The Undertakers (9 page)

Apt Pupil

Five days later, on Tuesday morning, I stood on the mat in First Stop staring down a pimple-faced thirteen-year-old named Ethan Maxwell who wanted to beat the crap out of me.

The other recruits were all watching from their chairs, having already faced their own sparring partners—except for Dave, that is, who was occupying a bench against the rear wall. He was sullenly hugging an ice pack—a souvenir from his latest bout with Sharyn. He always sparred with Sharyn because pitting the enormous boy against anyone else would have been, in Sharyn's words, “like siccing Shrek on one of the seven dwarves.”

Usually the three girls—Harleen, Maria, and the little blond, Amy Filewicz—only sparred among themselves, leaving Ethan as my regular partner. So far I'd won every match—a fact that was apparently frustrating Ethan more and more.

And it was starting to show.

He danced around me, moving altogether too fast, his fists held up aggressively before him. Turning in a slow circle, I followed his movements, watching his eyes, looking for the “tell” that would announce a swing. I saw it and immediately raised my arm, blocking a right-handed punch. Instantly Ethan swung his left fist, his arc too wide. I blocked that too. Again he came at me with his right, this time going for my stomach. I jumped back and gave him a shove—just hard enough to push him off balance and send him staggering across the mat.

Ethan uttered a little curse.

From the sidelines Sharyn scolded him. “Don't be so fast to attack. Pick your moment—but don't miss it when it comes!”

Ethan glowered at me. “This time you're going down, Ritter,” he said, just a little too loud.

He's scared, and he's trying to hide it behind fake courage
.

I wasn't sure where this realization had come from. After all, I didn't have any more experience fighting than he did. Nevertheless the feeling was strong.

Ethan came at me again, this time with an all-out charge, his head down and his arms pinwheeling. I wasn't sure if he meant to club my skull or bowl me over, and I didn't care. I waited until just the right second. Then I ducked under the swinging arms and gave him one hard jab in the midsection.

Ethan's breath exploded out of him. The wire-framed glasses tumbled off his face as he fell to his knees, gasping.

“Oh, crap! Ethan, I'm sorry!” I exclaimed. I dropped into a crouch beside the fallen boy, who was gulping like a landed fish.

“It's cool,” Sharyn said at once. She knelt and cupped Ethan's face with her strong hands. The boy's eyes were glassy, the skin beneath his pimples suddenly pale. “You just got the wind knocked outta you, that's all. I know it's scary, but it ain't nothing to worry about. Just chill out, and you'll catch your breath.”

She kept talking in that reassuring tone until the boy's color returned and he started breathing normally again. Sharyn smiled, patted Ethan's shoulder, and then stood up to face me.

“I'm really sorry!” I told her. “I didn't mean to hit him that hard!”

“It ain't about how hard you tagged him. It's about where you tagged him. There's this sweet spot”—Sharyn tapped her midsection, just above her belly button; she was no longer speaking just to me, but to all the recruits—“called the
solar plexus
.
Tag it right, and you can mess up the body's rhythm for a time, making it tough to catch any air. Problem is that Corpses don't breathe, so hitting them there don't mean much. Y'all want to remember that.”

She looked back at me. I nodded.

Sharyn helped Ethan to his feet and returned his glasses. “Go plant yourself,” she told him gently. Then to my horror, she gestured toward Dave. “Yo, Hot Dog! Feel up to a quick dance with Will here?”

“Sharyn?” I whispered.

She winked. “You're better than you think you are, Red. Fact is, you might just be a natural.”

Dave rose from his bench on his tree-trunk-sized legs and made his way toward the training area. I gulped.

A natural?

I could count on one hand the number of fights I'd been in, and three of those fingers would have been sparring matches with poor Ethan! Outfighting that skinny, inexperienced kid was one thing. But this—walking bulldozer—was another!

As Dave stepped onto the mat, I suddenly thought,
Sharyn beat him
. So why can't I?

But that was just crazy. I was no Sharyn! Not even close.

Dave eyed me without expression. His wordless message was simple:
I'm still embarrassed over losing to that girl, so I'm planning to take it out on you. I'm going to squash you like a bug!

I felt my stomach knot up.

Dave pulled a sparring helmet over his head and wrapped his fists with tape. We didn't use gloves.

Calmly Sharyn said to me, “'Member, it ain't about size or strength. It's about speed, precision, and—mostly—belief.”

“Belief in what?” I croaked.

She grinned. “Yourself, Red!”

Then she left the mat.

From ten feet away, Dave grinned at me.

I tried to smile back, tried to believe. It just wasn't happening.

“Do it,” Sharyn called.

Dave advanced but slower than Ethan had—more confidently.

I watched him, unmoving. I felt like a deer in headlights.

“Get your guard up, Will!” Sharyn called.

Too late. Dave's huge fist lashed out, cuffing me on the side of my head. Something told me it wasn't half as hard as the kid was capable of hitting, but it was still enough to knock me to the mat.

Dave guffawed and stepped back.

For a long empty moment, I just lay there, my head ringing.

Some natural fighter!

Sharyn said, “Get up, Will.”

I pulled myself to my feet and, reluctantly, faced Dave again. He was smirking and slamming his right fist into his left palm rhythmically.
Thump. Thump. Thump.

I frowned.

He thinks I'm a pushover. A wimp. Is he wrong?

Yeah. I think maybe he is.

And just like that, the fear faded. It wasn't gone. I'd simply tucked it someplace inside my head where it wouldn't get in the way. Then I focused on Sharyn's teachings over the last few days: stance, balance, confidence, timing, speed, and precision.

Dave grinned at me again.

This time I grinned right back. Then I spread my legs, raised both my fists, and looked him squarely in the eyes.

Dave's face darkened. He came forward slowly, warily.

I expected the right roundhouse, just like last time, and he didn't disappoint me. This time, though, I ducked under it and jabbed him in the right armpit. Dave didn't seem to feel the blow, but I saw his arm go limp—just like Sharyn had told us it would.

But the kid was quick. He spun around and swung at my temple with his left fist. Fortunately I saw it coming with a split-second to spare and managed to pivot clear.

Dave spun around, angry now. His right arm hung uselessly at his side.

“Okay, shrimp!” he growled. Then he charged forward, all power and menace.

I gauged his footsteps across the mat, picking my moment. At the last second, as Dave unscrewed a powerhouse punch clearly intended to knock my teeth out of my ears, I sidestepped and swept out with one leg, catching him right below the knee of his advancing foot.

Dave went down face-first onto the mat.

I waited for him to push himself impatiently up onto his hands and knees—

—and then I kicked him in the ribs.

Dave's huge body flipped over onto its back, and this time he didn't get up. Instead he just lay there, groaning and hugging his midsection.

I dropped down beside him. “You okay? Can you breathe?”

“Yeah!” Dave grunted. “I'm good. No sweat!”

“That'll do,” Sharyn said. “Hot Dog, you cool?”

The boy rolled over again and, treating me to a suspicious glare, climbed unsteadily to his feet. Once there, still hugging his stomach, he said, “Yeah, I'm great. I'm, um…just gonna go sit down in the back again.”

Sharyn smiled. “No problem.”

Dave gave me a funny look. Then he left the mat. I watched him go, not quite able to believe what had just happened.

I won.

I actually won!

The Burgermeister

Lesson's over!” Sharyn announced. “Grub's in half an hour. Rest up. Y'all doing great. Best bunch I seen in months! So great, in fact, that me and Tom got a surprise for you this afternoon!” Then she headed over to the alley door, where Tom was already waiting in the shadows.

I wondered how long the Chief had been there.

The three girl recruits headed off toward their shared bedroom. Ethan left too, looking crestfallen. With a sigh I started after him.

Tom called, “Will—hold up.”

I obeyed, watching curiously as the Jeffersons approached the mat. It was just the three of us now in the training room.

“You got a knack for fightin', bro,” Tom said.

“I got lucky,” I replied.

Sharyn shook her head. “Uh-uh. I've seen lucky. You got your dad's talent for hand-to-hand.”

Had my father been good at this kind of fighting? I wasn't sure. The Karl Ritter I knew had always carried a gun and a policeman's nightstick.

He'd always seemed invincible.

“Mind you, Ethan ain't much of an opponent,” Sharyn continued. “Nice kid, and I figure we got a place for him, but it ain't gonna be in combat. Harleen, now she's got more game. As for Amy and Maria—well, I can't tell yet. Still too early.”

“What about Dave?” I asked. “I can't believe I beat him!”

The girl chuckled. “You sure did—once you figured out how not to be scared of him.”

Tom frowned. “I got my worries about that kid. He's all attitude.”

Shrugging, his sister replied, “It ain't his 'tude. That's more talk than anything else, and he sure ain't the sharpest knife in the drawer. What worries me is his age. He says he's fourteen, but that's pretty old to be just getting the Sight, even for a boy. Think maybe he's a mole?”

“Could be.”

I was shocked. Dave could be a bit of a bully sometimes—but a spy for the Corpses? I couldn't believe that.

“So how do we find out for sure?” I asked them.

Tom and Sharyn shared a smile. “Hear that?” the sister said to the brother. “Now it's we.”

I scowled but didn't reply.

“Don't sweat it,” Tom told me. “We got rules and regs for this. Over the next week, we'll be giving y'all a few coping exercises, and we'll tell you that they're to help you get past your fear of the Corpses. But what they really do is make sure that each of you actually has a solid, healthy fear of them. Because if you don't, then you're most likely a mole.”

“Or an idiot,” his sister added, “which might be right where Hot Dog's at.”

“Is there anything
I
can do?” I asked.

“Keep trainin', bro,” Tom replied, “and keep your eyes open. If you see anybody sneaking around after hours, drop a dime on them. There's an Undertaker named Kyle Standish who lives here and looks after the place. We call him the First Stop Boss. If you haven't met him yet, you will. He's always here at night, and we usually have at least one other senior Undertaker here too—just in case of problems. Flag any of them, and they'll drop everything and help you.”

“Okay.”

“Go get cleaned up with the rest of 'em,” Sharyn told me. “Y'all got a big afternoon coming up.”

“Yeah?” I asked. “The big surprise you talked about?”

It was Tom who replied. “A field trip to Haven.”

“We're going to Haven?”

They both nodded. “Just for the afternoon,” said Sharyn.

Tom explained, “It's the first time we've ever tried it. Kind of an experiment. Show you around the Big Room and let y'all see the operation that's waiting for you. You'll learn a bit about each of the crews and find out everything we know about the Corpses. Then we get you back here before supper.”

“But what about the security?” I asked. “The whole
mole
thing?”

“Don't sweat it,” Sharyn said. “You'll be getting a ride from here to there and back again. First-class seating! Well—'cept for the bags over your heads.”

I looked at her. “Bags?”

“We can show 'em
what
Haven is, Will,” Tom explained, “but not
where
it is. So we take you there and back by a nice, crazy, complicated route. That way, if there's a mole, they won't have no way to figure where we took you.”

“But why risk it at all?”

Tom shrugged. “Morale. You saw how down Ethan looked a few days back when he asked about other Undertaker groups? Well—all the recruits are feeling that same way to one degree or another.”

Sharyn added, “This trip'll show 'em that there's more to being an Undertaker than this smelly old dry cleaners. Does a world of good. Trust me. I've seen it plenty.”

“Sounds great to me,” I said, meaning it.

After all, I might get to see Helene again, even briefly.

I might get to apologize.

“One more thing, Red,” said Sharyn. “Tonight after lights out, I want you here on the mat for a private session.”

“What for?”

“You got yourself a knack for fighting. Let's see out how good you dance with a cooler partner.”

I didn't like the sound of that and left the mat feeling a mixture of unease and guilty excitement.

A good fighter? Where had
that
come from?

I found myself almost looking forward to facing this
cooler partner
. And it was the first time in days that I had really looked forward to anything.

Mom would never approve, of course.

But then, my mother wasn't here.

That thought brought with it a fresh stab of desperate loneliness, washing away my budding optimism.

I opened the door that connected the training room with the dorms and kitchen area.

Dave filled the threshold.

Glowering, he took a step toward me. I didn't move. This guy was huge—as tall as Tom and much heavier. Not so long ago, I would have felt intimidated. Those days, I realized with some surprise, were over.

Anyway, a second look made it clear that this kid was in no condition to start another fight. He was clutching a fresh ice pack to his stomach.

I've seen the walking dead! I can't believe I once thought guys like this were scary!

Almost absently I scanned Dave's face, neck, and body, silently reviewing my combat training.

It would be so easy. One jab at the base of his skull would bring him down like an elephant.

Except that Dave's not the enemy, is he?

Besides, the Dave Burger looming over me no longer seemed like a bully. His manner was subdued, almost anxious. “Your name's Will, right?”

“Yeah.” I replied, wondering how, after two days together in this place, anybody's name might still need confirming.

“I'm Dave Burger,” he said. Then he scowled. “Not Hot Dog. Burger.”

“I know.”

“But everybody calls me the Burgermeister.”

“Yeah? How come?”

He shrugged. “A teacher started calling me that back in first grade, and it kind of stuck. It means
mayor
or
boss
or something in German. All my friends use it.”

“Okay—Burgermeister.”

“You got a handle?”

I shook my head. “Just don't call me Red, and we're cool.”

“Sharyn calls you Red.”

“Yeah, well, I've kind of given up on her.”

“Right. No Red.” Dave shuffled his feet a little nervously. “Did…you guys talk about me?”

“Who?”

“You and Tom and Sharyn just now.”

“No,” I lied, figuring that it wouldn't do much good to tell this kid that Tom thought he might be a Corpse spy. “They, um—want to give me a little extra training.”

“What for? You don't need it.”

I stared incredulously at him. “What?”

“You kidding me? Once you got past the shakes, you were so cool up there that if somebody poured boiling water down your throat, you'd probably piss ice cubes.”

I burst out laughing. So did he.

I said, “Would you believe that's, like, the first real fight I've ever had?”

“No way!” Dave exclaimed. “Jeez! You're a natural! And I've been in enough fights to know.”

All of a sudden, I felt an unexpected rush of pride. “Thanks. That's kind of what Tom and Sharyn just said. They want to try me out against somebody—else.” I almost said
somebody better
but caught myself.

“Yeah? When?”

“After lights out.”

“Think they'd let me watch?”

“Sharyn called it a private session.”

He frowned, looking disappointed. “Oh.”

“I dunno. I could ask.”

“Yeah? You'd do that?”

“Why not?” I shrugged. “Worst they can do is say no.”

“Hope you're not gonna be going up against that Sharyn girl,” Dave remarked warily. “She's like a wrecking ball.” He shifted the ice pack, grimacing a little. “When you hit me, it hurt. But I'm still feeling those first bruises she gave me back on Thursday!”

I laughed again.

But Dave shook his head. “I'm serious. I've been in a ton of fights. I guess you'd say it was kind of my hobby. And I never lost one—not one—til I came here. Will, I'm telling you, I ain't never in my life seen nobody move as fast as Sharyn. Well, except for that Corpse the other day, 'course.”

“Corpse?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I started Seeing them about six months ago. Not many. Just a few around Collegetown. That's where I'm from. At first I thought they were wearing Halloween costumes—like it was some kind of goofy joke. Then I realized that they weren't and that I was the only one who saw them. Jeez, what a mindblower!”

“And you kept going like that for six months?”

Dave shrugged. “What else could I do? I live—lived—with my grandma, and if I'd told her, she'd have just made me go to church or something. No way was I going to the cops—not after finding out that a couple of
them
were Corpses! And I couldn't tell my buds because, well, they'd figure I was nuts. Know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I do.” And I did.

“So I just kind of tried to stay away from them. Whenever I had to talk to them, I'd keep it short and wouldn't look them in the eyes—those weird milky eyes of theirs that seem to see you and not see you at the same time. You know?”

“I know.”

He continued, “Then five nights ago, I bumped into one of them on the street while I was coming back from the arcade. A real slimy one. You know what I mean by that? Slimy?”

I thought of spotting Kenny Booth on City Line Avenue. “Yeah,” I said.

“I still don't know who he was or was pretending to be—just a guy in jeans and a flannel shirt. I guess I was feeling tough that night because I finally mouthed off and called him a zombie.”

“You don't want to do that,” I said.

“Do what?”

“Call them zombies.”

Dave looked at me. “Why not? Ain't they zombies?”

I remembered what Helene had told me. “Zombies are stupid and slow in the movies. You don't want to make the mistake of thinking these things are.”

He considered that. “Guess I can't argue with that—not after what he did.”

“Tried to kill you?” I asked.

“Hell yeah!” Dave raised his shirt. I gasped. Bruises covered most of his muscled chest and washboard belly. Some of them were new—probably Sharyn's work. But others had already turned yellow, which meant they were more than a few days old.

“That zombie—sorry, Corpse—hit me like a freight train. Sent me flying!”

“Well, no wonder it hurts so bad when Sharyn hits you!” I exclaimed.

“Yeah!” Dave's expression brightened. “Maybe
that's
what it is!”

“So what happened? With the Corpse, I mean.”

“We fought. I hit him with everything I had—went at him until huge clumps of rotted flesh were coming off in my hands. But nothing I did seemed to faze him. Finally he picked me up—right off my feet, lifting me up over his head. And he did it quick! So quick that I could hardly see it!

“Don't remember too much after that. He threw me right off the road and down a gully that emptied into a creek. The Corpse must've figured I was dead because he didn't come down to finish the job.”

“Wow…” I muttered.

“Yeah.” The Burgermeister forced out a shaky laugh. “Woke up the next morning and headed home. Cops were already there on the porch, talking to my grandma. Watched them from the bushes. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but I knew right away that I had to get outta town.”

“How come?”

Dave's face darkened. “Both of them were Corpses.”

“Oh,” I said.

“After they left, my grandma went over to our neighbor's, probably to tell her what happened. I sneaked inside the house just long enough to grab some dough and leave behind a note. You know, so she wouldn't worry. 'Course, she'll worry anyway.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, thinking of my mom.
She
hadn't even gotten a note.

“Then I caught a train into Center City. I figured I'd lie about my age and join the navy or something.”

“Good idea.”

“Except the jerks wanted a birth certificate! Can you believe that?”

I supposed that I
could
believe it. Adults always had ways of locking kids out of places they thought they shouldn't go.

“So I just kind of wandered around. That night I had to sleep in a Dumpster. I was in big trouble. My money wouldn't last long, and even worse, it turns out there are even more Corpses in Philly than in Collegetown!”

“You should see Manayunk,” I told him.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”