by Ty Drago
As if reading my mind, he grinned hideously, “In science, it’s important to prepare for contingencies. As it happens, I’d been … researching … your human anatomy.” His grin faded. “Give me that vial, boy.”
I took in a deep breath and replied, “Nope.”
Sorry. Best I could do at the moment.
“Incorrect answer,” he said. Then he came at me — fast.
I ducked and pivoted, bringing my Taser up for a zap. But, as I did, I felt my ankle buckle and I lost my balance. Steiger, seeing an opening, swung one of his gray arms like a baseball bat. It caught me across my back and shoulders, once again knocking me off my feet.
This time, though, I headed straight through the open door to the pit.
I think I screamed.
An instant later, the world became maggots. Thousands of them. An ocean of them. I sank down into them, going deeper no matter how much I struggled. Pain, tore into my shoulder blade and, for a horrible second, I thought these things were awake. But no, it was just the impact of Steiger’s latest hit. By morning, every inch of me would be black and blue.
If I lived that long.
I felt more than heard the Corpse mad scientist leap into the pit after me. Honestly, I shouldn’t have been surprised. He wanted the vial. Unfortunately, it was gone. I’d dropped it when I’d landed in the pit and, like me, it had probably sunk to the floor, buried under the mass of little white bodies. At least I’d managed to hang onto my pocketknife, though what good it would do in here was a mystery.
Frantically, I struggled to find my feet. But with every attempt, I slipped and got swallowed up again. At one point my hands touched the floor of pit and I used the opportunity to try to push myself up. It didn’t work, but something else did happen.
Every so often, I get lucky. I don’t mean “guess a number between one and ten, or even one and a hundred” lucky. I’m talking “one in a million” lucky. The kind of lucky that makes you wonder if maybe, just maybe, somebody in the universe actually is looking out for you.
I wonder if it’s Dad …
At last, my sneakers found some purchase on the floor and I managed to stand, my head and shoulders clearing the surface of the Super Maggots. No sign of Steiger, though I could see a section of the pit squirming and bouncing a little. So either some of the maggots were waking up — terrible idea — or the mad scientist was there, struggling to find his feet, just as I'd been.
I turned and looked to the far end of the room.
There stood the ladder.
I went for it at run. Well, not a run. Running in the pit was impossible. It wasn’t even a slog. More like a slow displacement, pushing armfuls of little white bodies out of the way and then stepping into the space left behind, only to do the same thing again, and again. Slow going. Horribly slow. And all the while I kept one eye on the squirming spot behind me that I figured was Steiger.
When I was halfway to the ladder, I heard, “Ring around the rosie …”
Oh crap.
Over my shoulder, Steiger rose like a demon.
He sang, “A pocketful of posies …”
Then he came for me, moving as I was moving — slowly.
It became a ridiculous foot race, but one that I quickly realized he was winning. The deader was stronger than me, and bigger, able to move more maggots out of his way with each step. But I had fear on my side, good old fashioned “pee-your-pants” terror, and — believe me — there’s no better motivator.
“Ashes. Ashes …”
Ten feet to the ladder. Five. Steiger was close now, so close that I could hear the swings of his arms. Two feet.
I threw myself onto the first rung and started climbing.
“We all fall down!” he exclaimed behind me as one of his dead hands clamped around my ankle.
So I did the obvious thing and kicked him in the head.
He felt nothing, of course. But I’d put a lot behind that kick, and the force of it was enough to knock the brain out of the top of his head. It hung down beside his ear, dangling hideously by the upper tip of the spinal cord. This seemed to over-balance him. With a frustrated cry, he let go of me and went down, disappearing once again beneath the maggot sea.
I scrambled to the top of the ladder and, breathless, pulled it up behind me — just as he popped back up.
For a long moment, we looked at each other.
“You lose,” he said.
“Do I?” I said.
He nodded and showed me what he held in his hand. “I found Lot Forty-Two.”
So I held up what I had in my hand, what I’d found on the floor of the pit with the help of some hardcore divine intervention. “I found the dog whistle.”
Then as his dead face registered first shock and then horror, I put the little gold whistle between my lips and blew it.
The Super Maggots woke up.
Enough said.
I never did hook back up with the bus. I found out later that Helene and Dave had gotten clear and made a bunch of wild turns through the Philly streets to lose any pursuers. They’d both wanted to come back to look for me, but with so many Seers in their care, they couldn’t risk it. So instead, they headed for First Stop to call Haven and finally get us some backup.
I also found out later that the fires Helene had started eventually spread to the whole building. Within hours, there was nothing left of the place. Steiger, Lot Forty-Two, and the Super Maggots were toast. I didn’t stick around to watch it burn. Maybe another night, another “victory,” I might have. But Michael and Robert were still dead.
And, well, I just didn’t feel like gloating.
Tom and Sharyn sent out the Angels to look for me. They executed a standard grid pattern search on bikes, spreading themselves thin and hitting every street in turn. Expecting this, I settled myself down on a curb just off Spring Garden and put my head in my hands.
Ten minutes later, Sharyn slammed to a stop in front of me.
Our eyes met. She looked down at me, and something in my expression killed whatever cute line she’d been intending to toss my way.
“Get on, little bro,” she said.
I got on.
And Sharyn took me home.
Author’s BIO:
Ty Drago is a full-time writer, editor and publisher. He lives in Southern New Jersey with his wife (the real-life Helene Boettcher), a dog and two cats. He has two grown children, Kim and Andy. He is the author of, among many other things, the Undertakers Series, which includes the following novels:
The Undertakers: Rise of the Corpses (2011)
The Undertakers: Queen of the Dead (2012)
The Undertakers: Secret of the Corpse Eater (2014)
The Undertakers: Last Siege of Haven (Spring, 2015)
The Undertakers: End of the World (Fall, 2015)
Rise of the Corpses has been optioned for a feature film by Modernciné and adapted by screenwriter Jeffrey Reddick, the creator of the Final Destination series.