The Undertakers (27 page)

You're the Chief of the Undertakers—my
Chief—and I promise you this: I'll fight for you. I'll never betray you again. And if necessary, I'll die for you.

I met Tom's eyes, feeling more grown-up than I ever had before.

Quietly I replied, “I think he would've been proud of
both
his sons.”

For the first time since I'd known him, Tom's face crumpled. A tear—just one—traced a path down his cheek.

“Will…” he whispered. “You honor me.”

“Come on,” I told him. “Let's go home.”

Pop Goes the Weasel

I stand here before you all today, the victim of what can only be called
domestic terrorism
.”

I stood beside Helene, watching the television along with pretty much every other onsite member of the Undertakers. We filled the new TV room, which was a bit roomier than the old one had been—although, overall, the new Haven wasn't as large as its predecessor.

Just more interesting.

Late last night, the Undertakers had forever abandoned their Green Street warehouse, having moved—lock, stock, and barrel—into a forgotten subbasement of Philadelphia's enormous City Hall. Located on Broad and Market streets, the mammoth century-old building concealed entire levels beneath its official cellar that hadn't been used or even visited in fifty years or more. This Haven wasn't a single big room but rather a warren of passages and chambers of varying sizes.

At least now there'd be some more privacy for everyone.

Not that our new lair was perfect. Far from it.

For one thing, the Undertakers weren't leasing this space, as we had on Green Street. Instead we'd become what Tom called
squatte
rs, tapping into the city's utilities without anyone knowing about it. It was, he'd explained, a somewhat more
wobbly
existence—but at least the Corpses couldn't dig through city records to find us.

For another thing, the living conditions weren't quite as comfortable. The brick walls were cold, the air dank, and the lighting lousy. Worse, for now at least, the only way in or out of New Haven was through an abandoned service tunnel that ended at a neglected metal door half a block down a subway tunnel that serviced the Broad Street Line.

Getting all the equipment in here had been a ton of work, although Tom's decoys had done their job well. We were pretty confident that the Corpses had lost us in the maze of darkened city streets. Even so it had taken the rest of the night to smuggle everything out of the truck, down an unused service stairway, and safely into underground Philly. Lookouts had been posted all up and down the surrounding streets, and their frequent warnings had really slowed down the effort.

And finally, there was the issue of the cats.

Apparently City Hall's basements were infested with them—big, wild cats that had originally been introduced down here to deal with the rat problem. They'd since had kittens, and those kittens had produced kittens, and so on, until there were whole generations of them in these tunnels that had never seen sunlight. For the most part, the creatures stayed out of view, although a few of the kids claimed to have caught glimpses of their small, darting forms in some of the more remote corridors. Others had reported hearing strange meows in the dark—very creepy sounds!

The Monkeys were already working on these problems. Soon there'd be new, concealed entrances at carefully selected spots in and around City Hall. Cameras and motion sensors would watch for intruders. Portable heaters and gadgets called
dehumidifiers
were already helping with the cold moist air. Special traps would capture any wild cats that got too close. These would be released elsewhere.

Inside of a week, Tom promised, we'd be secure and comfortable, and nobody would ever know we were here.

“Last night my home was the site of a ruthless attempt on my life by a gang of underage criminals calling themselves the Undertakers.”

It was six o'clock on Tuesday evening, almost exactly twenty-four hours since the battle in Roxborough. That was how long it had taken Kenny Booth to Transfer to a new body. The cadaver behind the NBC-TV podium, dressed impeccably and wearing an expression of righteous indignation, was obviously Type One and would no doubt last its Corpse master a good long time.

“As yet the police don't know who they are. But their motivations were made clear to me. They want me to withdraw from the mayoral race. They want me to abandon my promise to the people of this city to bring order to these streets again. They invaded my home, injuring my staff and causing many thousands of dollars worth of property damage—all in a cowardly effort to intimidate me into submitting to their demands.”

“Nice tie,” Chuck Binelli remarked.

“Yeah,” Burt Moscova agreed.

“But I say to them and to you, the people of Philadelphia, that I will not surrender my values to these terrorists. I will not abandon what I know I must do. I have dedicated my future to this glorious city, and nothing and no one will turn me from that path!”

On the television, Kenny Booth the Corpse grinned hideously. At the same moment, I was grimly aware that a city full of Sightless people was watching a good-looking television journalist flash his brilliant, toothy white smile. Of course I could have crossed my eyes and witnessed that smile for myself.

I didn't bother.

“I hereby reaffirm, with all my heart and at no small personal risk, my candidacy for mayor of Philadelphia!”

Cameras flashed. Booth fielded questions. He looked entirely comfortable, entirely in control, a man—a dead man—in his element.

The mood in the new TV room was somber, to say the least. Nobody said anything. Everyone simply stared at the screen, scowling or sighing or shuffling their feet.

Then from the doorway, a strong voice spoke. Every head turned.

“Don't sweat it, Undertakers,” Tom said. With his sister alongside him, the Chief moved among us, looking every bit as confident as Booth had just now. He came at last to stand right beside the TV, which still showed Booth singing out answers to questions with all the flair of a movie star. Sharyn, in the meantime, took the remote control away from Alex and muted the sound.

“Booth can babble on all he wants!” the Chief of the Undertakers declared. “We got our new crib and our new plan. We're going after them. We're going to start hitting back at the Corpses with everything we've got. Somehow we'll find a way to make the whole world See the way we do. In the meantime, though, we'll be kicking old Booth in the butt every chance we get.

“By now y'all have heard the other promise that Booth made to us last night, away from cameras and reporters. Starting today they'll be coming after us. They'll hunt us down if they can. The gloves are off. This is now open war. Well, I say, bring it on, Deaders! We'll be ready!”

He didn't quite get cheers, but there were at least smiles and a few supportive words as he crossed the room again and came to stand beside me, Sharyn, and Helene.

“We're with you, Chief,” Helene whispered.

“I know it,” he said. “Thanks.”

“Can you turn the sound back up?” someone asked.

“What for?” Sharyn demanded.

“Come on!” That one came from Alex, who was frowning impatiently.

With a groan, Sharyn switched off the mute. Booth's voice once more filled the room.

“No, I don't believe in personal vendettas. The damage done to my home is repairable, the cost covered by insurance. The injuries to my brave staff members were, overall, not serious, and all will make full recoveries. As for my own hurts”—he grinned again, looking right into the camera—“let's just say I heal quickly.

“I'm not interested in vengeance—only justice. And once I'm mayor, I will vigorously pursue justice against the so-called Undertakers and against anyone else who breaks the laws of this fine city.”

“
Hypocrite
don't seem to say it,” Sharyn observed.

But I barely heard her. I was watching Booth, who had fallen back on his famous trademark. The bag of Sweet-Rox was once again in his hands, and between questions, he'd begun tossing back big handfuls of the colorful candies.

“I swear to y'all,” Tom remarked to no one in particular, “sooner or later we're gonna get that dude.”

I felt a slow smile spread across my face. “With a little luck,” I said, “it might just be
sooner
.”

On the TV, Kenny Booth suddenly started coughing. He excused himself and tried to recover. The coughing worsened. Within seconds he was gasping and clutching at his throat. Someone screamed for the paramedics. Someone else demanded that the cameras be shut off, but they just kept running. The gasps turned into gurgles, and the gurgles into strangled croaks. Booth's expression had gone from confident to confused to terrified in the space of a few seconds.

Then, with maybe a million people watching, Kenny Booth exploded.

It happened so fast and so completely that nobody—not us and not the people on the TV with the candidate—realized it right away. One minute, Booth was standing there, gripping the podium, looking pained and desperate. The next, he just sort of burst like an overripe melon.

This was a Type One cadaver—and a fresh one at that—apparently not even embalmed. There was blood. A lot of blood. It splashed the walls, splattered the camera lenses, and covered the podium like a coat of red paint.

On the NBC-TV sound stage, pandemonium broke out. People ran in a dozen directions at once—some screaming; others shouting orders. The cameras bobbed and then steadied. After several tense moments, another newsman—nicely human this time—stepped into the frame, a stunned expression on his face. Booth's blood was on his face and clothes.

Blood that he could obviously see and feel! Booth's illusion was gone.

When he spoke, his voice was flat with shock. “Ladies and gentlemen, something terrible has happened. It seems that Kenneth Booth has…” As if just now realizing it was there, he began to wipe at the blood on his face with one trembling hand. “My God! Get this off of me! Somebody—”

What he said after that, I don't think anyone in Haven heard. We were all staring at the podium—at the spot where Booth had been only moments before, at the gore he'd left behind.

Something
stood there.

The shape was roughly man-size but without mass or substance. We only saw it for a few moments, but in those moments, we could all tell two important things. First, whatever it was, it wasn't human—wasn't anything like a human. And second, it was dying.

No one in the studio saw it; that much was clear. You had to be a Seer. The thing writhed and thrashed as if in pain, looking as if it were searching for some escape—another body maybe?

Then, as we watched, it just sort of ceased to exist—collapsing in on itself and crumpling up like a wad of paper before vanishing with a strange little
pop
.

Sharyn switched off the TV.

This time no one complained.

Haven's TV room was wrapped in a kind of shocked silence. For half a minute, no one spoke. I wasn't even sure anybody was breathing.

Then Burt whispered, “What'd we just see?”

Nick replied, “I think…he's dead. A Corpse is dead!”

“But that's impossible!” Chuck exclaimed. “I mean—isn't it?”

“It couldn't survive without its shell,” Steve suggested. “Whatever happened to Booth, it utterly destroyed his stolen body, leaving the thing inside exposed.”

“But how?” Alex demanded. “How in the world…?”

I stayed quiet, although I couldn't keep the smile completely off my face. Glancing around, I found Helene looking pointedly at me. “William Karl Ritter,” she demanded, sounding for a moment like my mother, “what did you
do?
”

Every head in the room turned my way. I suddenly felt like I'd been pinned by a spotlight. Even Tom and Sharyn were gaping at me, open-mouthed.

My cheeks flushed.

“I—um…” Having so many eyes on me made me uncomfortable. Finally I just focused on my shoes and said, “Before I headed up to Booth's place last night, I took some lumps of sea salt to the kitchen and dipped them in the melted candy dishes. I let them cool and put them in a little brown bag. Then later—when I was hiding in Booth's office—I found his sack of Sweet-Rox in one of the drawers and—well, I added the salt candies. I just thought that, you know, if we couldn't kill him from the outside…” My voice trailed off.

“…maybe we could kill them from the inside!” Helene finished. “Will! You're a genius!”

For one horrible moment, I was afraid she might hug me again.

Dave, still in his sling, suddenly exclaimed, “Awesome!”

Then
he
hugged me.

“I…don't…believe…it!” Tom stammered. It was the first time I'd ever seen the Chief struggle for words. “I…just…don't…believe…it!”

“But what did it do?” Alex Bobson demanded. “I mean, he just kind of…”

“Burst!” Elisha Beardsley offered.

“Yeah!” the new Monkey Boss exclaimed. “Yeah! Like a balloon!”

“Every cell in the host body suddenly lost cohesion…violently,” Steve pronounced sagely. “What sort of physiology would allow for…?” His voice trailed away.

“Pop goes the weasel!” chirped Harleen Patel.

“But is he dead?” Amy asked hopefully. “Is Booth really dead?”

For several moments no one else spoke. Finally, with a shaky, slightly unbelieving laugh, Sharyn replied, “He just exploded! I figure that's a good sign!”

Helene clamped her hands over her mouth like a girl at Christmas. Then she spun in a circle, threw both her arms in the air, and jumped fully three feet off the floor. “Will did it! He did it!”

The entire room erupted into wild cheers. Suddenly dozens of kids descended on me, scooping me up and carrying me out through the door and down the dark, moldy subbasement passage. I laughed until my sides hurt, riding atop a wave of hands that bore me the length of Haven and out into the large chamber that was now serving as a general workroom.

All that fuss—it was embarrassing.

But I'd be lying if I said I hated it.