The Undertakers by Ty Drago

better’n M&M’s.”
    I tasted the candy. It was good. “You make these here?”
    â€œOne of the moms does.”
    My head shot up. “Moms?”
    â€œThey ain’t real moms,” she told me. “That’s just what we call them. Actually it’s this kid named Nick who makes them. He wants to be a baker someday, so he’s figured out this way to candy-coat lumps of chocolate, sometimes with nuts. Good, ain’t they?”
    â€œYeah. Can I have another?”
    â€œTake as many as you want, Red. No parents here. ’Course, no dentists neither—which turns out to be a problem sometimes.” Another grin. “But nothing’s perfect.”
    I popped a fistful of candies into my mouth.
    Sharyn laughed. “I’d say fill up your pockets, but I’ve done it, and they just melt. Ready to go?”
    I nodded, my mouth thick with chocolate.
    â€œCool! Let’s do it!”

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.
    â€œYo, Steve-o!” Sharyn announced. “This here’s Will Ritter, Karl’s boy. He just joined up.”
    I almost reminded Sharyn that I hadn’t joined up for anything.
    The kids at the tables all stared curiously at me.
    Then Steve asked distractedly, “Karl who?”
    Subdued laughter rippled among his coworkers. Sharyn’s face darkened. “What do you mean, Karl who? Karl Ritter!”
    â€œOh. Right. Hi.”
    â€œHi,” I said.
    Sharyn groaned. “Sorry, Will. This here’s Steve Moscova, and we call this little nest of his the Brain Factory. Steve’s little bro, Burton, rode with my crew today.”
    I remembered the boy who’d shared his bike with Helene.
    Sharyn continued, “They’re the Moscova Brothers! Except that Steve ain’t quite so…I don’t know…”
    â€œJock-ish?” Steve suggested. “Or maybe Jock Itch would be more accurate.”
    Sharyn snorted out a laugh. “Steve dreams up all our anti-Deader stuff. Whenever we need something, he’s our Mr. Wizard.”
    â€œI’ve got work to do,” Steve said flatly. “Nice to meet you, Bill.”
    â€œWill,” I corrected.
    â€œRight. Sorry.”
    Irritated, I looked away. Then something caught my eye: a set of plastic rifles mounted on the wall—more than a dozen of them.
    â€œHey!” I exclaimed. “Are those Super Soakers?”
    Steve nodded absently.
    â€œWhat are they for?”
    He made a face. “Shooting Corpses. What else would they be for?”
    Recalling Helene’s water pistol, I asked, “What’s in them?”
    â€œNothing,” Steve said. “They aren’t loaded.”
    I gave him a look. “Okay…then what would be in them if they were loaded?”
    â€œH-2-O,” Sharyn replied, smiling slyly. “Tap water.”
    â€œWater hurts Corpses?” I asked.
    â€œSure!”
    Steve sighed. “Sharyn’s 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.”
    I blinked. “Saltwater?”
    â€œYou know it, Red!” Sharyn replied, slapping me on the back. “Steve discovered it! You shoot a Deader in the arm or leg and it goes numb. Shoot them in the face and