by Peter Clines
It was the biggest flame I’d ever made, and to this day I still think one of the most impressive. A good fifteen feet of golden, burning air lit up the entire street, hitting the ground right between the last two men. Not even men. Teenagers. Kids in green bandannas who were screaming like little children as the cuffs of their jeans caught fire. I coughed once as my lungs hit empty and burped up a little softball of flames with some black smoke. They ran.
The girl was staring at me and whispering prayers over and over again. She was barely out of her teens. I think I freaked her out just as much as the other guys did.
I debated chasing the bad guys or trying to calm her down, but in the time it took me to decide either one became a lost cause. Then I spent another few seconds deciding if I should say something or go for the dark and silent persona. So many things I hadn’t thought out. In the end, as the last of the flames hissed out on the pavement, I gave her a smile and a nod and hurled myself upward. A quick push off a lamppost gave me some extra “ooomph” and I flew into the night. Less than three seconds and I was a hundred feet up.
I glanced down and saw her still standing there in the middle of the street. She just stared up in amazement. I spread the cape, caught a faint breeze, and started gliding away. And then her shout echoed up to me.
“Thank you!!!”
And that’s how I became the Mighty Dragon.
ST. GEORGE BALANCED on the point of the water tower, the highest point on the lot, and looked down at the fake city.
It was just a couple of buildings and a pair of short roads, and from this angle their facades were obvious. But compared to the rest of the Mount, New York Street looked normal. Normal and peaceful. It wasn’t unusual to find people wandering there, where they could walk two blocks on a sidewalk and pretend the world was still safe and made sense.
He’d visited the Mount twice. Before, when it was just a film studio. A friend of a friend had gotten him on the lot years ago and they’d spent an afternoon walking the choked streets and alleys. At the time, it had seemed like the most amazing place in the world. He remembered the fake city from that visit.
The second time had been at night, in costume. He’d stood on this very spot on top of the water tower and looked past the walls of the studio at the glowing expanse of Hollywood while the wind whipped his cape. He’d felt like an honest-to-God superhero.
It all seemed so long ago.
Just over the West building he could see the North-by-Northwest residential area. Close to a thousand people packed into less than a city block. Stage Fifteen, on the far side of New York Street, had a large cluster of tents set up on the roof. Scavenged solar cells, water barrels, and gardens covered the rooftops.
It had taken two months after they moved into the Mount, but most of the stages had been changed into mass housing. Now there were two dozen families living in each one. The plus side was they all had plenty of space and huge rooftops for private gardens. The downside was two dozen immediate neighbors and lack of privacy.
As they’d all quickly discovered, lack of privacy was the killer. Over a hundred fights broke out the first week. Two of them ended in deaths. Stealth had thrown the murderers over the fence at the North Gower gate. Their screams hadn’t lasted long, but the lesson had.
He looked over his left shoulder. Far in the distance, halfway to the ocean, he could see the towers of Century City. They’d filmed one of the original Planet of the Apes movies there. Just off to the left, he could see a few thin lines of dark smoke trace paths in the crisp blue sky.
People could say a lot of negative things about the apocalypse, but there was no arguing the air quality in Los Angeles had really improved.
As a gust of wind came from the west, he turned from the film sets and hurled himself off the tower. He soared across what had once been a parking lot and pool for water movies. It had taken them two months to fill it in with all the potting soil and dirt they could scavenge from the Home Depot up on Sunset, plus a few drugstores, but now it was just under half an acre of farmland in the heart of the lot. Over a dozen people walked the rows of soybeans, spinach, and potatoes with watering cans. Their tired eyes looked up at the hero as he flew over them.
He passed another rooftop and let himself drop between buildings. He could see himself reflected in Zukor’s mirrored windows before he landed on the narrow length of Avenue L. One of the guards in front of the hospital gave him a sharp nod, the other a lazy salute. The third man bowed his unusual head.
Gorgon had struck St. George as shifty and underhanded from the day they’d first met, probably because he always hid his eyes. He did it for everyone else’s sake, but it still bothered people. A huge pair of mechanical goggles covered half of Gorgon’s face. A spinning iris of dark plastic made up each lens, mounted in a rim the size of a can of tuna. He hadn’t been as good about combing his hair or shaving since Banzai had died, and, wearing his leather duster, he looked like a Japanese cartoon character.
A seven-pointed sheriff’s badge rode high on the duster’s lapel. Someone had dug it up from one of the prop or costume trailers. After Stealth’s lesson at the gate, Gorgon had taken it upon himself to patrol the streets, halls, and rooftops of the Mount. He wore the silver star with grim pride.
“Morning,” he said.
“Gorgon. Surprised to see you here.”
“Had to make a drop-off. Fight in the mushroom farm.”
“Again?”
“The big guy, Mikkelson,” said one of the guards. “Throwing his weight around again, yelling about starving.”
“I put him down,” said Gorgon. His head tilted a bit, a twitch, and let the lenses catch the light. “He hit his head on one of the trays and cut his forehead.”
“Still weird to see you here,” said St. George with a half-smile.
Gorgon coughed. “I was the only one who could carry him up the damned stairs. You know what the Stage Five farm’s like.”
They all nodded.
He swept down the sides of his trenchcoat and gave the sheriff’s badge a quick brush. “Anyway, I’ve got rounds to make and I’m behind now.” He tipped his head to St. George. “Watch yourself out there this afternoon.”
“Hey, yeah,” said the other guard. He tipped his head after Gorgon. “Boss says all y’all’s going out today?”
St. George nodded. “Sheets have been up for a few days. You didn’t see?”
The man shook his head. He had a salt-and-pepper beard that added a dozen years to his face.
“If your shift’s over by eleven, be at Melrose,” said the hero. “We can fit you in.”
“I’ll be there.” The guard shifted the rifle on his shoulder.
Another guard stood inside the door and gave him a nod. Zukor was the most heavily defended building on the lot. If an outbreak happened inside the walls, it would start here. Each emergency room had three armed guards and all the medical staff carried sidearms. If someone died, putting a bullet in their brain was a top priority.
St. George paused at the large sign dominating the right-hand wall. Each of the letters was four inches tall. He’d memorized it at this point, but its sheer size made him look every time.
WARNING SIGNS
FEVER – DIZZINESS – CHILLS – WEAKNESS –
HEADACHES – BLURRED OR DOUBLE VISION –
DIARRHEA – NAUSEA – CONGESTION –
PALE SKIN – TROUBLE BREATHING
PERSONS EXHIBITING ANY OF THESE SYMPTOMS
MUST PRESENT THEMSEVLES FOR
TESTING AND QUARANTINE
IMMEDIATELY
The Adolph Zukor Building hadn’t always been the Mount’s hospital, but Stealth had pointed out they needed something more central and better equipped than the small first-aid office off Avenue P. Deeper into the lobby was a statue of the man himself. St. George had moved it out of the way when they put the sign in.
He found Doctor Connolly in her office. Roger Mikkelson was sprawled across the examination table, h
is head wedged in place with two rolled-up towels. She tied off a fourth and final stitch in the man’s forehead and mopped up some blood with a piece of gauze.
“Shouldn’t you use anesthetic or something when you do that?”
A few streaks of silver highlighted Doctor Connolly’s crimson hair, and fine wrinkles marked the edges of her eyes. She’d been a medical researcher when they found her in the remains of Hollywood Presbyterian. Now she was in charge of their small hospital staff. “Anesthetic’s a limited resource,” she said, “and Gorgon told me I had at least half an hour before he regained consciousness.” She smiled and peeled off her gloves. “To what do I owe the honor?”
He gestured up to the lights with his chin. “We’re going to have to put you on solar for a while. Barry’s coming out with us.”
“How long?”
“Four or five hours, tops. Do you have anything critical?”
She shook her head. “Slow week.” She nodded at Mikkelson. “He’ll be out of here once he wakes up. We’ve just got a broken leg, a concussion, and a gunshot wound staying here tonight.”
“Who got shot by who?”
“Zekiel Reid, Luke’s brother. He nodded off on the Marathon roof with his finger on the trigger. Ricochet caught him in the calf.”
“Idiot.”
“Lucky idiot,” Connolly said. “At that range he could’ve blown his foot off. If the bullet got him in the thigh, he would’ve bled out hopping here.”
“You don’t sound too surprised.”
She shrugged. “We’ve been seeing more and more accidents from the wall.”
“You think they’re trying to get out of guard duty?”
“I think they’re bored silly.”
“Yeah. Who would’ve guessed survival would be so dull?”
“To hell with that,” she snorted. “Who’d guess living in a movie studio would be so dull?”
“When I get back I’ll see about setting up shorter shifts. I think Gorgon has a few people ready to go on active guard duty.”
“Can I toss an idea at you? It’s something I’ve been thinking about.”
“Sure.”
She settled back against the wall. “Back before Nine-Eleven, I did a semester abroad in Egypt. Cairo American College. They were already nuts about security then. It took a serious effort to go anywhere and not have line of sight to a soldier or a police officer. Turns out they were having the same problem, though. All these men standing around for hours and hours every day with nothing happening. They were getting careless and having tons of accidents. Soldiers were shooting themselves in the leg or the foot. If they were on a tower they could even shoot people below them.”
St. George nodded. “How’d they solve it?”
“They stopped loading the guns.”
He smiled. “I don’t think that’ll fly with Stealth.”
Connolly shook her head. “They gave them ammo. They just didn’t let them stand around with it. They’d tape two clips together, one up, one down. That way the guns weren’t loaded, but all they had to do was flip the clips over and they’d be ready to go.”
“And you just happened to notice all that?”
“I was fifteen years younger, twenty pounds lighter, and traveling alone.” She gave him a smirk. “Men talked to me about anything they could think of.”
Across from them, Mikkelson groaned and twitched. A shiver passed through him and a slow hand reached up to feel his stitches.
“I hear it’s like having one of the worst hangovers of your life,” she said with a nod at the shuddering man.
“That it is. Any other news?”
“I think we’ve made a small breakthrough with the ex-virus. Nothing groundbreaking, from a practical point of view, but I’ll know for sure when some tests finish up this afternoon.”
He nodded.
Mikkelson almost fell off the table and swore under his breath. He stood on wobbly legs, took in a breath to start shouting, and saw St. George. The hero gave him a slow nod. “Problem, Roger?”
“I just wanted a couple extra mushrooms,” he muttered. “I was hungry. What the fuck’s the big deal?”
“I think when you take stuff that’s not yours they call it stealing.”
“They’re fucking mushrooms.”
“They’re food. You want more rations, you bring it up at your district meeting.”
“Whatever. What would you know about it? You don’t even eat.” He rubbed his stitches and pushed past them into the hall.
“You want to leave those alone,” said the doctor. “Come back in a few days and I’ll take them out.”
He waved a dismissive arm back at her.
“Roger,” St. George called down the hall. “This is two strikes for you. Next time it’s not me or Gorgon. You’ll have to deal with Stealth.”
The big man gave them another glance, but his eyes softened. He shoved his hands in his pockets and clomped down the stairs.
Connolly glanced at St. George. “You do eat, don’t you?”
“God, yes,” he said. “I dreamed about ultimate cheeseburgers last night. A big pile of them, all warm and wrapped in paper. I’d kill for some meat these days.”
She laughed. “One other thing?”
“Sure.”
“Can you talk to Josh? I think it would mean a lot to him.”
“Why?”
“He’s getting depressed again.”
“I mean, why would it mean anything coming from me? Heck, at this point you probably know him better than I do.”
“I do,” she said with a nod. “And that’s why I think he still relates better to you than he does to me. Not to swell your head or anything, but he used to be one of you and now he’s just one of us.”
“Wow. How superphobic of you.”
She smiled. “Did you just make that up?”
“No, I heard Ty O’Neill use it once. You know it’s a hell of a lot more than just losing his powers, right?”
“I know,” she said. “But there’s only so much I can deal with. The dead wife I can relate to. Loss of godlike powers …” She shrugged.
He sighed. “Yeah, okay. Where is he?”
“In the infirmary. Doing his rounds.”
“Ahhh,” said George. “Spreading his cheer and goodwill to all the patients.”
The man once known as Regenerator stood by a hospital bed, checking his patient’s chart. His right hand rested in the wide pocket of his lab coat and a purple stethoscope dangled around his neck. The young man in the bed was out cold, his lower leg bound tight with white gauze.
St. George cleared his throat. “What’s up, Doc?”
Josh Garcetti glanced up from the chart. “Hey,” he said. Without moving his pocketed hand he hung the clipboard at the end of the bed and held out his left. “Long time no see. What’ve you been up to?”
St. George caught the awkward hand and shook it. “Trying to survive the end of the world. You?”
“Same thing, smaller scale.” He made no attempt at a smile. The two men were close to the same age, the same height, but even slumped Josh’s shoulders were broader. Like so many people these days, his hair had gone gray years before it should have, and a few strands of pure white highlighted the mop. In white makeup, he could’ve passed for a somber Greek statue. In the lab coat, he was almost spectral. They walked back to the hallway. “Heard you’re heading out later today.”
“Around eleven.”
“Who’s going with?”
“Cerberus and Barry. I just came over to tell Connolly you’ll be on solar all afternoon.”
The doctor nodded and leaned against a set of file cabinets. A beat passed. Then another.
“You should come out sometime.”
Josh shook his head. “No. Thanks for the offer, but no.”
“I think it’d do you some good.”
“How?”
“You haven’t gone out once. Hell, have you even been near an ex since …?” St. George paused
again before giving an awkward nod at the pocketed hand.
“Not really, no.”
“We could use you out there. You’ve got experience.”
“I have experience in field hospitals,” he said with a shake of his head. “I was never much of a fighter. Just good at not getting hurt.”
“You were good at making sure no one else got hurt, too.”
“No,” he said. His face hardened. “No, I wasn’t.”
“Fuck. You know I didn’t mean it like that.”
He closed his eyes. “I know. Sorry.”
“It’s coming up on two years, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. Eleven more days.”
“You know …” said St. George as he edged out onto the emotional thin ice, “last year things were still pretty hectic. You want to get a drink or something? Talk? We could get Barry, Gorgon, maybe even convince Danielle to take the damned armor off.”
Josh turned to the cabinet behind the counter and examined the contents with sudden interest. “Again, thanks but no. I’m just going to stay home. Besides, Gorgon wouldn’t want to see me.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“Let’s just drop it, okay?” He massaged his temple with two fingers.
“You should really come out, though.”
Josh opened his eyes. “Look, it’s a nice thought, but let’s face it. I’m too much of a distraction out there.” He pulled his other hand out of the lab coat’s wide pocket. “Everyone’ll just be looking at the damned bite instead of watching their own asses.”
As he raised the hand the sleeve sagged a bit and revealed part of his withered forearm. The flesh was pale and splotched with gray. Dark veins ran into his palm and met up with yellowed fingernails. The teeth marks were still visible, a semicircle of ragged holes just beneath his wrist.
For the first few months of his superhero career Josh Garcetti called himself the Immortal. He could heal from wounds in less time than it took to make them. Fire, bullets, broken limbs—he laughed at all of them. Then he discovered how to share his healing factor with others and he became Regenerator.
