betterân M&Mâs.â
I tasted the candy. It was good. âYou make these here?â
âOne of the moms does.â
My head shot up. âMoms?â
âThey ainât real moms,â she told me. âThatâs just what we call them. Actually itâs this kid named Nick who makes them. He wants to be a baker someday, so heâs figured out this way to candy-coat lumps of chocolate, sometimes with nuts. Good, ainât they?â
âYeah. Can I have another?â
âTake as many as you want, Red. No parents here. âCourse, no dentists neitherâwhich turns out to be a problem sometimes.â Another grin. âBut nothingâs perfect.â
I popped a fistful of candies into my mouth.
Sharyn laughed. âIâd say fill up your pockets, but Iâve done it, and they just melt. Ready to go?â
I nodded, my mouth thick with chocolate.
âCool! Letâs do it!â
Chapter 9
Saltwater
In the southwest corner of the Big Room, a series of long tables had been set up around an area of open space so that they formed a big square. Atop these tables stood an assortment of computers, Bunsen burners, test tubes, and other gadgets. A half-dozen kids of varying ages busied themselves at assorted workstations, tapping keys, turning dials, tipping test tubes, or taking notes.
In the middle of all this scientific chaos, a skinny kid with straight dark hair and thick glasses moved among the workstations. In each case, he either offered approval or corrections.
âYo, Steve-o!â Sharyn announced. âThis hereâs Will Ritter, Karlâs boy. He just joined up.â
I almost reminded Sharyn that I hadnât joined up for anything.
The kids at the tables all stared curiously at me.
Then Steve asked distractedly, âKarl who?â
Subdued laughter rippled among his coworkers. Sharynâs face darkened. âWhat do you mean, Karl who? Karl Ritter!â
âOh. Right. Hi.â
âHi,â I said.
Sharyn groaned. âSorry, Will. This hereâs Steve Moscova, and we call this little nest of his the Brain Factory. Steveâs little bro, Burton, rode with my crew today.â
I remembered the boy whoâd shared his bike with Helene.
Sharyn continued, âTheyâre the Moscova Brothers! Except that Steve ainât quite soâ¦I donât knowâ¦â
âJock-ish?â Steve suggested. âOr maybe Jock Itch would be more accurate.â
Sharyn snorted out a laugh. âSteve dreams up all our anti-Deader stuff. Whenever we need something, heâs our Mr. Wizard.â
âIâve got work to do,â Steve said flatly. âNice to meet you, Bill.â
âWill,â I corrected.
âRight. Sorry.â
Irritated, I looked away. Then something caught my eye: a set of plastic rifles mounted on the wallâmore than a dozen of them.
âHey!â I exclaimed. âAre those Super Soakers?â
Steve nodded absently.
âWhat are they for?â
He made a face. âShooting Corpses. What else would they be for?â
Recalling Heleneâs water pistol, I asked, âWhatâs in them?â
âNothing,â Steve said. âThey arenât loaded.â
I gave him a look. âOkayâ¦then what would be in them if they were loaded?â
âH-2-O,â Sharyn replied, smiling slyly. âTap water.â
âWater hurts Corpses?â I asked.
âSure!â
Steve sighed. âSharynâs messing with your head. She likes to tell new recruits that the Corpses are like those stupid aliens in that movie Signs. The truth, however, is that regular water is harmless to them. What we use is a solution of water and sea salt.â
I blinked. âSaltwater?â
âYou know it, Red!â Sharyn replied, slapping me on the back. âSteve discovered it! You shoot a Deader in the arm or leg and it goes numb. Shoot them in the face and
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