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Secret of the Corpse Eater

Page 3

by Ty Drago


  “Looks easy,” Helene remarked.

  “It does?”

  “Sure. I’ve been running up walls like that since I was ten. Just never knew it had a name before! Let’s do it!”

  Helene went first and nailed it. She wasn’t as smooth as Jillian, but she got there without breaking her neck. Then both girls looked at me.

  Great.

  I put everything I had into it, and got farther than I thought I would. As my sneaker hit the wall, I leaned into it a little and was surprised to find that I could run partway up. But then my foot slipped and I’d have dropped like a rock if the girls hadn’t caught my arms.

  “See?” Jillian said as they yanked me up onto the higher roof. “Easy.”

  “Easy,” Helene echoed. “Was that a Tic Tac?”

  “No. That was a Wall Pass. Tic Tac’s pretty advanced.” She looked at Helene. “You’re a natural.” Then she turned to me. “You’re not.”

  “Thanks,” Helene replied.

  “Thanks,” I replied.

  Jillian said, “From here, the roof across the street is lower, so gravity becomes our friend. Just do what I do and we’ll get there, okay? But…”

  I looked at her. “But?”

  “Well…what’s the point? We’d just be trading one rooftop for another!”

  “Except that rooftop borders 5th Street.”

  Helene blinked. “So what?”

  A loud bang made the three of us jump. About twenty feet away on this higher roof stood a kind of wooden shack with a heavy door built into it—a door that had just crashed open.

  Two Corpses emerged.

  Jillian gasped.

  Their eyes locked on us like laser beams. They were a pair of Type Twos, reasonably fresh and very strong. I wondered why there were only two of them, but then figured that the hoard, however it was organized, had sent a couple of hunters into every building on the block, looking for roof access.

  And these wormbags had just hit the jackpot.

  Showing their rotting teeth, they charged.

  “Will!” Helene exclaimed. “I’m not armed!”

  I held up my pocketknife. “I am. Let’s show Spider-Girl what we are good at. Number 16!”

  “Got it!”

  As we both ran forward, I hit the 2 and 3 buttons on my pocketknife together. This was a new trick I’d learned. It popped the Taser out of one end and a five-inch, razor-sharp knife blade out of the other.

  Where’d I get this thing, you ask? Again, that’s another story.

  Being so armed wasn’t as good as having a super-soaker loaded with saltwater, which messed with the way deaders controlled their stolen bodies—or, better yet, or a crossbow fitted with Corpse-slaying Ritterbolts, but it would have to do.

  As the deaders attacked, I noticed that both of them did so with half a milky eye pointed behind us, at Blue Blazer Girl. After all, it wasn’t Helene or me they wanted. For reasons I didn’t yet understand, Jillian Birmelin seemed to be the guest of honor at this ridiculously well-attended murder party.

  But, their distraction was an advantage.

  The one on the left swung at Helene, who arrived at the fight just a step ahead of me. The sweep of the deader’s arm hid a lot of power behind it. But Helene ducked at the last instant, letting his own force whip him halfway around. Rule number one of fighting Corpses: never let them hit you. They’re strong and they don’t care much about the body they’re in, so they don’t hold back. A hard hit can knock you cold. A really hard hit can kill you.

  Best to not be there when the blow lands.

  Coming in right behind her, I took advantage of Dead Guy One’s unguarded flank to tap him with my Taser. He stiffened and crashed to the rooftop. At this point, I could have stayed with him. If I kept my Taser pressed against him for fifteen or twenty seconds, it would trash his host body’s nervous system, rendering it useless. But in this instance, I held back.

  Number 16.

  Just in front of me, Dead Guy Two stepped into Helene’s path and lunged for her, his black-tongued, maggot-riddled mouth opened wide. This one meant to bite. They do that sometimes, another weird trait they have in common with their movie cousins. Steve Moscova, the Undertakers’ science expert, thinks that hands and teeth are the way they fight in their home environment, wherever that is. It might explain why they never use weapons, like guns or knives, even if they’re available.

  Fortunately, Helene saw the attack coming a mile off and dipped backward—Matrix style—a sweet move that used their competing momentum to carry her under the deader’s grasping arms. Once behind him, she pivoted and slammed the blade of her foot behind his knee, making it buckle. Then, as he fell backward, I came up alongside him and brought my blade up from underneath, nailing him in the “sweet spot” at the base of the skull where the brain stem meets the spinal cord.

  His limp body hit the rooftop like a sack of wet rags.

  In case you haven’t figured it out, a Number 16 involves an unarmed Undertaker distracting the attackers just long enough for an armed Undertaker to deliver the “kill” shots. Not that these guys were permanently dead. The Corpse I’d Tasered would soon recover, though the one I’d knifed would need a new host body.

  Still, it was one for the “win” column.

  “Nice work,” I said.

  “You, too,” she said.

  We ran back to Jillian, who’d gone right to the edge of the roof and was peering down at the deaders filling Leithgow. Every eye was turned upward. All were baring their teeth. Many—too many—were smiling.

  “Time to do whatever it is we’re gonna do!” Helene exclaimed.

  Jillian nodded. “Okay. This is a little tricky and we’re only going to get one shot, so you need to pay attention. See that flower box down there?” She pointed to a brick outcropping beneath a third-floor window partway down the wall, maybe six feet below us. “You’re going to launch off the roof at a sharp angle using your left foot and hit that outcropping with your right. The second you do—and I mean the second—you shift your body weight and leap for that window ledge across the street, the one that’s sticking out toward us. It’s about twelve feet out and maybe ten down. Long, but doable. You’ll want to catch the ledge with your hands and tuck in your feet to absorb the impact. That’s called a Cat Grab. Once there, use your legs to push yourself high enough to grab the edge of the far roof.” Then she looked at us. “You both got that?”

  “We’d better,” Helene muttered.

  I said nothing. No way was I going to pull this off!

  “Watch me!” Jillian yelled.

  She jumped. Her right foot hit the brick flower box perfectly. An instant later, her body seeming to float above Leithgow, with a hundred pairs of dead eyes wordlessly following her. At the last second, she lifted her feet and caught the window, her fingers clutching its sill. Then with a final heave, she sprung upward, snatched the rim of the roof, and pulled herself onto it.

  Flight time: Maybe three seconds.

  “Can you do this?” Helene asked me.

  “We’ll find out,” I said. “Go!”

  She launched herself—and missed. Oh, she hit the flower box okay, and cleared the alley. But her feet slipped on the opposite window ledge and she almost fell, dangling by the strength of one hand. As I watched, terrified, the deaders below her jumped and snapped like crocodiles. Then Helene’s sneakered feet found purchase on the brick wall and she was somehow able to pull herself the rest of the way up.

  Jeez. If that’s how she did … I’m screwed!

  Five more Corpses exploded through the broken doorway at my back. They ignored their fallen buds and came for me—fast.

  I jumped.

  The flower box rushed up to meet me, way faster than I would have imagined. Still my foot landed on it more or less correctly. Then, gulping, and I shifted my weight and pushed off with everything I had.

  Now, I’d done a lot of scary things since becoming an Undertaker. But nothing came close to that second
leap. The whole world seemed to open up around me. I saw the faces of the hoard beneath my feet, smelled the stench of their decaying bodies, and heard their moans behind the rush of the wind past my ears.

  Then I hit the window.

  I mean, I hit the window.

  And smashed right through it.

  Stabs of pain sliced up my forearms, which I’d thrown up in front of my face at the last moment. Then I hit carpet, rolled, and slammed into a heavy dresser. For a split second, I was sure I was dead, minced by broken glass.

  But I wasn’t. With a gasp, I climbed to my feet and looked around.

  An old woman sat in an armchair, watching television. She looked at me in shock, her mouth open to speak, maybe to scream.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Um…roof?”

  She gaped at me. Then she replied, “Hallway.”

  I stumbled out of there, limping but mobile. Blood ran down my arms, and I could feel more cuts on my stomach and legs where shards of window glass had pierced my clothing. But, right now, none of that mattered.

  In the narrow hallway I found only one other door. It was locked and, while my knife was in my pocket, I had no time to use it. So I kicked the door in. That’s not as easy as it sounds, but I managed it.

  Inside was a staircase, which headed up.

  I took the steps two at the time, fumbled the top door open, and staggered out onto the rooftop. “Helene!”

  “Will!”

  The two girls stood peering over the roof’s edge, maybe a dozen feet away. At the sound of my voice, they both whirled around in obvious astonishment.

  “You okay?” Jillian asked, sounding shaken.

  “He’s always okay,” Helene told her, though she looked worriedly at my bloodied body.

  “Kid,” Jillian said, “you’re living proof that luck’s better’n skill.”

  “I get that a lot,” I replied.

  Across Leithgow Street, more than twenty Corpses now glared at us from the opposite rooftop. A couple tried to jump the gap. Corpses are good jumpers, but not that good. They dropped like stones. Unfortunately, a glance over the edge showed me that the hoard below—those not flattened by falling peeps—had decided to pull out all the stops. Deaders tended to be cautious by nature. This whole flash mob thing was totally new for them, so I guess they’d been reluctant to show their whole hand, at least within view of an already confused and curious public.

  But our leap had convinced them otherwise.

  They started clawing at the wall of our current building.

  Climbing.

  They didn’t move like Jillian, of course. No fancy acrobats for these dudes. Instead they just tore their way up, digging dead fingers into the mortar between bricks, breaking windows and tearing off wooden frames as they came.

  “They want you bad,” I said to Jillian.

  “I know,” she replied with an edge of despair.

  Time to go.

  “The southwest corner!” I exclaimed. “Now!”

  We sprinted across the roof, vaulted over an alleyway between two buildings, climbed from a lower roof to a higher one, and then dropped down onto a lower one again. Jillian moved with perfect grace. She always knew where to put her feet and, while Helene seemed able to follow her steps, I had to struggle to keep up.

  Behind us, the dead streamed onto the rooftop, a hideous wave of cadavers half a hundred strong and growing.

  Jillian reached the southwest corner first—big surprise—and gasped in fresh horror. As Helene and I joined her, I saw that we were only one story up, atop South Street’s famous Johnny Rockets burger place, low enough to maybe reach the ground with a little creative thinking.

  Except for the dead.

  They choked the sidewalk and, hearing Jillian’s gasp, turned their grotesque faces upward. Some attacked the wall, trying to claw their way up to reach us. Others flooded into the restaurant, looking for roof access.

  Meanwhile, the mass of Corpses at our backs advanced like a tidal wave.

  “We can’t get down…” Jillian whispered.

  Helene looked at me pleadingly. She was counting on me to have a way out of this. She was counting on me to save the day.

  And I was counting on Harvey.

  I just hoped I remembered the route map right.

  “There’s our ride!” I exclaimed, pointing at the long, touring car that was making the turn from South Street onto 5th. It was a roofless stretch Cadillac, obviously custom made, with a place for the driver and seats for a dozen passengers. Despite everything, I couldn’t help but wonder how well Harvey’s new tourist attraction was doing profits wise; his “Open-Air” city tour car was only half full.

  But at least he was punctual.

  “You’re right,” Helene said. “That is a bad idea.” But she was smiling.

  Neither she nor Jillian waited to be told what to do. The open car swung around and slid past the front of Johnny Rockets, its occupants staring with uneasy curiosity at the mob of, to them, normal-looking folks who seemed to be trying to tear down the restaurant. As they did, the driver slowed—just enough.

  With a hundred Corpses converging on us, Jillian jumped. Then Helene jumped.

  Then I jumped.

  And that’s how I broke my leg.

  The creature thought it had three heads. After all, three different Selves worked independently within its tortured psyche, and each separate identity had its separate personality, separate goals, separate fears. Given all that chaos, what was it supposed to think?

  Simple math. Three identities equaled three heads.

  And right now, the First was in command

  Keeping out of sight, clinging by four of its many claws to the huge, passive face of George Washington, it gazed down at the circular room far below. The creature knew this huge room quite well—at least, its second head did.

  The Rotunda.

  During the day, there were dozens of people down there: men, women, and children from distant places who gawked at the statues and artwork. Many gazed up at the huge mural, which occupied the very pinnacle of the room’s ornate dome.

  At such times, however, the creature hid. It knew how important it was not to be seen—at least, not by humans.

  Humans are not the enemy.

  That was the Second talking. Its second head always defended the humans, perhaps because it had once, itself, been human. Whatever the reason, the First was glad its second head was asleep.

  Because now it was night, and night was for hunting. Prey approached, the scent of it strong and sweet, and the priority tasks of feeding and—of course—revenge, had taken hold. It was killing time. The Second didn’t like killing.

  Then, of course, there was the Third.

  The third head was always awake, always alert. But, unlike the other two, it was not part of the creature, at least not physically. It was—elsewhere. Disconnected. Lost. The creature yearned to find its third head. Doing so, in fact, was its highest priority. More important than feeding. More important even than revenge.

  But, while the creature could sense its Third, could feel it, it didn’t know where the missing head was. So, for now, it had to content itself with listening to the third head, hearing it clearly, despite the distance between them.

  “Hello, sister,” the Third was saying.

  “That is not how I’m to be addressed.” This was spoken by someone else, someone that the First thought of as the Stranger. Not part of creature at all, but a completely different person—and a menacing one at that. The two speakers, the Third and the Stranger, were talking, but they weren’t together. As it listened to them, the First didn’t understand how it knew that, but it did.

  The two speakers were in the Szash.

  “I’m sorry, Mistress,” the Third said, though it—she—didn’t sound sorry at all. “It’s sometimes hard to forget that we were once hatchlings together.”

  “Try harder. I can’t be forever reminding you of your place, Lindsay.”

  The
third head sneered. “I’m to be addressed as Senator Micha…Mistress.”

  “I’ll address you however I please. The only reason you hold that absurd human title is because I gave it to you.”

  “But it’s mine now, and it suits me. Imagine: the hairless monkeys occupying this world believe they understand the art of politics. But we know differently, don’t we? They’re all so easy to manipulate.”

  “Lindsay…”

  “I’ve obeyed you…stayed away from media cameras. But I haven’t been idle. I’ve made connections, whispered the right words into the right human ears. When necessary, I’ve…dealt with…any potential rivals. I’m ready now.”

  “Ready for what, exactly?”

  “To ascend, sister! To succeed where you have failed.”

  “Such lofty ambitions. But difficult to realize…when you can’t even risk appearing before human cameras.”

  “True. Which is why I’ve decided to forego that unnecessary restriction.”

  “You’ve decided? You?”

  “This is my operation now.”

  “You’re my minion, Lindsay!”

  The Third laughed. “I think not. Perhaps I was…perhaps…when you first brought me across the Rift. But now I follow my own path. I no longer recognize your sovereignty. After all, you’re nothing but a lowly civil servant in Philadelphia, while I —”

  “Are what you’ve always been! An impertinent sibling with more conceit than intellect!”

  “I’ve no time for your insults. Tell me, sister…have you found the Birmelin girl?”

  A pause. “She arrived at 30th Street Station this morning, but eluded us. Later, a large contingent of our people attempted to trap her when she appeared…as expected…on South Street, the site of her former home. Unfortunately, she managed to escape again.” Another pause. “We believe she’s in the company of the Undertakers now.”

  “So you’ve failed.”

  “Lindsay…I’m warning you.”

  “Once again, you let that pack of whelps get the better of you.”

  “Enough!”

  “You’re quite right. It is enough. Unlike you, I refuse to let fear of this ‘child army’ decide my actions. I will appear before cameras at the end of the month to announce my intentions.”

 

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