Queen of the Dead (23 page)

I ran through the corridors of Haven even faster than I had when Sharyn was crashing and I'd gone looking for Alex Bobson. Kids stared at me as I went by, most wearing tired, blank expressions. Nobody threw a joke or snide remark at my back. Maybe they were getting used to seeing me tear down these dank, narrow halls.

Or maybe, like me, they were just tired of all the misery.

By the time I reached the infirmary, my heart pounded and my stomach felt as if I'd swallowed a chunk of glacial ice.

“Tom!”

He looked up from Sharyn's bedside, his face haggard. There were bags under his eyes. Elsewhere in the otherwise empty room, Ian and Amy moved to and fro, doing things I could only guess at. They looked exhausted, and I suddenly felt a little guilty for getting some sleep.

“Hey, bro,” the Chief said. “You just missed Dave. He was in here for a long time, keepin' us company. You know, sometimes I don't think I spend enough time with that dude.” He gazed down at his sister. “She's hangin' in there. Tough as nails.”

Then, after a pause, he added, “Thanks for what you did before, getting Alex and taking care of all that for me. I'm not big on leaning on folks…but right now…”

I marched up to him and held up the cell phone. “I took this from Cavanaugh last night at the funeral parlor,” I said. “I forgot all about until just now…when it rang. It was
her
…Cavanaugh…and she was calling from my mom's mobile number!”

From Tom's expression, I knew he didn't need more explanation than that. “Will…” he whispered. “I'm sorry.”

But I wasn't interested in sympathy. “I shouldn't have answered it. I know the rules and regs. But when I saw my mom's number on the caller ID, I just couldn't help it. Cavanaugh said one line to me…just one…before I hung up. She said that my mom wasn't available to answer the phone. Then she laughed.”

Tom nodded slowly. “It was smart to hang up. But…that means you don't know what exactly—”

I showed him the display. “A few seconds later…she texted me.”

The Chief read the words. I already knew them. It was pretty long, as text messages went, but I'd somehow memorized it anyway.

I have your mother and sister. To keep them alive, all the Undertakers have to do is nothing, absolutely nothing, for the next 24 hours. But if one of my people even smells you before then, well, your mother would make a very capable host for me. And the little girl, Emily, would be delicious!

All the words spelled out. All the punctuation there. Capital letters in all the right places. It was an adult's style of texting—and apparently, a Corpse's.

Tom swore. It wasn't something he did much, and the fact he was doing it now seemed oddly comforting. It meant he understood the situation despite his preoccupation with Sharyn.

It meant he was still my Chief.

“Get Katie in here,” he ordered. “Tell her I said to stand down. Nobody leaves Haven until this time tomorrow.”

“And the governor dies,” I said. Then, steeling myself, I added, “We can't do that.”

“Will, I'm not going to have your mother and your sister's deaths on my conscience. You've already lost your dad.”

“And if we let the Queen get away with this,” I told him, “she'll just do it again the next time she wants us out of the way. Heck, she could just start taking hostages and demanding that we give ourselves up to save them.” That block of ice I'd swallowed kept getting bigger with every word.

Was I really willing to sacrifice Mom and Emily for the “greater good”? Or was I just playing the tough soldier and hoping Tom would talk me out of it?

I'm pretty sure it was the second one.

Tom said, “No way, bro. We're out. We can cut Ramirez loose.
He
can go warn the governor.”

“You said that wouldn't work!” I protested.

He shrugged. “It's all we got now.”

“No, it isn't,” I said. “We can do what we do. We can rescue my family.”

He studied me. “You know where they are?”

“No,” I admitted. “But I can tell you where they're
not
. They're not in Cavanaugh's office in City Hall. No way is she keeping them there for a full day without somebody finding out about it.”

Tom nodded. “And she can't have them arrested neither. Your sister'd have to go to family services, and your mom would immediately demand for a lawyer. Too easy for the whole thing to blow up in the Queen's face.”

“My house maybe? Under guard?”

“I doubt it,” he replied. “Too many neighbors. Somebody might come calling. How about Cavanaugh's house? You know…like Booth did when he took Helene.”

I said, “Nope. Booth lived out in the burbs. Cavanaugh's got a condo off Rittenhouse Square. Same as my house. Too many neighbors too close by. Somebody might see something. Hear something.”

“Then where?” the Chief asked.

“The same place she put her
last
prisoner,” I told him. I took a deep, steadying breath. This was a crapshoot, and the stakes were very high. “Eastern State Penitentiary.”

Tom considered. “Maybe. It's quiet and easy to guard.”

“It might be why the Corpses took over the prison in the first place,” I added. “They need a place to put…well…political prisoners, I guess. People they can't just risk locking up in one of the city jails.”

“It's solid thinking,” the Chief said. “But if you're right, then the Queen's expectin' a rescue attempt. In fact, she's probably countin' on it because it would keep us busy and away from Penn's Landing.”

That
was something I hadn't considered.

“Then let Katie keep her three teams and her plan. I'll go in and get my sister.”

Tom raised his eyebrows. “By yourself?”

“No,” I said. “Me, Helene, and the Burgermeister.”

“So two rookie Angels and a totally untrained Monkey against who knows how many Deaders?”

“We went up against four at the funeral parlor last night,” I said. “Including the Queen. And Sharyn's been giving Dave private lessons.”

Tom's eyes strayed to his sister, who lay atop the gurney between us, her eyes closed. She wore the same shirt she'd had on when she got hurt. Ian probably hadn't felt comfortable enough to try to change her: a black shirt turned gray by lots of washing, with the words
Mopey Teenage Bears
scrawled across it in big letters.

I'd seen her wear it at least fifty times; wardrobes in Haven didn't tend to be very big.

The Mopey Teenage Bears—a German band.

The same band as on the poster in my room.

Dave's poster.

“I'm gonna have to have a word with him,” Tom said to himself.

“Huh?”

“Never mind, bro. You got bigger stuff to do. Get your team together and get ready to hit the prison. You got maybe four hours before dawn, so make it quick. Take whatever stuff you need. And swing by the Brain Factory. Ask Steve 'bout his newest project. Tell him I said you could have it.”

“Thanks, Tom.”

“Don't thank me, Will. I wish I could go with you. I probably
should
go with you. I owe your dad…and you…at least that much. But I can't leave Sharyn, and maybe more importantly, I can't leave Haven. I've been dropping the ball lately, Chief-wise.”

“It's cool,” I said quickly. “We all get it.”

“That ain't the point. I'm the Chief of the Undertakers first and Sharyn's brother second. These last couple of days, I let that slide. No more. I need to talk to Katie, and you got your own stuff to do. Let's both get to work.”

“Yeah.”

“But, Will,” he said, “be careful. I don't mean your usual ‘careful' but
serious
careful. I still might lose Sharyn. I don't know what it'd do to me if I lost you too.”

I had no idea what to say to that. Finally, the best I could manage was a hasty “You won't.” But by the time I got it out, Tom's eyes had already strayed back to his sister's gurney.

I left him to his thoughts.

After all, I had my
own
sister to think about. And my mom.

It was time to go to work.

The Brain Factory occupied a wide, blind hallway between the infirmary and the Monkey Barrel. Steve Moscova, the Brain Boss, called it a “gallery.” It was maybe twelve feet wide and thirty feet deep, with lights strung along the ceiling. A lot of lights. Actually, the Brain Factory was probably the best lit place in all of Haven.

They needed it.

Here was where the chemicals got mixed, the blueprints drawn up, and the gizmos perfected. When the Angels went out into the field to face an army of the walking dead, they did so—
we
did so—with weapons forged right here.

These dudes totally needed to see what they were doing.

There were maybe a half-dozen Brains, and Steve lorded over them, as Sharyn had once put it, “with an iron pocket protector.” He had gotten the Sight later than most, almost a year later than his younger brother, Burt. It was a subject he was sensitive about. He thought it made him sound nerdish.

But nerd or not, Steve was a genius.

The genius himself stood at a lab table against the gallery's back wall with Agent Ramirez. Steve seemed to be showing off an assortment of Undertakers gadgetry to the FBI guy: a plastic water pistol, a Super Soaker, a wrist radio. That kind of stuff.

I ran up to them, drawing stares from the other Brains. “Steve!”

They both turned.

“Have you been to the infirmary?” Steve asked. “How's Sharyn?”

“Still asleep,” I said.

“Unconscious,” he corrected. “Not asleep.”

“Whatever,” I said.

“There's a difference. REM sleep has an entirely different electroencephalographic signature than coma.”

Yep, definitely a nerd.

“Okay. She's still unconscious.”

Ramirez remarked, “She should be in a hospital.” But the look on his face said he now understood that wasn't possible. He'd come around—a far cry from the outraged adult he'd been yesterday. The world had gotten a bit more complicated for Agent Hugo Ramirez and a bit scarier too.

I knew exactly how he felt.

“Listen, Steve,” I said. “I need to talk to you.”

But Steve, as was his way, rolled right over me. “I was just showing Agent Ramirez our latest innovation.” Then he held up Aunt Sally. I hadn't laid my eyes on the crossbow since Sharyn had used it to shoot a Corpse through the watchtower window at Eastern State.

It didn't look any different.

“I've seen it,” I said.

“Not the crossbow.
This
!” He removed the bolt that sat atop the bow. Now I hadn't seen too many crossbow bolts in my life, but even so, I could tell this one was special. For one thing, it wasn't metal or wood but clear plastic. And there was fluid inside.

“What is it?” I asked.

“A Ritterbolt!” he replied proudly.

I groaned. “Oh…come on!”

If the Brain Boss noticed my discomfort, it didn't show. “The bolt is designed to remotely inject a lethal dose of saltwater. The force of penetration drives the plunger in the rear of the bolt forward, delivering all fifteen cc's stored in the syringe. Should work at least as well as a handheld Ritter.”

“Should work?”

He shrugged. “Functions as expected on test dummies. But out in the field…well, it
should
work.”

I took the bolt from him and hefted it. It was light, lighter than a real crossbow bolt. “How many have you got?”

“Alex is making the shafts out of acrylic based on my design,” Steve said. “He just delivered the first ten.”

“Ten,” I echoed, thoughtfully. “Okay, I'll take them.”

Steve blinked. “What?”

“Cavanaugh's kidnapped my mom and sister,” I said, working hard to keep an edge of panic out of my voice. “I'm going after them.”

“Now wait a minute!” Ramirez exclaimed. “What?”

“Got a text from her. She's taken my family and says she'll…do stuff to them…if the Undertakers don't disappear for the next twenty-four hours.”

“She wants us out of the way,” Steve concluded.

“That what Tom figures,” I said. “I'm guessing they're stashed at Eastern State, so I'm going in to get them.”

Ramirez shook his head. “I can't let you do that, Will.”

Around us, the rest of the Brain Factory had picked up on what was happening and stopped working. Steve's “gallery” had gone as quiet as a tomb.

I faced Ramirez. He was a head taller than me and at least sixty pounds heavier. But he also had one arm in a sling. “Sorry,” I said, meaning it. “But it's not your call. I've already talked to Tom. I'm going.”

He opened his mouth and then shut it again. Finally, he said, “I'll go with you.”

“Thanks, but you'd just get in the way.”

“Will, I'm a trained federal officer.”

“With a sprained shoulder and no Sight,” I said. “No offense, but I don't think you could help.”

“But one…person”—the way he tripped over the word made me think he'd almost said child—“against God knows how many of Cavanaugh's people.”

“Don't call them ‘people,'” I said. “Corpses.”

“My point's the same.”

“I'm going to ask Helene and Dave to come with me.”

He shook his head. “So…three against a small army. It's suicide.”

I shrugged. “What choice do I have?”

“Let me call my office,” he pleaded. “I won't say anything about Corpses. I'll just come up with some kind of story to get some agents to that prison to look around.”

“And the minute the Queen gets wind of it, my family dies. They'll never even find the bodies. No way.”

“But what are you going to do?” he asked, sounding desperate. “How would you even get in?”

“Over the wall,” I said. “Like we did last time.”

He frowned, obviously trying to come up with another argument.

But then Steve said, “Won't work.”

We both looked at him.

“What?” he added, looking irritated. “You think I can't strategize?”

“Why won't it work?” I demanded.

“Three reasons,” Steve replied, and in typical Steve fashion, he ticked them off on his fingers. “One, the first time was in broad daylight, with the Angels using deception to convince any passersby that they had a right to be there. This operation will be at night, and anyone who sees you, human or Corpse, won't be fooled.

“Two, the prison walls are thirty feet high. You'd need a long ladder to get over it, and our only long ladder was used in the
last
prison mission and then abandoned.

“Three, the Corpses know how you got in last time, and they'll be watching for a repeat. Even if you do manage to get over the wall, they'd be on you in a heartbeat…yours, not theirs, because they don't
have
heartbeats.”

Then he crossed his arms, looking pleased with himself.

“He's right,” Ramirez said.

“I
have
to go in,” I said. “They've got my mom and sister.”

“We'll find another way.”

Then Steve said, “I already know another way. Hey, Kelly! Toss me that book! There…on the lab table beside you.”

“Sure thing, Boss!” one of the Brains called. A moment later, a thin paperback was whizzing through the air like a square Frisbee. Steve tried to catch it but missed, so I whipped my hand out and snagged it before it went flying into the shadows.

Frowning, I read the cover:
Escapes
from
Eastern
State
Penitentiary
. The cover showed an old black-and-white photo of two guards—or maybe they were policemen—examining a man-sized hole in the dirt.

“Where'd you get this?” I asked.

Steve replied, “The library.”

“The Philly library?” Undertakers, as a rule, didn't have library cards—or any other sort of personal identification.

He shook his head. “Haven's library.”

“We have a library? Since when?”

“I opened it about two weeks ago. I'm not surprised you haven't heard of it. Word isn't really getting around as quickly as I'd like. So far, we've only loaned out maybe a half dozen books, mostly to Brains and Hackers.”

I wanted to ask him where'd he'd found the space to set up such a thing and why he'd even bothered. I mean, I liked books fine, but lately, I'd been too busy fighting for my life to find time for a little reading. And the lighting in Haven being what it was—well, the Brain Factory and maybe the infirmary were about the only places where you could read without going blind.

I almost said all that but then stopped myself. I just didn't have time for another Steve lecture.

“I'll have to stop by,” I said.

“Hope you do,” the Brain Boss replied. “Open the book to page fifteen.”

I did. Across two pages was a drawing, one that had apparently appeared in the
Philadelphia
Inquirer
back on April 3, 1945. The caption read, “How twelve convicts escaped by tunnel from Eastern Penitentiary.”

I looked at it. After a moment, Ramirez came to my right shoulder and looked at it with me. Then Steve took point on my left shoulder and did the same.

“Most people think the famous bank robber William ‘Slick Willie' Sutton planned the escape,” Steve said—so cheerfully that, given the circumstances, I almost wanted to hit him. “Actually, Sutton simply found out about the plot and insisted on joining in. The tunnel was really dug by Clarence Klinedinst and his cell mate, William Russell. It took about two years and, when finished, ran a hundred feet from Klinedinst's cell, under the prison wall, and came up in the grass right beside Fairmount Avenue.”

“I think I've heard of this,” Ramirez muttered.

Steve continued, “Twelve men escaped, including Klinedinst, Russell, and Slick Willie. Every single one was recaptured, many within minutes. They made the mistake of escaping at seven in the morning, when the sun was up, so everyone on the street could see them. Sutton got caught about two blocks away. Klinedinst didn't get far either. Russell actually managed to stay free…until he decided to visit an old girlfriend.”

“Great,” I said. “But what's your point? I don't have two years to dig my way under the prison wall.”

But Steve shook his head. “You don't have to. After the escape attempt, the authorities sealed the tunnel on both ends.”

“I'm sure they did,” said Ramirez.

“Of course,” the Brain Boss agreed. “But the actual tunnel, all one hundred feet of it, is still there! And that's how you can get in!”