Dead City

by James Ponti

  He closed his eyes for a second and let out a sigh of relief now that he’d found us safe and sound.

  At my dad’s insistence, he sat down and joined us for the rest of the meal. It reminded me of the lunch at Carmine’s that Dr. H, Natalie, and I had after my adventure into the Blackwell crypt at the cemetery.

  “By the way,” he said, turning to me. “I was having trouble finding one of my books down at the morgue and wondered if it might have ended up with you by some chance.”

  I shot a quick look at the others. “I think I know the book you mean,” I answered. “It’s in my room.”

  He let out another sigh of relief, and it occurred to me that Dr. H might not be just any Omega. Maybe he was the Prime Omega, which would explain why he had the Book of Secrets.

  After dinner I gave Dr. Hidalgo the copy of Little Women, and he clutched it tightly.

  “Natalie and you really saved the day,” he said with a mix of pride and appreciation. “You can’t imagine how bad it would have been if they’d gotten this. But there’s something more that I need from all four of you.”

  “Anything,” I answered.

  “Whatever you know, or think you know, or imagine you know about this book,” he said, holding it up, “you need to forget. Completely.”

  I nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “You can’t just say it,” he responded with total seriousness. “You have to mean it. This is for everyone’s safety, especially yours. You have to promise me.”

  “I promise.”

  And when I said it, I really did mean it. But when I went back to my room, I found something that I could not forget.

  Earlier, when I’d been in the shower and Natalie was looking for the book, she had dumped everything out of my backpack. Once dinner was over and everyone had gone home, I started sorting through the papers and putting them back where they belonged.

  That’s when I found the envelope.

  My guess is that it must have fallen out of the Book of Secrets somewhere between the morgue and our apartment. I instantly recognized my mother’s handwriting on the front, where she’d written: 92, 7, 71, 6, 19, 39 Al.

  Using the periodic table code it spelled out “Unlucky 13.” I know a lot of people think thirteen is an unlucky number. My mother wasn’t one of them.

  I could feel photographs inside the envelope. Since I couldn’t be a hundred percent sure that the pictures were related to the Book of Secrets, I wouldn’t technically be breaking my promise to Dr. H if I looked.

  There were eight pictures in all. Each one had a number and a date written on the back. According to the dates, they had been taken over a period of nearly twenty years.

  I didn’t recognize anyone until photo number four. It was none other than Cornelius Blackwell, fat and happy, with his fingers and hand still attached. Two pictures later I came across Big Red. But the real surprise was the last picture.

  It was a photograph of a man getting into a cab. And even though it was taken from across the street and he was looking to the side, I recognized him instantly.

  It was the man who had stolen my mom’s purse and chased us up to the top of that building where we got locked on the roof for the night.

  I had always assumed he was just some crazy person and it was a random robbery. Now I wasn’t so sure. Why did my mother have a picture of him? And why would she keep it in the Book of Secrets? What if he was like Cornelius and Big Red? What if he was a zombie too?

  That would explain why she tried to escape him by running up toward the roof. And if he was a zombie, maybe it wasn’t random. Maybe he was targeting her.

  He certainly didn’t look crazy in this picture. He wore a suit and carried a briefcase.

  Despite my promise to Dr. H, there would be no way for me to forget this. More important, there would be no way for me not to search for the answers to my questions.

  And since I couldn’t ask my mom or the other Omegas, there was only one way.

  I would have to go back to Dead City.

  Alone.

  Party Crasher

  Over the next few days, I debated whether or not I could really go through with my plan. The idea was to go down into Dead City, crash a flatline party, and show the picture around to see if anyone recognized the creepy guy who had tormented my mother and me.

  It sounded simple enough, but it had some major design flaws.

  First of all, I wasn’t just breaking one of the rules. I was breaking the biggest rule of all. Omegas are only allowed to go into Dead City in groups of three or more. There are no exceptions. But I couldn’t ask the others to come with me. We had specifically been instructed to ignore everything about the Book of Secrets. Asking them would mean putting them in the unfair position of having to choose between helping me and following the rules.

  And since I couldn’t ask anyone, I couldn’t tell anyone either. When an Omega Team goes underground, they’re supposed to notify the Prime-O. Not quite sure how I could have worded that one.

  Dear Prime-O,

  I’m doing something I’m not allowed to do and investigating something I’m not supposed to know about. Just thought you should know.

  Love,

  Molly

  Needless to say, I didn’t send a note. This meant that if something happened to me while I was down there, no one would know where to look. I wouldn’t even be able to call or text for help because there’s no cell service that far underground.

  I was an army of one.

  That Saturday afternoon my dad was working and my sister was off doing whatever it is that popular kids do on weekends. This gave me the perfect opportunity to go into her room and raid her makeup drawer.

  I didn’t have three people to help me look like a walking corpse as I did at my first flatline party. So I started digging around and experimenting with Beth’s extensive cosmetics collection all on my own.

  Let’s just say there was a learning curve.

  I put on some powder that I thought would make me look pale, but mostly it just made me look like a pancake. And then, when I tried to use a mascara brush, I almost poked my eye out . . . twice.

  Finally, as if things weren’t going badly enough, I was staring at a tube of something called stick foundation, trying to figure out what the heck it was, when the door opened behind me.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  I looked up at the mirror and saw the reflection of my sister looming in the doorway. She had the same expression she uses when she catches me trying to borrow her clothes.

  “I’m putting on makeup,” I offered lamely as I turned to face her.

  I was ready for her to explode at me for being in her room and touching her stuff. But that’s not what happened. Instead, she just kind of smiled and said, “Well, you’re doing it . . . wrong. Very, very wrong.”

  She disappeared into the hallway, and I stood there frozen, unsure what I should do. I wondered if maybe she was looking for a camera so she could document the evidence of my invasion to show our father later. Instead, I heard her turn on a faucet for a moment.

  When she came back into the room, she was carrying a damp washcloth.

  “You going to hit me with that?” I asked, both confused and a little worried.

  “Yes, because I’m that big a monster,” she said, shaking her head. “Just clean off your face so we can start over.”

  She handed me the washcloth, and I began wiping off all the powder and mascara.

  “You should have asked me,” she said, motioning to her makeup drawer.

  “I know,” I answered. “I shouldn’t have gone into your room without your permission.”

  “Well, that too,” she said. “But I mean you should have asked me to help you with the makeup. I may be useless when it comes to molecular biology homework, but makeup is kind of in my wheelhouse.”

  It finally dawned on me that she really wasn’t mad.

  “You mean you’ll show me how to do it?”

  �
�Just like Mom showed me.”

  Over the next thirty minutes, Beth tutored me in the fine art of makeup for beginners. Granted, these were not the kind of lessons you need when you’re trying to look like a corpse, but I didn’t care. She had never talked to me this way, and it felt great.

  “First of all,” she told me, “you don’t want to use too much. You’re too young and pretty for that. Just a little accent here and there.”

  I turned and looked at her, totally dumbfounded. “You think I’m pretty?”

  “It doesn’t change the fact that you’re a total freak who steals my clothes,” she said. “But yes. And when you fully grow into your looks . . . watch out.”

  I was stunned.

  She took out the stick foundation and drew a little line on each of my cheeks. “Rub this in until it’s all smooth and the color blends. It will give your skin a slight glow and will hold the rest of the makeup in place.”

  “Foundation,” I said, finally getting it. “Like how the foundation of a building holds its superstructure in place.”

  “Yeah,” she said with a tilt of her head. “But let’s not turn this into an engineering discussion.”

  “Got it.”

  I rubbed it in, and she watched closely to make sure I was doing it right.

  “That’s good,” she said, nodding. “Now for a little eye shadow.”

  She flipped open a tray that looked like a watercolor kit and then dabbed a brush into a light brown shade. “Now close one eye and gently brush this on the lid.”

  “Like this?” I asked as I tried it.

  “Gentle. You don’t want to rub it in,” she instructed. “Now try the other eye.”

  She watched me for a moment and then totally caught me off guard when she said, “I used to be so jealous of those eyes.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Are you kidding? Look at them.” She pointed to my reflection in the mirror. “Not only do they look amazing, but they were just one more thing you had in common with Mom. One more thing that made you Mini-Mom. It wasn’t enough you were a little brainiac like her. You had to have her eyes, too.”

  I was quiet for a moment. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I got over it a long time ago. Now I like them. I see them, and they remind me of her.”

  She handed me another brush.

  “Put that in the outer corner of each eye,”

  I started applying it on my left eye.

  “Now you’re getting it,” she said as she nodded. “That’s real good.”

  “I know a secret about you,” I said cryptically as I began applying shadow to the other eye.

  “Because you’ve been digging around in my room?”

  “No,” I answered. “Because I know what I know.”

  She looked at me, waiting to hear what it was. I made her sweat it out.

  “Okay, so what’s the secret?” she asked.

  I stopped again and looked at her. “You’re a brainiac too.”

  She almost looked like she was going to smile, but she swallowed it. I went back to brushing on the eye shadow.

  “You try to hide it from everybody, especially the Salinger sisters, but I know what kind of grades you make. And I’ve read some of your English papers. They’re amazing. You are such a good writer.”

  I put down the brush to signal that I was done.

  “So I’m smart and you’re pretty,” she said as she checked to see how it looked.

  I cracked a sly smile. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

  “Deal,” she said with a laugh. “By the way, it looks good.”

  I don’t know if it was the makeup or just the confidence boost from what she said, but I liked the way I looked too. Unfortunately, I was supposed to look like a corpse. Still, it was a nice feeling.

  I left the house and headed straight for J. Hood Wright Park. Like the last time, I was looking for some zombies who I could follow to a flatline party. This time the zombies found me first.

  They were three girls in their early twenties, and with the exception of a few clues—such as the color of their teeth and the fact that two of them were wearing gloves to hide their skin—they looked totally normal. I wasn’t even sure they were undead until one of them spoke up.

  “I remember you,” she said.

  I was worried, but she was smiling, so I just went with the flow. “You do?”

  “From the party about a month ago,” she said. “You were the only one who agreed with Liberty.”

  I had no idea what she was talking about.

  “Who’s Liberty?”

  “The crazy bald guy with the big scar,” she said. “He goes to every flatline party and argues for equal rights for the undead. He was desperate, and you helped him out.”

  She laughed, and I wasn’t sure how to react. Was she teasing me? Maybe she thought I was crazy too.

  “It was cool,” she added.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah,” she said with a nod. “You want to go down with us?”

  “Sure. That would be great.”

  I walked over and joined them. One of the other girls looked at me and smiled.

  “Your makeup looks great,” she said. “I’d never guess you were undead.”

  “I could never do it alone,” I answered honestly. “My sister helped. She’s amazing.”

  The third girl chimed in. “Well, maybe you can get her to help me, because my skin’s beginning to look like those old paintings in museums.”

  “Haven’t you tried Betty’s Beauty Balms?” I joked, referring to the lame zombie makeup at the last party. They all laughed, and just like that, I was accepted—more than I ever had been by the girls in school.

  I was tempted to flash the picture right there. If one of them recognized him, I wouldn’t even have to go into Dead City. But I was worried that it might seem suspicious and give me away. So I just did my best to keep up with the conversation. About ten minutes later, a man came up to us and told us the location of the party.

  “Abandoned steam tunnel underneath City College,” he said. “Do you know it?”

  The other girls nodded, so I did too.

  My first thought was that City College was mentioned in the Book of Secrets. The main buildings were built entirely out of Manhattan schist. I wondered if that had something to do with why the party was there.

  This party was much easier to get to than the last one. There were no long tunnels to tromp through and no water to fall into. We stayed aboveground until we reached the campus, where we went into an old maintenance building.

  The girl who had recognized me led the way as we snuck into the building and went down into the lowest basement. It was so damp, my hair began to frizz the second we walked in. We bent down and practically crawled under a series of pipes. I was careful not to touch them because I could tell they were hot, and I didn’t want to yelp and give myself away.

  When we stood up again, we were in an abandoned tunnel underneath the college. It was filled with pipes that no longer carried steam. We followed them for about a block until we reached the party.

  It was smaller than the last one but had the same feel. There were vendors lined up against the wall and people socializing wherever they could find space. I stayed with the three girls for a while, and then I went out into the crowd.

  I showed the picture to three different people, telling them I was looking for an old friend of my mother’s and wondering if they recognized him.

  There is a secretive nature to the undead. Even the girls I walked with to the party never offered their names or asked for mine. And it was clear none of these people liked being asked to identify the picture. Each said they didn’t know him and instantly moved on.

  I was just about to approach a cluster of four women when a man came up behind me.

  “You need to stop,” he said.

  I turned around and recognized him in an instant. It was the man they called Liberty—the one who believed in undead righ
ts.

  I smiled when I saw him.

  “Hi,” I said, with genuine friendliness.

  He didn’t return the sentiment.

  “Did you mean what you said?” he asked me.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “When you said that the undead deserved rights? Did you mean that?”

  “Of course,” I answered. “If we don’t get our right—”

  He cut me off.

  “I’m going to ask you again, breather,” he said, using undead slang for the living. “Did you mean it?”

  I was busted. I decided my best strategy was to be completely honest.

  “I meant every word.”

  He looked deep in my eyes, trying to see if I was telling the truth.

  “Then you’d better follow me,” he said. “Because you’re in real danger.”

  The Wildest Ride in Manhattan

  I stood there staring at him, trying to process what he’d just said. I may have blinked, but if so, that was the only movement I was capable of. Beyond that, I was frozen with fear.

  “I’m sorry. Could you repeat that?”

  “I said you’d better follow me, because you’re in real danger.”

  “And by real danger, you mean . . .”

  “The kind that gives Dead City its name,” he replied, sending a chill up my spine. “So hurry up, before I change my mind about helping you.”

  He quickly moved toward a darkened stairwell that led deeper underground.

  “No,” I implored him. “We need to go up, not down.”

  “Considering you’ve already alerted a least a dozen people that you are, in fact, not undead, the first place they’ll look is up. Down is our best shot.”

  He took to the stairs, and after a brief hesitation I followed him.

  “How did I alert them that I’m not undead?” I wanted to know as I tried to keep up with him.

  “You asked them to identify a picture of a man who everyone in Dead City already knows. The fact that you don’t was kind of a big hint.”

  I was in too much of a panic to wonder why every zombie would know the creep who’d chased my mom and me. “If they knew, why didn’t they just attack me there?”