by Peter Clines
St. George watched the young man and the little girl as they turned the corner. “You know, you’re right,” he said. “We ought to do something about that.”
“I didn’t say I have a problem with it,” she said. “I wouldn’t trust any of them with a weapon. Most people wouldn’t.”
“Well, you’re going to have to,” he said. “None of us are going to survive if we keep up this us-and-them mentality. Rotate someone out and put one of the Seventeens on the team for today.”
“What?”
“There’re a couple decent candidates. Nestor. Hector. Fernando. Who’s the woman with the faux-hawk? Desirea?”
“Just to be clear, I started this by saying leaving them out was a good thing.”
He smiled. “That’s why you’re picking who comes with us. Didn’t they teach you about team-building in the Marines?”
“Yeah. They said if someone wasn’t part of the team you should shoot them.”
“Choose wisely,” he said. He focused on a spot between his shoulders, and his feet drifted off the ground. “At Melrose in twenty-five. I expect to see at least one person with a tattoo.”
“I’ve got three,” she called up to him.
“You don’t count.”
“I’ll let you see the third one,” she offered.
He pushed down against the world and soared up into the air. The wind felt strange against his scalp, and it took him a moment to remember the new haircut.
Flying the three blocks south to the old Stage Four was excessive, but St. George still hadn’t gotten past the thrill of flight. He’d been able to glide for years, but it wasn’t until the war with the Seventeens and their undead army that he’d been able to make the leap, so to speak, to actual flight. The threat of losing everything they’d worked for, losing friends, and letting down the people who believed in him had made something click. Now he could fly, and he was stronger than ever.
And the thought of losing Stealth, he admitted, had probably had something to do with it, too.
He shot into the sky, high enough that he could see the beach a dozen miles away and the Pacific Ocean and Catalina Island far off to the south. Stealth had sent Zzzap out there six months ago. The island’s little town, Avalon, was gone. About a thousand exes wandered the narrow streets and out into the hills. He stared out at the dead island and then dove back to the ground.
He landed outside Four. The air stank of ozone. Kids came here at night to watch their hands glow with static electricity. Four had been a stage once, back when the Mount was a film studio. They’d stripped out the sets and linked it to one of the nearby power houses with heavy cables once used by lighting crews.
The other end of those cables ran to the object at the center of Four. It was a set of three interlocking rings, each wrapped with copper wire. They formed a rough sphere that looked like a seven-foot gyroscope. Someone had dubbed it the electric chair while it was being built. The nickname had stuck.
Hovering inside the rings was the form of a man. It was a reversed silhouette, like looking at the sun through a man-shaped cutout. Arcs of energy shot from the brilliant figure to snap and pop against the copper-wrapped sphere. St. George could tell his friend was staring off into one of the stage’s empty corners.
Well, I’m still getting used to it, said Zzzap. His voice was somewhere between a kazoo and pure static, and it buzzed over the crackle of power. You have to admit, this isn’t exactly an everyday thing. And I say this as a guy who more or less turns into a small star.
As St. George approached, the gleaming silhouette turned in the air toward him.
Wow, said Zzzap. They really did a number on you.
“Who were you talking to?”
Nobody. The brilliant wraith shrugged and gestured around him. People. On the radio.
St. George nodded and ran his hand through the short strands of hair. “So how’s it look?”
Zzzap tilted his head. You know what’s big after the Zombocalypse? Hats.
“Seriously.”
Remember when you were a little kid and your mom always made you get that pageboy-looking haircut?
“How’d you know?”
It’s what every mom did.
“So it looks like that?”
Yeah, it’s a little worse, said Zzzap. It’s like a blind person tried to do a pageboy with a pair of hedge clippers.
“Great.”
Zzzap shifted again. The rings crackled as he shed a few more kilowatts of power. You still heading out?
“Yeah. You still nervous?”
The wraith shrugged. It’s a big thing, he said. You and I have been over to the Valley a few times but really no one’s gone there in almost two years. Hell, I think Danielle was the last one there when she came over with her Marines.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to call them ‘her Marines.’ ”
Whatever.
“We’ve got to go sometime,” said St. George. “We’ve cleaned out everything we can find on this side of the hills. Now it’s either the beach or the Valley, and the Valley’s got a lot more resources.”
I know. You have to admit, though, it’s just kind of weird. I’ve gotten used to the Valley being “somewhere else,” y’know?
He nodded. “There seems to be a lot of that going around,” he said. “We’re getting … insular, I guess. Is that the right word?”
Yeah.
“Plus I just had a talk with Billie about the Seventeens. We’ve got to start including them more, starting now. She’s going to have one of them come out with us.”
Really? Zzzap bowed his head for a moment. You sure you don’t want me coming out with you?
St. George shook his head. “We’ll be fine. This way you can keep Danielle powered up here and still make it out to us if anything goes wrong.”
Assuming you have time to set off a flare.
“If we don’t have time to set off a flare, there’s not much you’d be able to do anyway.” He held up his hand and counted off three fingers. “Remember, red is trouble, blue we need you but it’s not urgent, white means we’re spending the night over there.”
The wraith shuddered. Better you than me.
“Hey, it’s my last choice, too.”
Another quick flight took St. George west across the Mount to the four-story, tan-and-white office building called Roddenberry. It was named after the man who created Star Trek. For the past year and a half, it had served as town hall for the survivors of Los Angeles.
Stealth’s office was on the top floor. She’d converted one of the large executive conference rooms into her command center. The blinds were always shut and the lights at a dim glow. It was lit by dozens of monitors she’d pulled from every office in the building, showing constant images of every street and entrance to the Mount. George wasn’t sure how many of the cameras were preexisting security systems and how many she’d installed herself.
She’d also moved into another room, hidden away behind a low-profile door, which she used as a spartan living quarters. He knew it was the only place she ever took her mask off. He’d never seen the room, which meant odds were no one else had, either.
“We’re heading out in a few minutes,” he said. The conference room door drifted shut behind him. “I know you’re here. Are you behind me?”
“No.” The shadows rippled between two of the windows. The glare seeping around the blinds had hidden her right in front of him. She stepped forward. “Are you positive you wish to include a member of the Seventeens in your scavenging party?”
“News travels fast.”
She rolled her shoulders and the cloak folded back away from her body. “It should not surprise you that I know such things,” she said. “Please answer the question.”
“Well, first off,” he said, “there aren’t any Seventeens in the Mount. Anyone here gave up their gang affiliation months ago. Which means they’re just people.”
“Very well.”
“And despite that,
as was just pointed out to me, we’ve all been hesitant about giving these folks any trust or responsibility.”
“Trust must be earned.”
“True,” he agreed, “but if they’re going to earn it they need a chance. So I think we need to start giving them chances.” He shrugged. “Worst case, a bunch of people are proven right and we know some folks can’t be trusted with a rifle. Best case, we’ve got more guards and more scavengers.”
She gave a nod inside her hood. “Your logic is sound. Who will you take?”
“I tossed out a few names but I left it up to Billie Carter.”
“One of your suggestions was Fernando Gomez. I would advise against him.”
St. George glanced at the monitors. “Have you started hiding microphones or are you that good at lip-reading?”
“Lip-reading,” she said, “although I could have deduced he would seem like a logical choice to you.”
“And he isn’t because …?”
“He is the highest-ranked former Seventeen living here in the Mount. If your goal is to unify the two communities, you should not make your first pick the leader of one. Make it clear the person you choose is the most competent from the pool of potential candidates, regardless of their former command structure.”
“And if he is the most competent?”
“Gomez once attempted to fight Gorgon while wearing a welding mask and using the name Painkiller. If he is the most competent they have to offer, this entire discussion is moot.”
St. George smiled. For months the dead hero had been a sore spot everyone tried not to touch, even Stealth. They’d finally hit the point where they could remember him in a good light. “Two jokes in, what, six weeks,” he said. “Once you loosen up, you turn into a regular comedian, don’t you?”
“The term would be comedienne.”
“Never mind, then.”
“Are you still taking the Cahuenga Pass into the Valley?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’ve talked it over with Luke and Billie. It’s narrow, but it’s a lot clearer and safer than the freeway. Even if I had Cerberus with me, it’d take most of a week just to clear a path from Western to the Lankershim exit. Better to stick to the surface streets. It’ll let us check some of those little shops and restaurants up at the top of the Pass, too.”
Stealth gave another nod and turned her attention to the maps and charts on the conference table. “Check in with me when you return.”
“That’s it?” He said. “No good-luck wishes? No kiss?”
“I do not believe in luck, George. You know this.”
“And the kiss?”
She didn’t make a sound, but he recognized her body language.
“Okay, then,” he said. “See you when I get back.”
Roddenberry to the Melrose gate was only a quick hop. A small crowd had formed, but St. George could pick out Cerberus looming by the gate and the leather-clad scavengers around Road Warrior as he drifted to the ground.
Road Warrior was a twenty-four-foot truck that had been used for hauling equipment out to filming locations back when the Mount was in the movie business. The scavengers had chopped the roof and most of the walls off the box and built a new frame inside it, making the vehicle into a gigantic pickup. The truck had two large reserve gas tanks, a winch, and a wedge-like steel prow that had served as a battering ram more than a few times. There were bench seats for eight people in the back with plenty of standing room, and a steel platform on the cab’s roof that could hold two or three more.
Billie and Jarvis had a small handcart covered with shimmering piles of metal they were handing out to each of the scavengers. Lady Bee was there, along with Lee and Paul. He could see Ilya, Lynne, and a few other regulars in the back of the truck. Luke Reid sat on the hood of the truck. St. George saw Hector de la Vega standing a few feet away from the main group. He made a point of locking eyes with the tattooed man and giving him a nod.
They threw rough salutes to the hero. Most of them were shaking out the chain mail armor and checking sizes against themselves. None of them looked pleased.
“Trade ’em if you have to,” said Billie. “They’re sort of sized. Let’s get everyone as close as we can.”
“Did we get the sleeves?” St. George asked Jarvis.
The salt-and-pepper man shook his head. “No go, chief,” he said. “He says at best he’d need another day.”
St. George frowned and looked at Billie. She shrugged.
“I feel like I should be in Lord of the Rings or something,” said Lee.
A set of chain mail armor hit the pavement like a bag of pennies. “This stuff sucks, boss,” said Paul.
Lady Bee nodded in agreement. She’d gotten the nickname from her striped hair. “None of it fits right, and it weighs a ton,” she said. “And I’m pretty sure I asked for a chain mail bikini.”
“I asked for Bee to get a chain mail bikini, too,” chimed Ilya. She blew him a kiss and everyone laughed.
St. George waved them all to silence. “Hey,” he said, “anyone else with bulletproof skin, raise your hand.”
Lee cleared his throat and started to put up his palm. Billie cuffed him across the back of the head.
“You need to have something out there,” he continued. “It’s been five months since anyone’s been bitten, but we’ve had two close calls in the past month. If everyone kept their leathers on, it wouldn’t be a problem. But it’s too damned hot and once one person pulls off their jacket we all do.”
They all glanced at each other. Everyone was in tank tops and T-shirts with their leathers piled up next to them. Paul prodded the chain mail with his boot. “Is this our only choice?”
“Think of it like a shark suit,” said Jarvis. “They can still bite y’all, they just can’t break the skin. And it’s a lot cooler.”
“Except it weighs twenty pounds, so we’ll just get hot that way,” muttered Lynne.
“Chain mail bikini would weigh a lot less,” said Bee. “I’m just saying.”
“Shit looks gay.” They all glanced back at Hector. He scratched the back of his neck by the razor stubble that was his hairline. “I ain’t wearin’ it.”
Billie’s nostrils flared and St. George set a hand on her shoulder as she went to step forward. “It’s armor, people,” he said. “It’s not the greatest solution, but it’s what we’ve got. If we find something better, or it starts getting cool again, it’s gone. But for now you wear it so you can all come home at the end of the day and brag about killing famous exes.”
There were a few mutters. Lee worked his arm into one of the sleeves and flexed a few times. It made a metallic, rustling noise. Lady Bee raised her hand.
The hero tipped his head to her. “What’s up, Bee?”
“Does this mean I’m not getting the chain mail bikini?”
“Give it up.”
“I like my jokes like I like my men,” she said with a wink. “Ridden to death.”
Jarvis dropped the last empty box on the cart. “Who didn’t get any?”
Ilya raised a hand. So did a scruffy redheaded kid and a rail-thin older woman.
St. George sighed and made a decision. “You two are out for today,” he said. “We should have enough next time we go out.”
“They can have mine,” called Hector.
“Ilya, can I trust you to keep your leathers on?”
The dark-haired man gave a sage nod. “You got it, boss.”
“Hey, I’ll keep mine on, too,” said the thin woman.
St. George shook his head. “Sorry. Ilya’s probably the only person I trust to sweat it out.” He looked at the group. “Everybody else, let’s get ready to move out.”
Luke stood up on the hood of Road Warrior and swung himself through the cab’s window. Billie slapped her hands together. “You heard the man,” she bellowed. “Armor up, gear up, load up.” She pointed a stern finger at Hector. “You, too, de la Vega, or it’s back to the mushroom farm.”
St. George walk
ed toward the tall archway and the sound of chattering teeth to stand next to Cerberus. The titan was staring out at Melrose Avenue. The gates were mobbed with exes, as always. Since last fall’s battle with the Seventeens, it felt like there were always a few more than there had been before.
Two years in and most people still said exes rather than zombies. Thinking of them as ex-humans made it easier somehow. They reached between the bars and flailed at the two heroes with slow, clumsy limbs. Their eyes were pale and cloudy. St. George knew from experience they were dry to the touch. All their flesh was chalky gray, colored with dark purple bruises where blood pooled up beneath the skin.
Most of the exes at the gate carried some injury that would’ve been fatal if they were still alive. Several of them had gunshot wounds. More than a few were missing fingers or hands. A dead woman close to the hinge had scraped two ruts in her forehead, right down to the bone, swaying back and forth against the gate. Another one was charred to the point of being featureless. An elderly woman in a bathrobe was missing both eyes. A few bodies back, away from the gate, the hero saw a male ex with a samurai sword through its chest.
Here and there, though, were a few of the worse ones. The ones who still looked human. A little boy with dark hair, a Pikachu shirt, and chalky eyes. An older man with a beard who could’ve just spilled a few drops of wine on his shirt. A well-curved blonde with alabaster skin and full lips. Being in the plastic surgery capital of the world made for some very well-preserved dead people.
All of them worked their jaws up and down, snapping teeth together again and again. The chattering never let up. A few of them had turned their mouths into a mess of gore and shattered enamel, but kept clicking the jagged stumps against each other.
Cerberus stared past all of them. It was easy enough for her to look right over the mob of exes to the bone-white cross on the other side of the intersection. It stood as tall as the battlesuit and was marked with three bold words, each carved into the wood and painted black.
NIKOLAI BARTAMIAN
GORGON
They’d salvaged what parts of his uniform they could. The body armor. The duster. The goggles. What was left of him, what hadn’t been chewed apart, they burned. They’d found his last requests sitting out in his grungy apartment.
