by James Ponti
1. Marek Blackwell: Deceased
Occupation: Consultant, NYC Sandhogs Local 147
Aliases: Marek Bedford, Marek Fulton, Marek Linden, Marek Nostrand, Marek Driggs
Most Recent Home: Lower Manhattan near City Hall
Role within the 13: Mayor of Dead City
Last Sighting: Pushed from the top of the George Washington Bridge
2. Cornelius Blackwell: Deceased
Occupation: Laborer
Aliases: Cornelius Hayes, Cornelius Buchanan, Cornelius Fillmore
Most Recent Home: Greenwich Village
Role within the 13: Marek’s enforcer
Last Sighting: Killed by Molly in the St. Andrew’s Prep locker room
3. Jacob Blackwell: Deceased
Occupation: Jeweler
Aliases: Jacob Long, Jacob Staten, Jacob Ellis
Most Recent Home: Roosevelt Island
Role within the 13: Unknown
Last Sighting: Found dead, handcuffed on the R train in Brooklyn
Natalie sat at the typewriter and began the next entry. “Ulysses Blackwell, “she said. “What can you tell me about good old Ulysses?”
“He should be rich,” I said, looking at a logbook. “He’s always worked with money, either at banks or on Wall Street.”
4. Ulysses Blackwell: Deceased
Occupation: Banker/Finance
“Occupation: banker slash finance,” Nat said as she typed in the information. “What aliases has he used?”
I had the slips right in front of me. “Ulysses Hudson worked as a teller for the First Chemical Bank in the 1940s. Ulysses Cabot was a trader on Wall Street in the seventies. And Ulysses Drake was president of a small bank near Lincoln Center as recently as 2005.”
“Look at that: He went from bank teller to bank president, and it only took him sixty-five years,” Grayson said. “I guess if you live forever, you really can get ahead in this world.”
Aliases: Ulysses Hudson, Ulysses Cabot, Ulysses Drake
Next, she turned to Alex. “Where’s the last place we know that he lived?”
Alex was sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by stacks of files that looked totally random but somehow made sense to him. He ran his finger along one of the piles and pulled out a sheet of paper like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat.
“According to this . . . nowhere,” he said as he double-checked the paper. “The Omegas have never been able to confirm a home for him.”
Most Recent Home: Unknown
“However, we do have a picture,” Grayson said, holding up a photo. “And judging from the really ugly polyester suit he’s wearing, I’m guessing that if he is rich, then he’s not spending his money on nice clothes.”
“What’s it say on the back?” Natalie asked.
Grayson turned the photograph over and read the caption. “May 25, 1977, Ulysses Blackwell wearing an ugly suit in Columbus Circle. Okay, I added the part about the suit, but seriously?” He held it up so I could see.
“I’m with you,” I said. “I think calling it ugly is being generous.”
Natalie went back to the list. “And his role within the 13?”
“Definitely finance,” Grayson said. “He’s involved with anything concerning money.”
Role within the 13: Finance
“And last but not least, where was his most recent sighting?”
“Give me a sec, I have that,” I said, going back to my slips of paper. I shuffled through them and found what I was looking for. “According to this observation log in 2005, he was followed from his bank until he disappeared into a crowd in Columbus Circle.”
Natalie thought about this for a moment. “Interesting . . . If the picture was taken at Columbus Circle, and the last sighting was at Columbus Circle . . . maybe that’s where he lives.”
“Maybe,” Grayson said. “But there’s no way to know that from a picture and a sighting twenty-eight years apart.”
“Okay,” Natalie answered. “I was just thinking out loud.”
“Wait,” Alex said as he clapped his hands and let out a woot. “He does live in Columbus Circle.”
“Did you unearth another piece of paper in that pile of yours?” asked Nat.
“Nope,” he said with a big smile.
“But I thought you said no one’s ever been able to confirm an address?” Natalie said.
“I just confirmed it.”
Grayson and I exchanged confused looks.
“And how did you do that?” I wanted to know.
“His aliases: Hudson, Cabot, Drake,” he said. “What do those names have in common? Henry Hudson, John Cabot, and Sir Francis Drake. They’re all explorers, just like Columbus. Therefore, Ulysses lives in Columbus Circle.”
“That’s not confirmation,” Grayson said. “It’s coincidence.”
“No, I think it’s a pattern,” Alex replied. “What about Jacob Blackwell? Where did he live before he got handcuffed to his seat and died in on the subway?”
“Roosevelt Island,” said Natalie.
“And his aliases . . . ?”
“Jacob Long, Jacob Staten, and Jacob Ellis.” As she read them off, she made the connection and couldn’t help but laugh. “They’re all islands! Long Island, Staten Island, Ellis Island, Roosevelt Island.”
“Okay,” Grayson said, getting into it. “That is a pattern.”
Natalie thought about it for a moment. “So they’re all picking aliases based on where they live?”
“Sounds like it,” I said. “What are Cornelius’s phony names again?”
“Hayes, Buchanan, Fillmore,” she said, looking at the list.
It took only a second for Grayson to solve it. “Presidents. All three were presidents.”
“For that matter, all three were bad presidents,” Alex joked.
“But Cornelius lived in Greenwich Village,” said Natalie, bringing our momentum to a halt. “What do presidents have to do with Greenwich Village?”
We all considered this for a moment.
“Nothing,” Grayson said.
“And Marek’s names are all streets in Brooklyn,” I reminded them. “But since he couldn’t leave Manhattan, there’s no way he lived in Brooklyn.”
We were close. We knew the names followed a pattern. We just weren’t quite sure what the pattern meant. We all sat there for a moment trying to figure it out.
“Remind me again: Where did Marek live?” asked Grayson.
“In Lower Manhattan,” said Natalie. “Near City Hall.”
I laughed.
“What’s funny about that?”
“It’s ironic that he lived near City Hall,” I said, “considering he was called ‘The Mayor of Dead City.’ ”
That’s when Natalie made her “eureka” face. “That’s it,” she said. “That’s our mistake.”
“What’s our mistake?” I asked.
“I wasn’t aware that we’d made any mistakes,” said Alex.
“We’re trying to think of places in New York City,” she explained. “But the Unlucky 13 don’t live in New York City.”
“No,” I said, getting her point. “They live in Dead City.”
“That’s right,” she said. “And in Dead City, you’re not looking for landmarks aboveground. You’re looking for ones that are underground. You’re looking for . . .”
“. . . subway stations,” Grayson said, finishing her sentence before she could. “Columbus Circle and Roosevelt Island aren’t just parts of town; they’re also the names of subway stations.”
Alex made a noise like a game show buzzer signaling a right answer, and we all crowded around Natalie and looked at the list together.
“Okay, so Jacob lived in Greenwich Village,” Alex said. “But there is no subway station named Greenwich Village. The main one there is . . . Washington Square.”
“Washington, Hayes, Buchanan, and Fillmore,” Natalie said, listing them off. “Presidents all.”
Grayson and Alex did a celebratory chest bump.
“And what subway station is at City Hall?” I asked as I started to do a little victory dance of my own.
All four of us answered at the same time, “Brooklyn Bridge.”
“So the Brooklyn street names make sense!” I concluded as I spiked an imaginary football.
Suddenly our incredibly dull paperwork didn’t seem quite so boring anymore. We kept typing up the Whole Enchilada, and the pattern helped us fill in some blanks. There were still some holes, especially concerning Milton Blackwell, but we now had a much better picture of the Unlucky 13.
Natalie laid the two pages on the table, and we all looked them over. As always, we were trying to find patterns.
“Here’s something that doesn’t make sense to me,” Natalie said. “Why do they live so far apart from each other? You’d think they’d want to be closer so they could help each other out. But they’re spread all over Manhattan.”
“Maybe we can ask them ourselves,” Alex joked. “Now that we’ve got this part figured out, we get to go out into the field and look for them, right?”
“Yes, Alex,” she said. “Now you can stop doing paperwork and go back to doing what you love best . . . hunting zombies.”
Alex flashed a huge smile. “It’s not so much that I love it. It’s just that I’m really good at it.”
“Speaking of which,” said Grayson, “what’s our plan for finding these guys? Are we just going to stand in Columbus Circle and look for a banker in a really ugly suit?”
Now it was my turn to smile. “I think it’s time for you guys to meet my friend Liberty.”
“You mean the crazy, bald whack job who gives speeches about zombie rights at all the flatline parties?” asked Alex.
“I prefer to call him the ‘former Omega who saved my life when I was about to get attacked by a mob and knows more about the Unlucky 13 than any of us,’ but yes, I mean him,” I said.
“Well, it doesn’t matter what you call him,” Alex said. “We can’t ask him for help. We’re only allowed to discuss the Baker’s Dozen with people who are part of the project.”
“About that,” I said as I set a paper down in front of them.
“What’s this?” Natalie asked.
“It’s the observation log about Ulysses Blackwell going from the bank to Columbus Circle. Look at the signature at the bottom.”
She looked at it and smiled. “Liberty Tyree. He was part of the Baker’s Dozen.”
“Cool,” Grayson said.
Alex, however, had a concerned look. “Okay, I get that he saved you, and I believe in the whole ‘Omega today, Omega forever’ thing,” he said. “But I’m just going to say what I think, even if it sounds prejudiced. He’s a zombie, and I don’t think the undead can be trusted. For all we know, he’s a Level 2 and doesn’t have a soul or a conscience.”
“We can trust him,” I said firmly.
Alex went to say something else, but he held his tongue.
“How would we even get in touch with him?” asked Grayson.
“Just like Alex said,” I answered. “He gives speeches at every flatline party. All we have to do is crash one of them.”
“Didn’t Liberty have to save you from an angry mob because your cover was blown at a flatline party?” Alex pointed out. “I don’t think it’s safe for you to go back down there again.”
The thought of them going without me was not good. I didn’t want to miss it.
“I didn’t have you guys to help me with my makeup,” I said defensively. “With your help, I can totally blend in.”
Grayson went to say something, but Natalie held up a finger to quiet us.
“Do you all want to hear what I think?” Natalie asked in a way that reminded us that she was in charge.
“Yes,” said Grayson.
“Of course,” said Alex.
“Liberty might be able to give us some valuable information, so I think talking to him is a good idea,” she said. “We should be cautious about it, but it’s not like we’ll be revealing anything. He already knows Molly’s an Omega, and he already knows about the Baker’s Dozen.”
“What about me and the flatline party?” I asked her.
“I’m with Alex on that one, I don’t think you should go,” she said, bringing a frown to my face.
“But Liberty doesn’t know any of us, so he’ll probably only help if you’re there,” she continued. “We’ll just have to make it work.”
And there’s the smile again.
“We’ll do the makeup at my place,” she said. “My mom’s got a couple of wigs you can try.”
I went to protest, but I could tell by her expression that she didn’t want to hear it.
“A wig sounds nice,” I lied.
“Where did you go down last time?” she asked.
“J. Hood Wright Park,” I told her. “Just like we did when we went underground for my final exam.”
“You might get recognized if you go to the park again,” she offered. “We should probably try a different approach.”
“You thinking subway salsa?” Alex asked.
Natalie and Grayson both nodded their agreement.
“Subway salsa?” I asked. “Is it just me or does that sound like the worst Mexican food ever?”
“Come on,” Natalie said, ignoring my question. “We better go try on some wigs.”
Subway Salsa
Normally, you crash a flatline party by scoping out a group of zombies at a park and then following them into Dead City once they get word of the location. The advantage of this approach is that because the undead are waiting around, they’re easier to pick out and follow. But since we were worried I might get recognized at the park, we were piggybacking instead.
“Piggybacking” is when you pick up a group after they’re already on the move. To do this, you’ve got to find an underground location where you can wait around without being noticed but still be in position to move the moment you spot them. That’s what brought us to the Times Square subway station.
Not only is it centrally located, but it’s also the biggest and busiest station in the entire subway system. That means that no matter where a flatline party is being held, there’s a pretty good chance that at least some zombies will have to pass through it on their way. It’s also one of the only places in which there are stores actually inside the subway station. This let us stand around without attracting attention. Grayson and Natalie were over at the Smoothie Shack, while Alex and I pretended to browse at a Spanish music shop.
“This place is legendary,” Alex said as he flipped through the CDs made by bands I’d never heard of. “It has the best selection of Latin music anywhere.”
I looked down and noticed that Alex’s feet were moving in perfect rhythm with the music playing throughout the store.
“What’s that?” I asked, pointing at his feet.
Judging by his reaction, I think he was unaware that he’d been doing it.
“Salsa dancing,” he said sheepishly.
So that’s why they call it subway salsa, I thought.
Alex is always full of surprises, but salsa dancing had to rank pretty high on the “I never would have guessed he could do that” list.
“You know how to salsa dance?” I asked, still trying to process it.
“It’s not too difficult,” he said. “You move on the first three beats and pause on the fourth. Like this.”
He demonstrated the steps for me, and they seemed as fluid and natural as could be. It was like he was on one of those TV dance shows.
“And you know this . . . how?”
“I have three sisters, and they all take dance,” he said. “Who do you think gets to be the partner in all of their living room practice sessions?”
I laughed and realized this was just one item on the endless list of things that made Alex awesome. Of course, I was still going to give him a hard time about it. But before I could do that, Natalie and Grayson appeared at the entrance and signaled us to follow them.
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It was piggyback time.
“We’ve got six on the move,” Nat said once we caught up with them. She nodded toward a group about fifteen feet in front of us. We stayed with them but made sure not to get too close or do anything that might attract attention. All of us, that is, except for Grayson, who took a loud slurp from a bright pink smoothie.
We all stopped for a moment and looked at him.
“Seriously?” Alex asked.
“It’s Caribbean Delight,” answered Grayson with a big smile. “It has coconut, strawberry, and banana. It’s delicious.”
“It’s also distracting,” Alex said. “Get rid of it.”
“No way,” Grayson protested. “Do you know how much this cost?”
“Fine,” he replied, “then hurry up and drink it.”
“If I hurry,” Grayson said. “I’ll get brain-freeze.”
Before Alex could get too frustrated, Natalie took charge of the situation.
“Let’s just focus here,” she said. “Grayson, just drink it quietly.”
He nodded and took a silent sip as if to demonstrate that he could do just that.
“Perfect,” she said.
We followed the group as they moved through the station. It sprawls for blocks in every direction, and they covered a lot of ground before they came to a stop on the southbound platform. There, they blended in with the crowd, and we got in position so that we could board the train a few cars behind them. But when the train pulled up and everyone started to get on, we noticed that they were staying on the platform.
We stopped cold, which of course means we got bumped into a few times, and we fought against the flow of traffic to keep from getting on. There was no way we could have just stood on the platform without attracting their attention, so we tucked in behind a stairwell where they couldn’t see us. Luckily, Alex spied a large security mirror set up above the track. Their image was a little distorted by the roundness of the mirror, but we were able to watch them in total silence until . . .
Slurp.
All eyes turned to Grayson again. He swallowed a gulp of smoothie before mouthing the word sorry. Alex and Natalie shook their heads and turned their attention back to the mirror.
“Where’d they go?” Alex said. “They’re gone!”
I looked up at the mirror, and sure enough, there was no sign of them.