Last Siege of Haven

by Ty Drago

  “For what?”

  She shook her head and didn’t reply.

  “I’m looking for Helene,” I said.

  “I know,” the girl replied with a sniffle. “She told me to tell you she went on ahead, and that she’ll meet you there.”

  Did she? I wonder what for.

  “Listen,” Julie said. “Before you go … can I talk to you for a minute?”

  “Sure,” I replied, stepping into the tiny room.

  She stood up and met me, the blanket still wrapped around her thin shoulders. “It’s been so busy today … that I never got the chance to really thank you.”

  That’s what for, I thought.

  “Just doing my job,” I said. A pat answer. Almost snarky.

  “That’s what Helene said you’d say. But it’s stupid.”

  “Stupid?” I asked, smiling.

  “Yeah. Stupid. You risked your life for me. That’s more’n a job.”

  “Julie—”

  “Shut up,” she said, sounding so much like her sister that I almost laughed out loud. But then she rose up onto her toes and planted a kiss on my cheek. Not much. Almost bird-like, there and gone in an instant. Now I understood why they called them “pecks.”

  “Thank you, Will. Thank you for saving my life.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Now get out of here,” she said with a grin. “And do it again.”

  So I got out of there.

  The unmarked rusted metal door stood down a corridor that, even in these crowded times, remained little used. Tom and Sharyn were already there. So were Helene and the Burgermeister. The four people who, outside my family, were the most important to me. That seemed right somehow. Fitting.

  “Hey, Dude,” Dave said as I approached.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “You ready?” the chief asked me.

  “Yeah,” I replied.

  Helene took my hand. “You see your mom and sister?”

  “Yep.”

  “Did you see Julie?”

  I gave her a look. “Yep.”

  She grinned and kissed me on the cheek, just like her sister had. Except Helene’s kiss felt like more than just a peck. Hers made my stomach flipflop.

  It’s funny how some kisses can do that.

  I think it depends on the kisser.

  “Listen up,” Tom announced. “It’s nine o’clock, which means things’ll start happening ‘round here anytime now. I wish we could’ve sent y’all out before this, but nighttime’s as much your friend as it is our enemy’s. You’ll need the darkness to get down to Mifflin and do what you gotta do. Keep your sat phones on you.” He looked at me. “And try not to lose them.”

  Okay. Fair point.

  He said. “But don’t use ‘em any more than you gotta. Way I see it, either this’ll work or it won’t. Either we’ll be able to hold off the deaders long enough … or we won’t. Checkin’ in on each other every ten minutes won’t help nobody.”

  “We got this, bro,” Sharyn said, smiling.

  “I know you do.”

  “We’ll be back before you know it,” Dave said.

  “And then we’ll all go home,” Helene added, sounding wistful. “At last. Really go home.”

  Sharyn shrugged. “I am home. Always was. But that don’t mean I wouldn’t mind some better digs. Maybe something in the sunshine.”

  “The burbs?” Dave asked.

  “No way! I’m a city girl. Ain’t never gonna mow no lawn!” Then she laughed her musical laugh again—and took the Burgermeister’s remaining hand in hers.

  Tom said, “I could tell y’all ‘good luck,’ I s’pose. But that don’t seem quite right. Instead, let’s go with an old one.” He looked at each of us in turn before adding, “Godspeed.”

  “Godspeed,” I told him back.

  And with that, Tom opened the big metal door and ushered us through to—well—whatever came next.

  Chapter 35

  DEEP BREATH BEFORE THE PLUNGE

  Tom

  Tom swung by the Infirmary first.

  It stood empty, all its beds and gurneys made up with linens. Ready.

  Susan Ritter was talking to Amy Filewicz and, to Tom’s surprise, Julie Boettcher. The three of them huddled at the back of the room, near what Tom still thought of as “Ian’s desk.” After a few moments, Karl Ritter’s widow spotted him and waved him over.

  “Y’all set?” he asked. “Anything you need?”

  “Tons,” Susan replied. “Starting with the Anchor Shard. My guess is we’ll be using it before the night’s out.”

  “Steve’s doin’ somethin’ with it. Some new ‘idea,’ But I’ll get it to you.”

  She nodded. Then Haven’s medic treated him to what he imagined to be a “mom” look. Never having had a mom, he couldn’t be sure. “So … I’m glad to hear you still have your Eyes, Chief.”

  “Sorry,” he told her. “For whatever it’s worth, I wasn’t lying to you.”

  “Helene’s already made your case for you,” she replied. “It’s all right.”

  Tom turned to Julie: “Volunteering?”

  The little brunette, about the same age and size as blond Amy, shrugged. “I gotta do something. This seemed like a good idea.”

  Susan added, “I’m happy to have the help.”

  “Keep your phones handy,” Tom said. “When … if … we get some wounded folks, I’ll make sure to clue y’all in.”

  “Thanks, Chief,” the medic replied. Then she managed a smile. “Is Will gone?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Think we’ll see him again?”

  He had no idea how to answer that question. So he dodged it. “You got Emily all settled in?”

  Susan looked back at her daughter, who seemed to be asleep. “She’s faking it.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “A mother can always tell.”

  Tom said, “Listen, it’s your call. But you should be ready to scoop her up and bounce if things head south.”

  Susan shook her head. “I told you. I’m not leaving Haven. No matter what happens.”

  She’s tryin’ to think like a soldier. But she ain’t a soldier. Not yet.

  Maybe not ever.

  “Like I said: your call. But, if push comes to shove, having her here with you … well, that might make you change your mind.”

  “Is that why you insisted on setting up a cot for her in here?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Well,” Will’s mother remarked dryly. “At least that’s honest emotional manipulation.”

  “Honesty’s the only promise I can make,” Tom told her. Then, after a long pause, he said, “But … yeah. I do think we’ll see Will again.”

  “Why?” She sounded a little desperate.

  “’Cause we always do.”

  As he left, he pulled out his phone and called Steve, who picked up on the second ring. “Infirmary’s gonna need the Anchor Shard.”

  “I know. But I’m on to something. Gimme a little more time.”

  “You got it. But Steve … if the Corpses get in and kids start gettin’ hurt …”

  “I know, Chief. If it comes to that, I’ll take it down there myself. I promise.”

  “Good enough. You doin’ okay?”

  “Are you?” the Brain Boss asked.

  “Nope.”

  “There you go.” Then he broke the connection.

  From there, Tom went to Haven’s western entrance, which was the one closest to his own room. The usual, ancient door had already been replaced by the Monkeys, one of the chores he’d set Alex to last week, before he’d been sure. The new door was custom-built—heavy, solid wood banded with iron, with bolts that fit into the floor and ceiling. It even had what looked like a genuine gate bar leaning against the wall, waiting to be dropped into place. As Tom neared the door, it opened and Chuck appeared. He and another Undertaker—there were so
many these days, Tom found it hard to keep track—were carefully running a thin black wire through the concrete sentry room that stood beyond Haven’s exit.

  As Tom watched, the boys carefully fastened the wire to the room’s left-hand bottom edge, just where the floor met the wall.

  “All good?” Tom asked Chuck.

  “So far,” Chuck replied, straightening. “Finish it up,” he said to the boy, who ran off wordlessly, presumably to follow the order.

  “I ain’t sure I ever saw you without your sunglasses before,” Tom remarked. Chuck Binelli always wore sunglasses, even indoors. They were like his trademark—so much so that Tom found himself noticing, for the first time, that Chuck’s eyes were dark brown, like his own.

  The kid shrugged. “I’m cool enough without ‘em.”

  “Straight up. You got everything you need?”

  “Yeah. Everything’s flowing the way it should be. The trigger wire’s the last of it. We’re followin’ Steve’s map, or diagram, or whatever he calls it—”

  “Schematic,” Tom said.

  “Yeah. That. We’re followin’ it to the letter. I’ve already sent most of the kids back to the cafeteria, where they’re being armed. If the Corpses get past this point, they need to be ready to fight back.”

  The image of hundreds of deaders tearing through these crumbling hallways, killing everyone in their path, flashed through Tom’s mind. It made him feel things that he didn’t dare show.

  “How much longer before you can close that door?” he asked.

  “Ten minutes. Maybe less.” Chuck glanced back through the sentry room, at the other door, the one leading into the parking garage. “They’re out there, Chief. A ton of them. All still and quiet. I don’t know what they’re waitin’ for.”

  “Better make it five minutes,” Tom suggested.

  “Heard that,” Chuck said.

  “Did your crew get issued enough knives?”

  In answer, the boy drew a long bladed kitchen knife from his belt. Then he pulled a small plastic bag out of his pocket. Inside the bag was a clump of white goop the size of a large meatball.

  “Steve says that Will insisted on calling this a ‘Dillin Dagger,’ though I guess that doesn’t apply until the poison actually goes on the knife.”

  Tom nodded his approval. “Tell your crew to wait until the Corpses bust through before they treat their blades. Make sure they know that, at best, the stuff’ll work two, maybe three times, ‘fore it needs to be reapplied.”

  “They know, Chief,” Chuck told him. “We’re ready.”

  No, you ain’t, Tom thought. But you’re as ready as you can be.

  He left Chuck to his work, making his way to the northern entrance—where the stink was horrible.

  “Burt!” Tom called, pinching his nose shut.

  Steve Moscova’s younger brother appeared. He wore a long leather smock and what looked like welder’s gloves. His face was covered by a clear acrylic safety plate.

  “Checkin’ up on us, Chief?”

  “I’m just standin’ here … thinkin’. Corpses can smell stuff, can’t they?”

  “Sure,” the boy replied. “But … so what? It’s a sewer out there. It’s supposed to stink. I mean, why would they even wonder about it?”

  Tom hoped he was right. “How many you got?”

  Burt announced proudly, “A hundred and sixteen!”

  “That many? Last I heard you only had fifty or so.”

  “Well, fear’s a great motivator.”

  “Straight up. Need anything?”

  “Nope. We’re as ready as we can be. I’ve had close to sixty kids working down here for hours. The speakers are wired in and the door’s been welded shut. Once they make it past that, there’s this hallway, which we can close off tight on the other end. Then we can start the ‘introductions.’”

  “And the deaders?”

  “Lined up outside, going all the way back to the old printing house basement, as far as we can tell. We’re watching ‘em close. If … when they make their move, we’ll know.”

  “How many drops you figure you’ll get?”

  “Depends on how many Corpses can fit in the hallway. But I figure four, maybe five.”

  “Cool,” Tom said. Though it wasn’t. Nothing about tonight was going to be “cool.”

  “We got this, Chief,” Burt told him.

  “I know you do. Just pull those kids back in as soon as you can, and arm them.”

  “Just in case?” the boy asked. He looked at Tom with about a hundred things in his eyes—too many to name, though clearly courage topped the list.

  And for the millionth time, Tom wondered how he could have gotten so lucky with so many of the kids under his command.

  “Just in case, man,” he replied.

  Finally, he made his way to the southern entrance. Except for the old exit he’d ushered Sharyn and her crew through a few minutes ago, this way in and out of Haven was the least used. Kind of ironic, since it was also their first way in, back when Tom had scouted out this place out as a Plan B in case the original Haven needed to be abandoned.

  Which, of course, it had.

  The southern entrance consisted of an old service door that opened into a long-abandoned spur line of the Broad Street Subway. A “spur” meant a second, usually smaller subway line that got split from the main tunnel. Apparently, this spur had been started and then abandoned by the city maybe sixty or seventy years ago, for reasons unknown.

  Tom had first found it while exploring down here, back in the war’s early days. Then, six months ago, when they’d moved here from Haven’s former site, all their equipment had been brought in this way.

  There was space in the spur, a lot of it. Beyond the service door was a huge tunnel, large enough to admit—well—a subway train. It was about fifty feet wide, thirty feet high, and maybe a hundred feet long, with the broad mouth at its end having been long ago barricaded off, first by the city with wooden planks, and then later fortified by the Undertakers with corrugated metal and iron bars.

  Katie and Jillian had been busy down here.

  “Tom!”

  Jillian approached. The girl held a shovel. She looked filthy, layered with mud.

  “How’s it going?” he asked.

  “We’re ready,” she said. “Katie’s pulling the kids back now. Though she’s wondering if you’re sure … you know, about Ramirez.”

  “I’m sure,” Tom said. “He’ll come through when the time in right. He’s makin’ amends.”

  She nodded. “Me, too.” Then, after a pause, she remarked, “All any of this is gonna do is slow them down.”

  “I know.”

  “I mean … they’re cute tricks and all, but …” her words trailed off.

  Tom knew what she’d meant to say. Tricks. Traps. Clever snares. In the end, they would only delay the inevitable.

  Everything was riding on Sharyn, Dave, Helene.

  And Will.

  “Nice job,” he told her.

  “Um … Tom?”

  “Yeah, Jill?”

  “Thanks.”

  He looked at her. “For what?”

  “For not telling everyone this is my fault.”

  He nodded, though the truth was he hadn’t done that for her. He’d done it for the others. Nothing killed morale quicker than knowing you’d been betrayed from within. And right now, they needed morale.

  “It’s okay,” he said.

  “No, it’s not,” she replied. “I’m not sure it ever will be. Kids are gonna die tonight, and I’ll have to live with that for the rest of my life.”

  She was looking at him with earnest, almost desperate eyes, hoping for just the barest glimmer of—what? Forgiveness? Tom had barely had time today to explore what he felt where she was concerned. How could she expect him to shrug it off so soon? It wasn’t fair.

  Except, how you gonna feel tomorrow … if she’s dead?

&
nbsp; He put his hands on her shoulders. “Listen up. You didn’t do this. You trusted the wrong guy and he did this. Now, I ain’t sayin’ you played it right. I ain’t never gonna say that. But I do get why you did what you did. Tomorrow, when all this is done, you and I are gonna have a long talk. A real talk. But, ‘til then, I want you to do something for me.”

  “Anything,” she said, tears in her eyes.

  “Stay alive.”

  A voice yelled, “Chief!”

  They both turned toward the spur, where kids, dozens of them, were already running toward the service door and the relative safety of Haven. Katie ushered them along before hurrying over to where Tom and Jillian stood.

  “Something’s happening beyond the barricade,” she announced, a little breathlessly. “We could hear ‘em over there, making noise. Getting restless. It’s gonna start, Chief. Any minute now.”

  Showtime, Tom thought.

  Chapter 36

  THE YUCK FACTOR

  The maintenance door led us up a flight of unused stairs to a forgotten records room in City Hall’s huge basement. Then another door took us into City Hall itself. It was nearing nine o’clock and the place was pretty deserted, so slipping out onto the street on the south side of the insanely big building wasn’t hard.

  Not many cops around. The Corpses in uniform were mostly below us, waiting for the order to storm Haven. And their human counterparts were elsewhere in the city, probably trying to pick up the slack.

  Sharyn said, “The parking garage is crammed with deaders. But my bro thought ahead, like he does, and kept one of our vans out on the streets. It’s in a public lot off Broad, about two blocks down. Close as we could get. Let’s hoof it.”

  We hoofed it, crossing Market Street and then Chestnut. Around us, the nighttime city was alive: cars, buses, and even few brave folks on bikes jockeyed their way either north or south along Philly’s widest boulevard. Broad Street, get it? On the curbside stood restaurants and theaters, most of them lit up and crowded, even though this wasn’t a weekend.

  There were lots of people around.

  It was a warm night, so we were all in short sleeves, except the Burgermeister, who had to wear a long jacket with one of its sleeves hanging loose. He held his right arm pressed tight against his chest as he walked, not wanting anybody seeing his—um—new “hand.” He could have removed the pickaxe, of course, maybe carried it in his backpack, but we hadn’t wanted to risk it damaging the MacDonald, which seemed pretty fragile.