The Undertakers Read online

  Then we pedaled away with surprising power, making a sharp left turn onto 10th Street and heading north, leaving the chaos and carnage behind us.

  “Nothing to it!” Helene called, grinning at me from the back of another bicycle, her brown hair flying behind her.

  Despite everything, I grinned back.

  Because there had been nothing to it. Whoever these people were, they were good!

  We navigated the Philly streets at a breakneck pace, making sudden, sharp turns that took us down narrow roads and through back alleys. Within minutes, we’d left behind the skyscrapers of Center City, entering instead an urban neighborhood that seemed to include little more than warehouses, factories, and vacant lots.

  I’d never been in this part of the city before. There was less traffic, and the shadowed streets grew darker. And there were homeless people everywhere—some huddled in doorways; others meandering along the sidewalks.

  With a final turn, we spilled onto Green Street. Several yards up ahead, a plywood ramp led from the street down into the entrance of a dilapidated underground parking garage. The six-story building above was splattered with red warning signs, its windows boarded up.

  This building condemned by the City of Philadelphia. Trespassers will be prosecuted!

  The bikes buzzed down into the parking garage like bees returning to their hive.

  CHAPTER 6

  Haven

  Beyond the ramp, the light diminished, and the cyclists began wheeling their way down a long, spiraling concrete tunnel. I glanced behind us just in time to see the ramped entrance closing somehow.

  “Will?” Helene called. “You okay?”

  “Yeah!”

  Then my driver added, “Chill out, Helene. I’ve got your boyfriend!”

  Some of the other riders laughed. I felt my cheeks redden.

  The girl with dreadlocks spoke. Her Japanese sword had been returned to a black sheath that she wore on her back. “Shut it back there, and get ready for the jump!”

  “Jump?” I asked.

  “Jump,” my driver replied.

  A moment later the tunnel abruptly straightened, running for a final fifty feet before hitting a solid brick wall. In front of the wall, someone had erected a wooden bike ramp.

  “Uh—” I began.

  The dreadlocked leader hit the ramp first. With a cry of sheer abandon, she and her bike took flight, colliding with the wall at terrifying speed—

  —and vanishing.

  The wall seemed to ripple a little bit but then settled right back.

  I stared in disbelief. Off to my left, I heard Helene laughing. “Faster, Burton!” she exclaimed, smacking the boy’s helmet. “Watch this, Will!”

  She and Burton made their jump, and exactly the same thing happened—the brick wall just kind of swallowed them up.

  “How…? What…?” I stammered.

  “It’s magic, kid!” my driver replied. Then with a final, powerful kick, we followed the rest of the cyclists up the ramp and into empty air.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, but there was no crash. Instead something like stiff plastic brushed my face and then we were on solid ground again. Warily I opened one eye.

  We were in a brightly lit room as big as a soccer field. The ceiling looked fifty feet high, lined with pipes and hanging fluorescent lamps. Along the walls, plywood partitions had been erected, closing off small sections from the rest of the open space. The floor was gray-painted concrete.

  Feeling dizzy, I looked back the way we’d come. There was no brick wall. But there was a doorway—one big enough for a truck to pass through—with a strange curtain draped across it. It seemed to be made of dozens of strips of heavy plastic, all painted to look like bricks.

  From this side, the illusion was pretty obvious. But in the dimly lit tunnel, those strips of flexible plastic looked exactly like an impenetrable brick wall.

  The cyclists all parked their rides in a designated area. Around us, people rushed forward to accept the riders’ gear and help them dismount. I gaped at all the activity. Everyone was in motion. Everyone was busy.

  And every one of them was a kid—many not much older than me.

  The dreadlocked leader pulled off her helmet and tossed it to a younger girl, thirteen maybe, who was collecting them. Then she dismounted and hurried over to a tall, dark-skinned boy her own age, who interrupted his conversation with two other kids in order to greet her.

  “Any problems, Sharyn?” I heard him ask. His voice was deep and authoritative.

  “Nothing to it, bro.” Sharyn grinned. “Credit’s all Helene’s though. She tipped us off, and we made the grab and split before the Deaders even knew what happened!” Then she laughed—the sound strangely musical.

  I climbed unsteadily off the rear of the bike. My driver slapped my back. “Good ride, kid. I’m Chuck Binelli.”

  “Will…Ritter.”

  He grinned. “I know. Welcome aboard, Will.”

  I wanted to ask “Aboard what?” but suddenly Helene was there, grabbing my arm and pulling me across the floor.

  “What is this place?” I asked her.

  “This is Haven!” she replied. “Yeah, I know it’s kind of a stupid name, but it goes back to the beginning, so we’re kind of stuck with it. This big room here is where most of the work gets done. We pretty much just call it the Big Room. Imaginative, huh? Anyway, come on—there are some people who’ve been waiting a long time to meet you.”

  A long time?

  “Tom…Sharyn, this is—” Helene began, dragging me over to the tall boy and the dreadlocked girl. I suddenly noticed how alike they were, even down to their identical brown eyes.

  “—Will Ritter,” the boy finished. He smiled and stuck out his hand. “Tom Jefferson. This here’s my sister, Sharyn.”

  He shook hands with me—something I wasn’t very used to doing.

  “Um…hi” was all I could think of to say.

  “He wants to be a cop!” Helene declared. I looked at her, a bit surprised that she would just blurt that out.

  “That right?” Sharyn remarked. She elbowed me playfully. “Straight or bent?”

  “Sharyn!” Tom said sharply.

  “Just kidding!” The girl winked at me. “A straight cop, huh, Will?”

  “Just like his old man,” Tom added.

  “How do you know about my dad?” I asked.

  Tom glanced at Helene. “You didn’t tell him?”

  “Didn’t feel right,” she replied. “I didn’t know the guy. You two did.”

  “Thanks, Helene,” said Sharyn, looking as if she meant it.

  Her brother nodded gravely. “Will, there’s a whole mess of stuff that you need to know. But we ain’t got time for all that. Right now I’m guessing that you’re freaked out. I don’t blame you. So let’s keep things going on low gear for a while. When did you start Seeing Corpses?”

  I said, “This morning.”

  Tom nodded again. With his thick neck and broad shoulders, he looked like a varsity football player. Beneath the closely cropped mat of kinky black hair atop his head, his dark eyes were filled with warmth, sympathy, and a fierce perception.

  Quietly, he said, “Sucks…don’t it?”

  The question carried such sincerity, such understanding, that I had to swallow back a sob. “Yeah.”

  Helene patted my back.

  “You must’ve figured you were crazy,” Tom remarked. “Who was it? Some teacher at school?”

  “And my next-door neighbor,” I muttered. “And some cops.”

  “And Kenny Booth,” Helene chimed in.

  Sharyn laughed. “Yo, Red! You have had a busy day!”

  Beside her, Tom said soberly, “By now, Will, you must’ve figured out that you ain’t alone in this. See all these kids around you? We’re all Seers. And one way or another, every one of us has had a day like yours—the day when we found out about the Corpses.”

  I nodded, too overcome to speak.

  “I wish I could a
nswer all your questions right away,” Tom continued. “But Helene did her job at your school and blew her cover doing it. I got to debrief her. That cool with you, Helene?”

  “It’s cool,” Helene replied.

  Tom nodded. “For now, Will—just chill. Sharyn, how’s about hooking up our man here with some food and a bed?”

  “I’m there,” his sister said.

  Sharyn spun me around and pointed me toward the rear wall of the Big Room. I glanced back at Helene, who smiled at me. “Let’s go, Red,” chirped Sharyn. “Some eats and you’ll feel a whole lot better. Trust me!”

  But I resisted, calling to Tom, who had already started off in a different direction with Helene in tow. “Wait! You said something about my dad?”

  He looked back at me. “It’ll keep,” he said. “But I’ll tell you two things right now. First: none of this”—he gestured around at the Big Room—“would be here without your dad. Yeah, Sharyn and me knew him well. And second: your rolling in here today was expected, Will. Fact is, we’ve been expecting you for a long time.”

  I absorbed this as best I could.

  Too much too quickly.

  Half out of fear and half out of frustration, I blurted, “Who the hell are you people?”

  Tom smiled.

  “You’ve met the Corpses,” he said. “Well—we’re the Undertakers.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Sharyn

  So…how’s it hanging, Red?” Sharyn asked as she led me across the Big Room. All around us, Haven was alive with activity.

  “Don’t call me Red,” I said wearily.

  Sharyn’s dark eyebrows rose. “Not hanging so good, huh?”

  I didn’t answer. She shrugged. “Not much for talking either, I guess.”

  “Yo, Sharyn!” someone called.

  A short, rather chubby girl with curly brown hair ran up to us, rubbing greasy hands on the stained mechanic’s apron she wore. “What did you think of those new shocks Alex and me slapped on the Stingrays?”

  “They were fierce, Tara!” Sharyn replied enthusiastically. “Like riding on air! You should’ve seen those Deaders bail when we pedaled through!” She touched the hilt of her sword, which she still wore on her back. “I even got a piece of one with Vader here. And—oh!” She threw a surprisingly strong arm around my shoulders. I didn’t like it. “This here’s Will Ritter—Karl’s kid. Got the Sight today, and him and Helene had to split his school shooting! Will, this is Tara Monroe. She’s our Monkey Boss.”

  “Monkey Boss?” I asked.

  “He is new!” the smaller girl said. “No First Stop?”

  “Will’s special,” she replied. “Tom just had to meet him first.”

  “I’ll bet he did!” Tara said, laughing. She turned to me. “Monkey’s our word for mechanic or handyman. And Boss just means that I tell whom when to fix what—like the bikes and other things.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Hi.”

  “Not much for talking,” Sharyn remarked.

  “Give him a break,” replied Tara. “He just started Seeing today!” Then to Will, “Your head must be, like, spinning, huh?”

  I nodded.

  “I got the Sight about eighteen months ago. It’s, like, a miracle that I found my way to Haven before the Corpses got me. And even then it still took, like, a week before the shock wore off!”

  “Yeah,” I muttered.

  “You get used to it,” Sharyn remarked cheerfully.

  Tara waved over a tall, blond-haired boy. “Hey, Alex! Check this out! Karl Ritter’s kid just joined up today.”

  I managed a smile.

  Alex didn’t.

  “Today?” the boy asked sharply. “Why’s he here?”

  Sharyn’s expression darkened. “What do you mean, Why’s he here? He’s here because Helene brought him here.”

  Alex faced her. “Yeah? And why’d she do that? Funny, when I first got the Sight, I got dumped for two weeks in a boarded-up dry cleaners—getting trained.”

  Tara frowned. “Will’s a special case—kind of like a celebrity!”

  “Or a mole,” Alex said.

  Something told me I’d just been insulted by this jerk, although given the circumstances, I couldn’t seem to muster up the energy to be angry.

  “Will ain’t no mole!” Sharyn declared. “And of course he’ll do First Stop. Helene brought him here because Tom told her to. This ain’t no stranger! Ain’t we been watching him for years, waiting for today?”

  Alex snorted, clearly unimpressed. He gave me a quick visual inspection. “All I see’s a skinny, redheaded kid who won’t be much good til he puts on some weight.”

  “And all I see is an obnoxious crud!” Tara snapped. “Go finish greasing those bikes!”

  Alex smiled a smile that really had nothing to do with smiling. To me he sneered, “See you around—celebrity.” Then he stalked off.

  “Um…sorry about Alex,” Tara said awkwardly. “He’s a great monkey. He’s just—”

  “What Tara here’s saying,” Sharyn cut in, “is that Alex Bobson’s a jackass.”

  I couldn’t have cared less about Alex Bobson. “What’s First Stop?” I asked.

  “Plenty of time for that!” Sharyn insisted. “Let’s go, Red! See you, Tara!” Then she headed off without looking to see if I was following.

  As I turned, a greasy hand touched my arm. “Listen—about Alex,” Tara said. “He’s had it worse than most. The Corpses killed both his parents trying to get him. He just barely got out alive and wandered the streets for, like, three months before we found him. That was more’n a year ago. The whole thing’s kind of messed him up.”

  “It’s okay,” I told her.

  She nodded. “Look, Will. I know you’re shook. In my old life, my dad was a retired army sergeant. And his motto, as far back as I can remember, was Be brave. No matter what happens, a little bravery’ll get you through it. So I guess, like, there’s my advice, for whatever it’s worth. Be brave.”

  Shrugging weakly, I replied, “I’m trying.”

  “Quit hanging back, Red!” Sharyn bellowed from some distance away.

  “I wish she wouldn’t call me Red,” I muttered.

  Tara rolled her eyes. “You’re getting a pretty heavy dose of Sharyn today, huh?”

  I shrugged, which she took as agreement.

  “Yeah. She can take some getting used to. But once you get to know her, Sharyn’s, like, awesome! The thing is, Tom and Sharyn both got orphaned real young and were out on the streets alone long before they got the Sight. Because of that, Sharyn sometimes doesn’t quite get what the rest of us left behind. Tom’s better at reading people than she is. Sharyn’s cool, don’t get me wrong. But she’s, like, Sharyn.”

  I nodded.

  “Well, I got work to do. It’s gonna be okay, Will. Really.”

  “Sure,” I replied, not believing a word of it.

  “Yo, Will!” Sharyn called again. “You coming or what?”

  Tara smiled and walked off, leaving me to catch up with my dreadlocked escort at a run.

  “There you are!” she said, grinning. “You play sports?”

  “What?”

  “I watched you run just now. Nice form. You play sports?”

  I remembered the three Most Valuable Player trophies on my bedroom shelf, all for soccer.

  “Not really,” I said.

  “Your dad played football, didn’t he?”

  “Yeah. In college.” I’d grown up hearing the stories.

  “Ain’t never seen him play, ’course,” the girl said. “But I did get the chance to see him run more’n once. Sweet form. Same as you.”

  “Um…thanks.”

  She grinned again.

  “Sharyn?”

  “Yeah?”

  “When’s Tom gonna tell me about my dad?”

  “Soon as he can. Tom’s the man ’round here. He runs this place, top to bottom, and he ain’t exactly big on free time.”

  “So…he’s, like, the Head Underta
ker?”

  “Chief,” she corrected.

  “Chief Jefferson?”

  “Chief Tom. But just call him Tom.”

  “I want to know what my dad’s got to do with this place, Sharyn.”

  She looked hard at me. Then, as if reaching some internal decision, she replied, “Yeah, I guess that’s cool. We owe you that much at least.”

  CHAPTER 8

  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.”