The Undertakers (24 page)

Break-In

Just after six o'clock, as night was about to fall over the Roxborough section of northwestern Philadelphia, I crouched in the bushes across the street from what had to be the biggest house in this part of town.

Kenny Booth lived here—news anchorman, celebrity, mayoral candidate, Corpse. And somewhere inside, he was holding Helene captive.

Big surprise: the place was guarded. In fact, I was watching the guards right now, peering through my new pocketknife's cool miniature telescope. Dressed like bankers, the dead guys grimly patrolled the manicured grounds surrounding Booth's three-story mansion. They carried no guns that I could see, and being Corpses, they probably wouldn't use them anyway.

Nevertheless, I needed to do this quietly.

The ride up here had tempted me. Really tempted me. I mean, it was
sneak-downstairs-on-the-night-before-Christmas
tempting, except not in a good way. The bus route had taken me up Ridge Avenue, right past my middle school. I was shocked to find my heart aching a little at the sight of it.

A month ago, I'd hated the place.

Now I longed for it.

Worse, my house had been just a few blocks away. I could have yanked the stop cord and run down there in less than ten minutes—all downhill. Close. So close that I could almost feel my mother's presence.

But I'd stayed on the bus.

Once again I pushed such thoughts away, needing to focus on the here and now. On Helene. On Booth. On how best to get in there.

There was probably a burglar alarm. Maybe motion sensors. Maybe even cameras. Without a plan, I wouldn't get ten feet inside the gates.

Fortunately, I
had
a plan.

Still hiding in the bushes, I lifted my gilded pocketknife, watching the way the glow from the streetlights danced along its facing side.

Use it well,
the golden woman had told me.

I intended to.

Swallowing, I pressed the
8
button. I half-expected to feel something: a shock, a jolt,
something
. I didn't.

But every light within view winked out: the streetlamps and the lights in the windows in every nearby house. Even the cars traveling along this narrow side street rolled silently to a stop, their headlights dark, their drivers confused and alarmed.

EMP,
I thought, marveling.

I popped out the telescope again and surveyed the grounds around Booth's house. To my surprise, I could see clearly—very clearly—although everything had a strange greenish cast.

This thing's got night vision!

Awesome!

Better still, there was now no sign of the guards. Perhaps they'd been called inside when the blackout hit. Whatever the reason for their disappearance, my chance had come.

Pocketing the knife, I quit the bushes and crossed the street, wearing Vader across my back and clutching Sharyn's Soaker in both hands. I stayed low and kept to the shadows. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't scared, but it was a fear that I could control—maybe even use. I was going into battle, and the fear would keep me sharp.

Cautiously I tapped the front gates with my fingertips. No alarm sounded. I gave them a firm tug, but they wouldn't budge. Then I saw that a thick black chain was laced through the bars and fastened with a big padlock.

Shouldering the Soaker, I pulled out my pocketknife. I could use the lock pick—had, in fact, practiced with it a lot back at First Stop. But I had another idea. Tapping the
3
button, I watched the knife's five-inch blade pop into view.

Ain't much it won't cut,
Tom had said.

Feeling a little foolish, I ran the blade against the lock's steel shank. I honestly didn't expect anything to come of this experiment, other than maybe a dull edge.

But the knife bit into the steel—deeply.

“Whoa,” I whispered.

I started sawing.

Five strokes was all it took for the lock to pop open in my hands.

“Cool,” I muttered as I freed the gates. Then I opened them, slipped through, and tossed the chain and padlock into a nearby hedge.

The grounds sloped upward for about a hundred feet before reaching the house. Thanks to the EMP, all the windows were dark. Hopefully Booth would need time to find and reset the popped fuses. Right now, light was my enemy.

I scanned the grounds one more time with my telescope. Nothing. Satisfied, I started silently up the hill, keeping to the shadows and avoiding the driveway.

Undertaker training.

The main entrance would be well-guarded. Fortunately I spotted another door along the north wall and headed for it, using the trees for cover. Once there, I paused, listening furiously for the slightest noise. There was nothing but the distant sound of traffic floating in from beyond the EMP's effective range.

I tentatively tried the knob.

Locked.

Crouching down, I slipped the pocketknife's pick into the keyhole and held down the
1
button. There was a faint whirring noise.

Ten seconds later, the door's bolt clicked free.

I gingerly pushed the door open and slipped into a dark, roomy kitchen that was thankfully deserted. Islands with high countertops offered good cover, and I used them, half-crouching and half-crawling over to an archway that led into a big formal dining room.

Here the floor was thickly carpeted, and I was able to cross the room in silence, watching out for chairs and other furniture. At the far end, I found another archway, bigger this time, that led into a foyer beside the front door.

It was very dark.

I stopped at the threshold, listening again. Faint voices. Deadspeak.

“
Fuses
.
Blown
.”

“
How? Why?
”

“
Unknown
.
Investigating
.”

“
Intruder?
”

“
Unknown
.
Security
.
Broken
.”

“
Girl?
”

“
Basement
.”

“
Keep
.
Guard
.
No
.
Two
.
Guards
.
No
.
Mistakes
.”

“
Obey
.”

So Helene was in the basement, apparently alive.

I swallowed back my relief. I hadn't found her yet.

Footfalls. I ducked behind the archway wall just as the door across the foyer opened. A Corpse emerged—a Type Three by the look of him. He seemed pissed as he shuffled wordlessly down the hall to his right.

Then moments later, out came Kenny Booth.

Still in Kyle's body.

I silently fumed.

He appeared to be waiting for something or thinking about something. In either case, he wasn't moving, and that was a problem.

I stayed put, crouching in the shadows, my legs turning to hot rubber.

A minute passed. Then two. Booth didn't budge, watchful but not alarmed. I concentrated on keeping still and breathing slowly—in and out, in and out—praying that my pounding heart wouldn't give me away.

From elsewhere in the house, I heard Deadspeak, the tone urgent. “
Come
.
Kitchen
.
Now
.”

Booth uttered a groan. Then he stalked off, the feet inside his expensive shoes making sickeningly squooshy sounds as he walked. I watched him disappear through a door at the end of the hall. Then I straightened up and silently stretched my stiff muscles.

I wondered where the basement door might be. In my own house, it was under the stairs. Booth's place was, of course, much larger, but the layout didn't seem all that different. Here was the foyer and front door, with a wide staircase that led to the second floor. With any luck, the correct door would be somewhere below those steps.

But first—

I crossed the foyer, careful about the noise I made, and checked out the door through which Booth had emerged. Unlocked. I slipped inside.

It was an office and pretty fancily decorated. The only other door looked like a small closet. The windows all had their drapes drawn so only a sliver of moonlight filtered through, splashing over the surface of a huge oak desk. Behind the desk sat a leather chair big enough to accommodate a shopping mall Santa Claus.

I rummaged through what I assumed was the private desk of the smartest and most powerful Corpse in Philly. But this wasn't just a random search. No, I was looking for something in particular, and it had to be here. It just had to be!

In the second right-hand drawer, it was.

I grinned.

Bingo
.

Rescue

I'd no sooner finished doing what needed doing in Booth's drawer when the lights came back on.

A lamp on the desk suddenly flashed to life, blinding me. I reached out with my hand to shut it off, only to end up tipping it over. It rattled loudly to the desktop.

Cursing, I quickly righted it—but too late. Outside the office door came footsteps, followed by Deadspeak.

“
Noise
.
Here
.
Crash
.”

“
Open
.”

The second voice had been Booth's.

I raced across the room and into the closet, diving in amid an assortment of oversized trench coats and other outerwear. No sooner had I shut the closet when the hallway door burst open. Heavy footfalls filled the small room. I readied Sharyn's Super Soaker. Shooting my way out wasn't my first choice, but I'd do it if I had to.

Booth's voice: “
What?
Noise!
What?
”

“
Nothing
.
Empty
.”

“
Noise?
Cause?
”

“
Unknown
.”

“
Search
.”

I steeled myself. This was bad. If I fired on these two, the noise they'd make might alert the whole house. I frowned, thinking furiously. If only the lights were still out!

Why can't they be?

Frantically I pulled out my gilded knife and held it up. Then I said a little prayer and pressed the
8
button.

The lights went out again.

I had to swallow back a triumphant cry.

“
Lights
.
Off
.
Fuses
.
Fixed
.”

“
Not
.
Fixed
.
Check
.”

“
Search?
”

“
Too
.
Dark
.
Later
.”

“
Obey
.”

More footfalls, these heading out of the room.

I waited until the only sound was my own drumming heart. Then I slipped out of the closet.

The hall door had been left standing open. Peeking carefully out into the foyer, I listened for the slightest noise. Nothing.

My Soaker at the ready, I made my way toward the rear of the house. I skirted the staircase, avoided a couple of small accent tables, and once almost tripped over a fancy Oriental runner. I could only hope that I wasn't wrong about where the basement door should be.

I wasn't.

I found it roughly below where the staircase ended overhead. Cautiously I tried the knob. Unlocked. As quickly as I dared, I opened the door and stepped onto a small landing with a flight of wooden stairs descending into near-perfect blackness.

I headed down, mindful of every step. There were creaks, but they were pretty muffled, and by the time I reached the basement's bare concrete floor, I was fairly sure my presence had gone undetected.

There was light here, faint and some distance away. By its glow, I was able to get my bearings. The basement was roomy and looked a bit like a laboratory, filled with weird and frightening equipment. I recalled Amy's tale of being dragged down here and having had a spider of some kind dropped on her back.

I shuddered involuntarily.

Don't give into it. Use the fear, but don't let it control you.

Taking a slow, steadying breath, I inched toward the source of the light. It was a kerosene lamp sitting on the floor in front of a closed metal door that was flanked by two Corpses. Both Type Threes, they had the look of guards but inattentive ones. As I neared, I heard them talking to each other in nervous tones.

“
No
.
Like
.”

“
Agree
.”

“
No
.
Need
.
U
s.”

“
Agree
.”

“
Foolish
.
Job
.”

“
We
.
Obey
.”

“
Agree
.” This last word was uttered reluctantly. Neither of these guys wanted to be here, and standing in the dark as they were, guarding a metal door, who could blame them? Then I remembered what Booth had said about posting guards outside the
girl's
room.

It was time to relieve these two clowns of their posts.

Stepping into the light, I raised the Soaker. I tried to think of something clever to say—like they do in the movies—but I couldn't come up with anything.

So I just fired.

Sharyn's Super Soaker launched a stream of saltwater with the force and velocity of a major league fastball. It caught the first Corpse full in the mouth, driving him back into the concrete wall beside the door, where he stood twitching uncontrollably. The second started forward, his rotting fingers reaching for me. I nailed him in both eyes. The dead guy screamed and retreated, clawing at his face.

Then I dropped the Soaker and pulled Vader from its scabbard.

I'd never wielded a sword in my life before now—but this one felt oddly
right
. I gripped it with both hands, samurai-style, and taking a deep breath, leapt forward and swung it at the blind Corpse.

The blade seemed almost to sing through the air.

The Corpse's head came right off.

“Jeez!” I heard myself say.

But I didn't stop.

Instead I spun on my heel and slashed the other guy—the one twitching against the wall—right across his midsection. As always, there was no blood. This guy's blood was long gone. But the twitching pretty much stopped.

Then his body split in two at the waist. His top went one way and his bottom the other. The two halves flopped on the basement floor with gray, shapeless
stuff
awash in sticky, lumpy fluid spilling out of them.

Okay. That's gross.

Their cries had stopped, but I figured the ones they'd already made would be heard. I had to move fast.

The door was held closed by a heavy metal bar. I sheathed the sword and pulled on the bar with both hands. After several fevered tugs, I managed to first slide it off one of the brackets and then topple it clear of the other.

I yanked the door open, shining my pocketknife's flashlight into the small room beyond.

A frail-looking figure blinked up at me from one corner. Her clothes were torn, and there were cuts and bruises all over her bare arms.

“Helene?”

She cringed. I stepped inside.

She reached toward me, looking scared. “Will? Is…that you?”

I placed the light under my own chin, letting her see my face. “Sure, it's me,” I said, annoyed at the way my voice cracked. “You didn't think I'd just leave you with these Deaders, did you?”

Unsteadily, Helene stood, her hand still reaching out toward me as if she were afraid that I might not be real, that her fingers might reach me and find nothing there but smoke and light. “Will?” she asked again, nervously, hopefully.

“It's me,” I insisted. “I swear it is!”

“Are you…alone?”

“Just me,” I replied, doing my best to smile.

Something in my tone seemed to convince her because she suddenly came forward and threw her arms around my neck, sobbing. Feeling awkward, I let the hug go on for a few precious seconds. Then I pulled away gently but firmly. “Come on. We don't have a lot of time.”

I led her out of the room and past the four pieces of the two guards. Holding Helene's hand, I headed straight for the stairs—this time using my flashlight to guide the way.

Halfway there, the lights came on a second time.

“Oh, crap,” I muttered.

Helene's hand tightened on mine.

“It's okay,” I told her without looking back. “My gun's still got plenty of juice. I'm pretty sure we can—”

A slender arm coiled around my neck from behind. Before I could say another word, it dug into my windpipe, cutting off all air and sound.

Then a voice—sweetly familiar—whispered in my ear. “Yeah, I'm sure we could have.”

I struggled, but Helene's grip was strong. I thought about using my Taser but gave up the idea immediately, remembering my hard lesson at First Stop: never zap somebody that you're in physical contact with. Instead I jammed my elbow backward, catching the girl in the ribs. She grunted in pain, and her grip around my neck slackened. Then I grabbed her elbow, twisted my head, and pushed upward—a move we'd learned in training.

I slipped free of Helene's grasp and spun around, facing her. “What are you doing?”

She didn't answer. She simply attacked, throwing a lightning punch at my face. I blocked it—but only just—and had to block another and then another, retreating all the while. The pocketknife fell from my grasp as Helene drove me backward, keeping me on the defensive. Then as we neared the stairs, she suddenly dropped into a crouch and swept out with her leg, catching me in the knees and sending me crashing to the floor.

I landed hard but immediately rolled, employing another First Stop technique to regain my feet. I spun around just in time to dodge another punch.

I let her fist sail past me, sidestepped her, and hooked one leg behind her knees. With a hard shove, I pushed her to the floor. Then I lunged for my pocketknife.

I'd nearly reached it when Helene caught my ankle, tripping me and sending me crashing down. She scrambled on top of me, small but strong, cursing and pulling my hair. I ignored the assaults, concentrating instead on getting to the pocketknife.

Only another foot. Six inches.

A small hand reached past me and snatched it up.

“Looking for this?” Helene asked. Suddenly she was up off my back.

Sensing what was coming, I tried to scramble clear.

Too late.

An electric jolt raced through my body. I shuddered and flopped onto my belly on the cold concrete just as heavy footsteps came charging down the stairs.

“It's okay,” Helene said. “I've got him.”

“Good girl,” Kenny Booth replied.