Ex-Patriots

by Peter Clines

  Oh, hell yeah. Look at me now, Dad.

  Chapter 8

  NOW

  “Hey, St. George,” someone called out. “You got a minute now?”

  A skinny man trotted toward Roddenberry, waving his hand. St. George settled back down to the ground and swung his jacket over his shoulder. It took a moment to recognize the young man at night. He’d never noticed how few lights there were around the central building and garden. “Cesar, right?”

  “Right.” They shook hands. “Look, I really need to... ummmm, confess something.”

  “You still haven’t killed anyone, right?”

  “No, dude, this is serious.”

  “Okay,” he said, “what’s up?”

  Cesar glanced around. “Can we walk or something?”

  “Why?”

  “Just feel kinda nervous standing right here, y’ know? In front of her building? Especially at night.”

  St. George felt the corners of his mouth twitch. “Yeah, I know what you mean,” he said. “A walk around the garden work?”

  “Yeah,” he said, “that’d be cool.”

  He led them across the north edge of the garden. A few years earlier, when the Mount had been a film studio, the garden had been a gigantic pool that could be filled with water for movie shoots. The north edge was a huge mural called the Blue Sky. They walked along the narrow path between the base of the mural and the garden.

  Cesar took a breath and steeled himself. “Probably should’ve told you or Cerberus or one of you guys months ago, but...” The former Seventeen looked left to right and back, never meeting the hero’s eyes. “I’m the Driver.”

  St. George cocked his head and waited. “The what?”

  “The Driver.” He gripped an invisible steering wheel in the air before him, and the hero realized the young man’s fingerless handgear was a pair of cheap driving gloves.

  “The driver of what?”

  Cesar sighed. “D’you remember there were a bunch of carjackings and smash and grabs a couple years back? About a year before the exes showed up?”

  St. George nodded. “Down in the Wilshire District? Yeah, I always meant to look into those.”

  “That was me.”

  The hero raised his eyebrows and smiled. “As I remember, the cops caught the guy,” he said. “A big, fat white guy. Blew out the tires of his Mustang with a spike strip. He tried to run and the police laughed themselves silly.”

  “Yeah, right,” nodded Cesar. They turned the corner of the garden and started heading south. “Wayne. He was my partner.”

  “Partner?”

  “Look, what if I just show you, ‘kay?”

  St. George shrugged. “Okay.”

  Cesar jogged ahead a few yards. The garden had a thick wall protecting it on the east side, and there was a small parking lot where they kept the scavenger trucks. Mean Green. Road Warrior. The twins were Big Red and Big Blue. Off to the side, against the back corner of the Zukor hospital, stood a few stacks of spare tires. Luke’s people had pulled them off other trucks on the lot, plus some they’d found in the other studios.

  The young man took a few more quick steps to put himself in front of Mean Green’s grill. He waited for St. George to catch up and gestured the hero to the side. “No one in the cab, right?”

  “Nope.”

  “No keys, right?”

  St. George pulled the door open and glanced under the steering column. “Nope. Should be in Luke’s office.”

  “‘Kay, then. Watch this.”

  The young man pulled off his glove and held up his bare hand. The palm was covered with a flurry of half-faded scars. He pressed his fingers against Mean Green’s grill and the metal sparked. The flashes grew into long arcs that wrapped around his hand and twisted up his arm with electric crackles.

  Cesar vanished in a flash of light and Mean Green’s engine roared to life. A wisp of smoke spun in the air for a moment, and then it was sucked into the grill by the truck’s fan. Mean Green’s headlights came on. The engine revved three times in a row.

  St. George dropped his jacket. His eyes flitted between the empty space and the growling truck. “You’re kidding me.”

  The horn let out two quick blasts. The headlights flashed back and forth like winking eyes. The engine growled again and the truck’s front wheels shifted left to right. The hero took a few steps back and Mean Green rolled a few feet forward. He walked to the left and the truck turned after him.

  “Okay,” he said, “I believe you.”

  There was another crackle of electricity, a flash, and the engine cut out. The headlights faded and Cesar stood between the hero and Mean Green, his hand pressed against the grill. The young man swayed for a moment, shook his head, and grinned. “What you think of that?”

  “So,” said St. George. “The Driver.”

  “Damn straight.”

  “You possess cars?”

  “Not just cars,” said Cesar proudly. “Big rigs, jeeps, SUVs, anything that’s self-powered, y’know? I did a generator once on a bounce house. And a golf cart. Motorcycles are tough because I can’t balance that good in ‘em.”

  “What about a walkie-talkie or a radio or something?”

  He shook his head. “Too small. I get... I dunno, cramped. I can’t fit inside.”

  St. George studied the young man. He didn’t have a scrap of green on him, but most of the former Seventeens went out of their way not to wear the old gang color. The ornate 17 on his left shoulder was the only sign he’d been one of the bad guys less than a year ago. “How long have you been able to do this?”

  He shrugged. “About four years.”

  “You’ve been part of the Mount for eight months now. Why didn’t you say something before?”

  “Dude, we were on opposite sides.” Cesar shook his head. “Even when I moved in here after Peasey was dead, who knows what Stealth would’ve done if she found out there was another Seventeen who had powers. Besides,” he jerked his head at the truck, “that was the first time I’ve done it since the night they grabbed Wayne.”

  “Your partner.”

  “Yeah.”

  “If you’re the one with the powers, why’d you need him?”

  The young man shrugged. “I needed somebody who could grab the cash. I’m in a car, it’s just a lot easier to stay there. Takes a lot out of me, switching back and forth.”

  “Okay,” said St. George, “so if he was willing to sit behind the wheel for a smash and grab, why’d he need you?”

  Cesar grinned. “Dude, d’you ever read Lowrider or Car and Driver? Fucking loved Car and Driver.”

  “Once or twice. In waiting rooms.”

  “Saw this phrase once—the car outperforms the driver. When you get those sweet, high-end cars with tons of torque that can turn on a dime. Rich jerks crash ‘em all the time because the car is so much better than them. Moves faster’n they think it can, reacts quicker’n they think it will. Tweak the wheel this much and you’re doing barrel rolls down the freeway, y’know?”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “Well not when I’m inside,” said Cesar. “When I’m inside, the car’s my body. Know every inch of it, what it can do, how well it can do it. If the car can do it, I can do it, and better than anyone sitting at the wheel ever could. I’m the greatest getaway guy stunt driver in the world. I’m like ten times the fucking Transporter times Knight Rider.”

  “So how’d they catch your buddy?”

  He held up his hand again and showed the scars. “Like you said, man. Spike strip, right across Olympic.” He pulled the glove from his waistband and tugged it back on. “Cops arrested Wayne, took the Mustang to impound. I got out, my hands and feet were all messed up something bad. Limped home and mama took me to the emergency room. Man, that sucked. Six hours in the waiting room at Hollywood Presbyterian.”

  St. George picked up his jacket and batted some dust off it. He looked at the truck again, then back to the young man. “How’d you get this? Were you b
orn with it?”

  Cesar shook his head. “My cousin, Tony, he was a gearhead,” explained the young man. “Worked on all the cars for the Seventeens. Tune-ups, rims, nitrous, whatever you needed. One day right after my sixteenth birthday I was helping him out, trading out an alternator and...”

  “And what?”

  “I got struck by lightning,” said Cesar. From his tone, St. George could tell he’d defended this point before. “Right there in the driveway, sunny day with clear skies. Burnt my hair off and fried the alternator.”

  St. George drummed his fingers on Mean Green’s side. “You got struck by lightning while you were working on a car?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That has got to be the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  Cesar glared at him. “What, how’d you get your powers? D’you get bit by a radioactive dragon or something?”

  “No,” said the hero, “I got... well, I got hit by a meteorite. And doused in some experimental chemicals.”

  The young man smirked. “And you’re making fun of me?”

  “There had to be something else to it. Thousands of people have been struck by lightning. It doesn’t give you superpowers.”

  “Yeah, but it did.”

  “But it can’t.”

  “But it did. Look, man, the important thing is, I want to join the team.”

  “What?”

  “You know,” said Cesar. “Start doing stuff for good and all that. I want to contribute something to the community.”

  “How?”

  The other man’s smile faltered. “What d’you mean?”

  “I mean how,” said St. George. “I’m glad you came clean and told me about your powers, yeah, but... well, what can you do for us? It’s not like we have tons of open road to go speeding around on.”

  “Well, yeah, but—”

  “And at regular speed, well, Luke’s got half a dozen drivers for each truck past himself. Do the cars get better somehow when you’re in them? Do they stop using gas or... I don’t know, heal or something?”

  Cesar shifted his feet. “No.”

  The hero shrugged.

  “You saying I can’t join up?”

  St. George paused. “Look, Cesar, if things were back to normal, I’d say sure thing. But, honestly, what can you do that can’t be done by half the people in the Mount?”

  “But...” He looked confused. “But I’m the Driver.”

  “Yeah,” said St. George, “and there’s nowhere left to drive.”

  * * *

  He reached the top of the stairs and saw her sitting Indian-style across from his door.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” said Lady Bee. She wore the same black tank she’d had on while they were in the valley. Electric-blue bra straps peeked out from underneath it.

  St. George nodded from the stairwell. “So I see.”

  “The secret superhero meeting run late?”

  “Not exactly.” He shook his head. “You’re not here to tell me you’ve secretly had super-powers all this time, are you?

  She smiled. “Why?”

  “I just had to tell a kid his dream of being Optimus Prime was never going to come true. He took it hard.”

  “What?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. What’s up?”

  Bee stood up. “I was in the neighborhood. Figured I’d swing by and say hi.”

  “And camp outside my door?”

  “I’ve only been here ten minutes. None of the neighbors saw me.”

  He put his back against the door. “Seriously,” he said, “what’s up, Bee?”

  She gave a lopsided shrug and one of the bra straps slipped off her shoulder. “I was just wondering if you wanted to hang out and watch a movie or something?”

  “Or something?”

  Her smile became a grin. “Well, I don’t know about you,” she said, dancing her fingers on his chest, “but I haven’t had a really good ‘or something’ in months now. We could skip the movie and go right to that. I wouldn’t have any complaints.”

  He took her hand. “We agreed we weren’t going to do this anymore.”

  “Yeah, and we haven’t,” she said. “But it’s been ages and we had an exciting day. I’m horny, I’m wearing the underwear you like, and you’re here instead of being...” She paused and looked him in the eyes. “With someone else.”

  “Maybe this is my one night a week to sleep alone.”

  “You’re a shitty liar.”

  “Maybe I’m not up for it.”

  “The George I knew was always up for it.” She peeled the tank off in one quick movement and slung it around his neck. “What do you say? Two or three times for old time’s sake?”

  He reached up for her arms, grabbed her wrists. “Bee...”

  “It’ll be our little secret.”

  She pulled his head down, pressed herself against his body, and kissed him. For a second he let her, and then he straightened up and away. “We both know there aren’t any secrets from her.”

  Lady Bee sighed. “Well,” she said, “looks like that moment’s passed, then.” She pulled the tank off his neck and wrestled it back over her striped hair. “You know you’re wasting your time, right?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  She pushed her arms through and jerked the tank over her flat belly. “You’re never going to have any kind of relationship with her. Nothing normal and healthy, anyway.”

  “That’s a little—”

  “She’s the empress of all ice queens. If the exes vanished tomorrow she would too. Back to her bat-cave, never to be seen again. And you know it.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  Bee shook her head. “She’s just like every other frigid bitch, holding the nice guy at arm’s length and getting him to do whatever she wants.” She gave him a peck on the cheek and headed for the stairs. “Good night, George.”

  “G’night.”

  “Maybe you’ll get lucky and I’ll try again in a few months.”

  Chapter 9

  NOW

  Danielle had pulled the mattress off her bed months ago and set it against the wall under the all-purpose table. Once she’d blocked one side of the table with a small dresser, she could get something close to a good night’s sleep. She woke up aching from the concrete floor, but it beat laying awake in the cot all night and hearing imaginary teeth chattering in the corners of her workshop.

  This morning someone was nudging her, and in her slumbering mind she wondered if it was a version of the dream where Nikolai was still alive and had gotten over his dead girlfriend. Then the nudges became prods, and after a few prods someone grabbed her exposed shoulder and shook. For a moment, in her half-awake state, she saw the dark form looming over her and thought an ex had latched onto her. She lashed out and the figure grabbed her clumsy backhand.

  “Get dressed,” said Stealth. She released Danielle’s wrist. “We are needed at Four.”

  Danielle threw off her covers. Even in the sweltering heat of a Los Angeles summer, she needed to feel a certain amount of weight over her to sleep. She crawled out from under the table and stood next to the hooded woman. “Where’s my crew?”

  “I do not need your assistants. I need you at Four.”

  “George, then? Someone’s got to help me get into the armor.” She nodded through the doorway at the half-assembled battlesuit standing in the workshop. “I can’t do it alone.”

  “You do not need the Cerberus armor to come with me,” said Stealth. “Please put on whatever clothing you feel necessary. Time is of the essence.”

  “Necessary for what?”

  “Danielle, in one minute I am leaving,” said the cloaked woman. “You will be coming with me. What you are wearing at that point is of no consequence to me.”

  Sixty seconds later Danielle tugged her shirt on as Stealth dragged her out of the workshop. The cloaked woman was like the villain in a slasher movie. Her pace never approached a run, or ev
en a jog, but Danielle struggled to keep up.

  It was barely dawn. A few last stars twinkled and faded in the steel-blue sky. “What the hell’s going on?” asked Danielle as she buttoned up her shirt.

  “The Predator has returned,” said Stealth.

  “Already?”

  “An hour and a half ago.”

  “What?” She brushed her hair out of her face. “Why didn’t Barry spot it sooner?”

  “I do not know.”

  “What did it do? Were they looking for us again?”

  “This is why we are going to Four,” Stealth said.

  There was a rush of wind and St. George landed just ahead of them at the entrance to Four. He wore full combat leathers with his sunglasses pushed up on his forehead.

  “Oh, sure,” muttered Danielle, “you give him time to get into uniform.”

  “It doesn’t take me an hour,” he said.

  Zzzap lit up the inside of the converted stage from inside the electric chair. Took you people long enough, he said. This is why I keep insisting we need bat-poles.

  Stealth walked to the cage. “Is it still circling the Mount?”

  The brilliant wraith shook his head. It took off about fifteen minutes ago. It’s still in the area but I think it’s about fifty or sixty miles away.

  “What were they doing?” asked St. George.

  I checked out the information it was sending back to their base. Straight low-light video plus infrared imagery. Oh, right, yeah. And it listened in on a few walkie conversations. It had a good hour of watching us altogether.

  “Are you sure of this?”

  Pretty sure, yeah.

  “Why did it take you so long to notice it?”

  Well, they are passive scans and it kept a really high altitude this time. There wasn’t much to hear until it was right on top of us.

  “Which was, by your estimates, seventy-five minutes ago.”

  Yeah, sorry. I guess I was distracted.

  St. George frowned. “Distracted by what?”

  I was talking with someone. As I’ve mentioned several times, it’s boring as hell sitting in this ball all the time. Even with the awesome DVD collection.