Last Siege of Haven

by Ty Drago

  One last shot.

  Cole grinned, showing loose yellow teeth. “Fire when ready, Chief. But first, any last words?”

  “Watch out for the girl,” Tom said.

  The Corpse’s smile faded. “What girl?”

  Jillian rose up from among the fallen bodies, both human and Malum, that littered the floor. She was covered in cuts, and half her face was swollen from a blow she’d evidently taken. But her eyes were clear as she slipped past the two remaining Corpses in the hallway, turned, and ran right up the left-hand wall.

  Then using the momentum and added height, she executed a perfect back flip and landed smoothly on Cole’s shoulders.

  “This girl,” she said.

  Throwing all her weight backward, she toppled the stunned Corpse commander, pulling him down onto his back before rolling clear.

  Tom stepped up and fired.

  His last Dillinbolt hit Cole in the chest. The deader stared at it as if not quite able to believe it was there.

  Then, in Deadspeak he said, “You. Will. Die. Anyway.”

  “Everybody does,” Tom told him.

  As Jillian regained her feet and ran to Tom’s side, the Corpse commander exploded. For a few seconds, his Self floated in the air, not panicked, but oddly calm.

  Until, with a funny pop, it vanished.

  As if on cue, the rest of them charged, pouring through the door and rushing at the boy and girl like a stampede, like a tidal wave—

  —like a horde of the living dead.

  Chapter 47

  THE END

  “What do we do?” the Burgermeister asked, looking at me.

  My mind reeled.

  We’ve made it so far!

  Faces flashed through my memory. They started with my father, who’d been murdered by the Corpses. Then came Tara Monroe, who’d died so that I and a bunch of Undertaker recruits could escape. After that was Ian MacDonald, Haven’s medic, killed in a freak accident while experimenting with the Anchor Shard. And others, so many others. Too many others. Charles O’Mally. Lindsay Micha. The nameless people along the river today, whose only crime had been being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Principal Bob Dillin.

  He’d been a Corpse, and yet he’d given his life to get us to this very point.

  And we’d gone and blown it.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Will,” he pressed. “You gotta know!”

  But I didn’t. Looking down at the broken pieces of Steve’s latest brainchild, I found myself empty. Zip. Zilch. The Idea Machine was down for the count.

  Well, not entirely.

  Sometimes dying well is its own reward.

  “Dave,” I said.

  “Yeah?”

  “I need you to do something.”

  “What?” he asked, his eyes as eager as a child’s.

  But, of course, he was a child. So was I. We all were.

  “Get your pickaxe and use it to make sure Cavanaugh doesn’t get up again.” It was a legitimate concern, since the Queen’s convulsions, brought on by my Taser, seemed to have slowed.

  “Um … sure. But what good will it do?”

  I didn’t reply. I just looked at him.

  Then, as my friend turned and marched across the room to where Cavanaugh had thrown his new “hand,” I eased through the doorway and into the Rift Room. Then, I carefully began to close the submarine door behind me.

  Sorry, Dave.

  At the last second, a hand darted through the shrinking gap between door and jamb, catching the metal’s edge and holding it fast.

  “I don’t think so, Ritter,” the Queen hissed, her dead face partially visible through the narrow gap.

  Then she ripped the door all the way open and lunged at me.

  We both tumbled back into the Rift Room. She was crazily, impossibly strong—yet not as strong as she could have been. Apparently, she hadn’t completely recovered from the zap, which was the only thing keeping her from snapping my neck.

  Fingers laced around my throat. I kicked upward, but she held on fast, her face a twisted mask of fury and hatred.

  An instant later, she was off me, lifted up from behind and thrown out the open door and back into the front room. The Burgermeister lingered for a second. His gaze met mine, and I could see that he knew what I’d been planning to do.

  And he didn’t like it.

  Not one bit.

  But then he turned and charged Cavanaugh, who’d already regained her feet.

  I struggled up and went after them, readying my pocketknife.

  The Burgermeister body slammed the Queen, driving her back against the wall. But, as he tried to shove his huge forearm under her neck, she pushed him off with ridiculous strength and backhanded him to the floor.

  Then, as I lunged with my Taser, she caught my wrist and threw me across the room, where I landed beside the pickaxe—

  —and Kimball’s duffle.

  She didn’t gloat. She didn’t mock. She was past all that. All she did was come at me in slow, staggering steps, her stolen body badly damaged in the struggle. I rose to my feet, my head spinning.

  My hand reached down. I’d hoped to come up with the axe.

  Instead, I came up with the duffle.

  For some reason, The Wizard of Oz flashed through my mind.

  “Kill you …” Cavanaugh murmured, reaching for me with her cold, dead fingers. “Finally, kill you.”

  “Funny,” I replied. “I was thinking the same thing.”

  Then I threw the contents of the duffle into her face.

  The Pelligog nest exploded against her, the critters immediately latching on and boring in. Two dug out her eyes before disappearing into her skull. Another ate through one cheek. Two more wormed into her neck.

  The Queen wailed and stumbled backward, pulling at them. Though I knew she couldn’t feel pain, something that the creatures did was obviously hurting her. She spun in blind, crazy circles, bouncing off the newly constructed wall.

  Then she fell to her knees.

  As she did, I reached down again.

  And this time I came up with the axe, holding it by one of its blades.

  It was heavy. Really heavy. But I didn’t mind.

  Cavanaugh managed to pull one of the Pelligog off of her and crushed it in her fist. She tried to stand, but lost her balance and toppled over again, landing on her back in the dirt. Though her eyes were gone, she seemed to sense that I was there, because she suddenly went very still.

  “I’m the Queen of the Malum!” she croaked, her cheek flapping hideously where one of the Pelligog had chewed through it. “What are you? What are you … boy … that you can do this to me?”

  I stood over her and raised the pickaxe high.

  “Ain’t you heard?” I told her. “I’m the boogeyman.”

  Then I planted the axe in her forehead, turning her stolen brain to mush and pinning her to the floor.

  Down.

  Down but not out.

  Not unless I could pull the plug on the Anchor Shard.

  And that’s when I heard the clank.

  Loud. Metallic. Unmistakable.

  I whirled around in time to see the wheel on the submarine door spin shut.

  “Dave!” I screamed, throwing myself forward. I grabbed the wheel with frantic fingers and pulled. But it wouldn’t budge. Had he somehow locked it? I didn’t think it had a lock. Otherwise, what would’ve been the point of the chain and combo?

  He had to be holding it.

  “Dave!” I screamed again, though I wasn’t even sure if he could hear me.

  Then a muffled voice replied, “Yeah, dude.”

  “Open the door!”

  “Can’t do it. Got my stump wedged in real tight. Damn thing’s good enough for that much at least. And it frees up my other hand, so that I can just reach the battery cables.”

  “No, Dave! Don’t do it! We’l
l find another way!”

  “Ain’t no other way, dude. You know it as well as I do. You were gonna do it yourself, until the royal wormbag stopped you.”

  I considered lying, considered saying anything to get him to open the door. But the words wouldn’t pass my lips.

  So I said nothing.

  There was a long pause. Then: “Will, you there?”

  “I’m here,” I replied. “Please … open the door.”

  “Shut up and listen, will ya?”

  I swallowed. It didn’t help. My throat felt like the Sahara. My hands on the wheel were slick with sweat, and I could hear my heart hammering behind my ears.

  Dave said, “I got something to tell you. And we both know I gotta be quick. So don’t interrupt.”

  “I’m listening.” I fought to keep my voice steady.

  “Back in the old days…” He sounded like his lips were right against the door. “Before all this started … I was a bully. A jerk. I know that. I picked on kids smaller’n me and thought it made me tough. But I didn’t know what tough was … not until I met you.”

  “Burgermeister—”

  But he rolled right over me. “This skinny redheaded kid with more brains and guts than anyone I’d ever met. You taught me. You showed me what it means to be a hero. And now, finally, I get to pay you back.”

  Terrified, I beat on the door with my fists. Stupid. Useless.

  He said, “Do me a favor? Tell Sharyn I’m sorry? Tell her … aw, hell … tell her I love her too, okay? I know it’s cheesy. But, in return, I’ll tell your dad you said hi.”

  “Dave, please!” I begged, openly sobbing now.

  “You know,” he said, “there’s something from the movies, those war movies. Something they sometimes say. Always thought it was lame. But now … now, I think I get it.”

  “Burgermeister …”

  “Will?”

  I slid down the door, clutching the wheel, beaten. “Yeah. Yeah, Burgermeister?”

  “It was an honor serving with you.”

  “No…” I whispered.

  Then my friend, Dave “The Burgermeister” Burger, saved the world.

  I didn’t see the wave of released energy. The walls and the heavy door blocked it. But I saw the Queen’s host, already limp, go completely and finally still. And I saw the Pelligog that were ravaging her body die. Every last one of them. I didn’t know why or how, but closing the Rift had killed them, too.

  Lilith Cavanaugh managed a single, silent scream. Not Deadspeak exactly. But definitely telepathic. A shriek in my head that had a lot behind it.

  Terror. Disbelief. Defeat.

  And I knew that she’d been destroyed.

  The rest I didn’t find out about until later.

  The effect of the closed Rift moved outward, like ripples in a pond.

  It hit the parade grounds first. The last half-dozen of Cavanaugh’s guard force were just about to break in on Sharyn and Helene inside the SUV when all of them just dropped dead.

  The girls swapped incredulous looks.

  “They did it …” Helene whispered.

  After that, the ripples reached outward, away from Fort Mifflin and up into the city, where people of all walks of life—plumbers, teachers, doctors, taxi drivers, even a couple of priests—suddenly collapsed. Not hundreds of them. Not even thousands. Tens of thousands.

  Every Corpse.

  Everywhere.

  People, human people, screamed as the Masks of their colleagues, bosses, or friends vanished, revealing the rotting cadavers beneath. Then these stolen bodies dropped where they stood, many breaking apart, some exploding in a rattling symphony of bones.

  And in Haven, just as an army of the dead descended on Tom and Jillian, the whole of their attack force went limp and died, tumbling over one another. No man-sized lumps of dark energy. No final curses or groans.

  It.

  Was.

  Over.

  But, as I said, I didn’t find out about all that until later.

  For now, I just leaned against the submarine door, sobbing. Then, while trying to stand, I discovered that the wheel would turn. Moving as if in a trace, I spun it and pulled the door wide open.

  The Rift was gone.

  The Anchor Shard lay on the floor, a floor that looked as if it had been excavated down at least two inches. The walls were weirdly clean, though the bricks and mortar remained old and somewhat crumbly.

  All organic matter … I thought.

  Dave was gone.

  I spotted parts of a watch, his sat phone, and a few other trinkets shiny enough to catch the light bleeding in from the other room.

  But that was it.

  While I stood there, too stunned to move or speak—good old-fashioned shock, I guess—I heard tentative footsteps behind me. A hand touched my shoulder. It turned me around and I gazed down into a pair of hazel eyes.

  Helene asked no questions.

  She just put her arms around me, gently at first, and then fiercely.

  It felt good.

  “Hot Dog?” a quavering voice asked.

  I looked up to see Sharyn standing in the doorway. As she came forward, I saw that she was limping a little. A twisted ankle maybe. Vader was still in her hand. She clutched it tightly as her gaze floated around the room, taking in everything before settling on me.

  “Hot Dog?” she asked again.

  Slowly, very reluctantly, I pulled away from Helene, whose eyes had blurred with tears. Then, on legs that felt stiff as tree trunks, I went to Sharyn.

  Seeing something in my face, she said, “No.”

  I came closer.

  “No,” she repeated, her voice breaking.

  Then she fell into my arms.

  So I held her. I held her as Helene had held me.

  I held her while she grieved.

  Chapter 48

  AWAKENINGS

  Over the next few days, the truth started to come out. It does that.

  Sometimes.

  It started with the “incredible” news from Philly that not only had thousands of people dropped dead all at once, but most of them seemed to have instantly decomposed. Some folks, through blind 21st-century luck, had even managed to catch this on their smart phones.

  Pretty quickly, crazy theories popped up: terrorists, aliens, zombies, government conspiracies.

  Okay, maybe they weren’t so crazy.

  Since fully half of the police force “died” on the same night, the governor declared martial law in Philadelphia. The mayor was no help; he’d suffered some kind of mental breakdown and was blubbering to anyone who would listen about being visited by the walking dead.

  Apparently, he’d even loaned one of them his helicopter.

  Then, in the midst of all that chaos, who should step up to the microphone but Senator James Mitchum.

  He talked about alien invaders who animated the dead. He talked about how they’d disguised themselves, faked their backgrounds, and secured key positions, first at the city level, then at the state level, and then at the national level. He talked about Kenny Booth, Lilith Cavanaugh, and Lindsay Micha. He talked about Hugo Ramirez coming to him, and about the unmasking of Gregory Gardner.

  And he talked about the Undertakers.

  He talked a lot about the Undertakers.

  But all of that came much later.

  Today wasn’t over yet.

  The three of us left the East Magazine, emerging into an empty fort. There were bodies everywhere, just normal dead folks, all of whom were left behind when the Malum inside them—departed. They would need proper burials, of course. And they wouldn’t be the only ones.

  But that was somebody else’s problem.

  We checked the helicopter. In there, we found the body of the pilot. His neck was broken. Apparently, Cavanaugh had killed him the moment they’d landed, probably because he was human and she didn’t want him getting in the way. Sounded like h
er style.

  We headed back to Philly.

  Center City was alive with activity, even this late at night. People crowded the streets. Emergency vehicles were everywhere.

  A lot had happened and no one understood it.

  We reached Haven, parked in the underground garage, and went in through the western entrance. The sentry room was crammed with cooked dead bodies. Not Corpses—not anymore. Just dead people. You wouldn’t think there’d be a difference.

  But there is.

  Getting past them wasn’t easy, and it wasn’t fun. But we did it, and made our way through the darkened corridors. No one was around.

  We passed the northern entrance. Like the western one, it had been ripped open, the rooms just inside it littered with bodies.

  None of us spoke. None of us had really spoken since leaving the fort. There just didn’t seem to be anything to say. Now, in the wake of this destruction, all we could do was swap looks that mixed worry with exhaustion.

  So far, as near as we could tell, none of the bodies were kids.

  None of them were Undertakers.

  The southern entrance, the one closest to the Infirmary, was the worst.

  There had to be hundreds of now empty deaders piled into the corridor, all spilling through the ruined doorway that led into the subway spur. Getting to the doorway was impossible; there were too many bodies. But we could see through it a little bit, and what we saw chilled my blood.

  Hundreds more were out there.

  Haven had become a crypt.

  But still, no kids.

  We finally found them in and near the Infirmary.

  The sounds reached us before anything else, floating up the corridor and around the bend. Voices. Lots and lots of voices.

  We started running.

  And that’s where we came upon the Undertakers.

  They were crammed into the Infirmary and the various storerooms and bedrooms that lined the same corridor. Apparently, they’d all retreated here when the entrances were breached, and here they’d stayed, even though it was obvious to everyone that the danger had passed.

  I saw Nick Rooney, the Moms’ Boss. He was doing his thing: passing out bottled water and cookies to the kids who lined the hallway. A few were sleeping. Others were crying. Others just sat and stared into space.