The Undertakers (5 page)

Tom and Sharyn

Karl Ritter was this cop who was tight with runaway kids—like me and Tom.” She sighed. “Your old man was cool, Will…I mean, for a cop. And of course he's the first and only adult we know of to ever get the Sight.”

“What?” I cried so loudly that Sharyn actually jumped.

“What'd I say?” she asked.

“My dad could See the Corpses?”

She nodded.

I experienced an almost dizzying sense of unreality. For the last two years, I'd been a boy without a father—and my memories of my dad had gotten me through a lot of sleepless nights. But now I'd just learned that there'd been a part of my father's life that I'd never heard about. Did my mom know?

“Freaked you out, huh?” Sharyn said. “Sorry. Figured Helene would've told ya that.”

“She didn't. It's okay. Keep going.”

With a shrug, she continued. “Well…me and Tom are twins. Got orphaned at two. Never knew our folks. Just went through this long string of foster homes—so many that we lost count. Anyway, by the time we were your age, we'd had enough. So we bailed out of the last gig and hit the streets. Been on our own ever since.”

She shook her head at the memory. “The streets are hard, Will. Growing up in the 'burbs the way you did, you got no clue. Every scumball we met wanted something from us, and most of it wasn't what you'd call nice. Tom and me figured out quick that surviving meant looking out for ourselves. No cops. No social workers. Just us doing what we had to do. Get it? And that meant…well…crime.

“Just small stuff at first. Shoplifting. Purse snatching. Then later we started boosting houses over in Society Hill and Rittenhouse, where the money is. First, smash-and-grabs—nickel-and-dime stuff. But the more we did, the more we learned to do. Before long we were about the choicest pair of juvie thieves this city ever saw! I'm talking some serious game here—Tom especially. Got an eye for detail, my bro. Planned out every job carefully ahead of time. Cops never touched us. Til one night, that is.”

Sharyn smiled wistfully. “We were down near Penn's Landin', breaking into this sweet redbrick townhouse. BMW in the drive. River view. We could almost smell the scratch! We hit it one night while the owners were off on some island someplace. Picked the lock. Aced the security system. No sweat. Except that when we split out the back door with the spoils, your dad was waiting for us.”

“My dad? What did he do?”

She chuckled. “Guess you could say he made us an offer we couldn't refuse. But I should let Tom tell you the rest. He's better at telling stories than me anyway. 'Sides, here's where we eat.”

Disappointed, I almost complained. But then I smelled food, and my stomach grumbled. I'd skipped lunch completely, and that Pop-Tart felt like a lifetime ago.

We'd reached a roped-off section of the Big Room that had been turned into a makeshift cafeteria. There were a few old refrigerators, some microwaves, a hot plate, and even a soda fountain. Long metal tables had been lined up. A few kids sat at one, sharing a freshly nuked bag of popcorn.

“You like Hot Pockets?” Sharyn asked me.

“Huh? I guess.”

Nodding, she pulled a couple of the frozen wraps from the nearest freezer and popped them into a microwave. As they cooked, she introduced me to the kids at the table, whose names I immediately forgot.

“How many Undertakers are there?” I asked her.

“We're at about 120 or so, what with new recruits like you and all.”

“I'm not a recruit,” I said.

“Whatever.”

“And all these kids can See the Corpses?”

“That's why they're here.”

“But…how did they all get here? What do you do, put an ad in the papers?
Seeing dead people? Come join the Undertakers!
”

Sharyn laughed. “No—but I like it. Most come in the same as you. They start Seeing one day. It freaks them out—and that, in turn, flags the Deaders. So one of us slides in and does the rescue thing.”

“But how do you know to be there to rescue them in the first place?”

“We keep an eye on the middle schools in town.”

“All of them?”

She nodded. “Each one's got at least one schooler on site, looking out for Seers.”

“Schooler?”

“Undercover Undertaker. They're trained to impersonate real students.”

“Like Helene?”

Sharyn nodded.

“So—none of these kids can go home either?” I said.

“Nope.”

I swallowed back a desperate moan. I didn't want to stay here! However grateful I felt to these people, there was no way that I was giving up my life to join this—well,
gang
was the only word I could think of.

“After this I'll introduce you to Steve-o,” Sharyn said.

“Steve-o?”

“Steven Moscova. Our tech whiz. He dreams up all our gadgets. You know—like Q in the James Bond movies. He's a total nerd, but we love him anyhow.”

The microwave beeped.

We sat and ate our food, although it didn't seem to have much taste. Funny—a couple of minutes ago, I'd been starving.

“I don't like the name,” Sharyn said offhandedly.

“What name?”

“
The Undertakers
. Tom came up with it after your dad died. I get the idea—burying the dead and all. But I still think it lacks style.”

I shrugged.

“How about something cooler,” she suggested, “like
the Kid Kadets
…with a
K
?”

“Isn't
cadets
spelled with a
C
?”

“Well, yeah…but it's cooler to cap two words with the same letter. Like
Undercover Undertakers
. Alliteration. Didn't they teach you nothing in English class?”

“Guess not.”

“Anyways, it'd be awesome,” Sharyn said. “Don't you think?”

“Sure. Awesome.”

She grinned. “Done eating?”

I nodded.

“Grab some candy then.”

A number of colored candies filled a bowl in the center of the table. I picked one up. “What is it?”

“Candy-coated chocolate,” Sharyn replied. “Homemade! Try one. Way better'n M&M's.”

I tasted the candy. It
was
good. “You make these here?”

“One of the moms does.”

My head shot up. “Moms?”

“They ain't real moms,” she told me. “That's just what we call them. Actually it's this kid named Nick who makes them. He wants to be a baker someday, so he's figured out this way to candy-coat lumps of chocolate, sometimes with nuts. Good, ain't they?”

“Yeah. Can I have another?”

“Take as many as you want, Red. No parents here. 'Course, no dentists neither—which turns out to be a problem sometimes.” Another grin. “But nothing's perfect.”

I popped a fistful of candies into my mouth.

Sharyn laughed. “I'd say fill up your pockets, but I've done it, and they just melt. Ready to go?”

I nodded, my mouth thick with chocolate.

“Cool! Let's do it!”

Saltwater

In the southwest corner of the Big Room, a series of long tables had been set up around an area of open space so that they formed a big square. Atop these tables stood an assortment of computers, Bunsen burners, test tubes, and other gadgets. A half-dozen kids of varying ages busied themselves at assorted workstations, tapping keys, turning dials, tipping test tubes, or taking notes.

In the middle of all this scientific chaos, a skinny kid with straight dark hair and thick glasses moved among the workstations. In each case, he either offered approval or corrections.

“Yo, Steve-o!” Sharyn announced. “This here's Will Ritter, Karl's boy. He just joined up.”

I almost reminded Sharyn that I hadn't
joined up
for anything.

The kids at the tables all stared curiously at me.

Then Steve asked distractedly, “Karl who?”

Subdued laughter rippled among his coworkers. Sharyn's face darkened. “What do you mean,
Karl who?
Karl Ritter!”

“Oh. Right. Hi.”

“Hi,” I said.

Sharyn groaned. “Sorry, Will. This here's Steve Moscova, and we call this little nest of his the Brain Factory. Steve's little bro, Burton, rode with my crew today.”

I remembered the boy who'd shared his bike with Helene.

Sharyn continued, “They're the Moscova Brothers! Except that Steve ain't quite so…I don't know…”

“Jock-ish?” Steve suggested. “Or maybe Jock
Itch
would be more accurate.”

Sharyn snorted out a laugh. “Steve dreams up all our anti-Deader stuff. Whenever we need something, he's our Mr. Wizard.”

“I've got work to do,” Steve said flatly. “Nice to meet you, Bill.”

“Will,” I corrected.

“Right. Sorry.”

Irritated, I looked away. Then something caught my eye: a set of plastic rifles mounted on the wall—more than a dozen of them.

“Hey!” I exclaimed. “Are those Super Soakers?”

Steve nodded absently.

“What are they for?”

He made a face. “Shooting Corpses. What else would they be for?”

Recalling Helene's water pistol, I asked, “What's in them?”

“Nothing,” Steve said. “They aren't loaded.”

I gave him a look. “Okay…then what
would
be in them if they
were
loaded?”

“H-2-O,” Sharyn replied, smiling slyly. “Tap water.”

“Water hurts Corpses?” I asked.

“Sure!”

Steve sighed. “Sharyn's messing with your head. She likes to tell new recruits that the Corpses are like those stupid aliens in that movie
Signs.
The truth, however, is that regular water is harmless to them. What we use is a solution of water and sea salt.”

I blinked. “Saltwater?”

“You know it, Red!” Sharyn replied, slapping me on the back. “Steve discovered it! You shoot a Deader in the arm or leg and it goes numb. Shoot them in the face and they go blind and start bouncing off the walls!”

I remembered Ms. Yu and Assistant Principal Titlebaum. “Would enough of it kill them?” I asked.

The Brain Factory went quiet. Finally Sharyn said somberly, “We ain't got a way to kill a Corpse, Will…at least not yet. Saltwater slows them down, but it don't do nothing permanent.”

“They usually recover within a few minutes,” added Steve.

I looked from one to the other. “But—back on Market Street, Sharyn, you chopped the arms off of one of them with that sword on your back.”

“Vader,” she said, reaching up and patting the hilt.

“Whatever—that's
got
to do some damage! Don't tell me the arms just grow back!”

“They don't,” said Steve. “But that Corpse will just Transfer.”

“Transfer?”

“You haven't been to First Stop,” he said.

Sharyn and I said “No” together, although I still didn't get what this First Stop thing was.

Steve nodded. “Then I'll give you the short version. Corpses aren't dead human beings. They're invaders who take possession of cadavers, the fresher the better, and animate them somehow. The bodies are like vehicles to them—ways to get around in our world. They keep each one for a while, until it starts really falling apart. Then they just Transfer to another one. The body you described—armless—will be pretty useless to that particular Corpse. So he'll Transfer.”

“Probably already has,” said Sharyn.

“Oh,” I said. “But what about the body he's in? I mean, why don't people see the arms that Sharyn chopped off?”

Steve explained, “The Corpses have a way of blocking what people see. But you'll learn more about that at First Stop.”

“You mean it's part of their Masks,” I said. “Helene told me about Masks. She even showed me how to spot a Corpse's Mask by holding my eyes just right.”

Steve nodded. “Same technique for seeing an autostereogram. It's part of the First Stop training.”

“Yeah,” Sharyn added. “But it's good to know you got the knack for it down already. That'll speed things up for you.”

Great,
I thought bitterly.

Steve said, “You know, I remember giving your father a Magic Eye poster that I'd designed and printed out. This was a while back, when we were just beginning to understand the Corpses. He was the only adult that we know of to ever have the Sight—but he had some trouble spotting a Mask. I thought practice with it might help. Then of course he…” His words trailed off. When his eyes regained focus, he found Sharyn and me staring at him.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

“Forget it,” said Sharyn. “Red, don't you sweat none of that for now. Come on, I'll show you the dorms.”

I frowned at them both, my mind spinning with questions. Where had these
invaders
come from? How had my dad found out about them? Why had he been the only adult who could See them?

And why hadn't I known about any of this?

That was the question that hurt.

Suddenly I didn't feel like asking it. I didn't feel like asking anything.

I turned to follow Sharyn.

“Wait a second,” Steve said. “Before you go, help me test something.”

Sharyn groaned again. “The last time you conned me into playing lab rat, my skin turned green for a week!”

“This isn't like that. I've been working on a new saltwater delivery system. Tom's worried that pistols draw too much attention for Schoolers. He asked me to come up with something less—conspicuous. Besides, I don't want you anyway. My prototype is for somebody a little—well, smaller. Bill here will do.”

“Will,” I corrected impatiently.

“Right. Sorry. Come around here.”

I glanced at Sharyn, who shrugged. Then, feeling vaguely uneasy, I stepped around one of the lab tables and officially entered the Brain Factory. Steve looked me over. “We're about the same size. How old are you?”

“Twelve,” I replied. “How old are you?”

“My age isn't relevant.”

“He's fifteen,” Sharyn offered.

“Take your shirt off,” Steve said.

“What?”

“Take your shirt off.”

“Why?”

“Look, do you want to help or not?”

The fact was that I didn't particularly want to help. I didn't particularly care about water pistols at the moment. I just wanted to go home.

Nevertheless I said, “I'll help.”

“Then take your shirt off.”

“Can I, you know—keep my pants?”

“Of course you can keep your pants!” he exclaimed.

I pulled my shirt over my head and tossed it to Sharyn, who sniffed it. “Phew! We've got to hook you up with some fresh clothes!” I almost said that I had a whole closet full of clothes back home, but I didn't.

Steve reached into a nearby box and pulled out a flat, rectangular plastic container with two long clear plastic tubes sticking out of either end. This he fitted around my stomach with a strap so the plastic container pressed against the small of my back. It was filled with water and felt cold against my skin. Then he fastened the tubes to my upper and lower arms with Velcro so each tube ran from my hand to the container against my spine. Each tube ended with a little plastic squeezable bulb that fit neatly in my palm.

“Now,” Steve said, “put your shirt back on.”

I did. The shirt hid the whole setup except for the plastic bulbs.

“What's it do?” I asked.

“The reservoir at your back holds saltwater. The pumps in your palms draw the water through the tubes and fire it out the ejectors behind them at high pressure. Try it out on the practice target.” Steve pointed to a mannequin that stood in front of a nearby concrete wall.

“How much'll it hold?” Sharyn asked.

“About a pint. But the reservoirs can be daisy-chained together so a person could wear up to four at once. That would give you about half a gallon.”

Sharyn frowned. “Pretty heavy.”

Steve nodded. “Well, weight's always been a problem, hasn't it? No way to make water lighter, after all. Go ahead, Bill—give it a try.”

I sighed and raised my right arm, pointing my wrist at the target. Bending my middle and third fingers, I pressed down on the bulb.

A spray of water shot from the curly antenna, hitting the mannequin square in the face.

“Sweet!” exclaimed Sharyn. “Try the other wrist!”

Impressed, I switched arms and did it again. Another hit. Despite myself, I laughed. “I feel like Spider-Man.”

Sharyn chuckled. “Do both hands together.”

Steve protested, “No! Wait!”

Too late. I raised both arms and fired—and the plastic reservoir on my back exploded, soaking my shirt and the seat of my pants. I cursed as cold water seeped into my boxers.

Sharyn burst out laughing.

“You can't fire both off at once!” Steve moaned. “To force water out one side, the other side has to be free to take in air! Otherwise you put too much pressure on the reservoir, and it pops its seams. Ugh! Look at this! Hold still, Bill—let me get it off of you.”

I spun around, wet and irritated and suddenly very angry. “My name is Will!” I screamed into the older kid's startled face. “Not Bill! Will!”

Steve's face paled, and he retreated. Behind him in the Brain Factory, the other kids stopped what they were doing.

“Sure,” he muttered. “Sorry.”

Suddenly Sharyn was between us. “Chill out, dudes! Yo, Will, let Steve get that crap off of you and then we'll head off someplace to get you dried and dressed. And Steve-o, get the dude's name right, okay?”

This from the girl who insists on calling me Red.

“Sure,” the boy in glasses said again. “Will it is. Got it.”

“Good,” I muttered, feeling tired, embarrassed, and surprised at myself. I didn't usually go off on people like that.

Evidently things were changing—and so was I.

And just like that, I knew that I couldn't stay here anymore.