by Ty Drago
“Who are you?” Dashiell demanded, brandishing his switchblade.
“I’m an Undertaker,” the Chief replied in a toneless voice.
The assassin sneered. “I’ve heard of you kids. She said you might try to get in the way. But I admit I didn’t expect anything like this! Just where did you come from?”
Tom nodded upward. “While Ramirez was keepin’ you busy, I came up the stairs, climbed out onto the roof of the deck, and worked my way around.”
“Clever,” Dashiell admitted. “But you must be freezing without a coat in this weather. Careful, kid…you’ll catch your death.”
Tom didn’t smile. On the contrary, I didn’t think I’d ever seen him so pissed. He took a step toward the assassin, who held up his blade, turning it this way and that in the morning light, like a little kid on show-and-tell day. “Think twice, boy? I’m armed, and you’re not.”
The Chief took another step forward. “I saw you take your shot,” he said flatly. “I was too late to stop it…but I saw it.” For a moment, a shadow seemed to cross his face. Then he added, in a tone much colder than the biting February air, “You missed.”
Dashiell shrugged. “Unfortunate but not disastrous. Once I’m out of here, I’ll arrange a new opportunity.”
“You’re not getting out of here.”
The assassin chuckled. “A handcuffed woman and two unarmed men? I’ve faced much longer odds that than, Undertaker. In a minute, you’ll all be dead, and I’ll be on the stairs.”
Tom didn’t seem to have heard the threat. “I’m a soldier,” he said. “But I’ve never killed a human being before.”
“Well, don’t worry, kid. You’re not going to be starting today.”
Tom just went on talking. “You missed your target. But you hit someone else.”
“I know. I saw it. Some kid on a bike.”
The Chief of the Undertakers surged forward. Seeing this, Dashiell reacted by lunging with his switchblade. I expected Tom to dodge. He was great at hand-to-hand; I’d never seen anyone better. But he didn’t dodge. He didn’t even try to parry. He simply grabbed the blade, wrapping his big left hand around it and clamping down like a bear trap.
Dashiell stared at Tom’s closed fist and at the blood that had already begun to ooze from between his fingers. He tugged at the knife handle, but it didn’t budge.
Tom’s eyes were stone. If he felt any pain, he offered no sign of it. Instead, he slammed his fist into the killer’s face with devastating force. I actually heard the crunch as the man’s nose broke.
Dashiell released the knife and staggered back, blood pouring over his mouth and jaw. Tom stayed with him, hitting him again, a haymaker that spun the killer around and drove him into the observation deck railing. There he floundered, visibly stunned.
Tom advanced, opening his left fist and letting the switchblade fall to his feet. I could see the deep gash that crossed his palm. Blood dripped steadily down to the deck’s metal floor.
Ramirez was already coming forward. “Tom…that’s enough. Stand down.”
But the Chief ignored him.
As we watched: me, my mom, the angel, and the FBI guy, Tom grabbed Dashiell’s collar and twisted him around until they were face-to-face again.
“You missed your target,” Tom repeated, his voice like ice.
Then he reached one hand down, grabbed Dashiell’s leg, and heaved the smaller man right off his feet, holding him aloft as if he weighed no more than a child.
Through his gritted teeth, I heard Tom say, “But you killed my brother.”
Then Tom Jefferson, the Chief of the Undertakers, threw the struggling assassin out the open window, over the railing, and into empty air.
Dashiell screamed. He seemed to scream for a long time, until, finally, very abruptly, he stopped.
So…that’s how long it takes to fall five hundred feet.
Ramirez arrived at Tom’s side a second later. He looked over the railing. Then he looked at the Chief, who met his eyes with challenge and not an ounce of remorse. “You gonna arrest me, agent?”
The FBI guy looked shaken to his core.
That made two of us.
“I don’t think I could if I wanted to,” he replied.
But Tom shook his head. “That ain’t no answer.”
Ramirez’s shook his head. “No, I’m not going to arrest you.”
“Why not? I just killed a man.”
“Yes, you did,” the agent told him. “But this is war…and you’re a soldier.”
Tom nodded. Then it was as if the fury that had been driving him suddenly bled away. His shoulders slumped, and the cold mask he’d been wearing disappeared.
“Will’s dead,” he whispered in so soft a voice that I almost didn’t hear it. “And now I gotta tell his mom.”
Chapter 40
Resurrection
The world changed again, turned white. I barely noticed. What Tom had said—what he’d done—rang in my ears and burned in my memory like fire. A hundred feelings roiled around in my head, wrestling for control. Shock. Horror. Guilt.
And pride. Oh yeah, that was there too.
The Chief of the Undertakers, the best man aside from my father I’d ever known, had just killed someone. And he’d done it for me.
What an impossible, incredible, terrible thing!
“William?”
We were in the white room again. No walls. No ceiling. Just the angel, her gentle voice and her strangely familiar face.
“William? Are you all right?”
“No,” I said.
She nodded, as if this were the right answer.
“What happens now?” I asked.
“Now you go back.”
“But…I’m dead.”
She smiled, and I was surprised by the warmth and affection I saw in that smile. “No, you’re not…though it was a close call.”
“Who are you?” I begged.
“I wish I could tell you,” she said, and from her tone, it was clear that she meant it. “And one day, I will.”
“Well,” I said, feeling suddenly impatient. All this mystery, especially in the wake of my own shooting, my mother’s near murder, and the awful spectacle of Tom’s revenge, was getting tiresome. “Is there anything you can tell me?”
“The rules are the same as last time,” she replied. “You may ask one question.”
“Except ‘Who are you?’ Right?”
“I’m sorry.”
I sighed. I was still tired, very tired. But I suddenly noticed that I wasn’t in any pain. Hadn’t I been shot like ten minutes ago? Shot by a big rifle that used big bullets? It was one thing to have survived that but to not even feel it?
I remembered the first time this angel had paid me a visit. I’d just botched a rescue attempt at Fort Mifflin, outside Philly. I’d been body slammed by a Corpse and come away with a concussion and a broken arm. Except I hadn’t. Instead, I’d had a dream like this one and woken up completely healed.
If this angel could do that, then what else could she do?
And just like that, I knew my question.
“Can you save Sharyn like you saved me?”
The woman smiled gently. “No, I can’t. But you can.”
“What does that mean?”
“At the prison, you picked up something. When you wake up, you’ll find it under your pillow. Take it to Sharyn Jefferson. Touch it to her head.”
“And that’ll fix her?”
She nodded.
“What is it?”
“I’m sorry, William. No more questions. But you’ll learn the answer to that one in time.” Then she leaned closer, her tone more grave. “But William, listen to me. After you were injured, the Queen acted quickly. She had her
people arrive on scene almost at once with an ambulance. Then she had you declared ‘dead’ while on your way to Jefferson Hospital.”
“So…everybody thinks I’m dead?
For a second, I thought she’d fall back on the one-question rule again. To my surprise, she didn’t. “Yes. What you did was witnessed by thousands of people in Love Park and has been replayed on television many times. The official story is that your body was rerouted to the medical examiner’s office. But that’s a lie.”
“Where am I then?” What can I say? I love pushing my luck.
“Chang’s Funeral Parlor. The Queen has given her subjects orders to treat you, to keep you alive. Then, later, once you’re stable and conscious, she intends to torture you for information.”
My throat went dry. “Fantastic,” I muttered. “Any chance you might help me out?”
“I’ve helped you all I can,” she replied. “But I have faith in you. When you awaken, more than twelve hours will have passed since the shooting, and you’re going to be in far better condition that the Corpses imagine. You can escape on your own.”
Nice words—except that for the first time, I thought I read real worry in the woman’s eyes. It didn’t make me feel all warm and fuzzy.
“Thanks,” I said.
“You’re welcome,” she replied. “Until next time…”
And then she and the white place we shared faded away, returning to whatever dream world they’d come from.
I opened my eyes.
Chang’s Funeral Home. The basement morgue room.
Only this time, I was the one stretched out on the metal table. The lights were dim, and the door to the outer room stood closed. I was alone. The only sound was my own ragged breathing mixed with the steady beep of a nearby machine.
I still had my pants and shoes, though my coat and shirt were gone.
I tried to sit up but got myself tangled in a web of tubes. One was sticking into the back of my hand—an IV drip running from a hanging bag of who knew what. Two more went up my nose. But the worst one was the one down my throat. It was wide and held in place by several strips of tape.
Gagging a little and fighting a sudden panic, I ripped off the tape (which hurt) and then pulled out the tube (which really hurt). Then I sat there, gulping air. Oddly, whatever they were shooting up my nose helped with this; I could already feel my heart steadying. Nevertheless, I also yanked out the nostril tubes before I went to work on the IV. That came out easier than I’d have thought, though it stung something awful when I pulled the needle from my vein.
I winced but didn’t dare cry out. Quiet was the name of the game right now. There were bound to be Corpses nearby, maybe monitoring my condition.
There was a bandage around my chest. A big one. It ran from just under my armpits to just above my navel and had been wrapped around me a half dozen times. This wasn’t surprising because I’d been shot. Maybe they’d done emergency surgery or something to get out Dashiell’s bullet.
I decided to leave it alone—for now.
That left the sensors. These were stuck to my chest in a half dozen places and plugged into a machine that monitored my heart rate with a display of tiny spikes and the beep beep sound I heard earlier. Would I trigger an alarm if I peeled these things off? Would the Corpses figure I’d had a heart attack and come running with one of those paddle things that zaps you back to life?
Not good.
I looked around for my shirt and coat, but they were nowhere to be seen. That made me panic all over again, afraid my pocketknife would be gone. But then I remembered tossing it to Helene back at the prison. She had it, which meant it was safe.
Thinking of my pocketknife sparked another memory, and I reached under my pillow. It took me a few seconds to find it: a jagged piece of what looked like quartz less than a foot long.
Touching it had a strange effect. I felt suddenly stronger—more focused.
There’s some kind of power in this thing!
I would have liked to keep holding it. It felt strangely good to have it in my hand. But there were things to do. So I shoved it in my pocket and slid gingerly off the table. There I stood, thinking furiously. I was tethered by the sensor wires to the heart monitor, so I couldn’t go far without removing them. And removing them would almost certainly alert the Deaders.
Now what?
I worked my way around to the IV stand and read the label in the dim light: “B Braun Saline 0.9% Sodium Chloride Injection 1000ml IV.” As I unhooked it from its pole and tugged the tube out of the bottom of it, I could only hope the big words meant what I thought they meant.
Finally, I checked out the beeping machine. It seemed to have a thousand controls, most of which—if they had labels at all—were marked with meaningless initials.
Well, I can’t stay here all night!
So I just yanked out the electrical plug.
The moment the machine went dark, I listened for some kind of alarm to sound. None did. I hurried over to the door and took a spot behind it. Then I went to work peeling off the sensors.
I’d just finished when the door pushed open. A voice said in English, “The mistress will tear us limb from limb if we’ve allowed him to die!”
Two dead men, both wearing funeral director suits—very formal—stepped into the room. A couple of Type Threes but the kind who liked to take care of their host bodies. These were clean and surprisingly well groomed. They still squished inside their shoes when they walked, but they didn’t smell half as bad as most of the Threes I’d met, and there wasn’t a beetle or maggot on them.
As they stared at the empty bed and the tubes and wires strewn about, I slipped around behind them and darted out the door. The smaller outer room stood empty. I crossed it at a run and climbed the basement stairs two at a time, pushing the heavy door at the top wide open—and running right into a third dead guy.
This Corpse wore a cop uniform, and he scooped me up in his arms like a favorite uncle or something. The stench of him hit me first; I felt my stomach roll over. He was a ripe Type Two, not yet dripping fluids but layered in them, as if he’d slathered his purple skin with Lotion du Putrid.
“Got. You. Boy,” he said in Deadspeak, grinning a triumphant, decaying grin.
I suddenly wished I were Dave—strong enough to grab the guy’s head and twist it all the way around as he had done to the Queen back in Chang’s Funeral Parlor. Sadly, I just didn’t have that kind of muscle.
Instead, I squirted the bag of IV juice right into his face.
And yes, the words meant what I’d thought they’d meant.
He went down, taking me with him. With some effort, I squirmed free of his flailing arms, struggled to my feet, slipped in the saltwater, fell, and then struggled to my feet again. Behind me, I could hear wet footsteps on the basement stairs.
Dead Mortician One and Dead Mortician Two were ascending, coming fast.
I took off for the back of the house. The front was probably closer, but it was also uncharted territory, and I couldn’t afford to make a wrong turn and find myself cornered. So I dashed past the kitchen, through the mud room—still with its yellow slickers on their pegs—and tore open the funeral parlor’s back door.
The winter air hit me like a wall.
Ignoring a biting wind that seemed to blow right through me, I barreled down the stoop stairs and turned into the narrow alley, squeezing my way along to the street. I made it just as Chang’s front door opened and Dead Mortician One appeared.
He saw me. I saw him.
Then he started down the steps.
I sprayed him with the rest of the IV bag. It wasn’t much. But it was enough. The well-groomed Type Three walked right into a lamppost and seemed to get stuck there, stepping back, walking into it again, stepping back, walking into it again. You get the idea.
It might have been funny if I hadn’t been freezing to death.
But because I was, I turned and bolted up the street in the direction of City Hall.
Chapter 41
Eulogy
They looked for me.
Not just the funeral director Deaders but others. Over the next few minutes, it seemed like every Corpse in town had shown up for the party. They scoured the streets, shining flashlights in every nook and cranny. They even banged on a few doors, waking the neighbors and telling them God knew what.
But call it skill or luck, I managed to stay one step ahead of them. Maybe I’d just gotten used to being hunted and, like any city rat, knew how to go unseen.
That said, it was a pretty miserable journey.
The cold was like a swarm of wasps, everywhere at once, attacking and stinging me from all directions. The bandage around my chest helped a little but not much—and by the time I squeezed through the fence beside the abandoned printing house, the top half of my body felt like a side of frozen beef. My face had gone numb, and my ears burned as if held over a charcoal grill.
Getting through the unlocked cellar window by myself proved painfully awkward, and I ended up overbalancing and tumbling into the building’s basement. I landed hard on my back. For a few minutes, I just lay there, panting and groaning. Then, steeling myself, I rolled over and climbed to my feet on exhausted, trembling legs.
I stumbled down the stairs to the subbasement and from there to the sewer. By the time I reached the maintenance door, what little strength I had left seemed to have drained away. I fell heavily against the cold metal, grasping the knob and trying to work up the energy to turn it.
But then it turned by itself.
Before I could react, the door yanked open so abruptly I nearly tumbled in. But instead, I caught myself and looked up into the broad, expressive face of Dave Burger.
“I knew it!” he shouted, pumping the air with one huge fist.
Then he hugged me.
Usually, I hated this. Usually, I squirmed like an eel to escape his hugs as quickly as I could. But this time, I didn’t. I wish I could say it was friendship that kept me in his arms. I wish I could say it was relief to be back in Haven.