Ex-Purgatory

by Peter Clines

  To give him credit, he didn’t shout her name or anything melodramatic like that. He just charged across the room. Leaped, really. A noble man of action.

  I took my time and walked up behind him. He had the cloaked bitch in his arms. He tried to wake her up, pressed his fingers against her throat, and listened to her breathing. I was maybe five feet behind him when he glanced back. “Did you know about this?”

  I nodded and smiled. “Do you want to lie down next to her?”

  He set her back down on the blanket, placed a fold of it under her head, and returned my nod. “Yeah,” he said. “I think I’d like that.”

  His brow wrinkled, and I saw a spark of fear deep in his eye. He recognized what was happening. What he was doing. It’s always more fun when people realize what’s going on.

  “Just stretch out and relax,” I said. “Wouldn’t that be a good way to spend the afternoon?”

  St. George looked down at one of the open blankets, flipped the edge over to double it up, and sat down on it.

  It’s a little risky, doing this. Getting them alone one by one and then dropping them. One quick response, one of them puts it together before I can speak, and this fun little experiment is over.

  But it’s still better than the alternative. I’d heard stories about what happened to me out at Project Krypton. Well, to other-me, I guess. I pushed for details where I could, eavesdropped when I couldn’t. I heard about other-me getting dragged out from behind the curtain. Colonel Shelly dying. Professor Sorensen dying. Stealth planting a knife in other-me’s throat before I could escape to Groom Lake.

  I couldn’t risk that happening here. First rule of building your new empire—get rid of the people who brought down your last one. The people who know how to beat you.

  I’m still amazed I got Stealth. Granted, I took her out first so she wouldn’t have a chance of being suspicious. Well, any more suspicious. She’s so damned fast. But she never saw it coming and four minutes after walking into the stage to check out “safety concerns” she was unconscious on the floor.

  Danielle was next. And Freedom’s still the same clueless idiot, deferring to anyone he considers above him. God bless the military mind-set.

  St. George stretched out on his blanket and shifted a few times to get comfortable. He glanced over at Stealth, then up at me. “You’re right,” he said. “This is kind of nice.”

  I plastered a smile on my face. “Why don’t you take a nap?” I suggested. “A good long one.”

  He yawned and blinked twice.

  “Wouldn’t it be nice to dream about a world where there aren’t any zombies?” I asked him. “No exes, no ex-virus, nothing ever happened. You could forget all of it. Just the plain old world where you’re a normal guy, doing whatever the hell you did before you became a superhero. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

  “God, yes,” he said, and yawned again.

  One great thing about this new, overpowered skill set is the dreams. The old me, the other-me who’s out at Groom Lake or somewhere, could force someone to sleep, but eventually they’d wake up. I couldn’t control their subconscious. But with Christian’s powers in the mix, I can make people combine their dreams and build on each other’s memories. Two or three people together can make a great, rich world, each of them filling in the gaps for the others. A world they never need to wake up from.

  St. George managed to turn his head toward Stealth before his eyelids got too heavy. Then he just rolled back to center. His breathing leveled out.

  I whispered a few more suggestions. I wanted them out of the way, lost in the dreamworld. But any good jailer knows you want a wall around the prison, too, just in case people get out of their cells. Just in case they start to wake up. Nothing too elaborate, just a believable tweak on reality, enough to keep them busy for a few—

  “What are you doing?”

  I turned around and saw Sorensen’s brat halfway between me and the door. The Corpse Girl, she likes to call herself. I should’ve guessed she’d be here. She follows St. George around like a dog. I wonder if he’s doing her. Necrophilia’s really not my thing, but I can see the appeal of a body that’s almost-eighteen forever.

  She marched across the room. In the dim light, her skin looked pure white. Even walking, she had a stillness to her that had taken me days to pin down. Sometimes she stops breathing. It’s one of those subtle things, a person’s chest moving up and down. You don’t realize you register it until you meet someone who doesn’t do it. She doesn’t blink sometimes, either. It’s kind of eerie, and I say this as someone who’s been mentally cloned into another body.

  I’ve got to admit, it creeped me out when I became conscious enough to realize who the Corpse Girl was. Little Madelyn, the daughter Sorensen would not shut up about, even after I’d arranged to have her killed in front of him. It was like some bad horror movie. The dead come back to life, you turn around, and there’s the girl you killed in act two, back for zombie revenge.

  Of course, she had no idea who I was. Then or now.

  Granted, I didn’t know enough about her, either. She’s dead, but she’s not your standard ex-human. Twice I’ve given her simple commands, as a test. They last about a day with her and then she just seems to shrug them off. I’ve heard she’s got some sort of memory problem, which makes sense in a way.

  It meant I was going to have to be harsh with her.

  She was twenty feet closer when she saw the heroes stretched out on the floor. Her sneakers chuffed on the concrete floor as she stopped. There was just enough contrast to her iris that I could see her eyes flitting back and forth over all the figures. Mostly St. George, of course.

  I gestured with my hand. “Could you come here?”

  The Corpse Girl started moving again. She took a few more steps, then stopped again. She looked at me. “Did you do this?”

  “Of course not,” I said. “Could you come over and help me, please?”

  That was enough. She walked over next to me and I pointed at one of the blankets. “Don’t you want to take a nap? You can sleep on St. George’s other side, if you like.”

  She blinked and trembled for a moment.

  “Don’t you want to go to sleep?” I asked her again.

  Her eyelids drooped down, sagged lower and lower, and then snapped open. She glared at me. It was kind of eerie with the dead eyes.

  I smiled and laced my fingers together. “Now, don’t you look at me that way,” I said to her. “Are you a little overtired, maybe?”

  And then I hit her across the jaw with both hands.

  She staggered back, and almost fell. Then she straightened up and her thin fingers rolled into fists.

  I let my own fingers come apart and shook them out. I suck at fighting. I think I may have broken a finger. “Hurts, doesn’t it?”

  She winced and reached up to touch one of her cheekbones.

  “Are you too dizzy to stand up?”

  The Corpse Girl swayed and dropped to one knee.

  I watched her try to keep her balance and tapped my fingers against my leg. One of Christian’s odd muscle memories that shows up now and then. “You were sick when you were little, right? Muscular dystrophy or something? Your dad would mutter about it now and then after I killed you the first time.” She teetered back and forth, trying to fight the questions. “He did something to fix you, didn’t he?”

  She fell over on her side. I took her by the arm and half led, half dragged her toward the circle of heroes. She struggled for a minute and I clucked my tongue at her. “You don’t want to act that way, do you?”

  She stopped fighting.

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to just relax?”

  She rolled down onto the blanket. She ended up on her side, then tipped over onto her back. She stopped breathing again.

  I whispered to her as she settled down. She struggled a bit, but the questions sank into her brain and the ideas took hold. She blinked a few times and then went limp. Her blank eyes stared up at the ceiling
.

  She was going to be the wild card in all this. I wasn’t sure how long I could hold her, and I wasn’t sure if holding her would have any effect. I don’t think she can starve to death. I was tempted to just stomp her head in, but if the bodies were found that would lead to questions.

  And I didn’t want to deal with questions. Not yet, anyway.

  For now, it’s just a nice, peaceful sleep.

  ST. GEORGE TRIED to get out of the chair. He strained his legs, tensed his back, forced his arms to push up. He focused on the spot between his shoulder blades and tried to hurl himself at the ceiling.

  Nothing happened.

  Christian grinned at him, then leaned forward in her seat. “Keep quiet for a minute, would you? And were you thinking of trying something?” she added. “I can see the smoke coming out of your nose.”

  His mouth went dry and his lips pressed together. He glared at her.

  “Todd,” she called out.

  The young man appeared in the doorway. “Could you get on the radio and call the special channel for me? Tell them the word is ‘prodigal,’ and I’ll be coming to them. I’ll be there in …” She glanced at St. George. “Let’s say half an hour or so.”

  Todd’s head bobbed up and down. “I’m sure they can make that happen, Ms. Nguyen.” He vanished back to his desk.

  She settled back into the throne-like seat. “I’m sure you’re dying to ask some questions,” she said to St. George. “And your minute’s just about up, sooo … go ahead. But stay in the chair, okay? And I can trust you not to hurt me, can’t I?”

  “It’s just us,” he said. “You can drop the act. Or the illusion. Whatever you want to call it.”

  Christian blinked.

  “Making me see Christian. Is she dead? Or is she just asleep somewhere, too?”

  She laughed. “You weren’t paying attention at all.”

  “What did you do to her?”

  “Ahhh,” said Christian. “Now that’s a smart question. I don’t think you know it, but it’s a good one.” She tapped the side of her head. “Really, all that matters is that a few weeks ago the annoying Ms. Ngyuen went to sleep with a headache, and I woke up the next morning.”

  St. George stared at the woman. The faint accent had dropped out of her voice, and some of her words had a mild twang to them. She sounded younger. The muscles of her face flexed in odd ways. It just wasn’t the way Christian held her lips or eyes. He remembered Smith’s fake smile. “So you killed her,” he said.

  “Maybe.” She shrugged. “It’s not like the ex-virus got her or something. Heart’s still beating, lungs are breathing, brain’s active. It’s my brain now, granted.”

  “She’s going to be the last one.”

  “I doubt that very much. So do you. And let’s be honest—there’s no love lost between you guys. There was a lot of serious hatred for you and Stealth and the others floating around in here.” Christian tapped her head again. “Don’t try to convince me she was your best friend and you need to avenge her or something.”

  “She was a person. We didn’t always agree on everything, but she still mattered.”

  The woman sighed and shook her head.

  St. George tried to stand up again, but his limbs were frozen. “So you’re … what, controlling her body from Groom Lake?”

  “Nope.” Christian looked at her reflection in the mirror and adjusted her collar over the tie. “I’m a mental clone, if that makes any sense. Me and the other-me, our lives split right there when the idea of me got yanked into Christian’s brain. So I don’t know what’s going on with him, he doesn’t know what’s going on with me. I’m Christian Smith, if that works for you.”

  “If you’re not him,” said St. George, “then why do all this? Why not work with us?”

  Air blurted out between her lips. “Honestly,” said the woman, “I don’t know what other-me’s been up to—not much, I’m guessing, considering how Stealth left him—but I’ve got a great chance to start over here. Twenty-odd thousand citizens, a few super-soldiers, an armored battlesuit … that’s the beginning of a new empire. As long as I worked around you, Stealth, the captain, and the rest. So, a few choice words and you all left while everyone in Los Angeles voted me in for mayor.”

  “Of course they did,” growled St. George.

  “Give me a little credit,” Christian said. She leaned against the huge desk. “It wasn’t a landslide. I got a healthy forty-two percent of the vote. Richard got twenty-three. You and Stealth got about sixteen percent between you, although I think she actually beat you by a couple of votes. Mickey Mouse got eight votes and Superman got four. All very nice and believable.”

  “And what about us? You couldn’t’ve hidden from us forever.”

  “I’ll be honest, George. I’d kind of hoped you’d all just pleasantly live in your little dreamworld until you starved to death, but …” She stopped and looked at him. “It was Sorensen’s kid, wasn’t it? I knew she was going to be a problem.”

  “She remembered you,” said St. George. “She knew you were up to something.”

  Christian Smith smiled and shook her head. “It’s the little details that always get you in the end. She almost got you out of it yesterday. You probably would’ve woken up if I hadn’t been there to give you a few fresh commands.” She straightened up and brushed her suit down. “Anyway, we should get going. Could you follow me, George?”

  He stood up without thinking.

  Christian crossed the room. “And you haven’t tried to hurt me so far. That’s good. Can you keep that up for a bit longer?”

  He knew he wouldn’t hurt her, but he didn’t want to nod. His head went up and down against his will.

  She paused just before the door. “By the way,” she added in a lower voice, “you might be having some clever thoughts about trying to hurt me in some indirect way or maybe warning some people. That’d be bad. Don’t forget who I am and what I can do. Todd out there will crush his own windpipe if I give him the word. I’ve got similar suggestions planted in about fifty folks all over the city.”

  They stepped out to the elevator links. Todd smiled at them. “They said they’d be ready for you, ma’am,” he told her.

  “Excellent,” said Christian. “Those letters on my desk are signed. Could you make sure they get copied and go out to everyone?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She led St. George past the elevators and they went down the stairs. He noticed Christian was wearing flats. He wondered if Smith had trouble walking in heels.

  “I had high hopes for you,” she said. Her voice echoed up to him in the stairwell. “A couple years ago, when I found out the Mighty Dragon was still alive and kicking … I really thought this was going to be the big chance I’d been waiting for. And then, goddamnit, even after all you’ve gone through you still turn out to have this damned moral code.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  She shook her head. “It would’ve been so much easier if you’d just stayed in your happy place and starved to death, but you’re such a goddamned Boy Scout you make Freedom look bad.” She hit the crash bar and they stepped out into the lobby. “And he actually was a Boy Scout. He got his Eagle badge from a senator and everything.”

  Christian smiled at a few folks as they walked out of Roddenberry and into the sunlight. She slipped a pair of sunglasses from her pocket as they stepped out from under the canopy and pushed them over her face with one hand. They walked a few more yards and she stopped near the edge of the garden. St. George could see a few people moving between the plants, pulling weeds and gathering soybeans.

  The ground shook. Like any Los Angeles resident, he’d lived through dozens of minor earthquakes. The tremors barely registered until he noticed they came in slow, steady pulses.

  Christian Smith smiled. “You should get ready, don’t you think?”

  He turned around.

  Cerberus loomed over him. The battlesuit had been polished and cleaned. The massive
M2 rifles were mounted on its forearms, and the ammo belts looped around to the hopper on its back. Whoever was wearing the armor moved with a heavy stride, slamming each foot against the ground. An eager bruiser. Someone who wanted to fight.

  “Lieutenant Gibbs,” said Christian. “You remember when I warned you St. George and the others might come back and try to seize power?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” His voice was an electronic growl through the suit’s speakers.

  “Lieutenant,” said St. George, “listen to me. This isn’t—”

  “Well, I’m afraid it’s happened, just like we feared.” She grinned up at the battlesuit. “You know what to do, right?”

  “This isn’t Christian Nguyen!” shouted St. George. “It’s Agent Sm—”

  The punch hit him in the face, but the fist was so big the bottom knuckle banged against the top of his chest.

  He flew past the old paint building, bounced into the parking lot, and tumbled across the south end of the garden. He came to rest facedown in some dirt with a few blades of grass poking up through it. Dust and dry soil pattered around him.

  St. George pushed himself up onto his knees and caught a burst of .50-caliber rounds across the chest. It knocked him back another half-dozen feet. He could hear people screaming. He saw a few figures running through the garden and hoped they were running away.

  The hits hurt like all hell. He wasn’t sure, but he thought the rounds might have cracked a rib or two. He rolled to the side and back up onto his knees to avoid a second burst of gunfire. A third point on his rib cage flared with pain.

  The earth was trembling again. He counted to three, focused, and then shot forward. He crossed his arms and rammed the titan just below the chestplate.

  Cerberus bent over and staggered. He took a few steps after it and slammed the palm of his hand up into the armored helmet. The battlesuit tipped back and stumbled a few more feet before it fell over with the sound of a car crash.

  St. George turned and leaped at Christian. If he could get one punch—a careful punch—he could knock her out. He didn’t know if Smith’s powers worked when he—she—was unconscious, but it couldn’t hurt.