Last Siege of Haven

by Ty Drago

  Again, Tom gave her nothing.

  “Why would she hide that?” the girl pressed.

  She was smart. And she was close.

  He said, “She wouldn’t and this ain’t about her. But you’ll find out when you get back. Half-an-hour. Cool?”

  She paused again, considering him. “Cool … I guess.”

  “Thanks, Helene.”

  After she’d left him alone in his tiny office, Tom opened one of the two drawers in the desk that still worked. From it he took a photograph.

  In it, a younger version of himself stood beside a tall redheaded man wearing a Philly cop uniform. Both Karl Ritter and the young Tom Jefferson were mugging for the camera. Sharyn had taken the photo, long before Karl’s death, long before the war.

  All the other pictures of Karl had gone into the Shrine, the room in Haven that had been forever dedicated to its founder’s memory. But this one, Tom kept for himself. A rare bit of sentimentality, he supposed. At certain times, bad times, times like this, there was some comfort in being able to pull it out and gaze at the only father he’d ever known.

  Your son’s a lot like you. Your real son, I mean. He’s smart and brave … probably smarter and braver than is good for him. He’s out there right now, playin’ it scary, walkin’ the line, ‘cause that’s what he does. That’s what you did, too. And it got you killed. Don’t think I don’t know that. Don’t think I don’t fret over it every single day. But while Will’s like you, he ain’t you. He’s got this way of makin’ miracles happen that I don’t get and probably never will.

  But I ain’t here today to talk ‘bout him. Sharyn’ll find him. And Dave. The two o’ them are an item these days. They think I don’t know, but I do. Same as Will and Helene. It’s cool, seeing ‘em make these connections. I only wish …

  Karl, somethin’s coming. I’ve been feelin’ it for a while now … in my gut, the gut you taught me to always trust. I could wait for it to happen and then take it for what it is. Until Will came along, that was pretty much my style. But no more. Now my gut’s tellin’ me I gotta do something about it. That “something” is risky, maybe even flat out stupid, but I gotta do it.

  I gotta take a page from your son’s playbook.

  I gotta walk the line.

  Helene returned almost exactly thirty minutes later. The girl was nothing if not prompt. With her came Jillian and Susan Ritter, the latter looking confused and more than a little irritated. Apparently, Tom’s request had pulled her away from something important in the Infirmary.

  Susan was the only adult in Haven, and the only adult Undertaker since the Corpses had murdered her husband Karl, two-and-a-half years before. Her recruitment had been—challenging. She and her six-year-old daughter Emily, Will’s little sister, had been rescued and brought in as refugees. At first, the woman had balked at the Undertakers’ way of life. But, eventually, she’d come around.

  Still, you could take the grown-up out of the adult world, but you couldn’t take the adult out of the grown-up. Even now, having proven herself a true Undertaker, and having taken over as Haven’s medic, she remained the only person, other than Sharyn, willing to challenge Tom’s leadership and decisions. Not that he minded being challenged occasionally. Actually, it tended to be a good thing.

  But it could also cause—problems.

  “Hey, y’all,” Tom said, coming around his desk to the small conference table.

  Everyone sat.

  “What’s going on?” Jillian asked.

  In answer, Tom turned to Helene. “Got the pics?”

  She nodded, holding up a small stack of white photo paper. “Hot off Sammy’s printer.”

  “Lay ‘em out across the table. Face up.”

  Helene did so.

  People. It was a sunny, late spring day topside, and men and women in suits were busy going about their business. From the look of it, Helene had found herself a choice spot near the “clothespin,” a big modern sculpture of—well—a giant clothespin, that stood at 16th and Market Streets.

  Helene had been subtle with the camera, maybe holding it in the palm of her hand while turning in a slow circle. Most of the shots were at an upward angle.

  Smart.

  Dozens of faces, all wearing different expressions, all clueless that their image had just been digitally captured.

  “Susan,” Tom said, turning to Will’s mother. “Look at these pics.”

  Obviously perplexed, the woman did so. “What am I looking for?”

  He asked her, “How many are Corpses?”

  To her credit, she actually tried. She even picked up a few of the shots and held them closer to her face, as if that would help. Finally, with a sigh, she put the last one down and said, “I don’t know. Are any of them?”

  Tom looked from her to Jillian.

  “Are any of them Corpses?”

  Now it was Jill’s turn to look perplexed. Her gaze moved from Tom to the pictures, to Helene, to the pictures again. “Three,” she said.

  “Which ones?”

  She picked up three shots, two women and one man.

  “Give ‘em here,” Tom said.

  Jillian handed them to him and, for half-a-minute, Tom studied them.

  “What’s going on, Chief?” Helene asked.

  Tom Jefferson lowered the pictures and regarded each of them in turn. He would have preferred to have Will and Sharyn here, but that wasn’t possible. Things were happening, and he simply couldn’t wait.

  So he told them, “I wanted to be absolutely sure before I said anything.”

  “About what?” Susan asked.

  He replied in a calm, matter-of-fact voice. “I’ve lost the Sight. I can’t see Corpses anymore.”

  Chapter 11

  FALLS BRIDGE

  Falls Bridge looks kind of like a birdcage with a tunnel running through it. It crosses the Schuylkill River just at Philadelphia’s northwestern border, connecting Martin Luther King Drive with Kelly Drive. Martin Luther King Drive used to be called West River Drive, while Kelly Drive used to be called East River Drive, but they got renamed because—

  Oh, who cares?

  For the last ten minutes we’d been carried by the Zombie Prince, who’d traced the western edge of the river, following the railroad tracks in leaps and bounds. No subtlety at all in this guy. Any normal person who saw us—and while there weren’t many, there had to be some—would, at best, have found it deeply strange and, at worst, called 911 or maybe even caught the whole thing on a cell phone and uploaded it to YouTube.

  Robert Dillin wasn’t behaving like a Corpse at all. There was nothing sly or sneaky about him. Corpses were all about protecting their Masks, about hiding their true nature.

  This guy was just scared.

  Falls Bridge has two roads coming into it from the west. Martin Luther King Drive comes from the city. The other’s called, naturally enough, Falls Bridge Road. It runs in from the west, actually passing under the Schuylkill Expressway without connecting with it. Right where these streets meet there’s a busy, lighted intersection.

  That’s where the Zombie Prince finally stopped and let us go.

  Julie immediately vomited.

  Trust me: being carried under someone’s arm and then bouncing along while they run for about a mile and a half will do that to you.

  I rubbed the girl’s back while she retched in the bushes. My own stomach and I weren’t exactly on speaking terms either—though, for now at least, the cold Pop Tart I’d had for breakfast seemed to be staying put.

  I’d been living this crazy life for most of a year. This was Julie’s first day. Regardless of her strength and courage, I needed to remember that.

  I also needed to call Haven.

  I went to pull Dillin’s cell phone out of my pocket—only to discover it wasn’t there anymore.

  Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me!

  I fished through my other pockets. Nothing. Zilch. I must have l
ost it while riding underarm on the Zombie Prince.

  Two phones in one day. That was a record, even for me.

  Glancing over at Dillin, I saw him looking back the way we’d come, his dead eyes wide and watchful. I craned my neck, but saw nothing behind us along the tracks, not even a train.

  “Who was that?” I asked him.

  “I told you,” he said. “His name is Parker.” I noticed he wasn’t breathing hard. Then, of course, I remembered that he was dead, and so didn’t breathe at all.

  I’m starting to forget what he is.

  “Yeah, I know,” I said. “And he’s a shavvik. But what the heck is a shavvik?”

  At first, he just shook his head. But, after a hesitation, he answered. “The nearest English translation is probably ‘special.’ He’s … well, you know how my people have a caste system?”

  “Royal. Leader. Warrior,” I said.

  “Those are the top three. But there are others. There’s a Merchant Caste, a Worker Caste and a Builder Caste. When we’re born, it’s into one of those castes, and that’s where we stay until we die. No chance of advancement. No hope of improving your lot in life. You just do what you were born to do and shut up about it.”

  “Sounds sucky,” I said.

  “It is sucky, Mr. Ritter,” Dillin replied, sounding like a principal again. “But it’s the way the Malum have lived for far longer than anyone can remember. That said, there are exceptions … individuals bred for very specific functions that are outside the normal caste system. We call these shavvik. Specials.”

  “Parker’s a Special,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “What’s his function?”

  The Zombie Prince’s eyes continued scanning our trail. I looked again, but there was still no movement.

  “Did we lose him?” I asked.

  “We can’t lose him,” Dillin said. “He’ll keep coming. And, worse, he’s not alone.”

  I remembered the two red toolboxes—the ones Parker had dropped to the ground at the sight of us.

  But, before I could ask about them, Dillin said, “Specials have a lot of different functions, depending on what’s required. Parker, in particular, is a ‘commander.’ You see, among my people, the Royal Caste is supreme. We never let anyone challenge our control. Leader Castes are bread to be ambitious, to a point. But, while we put them in charge of off-world missions—”

  “Like Kenny Booth,” I pointed out.

  He nodded. “I hated that guy.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  At that he almost smiled. “—we don’t give them armies. We don’t let them lead in battle. If we find ourselves in a situation where deception, infiltration, and deceit don’t work … our so-called art.” He said the last word almost like a curse. “When we decide we need to wage true and honest war, that’s when we produce a Special … a commander.”

  “Parker’s a commander?”

  Dillin nodded. “He’s one of two, actually. The other one’s called Cole.”

  “How do you know that?” I asked him. “Did Cavanaugh tell you about them?”

  “Certainly not! I’m just her mate, not her confidant! No, I picked it up through the grapevine. Specials are rarely used. And when two of them pop up, it’s noticed. Malum gossip, just like any other race.”

  “Why are two of them here?”

  “That’s obvious,” he said. “They’re both Specials, and both are here to lead an army.”

  “A Malum army?”

  “Yes.”

  “Against us?”

  “Yes.”

  “Earth?”

  He looked at me. “Well, no. Not the whole Earth. We aren’t ready for such a thing. No, Parker’s here to wage war against you. Well, not you, specifically. The Undertakers.”

  An icy chill rolled down my back.

  “Will?”

  The small voice made me turn. Julie stood near a row of bushes. She looked pale and tired.

  “I’m here,” I told her. “It’s okay.”

  She asked, “When do we get to see my sister?”

  “We’re on our way.” Then I faced Dillin. “Once we cross the bridge, we can follow Kelly Drive along the river all the way into Center City. That’s when we’ll split up.”

  “I need to talk to Tom Jefferson,” he reminded me.

  “I know. But my priority is to get Julie safely to Haven. Once we’re there, I’ll ask Tom about meeting with you.”

  He seemed to consider this. Then, with a nod, he regarded Falls Bridge. Traffic rumbled across it in both directions. “I can carry you over there, but it’s going to be … conspicuous.”

  “I know,” I said, partially because I agreed with him, and partially because I didn’t think my stomach could handle another underarm ride.

  The Zombie Prince said, “Maybe out best bet would be to—”

  That’s when something sliced his arm off.

  Whatever it was, it was fast! I’m talking “faster than a speeding bullet” fast. A blur of motion, nothing more. Then Dillin’s arm fell off just above the elbow and landed in the grass at the shoulder of Falls Bridge Road. Since he was a dead guy, he felt no pain. Also, his host body had evidently been embalmed, so there was no blood—just some juices that I won’t describe, which dribbled out of the stump and onto the fallen limb like gravy on a seriously messed-up pot roast.

  For a split second, he looked down at it in bewilderment.

  Then he moved.

  At that same instant, whatever had dismembered the principal sheared past my face, so close that I felt its breeze. I caught a glimpse of something small and furry—like a bat maybe, though if it was a bat, then it was Superbat.

  Behind me, Julie screamed.

  I whirled, my heart jumping up into my throat. If Superbat had done to her what it had done to Dillin—

  But the girl seemed intact, though her face had gone white with terror.

  She’d seen it too.

  I grabbed her hand. “Let’s go!” I told her sharply, though, at the moment, I didn’t have the slightest idea what that meant. Go where? Across the bridge? This thing, whatever it was, was way faster than we were. If it meant to kill us, we wouldn’t make it a dozen steps.

  Then the Zombie Prince answered my question for me.

  He leapt at an SUV that was trundling over the bridge from the opposite bank, appearing in front of it so that its driver—a guy in a suit—screeched to a halt. Then he bounded around to the driver’s side and yanked the door open. “Sorry,” he said conversationally. “I really am.”

  Before the dude could utter anything besides a curse word that didn’t go well with the suit, Dillin yanked him out of the SUV and dumped him unceremoniously onto the street at the mouth of the bridge. Then he climbed behind the wheel, slammed the door and gunned it our direction.

  I glanced around for some sign of the flying thing.

  Nothing. Just trees and the steel superstructure of the nearby bridge. Lots of hiding places, though.

  Dillin called to me. “Get in!”

  I grabbed Julie and made for the SUV, which the Zombie Prince had braked in front of us. As we had in the airport van, Julie climbed in the back while I took shotgun.

  By now, three or four cars had stopped around us, their drivers wising up to some of what was going down. Meanwhile, the owner of the SUV had managed to get to his feet. He started yelling and pointing wildly at us.

  “Buckle up,” Dillin commanded.

  We buckled up.

  As he pulled the big car in a tight turn that headed us back across the bridge, I glimpsed something flash by the side window, small and indistinct.

  We rumbled past the guy in the suit, who made a crazy grab for my door, which I hastily locked.

  Then the Zombie Prince’s dead foot mashed the accelerator and we charged forward, leaving behind the SUV’s foul-mouthed owner.

  “What is that thing?” I yelled at Di
llin.

  “A Malite,” he replied, which didn’t help me even one little bit.

  “What’s the heck’s a Malite?”

  I got my answer seconds later when, as we reached the halfway point across the bridge, whatever was chasing us slammed hard into the windshield.

  That’s when I got my first good look at it.

  It was a rat.

  But no. Calling this thing a rat is like calling a werewolf a puppy.

  It looked as if someone started with a rat—and not a cute pet-store rat, but a big city rat the size of a cocker spaniel—grafted on huge leathery wings, and added about six hundred teeth. Its head was huge and bulbous, really nothing more than a pile of fangs with eyes.

  Those eyes, black as coal, glared at us through the windshield.

  Then its teeth—those impossible teeth—bit into the glass.

  “Holy crap!” I yelled, instinctively pulling myself as far back into my seat as I could go.

  Behind me, Julie started screaming again.

  The Malite chowed down, crunching away at the thick windshield like it was peanut brittle, sending long spider lines running in every direction.

  We’ve got maybe five seconds before that thing’s in here with us.

  Then the Zombie Prince turned on the wipers. Seriously. He did.

  They didn’t help. As the first one slammed into the little creature’s flank, it hissed, grabbed it with its front claw, and ripped it off.

  But the pause had given me the time I needed.

  Pulling out my pocketknife, I hit the 2 button and slammed my Taser into the fresh hole in the glass.

  Teeth met electricity.

  Electricity won.

  The thing seemed to explode away from the SUV as if fired from a cannon. It bounced off one of the big steel struts that lined the bridge before disappearing from view—either behind us or off the bridge and into the river, I couldn’t tell which.

  “Nicely done, Mr. Ritter,” Dillin said.

  “That … Malite … was in one of Parker’s toolboxes,” I said. Not a question.

  “In a manner of speaking,” he replied. He looked shaken but calm, though his remaining hand had clamped so tightly around the wheel that I wondered how it didn’t just snap off.