Croak

  “Yep. Or until everyone passes out, whichever comes first.”

  She looked up just in time to catch a brilliant flash of white arcing across the sky.

  “This is so cool,” she whispered, mostly to herself.

  Uncle Mort, Yorick in hand, tottered to the fountain in the center of the square. “Hey everybody, listen up!”

  “Hang on!” Pandora knocked him out of the way and scuttled onto the ledge of the fountain. “Smush in, smush in,” she barked. Everyone instinctively crowded together, as if they had done this many times before. Dora held up a large camera and took their photo, a bright flash briefly illuminating the street.

  “Thanks, Dora,” Uncle Mort said.

  “Bite me!”

  As the photo subjects disbanded, he climbed onto the fountain and cleared his throat. “Happy Luminous Twelfth, Croak! A hearty welcome to you all, and an even heartier welcome to the Skorski family, who can’t remember where they parked their car!” A cluster of travelers, huddled under the watchful gaze of Kilda, gave a small, terrified wave.

  “So, you all know what comes next,” he continued. “The annual snoozefest known as the State of Croak Address.” A polite round of applause swept through the crowd. “I’ve gotten a number of requests to take up as little drinking time as possible this year, so here’s the abridged version: numbers are up, expenditures are down, and our educational efforts continue to provide troubled youth with the moral integrity they so desperately crave.” The Juniors let out a whoop and clashed their skull mugs together, spraying the crowd. “Long story short, Croakers are the best damn Grims this side of the Afterlife!”

  The throng erupted into raucous cheers, taking this as a cue to continue the festivities.

  Uncle Mort, however, remained atop the fountain. “And as such,” he shouted above their merriment, a note of apprehension creeping into his voice, “you deserve the truth.”

  The noise and cheers abruptly died down, until the only sound left was that of Ferbus belching.

  “As many of you have read by now,” he continued in a stern voice, “troubling incidents are being reported out of Necropolis. The powers that be have publicly declared these to be isolated occurrences, and nothing more.” He took a deep breath. “But the powers that be are lying.”

  The Juniors shot worried glances at one another.

  “The truth is, the same abnormal deaths have been witnessed by Grim teams right here in Croak. In fact, they originated here.” Several panicked cries rang out, but Uncle Mort raised his hands to quiet them. “Hysteria will only make things worse. You guys know better than that. I expect nothing but the utmost levelheadedness and composure from every inhabitant of this town. And in return, I will report to you what little I know about the situation.”

  Absolute silence settled over the streets, with the exception of the Skorski family, anxiously peeling out of town in their hurriedly found car.

  “We don’t know who is doing this,” he continued, “or why. But it seems that a Grim has gained the ability to—”

  A bloodcurdling scream cut the crisp night air. All eyes flew to the end of the street, where Kloo staggered out of the Crypt’s tunnel dragging something heavy. As she came into the light, her burden was revealed to be Ayjay, blood-soaked and seemingly unconscious—or worse.

  Uncle Mort jumped down from the fountain. “Bring him up here!” A pair of Senior Grims took Ayjay from Kloo’s arms and laid out his lifeless body across the fountain’s edge, careful not to touch the gaping wound across his forehead. Yet they jumped back within seconds.

  “What’s wrong with his eye?” Kilda screeched.

  Uncle Mort took one look at Ayjay’s vacant, milky eye and immediately felt for a pulse.

  His face fell. No one spoke.

  Uncle Mort grabbed Kloo by the shoulders. “What happened?”

  “I don’t remember!”

  “Try!”

  A loud, wet cough tore through the silence. Ayjay sputtered and thrashed about wildly, then sat up with a tremendous jolt, as if wrestling himself awake from a nightmare. He rubbed at his chest, blinked several times, and looked around, confused.

  “Ayjay!” Kloo wrapped him in her arms. The crowd breathed a collective sigh of relief, but the peace didn’t keep for long.

  “How did this happen?” someone yelled.

  “Mort! What’s going on?”

  “His eye!”

  “Who did this?”

  Uncle Mort ignored their questions and grasped Kloo’s and Ayjay’s arms. “I need to know what happened.”

  Kloo’s face was colorless, but true to form, her tone remained composed. “I don’t know. We were—” She cut herself off and looked embarrassed. “Alone. It was still light out at that point. And then—it happened so fast—someone appeared in my room. Out of nowhere!”

  The concern of the crowd slowly ebbed. Glances of skepticism were exchanged.

  Ferbus snorted. “Come on, Kloo.”

  “It’s true! At least—” She looked at Uncle Mort. “At least I think it is. I can’t remember anything after that.”

  “What about you, Ayjay?” Uncle Mort asked.

  Ayjay, clearly still in a great deal of pain, shook his head.

  Lex grunted in frustration. “How could they just forget?” she whispered to Driggs.

  “And then I woke up a few minutes ago and he was just lying there,” Kloo continued. “No breathing, no pulse, scalp laceration, small injection site on his chest, and . . .”

  Ayjay was still blinking heavily. He rubbed at his bad eye until it was red and teary. He looked up at her. “I can’t see out of it,” he said quietly.

  Kloo squeezed his hand. “You’ll be okay. I’ll stitch up your head, and the eye—” She swallowed, unsure. “I can fix it.”

  “I don’t know about that, Kloo,” said Uncle Mort, deep in thought. He gestured to a pair of Senior Grims. “He’s not out of the woods yet. Take them to the doc.”

  As Kloo and Ayjay were escorted away, Uncle Mort climbed the fountain once more. “Don’t panic,” he said evenly, his face morose, “but this is almost identical to the murderer’s typical plan of attack. They Crash to a certain location, then inject the victim with a few drops of pure Elixir while time is frozen, causing instant death and leaving no trace.”

  “Crash?” Heloise yelled. “You mean someone found a Loophole? And can Crash with direction?”

  “It looks that way. But—”

  “Wait just a damn minute, Mort,” yelled an irate Norwood. “You can’t just pick up Elixir from the grocery store!”

  “That’s true,” Uncle Mort said. “I’m not sure how the Elixir is being accessed. But—”

  “Who has been seeing these deaths?” Heloise interrupted. “And why hasn’t anyone else witnessed anything unusual? Don’t we have a right to know?”

  “These particular individuals told me about the abnormalities in confidence,” Uncle Mort answered sharply. “As long as they wish to remain anonymous, they will. As for the question of why they’re the only ones who have seen them—well, they enlisted the help of an Etcetera, so maybe I should be asking you that question, codirector.”

  Heloise bristled and shot him a hateful look, but said nothing.

  “But how did Ayjay survive?” Corpp asked.

  Uncle Mort scratched his head. “He was assaulted in real time, rather than during a time freeze. Probably another type of experimentation with the process, just like when victims were chosen from Necropolis’s jurisdiction instead of ours. My best guess is that Kloo instinctively batted the needle away, preventing him from getting the full dosage. The Crasher panicked, knocked them out, and ran.”

  Silence filled the air. “What are we going to do?” Elysia asked in a small voice.

  “Right now, my advice is to be on constant alert. If you see anything unusual, let me know as soon as possible. But—” Uncle Mort exhaled and looked out sadly over the crowd. “But in all honesty, we’re pretty defenseless here.
There’s no way I can think of to prevent a Crasher who can come at any time, anywhere, after anyone. Up until now, all of the victims have been out in the real world—but realistically speaking, it was only a matter of time before Grims were targeted as well. We aren’t exempt. If anything, we’re even more vulnerable. What we do here . . . well, someone has a problem with it, and they’re willing to take lives in order to make that clear.”

  No one spoke.

  “Which means that we need to carry on as normally as possible,” he finished. “If we can’t drunkenly dance the macarena until the sun comes up, the terrorists have already won. Or something.” He hopped off the fountain. “I’m going home to report all this to Necropolis, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I have more information. Try to have some fun, all right? Look, it’s not even midnight yet and Ferbus is already wearing a lampshade.”

  With one last glimpse at his town’s troubled faces, Uncle Mort turned around and began walking down the street. Lex started after him, but Driggs briefly caught the mayor’s eye and pulled her back.

  “He doesn’t want us to come,” he whispered to her.

  “But we can help!”

  “I don’t think Mort wants the rest of the town to know that his most trusted advisors are in fact the troublemaking teenagers currently residing under his roof.”

  “Why?” She shook him off. “Just because we’re Juniors doesn’t mean we’re not—”

  “It’s not because we’re Juniors.”

  “What is it, then? Me?”

  She took his silence as a resounding yes.

  20

  The party—if it could still be called that—persisted through the night, though the mood had shifted considerably; most of the revelers just ended up lying down in the street and watching the falling stars in silence. Around sunrise, they shuffled like zombies into the Morgue, where a seemingly indefatigable Pandora grabbed a pan and began tossing batch after batch of flapjacks high into the air.

  “We don’t even get a nap?” Lex yawned as the Juniors collapsed into their booth, exhausted more by worry than lack of sleep.

  “Not really,” a bleary-eyed Elysia said. “I might try later, but only if Alexander Graham Bell makes good on his promise to stop experimenting with ringtones.”

  “I hate that guy,” Ferbus said. “I don’t wanna go to work.”

  “Oh, please,” Lex said crankily. “You just get to sit around and jerk off all day. We actually have stuff to do.”

  “Shut your hole,” he countered weakly.

  Lex looked around the table. Sofi was nodding off into her English muffin. Zara had bitten her nails to nubs. And Driggs had a Lucky Charm stuck to his forehead.

  “You’ve got a—” Lex gestured.

  “Bwa?” he answered sleepily.

  “Purple horseshoe,” she said, flicking it off.

  “Oh,” he said, his mind elsewhere. “I was saving it for later.”

  None of them knew where Kloo and Ayjay had been taken, or if Ayjay had even survived the night. So on they plodded through the meal, robotically shoving the utensils into their mouths and flinching at every random noise that dared to pervade the restaurant. By the time they left for their shifts, anxiety was at an all-time high—so much so that Lex practically tackled Uncle Mort as she caught sight of him on the way to the Bank.

  “Where are Kloo and Ayjay?” she demanded.

  “Recuperating,” he said, walking briskly.

  “What did you tell Necropolis? What did they say?”

  “Words. Hey, pick up some sausages on your way home today, will you? I have to feed the jellyfish.”

  Lex frowned. “Jellyfish don’t eat sausage.”

  “Look, I don’t tell you how to do your job.”

  “Yes, you do, every day.”

  “Gotta go. We’ll talk later, okay?”

  And so Lex was left with nothing but more questions and now a shopping errand. Making matters worse was Kilda, who chanted, as they slumped past her desk, “A splendid night’s sleep, and success you will reap!”

  “She’s gonna reap a beating if she doesn’t shut the hell up,” Lex said under her breath.

  ***

  When they finished work that afternoon, Lex and Driggs rounded onto the cobblestones of Slain Lane and headed for the shop labeled Dead Meat. A small bell tinkled when they pushed open the door, though the rest of the store—cold, dark, and pervaded with an overwhelming stench—did not seem nearly as welcoming. Lex felt as if she had just entered a tomb.

  Driggs stepped up to the counter. “Anyone here?”

  “Be right out!” a voice rang from the back. Seconds later a harried-looking Zara emerged wearing a bloody apron. “Oh. It’s you guys.”

  “How’s the meat business?” Driggs asked.

  Zara scowled. “I can’t wait until this internship is over. I had to swipe into the foulest, most disgusting meatpacking plants on earth for that stupid party last night, and every single day I come home stinking of blood and guts and pig remains. I hate it!” she shrieked, a small globule of goo quivering in her silver hair.

  “Wow, sorry,” said Lex, who couldn’t help but take a small amount of pleasure in Zara’s distress. “That really sucks.”

  Zara glared at her. “Yeah, it does. And the nerves from last night aren’t helping.” She wiped her forehead. “Anyway, what can I get you guys?”

  While Driggs placed the order, Lex glanced out the window. A pair of Senior Grims were walking down the street and looking around apprehensively, as if expecting an attack from behind or above. They were met by another pair of Grims who spoke with them in low tones. Before the group disbanded, they hugged.

  Lex grimaced as she tried to imagine what it must be like for Grims who had been here for decades. A whole career of scything to strangers, examining and poking at bodies as if they had never even belonged to live humans, completely isolated within their little town. No wonder they had become blind to the real terrors lurking in the world. Death was old hat to Grims, a punch line to a joke told at lunch over the Morgue’s greasy hamburgers. But gnarly fireworks accidents and missing fingers didn’t seem so funny anymore. Now the threat was here, seemingly dropping in from the sky, and no amount of professionalism could stop Lex or anyone else from incessantly glancing over their shoulders in fear.

  “I don’t know,” Driggs was saying to Zara. “Mort’s not telling us much, but I think they’re both okay.”

  “I hope so,” Zara said, placing the sausages on the scale.

  As she moved her arm away, however, the sleeve of her butcher’s jacket got caught and rode up to her elbow. Lex took one look at Zara’s exposed arm and gasped. “Oh my God,” she said. “What happened to you?”

  Several large clusters of red blotches ran the length of Zara’s pale arm. The skin underneath was crumpled, scarred beyond recognition, while deep gashes crisscrossed like train tracks.

  Zara’s mortified eyes flew to her sleeve. “None of your business!” she snapped, yanking it down.

  Lex was stunned into silence. Like everyone else in Croak, Zara wore the long-sleeved black hoodie most of the time, even in the heat of the summer; Lex realized she’d never seen Zara’s bare arms until today. “I—sorry,” she sputtered, now vastly confused.

  “Just forget it,” Zara said, giving Driggs a significant look.

  His returned glance was one of apology. “Thanks, Zara,” he said gently, taking the package and handing it to Lex. “Have a good afternoon, okay?”

  Zara was shaking as they left. “Yeah, okay.”

  ***

  Driggs said nothing the whole way home.

  As they neared the driveway, Lex couldn’t take it anymore. “Okay, are you gonna tell me or not?”

  “Tell you what?”

  “What the hell was that all about? Why did Zara look about ready to claw my heart right out of my chest and wrap it up along with the rest of our order?”

  Driggs remained silent. He jammed his hands into his po
ckets and headed for the porch.

  “Hey,” she said, following him. “I asked you a—”

  “Lex, stop.”

  The edge of fury in his voice made her flinch. “What’s wrong?”

  Slowly, hesitantly, he rolled up the bottom of his hoodie until his chest was exposed. “You don’t know what these are, do you?” he said in a low voice, looking away.

  Lex examined his skin, which was mottled with about twenty dark, pill-size dots. “No,” she said, squinting in the fading light. “I don’t.”

  “Yeah, you wouldn’t.” He glanced at the setting sun. “They’re cigarette burns. My father got a real kick out of using his only son as an ashtray.”

  Lex recoiled, a short breath escaping her lips.

  Driggs’s gaze was lost, foreign. “These aren’t even the worst of it. But the point is, Zara and I aren’t the only ones. Everyone here—except for you—came from their own personal hells, and most have the literal scars to prove it.” He stuffed his shirt back down and glared at her. “So if you could manage to remember that every once in a while, we’d all greatly appreciate it.”

  Lex took a breath to say something, but nothing came out. Just then, the door sprang open to reveal a jubilant Uncle Mort.

  “Grab your top hats and monocles, kids,” he said, waving a wad of money. “I’m taking you out to dinner.”

  ***

  Fifteen minutes later the three of them sat at a table in a darkened corner of the fanciest and “most zoologically eclectic” restaurant in Croak, according to its sign. “The kangaroo is good here,” Uncle Mort said while perusing the drink specials. Lex glanced at Driggs from behind her menu, but he was apparently too engrossed in the appetizer offerings to look her way.

  “Wellllcommme to Asssshhes.” A lofty voice floated over their heads as a tall, pale woman materialized at their table. Her long dark hair reached past her waist, while the train of her black dress trailed at least five feet behind her.

  “Thank you,” Uncle Mort said in a saucy tone. “A terrifying pleasure, as always.”

  “May I brrrrring you anythinnnng to drrrrink?” she asked, running a slender hand through his hair.