Free Queen of the Dead by Ty Drago Page A

Undertakers’ boot camp, to Angel training.
    But that’s another story.
    Besides, I knew Tom would never have demoted me like that. After all, I’d done far stupider things as an Undertaker than going after that wallet, and I’d always managed to stay in his good graces.
    Bulletproof , I thought.
    Because I was Karl Ritter’s only son.
    â€œCome on,” Helene said. “Let’s get to the briefing.”
    As I followed her out of the rec room, I glanced around and spotted Dave. He still stood near the front, motionless as a statue—a big statue. He wore a strange expression on his face—sad and kind of wistful. Maybe he wished he was going with us to the prison. Maybe he wished he could just get himself into Angel training.
    I half-expected him to meet my eyes, maybe toss me a silent plea for help. Talk to the Chief for me , that look might say.
    Except the Burgermeister wasn’t looking at me at all.
    His eyes were on Sharyn.

Chapter 9
Breaking In
    Undertakers prefer to move about in the city at night.
    As far as we’ve been able to tell, Corpses don’t see in the dark any better than we do. To be honest, we’re not really sure how they “see” at all, given that their eyes are rotting out of their heads. Like with a lot of other Deader abilities, they just do it. Still, we’ve learned that it’s easier to run, easier to hide, easier to keep from getting beaten to death or eaten in the dark.
    Occasionally, though, the shadows just aren’t an option. Occasionally, we need to confront Deaders with the sun in the sky.
    At night, it’s about stealth, about hitting them hard and fast and then disappearing.
    During the day, it’s about being smart.
    The signs read:
    The School District of Philadelphia Sponsors
“Breaking In”
Where Physical Fitness Meets History!
    The Hackers had photoshopped two of them in less than an hour, printing them out on poster paper and glueing them onto a couple of those plastic folding “Wet Floor” signs you can get at any office supply store.
    Our Angel strike team was dressed in sweats and sneakers, including Sharyn. The five of us stood at loose attention on the sidewalk as she strutted back and forth, wearing a hard gym-teacher expression that made her look older than she was and carrying a big silver whistle that she blew—well—a lot.
    â€œWe don’t got all day, boys and girls!” she announced. “Let’s get this party started! Fetch the ladder!”
    A small crowd had gathered—all nicely human. They were clearly amused by what they were seeing: a handful of kids struggling to pull a heavy aluminum extension ladder from the rear of an unmarked white van. We moved in formation, making little “hup hup” sounds with each step, per Sharyn’s instructions. Frankly, the whole thing felt ridiculous, but it did seem to have the desired effect.
    As we hauled the ladder across a narrow strip of landscaping and stood it up against Eastern State Penitentiary’s thirty-foot outer wall, the crowd’s only reaction was to watch and laugh. Dressed in sweats and “hupping” like soldiers, the operation felt more like street theater than what it was: breaking and entering.
    But at least between our performance and our printed signs, no one was challenging us.
    The great city of Philadelphia was always doing dumb stuff like this.
    â€œLadder in place, ma’am!” Chuck Binelli barked, saluting Sharyn. She saluted back, the action stiff and military precise, as if she saluted people all the time.
    â€œHead on up!” the Boss Angel barked.
    Chuck went first. Then Helene. Then Katie. Then Me. Then Burt.
    Sharyn saluted the crowd, blowing the whistle one last time. The small audience actually applauded.
    Then she followed us up.
    Sharyn had parked the white van on Corinthian Avenue, a narrow side street that ran along the penitentiary’s eastern