Queen of the Dead (9 page)

He brought me down, wrapping his arms around me.

I hit the floor hard, slamming my head against the tile. Immediately, the room seemed to tilt. Then dead hands, sticky with juices I didn't want to think about, snaked around my neck. The Corpse's rotting visage loomed before me, his eyes gleaming and his mouth opening insanely wide, like shark's jaws. My head was spinning, and it was all I could do to brace my forearm under his chin, trying to keep him from biting me.

The Deader's black tongue lolled out from between receding lips. His teeth, dripping maggots, snapped downward toward my face.

Then he stopped.

His expression turned bewildered—right before he exploded.

“Ugh!” I heard Chuck Binelli exclaim as bits of dead guy covered us both.

For fleeting seconds, I stared up into a different face, a face wholly alien, wholly evil. It had no weight, no solid matter at all, but it
did
have eyes, which seemed to burn me with their gaze. There was hatred there. But there was also terror. Awful terror.

Whatever this thing was, it knew it was dying.

And then it was gone.

Leaving pieces of his stolen body up my nose and in my mouth.

Rolling over, I pushed myself up onto my hands and knees and vomited. My head pounded, and the world seemed to spin worse than ever.

Across the room, Helene, Katie, and Burt rushed to Sharyn's aid—though I saw each of them hesitate, just for a moment, when they caught sight of the giant.

Fear flashed across their faces.

“I hit the sweet spot!” Chuck exclaimed. “First time! Hey…you okay?”

I nodded. Then I vomited again. I felt like I'd been hit with a hammer and then dipped in a bucket of chum.

“Zapped…the other one…” I sputtered. “My…Ritter.”

“I'm on it,” he said. Then, sounding apprehensive, he added, “Will…these dudes are wearing raincoats!”

Are
they?
I thought bitterly.
I
hadn't noticed.

Burt went for the giant, his own Ritter out and ready. But the big guy saw him coming and moved with surprising speed, swatting the boy aside as if he were a pesky mosquito. Burt crashed to the tile floor, momentarily stunned. The giant advanced on him, but Sharyn sprang between them, brandishing her sword.

Meanwhile, Katie and Helene focused on the remaining Type Three, cornering the smelly cadaver against a large bronze plaque that was mounted into the stone wall of the hub. Both girls had their Ritters out. As Helene feigned a thrust, drawing the Deader's attention, Katie moved in and smoothly planted hers into the Corpse's belly, right through the raincoat.

Hissing—yeah, they hiss sometimes—he swiped at her, forcing her to jump back, leaving the syringe's plunger unplunged. Seeing this, Helene stepped up and executed a solid roundhouse kick, slamming her sneakered foot into the Type Three's middle section.

Both girls jumped back.

“Watch this, Katie!” I heard Helene say.

The Corpse exploded—a wet popping sound.

A moment later, I heard a similar sound—though drier and raspier. I looked back to see that Chuck had found my fallen Ritter and used it on the flaky guy I'd zapped.

Apparently, the only one who had a problem killing these things was me.

But the good news was that five of the six were down.

For one glorious moment, I actually thought we had this battle locked up.

Wrong.

The giant, maybe reacting to what had just happened to his buds, went completely off the rails. He threw himself at Sharyn, who lifted her blade to meet him. Vader went right into the big guy's chest, undoubtedly piercing his heart. But what good was that when the darned thing wasn't beating anyway?

Cursing, Sharyn tried to pull it out. But once again, the enormous Type Two proved himself to be amazingly fast. He snatched up the Boss Angel, wrapping his bloated, putrid hands around her upper body and pinning her arms. Then, lifting her off her feet, he squeezed brutally.

Sharyn cried out and dropped her sword. The giant kicked it away.

Then he
threw
her.

This wasn't the offhand slap he'd given Burt, who still lay dazed on the floor. This was vicious and deliberate, and it had all the monster's strength behind it. Sharyn flew across the room, her arms and legs flailing.

Then she slammed headfirst into the far wall. I actually heard the
crack
, and the sound of it made my blood go cold.

Katie screamed, “Sharyn!” Then she ran around the giant and toward where the Boss Angel's broken body lay in a heap on the tiles.

The huge Type Two whirled on Helene.

He spoke in English, his voice as deep as thunder. “What did you just
do
, girl?”

Helene stared up at him, her face pale. Bravely, she raised her Ritter. “The same thing I'm gonna do to you!” she exclaimed.

She jabbed at him, but he knocked the syringe from her grasp with a single swat of his massive paw. Then he grabbed her by the throat.

“No!” I screamed. I tried to rise to my feet only to lose my balance and fall back. I didn't vomit this time, just heaved a little, which I suppose was a sign of improvement. But my head still swam.

Fortunately, Chuck and Burt were in better shape. They closed in on the giant from behind. Chuck delivered a well-placed kick to the monster's lower back that he completely ignored. Then Burt pushed Chuck aside and slammed his Ritter into the Corpse's unguarded kidney.

An instant later, he stepped back, his face reddening.

The plunger was gone from the syringe and all its saltwater drained off. It must have broken when he'd been knocked down.

“Crap,” I heard him mutter.

The giant lifted Helene off the floor, one of his bloated, snow shovel–sized hands locked around her slender throat. At the same time, his other arm swung like a baseball bat, catching Burt in the side of the head and knocking him into Chuck. Both of them went down hard, the wind knocked out of them.

Then the Type Two looked over at me, and reading the horror on my face, he grinned.

There were no bugs in his teeth. In fact, he had no teeth at all. His mouth looked like a twisted black pit that had been dug into the purplish, slimy surface of his face.

In Deadspeak, he said,
“Watch. Girl. Die.”

Helene!

The word filled my mind, pushing away everything else. Sharyn lay unmoving near the entrance to Cell Block Six, with Katie cradling her head. Burt and Chuck flopped on the floor like landed fish, their chests heaving as they tried to convince their lungs to expand and let in air.

And Helene hung helplessly in the giant's grasp, her eyes wide, her face going purple.

Again, I tried to find my feet. My head felt twice its normal size.

You
just
got
a
bad
bump!
I told myself.
Most
of
it's shock. Move!

I staggered a step. Two. It was like navigating one of those moon bounces.

Move! Or she's gonna die!

I moved, one foot in front of the next, with the prison hub pitching and yawing around me like a boat on rough water. Finally, I saw the giant's huge, broad back looming before me. Only then did I realize I had no weapon. My pocketknife was God knew where, lost someplace in the room. My Super Soaker was history. And something told me my fists weren't going to do a thing to this Dead Superman.

Then I spotted Vader.

It lay where Sharyn had dropped it, just a few feet away. I reached for it, leaning over, struggling to keep my churning stomach in line as my trembling hand closed around its hilt. When I straightened again, the room was still spinning, though not quite as badly.

At least I could keep my balance, which was good because I needed it.

Helene had stopped gasping. I couldn't even hear her struggling anymore.

Oh
God…

I raised the sword, and with a great heave, I drove its point into the base of the giant's skull. I heard a
scrape
that set my teeth on edge as the blade glanced off his collarbone. But I kept going, getting my shoulder under the sword's guard and pushing upward with my knees.

Corpses don't feel pain. That's both an asset
and
a liability. Pain, you see, has a purpose.

It tells you when you're in trouble.

But this giant felt nothing at all as Vader drilled all the way into his brain.

I heard rather than saw Helene fall to the floor, felt rather than saw the giant topple sideways. He hit the floor so hard that the impact vibrated up through my shoes. I almost fell too, but after some struggle, I managed to step forward over the helpless giant and catch the wall with one hand. It steadied me.

“Sharyn's hurt bad!” I heard Katie yell. But at that moment, I didn't care. Well, I cared. I mean, of course, I cared. It was just that—

“Helene?” I croaked.

I slid my back down the wall until I sat right beside where the girl lay. Trembling, I put a hand on her shoulder and shook her.

She didn't move.

Oh
God. Please…

“Helene!” I coughed, a bit louder this time. Then I shook her again.

With a loud gasp, she sat bolt upright and drew in a mighty lungful of air. Her face, despite the cold, appeared soaked in sweat, and the eyes that found mine looked glassy.

“You okay?” I asked—pleaded, really.

When she replied, her voice sounded raspy. “Think so.”

My heart started beating again.

“Jeez!” Chuck moaned as he and Burt finally caught their breath. “What a freak
that
dude was!”

I managed a nod. “My pocketknife's…over there,” I said, pointing to where I thought it might have fallen.

“I'll look for it,” Burt said.

Chuck came over to us. “You two okay?”

“I'm good,” I said. And I was. My stomach had settled, and the room wasn't spinning anymore. Well, not much. “Helene?”

“I'm good too,” the girl replied. Then she fixed me with her hazel eyes. I noticed that one of them had some blood in its white part, probably from the near strangling. “Thanks, Will.”

I nodded, feeling vaguely uncomfortable and almost faint with relief. We helped each other to our feet and staggered over to where Sharyn lay, her head resting in Katie's lap. The younger girl looked up. There were tears on her cheeks. “She's hurt bad. She won't wake up.”

“We gotta get her out of here,” I said.

“Where's the FBI dude?” Helene asked.

Burt, who was dutifully scanning the hub floor, pointed toward the doorway to Cell Box Three. “He's in there. I passed him as I was coming in. I think he's unconscious.”

As Helene helped Katie, I went to look.

Just beyond the archway stood a wheeled gurney, the collapsible kind like paramedics use. On it laid a man in his thirties, with short, dark hair and a neatly trimmed goatee. His eyes were shut, and his mouth hung slack. Definitely alive, though he looked heavily drugged.

“Hey,” I said, shaking his shoulder as I had Helene's. It had worked then, so maybe it would work now.

It didn't.

I checked his pulse. It was strong. At least the guy wasn't likely to die on us. But moving him out of here was going to be a problem. A bunch of kids didn't just wheel a gurney out onto Fairmount Avenue without drawing some stares.

Frowning, I returned to the hub.

Helene, Chuck, and Katie were huddled around Sharyn. Burt had found my pocketknife. Seeing me, he tossed it over. “Wish I had one of those,” he said wistfully.

“Yeah?” I said, surprised by how smoothly I caught it. “Considering how much I've been losing it lately, maybe it'd be better off with somebody else.”

“I think Sharyn's in big trouble,” Katie reported, sounding miserable. “I checked her eyes. One pupil's big. The other's small.”

“Is that bad?” Chuck asked.

“It's not good!” the girl snapped at him.

Helene said, “We gotta get her back to Haven.”

“And Ramirez too,” I added. “He's out cold. Drugged maybe. No way he's walking out of here.”

Chuck muttered, “What a screwup.”

“At least we're all alive,” I told him. That thought made me risk a glance at Helene, hoping I wouldn't catch her looking at me. I did. She smiled, and I turned away again. My stomach shuddered strangely—probably still a little queasy. “But we're not going to be able to get Ramirez and Sharyn into the van. Not carrying them. Not in broad daylight.”

Helene added, “And with all these Corpses down for the count, you
know
there are more on the way…and soon!”

“What do we do?” Burt asked.

I didn't know. Then I did.

“Check these Corpses for cell phones,” I said. “I've got an idea.”

“An ambulance?” the Queen of the Dead asked incredulously. “They stole an ambulance?”

“Yes. Mistress,”
the big fool from the prison answered in the Ancient Tongue.

“English!” she cried, rising from behind her chair. She slammed one fist against her desktop, and when she lifted her hand away, she noticed that some skin and fluid had stayed behind, smeared against the heavy varnish.

This
body
is
withering. I'll have to arrange for another.

The two of them were alone in her office on the fifth floor of City Hall. The fool standing across from her was wrapped in a new body. His old one, a particularly large specimen—difficult to find—had been rendered useless that morning at Eastern State Penitentiary. Apparently a sword had been driven through his brain pan.

The
Undertakers.

“Yes…sorry, mistress,” the fool stammered. “English.”

The Queen sneered at him. “And just how did a handful of human schoolchildren go about stealing an ambulance?”

“After the boy incapacitated me, he used my mobile phone to call an ambulance. He told the emergency dispatcher that they'd been part of a school field trip to the prison and that a part of the ceiling in the hub had collapsed. Then he and one of the girls went to open the gates while the others arranged the room.”

“Arranged?” Lilith demanded. “What does
that
mean?”

The fool explained, “They cleaned up the mess as best they could and dragged the remaining bodies into one of the old prison cells.”

“Including you?”

“Yes, mistress…though in my case, it took three of them. My host body was somewhat large.”

Unlike
your
intellect.
“Go on.”

“Well…once we were all piled up in the cell, I could no longer see what was happening, but I heard the boy and girl return a few minutes later with two emergency medical technicians. The EMTs were pushing something on wheels, a gurney probably. The Undertakers' manner immediately changed. They started to all talk at once…and they sounded frightened, shaken, very different from what they'd been in battle.”

Clever
, Lilith grudgingly admitted to herself. “And the EMTs accepted this story?”

“It appeared so, mistress. There was a good deal of noise as they examined the girl I'd injured and put her on their gurney. That was when the Undertakers produced the guns.”

“Guns?” Lilith demanded. “What guns?”

“Well…
our
guns, mistress,” the fool replied, shuffling uncomfortably in his new body. It wasn't a particularly good specimen, much smaller than his last one. And being at least a month dead, the bones cracked noisily under the layers of rotting skin and muscle. But it was the best the idiot could have hoped for under the circumstances. “The Undertakers took our human weapons and hid them under their coats. This was while the boy and girl were away fetching the ambulance.”

“You're telling me that these…children…threatened two adult EMTs with firearms?”

The fool nodded. “They unloaded them first.”

“Did they?”

Lilith frowned. Her people at the prison had been “wearing” police officers. As such, each had carried a standard-issue pistol—loaded. But these were just a part of the disguise, never intended to be drawn from their holsters, much less used. In her native world, weapons were considered cowardly, even blasphemous.

It was a cultural inhibition that could be…inconvenient.

Still, it had never occurred to her that these props could be taken by the enemy and used against them. After all, bullets couldn't kill the dead.

And yet, these…brats…had stolen and made good use of them!

Something
to
consider.

“I believe they forced the EMTs to remove their jackets before handcuffing them. Finally, two of the boys, posing as EMTs, loaded the injured girl and the FBI agent into the ambulance and drove off, leaving behind the redheaded boy and the two girls.”

“And what did
they
do?” Lilith asked.

“As near as I could determine, mistress, they…apologized.”

“Apologized?”

“Yes, mistress. I heard him. I think it was the redheaded boy.”

“Apologized to whom?”

“To the EMTs, mistress. He explained that they needed to get their friends to safety and that they meant no harm. Then he apparently showed them that the guns they carried weren't loaded and promised to call the police as soon as they were clear of the prison.”

“I see,” the Queen remarked thoughtfully. “And how did the captured men react?”

“Not well. They uttered a good many human curses and threats. But finally, they went quiet, and the Undertakers left. Apparently, they kept their word because a short time later, the police
did
come, with some of our brethren among them. They found us and saw to our safe removal and transfer. Then I was summoned here.”

Resourceful, these Undertakers. Children, yes—but clever and courageous.

And
dangerous.

After last night's encounter outside the prison had ended with one of her minions missing, Lilith had decided to increase the guards on the FBI agent. Excessive, certainly, to ensure the security of one drugged prisoner—more than enough to discourage any intruders.

And yet, the Undertakers had come in anyway.

Ramirez's abduction had been a risk but a calculated one. Now, however, thanks to this redheaded boy and his friends, that risk had blown up in her face.

Where
have
you
taken
him, you meddlesome brats? And where are you hiding?

Their last lair had been in an old warehouse on Green Street in the Callowhill section of the city. But that had been abandoned months ago. Where were they now? Somewhere in the city surely.

Perhaps
close.

Then the fool said, “I thought he meant to…end me, mistress.”

Lilith looked up. Her minion was trembling. “What's that?”

“End my existence,” he explained. “With those needles. You assigned seven of us to that prison. Only three returned. And after what I did to their leader…”

“Sharyn Jefferson.” She'd recognized the description.

“Yes, mistress.”

“Did you at least manage to kill her?” the Queen demanded.

“I'm not…certain,” the fool stammered. “But she was critically injured. I'm sure she'll die.”

Lilith's glare made him shrink back in fear. “Oh…you're sure, are you? So, tell me, why
did
the Undertakers spare you?”

“They didn't want to,” he said, visibly cowering. “Most of them wanted to use their last remaining needle to finish me.” The fool actually shuddered. “But the redheaded boy…he stopped them. He said he'd let me live…so I could deliver a message.”

“A message…for who?”

“For
you
, mistress.”

“What message?” the Queen demanded.

“He said, ‘Tell the Queen that Will Ritter, the dude who iced Kenny Booth, says hi…and tell her
she's
next.' Those were his exact words.”

Will
Ritter.

The
boy
who
killed
Booth.

“Did he really?” Lilith remarked. “Such bravado.”

The Queen tapped a button on her desk phone with one red-lacquered finger. “Come in here!” she commanded.

Within seconds, her assistant appeared.

His name was Gerald Pierce, and she'd chosen him personally from among the rabble who'd welcomed her through the Rift. Since then, Pierce had demonstrated enthusiasm, loyalty—and relatively high intelligence for a Warrior Caste. Also, his host was always fresh. Like herself, Pierce preferred frequent changes, never occupying a single cadaver for longer than two weeks.

Lilith appreciated such fastidiousness. So many of her minions wore their bodies until the flesh literally fell off their bones.

Very
uncouth.

“Pierce,” Lilith said. “Please take this minion somewhere and amputate his arms and legs. Then leave him in a morgue drawer somewhere…alone in the dark. In a month or two, I'll decide whether to let him transfer.”

“Yes, Ms. Cavanaugh,” Pierce replied. He always used her human title, never “mistress.” It was something else about him that she appreciated.

“What? Wait!” the fool stammered. “Mistress, please! I—”

“You…what?” Lilith demanded. “You allowed a band of children to sneak into
my
prison, kill…not incapacitate, not overcome, but
kill
…four of my minions and make off with a prisoner who holds extremely dangerous information? Is that what you were going to say?”

“No. Mistress. Please…”

The Queen sneered at him. “Consider yourself fortunate that I don't destroy you myself here and now. As it is, I'll give you two months solitude to consider your failure. Then we'll see. Consider that punishment merciful…certainly more so than you're worth.”

She faced Pierce. “Get him out of here. Then come right back. It appears the Undertakers have discovered a method for killing us.”

Pierce looked stunned. And she couldn't really blame him. Real death was rare among the
Malum
.

“Yes, it's…disturbing,” Lilith said. “Let's discuss it when you return.”

“Certainly, Ms. Cavanaugh.”

Pierce left with the fool following, looking downcast and terrified but obedient. Good. No struggling. No further protests. Perhaps she'd let the idiot live after all. While blind obedience was a weakness, it was one that she could use.

Sometime later, Pierce returned as ordered. But he wasn't alone. With him came Martin D'Angelo, Philadelphia's chief of police. He, like Pierce and the fool from the prison, was of the Warrior Caste and had served Lilith's predecessor, Kenny Booth. D'Angelo's Cover was that of a fat human male, and he seemed to favor hosts that matched. The body the chief now wore was at least a month old but large-boned and still thick with rotting meat.

The Queen frowned. “What's this?”

D'Angelo stepped forward and held out the thing he carried. It looked like a shoebox.

Her first thought was that this was some sort of attempt at humor. Part of her own Cover was Lilith Cavanaugh's reputation as a staple of fashion, which in this world included the acquisition and collection of “stylish” footwear.

Had the idiot brought her a pair of shoes as a joke?

But, no. The Warrior Caste
had
no sense of humor.

“Am I supposed to know what that is?” she asked impatiently.

D'Angelo replied in English, “We were able to secure an anchor shard, mistress.”

The Queen's eyes lit up—at least her Cover's eyes did. The eyes of her host remained as dead as ever. Without a word, she snatched the shoebox, took it to her desk, and hurriedly opened it.

What she found inside inspired her first genuine smile of day.

Slowly, reverently, she withdrew the shard. It was perhaps ten inches long and an inch wide. Any human who happened to look upon it might call it “quartz,” but in truth, this particular substance, native to the
Malum
homeworld, had no Earth equivalent. Much harder that diamond, far clearer than glass, and glowing as if powered from within, the anchor shard was a treasure indeed.

“How many of our people did we sacrifice to get this?” she asked D'Angelo.

“Only a hundred and fifty.”

“All worker caste?”

“Yes, mistress.”

The Queen nodded. Perfectly acceptable losses; a bargain really, when one considered the cost and difficulty involved in bringing even ordinary solid matter through the Rift. And an anchor shard was nothing like “ordinary.”

She handed the shard to Pierce, who accepted it without hesitation. “Keep this on your person at all times,” she commanded. “Guard it until we're ready to use it.”

“With my life, Ms. Cavanaugh,” her assistant said.

She faced the Chief. “D'Angelo, I want you to send your best men to the prison to begin preparing it. I want the anchor shard in place and functioning by the middle of next week.”

“Of course, mistress,” D'Angelo replied. Then the fat fool bowed low, a
Malum
gesture of respect, as he departed.

I
need
to
break
him
of
that.

With Pierce watching, she went to the window and gazed down at the courtyard. Philadelphia's city hall was an imposing structure, more fortress than office building—with a five-hundred-foot central tower that offered an impressive view. The base of that tower stood directly across from her office window.

Lilith visited the tower's observation deck quite often. Perhaps she'd do so later today. Few tourists would risk the bitter winds this time of year, but the cold was not a problem for her. She liked the view. It sparked her imagination.

It was up there that her most recent plan had formed.

“The acquisition of the shard is an unexpected windfall,” she told Pierce without turning. “It means we can accelerate our plans. And the more aggressive our schedule…the more rapidly our people are able to infiltrate the layers of human government…the faster we can prevail.

“And the faster I can abandon this filthy world, mistress?” Pierce added.

“Exactly so. Unfortunately, it seems the Undertakers have developed a weapon to use against us. A
lethal
weapon. I need to understand more about it.”