Last Siege of Haven

by Ty Drago

  She eyed him from inside her withering, rotting body. An hour ago, one of her fingers had broken off—the forefinger of her left hand. She’d foolishly caught it in a drawer and it had snapped like a pretzel stick. The sight had infuriated her.

  I am the Queen of the Malum, and yet circumstances force me to wear this—

  With an effort, Cavanaugh steadied herself. Her situation would be improving soon.

  Very soon.

  “I wish someone would tell me,” she said. “What is it about Will Ritter that inspires such incompetence?”

  Cole replied, “Perhaps he is as formidable as his reputation suggests.”

  Lilith looked at him. She was surprised that he’d answered at all, though she shouldn’t have been. He was a Special, and, when a Special heard a question being posed, he answered it. It was simply how they were “wired” or “programmed” or whatever the Earth term would be.

  She glowered. “I know what our people say about the Undertakers. That Will Ritter is invulnerable. That Tom Jefferson is unbeatable.”

  “Jefferson beat you, Ma’am.”

  That sort of honesty would have cost any other Malum his life on the spot. But Cole wasn’t any other Malum. Besides, she needed him.

  “He did,” the Queen admitted.

  “Most would have called that impossible.”

  “He beat me,” Lilith told him. “But he didn’t defeat me. I still live. I still rule.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  She stepped up to her minion, bringing her face very close to his. His host was a good deal fresher than her own, only a day dead. She envied him the strength and vitality of that body.

  By this time tomorrow, I’ll have my pick of hosts. I’ll never again have to slink around wrapped in such a festering cocoon.

  “You will be facing Jefferson in battle very soon,” she told the Special. “Tell me … do you fear him?”

  “No, Ma’am,” Cole replied at once.

  “Do you fear me?”

  No hesitation. “Yes, Ma’am.”

  And the Queen believed him. Specials were incapable of lying. Another factor in their “programming.”

  Her cell phone rang.

  She answered it, careful not to press the small device too hard against her ear. The last time she’d done so, the tissues had torn and the ear had slid off her face like a stick of butter down a pane of hot glass.

  Stuart or Stanley or Whoever said, “Mistress, Greg Gardener is on the line for you.”

  “Remind me of your name,” Lilith said.

  A pause. “Stephen, Mistress.”

  Oh yes. That’s right. Stephen.

  “Call me ‘Mistress’ one more time, Stephen … and I’ll tear you limb from limb.”

  Another, longer pause. “Yes … Ma’am.”

  “Put Gardner through.”

  She waited while Stephen did as he was told. Gardner’s voice filled her ear. “Hello, Ms. Cavanaugh. How’s the Bellevue Hotel treating you?”

  Always so flippant, this one. From the night he’d first called her, almost two months ago, she’d been struck by this leader caste’s overabundance of both intellect and confidence. He’d been a servant of Lilith’s traitorous sister, a role that would normally have cost Gardner his life. But he’d been spared because of what he’d offered her.

  The location of Haven.

  And he continued to exist because of his position as a trusted member of Senator James Mitchum’s staff.

  “I’ve no patience for your usual games, Gregory,” Lilith said into the phone. “You called for a reason. What is it?”

  “I have news you may find … welcome.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Tom Jefferson has lost the Sight.”

  “Has he?” Lilith asked. “And how do you know this?”

  “Jillian Birmelin, Mitchum’s mole inside the Undertakers, apparently reported it. Jefferson and the senator have already spoken.”

  “About?”

  “Jefferson feels that, without the Sight, he can no longer command the Undertakers. So he’s asked to join Mitchum’s staff.”

  The Queen said, “This is all somewhat interesting, I admit. But I don’t see—”

  Gardner interrupted her. That, by itself, would have sealed his fate, if his next words hadn’t wiped all such thoughts from her mind. “He’s requested a personal meeting with the senator … in a public place.”

  “Where?” Lilith demanded.

  Gardner told her.

  “Can you arrange to be there?”

  “I’ve already been asked to attend, along with two others, including Hugo Ramirez.”

  “When is this happening?”

  “In about forty-five minutes.”

  “Listen to me very carefully, Gregory. I will not accept excuses for failure … not in this case. You are to attend that meeting and, when Jefferson shows himself, you are to pick an opportune moment to kill him. Let him relax. Lower his guard. Then strike. No warning. Just break his neck.”

  A pause. “I can try, Ms. Cavanaugh, of course. But this is Tom Jefferson we’re talking about. As you well know, he’s not easy to—”

  This time she cut him off. “Without the Sight, you’ll have the element of surprise. Strike quickly, before he even knows it’s coming, and you’ll succeed. Do it!”

  “I will. But—”

  She broke the connection and whirled on Cole. “In less than forty-five minutes, Tom Jefferson will attend a meeting with Senator James Mitchum in a very public place. I want you to select two of your very best warrior caste. I want you to send them there and have them kill Jefferson on sight.”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” the Special replied.

  “Afterward, I want them to kill Senator Mitchum and his entire entourage … including Gregory Gardner.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  The Queen noticed that Cole didn’t bother to ask why she wanted Gardner destroyed. But if he had, she might have said something like, “He’s displeased me,” or “He’s condescending,” or even “He irritates me.” Any of these would have been acceptable reasons from Lilith’s point of view.

  Instead, the Special asked, “What about the humans in the vicinity? How should I hide the carnage?”

  “Don’t bother,” she replied. “The rules have changed. After you dispatch the warriors to kill Jefferson and the rest, I want you to rally my attack force. I will personally address them before combat begins.”

  Cole nodded stiffly. “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “Get out,” she said.

  The Special turned on his heels and left the suite.

  For several long minutes, Lilith Cavanaugh stood in the midst of her penthouse prison, fuming.

  The entire invasion of Earth had led to this.

  Soon, she would perpetrate something upon the “good” people of Philadelphia that could only be called an atrocity. A war crime. And it was a crime of sorts, since there would be no subtlety in it, no artistry.

  The Undertakers had forced her hand.

  Now it was simply about killing.

  Someone knocked on her door. At her command, Stephen entered, looking cowed and fearful—as he should.

  “What is it?” the Queen demanded.

  “Mistress, we’ve received reports that the mayor has become … concerned … about the incidents in Fairmount Park this afternoon. In light of the human deaths, he’s begun questioning the police exercises you’ve ordered. Apparently, he’s challenging the need to remove so many officers from active duty for the purposes of urban training, especially when acting police chiefs Cole and Parker are so new to their jobs. According to our people in the mayor’s office, he’s planning to launch a special investigation into what he’s calling a ‘misappropriation’ of city resources.”

  So, that fool of a mayor is finally beginning to wonder who really runs this city!

  Lilith almost smiled.

  “Ve
ry well,” she told her assistant. “Tell our people that I will be paying the mayor a visit this evening … personally.”

  “You?” Stephen exclaimed in apparent horror. “But ‘Lilith Cavanaugh’ is dead! What will the mayor say when you walk into his office?”

  “I expect I’ll do most of the talking.” Then she approached the minion, who trembled as she neared. “On second thought, I’ll notify our people myself. You needn’t bother.”

  He opened his mouth to say something, but the only sound that emerged was a terrified moan.

  The Queen remarked, “I told you what would happen the next time you called me ‘Mistress.’”

  She tore him limb from limb, as promised.

  Chapter 24

  KITCHEN CAPERS

  The Water Works Restaurant and Lounge had been in the middle of its lunchtime rush when the crap hit the fan, if you know what I mean. Its front doors stood wide open, and the foyer looked like it had been evacuated in a big hurry. Menus lay scattered on the floor and the pedestal thing that the greeter stands behind looked like someone had cleaved it in two.

  Almost as if a really sharp sword had been brought down on it.

  To the left was the dining room entrance. To the right stood a small bar that looked as deserted as the foyer. Then I heard something coming from that direction.

  A frightened whimper.

  Frowning, my knife still in hand, I stepped inside and peeked over the bar.

  A woman in a tight black waitress uniform huddled there, sitting on the floor with her knees pulled up. When she saw me, or maybe when she saw my knife blade, she let out a little squeak of terror.

  I put it away and said, “Sorry. It’s okay. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

  She stared at me with wide brown eyes, her dark skin ashen.

  “You all right?” I asked her.

  “You’re …” Then, she swallowed, regrouped, and tried again. “You’re a kid.”

  Inwardly, I sighed.

  “What happened here?”

  “There’s a … a monster.”

  I said, “Did you see three other kids come in? A tall girl, a big strapping boy, and a smaller girl?”

  She blinked at me. “The girl with the sword?”

  “Yes! Do you know where they went?”

  The woman stammered “She came running in through the front entrance, screaming for everyone to get out. At first everybody … you know … just looked at her, like it was a joke. But she had this sword in her hands and she used it to … cut … the lectern in half!”

  Lectern, I thought. That’s what it’s called.

  She went on. “Then this … this thing … followed her through the open doors. A monster! It looked a little like a pigeon, but it had this awful mouth!” She hugged her knees tighter to her chest. “Everybody started screaming and running. I came in here and hid. I … didn’t know what else to do.”

  “Did you see where the girl with the sword went?” I asked.

  She pointed toward a door that led to a canopied porch crammed with tables and chairs. “The … flying thing … chased them out there.”

  “Thanks,” I told her. “You should leave.”

  “I’m waiting for the cops.”

  Might be a long wait. Parker will have called them off. Now that he knows we’re all here, he won’t want any humans getting in the way of his hunt.

  “Be safer if you took off,” I told her. “Seriously.”

  But she shook her head. “You should hide. You should go hide someplace else.”

  I left her where she was.

  On the canopied porch, half-eaten meals and half-drunk beverages covered the tables. Most of the seats had been pushed back or toppled over.

  Still no sign of Dave, Sharyn, or Julie.

  I found my way to the restaurant’s big kitchen. It stood empty—lots of gleaming counters, cutlery, frying pans, pots, and stainless steel cabinets. A door into the dining room stood against the side wall, and—

  Oh crap …

  There was blood on the floor; a trail of it ran to a body sprawled against a big commercial refrigerator. It was a dude in one of those mushroom-shaped chef’s hats. The side of his neck had been torn open—with such force that the guy’s lower jaw had been completely chopped off. Clearly, the Malite had taken him. Like the woman down by the river, he’d had probably just gotten in the way—a perfect example of “wrong place, wrong time.”

  A really lousy reason to be dead.

  There came a scream from somewhere behind me, high-pitched and terrified.

  I whirled around, my grip on my knife instinctively tightening.

  The girl behind the bar!

  Thirty seconds of heavy silence followed. Then a voice sounded, deep and half-choked with anger.

  “Ritter!”

  Parker.

  That girl had been waiting for the cops. And so, when he’d come in there looking for me …

  Should have thought of that.

  Had he killed her in his rage? Or just questioned her to find out where I’d gone, hurting her in the process? Either way, it was my fault.

  And now the Special was coming.

  I whirled around, scanning the kitchen for a weapon bigger and better than my puny pocketknife. Pots. Pans. Skillets. Even butcher knives and meat cleavers.

  Then my gaze raked the dead man on the floor, settling on something clutched in his right hand. I knelt down and picked it up, the man’s limp fingers falling off of it.

  It was a small, black bottle.

  Bingo.

  “Thanks, man,” I muttered. “I’m … sorry.”

  Heavy footsteps sounded from the porch behind me, sending my heart into my throat.

  I ducked behind the nearest counter.

  Moments later, Parker crashed into the kitchen, all power and fury. “Boy!”

  After very little debate, I decided against saying something back—like, “Yo!”

  The Corpse staggered around the kitchen, tearing open random cupboards and cabinets. From the way he moved, I could tell he was dragging one leg. When I’d stabbed him behind the knee, I’d cut some of the tendons, but not enough to cripple his stolen body.

  Too bad.

  “Where are you?” he demanded.

  After some more thought, I decided against yelling, “Over here, moron!”

  There came a creaking sound, followed by another voice, maybe coming from the door to the dining room. “Um … I don’t think yer supposed to be in here.”

  Parker was silent for several long seconds. Then he growled, “I’m looking for a boy. Where is he?”

  “What’s the mattah with your arm?” the voice said. Guy had a weird accent. “You huht?”

  “It’s nothing,” Parker snapped “Tell me where the boy went. Now.”

  “You’re ah cop,” the voice replied, sounding snarky. “You gotta be niceh to me!”

  What was that accent? Brooklyn?

  Double crap …

  Parker started toward the voice, dragging his wounded leg. As he did, he snarled, low and dangerous. Apparently, the dead dude was done talking.

  Screwing the cap off the bottle in my hand, I jumped to my feet. “Hey!”

  Parker turned and looked at me, astonishment showing in his slack, dead face.

  “Boy!” he growled.

  I hated it when Corpses called me “boy.”

  Then, from the dining room doorway, an enormous figure said, “Stand back, Will! I’ll take care of this guy!”

  The Burgermeister grinned and waved.

  Jack Nicholson, I thought miserably.

  “I’ll kill you both!” Parker declared. “I crush your skulls in my fist!”

  I also hated it when Corpses narrated themselves. It happened more often than you’d think and it always made them sound like villains in a bad cop show.

  Then he leaped at me, his dead body vaulting over the wide counter between us.r />
  “Watch it, Will!” Dave bellowed, coming forward fast.

  He managed to snatch the deader’s ankle just as it cleared his side of the barrier. Then, with a single great heave of his insanely thick shoulders, he swung Parker sideways, smashing his face into the business end of a commercial deli slicer.

  I heard the Corpse’s cheekbones crunch.

  But then the deader kicked the Burgermeister with his other foot and knocked the big kid off his feet, sending him crashing into a wall of ovens.

  By now, I was coming around the nearest corner, my bottle open and ready.

  Parker righted himself and faced me, his already ugly mug now a ruined mass of drooping and mangled facial features. I swear, both his eyes were on the same side of his nose.

  Dude looked like a Picasso painting.

  Google it and you’ll see what I mean.

  He opened his mouth to say something, but Dave’s blow had broken his jaw. So the only sound that escaped him was a crackle, like popping bubble wrap. No idea what made it.

  “Know what?” I told him. “I think we’ve found your ‘look’!”

  Then I threw the contents of the bottle right into his face.

  The soy sauce—yeah, soy sauce—caught Parker in his mis-positioned eyes. The thing about soy sauce: it’s salty.

  Really salty.

  The Corpse groaned and spun around, clawing at his face with his remaining hand. Again, this wasn’t pain so much as panic. What I’d just done had blinded him—temporarily.

  I ducked around him and ran to Dave, who lay sprawled beside the ovens, a trickle of blood running down from under his mop of yellow hair. “You okay?”

  He looked blearily up at me. “Ice cream,” he replied.

  “Fantastic,” I said.

  Then I did my best to help him to his feet. This wasn’t easy; the Burgermeister’s got nine inches and a hundred pounds on me. But it wasn’t the first time I’d had to get him out of a danger zone, and I’d gotten pretty good at playing his crutch.

  Parker, reacting to the sound of our voices, tried to stagger toward us, but he misjudged, bounced off the edge of a counter, lost his balance, and crashed to the floor.

  I leaned over and Tased him. I mean, really Tased him—held my pocketknife against the flesh of his thigh for half-a-minute or more, until his stolen body convulsed in a way that told me I’d trashed its nervous system.