Except, when I turned around, it wasn’t my dad.
She was a big, orange-and-yellow-toothed Level 3 zombie. She squeezed my forearm so tight, my fingers tingled, and she pressed me against the rail long enough so that she could sniff me like an animal and get my scent. I looked up to where I’d seen my mother, and she was already gone, no doubt on her way to rescue me.
Instinctively, I tried a Jeet Kune Do move, not thinking about the fact that they weren’t exactly designed with ice skates in mind. Instead of kicking Zelda Zombie, I wound up slamming butt-first into the ice.
I looked up at her and considered my situation, which was quickly spinning out of control. I had to defeat a zombie . . . on ice skates . . . without attracting the attention of my father and sister . . . and without them seeing my undead mother. There was simply no way this could get worse.
Then it got worse.
As I struggled to get back up onto my skates, I saw none other than Natalie skating right toward me. And she was angry.
I braced to be slammed into the railing one more time. But Natalie being Natalie, she of course stopped with the precision of an Olympic ice dancer inches from my face.
“Who are you sending messages to?”
I didn’t know who to deal with first: Natalie or the zombie. I checked to see that my dad and Beth were busy, so that was good, but I still had no idea where my mom was.
“What are you talking about?” I asked her.
Just then, Zelda Zombie took a wild swipe at me, and I had to duck to miss it, which almost made me fall again.
“I mean, haven’t your secrets already gotten us in enough trouble?” Natalie asked.
“I still don’t know what you’re talking about, and I’m kind of in the middle of something here,” I said as I scrambled to keep my balance. “So, either you can be more specific, or you can help me fight this girl without my dad and sister finding out.”
“I saw the coded message in Central Park,” she said. “It led me here to you. Who was it written for?”
While she was talking, Zelda grabbed me by the shoulders and pushed. With skates on, I had no way to stop, and I just slid in reverse and braced to slam into either the ice or the railing. But someone caught me from behind and lifted me just as I was about to hit the ice. I looked up and saw her face.
“Mom,” I said out loud before I realized it.
“Mom?” Natalie asked, looking at me and then at her.
With me in her arms, my mother had nowhere to go. She looked up at Natalie and smiled. “Hi.”
Zelda, of course, was still determined to take me out, and as I looked back, I saw that my father and sister were about to turn the corner and come right at us.
“Beth, Dad, zombie,” I said to the two of them, hoping they could do the math on their own.
Natalie thought for a second and nodded.
“Got it.”
She did an axel or spin or whatever you call it and clipped Zelda in the backs of her thighs with her skate, knocking her right into my mother’s arm. Mom spun around, taking Zelda with her, and by the time Dad and Beth got to me, everything appeared normal.
“We should probably head over to mass,” Dad said. “It’s going to get pretty crowded in there.”
“Great idea,” I answered.
I shuffled off with them, and neither had any idea that they were just a few feet from Mom. I’d just have to trust that she and Natalie could take care of Zelda and figure out a way to deal with Natalie knowing about Mom.
As far as church goes, I don’t really love going to services all that much. I think my time in Catholic school kind of burned me out. But I’ve always loved midnight mass, especially singing all the carols. It started with “O Come All Ye Faithful” and ended with “Joy to the World,” two of my favorites.
I managed to use my phone to sneak a couple of pictures of Elias Blackwell, who was actually one of the readers. He spent much of the mass sitting with the archbishop, and I couldn’t figure out how he managed to get such a prominent spot. I later learned that he’s a big donor to the church and often provides free legal services for some of its charities.
Apparently, Natalie and Mom were able to take care of everything, because halfway through the service, I got a text from Natalie that simply read, “All good.” (I also got a dirty look from my dad for checking a message during church.) And as I was walking from my seat to communion, I saw my mother in the crowd. I was able to pick a line that went right by her, and as I did, I put my hand on the pew in front of her. She put her hand on mine and said, “Merry Christmas, Molly.”
“Merry Christmas, Mom,” I said as I held her hand for an instant longer.
She was crying, but I’m pretty sure they were tears of joy.
Countdown (We Return to Where the Story Began)
The week between Christmas and New Year’s was surprisingly quiet. Once I got the pictures of Elias Blackwell at St. Patrick’s, there wasn’t really anything else for us to do Baker’s Dozen–wise. And as for Blue Moon and New Year’s Eve, we were still waiting for instructions to come from the Prime-O.
Christmas Day started in Queens with Beth and Dad; moved on to Brooklyn, where Grandma and Grandpa Collins called me Little Molly Bear about a thousand times; and ended in northern New Jersey, where we had dinner and opened presents with Grandma and Grandpa Bigelow and slept in the same house where my dad grew up. That night, it snowed, and we spent the next morning sledding down a hill on cookie sheets. It was a total blast.
A couple days later, I was finally able to meet up with Natalie and talk about my mom. Her parents were having some sort of ritzy dinner party so she snuck out and met me at a pizza place close to her house.
“I’m guessing your big secret is that your mother is undead,” she said.
I nodded, unsure what her mood was like, but I was relieved when she smiled.
“That certainly explains a lot. When did you find out?”
“On the bridge with Marek,” I said. “She saved my life.”
“Wow,” Natalie said, taking it all in. “Just wow.”
I could tell she was running through the time line of events in her head. “Was she the one who picked us for Baker’s Dozen?”
“Yep.”
“I can understand why you didn’t tell us.”
I was ready for there to be a “but,” some kind of angry admonition, but there wasn’t. She just said, “Well, you don’t have to worry about me telling anyone. Your secret’s certainly safe with me.”
Then the most unexpected thing happened. Natalie started to cry. She really didn’t want to, but the more she tried to stop it, the worse it got.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
At first she said it was nothing. But I pushed and after she thought about it for a long while she said, “I’m going to tell you a story that I’ve never told anyone.”
“I think we’re beyond the point of keeping secrets from each other.”
She smiled and nodded her agreement as she still tried to keep her emotions under control.
“A few years ago, we were at the country club, and I was horseback riding while my parents played golf. It’s something we’d done a million times. Just a normal Saturday. Except this time, I got thrown from my horse and was knocked unconscious.”
“Oh no,” I said.
“It was terrifying. Everything turned out okay, but for about an hour it was bad. I’ve never been so scared in my life. And the thing that helped me through it, the thing that gave me strength, was the look of concern on my father’s face as he checked to make sure I wasn’t having any side effects from the concussion. I’ll never forget that look. I remember thinking it must be the same look he gives his patients before he operates. It just made me feel safe and cared for.”
“That’s . . . really nice,” I said.
“I’m not finished,” she said, trying to keep from crying more. “Later, as we rode back into the city, I found the scorecard from their game
. . . and when I looked at it . . . I realized that they finished playing their round before they came to check on me.”
I couldn’t believe this was possibly true. I stared in stunned amazement for a moment. “You don’t know that,” I said, hoping I was right. “They might have already been done by the time they found out you’d gotten hurt.”
“No,” she said, the tears falling again. “I asked them, and they admitted it. They weren’t even embarrassed by it. They said that they knew I was in good hands and explained that Dad was having one of the best rounds of his life. So they played the last two holes, and then they came to check on me.”
She looked right into my eyes, and her expression broke my heart. I didn’t know what to say.
“Your mother literally came back from the dead to help you, and my parents couldn’t even be bothered to interrupt a golf game.”
We sat quietly for a while until the server brought our pizza. We hung out for a few hours, and by the time I left her, she was actually laughing and having a good time. But it still broke my heart, and I would never have guessed that the girl with the luxury life on Central Park West would envy anything about my cramped Queens existence?
Our New Year’s Eve assignment came on December 30. We were told that there was an all-Omega alert due to a credible threat from the undead against the living.
Even though we knew it was coming, there was something about reading it that took my breath away. There was no telling how big this could get. Our team was assigned to the Rockefeller Center subway station and told to separate and follow any Level 2s heading for Times Square.
That’s how I wound up tailing the hipster couple I told you about at the beginning of the story. Now it’s about an hour and a half before midnight, and I’m still barricaded in right behind them. I’ve thought back through everything that’s happened since Halloween, but it still seems like there’s a missing piece that I’m just not seeing.
I’m not exactly sure where the other members of my team are, but we have been texting back and forth, trying to lighten the mood with some humor.
According to Liberty, Marek’s Verify won’t officially begin until the stroke of midnight. Once he doesn’t show, however, there’s no telling what will happen. The real fear is that when everyone starts counting down the final sixty seconds of the year and the crystal ball goes down the flagpole, it might also be signaling the beginning of an all-out war with the undead. At that point, one of the other Unlucky 13—my money’s still on Ulysses—could step forward and claim control of Dead City. Then, in his first act as mayor, he could order Operation Blue Moon into full effect.
My phone buzzes, and I check to see which teammate is sending me a text. I laugh out loud when I read that it’s not from any of them. Believe it or not, it’s from Zeus. Grayson had instructed his computer to alert me when it finished its search of the CIA database, and it’s doing just that.
“Hi, Molly. Here is the report. Zeus.”
Okay, there aren’t any abbreviations or emoticons, so it doesn’t feel like an text from an actual person, but it’s still pretty impressive. The band that’s currently onstage isn’t particularly good, so I decide to go ahead and read the file.
According to the CIA, the mission’s original plan was to see how many New Yorkers would have to be converted to communism in order to change public opinion of the Soviet Union. Our worry is that the undead are using the same strategy, except rather than converting people to communism, they’re planning on changing them into zombies. Now Zeus has sent me the CIA’s conclusions, which had been ripped out of the file.
I start to read them, and they aren’t at all what I expected. Apparently, the experts concluded that it would be completely impractical to convert so many people to anything. This makes me smile. Hopefully, the undead reached the same conclusion, and we’re all just out here with nothing to worry about.
But as I continue to read, I come across a passage that’s alarming. The experts also concluded that it would be much easier to reach the same goal by simply converting a few powerful people who could help shape public opinion.
If the Unlucky 13 wanted to do something like that, they would have to infect community leaders and turn them into zombies. I mull this over for a while. I think back to the first Verify, when we saw Ulysses Blackwell riding in the Thanksgiving Day parade. He spent hours standing next to the chief of police. Then I consider the most recent Verify at St. Patrick’s. Elias Blackwell spent the entire mass sitting with the archbishop. Suddenly, it starts to make sense.
I pull a folded sheet of paper out of my pocket and look at the schedule of events for the night. At midnight, the ball is going to drop when the mayor of New York pushes a plunger on the stage.
I finally see the puzzle pieces that I’ve been missing.
The chief of police. The archbishop. The mayor.
The undead aren’t infecting a million New Yorkers; they’re getting revenge against the three wise men. The actual men are different, but their positions are still just as powerful today as they were in 1896. If those three men become undead, the Unlucky 13 will be able to start building the power it has always craved. I start to hyperventilate.
At midnight, one of the Unlucky 13 will appear on the stage with the mayor of New York. When he’s there, he’ll become the new leader of Dead City and will infect one of the most powerful people in the country.
Unless I can stop him first.
Two Zombie Mayors
As soon as I figure out what’s happening, I send a text to the rest of my team and tell them that we need to have an emergency meeting in front of the New York Public Library. I pick the library because we need to find one another as fast as possible, and it’s the closest landmark I can think of that might not be overrun by tourists. I also send a quick text alerting Dr. H so he can pass the info along to the Prime-O. I’m not going to make the same mistakes I’ve made before. I don’t have time to give many details, but I want them to know that we’re on the move.
Getting out of my spot in the crowd turns out to be harder than I expect. Luckily, I’m small enough that I’m able to push and squeeze and crawl around and under all of the people and barricades until I finally break free of the mob. As soon as I do, I start sprinting toward the library. Even though the temperature has dipped into the thirties, I’m running so hard that I start sweating inside my jacket.
When I get there, I find Alex anxiously pacing back and forth between the two lion statues that stand in front of the library’s entrance. He hurries down the flight of stairs and comes right up to me. His eyes are full of frustration as he says, “You know we’ve lost our spots, right?”
“Yes, I know,” I answer, trying to calm him like it’s no big deal.
“I was right in the middle of the crowd next to some mean-looking Level 2s, and I had a good view of the stage,” he continues. “Now that place is gone for good. I can’t get back there.”
“It’s okay,” I assure him. “That’s not where we need to be.”
“Really? Because I thought the whole plan was for all the Omegas to be spread throughout the crowd in Times Square so that we can fight back once the zombies start to attack.”
“They’re not going to attack the crowd,” I tell him, hoping that I’ve got this figured out correctly. “They’re only going to attack one person.”
Before I can elaborate, Natalie comes up from the corner of Fifth and Forty-Second, taking long angry strides, with Grayson a few yards behind her, trying to keep up.
“What’s the emergency?” she demands, her mood mirroring Alex’s. “Because I was in a good position to take out four Level 2s. Four of them. And now they’re all alone, with no one to stop them when they get the order to attack.”
Oddly, in the middle of all this, it dawns on me that even though they’re mad about it, they still came. All of them came. They trust me that much, and that trust means everything to me. Of course, now I have to prove that I deserve it.
&n
bsp; “Stop complaining and listen to me!” I exclaim, hoping a little intensity will quiet them for a moment. “We need to change the plan because the undead aren’t going to attack the people in the crowd.”
“And why do you say that?”
I hold up my phone with the text from Zeus. It’s not like they can read it with me waving it around, but it’s the only prop I have.
“Because Operation Blue Moon isn’t about infecting as many people as possible,” I try to explain. “It’s about infecting a small but important group of people. Three, to be exact.”
“Three?” says Alex. He’s confused, but he’s starting to listen. “Why three instead of a million?”
“It started back at Thanksgiving,” I say. “That’s when they infected the chief of police. Then on Christmas Eve, they infected the archbishop. Tonight, they’re planning to infect . . .”
“. . . the mayor!” Grayson says, putting it all together.
I point directly at him. “That’s exactly right. Tonight they want to infect the mayor.” (I admit that having someone else reach the same conclusion makes me feel a whole lot more confident.)
“But why?” Natalie asks, shaking her head. “What does that give them?”
“It gives them power and revenge,” I answer.
“What revenge?”
“Revenge against the three wise men,” I say. “Revenge against the men who ruined their lives.”
“But the three wise men are long dead,” Alex responds.
“Maybe so, but the positions that they held are still important and powerful,” I remind him.
“And if the current people in those positions are undead,” Grayson continues, “it will bring that power and influence to the Unlucky 13. Both above- and belowground.”
“Think about it,” I say. “Think about what it would be like if there are two zombie mayors. One for New York and one for Dead City.”
Just the concept of that quiets us for a moment as we contemplate the dangers that could result from such a situation.
“That would be very, very bad,” Natalie says, coming around. “But what can we do? It’s already after eleven. That means we’ve got less than an hour to warn the mayor, who happens to be surrounded by a million screaming people at the biggest party in the world.”