The Undertakers Page 11

  “Corpses are not the souls of the bodies they inhabit. The bodies are simply, normally dead. The entities that we call Corpses come in afterward. We don’t know where they’re from, but the best guess is another plane of existence—what you might call another dimension.”

  I asked, “Why can’t they come from—I dunno—outer space?”

  Steve said, “That’s a good question. But—Will, is it?”

  I felt my face redden. Of course Steve should recognize me! But then I remembered the role I was supposed to be playing. “Yeah. Will.”

  “Next time raise your hand if you’ve got a question.”

  My face stayed red. “Sure.”

  Steve said, “Anyway, the answer is: maybe they could, but they don’t. We’re pretty sure that they enter our world as beings of pure energy. That’s why they need to inhabit cadavers in the first place.”

  He rapped his knuckles on each of the remaining four photos, moving from left to right. “We categorize each level of continuing decomposition.” He stopped at the last. The animated cadaver in this one looked fresher than the rest—slimier.

  “When possible, the Corpses try to pick what we call Type One bodies,” Steve said. “Type Ones are less than a week dead. Such bodies are stronger, more resistant to damage, and of course last longer. The Corpses take good care of these bodies, even going so far as embalming themselves if that hasn’t already been done.”

  Amy raised her hand. “What’s embalming?”

  Steve said, “It’s when the blood is drained and replaced with a formaldehyde mixture.”

  We were all overcome by a general sense of ewww.

  “What for?” Amy asked.

  It was Dave who answered her. “Keeps the body from rotting too fast.”

  Steve cleared his throat. “Simply put, yes. It fixes the cellular proteins, making it harder for bacteria to feed on them. Without that feeding process, decomposition is curtailed.”

  Amy looked blankly at him.

  Dave muttered, “I liked my answer better.”

  Steve cleared his throat again.

  I thought about the cadavers I’d Seen. Kenny Booth had clearly been a Type One. Mr. Titlebaum, the assistant principal—he’d been maybe a Two or Three. And Ms. Yu? A Four at best. She’d been awfully flaky. The woman in the Laundromat? A Type Two.

  I shuddered at the memory of how strong she’d been.

  “However,” Steve continued, “while Corpses prefer Type Ones, in a pinch they’ll take whatever’s nearby. Most of their bodies are either stolen from freshly dug graves or from the city morgue, which they now control. We don’t really understand the Transfer process, but there do seem to be some rules to it. For one thing, the range is limited—maybe even to line of sight. Corpses can’t Transfer into living bodies, and if no new dead body’s available, then the Corpse is trapped, regardless of the condition of its host cadaver. Something to remember.”

  “How does the illusion work?” I asked. Then when Steve looked pointedly at me, I raised my hand and asked again.

  “Well, that’s the big question, isn’t it?” he asked. “If we knew that, we’d obviously be able to fight them better. Unfortunately the best I can give you are a few ideas.

  “Each Corpse projects a false image. We call it a Mask. It might be technology or telepathy—we just don’t know. But it’s important to understand that the illusion has nothing to do with the bodies they inhabit. Corpses don’t try to impersonate deceased people. Instead they use the bodies as shells to move around in—and then project the image they want the world to see on top of it. Let’s do an experiment…”

  He nodded to Sharyn, who rolled her eyes and began passing out manila folders. Inside mine I found two more Corpse photos. One showed a Type Five and the other a Type Two. Different dead bodies, but both male, and both wearing Philly police uniforms. From the moans and retching sounds around me, it seemed clear the others were looking at the same images.

  Sharyn chuckled, but Steve seemed completely unmoved by our distress. “Now, I want everyone to look at these photos—really look.”

  Beside me, Ethan had turned totally green. On the other side, Dave glared at the faces as if they might attack him.

  “Good,” Steve said. “Now, relax—”

  Somewhere behind me, Maria gagged a little.

  “—and let your eyes lose focus.”

  Of course I knew what he was doing. But would it really work with a picture? So I stared at the Type Five for a moment and then crossed my eyes.

  And there it was: the image of a man in his forties with thinning hair and a smooth face floating atop the Corpse’s papery visage. Keeping my eyes like that, I turned my attention to the second photo. And there was the same face—the same Mask—superimposed over the image of a different, fresher dead body.

  Two different bodies but one Corpse.

  “I see it!” I heard Amy say.

  “Good,” Steve said again. “Anybody else? Raise your hand.”

  Everyone did—except the Burgermeister, who looked suddenly red-faced and frustrated. “What am I supposed to see?”

  Steve continued, rolling right over him. “A Corpse’s Mask is maintained, unchanging, regardless of the cadaver a particular Corpse is wearing. What’s more, this disguise even carries over to any traces of themselves: shadows, fingerprints—and obviously photographs and videos. That’s why no Corpse has ever been revealed on camera.”

  “Like Kenny Booth!” Ethan exclaimed. “He’s been a Philly anchorman for almost three years!”

  “Right,” said Steve. “But Ethan, next time please raise your hand.”

  “But that wasn’t a question,” Ethan protested. “You said to raise our hands if we had a question.”

  Steve blinked. Sharyn laughed. After a moment the Brain Boss pronounced, “New rule. Nobody talks unless they raise their hand first.”

  We all nodded in agreement.

  Steve went on. “But Masks have their limits—”

  Ethan interrupted, fighting a smile, “You didn’t raise your hand.”

  Steve blinked. “Except me. Nobody talks except me.”

  A few recruits chuckled.

  “Anyway,” Steve said with a sigh, “Corpses can’t fake clothing. They have to buy it, just like everybody else. They also seem to be stuck with a gender—male or female.”

  Amy raised her hand. “So why doesn’t this illusion work on us?”

  “There are a number of theories,” Steve replied. “Maybe we all have a gene that somehow blocks the transmission—a gene that gets activated at some point during puberty. That could be why none of us got the Sight until we were at least eleven or twelve.”

  Harleen Patel raised her hand. She was a skinny twelve-year-old with a round face, short dark hair, and braces. “What about the crazy way they talk—without moving their lips or anything?”

  “We call that Deadspeak,” Steve answered. “And it isn’t speech as we understand it. For example, the sounds can’t be recorded, which proves they aren’t made of air vibrations, like real sound. They might be another form of telepathy—maybe even the way Corpses ordinarily communicate in their natural environment, wherever that is.”

  I raised my hand. “Why does it sound so, um…disjointed when they talk? Almost like they’re saying one-word sentences.”

  Steve nodded. “Because it must be a limited form of telepathy. For example, it doesn’t work over long distances. But it does use mental images—pictures, not words—to transmit ideas. Apparently we Seers somehow tap into these images, which our brains automatically translate into something understandable—English words.”

  I kept my hand up. “And what happens to a Corpse when something gets chopped off? How do they manage to keep up their Mask when, like, some body part is rolling around on the floor? I mean, they can’t move around without their heads, can they?”

  Steve pointed at me, as if he’d liked my question. “Corpses animate dead bodies, but they’re still stuck wit
h the limits of those bodies. You’re right, Will. If a Corpse loses its head, it’s immobilized. It can’t go anywhere, and it can’t Transfer—not without having another suitable cadaver nearby. To a lesser degree, the same is true if they lose an arm or a leg. They might still be able to move, but they generally don’t—probably because they can’t maintain their illusion if they wander too far from the severed limb.

  “In such cases, Corpses support each other. If one of them is incapacitated, other Corpses instinctively know this. Maybe it’s yet another form of telepathy. However they do it, the other Corpses find their fallen comrade, collect it and whatever pieces of it are lying around, and then take them someplace safe to Transfer. In the meantime, the downed Corpse keeps up its illusion, making any human witnesses think it’s only fainted or something. We’ve observed this happening a few times.

  “By making such observations, we’re better able to understand the way these beings behave—their language, their culture, and their methods of attack.”

  “And what are their methods of attack?” Ethan asked.

  “Ethan…”

  Groaning, he raised his hand.

  Steve said, “As most of you know, a lot of Corpses are policemen. But the fact is that they don’t use guns. In fact, Corpses don’t generally use any weapons at all. They prefer to strike their victims, choke them, or sometimes bite them…”

  I felt a now-familiar chill race down my spine.

  He continued, “Most of the kids whose bodies we’ve found died from blunt trauma.”

  “What’s that?” Amy asked in a small voice.

  Again it was Dave who answered. “They got beaten to death.”

  “Yes,” said Steve, looking uncomfortable.

  Maria began to cry.

  “And that’s not the worst of it,” Steve said. “I’m sorry, but you need to know it all. The Corpses often take bites out of their victims. They…” His voice trailed off.

  “What?” Amy asked.

  “Eat them,” Steve said.

  We all went quiet.

  Steve cleared his throat yet again. “Of course, nutritionally it’s meaningless. Their stolen bodies can’t digest anything. But we’ve nevertheless witnessed Corpses eating regular food in public—hot dogs, popcorn, et cetera—and apparently enjoying it. There may be some cultural significance. We don’t even know for sure what they can taste.”

  “Madre de Dios!” Maria whimpered. She crossed herself.

  I didn’t blame her.

  “How can they be so strong?” I asked, remembering to raise my hand. “If they’re just normal people—normal dead people…” I let my words trail off.

  Steve replied, “The human body is stronger than you think. Haven’t you ever heard of a panicked mother lifting a car off a baby? That kind of emergency strength comes from a chemical in the body called adrenalin. Well, it seems that a Corpse can generate the same level of strength in its host body whenever it wants to. It’s not adrenalin—the body’s dead and so can’t generate hormones of any kind—but it’s something like it.

  “However, the Corpses pay for all that speed and strength. The harder they work, the quicker their stolen bodies decay around them.”

  Ethan chimed in. “I know some of the Corpses are cops. What I don’t get is how they become cops. I mean, don’t they have to prove they’re…people? With birth certificates or driver’s licenses or something?”

  Steve visibly relaxed. This was evidently safer ground than Amy’s question. He didn’t even seem to mind that his hand-raising rule had once again been forgotten.

  “The Corpses are master forgers,” he explained. “Each one has set up a perfect paper trail, including birth records, educational background, and tax history. We don’t know how they do it, but every Corpse appears in our world with full credentials. Then it’s simply a matter of stepping into this life. The thing to remember is that this false identity has nothing to do with the bodies a particular Corpse may inhabit over time. As I’ve said, Corpses aren’t impersonating anyone who has ever really been alive. The cadavers are just temporary shells. Their ready-made lives, like their Masks, stay the same from host body to host body—and are jealously guarded. In our experience, a given Corpse is far more worried about public exposure of its fake human self than about injury to its current host.”

  “If they’re so well set up,” Dave demanded, “how do we beat them?”

  “By understanding them,” replied Steve. “And of course, by effectively arming ourselves.”

  The Burgermeister clapped his huge hands. “Now that’s more like it! Arm ourselves with what?”

  Steve held up a green water pistol. “Saltwater. For some reason even small amounts of salt interrupt the control that the Corpses have over their host bodies, temporarily incapacitating them. A shot in a limb makes the limb useless for a while. A shot in the face blinds the Corpse, disrupting motor skills. Enough saltwater, in fact, has been known to force a Corpse to Transfer.”

  “But it doesn’t kill them,” the Burgermeister pressed.

  “No—I’m afraid it doesn’t.”

  “So how do we beat these things,” Dave demanded, “if we can’t even kill one?”

  Steve said patiently, “If you have a question, could you please raise your hand?”

  The Burgermeister glowered. Then with an irritated grunt, he raised his hand.

  “Yes?” said Steve.

  “What?”

  “You have your hand raised.”

  “That’s what you told me to do!”

  “So what’s your question?”

  Dave’s face reddened. “I already told you my question!”

  Steve blinked. “I think I forgot.”

  The Burgermeister looked ready to explode. “How can we beat the Corpses if we can’t even kill one?”

  “Oh, yes. Actually that’s a pretty good question.”

  I leaned over and whispered to Dave, “Don’t hit him.”

  “Solving that problem is our highest priority,” Steve said. “And we’re exploring a number of very promising theories. Maybe if any of you decide that field work isn’t really your thing, you’ll join the Brain Factory and work on it with me.”

  “Not me,” Dave grumbled.

  “Good call,” I muttered.

  “I mean, this guy looks like the king of Nerdsville!”

  That last had been said too loudly. Steve heard it and blanched. At the same time, Sharyn burst out laughing. Within moments the First Stop recruits were laughing too, but poor Steve looked like he’d bitten into something sour—

  All of a sudden, I realized something.

  The Undertakers were kids.

  Kids. Every last one of us. Well organized, sure. Maybe even halfway capable. But kids—who could still be distracted by a dumb joke made about one of our members.

  And with this understanding came an awful sense of dread.

  We don’t stand a chance.

  CHAPTER 19

  After Hours

  We returned to First Stop a short time later—once again bagged and bounced around in the van. After a dinner of nuked chicken pot pies, we all spent next the two hours in our dorms. Ethan couldn’t stop yabbering about the Hackers and how cool that job would be, while Dave just stared unhappily at the little TV that came with our room, watching sitcom reruns.

  “Doesn’t even get cable,” the Burgermeister grumbled.

  I lay on my cot, thinking about the day and wondering what my mom had made Emily for dinner that night.

  For the umpteenth time, I considered sneaking out and calling her again. There must be a pay phone out on the street somewhere. Another Laundromat maybe.

  Um…hi, Mom. It’s me. I’m okay. I’m staying with some kids in Philly. We’re kind of like an army, except I don’t think we stand a chance. What? Oh, didn’t I mention that? See, there are these zombies. Except they’re not zombies. They’re kind of animated dead bodies that have been possessed by beings from another dimension. We ca
ll them Corpses, which I guess sounds a little—I dunno—simple, but what do you want? We’re just kids, after all. Oh, and Mr. Pratt next door is one of them. So’s my math teacher. And only kids can See them for what they really are. Well, actually, Dad could See them. Yeah, that surprised me too. But now that he’s dead, it’s only kids. And since you know as well as I do that nobody ever believes kids, we kind of have to fight them on our own. So that’s what’s happening. I’ll be in touch. No, I don’t know when. Give Emmie a kiss for me, okay?

  And, Mom, I love you. In fact, I’m staying away because I love you.

  I expected to feel familiar tears on my cheeks. For the first time, there weren’t any.

  Seven o’clock finally arrived.

  The door opened, and Kyle Standish poked his head in. “Lights out, dudes.”

  As the First Stop Boss, Kyle’s job was to run this ratty old place, make sure there was food for the recruits, and keep an eye on things after hours. He spent most of the day sleeping in his private bedroom at the end of the hall and usually only came out at night. A few of the kids half-jokingly called him the local vampire—but he didn’t look like a vampire. Kyle was tall and pretty muscular, with hair not quite as red as mine. He smiled a lot—too much, in my opinion, given the lousy work he had to do.

  “Why can’t we still watch TV?” Ethan asked.

  Kyle shook his head. “You know the rules. We’ve got to shut off all power at sunset.”

  “This sucks,” Dave groaned.

  “Yeah, it does,” Kyle replied. “The thing is that after dark, any lights might get noticed from the street. This place is supposed to be closed, remember? We don’t want any of Philly’s Finest poking around, do we?”

  “Guess not,” Ethan admitted.

  “This sucks,” Dave said again—but then he stretched out on the bunk.