Queen of the Dead (6 page)

“Eastern State Penitentiary,” Tom explained, “has been closed to the public for three months. This came down from the Community Affairs Office 'round the same time
she
showed up. Now…since Sharyn and me know some of you ain't as up to speed on her as the rest, I'm gonna take a minute to review.”

The entire Angels complement had gathered in the rec room, occupying a loose assortment of folding chairs that were the furniture of choice in Haven. One of the Hackers, the Undertakers' answer to the Geek Squad, had hooked a laptop computer to an old twenty-five-inch TV. The girl was now displaying a slide show of sorts that her crew had hastily put together at Tom's request.

The screen showed the prison frontage, with the big gate where Helene and I had gone Deader-fighting clearly visible. As we watched, this image changed to that of a woman's face, a Dead woman's face. A Type One—very fresh. The hair was mostly still there, though the skin had gone purple with clotted blood and her lips had begun to thin and pull back from her teeth. She didn't even look embalmed, a process the Corpses often used to help their stolen bodies last a bit longer.

“Lilith Cavanaugh,” Tom said. “Philly's new director of community affairs. If you read her creds, she sounds pretty cool: got most of her schooling in Europe; spent the last five years doing public relations for Euro Disney. She even speaks with an English accent. To be honest, it's the best job the Corpses have ever done at setting up a backstory for one of their own. She showed up a little over a month after Kenny Booth died on live TV—”

A few feet away, Sharyn chimed, “Pop goes the weasel.”

Everybody laughed. Yeah, it's a pretty stupid joke. But if you'd known the guy, you'd have appreciated the humor.

Tom pressed on. “Cavanaugh has wasted no time taking over where Booth left off. She's already got the police and most major city departments in her back pocket. Officially, she answers only to the mayor's office. Unofficially, I figure she's got the new mayor either completely charmed or completely scared. Either way, he and the city council let her do pretty much whatever she wants.

“More'n once, we've heard Cavanaugh referred to by Deaders as ‘Majesty' or ‘the Queen.' As we figure it, Booth's failure has convinced the Corpses…
Malum
, as they call themselves…to send in the ‘big gun.' A member of the Corpse royal family maybe. But whoever she is in her world, in
ours
she's the new boss of the invasion.”

I looked at the face on the screen, with its slack skin and bloating features. Then I did what I figured the others were doing and crossed my eyes. The Mask trick also worked on photographs—better, actually, because a photo didn't move. Instantly, a second face materialized over the first, kind of floating atop it. It showed a woman in her late thirties, with long blond hair and a movie-star face. While her real smile was grotesque, this one was dazzling, all white teeth and red lips.

The Chief said, “Cavanaugh makes a lot of public appearances, opening shopping centers, visiting schools, stuff like that. In just a few months, she's become respected and well liked. Some folks are already seeing the mayor's office in her future.”

I had to force my eyes to relax. The image of the Queen's Mask was eerily captivating. No wonder she'd taken the city by storm.

Tom continued, “She's better organized and…in my opinion…a bit smarter than Booth was. She's already expanded Corpse influence throughout the city. She's also the one who closed Eastern State to tourists. We don't know why, but from Will and Helene's recon last night, it looks like she may be turning it back into a prison. Which brings us to our current situation.”

He nodded to the Hacker, and the screen changed again, this time showing the wallet ID photo of Hugo Ramirez, special agent for the FBI. Ramirez had a square face, short-cropped black hair, a neatly trimmed goatee, and heavy-lidded brown eyes. He wasn't smiling.

“Looks like the Corpses have caught themselves a pretty big fish,” Tom explained. “Now, we don't know why they would've taken the risk of snatching a Fed, but they did, and it seems pretty clear that we need to do something about it.”

Another nod, and this time, the screen showed an overhead view of the prison's layout.

“Agent Ramirez is in
here
…somewhere. We need to find him, boost him, and get him back to Haven. Then we need to find out what he did that spooked Cavanaugh into pullin' this stunt.”

Chuck Binelli—a veteran member of the Angels—yelled out, “How do we know they haven't moved him? I mean…the Deaders must figure Will and Helene grabbed the ID.”

It was Sharyn who replied, “We know he's still there 'cause we been watching the place ever since Will called it in. Nobody's come in or out.”

“But that probably won't last,” Tom added. “Which is why we need to go in now…today.”

“In the daytime?” Burt Moscova, another Angel, asked. “Talk about risk!”

“I know,” the Chief admitted. “This one's gonna be particularly dangerous, but I think it's worth it. A small team led by Sharyn will hit the place hard, find Agent Ramirez, and hopefully make it to the streets again before the Corpses even know what happened.”

“Hopefully?” Chuck muttered.

“Yeah,” said Sharyn, grinning. “That's the bad news. The good news is that we got us a new trick to stick up our sleeves. And you dudes are gonna
love
it!”

Tom motioned to the back of the room.

Steve Moscova stepped forward.

A small, skinny kid with dark hair and a round face hidden behind thick glasses, Steve was the science geek who dreamed up our weapons and other gadgets. He was also Burt's older brother, though he'd gotten his Eyes later, a point of some embarrassment for him. In truth, every Seer was unique, though the ability was often shared by all the children in a given family.

Seeing the Moscova brothers together always made me think of my little sister, Emily. She was only five years old and wouldn't get the Sight for another six years—if she got it at all.

The Corpses
had
to be gone by then.

It was a quiet vow I'd made to myself.

Steve carried a bath towel, clean but worn, which he laid out atop the television and unrolled.

Inside were six syringes.

Each was identical to the one I'd seen Sharyn use back in the alley, and each was filled with the same clear liquid.

“I call these ‘Ritters,'” Steve announced, smiling, “in honor of the first person to ever kill a Corpse.”

As the room broke into applause, I felt my face redden. Helene, who was sitting behind me, playfully elbowed my ribs.

Still grinning, Steve waited until the noise died down. Then he started talking again—now all business. “A single Ritter contains fifteen cubic centimeters of concentrated saltwater. If fully injected into the chest or abdomen of a Corpse, the result is a sudden and violent disruption of the host body's tissue structure.”

“English?” Burt suggested.

Steve sighed. “It makes the Corpse blow up.”

Another round of applause, this one mixed in with assorted whoops and shouts of “yeah!” and “awright!”

Then one of the girls, an Angel named Katie Bell, called out in her especially high-pitched voice, “How does it work?”

“We don't really know,” Steve replied. “There's no real physiological reason for saltwater to have such an effect on a cadaver, so it must be linked to the nature of the invaders themselves. But there's no denying that it
does
work. Sharyn tested a Ritter on a Corpse just a few hours ago, and the results were…compelling.”

“Compelling!” the Boss Angel exclaimed. “That ain't the word for it! That Deader popped like a balloon! Pieces of him are probably
still
rainin' down all over that alley!”

This brought another round of cheers.

“We can kill 'em!” Chuck shouted. “We can
finally
kill 'em!”

“But…” Steve said. “There's a catch.”

The cheers died down.

“Always is,” Chuck muttered.

“Depending on the size of the host body, full effectiveness can take up to ten seconds, during which time the Corpse remains dangerous.”

Burt raised his hand, an old classroom gesture that he seemed to be the only one to bother with. I suspected he kept doing it because he knew his big brother liked it. “So…we gotta get in close enough to stick a Deader and then back away fast enough so he doesn't kill us before the stuff can work?”

“Well…” Steve stammered. “I wouldn't put it quite that way.”

“Ain't as bad as all that,” Sharyn assured us. “You hit the dead dude with a few shots of juice from your Super Soaker or pistol. Then, when he's down, you let him it have it with the…Ritter.”

As she said this last part, Sharyn winked at me.

Inwardly, I groaned.

“Just don't hit bone,” Steve warned. “You can snap the needle. The best spot is right here.” He pointed to his stomach, roughly where his navel would be. “The soft abdominal tissue. It'll take some force…I'm using large gauge needles…but once you penetrate the skin, the plunger only needs a second to empty the barrel.”

“Each of you gets one of these,” Tom announced, “along with your usual equipment. But use it only as a last resort. I'd be happier if none of you has to get that close to a Corpse. Now Sharyn's gonna walk y'all through the plan we've worked out, so listen up. We don't know what the Corpses got in mind for Agent Ramirez, but we can make some pretty good guesses. Be ready to split in an hour. Good luck, Undertakers.”

Then, with a nod to his sister, the Chief left the rec room.

Sharyn grinned broadly. “Dudes, this mission's gonna
rock
! This here's the first time y'all might get the chance to actually waste a Corpse! Well…except for Red, of course.”

More applause.

“Come on,” I muttered. “Enough.”

“'Fore we split,” the Boss Angel continued, holding up an empty Ritter, “I'm gonna walk y'all through how to use one of these and how not to get bit, beaten to death, or strangled in the process. Hot Dog…that's your cue!”

Dave's here?

This was supposed to be an Angels-only meeting, with the exception of the Hacker running the laptop. The fact that the Burgermeister had been invited was an interesting surprise, especially because I knew how badly he wanted to join Sharyn's crew.

Under the circumstances, I'd have thought he'd be grinning, glad to be a part of an Angels' mission in any way at all. But he wasn't. In fact, he looked resigned, maybe even grim, as he rose out of a chair in the back and trudged forward to stand beside Sharyn. Once there, the giant kid towered over the Boss Angel—at least half a foot taller and maybe a hundred pounds heavier.

But I knew she could kick his ass.

Fact was, we probably all could.

Before he had gotten his Eyes, Dave Burger had been a force to be reckoned with in his neighborhood. A local fighter, even a bully. But here in this world of the walking dead with its very real dangers, he'd found out quickly that he lacked the speed and—sorry, Dave—the smarts to stand up against kids half his size who'd been trained in what Sharyn called “street karate.”

But here he was, and I couldn't help but wonder why.

Eyeing the Burgermeister up, Sharyn hastily screwed the needle off the end of her syringe.

“There!” she announced, showing everyone her handiwork. “Harmless. Hot Dog, stand right there. Now turn a little so's everyone can see your front. Cool! Just like that. Now…”

The Boss Angel addressed us, “Last night, I had old Vader with me and used that to convince the Deader's arms to be elsewhere. That made stickin' him a whole lot easier. Y'all won't have that advantage, so there's a number of ways you can play it.

“First, you can come up at 'em from the front. Hot Dog, I want you to do your best to tag me. Don't hold back, dig?”

“I guess,” he muttered. Then, as if reaching some internal decision, he came forward suddenly and swung his meaty fist at Sharyn's head.

She ducked smoothly under it.

He swung the other fist, a sweeping haymaker that, if it had landed, would probably have knocked the girl's head right off her shoulders.

Sharyn moved as though made of liquid, weaving under the arcing arm, sidestepped, and, with Dave momentarily off balance, drove her fist—with the syringe in it—hard into the Burgermeister's belly. Then she made a show of hammering down the plunger with her thumb.

He gasped and doubled over as Sharyn jumped back about six feet.

“Kill!” she announced. “Stick, plunge, and back off. It's that simple.”

Dave straightened, more surprised than hurt by the blow.

“Thanks, Hot Dog. Y'all see where that hit? Right above the navel. Nothing behind there but soft stuff. Now let me show you the rear attack.” She motioned to Dave, twirling her finger.

Sighing, he turned obediently around.

“This is trickier,” she admitted. “From the front, you got this whole section here…from the solar plexus to the pelvic bone. From the back, though, the sweet spot's smaller and a little harder to nail. You want to hold the Ritter like this”—she flipped the syringe over in her hand so the business end, needleless, stuck out of the top of her fist instead of the bottom—“then it's about quiet. Don't count on a Corpse showing you his back in combat. The only way you're likely to get a chance like this if you sneak up on his smelly butt.”

She made a show of creeping up on Dave, who fidgeted nervously, knowing what was coming.

“When you hit, use both hands—one to stick and one to plunge. Like this.”