The Undertakers (12 page)

The Cooler Partner

Moving confidently in the darkness, Tom led me out of the kitchen and through the nearby door into the training room. Here at least there was light—provided by a single, battery-powered lamp that sat at the edge of the practice area. Kyle was checking the boarded-up windows for cracks and sealing them up with duct tape when he found them.

A sucky job. I made a mental note never to volunteer for Kyle's gig.

Sharyn stood on the mat, her hands on her hips. She grinned her trademark grin. “Well, about time you two showed up. I was about to send out a search party!”

Feeling embarrassed, I didn't reply.

Tom shrugged. “Sorry, sis. We had some stuff to talk about.”

“That right? Well, it's late, and we've got to get this dance started. Come on up here, Red.” Then more seriously, “You look nervous.”

“I am,” I admitted, stepping onto the mat. “A little.”

“Don't be. We just want to see how you do against a trained opponent. You nailed Ethan easy enough—and even Hot Dog, big as he is. But—”

“Yeah, I get it,” I said. “They weren't trained.”

“Straight up. Kick off your shoes, and show me your stance.” She studied my form. “Good. Now, the thing to remember is that when you're fighting, every move your opponent makes is predictable if you watch 'em close enough. Hand-to-hand's all about reading your enemy, figuring out what they plan to do next, and then getting around it. Got it?”

“Got it,” I replied a little skeptically.

She grinned again. “Well, knowing it and doing it are two different things. Anyhow, you just consider this a talent test. Don't plan on winning this fight. Believe me, you won't. We're setting you up with one of our best. Just focus on doing
your
best. I ain't looking for technique here—just instinct. So don't play the game the way you figure I want you to play it. Make the moves that feel right, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Any questions?”

“I don't think so.”

“Cool! Then let's dance! Will—say hey to your partner.”

Helene Boettcher emerged from the nearby shadows.

She was dressed in shorts and a tank top. Her arms and legs were tanned and muscular. Her long hair had been tightly braided. She crossed the floor and stepped lithely onto the mat, her eyes on mine and her expression unreadable.

“Hi,” I said, the memory of our last encounter—the terrible things we'd said to each other—suddenly fresh in my mind.

“Hi,” she replied flatly.

“Get some helmets on, and wrap your hands, you two,” Sharyn directed.

As we did so, I muttered, “I'm—sorry about what happened the other day.”

She wouldn't even look at me. “That's nice.”

I swallowed. Then I pulled the boxer's helmet over my head. It felt hot and tight.

Sharyn inspected us both. “Cool. Helene, don't get too fancy, but don't hold back too much either. I know you dudes are tight, but I want both of you to kind of put that down for a while.”

Helene's face was stone. “No problem.”

“Um…yeah,” I added.

Sharyn left the mat to stand at her brother's side.

“Begin,” said Tom.

Wordlessly and without warning, Helene attacked.

I barely had time to get into my stance before she lashed out with a front kick to my stomach that doubled me over. Then, spinning on her heel, she delivered a lightning-quick wheel kick that caught my temple and sent me crashing to the mat.

I lay there dazed and wheezing.

From the sidelines Sharyn said, “Rule One, Red: don't assume your opponent'll wait for you to get ready. Got it?”

“Got it,” I grunted.

Helene stood over me, and there was no mistaking the hard anger in her eyes.

“Nice hit,” I muttered.

“Yeah,” she replied.

I staggered to my feet.

Helene stepped suddenly forward, hooked one foot behind my knees, and shoved with both her wrapped hands.

I crashed down onto my back again.

Sharyn sighed. “Ease up, Helene. For now let's give him time to find his stance.”

The girl nodded and retreated. With an effort I pushed myself to my feet a second time. My side ached, and I could feel my face reddening. It wasn't getting beaten by a girl that was bothering me. It really wasn't. I'd seen enough of what Sharyn could do to Dave to be past all that.

But to lose this completely was a real blow to my pride.

“Take your time,” Helene suggested, a little mockery in her tone. “Catch your breath.”

Steadying myself, I set my feet as I'd been taught and raised both my fists.

“Ready?” she asked me sweetly.

I studied her. We were about the same height, although I was probably a little heavier than she was. She, however, had tons of training behind her. I remembered how agile she'd been during our escape from Manayunk. Sharyn hadn't been kidding about this girl being “one of our best.”

But she had been wrong about one thing. This was no
talent test
. It wasn't even a sparring match.

It was payback.

There was no way I was going to win this fight.

But that didn't mean I had to lose it badly.

“Ready,” I said.

And she came at me—fast.

I fought my instinct to cover up. Instead I remained motionless, my muscles loose but ready, watching her come. Left foot. Right foot. Her braids bounced in her wake. Helene's right arm was cocked, the way Dave's had been earlier in the day. But her left—yes! That was where the blow was coming from. The right arm was a trick!

At the last instant, I pivoted, barely sidestepping her left-fisted gut punch. At the same moment, I hooked my right arm into hers, locked our elbows, and yanked backward. Gasping, Helene overbalanced.

I jabbed my foot into the crook of her knee.

And down she went.

“Sweet!” Sharyn remarked from the sidelines.

As Helene got to her feet, I stepped back and resumed my stance. I supposed that I should feel some sense of victory. I didn't. I'd just knocked a friend to the floor—a girl who'd saved my life.

A girl I liked.

“Sorry,” I said.

Helene's hazel eyes narrowed. Wordlessly she advanced again, this time more slowly.

“Fighting ain't just about defense, Will!” Sharyn called.

I nodded, suddenly a little sick to my stomach.

I hated this.

Helene drew closer.

I feigned a right hook and then crouched low, intending to sweep her legs out from under her. But Helene saw right through the trick. Ignoring the fake punch, she jumped over my low-swinging leg and treated me to a single sharp kick to my shoulder. The blow sent me rolling across the mat. I kept rolling, waiting until I was nearly at the edge before regaining my footing.

Helene was already charging forward, her expression hard and determined. From the angle of her body, I guessed that she meant to jump-kick me into next Tuesday.

I didn't think. I just reacted. Instead of trying to block or sidestep, I leapt into a kick of my own. I did it pretty badly, but I timed it right because I caught Helene in the stomach a split-second before she launched herself off the mat.

She went down very hard, tumbling head over heels.

I landed clumsily, spun around, and prepared for a fresh assault.

But Helene lay facedown, unmoving.

“Oh, crap!” I looked up for Tom or Sharyn but couldn't spot them in the deep shadows. “She's hurt!” I yelled. They didn't answer.

I dropped to my knees beside Helene and called her name. No response. Could I have broken one of her ribs or something? Did she need an ambulance? Where the hell were Tom and Sharyn?

“Kyle!” I called, trying to remember if the First Stop Boss had stayed in the training room for my sparring match. Again there was no answer.

Finally, hesitantly, I shoved both my hands under the girl's limp body and rolled her over onto her back.

Her eyes opened.

And she punched me dead in the nose.

The Way Cooler Partner

I recoiled, clutching at my face. Blood started oozing out from both my nostrils. Tears flooded my eyes. Through them I saw Helene climb to her feet wearing a triumphant expression.

“Never trust a wounded enemy,” she said smugly.

I sat back on the mat, tasting blood and staring up at her through a haze of shock and pain. “I didn't!” I cried. “I thought I was helping a friend!”

Helene's victorious smile disappeared.

“She ain't your friend right now, bro,” Tom remarked from the shadows. “She's your opponent.”

“No!” I exclaimed, close to screaming. “She stopped being my opponent the minute I thought I'd hurt her!”

“You don't want to be thinking like that,” Sharyn warned. “Not in combat.”

I struggled to my feet, leaving bloody handprints on the mat. I was shaking, but more with anger than pain.

A pair of gentle hands touched my arm. I flinched. From beside me, Helene said quietly, “I'm sorry.”

I tried to jerk my arm free, but her grip tightened.

“Turn around,” she begged. “Let me see how bad it is.”

Reluctantly I obeyed. Helene wiped the blood from my face with a towel, her fingers tentatively exploring the injury. She pressed up on my nose. It hurt but not too much.

She sighed with obvious relief. “It's not broke. But you're gonna have a shiner tomorrow. I'm really sorry, Will.”

I pulled away from her, my cheeks burning. A knot of outrage, hot and sour, had formed in the pit of my stomach. I glared at Helene, who offered up a small, apologetic smile. Payback had evidently been made. All was forgiven.

My outrage deepened.

“Let's do it again,” said Sharyn from the shadows.

Helene shook her head. “No. I got carried away. We should call it a night.”

Tom stepped onto the mat. “Think you're up for another match, Will?”

“Uh-uh,” I replied in a thick voice. “I…don't want…to do this…anymore.”

“So don't,” Tom replied, without expression.

Nodding, I left the mat. Helene trailed after me, but I wordlessly shrugged off her advances. At the moment I didn't want or need her help.

Then I saw something that gave me pause.

A figure sat hunched over at the back of the room, near the closed hallway door. For a second I thought it might just be Kyle sitting in the dark and enjoying our little drama. But this person was too big to be the First Stop Boss. Besides, Kyle—I now saw—was off to the left, sitting at the edge of the light and reading a comic book.

So who—?

Then I recognized him. Maybe it was the slope of those huge shoulders. Maybe it was the silhouette of his oddly square-shaped head.

But the kid sitting quietly in the dark was Dave.

He wasn't supposed to be there. Tom had made that clear. But here he was, showing uncharacteristic stealth and equally uncharacteristic silence. I knew he'd wanted to watch my private match; he'd said so about a hundred times. But this—

I almost spoke up. I almost announced his presence to Helene and the rest, flashes of suspicion and words like
mole
running through my head. Almost.

But then the Chief of the Undertakers remarked from behind me, “Of course, a Corpse won't give a crap if you ain't in the mood to fight.”

I froze.

“You lost,” Tom said gravely. “It's humiliating. Believe me, I understand that.”

I didn't turn around. My anger suddenly reasserted itself. So what if the Burgermeister wanted to watch? The knot in my gut tightened almost painfully.

He continued, “But if you plan on surviving, you've got to be able to go the distance in a fight—no matter what. Walk away now, and how do you figure you'll ever have the stones to try again?”

“Tom,” Helene said, “don't you think he's had enough for one day?”

The Chief ignored her. “Well, bro?”

So, Burgermeister,
I thought bitterly,
you want to see a fight? Okay then! I'll give you a real show.

Slowly I turned. Tom's expression was stony as he met my eyes.

I suddenly understood that all my outrage wasn't really directed at Helene. At the moment it wasn't even directed at the Corpses for taking away my life.

It was directed at this kid right here—Tom Jefferson, Chief of the Undertakers—for pitting me against someone I cared about, a friend.

For wanting to make me into the sort of person who could hurt her.

“I won't fight Helene anymore,” I said.

Tom looked disappointed. “That's your call, Will. But—”

I cut him off. “But I'll fight
y
ou.”

A leaden silence fell over the training room. Into it, Sharyn uttered an oath that sounded totally out of character. “Oh—fudge!”

Her brother's dark eyebrows rose in surprise.

“Will?” Helene asked hesitantly. Off in another corner of the training room, I noticed Kyle's attention snap up from his comic. He looked stunned.

I ignored them both. “What about it—Chief?”

Tom studied me. Finally, resignedly, he said, “You're on.”

“Whoa, bro!” Sharyn exclaimed. “I don't think—”

“It's what the man wants,” her brother interjected calmly. He walked to the edge of the mat, picked up the tape, and started wrapping his fists. They were big fists. “Helene, I'll need your helmet.”

Helene looked from me to Tom and back again. Then with obvious dismay, she removed her headgear and tossed it onto the mat.

Tom pulled off his shirt and retrieved the fallen helmet. As he slipped it over his head, adjusting it for size, I was struck by the incredible shape that this kid was in. His chest was broad and heavily muscled. His arms looked as thick as tree branches, especially compared to the twigs sticking out from my own narrow shoulders.

Apprehension gnawed at my anger. I pushed it away and stepped defiantly back onto the mat.

Tom positioned himself in the standard Undertaker fighting stance.

“Bring it, bro,” he said.

Seeing his expression—so passive, so controlled—fueled my already fiery anger. Uttering an outraged roar, I charged him, my feet pumping across the mat, my fists at the ready. The moment he was in range, I hurled a right-fisted punch at his infuriatingly calm face.

I was nose-down on the mat before I even realized it had happened.

“Don't fight pissed,” Tom instructed. “It just makes you careless. Relax. Be calm. Be in control.”

“I don't want a lesson from you!” I snapped as I climbed to my feet.

Whirling around I launched myself into a wheel kick. Tom smoothly sidestepped it and caught my foot in one vice-like hand. In a fluid motion, he gave my ankle a single hard twist.

My body spun in midair—once, twice—before again crashing to the mat.

This time Tom offered no advice.

Frustrated and furious with myself, I staggered back up and resumed my stance. The Chief stood just a few feet away, watching me with eyes like still, dark pools.

I feigned another kick and then instead stepped close and delivered a series of lightning jabs, each of which Tom easily, patiently blocked. I threw just enough punches to lower his guard. Then without warning, I leapt up and kicked him hard in the stomach.

It was like kicking a stone wall. I literally bounced away, lost my balance, and crashed to the mat. Tom staggered back a few steps, grunting in surprise. He coughed and smiled. “Didn't see that coming. Not bad.”

I jumped to my feet again, my face burning. Tom was beating me, and so far, he hadn't so much as thrown a punch!

“Fight back!” I exclaimed in frustration.

“If he fights back, he'll waste you, Red,” Sharyn muttered.

“Please, Will…” Helene begged.

I ignored it all.

“Who are you mad at, bro?” Tom asked.

“You!” I screamed.

“Why?”

“Because you wanna make me into something I'm not!”

“And what's that?”

“A fighter!”

Tom slowly shook his head. “I ain't looking for fighters. What I need are soldiers.”

I yelled until I thought the walls would shake. “I'm
not
a soldier! I go to middle school! Middle school! This is your world, and I don't want to be in it!”

Then I launched myself a third time, driving the heel of my hand up toward his nose, determined to knock the Chief of the Undertakers' head right off his broad, muscled shoulders.

Tom struck like a snake, cuffing me under the chin hard enough to snap my head back. My ears rang. I felt my knees buckle, felt a piece of the mat seem to rise up and smack my cheek.

Everything blurred. There was no pain—only a creeping numbness.

A voice spoke in my ear, calm as always. “You wanna go home, Will? Well, get in line. We all want to go home. But you know what the difference is between you and me? You got a home to go to. That's something I ain't never had. Think about
that
, bro.”

Then everything went black.