The Undertakers: End of the World Read online

  Future Steve smiled at little, as if he liked the question. Then he said, “Ah, yes. Well, as it happens, I made contact with someone over there.”

  I blinked. “Someone on the Malum homeworld?”

  He nodded.

  “A Malum?” I asked.

  He nodded again. “Or, more accurately, he made contact with me … reaching out through a tiny Void that I’d created using one of the larger slivers, a Rift far too small for either of us to pass through, but large enough for communication. Telepathic, of course.”

  I was horrified. “And you trusted him?”

  “Not right away. No, the first time it happened, I closed the Rift at once. The first ten times, in fact. But you need to remember that by the time I began my experiments with the slivers, the First Corpse War had ended and the second hadn’t yet begun. After a while, my curiosity overcame my fear and started answering him. Talking with him.

  “I called him Enigma. He didn’t have a name, of course. None of the Malum do. But he didn’t seem to mind the one I gave him. He was a member of the Fifth Column.”

  “The Fifth Column,” I echoed.

  Of course, I knew about the Fifth Column. These were a small number of Malum who disagreed with their people’s culture of “world unmaking” and did what they could to work against it. They were few in number and, from what I’d heard, didn’t tend to live very long. But they tried. They’d actually borrowed the name of their organization, or movement, or whatever from Earth. It was a term that meant a small group working from the inside to sabotage a larger group.

  And that was exactly what the Fifth Column were.

  I’d even met one, briefly. His name had been Robert Dillin, a Corpse—the only Fifth Column to ever make it to Earth. He was also a member of the Malum royal caste and had, in fact, been married to Lilith Cavanaugh, the Queen of the Dead. Our paths had crossed on the last day of the war, and he’d gradually earned my trust.

  Then he’d died, saving my life.

  So, if this Enigma really was a member of that small group of “good guy” Malum, then I could see why Steve had come to trust him.

  “And this dude told you stuff?”

  “Told me,” the professor replied. “And showed me. Pictures in my mind. Really quite fascinating. It’s because of him that I know and, to a point, understand the physics of his world. We became … friends after a while. Good friends. I don’t know if you can understand that.”

  William said, “There can be beauty even in monsters. If one knows how to look. Isn’t that right, Will?”

  I nodded, because it was right. I knew it firsthand.

  Steve said, “Eventually, we lost contact. I simply ran out of slivers large enough to open even tiny Rifts between our dimensions. A pity. We could use his insights, now that his people have attacked us again.”

  Maxi Me glanced at his watch. “Getting close to sunset,” he announced. “Time to go. Anymore questions, Will?”

  I shook my head. It felt heavy.

  Too full of scary knowledge, I supposed.

  As I watched, feeling helpless and useless, the three of them began suiting up for their mission to Independence Hall. It was an exercise that I’d gone through myself more times than I could count. Weapons. Comm gear. Other tools of the trade.

  One such tool was a thick leather belt that each of them fitted around their waist. Each belt sported ten little loops, into which the Undertakers slid Maankhs. I had to admit, it was a solid set up, and would make the tiny one-shot cylinders quick and easy to access in combat.

  Cool. Smart.

  Still, I hated watching them all, knowing I wasn’t going with them, knowing the risks they were taking.

  I really hated it.

  A few minutes later, after the four of us had ridden the elevator down to the ninth floor and had made our way through the mass of refuges to Haven’s only exit, I stepped between them and the door and said, “Let me go with you.”

  “No,” William replied.

  “I can help.”

  “You certainly could,” he said. “But, no.”

  “I’m going!”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I.”

  I got pissed at him. He didn’t care. I practically threw a tantrum—yeah, I still remember how—but he didn’t blink an eye. I even threatened to dump their Project Reboot, to forget all about the future once I got home, and use the Anchor Shard to, I dunno, get rich or something.

  But he knew I was bluffing.

  Well, of course he did.

  Finally, I gave up. These dudes were going without me, heading off on what I thought they all knew would be their last mission, win or lose. Each carried a radio, though Steve told me that the range was limited. “The only chance of contacting us would be from up on the Observation Deck.”

  “But don’t try,” William said. “Not unless there’s an emergency.”

  I nodded miserably. Then, looking him over, I asked, “Where’s your pocketknife?” To underline the point, I held up my own.

  “Dead,” he said.

  I blinked. “What?”

  “I carried it around for twenty years, long after the first war ended. Eventually, it got old. Stopped working. It’s funny, I still miss it.”

  I blinked again. “Then how did I get this one?”

  He laughed. “The professor here says time is a river. Well, sometimes it’s a circle, too. After the second war started and Project Reboot began, I asked Steve to make the pocketknife exactly as I remembered it. He did the same thing with Tom’s knife and Sharyn’s sword. Then, when Phase Two started, I made sure Amy delivered all three of them back in time at the right moments, so that they could be used properly to win the first war. You see? A circle.”

  Time’s a river? Time’s a circle? What the heck else is it?

  Could time be a roll of toilet paper? How about a rainbow trout? Or maybe time is a wreath of pretty flowers that smell bad.

  I turned to Professor Moscova, still holding up my pocketknife. “You made this?”

  He nodded. “It’s powered by an Anchor Sliver. Both knives are. That’s what each of them has instead of a battery, and that’s what will eventually wear out.”

  “How did you make it?” I asked.

  “Out of Ether. The same is true of Sharyn’s wakizashi sword. Enigma called the material nagganum.”

  Nagganum.

  I’d heard the term only once before. Robert Dillin, the good-guy Corpse, had mentioned it when he’d seen my pocketknife. But, at the time, I’d had a lot on my plate and hadn’t bothered asking him for an explanation.

  Now I did. “Nagganum is Ether?”

  Steve nodded.

  “The solid stuff that you told me fills the spaces between dimensions?”

  He nodded again, looking as if people made incredible tools and weapons from inter-dimensional materials all the time. “While communicating with Enigma, he instructed me on ways to mine small amounts of Ether … nagganum … by creating tiny, shallow Rifts. After a good deal of trial and error, I developed techniques for working with the material, cutting and shaping it into whatever I wanted. Nagganum is lighter and far denser than any Earth metal. That’s why Sharyn’s sword never dulls, and why your pocketknife blade can cut through anything.”

  “Whatever happened to Tom’s?” I asked.

  “Went the same way as mine,” Maxi Me replied. “Stopped working when the sliver inside it could no longer hold a charge.”

  “So this is the only one left,” I said.

  “So to speak,” he replied.

  I offered the pocketknife to him. “Take it with you.”

  “No,” he said.

  “I don’t need it,” I pressed, wondering if that was true. Had there ever been a time, since the morning I’d found the amazing gadget under my pillow, that I hadn’t felt a need for it? “I’m staying here. Safe. But it m
ight come in handy for you.”

  “No,” he said again. “I appreciate the offer. But … no.”

  “I really wish you’d let me come along,” I said. One last gambit.

  Emily came up and hugged me. It was still strange when she did that, but it helped. “Let us handle this, okay? We’ll get the Anchor Shard. Your part comes later and that’s enough for you to worry about.”

  “Believe me,” I told her, “I’m plenty worried.”

  She smiled. “I know. But I also know that, when the time comes, you’ll rise to the occasion. It’s who you are.” Then, looking back at William, she added affectionately, “It’s who you both are.”

  “There is no ‘both,’” he corrected. “I’m him.”

  “And he’s me,” I said with a grin.

  “Ain’t that the truth?” our sister replied wryly. “Are we ready?”

  Maxi Me said, “We’re ready. Will, Amy’s in charge while we’re away. Help her hold down the fort?”

  “Sure,” I said halfheartedly.

  Then I stepped aside and watched the three of them leave Haven and disappear down the staircase and into the darkness below the city.

  I suddenly felt very much alone.

  So, unable to think of anything else to do, I took the elevator up to the Infirmary to see what Amy was doing. There I found more cots, most with sick or injured people lying on them. But no Amy Filewicz.

  Instead, I noticed a man in torn overalls who was moving around the room with a tall ladder, changing light bulbs. He could have been a refugee, I supposed, but the way he navigated around the octagonal space suggested something else, something like familiarity. Like he’d been here, doing this kind of thing, for quite a while.

  So I went up to him and watched him work atop his ladder for a few minutes.

  Then, when he finally came back down, I said, “Excuse me?”

  He looked at me. Half his face was pretty badly burned. For several heartbeats, his expression was the same as on most of the faces I’d seen in this new Haven: weary, resigned. But then a flash of recognition lit his eyes.

  “Ritter?” he asked.

  “Um … yeah.”

  “I forgot how skinny you were back then.”

  Inwardly, I frowned. Did I know this dude?

  Then it hit me, and my heart sank.

  “Alex?”

  Alex Bobson was, or had been, the Boss of the Monkeys, the crew responsible for maintenance and construction inside Haven—my Haven. Though a loyal Undertaker and a wizard with tools, Alex had never been my biggest fan.

  “Heard they’d brought you up the timeline,” he remarked.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Um … how’ve you been?”

  “Me?” He crossed his arms. They were big arms. “Let’s see. I got myself burned across a quarter of my body when the Corpses set Philly on fire last year. As a result, my left hand is pretty useless and I can’t walk without a limp. Used to be a mechanical engineer with a Master’s Degree from Rowan U. These days, I’m a glorified janitor. I keep the generators stoked and the lights on and the lift working. But hell, I’m still alive, which is more than I can say for most of the rest of the world. How’ve you been?”

  “Okay,” I replied. God, that sounded lame. “Um … have you seen Amy?”

  “She headed up in the elevator a few minutes ago, probably to look in on Sharyn.”

  It was an effort to mask my surprise, but I managed it. “Sharyn? Does … she do that a lot?”

  “Twice a day,” he replied. He folded up his A-frame ladder and walked off with it, heading around the octagonal room toward another hanging bulb that had gone dark. Wordlessly, I kept stride. “Occasionally three times,” he continued matter-of-factly. “Sharyn has good days and bad days.”

  “Why’s that? What happened to her?”

  He paused, eyeing me suspiciously. “The chief didn’t tell you about her?”

  I considered lying. But, to be honest, I lacked the energy. “No.”

  “Then I probably shouldn’t say anything.”

  “Where is she?”

  He didn’t reply.

  “Come on. I’d really like to see her,” I said.

  Again, no reply.

  So I asked him abruptly, “Still hate my guts?”

  At that, one corner of his mouth turned up. Given his burns, I wasn’t sure the other corner was capable of such a thing, so maybe this counted as a smile. “I’ll let you in on a little secret, Ritter. I never hated your guts. Fact is that I admired the crap out of you. But back then I was all into this hard-as-nails, strong silent type thing.”

  I had no idea what to say to that. I felt my mouth drop open, so I closed it again.

  He chuckled. “Yeah, you could be a pain in the butt sometimes,” he admitted. “But then I figure I wasn’t your favorite person either, huh?”

  I tried to think of a response. Again, the truth won out. “Nope.”

  Then he did a funny thing. No, not a “funny” thing. An unthinkable thing.

  He threw an arm around me and pulled me into a quick hug.

  I was so surprised that I didn’t immediately react. I certainly didn’t return the hug. He didn’t seem to mind. After a single hasty squeeze, he let me go. “Fact is: You grew up into a helluva man, Will Ritter. I know all this must be a serious mind-freak for you, but I hope you understand that much at least. The chief is one of a kind.”

  “Thanks,” I replied, though it probably wasn’t the right thing to say. But in my defense, Emily Post never covered situations like this.

  Emily Post? Look her up.

  “Listen,” he said. “Sharyn got it worse than me. Worse than most. In balance, it might have been better if she’d died, but she didn’t. So the chief looks after her. We all look after her, but really it’s Amy who does the actual caregiving. Some things don’t change, I guess.”

  “I guess,” I said, though to be honest I was thinking exactly the opposite. Some things—some people—did change. Alex Bobson was living proof. “Will you tell me where she is?” I asked him tentatively.

  He considered. Then he nodded. “Nineteenth floor. There’s a door right off the elevator. Not too much privacy in Haven. But Sharyn, at least, has got her own room. Nobody minds. She needs it.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “So, you gonna go back and rewrite history?” he asked.

  He said it so casually, as if people did that sort of thing all the time, that I couldn’t help but laugh. After a moment, I replied, “They tell me that’s the plan,”

  He nodded again, this time gravely. “I do my thing around here. I shore up the defenses and keep the place going as far as power and water go. I’m not Steve Moscova or your sister Emily. I don’t get even a little bit of that freaky deader science of theirs. And when the chief pulled us all together a while back and told us about his scheme … Project Reboot … well, I figured he was pretty much nuts.”

  Another laugh. Softer this time. More thoughtful. “But then he said that you were the one we’d be bringing up from the old days to do it. That in a way, he’d be the one … since he’s you.”

  Weird. Too weird.

  Alex continued, “And I knew right then and there that this crazy plan would work.”

  “You’re putting a lot of pressure on me,” I said, trying for what I hoped was a crooked grin.

  He shrugged. “Will Ritter under pressure. What else is new? Go see Sharyn. I got work to do.”

  And, with that, he turned and left me standing there, the stupid grin still on my face.

  Chapter 13

  The Woman Upstairs

  I rode the elevator up to the nineteenth floor. This was where the Undertakers, the six of them who remained, had their personal space. The moment I pushed aside the door and stepped out, I saw that Alex had been totally right: no privacy. Here there were more cots, no different than the one I’d slept on last night. Each was separated from the r
est by short plywood walls or stacks of old crates. A few had blankets draped over mildewed clotheslines, maybe to give people a place to change.

  And I’d thought my Haven was bad.

  There was a word for what I was looking at.

  Squalor.

  Here the chief slept, and Amy, and my sister, and Steve and Alex, I supposed. The entire Undertakers compliment—minus one.

  A single door stood right across from the elevator. Unmarked. Uninteresting.

  I crossed to it and tried the knob. It didn’t turn.

  So I knocked.

  Nothing. Maybe Amy wasn’t in there, after all.

  But was Sharyn? And if so, why hadn’t Emily or Maxi Me offered to take me to see her? For that matter, why refuse to talk about her at all?

  And why is my danger detector … detecting?

  I stood there for a half-minute, trying to decide what to do. This wasn’t my Haven. If this door was locked, then it was supposed to be locked, and who was I to question that? But the tickle in the back of my mind remained. Why would this door be locked? Presumably, this wasn’t an armory, where some refugee might wander up and help themselves to who-knew-what. This was just somebody’s bedroom.

  Then again, people often locked their bedroom doors, didn’t they? A little flash of knowledge from my old life. In the Undertakers HQ I knew, we didn’t even very many doors, much less locks.

  This is wrong. I should just walk away. I can find Amy later and ask her about Sharyn.

  But I didn’t move.

  Then suddenly my pocketknife was in my hand, my thumb poised over its 1 button—the lock pick.

  I could call and ask William for permission; he’d given me one of their short-range radios. But that seemed a stupid question to pose to a guy—even a Future Me guy—who was out risking his life against the Corpses. This was curiosity, not emergency.

  Wasn’t it?

  Don’t intrude.

  I still didn’t move.

  Then I pressed the 1 button.

  Something’s not right here.