was too sore. My knife lay somewhere under the bed, but right now, I lacked the strength to find it.
However, Tom pulled himself to his feet. He’d looked beaten half to death—probably because he was—but he moved nevertheless, crossing the small room on legs that quivered under him like an old man’s.
From the inside pocket of his jacket, he produced a Ritter.
He had that all the time?
“Hold her steady,” he said in a hoarse voice.
Ramirez did the best he could. But the Corpse grabbed his left arm in both hands and wrenched it savagely. The FBI guy cried out in pain and lost his grip. Dead Old Lady/Girl whirled on him, her teeth snapping and her fingers lunging for his eyes.
“Your turn!” she snarled.
Then Dave smacked her.
The big guy had stepped into the room just in time. His backhand blow bounced the Deader off the far wall. Then, as she was trying to regain her balance, the Burgermeister caught her in her arms, much the way Ramirez had. Except Dave’s arms were a lot bigger. They closed like vices.
Tom shook his head a few times, as if trying to clear it. Then he drew back his hand and drove the syringe deep into the Deader’s bare abdomen, using his thumb to slam the plunger home.
“Let her go, Dave,” he said.
“You sure?”
The Chief nodded. Beside me, Ramirez was cradling his left arm, his face sweaty, his eyes wide.
The Burgermeister shoved Dead Old Lady/Girl aside. She stumbled a few steps before she whirled around, ready to attack again.
Then she exploded.
For a second or two, the thing inside of her glared at us. Then it was gone too—forever gone.
For half a minute, nobody said anything. Tom stood rigidly in place while beside him, the FBI guy cradled his injured arm. His eyes were glassy.
Finally, with a sigh, the Chief spoke—coughed really.
“Welcome to the Undertakers, Agent Ramirez.”
Chapter 25
Swapping Stories
“I believe you,” Ramirez said. “But who in the world’s going to believe me?”
We were back in the infirmary, and it struck me that I’d been spending a lot of time here lately. Most of that, of course, was because of Sharyn, who lay where she’d been laying for more than a day now, doing exactly what she’d been doing all that time. Nothing.
Except maybe dying.
But I tried not to think about that.
Helene was here. So were Steve, Dave, and Chuck Binelli, who’d been on hand when we arrived, getting his stitched tongue checked. As we’d come stumbling in, a ragtag procession, I’d fleetingly wondered if Helene was still mad. When I caught her looking at me, it was only with worry. She was seeing the purple bruises on my neck—so much like her own.
“I’m fine,” I assured her.
“I didn’t ask,” she replied. Then she turned away.
Yep. Still mad.
Tom sat on one of the patient cots, with Ian stitching his arm. He wasn’t using any anesthetic, just working carefully with surgical thread and a curved needle. The Chief would wince every so often but otherwise didn’t seem to notice. Amy stood at Ian’s shoulder, watching car
efully.
Maybe he was training her. Not a bad idea.
Across from him, the FBI guy had plopped himself down on another cot, his hair matted with sweat. His left arm hung in a sling, the shoulder—according to Ian—badly sprained.
To Ramirez, Tom said, “Getting other people to believe you ain’t the issue. I don’t expect you to run back to DC and start telling your bosses at the bureau all about the Corpses. I just need to know that you won’t run to the local cops and tell ’em all about us.”
Ramirez ran one trembling hand through his hair. “That girl was dead,” he muttered—more to himself, I thought, than to any of us. “I took her pulse…took my time about it because I expected a trick. But no, she was dead. I swear she was.”
He looked up at Tom. “And you kids have been living like this…for years?”
Tom shrugged. “Some of us longer than others. But, yeah.” He motioned toward Sharyn’s gurney. “That’s my sister. She got herself hit by a Corpse during the raid to rescue you. A big one…much bigger than the female I just fought. Sharyn’s been in a coma ever since. Ian…he’s our medic…” Ian paused in his stitching long enough to offer FBI Guy a completely ridiculous wave.
Tom continued, “Ian don’t know if she’s gonna wake up at all.” His face was calm, his voice rock solid with control.
“You should get her to a doctor,” Ramirez said.
The Chief shook his head. “Not an option. This world is being invaded, agent. It’s been going down for three years, and you and all your fellow suits ain’t had a clue about it. We don’t get why we can See ’em and you can’t. But this war is real, and the only ones who can fight it is us. We’re soldiers…and in war, soldiers die. Sharyn wouldn’t be the first, and she won’t be the last.”
He looked at Ian, who’d just finished the last stitch. “I’ll bandage it,” the medic said.
“In a minute,” Tom replied. Then he stood and crossed to Ramirez’s bunk. Sitting beside the trembling man, he continued, “I need to hear you say it: you gonna keep quiet about us or not?”
Ramirez visibly swallowed. Then he nodded.
“Out loud, agent,” Tom remarked.
“I’m not going to say anything, I swear it. But…how far does this go? How many of them are there?”
“Thousands. With more coming in all the time. We don’t know how they get here or where they come from, but it’s pretty clear what they’re after. Power. They move slowly, worming their way deeper and deeper into society. It’s kind of like a spreading stain…small but getting bigger day by day.”
“Just here?” Ramirez asked. “In Philadelphia?”
“As far as we know.”
The FBI guy shook his head. “It’s…unbelievable.”
“But you do believe it,” the Chief pressed.
“Yeah,” Ramirez replied. Then, meeting Tom’s eyes, he added, “Yes, I do.”
Helene and Chuck actually applauded. Dave pumped the air, making a “woof woof” sound that I made a mental note to tease him about later.
“Thing is,” the agent continued, “Karl came down to Washington to see me just weeks before he died. We’d known each other for years. We met when, a long time ago, I tried to recruit him for the bureau. His record was that good. But he wasn’t interested. Philly was his home, he said. He’d been born here, lived here, and he’d die here. I guess…” He looked at me. “I guess he did. I’m sorry, son.”
I didn’t reply.
Ramirez cleared his throat. “Now when a man like that tells you he’s on to something…something big, a conspiracy so terrifying he doesn’t quite yet dare reveal the particulars, you have to take notice. And when that man ends up dead less than a month later…well, I couldn’t ignore it.”
He stared at his shoes, which still had some bits of dead body on them. “I couldn’t open an official investigation because Karl hadn’t come to me in an official capacity. The FBI can’t get involved in local crimes except under very particular circumstances…like a state line being crossed.”
Steve asked, “How about a dimensional line?”
Ramirez paused, looked at him, and then continued, “But I have…had…my contacts in the local PD, and Karl was well respected. I brought a few of these cops into my confidence, asked them to nose around a little but to keep my name out of it. This went on for the better part of a year and had just started making some progress. Then my contacts started reporting rumors involving a local newsman. Kenny Booth. But then…” his voice trailed off.
For a long moment, no one said anything.
So I did. “But then they died.”
He regarded me, as if surprised I’d figured that out. “Yes, they died. Tragic accidents…one or two months apart. A fire. A car crash. A fatal heart attack. Coincidence, right? What else could it be? Who could murder four police officers, your father included, without someone besides me taking notice?”
It was Helene who answered. “Kenny Booth, that’s who.”
The FBI guy nodded. “Kenny Booth. Karl mentioned him that time he came to me. Just a passing remark, like he didn’t quite believe it himself. But now I think he was trying to plant a seed in me, to start me wondering. He knew full well what Booth was, but there wasn’t any way he could convince me, so he just dropped enough of a hint that…after he died…”
He sighed. “Then later, when those cops died too, I started investigating Booth, quietly and on my own time. He was clean…squeaky clean. Too clean. Nothing on his record, not even a parking ticket. In fact, before he came to Philly, he didn’t seem to have existed at all, except on paper. I mean, I’ve seen my share of phony IDs, but this one was a work of art, so nearly perfect that I knew there was no way I could convince my superiors that Booth was anyone but who he said he was.”
“Booth came to Philly three and a half years ago,” Tom said. “He died just last October, two years after he killed Karl. Two years. That’s a lot of investigating, Agent Ramirez.”
Ramirez looking dejected. “I did everything I could. I knew in my heart that Booth had been involved somehow. But he was so careful, so smart. I couldn’t touch him, couldn’t even get enough on him to start an official investigation.” He faced me. “I’m sorry, Will.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I replied, meaning it. “I got him for both of us.”
He took that in, looking me over with fresh eyes. “Saltwater,” he said. “Like that syringe Jefferson used on the old lady just now.”
“We call them ‘Ritters,’” Steve said.
“For Karl?”
The Brain Boss shook his head. “For Will…the first person ever to kill a Corpse.”
I kept my face neutral, but inwardly, I groaned.
“What Will came up with was a little different,” Tom explained. “But it worked the same way. Get salt into a Corpse’s body, and the body explodes, leaving the invader inside unprotected. It dies within seconds.”
Ramirez asked, “And how many of them have you gotten?”
The Chief shrugged. “The technique’s only about four months old, and the Ritters have been around for just a few days. But it’s a start.”
“It’s a start,” the agent agreed.
“Listen,” Tom told him. “You know something about us, and we know something about you. Was your investigation into Booth the reason the Corpses grabbed you the other night? Did they figure out it was you behind all the questions?”
Ramirez shook his head. “No. They didn’t come after me because of Booth. They came after me because of Lilith Cavanaugh.”
Everybody went suddenly quiet. The agent remarked, “You know her, I guess?”
“Yeah,” replied Tom. “Cavanaugh’s the new Boss Corpse. She replaced Booth. We call her the Queen of the Dead.”
“Lilith Cavanaugh is…one of them?”
“But she’s…”
Dave finished his thought. “Hot?”
“Wicked hot,” Chuck added. It was the first time he’d spoken. The word sounded pretty clear to me. Either his tongue was healing, or he was getting used to the stitches.
“Her Mask is,” Helene corrected. “But Cavanaugh’s probably the worst of them. She goes through like a body a week…apparently doesn’t care for it when they start to rot around her.”
Tom said, “Most Deaders hang onto a host body long as they can…until it literally starts falling apart. It’s a security thing…transferring risks exposure, like we showed you in the demo. But not Cavanaugh. We have reason to believe she might even murder women she thinks are good-looking…just so she can wear their skin.”
Ramirez muttered an oath in Spanish. I didn’t know what it meant, but I could guess.
“So…yeah,” the Chief concluded. “We know her.”
“She’s a lot like Booth in some ways,” the FBI guy explained. “Same squeaky-clean past, same ‘too perfect’ paper trail. Like Booth, she just showed up one day with all these credentials and references and…just like that”—he snapped his fingers—“got herself appointed the city’s new community affairs director. I guess you could say it was a red flag that only I could see.”
“Your own personal Sight,” Dave quipped. He laughed and then looked a bit embarrassed when nobody joined him.
Ramirez continued, “I decided to reopen my investigation…all on my own this time. No more putting others at risk. No more dead cops. Just me.”
“Good idea,” remarked Helene.
“Honorable,” Tom added.
The agent sighed. “I made some phone calls, asked some questions. The wrong questions as it turned out. I ended up getting a call from someone in Cavanaugh’s office, a guy named Pierce.”
“Pierce,” I echoed. “We met him last night at the funeral parlor.”
“Guy’s a tool,” Helene added.
