The Undertakers (25 page)

Confrontation

I told you this wasn't over, didn't I, Mr. Ritter?”

I lay paralyzed, the first victim of my new pocketknife's Taser. Helpless, I could only watch as Kenny Booth knelt over me and yanked the sword and backpack off my shoulders, twisting my arms as he did so. It hurt, but I couldn't even cry out.

Straightening, he unceremoniously dumped the backpack's contents onto the cellar floor, taking a quick inventory. “Two water pistols, one silly water rifle and—of course—Sharyn Jefferson's famous sword. Armed for bear, I see.”

He gazed disdainfully at the two Corpses I'd cut down. With a disgusted sigh, he crossed the room and opened a closet door set against one wall. It was buried so deep in the shadows that I hadn't even noticed it before.

From inside, he removed two long black zippered bags. I'd seen enough movies to recognize what they were and to realize that both bags were currently occupied. Hoisting one onto each shoulder, he hauled these back across the basement, somehow supporting both of them on Kyle's thin shoulders, and dumped them in front of me. Then he unzipped each bag.

The cadavers inside looked like Type Twos at best. My stomach gave a sickening lurch. I wondered how many more he had stuffed in that hidey-hole.

“Well?” Booth said. “What are you two oafs waiting for?”

The chopped up body parts stopped twitching, and the cadavers in the bags opened their eyes.

“A child,” Booth told them both as they sat up. “You let a human child best you.”

“
Sorry
.
Master
,” one of them said in Deadspeak. Both looked sheepish.

“
Boy
.
Table
.” Booth commanded in the same language. “
Now
.”

The Corpses shook themselves free from their bags. Both were naked—a fact that didn't seem to bother them but which did nothing for the state of my stomach. Wordlessly they picked me up by my arms and feet and carried me a short distance to a strange metal table. There, I was placed facedown atop cold steel, my arms outstretched onto special shelves that were mounted to the table's sides. At Booth's direction, straps were fastened around my wrists and ankles.

Through it all, Helene watched him adoringly.

Stupid! I should have seen this coming!

Fear rose in my mind like bile. I swallowed it down. Sharyn's teaching came back to me.

Keep your head, no matter how bad it gets. Crying never helps. Neither does begging. Look for an out.

“Actually, Mr. Ritter,” Booth purred, “your timing couldn't be better. Right now, twenty of my people are preparing to raid your little Green Street warehouse. You see, lovely Helene here was kind enough to give us all the particulars, weren't you, dear girl?”

“Sure, Mr. Booth,” Helene replied immediately.

Booth continued, “I had intended to instruct my people to be careful who they killed. After all, I couldn't risk one of them unintentionally taking your life, now could I? Not after having you slip through my fingers—not once but twice.”

I heard him take a step closer, his voice lowering to a hoarse whisper. “But now that you've paid me a visit, I'll have my underlings tear apart every Undertaker in Haven right before they burn the place to the ground!”

Reflexively I thrashed, trying to punch or kick him. My arms and legs only twitched a little. My cry of outrage sounded like a strangled gurgle.

“Don't worry,” Booth remarked. “You should be recovering any time now. When you do, I have some questions for you.”

The three Corpses and one human girl waited patiently as the crippling effects of the Taser shock slowly wore off. After a couple of long minutes, movement returned to my limbs, and my tongue no longer felt like a big ball of cotton inside my mouth.

“He's pretty much recovered,” Helene observed.

“Glad to hear it.” Booth stepped around the table, forcing me to turn my head to follow him. “There we are,” he said, sounding pleased. “I must say, you impress me, young man. To get this far—and all on your own…”

“Who said I was on my own?” I bluffed. “There are a dozen Undertakers outside right now. They'll be storming this place any second!”

“Is that so?” Booth looked amused. “I rather doubt it. Whatever you did to burn out all the fuses in my house has again been corrected, as you see. That means that my security measures are in place once again. If anyone else sets foot on my property, I'll know. So I think it's quite safe for us to have our little chat.”

“I won't tell you anything!” I exclaimed, wishing my voice didn't sound so obviously terrified.

“That's exactly what your girlfriend said, but we were able to convince her of a few—truths.”

“Yes,” Helene added. “They were.”

I stared at her. She met my eyes defiantly. She didn't
look
brainwashed—but then, neither had Amy. “What did they do to you?”

“Just what Mr. Booth said,” the girl replied evenly. “They made me see the truth.”

“The truth?” I cried. “They're monsters!”

“No. They're saviors.”

“She's quite correct, Mr. Ritter,” Booth said. He wrapped one of Kyle's slowly rotting arms around Helene's slender shoulders. “We're not the beasts that your Chief, Tom Jefferson, would make you believe.”

“Tell that to Tara and Kyle,” I spat back.

“They got what was coming to them,” Helene said. “They shouldn't have gotten in the way.”

“A clever girl,” Booth remarked with a nasty grin. Then his smile vanished, and he stepped forward, waving the gilded pocketknife in front of my nose. “So let's get started, shall we? My first question: where did you get this?”

“Tom gave it to me,” I lied.

“No,” Helene said. “Tom gave you
his
knife. That one was silver and was given to him by your father two years ago. This one's gold, and I've never seen it before.”

Booth leaned close. He smelled utterly putrid, although he'd tried to disguise the smell with some kind of fancy cologne. I wondered why he bothered. Non-Seers couldn't smell the stink of his decaying flesh. But of course I knew the answer.

Arrogance. This guy might like to look down on us humans, but he liked pretending to be one of us even more.

Booth continued, “So my question stands. Where did you get this, Mr. Ritter?”

“I'm not telling you a thing!” I exclaimed, the words half-wrapped in a sob.

The Corpse brought its black, peeling lips to right beside my ear. “Yes, you will, Mr. Ritter. Soon you'll tell me everything I want to know—and gladly. Willingly. Even eagerly. Because soon we'll be good friends.”

Then he straightened, turned to Helene, and said. “My dear, first let me thank you for participating in our little trap. You did very well indeed!”

“Trap!” I said. “You knew I was coming?”

Booth glanced at me. “The moment the lights went out, I suspected some clumsy rescue attempt. So I asked Helene to throw on her old, torn clothes and rub some dust in her hair. Then I positioned her in the basement's prisoner room and stationed two guards outside her door. Her orders were to pretend relief when she was liberated and then turn on her liberators at the proper time. I never imagined the liberator would be you, of course. That was just a happy surprise.” He turned back to the girl. “Why don't you go upstairs and get cleaned up?”

“Okay,” she said.

“But please be quick, my dear. I need you back down here as soon as possible.”

“No sweat,” Helene replied. Throwing a final glare at me, she disappeared up the stairs. Booth watched her go, smiling thinly.

“What did you do to her?” I demanded.

Booth faced me. “In my language, it's called
pellikoa
: ‘mind bending.'”

“You brainwashed her!”

“A ridiculous term. No, Mr. Ritter. Your friend has had her attitude adjusted. You'd be amazed how many behavioral differences can be achieved simply by altering someone's brain chemistry. But please—why don't I show you exactly how it works?”

The Corpse walked over to a closed cabinet. Unlocking it with a key from his pocket, he extracted what looked like a large cylindrical tube, perhaps eighteen inches in diameter. Smiling, he brought this over to my table, placing the container atop a small wheeled cart and lifting its lid.

The rustling sound from inside was so eerie that it sent shivers down my spine. Then Booth tilted the cylinder so that the overhead light washed over its contents.

I gasped.

It was a
ball
of spiders—a huge, undulating mass of creatures, hundreds of them, all climbing in, around, and under each other. Except that Amy had been right—they weren't spiders. They each had ten legs, five yellow eyes, and a needle-like stinger almost an inch long sticking out where its nose should have been—a bit like a mosquito's, only a whole lot bigger.

“These are
pelligog
, Mr. Ritter—one of the few creatures capable of surviving the journey between our worlds. They're difficult to handle, very aggressive, but also very useful. You see,
pelligog
enjoy a collective consciousness. The members of any single nest share a single mind. This grants them an unusual capability.

“Simply put, a
pelligog
burrows into the flesh of its victim's spine, introducing certain chemicals into the host's central nervous system. After that, hosts become very—cooperative. They retain their will and their intelligence, but their loyalties shift entirely to whoever controls the nest as a whole. That is to say:
me
.”

I stared at the spiders, or
pelligog
, or whatever they were and felt what little courage and determination I had left abruptly crumble. The idea of one of those
things
digging its way into me—for Booth could surely have nothing else in mind—terrified me beyond anything that I'd experienced so far.

An icy cold fear clamped around my guts. Uttering a single, desperate whimper, I began to struggle uselessly against my wrist and ankle bonds. All the while I stared, slack-jawed in horror, at the soccer-ball-sized mass of scuttling parasites inside that cylinder.

Suddenly everything that had gone down from the moment I'd stepped out of my house and seen Dead Man Pratt—everything that had happened to bring me to this single terrible moment—all came crashing down around me.

I'm only twelve! I shouldn't be doing this! I should be home watching TV and going to school and playing with my friends! The only things I should have to be afraid of are homework and math tests and which girl might or might not like me! I'm not a soldier! I'm a boy! I'm just a little boy!

I tried to lend words to some of this, but all that came out was a half-strangled, “Please…”

Booth leaned close. “What was that, Mr. Ritter? I didn't catch it.”

Every inch of my body seemed to be shivering. “Please…”

The Corpse came even closer. “Do you want your mommy, William? Do you want to run back to her arms and pretend you've nothing to fear? Do you want to go home?”

Yes, I do! I
want to go home! Daddy! You lied to me! You told me there were no monsters! But there are! There
are!

Again, I whispered hoarsely. “Please…don't…”

But of course he would.

I knew he would.

Second Gambit

Booth chuckled. Then, straightening, he replaced the lid on the cylinder. I nearly fainted from relief. “Although invaluable,” he said, “the
pelligog
have one limitation. Because an entire nest is but a single mind, it requires an entire nest to modify the behavior of a single victim. Therefore only one person at a time can be controlled in this manner. It's an annoying obstacle.

“So you see, Mr. Ritter, I can't infect you while your little friend remains under my control. Fortunately she has outlived her usefulness. So when she comes back downstairs, I will destroy the
pelligog
inside her body, thus freeing her mind. Then I will place a new creature on your bare back, thus claiming yours. Finally, once your loyalty is completely ours, you can watch as I personally snap Helene's neck. Does that sound like a workable plan to you?”

Horror-struck, I had to fight to keep myself from doing even more useless begging. Somewhere inside me, I felt something
shift
—as though Booth's boasting had somehow turned some of my terror into anger.

I had one more trick to play—something Helene hadn't warned the Corpses about, mainly because she didn't know about it.

It was a chance—a slim chance—but better than nothing.

If I could keep my nerve.

Booth said, “But before all that, there's something I'd like to share with you. Because you were at my gathering last night, I don't need to tell you who killed your father.”

“No,” I said. “You don't.”

“Would you like to know exactly how I did it?”

I swallowed but didn't reply.

The Corpse chuckled. “I led Detective Ritter into a trap that night. He came to a rundown building expecting to meet with an informant who would give him information about us—specifically our real purpose in your world. Instead he met me, and I stabbed him with a filthy kitchen knife and left him to bleed to death. Normally we don't like to use weapons. In our culture such external means of combat are considered crass, even cowardly. I'd have preferred to end your father's life with my bare hands. Sadly, we needed his death to look like the work of common street thug, and a beating or strangulation would have been a bit less…tidy.”

I listened to this walking worm bag casually describe my dad's murder, and I felt my resolve strengthen.

Keep talking, you lump of rotting flesh, because every word that comes out of your mouth makes me a little madder—and a little less afraid
.

“So what
is
your real purpose?” I demanded. “And don't give me that crap about being here to help us because I'm not buying it.”

Booth laughed again. “But we
are
here to help! We're here to put an end to wars and disease and poverty in the most certain way possible!” Then the Corpse leaned close again until I nearly choked on the stink of him. There were maggots in his mouth.

“We are the
Malum
, Mr. Ritter,” he whispered with his festering tongue. “We are the Unmakers of Worlds. For countless ages my people have searched the ether between universes for places in which life thrives. And when we find one, we invade, infiltrate, and consume it, leaving nothing behind.”

“Why?” I gasped.

The corners of his lipless mouth turned upward. “Because life is precious, Mr. Ritter—and we
Malum
reserve it for ourselves alone. All other forms of sentient existence are an abomination to us. So now we have come to
this
world in
this
dimension and have discovered life more plentiful here than anywhere else we have seen. So many humans—so confused, so in conflict. The end of your culture, the extinction of your race, will be our greatest triumph!”

I stared up at him, caught between disgust and horror. The Corpse, the
Malum
, stared right back at me, and for the first time, I thought I detected a strange agelessness to him, as if the thing inside Kyle's body had existed for a long time on many different worlds, using many different names.

Yes, he
was
ancient. But he was also overconfident—absolutely convinced of his own superiority and his own destiny to win.

Light footsteps tapped eagerly down the basement stairs. Moments later Helene reappeared, wearing fresh jeans and a clean blue T-shirt. The dust had been hastily brushed out of her hair.

“Ah! There you are, my dear!” Booth said cheerfully. “Looking as lovely as ever. Feel better? Didn't I promise you I'd let you clean up as soon as your task was done?”

“Yeah, Mr. Booth,” she replied. “Thanks.”

“Not at all. It gave William here and myself a chance to chat. Now, Helene, I'm afraid that I need to give you a small injection. Honestly, there might be a little pain, but something tells me you're tough enough to handle it.”

She lifted her chin. “I'm tough enough.”

“Of course you are.” Booth nodded to one of his thugs. “Please bring me the
pelligog
dispatcher.”

“
Obey
,” the naked Corpse replied in Deadspeak. From a nearby cabinet, he fetched an enormous syringe, which Booth accepted.

“This concoction is made from the crushed bodies of
pelligog
,” he explained to me. “When injected into a host, it kills the parasite, thereby severing the nest's influence. The victim's normal brain chemistry is immediately restored, and more to the point, the nest is free to seize control over another mind. Attend.” The Corpse then addressed Helene again. “My dear, will you turn around please?”

She didn't look happy about it, but she did it. I watched helplessly as Booth placed one slimy, maggot-riddled hand on her shoulder. Clutching the syringe in his other fist, he jabbed its needle into the base of Helene's neck with cruel force.

She screamed.

“Leave her alone!” I cried, pulling uselessly at my bonds. The Corpse ignored me, drawing the now-empty syringe out of the girl. Then he turned her toward me.

Helene's face contorted with pain. Her entire body shuddered. I felt awful watching her, but there was nothing I could do. Besides, what Booth had done would supposedly free her from the spiders' control, and that might give us both a tiny shot at escape—before it was my turn.

Gradually Helene's expression softened. Bewilderment flashed across her face, followed by a terrible awareness. She screamed again, this time in heartbreaking angu
ish. She fell to her knees, burying her face in her hands.

“Oh, Will!” she wailed. “I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!”

“It's okay,” I said, but she didn't hear me. Wrenching, guilt-wracked sobs bubbled up from her throat, drowning anything I might say. I tried anyhow, shouting over her cries. “It wasn't your fault! They made you do it!”

She lowered her hands. “No! It's not like that. I knew I was betraying you! I wanted to! I was sitting in that room, looking forward to it!”

“Because the spiders made you!” I persisted. “That's what they do!”

“Enough!” Booth declared. One of his thugs wordlessly yanked Helene to her feet by the hair. He then pinned both her arms, holding her in an iron grip.

Booth smiled wickedly. “Your turn, Mr. Ritter. What friends we'll be!” He turned and reopened the
pelligog
cylinder.

Just the sound of that writhing, undulating bug ball was enough to nearly cripple my resolve. But then Booth reached inside and drew out one of the ten-legged needle-nosed monstrosities—and my sanity almost slipped altogether.

Use the fear!

“Lift his jacket and shirt,” Booth ordered his other thug.

With terrible effort, I focused on the tear-streaked face of my friend.

Nobody our age should have to endure this. Nobody!

“Helene,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. Blinking, she met my eyes. “Remember: don't test anything unless you've seen at least three other people test it first.”

She stared uncomprehendingly at me. I felt my jacket and shirttail pulled roughly up past my shoulder blades, revealing the pale, freckled skin of my lower back.

“Three times!” I repeated.

Understanding dawned in her large hazel eyes. The barest hint of a smile touched her lips. “Yeah, I remember.”

“Stop babbling, Mr. Ritter,” Booth cooed. “And don't struggle. It'll only hurt more if you do.”

Then his thug said in Deadspeak, “
Box
.
On
.
Back
.”

“Box? What box?” Booth replied absently. A pause. “What
is
that strapped to his—?”

Gritting my teeth, I squeezed both my fists as hard as I could.

The rectangular saltwater reservoir strapped to my lower back—the heart of Steve's prototype weapon system—instantly exploded in the Corpses' downturned faces. Booth groaned and stumbled backward, his limbs flying in every direction at once. The spider-thing was hurled over his shoulder, where it smashed against the concrete wall of the basement. Booth's henchman clutched his face and then collapsed, falling into a twitching, helpless heap on the floor.

At the same moment, Helene dipped her head forward and then slammed it up and back, right into the last dead guy's face. More from surprise than pain, I suspected, he loosened his hold on her just for a second. Instantly she spun on her heel and drove a devastating kick into the creature's kneecap. Then as the Corpse doubled over, she slammed both her fists down against the base of his neck—a human nerve center.

The naked thug crashed to the basement floor, twitching.

“Get me loose!” I cried. “Quick!”

Helene unstrapped my wrists and ankles, fairly yanking me off the table and hugging me with a fierceness that, despite our predicament, made me squirm and blush. “You're a genius!” she exclaimed. “Do you know that? An absolute genius!”

“Thanks. Um—we should get out of here.”

“Not without weapons,” she said.

We ran over to my emptied backpack. Helene grabbed the Super Soaker. I took Sharyn's sword. Everything else we left behind.

“Wait a second,” I said. I went to Booth, who was still writhing on the floor. Reaching into the Corpse's trouser pocket, I recovered my pocketknife. Then, standing over him, I said, “That body you're in belonged to an Undertaker. You can't have it anymore.”

I lifted Vader and let it come down.

Off went the Corpse's head.

Helene and I retreated up the stairs at a run.