An Ex-Heroes Collection

by Peter Clines

  She nodded. “Just as you have at the Mount.”

  They looked out at the sand for a few minutes. A trio of exes pawed at the outer fence. One was a topless woman with clotted filth in her hair. Another, an elderly man with one arm, had a pair of spectacles hanging around his neck by a chain.

  “I feel sick.”

  “It is understandable. You have spent the past two years awaiting the arrival of the authorities. Of someone who would relieve you of responsibility for the Mount. You have just realized no one is coming. You are the authorities. You are and always will be responsible for the people of Los Angeles.”

  “And this isn’t freaking you out?”

  “I have told you before, George, I am not an optimist. I have never expected us to be saved or relieved of duty. I accepted this responsibility two years ago.”

  She turned and continued along the inside of the fence. St. George took a few quick steps to catch up with her. “You’ve already got a plan, don’t you?”

  “You will go back to Danielle and get her to the workshop where Cerberus is being stored. In turn, she can direct you to Sorensen. I am certain he knows where Zzzap is being held. Once Danielle is back in the armor, we shall demand transport back to Los Angeles. If they refuse, we may have to steal it.”

  “That’d be great if any of us knew how to fly a Black Hawk helicopter.”

  “I do,” she said, “but I believe a basic M35 cargo truck will get us back to Los Angeles in four days at the most.”

  “Okay,” he said, “what are you going to be doing during all this?”

  “I shall give Colonel Shelly a final chance to present evidence of his claims that the federal government is still functioning and to convince me that his plan represents our best option. Barring that, I shall convince him to allow us to leave without incident.”

  “Just to be clear,” said St. George, “when you say ‘convince him’ are you talking about attacking a U.S. military officer?”

  “Of course not,” said Stealth.

  “That wasn’t very convincing.”

  “George, we do not have time for this. It is twelve-forty-three. You must endeavor to have Danielle at her workshop and Zzzap freed by one-thirty.” Her head turned to him within her hood. “Are you comfortable with this? I do not want to influence your decision.”

  “You influence most of my decisions,” he said with a halfhearted smile. He took a slow breath. “No, I don’t feel comfortable about this at all, but sometimes the right thing to do isn’t the comfortable thing. And this feels right.”

  “Then it must be so,” she said.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  She stopped and turned to him. “Because you think it is, and you are the only person I have ever known who always does the right thing.”

  They looked at each other, and George realized an opportune moment had just slipped past him again. He cleared his throat and tried to brush it aside. “I hope so,” he said. “Six months from now I don’t want any of our people walking between fences like Bub there.” He gestured at an ex staggering along on patrol.

  “Bub?”

  He nodded at the ex-soldier with the dangling rifle. “Barry makes me watch a George Romero movie every other month. The zombie with the gun is named Bub.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  THE SOLDIERS MARCHED down the dim hall with an easy, even stride. They were two of the older recruits, both in their thirties and specialists. A year of guard duty with nothing more challenging than a handful of exes had relaxed them, but they still paused when they turned the corner and saw the darkened hallway.

  One of the fluorescent tubes flickered for a moment, then went black again.

  “Dead light,” said one soldier. He nodded at the office door. “The colonel’ll be pissed the next time he works late. Remember to tell maintenance.”

  “You remember.”

  “It’s your turn to write up reports.”

  “Asshole.”

  “Hey, you lost fair and square.”

  They turned the corner, still trying to pass off their paperwork, and Stealth dropped down from the ceiling.

  The colonel’s office was locked with a Medeco3 dead bolt, but she had seen schematics of the tumbler mechanism at a seminar in Las Vegas several years earlier. Six minutes of work and she was inside the reception area of Shelly’s office. The door closed behind her without a sound and she reengaged the lock.

  Her fingers skimmed the adjutant’s desk. She looked at letterheads and printed e-mails, paged through the appointment book and the desk calendar. She considered the computer. Based on the personal items on the desk and in the drawers, she was confident she could break the adjutant’s password in less than ten attempts. However, there was little chance the materials she needed were on his hard drive.

  The inner office door was not locked. She paused to listen for overt movement or heavy breathing, signs of someone working or even sleeping. If there was anyone in the office, they were making a point of being as quiet as her.

  She opened the door and slipped inside.

  Colonel Shelly sat behind his desk, facedown on a set of disciplinary reports. Red lines ran from his nostrils, his ears, and his left eye. Enough of it had pooled on the desk to start spreading out past his skull.

  There was a faint rustle of hair on linen from behind her. The low hiss of a seat cushion shifting.

  “What happened to him?” Stealth asked in a clear voice.

  “If I had to guess,” murmured Sorensen, “I would say he suffered a massive cerebral hemorrhage. Three or four blood vessels all bursting at once. He never knew what happened. It was just like flipping a switch. Alive. Dead.”

  The doctor sat in a chair against the far wall, half hidden in shadows. It wasn’t clear to her if he was relaxed or stunned. He stared at the corpse.

  “Believe it or not, it may have saved him from the ex-virus,” Sorensen continued. “If certain key parts of his brain were destroyed by the hemorrhaging, there won’t be enough left for the virus to reanimate.”

  Stealth slid behind the desk and examined the body. It was still warm. Dead within the past two hours. There were no visible bullet wounds in the head, and the doctor didn’t appear to be armed, but she did not rule out the possibility of a low-caliber shot in the mouth.

  “What are you doing here, doctor?”

  His eyes flicked up to her for a moment, looking over the edge of his glasses. “I was going to ask if they’d found Eva and Madelyn yet.”

  She moved in front of him. “Your wife and daughter?”

  He bobbed his head up and down.

  “We were told your family was killed by exes during a recovery mission.”

  Sorensen turned his head and glared at her. “Captain Freedom never recovered their bodies,” he said, “so they must have gotten away.”

  “It is far more likely they were devoured or dismembered to a point where they were not recog—”

  “They got away!” snapped Sorensen.

  He leaped up and Stealth shifted her weight to her back leg for a kick.

  “Colonel Shelly was sending out patrols to look for them. He promised me. Madelyn’s a smart, special girl. She got away.” The doctor tilted his head. “The real question is what are you doing here?”

  “I was hoping to speak to the colonel about his claims of contact with a governing body. Why do you believe he suffered from a hemorrhage?”

  “He’s not the first,” said the doctor. He walked to the desk. “Three people have died the same way. They all had too much on their minds. Very conflicted, just like the colonel.”

  “Conflicted?”

  “He didn’t want any of you out here. He just wanted to establish contact, make sure you were doing a good job, make sure you were all safe …” His voice trailed off again and he ran his fingers back and forth on the desk. The tips passed just a few inches from the puddle of blood.

 
“Doctor?”

  “And then he changed his mind,” said the older man. He drummed the fingers of his other hand against his thumb. “Between breakfast and lunch. Just like someone flipping a switch.”

  Stealth stared at him as he traced lines on the desk. “Did you have something to do with this, doctor?”

  “No, no, no.” He stopped tracing lines and glared at her for a moment like an angry child. Then his face went slack. “I didn’t mean for it to happen like this,” he whispered through his fingers. “Any of it. I just wanted them to leave me alone.”

  “Who?”

  “The dead. The dead keep talking to me. I just want to be left alone and everyone keeps talking to me.”

  She heard the footsteps and spun. A trio of soldiers stood at the door. Each wore the patch that marked them as super-soldiers. The closest one was a staff sergeant named PIERCE. He looked at the body. The other two looked at her.

  “So sorry,” said Sorensen. He sank back into his chair. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

  Stealth threw a punch at the soldier next to Pierce and the man blocked most of it. He was too fast, she realized, and they were ready for her. She swung her heel around in a wide kick. They dodged again but it gave her time to grab the ASP batons stored across her back.

  She brought the weapons up and Pierce and the other man, Hancock, grabbed her arms. Her legs kicked up, caught the third soldier under the chin with her boot, and let her flip up and over. The movement surprised them enough for her to twist free.

  The third man stumbled back. She spun and drove a kick into Hancock’s stomach as she snapped the batons open and fractured Pierce’s wrist. She swung her leg back to Pierce and—

  Hancock had her leg. The kick had winded him but he’d grabbed hold. She could free herself, but it disrupted her timing. Just for an instant.

  The third soldier was back on his feet. She freed her leg and snapped two kicks into Hancock’s face.

  Pierce’s fist struck just under her armpit and she felt the jolt travel down her arm. It was like being hit with a baseball bat. She knew that from experience.

  He pulled back his good hand and punched the same arm square in the bicep. Her hand went numb but she forced her fingers to stay closed on the baton. She brought her other arm around, struck the third man, and Pierce’s knuckles hit her in the side of the head. She heard the ASP hit the floor.

  It was a little after thirteen hundred hours when Freedom entered Shelly’s office. “Is it true, sir?”

  Smith stood at the desk, looking at the dark puddle. “Yeah,” he said. “I just talked to Sorensen. He walked in on the woman, Stealth, beating Colonel Shelly to a pulp. He was lucky there were three of your men nearby who heard them.”

  Freedom stood ramrod straight. “What’s the colonel’s condition, sir?”

  “I haven’t seen him, but Sorensen says it’s critical. There may be …” Smith took a slow breath. “There may be brain damage. She beat his skull with those metal batons of hers.”

  Freedom said nothing, but his jaw got tight and his knuckles whitened around his patrol cap.

  “There’s a good chance he won’t make it,” said Smith. “You’ll forgive me for saying so, captain, but either way this means you’re in charge.”

  “I’m aware of that, sir.” Freedom took in a slow breath of his own. “Do we have any idea why she did it?”

  “If I had to guess … I don’t know, maybe she was angry we were going to be keeping Dr. Morris and the Cerberus suit here at Krypton. Maybe she thought she could kill him and they could all slip away in the confusion.” He shrugged. “I don’t know, does that even sound plausible to you?”

  “More than plausible,” said the huge officer. His face twisted into a scowl. “She’s in custody?”

  “Pierce and Hancock delivered her to the stockade five minutes ago.”

  “Excellent,” said Freedom. “Then let’s get the rest of them.”

  “Damn,” said St. George as the sirens started up. “I think those are for us. I guess Stealth’s talk with Colonel Shelly didn’t go too well.”

  “Well, she’s such a fantastic diplomat,” muttered Danielle.

  They ran between the buildings. He’d offered to fly them, but she pointed out they’d be exposed. So they were on foot and trying to stay out of sight.

  They came to a wider intersection where the roads were paved. “This is it,” Danielle said, pointing left. “From what they told me, Sorensen’s lab is that way. Building nineteen, on the fourth floor. The building’s got the same layout as mine, his lab is right above where mine would be. Think you can find it?”

  “I’ll manage. You sure you can make it to the workshop on your own?”

  She fingered the collar of her camo jacket. “Doesn’t look like there are many soldiers out yet. I’ll blend in enough with my hair under the cap. Cerberus will be ready to go by the time you get there with Barry.”

  “It better be,” he said. “I think we’re running out of time.”

  “Have I ever been slow about getting back in the suit?”

  “I’ll see you in an hour or sooner, then.”

  She tugged her cap down, gave him a ragged salute, and marched down the road with her arms tight to her sides. St. George kept an eye on her until she’d passed two buildings, then headed in the opposite direction.

  He could move faster on his own. If he focused on the spot between his shoulder blades he could feel gravity get weak. It let him move in quick, long strides. He crouched behind a parked truck as a Humvee sped down the road.

  Building nineteen had a security keypad. St. George kicked himself for not asking if he’d need a code or something. He was sure he could force the door open, and just as sure it would set off an alarm if he did. Then he kicked himself again for being dumb.

  The lock popped off as he pried the window open. As he suspected, the Army contractors hadn’t bothered to put alarms on the fourth-floor windows. He slid it open the rest of the way, spun in the air, and slipped into the building.

  He couldn’t hear much in the building. The faint rumble of air conditioning. A phosphorescent tube crackled somewhere. As far as he could tell, there were no voices, ringing phones, or any of the other sounds of life one would expect from a populated building. St. George slipped into the empty hall.

  It took him about ten minutes to find Sorensen’s lab. It had his name on a small plate, along with three long words the hero couldn’t pronounce—two bios and a neuro. It also had another security keypad. He considered skimming around the outside of the building until he found a window into the lab, then realized Danielle was probably already at her workshop. If her numbers were right, she’d have the suit ready to assemble in twenty minutes.

  He braced his feet, put his palm just above the latch, and pushed. The metal frame let out a little groan. The latch leaned in toward his hand and wrinkles appeared in the painted steel around his fingers. There were four quick pops from the hinges, a squeal of metal, and the door flew into the lab.

  St. George half expected the room to be filled with bubbling chemicals and a Tesla coil. It was mostly computers, including a huge screen he knew Stealth would never admit to wanting. A few brains floated in small tanks near diagrams and cross sections of their structure.

  Five exes were fastened down on tilted gurneys, each pushed up against the back wall. The row of almost-vertical figures reminded him of a carnival ride, one of the ones that spun people around. Four of them had nylon straps across their foreheads and were gagged with what looked like pieces of a broomstick. The fifth’s head was free and it swiveled back and forth, snapping its teeth at the air.

  Sorensen sat in the middle of the lab on a tall stool. He looked over his shoulder at the hero. “It’s open,” he said. “I haven’t locked it in months.”

  “Where’s Zzzap?”

  “Somewhere safe.”

  St. George soared across the room and lifted the doctor by his collar. “No games,” he sai
d. Hot smoke streamed out of his nostrils and mouth. “You’re going to take me to him now and you’re going to release him.”

  “He’s much safer where he is,” said Sorensen. “They can’t get to him in there.”

  “I said no games.”

  “You can put me down,” said the doctor. “I won’t run. If it’s what you want, I’ll take you to your friend. But he is safer where he is.”

  “Forgive me if I don’t believe you.”

  The doctor tried to shrug, but hanging in St. George’s hand he just swung in his coat. “I’ll need to get the blue flash drive from my desk.”

  “What for?”

  “It’s a code key. Mr. Burke’s held behind an interwoven trio of Faraday cages. It’s what’s keeps him there. The key shuts them off.”

  “That’s it?”

  “There’s a matching key one of the soldiers on duty will have. In theory we need both. I’m sure you could destroy all three cages if you needed to, though.”

  St. George set the older man down on the ground. The doctor’s shoes clacked on the linoleum, a softer noise than the clicking teeth. “You’re awfully helpful all of a sudden.”

  Sorensen shrugged again and adjusted his glasses. Then he tried to flatten the hundreds of wrinkles in his clothes. “It doesn’t matter anymore. None of it.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s all over now. With Colonel Shelly dead there’s going to be confusion. They’ve got no reason to keep pretending. Especially with you here.”

  “Wait,” said the hero. “Back up. How did Shelly die? What happened?”

  “Too much pressure on his mind,” said Sorensen. “That’s one of the bad things out here. These are good people. Good, brave people. There’s just too much on their minds.”

  “Pressure on their minds? Wait a minute. Is this … Does this have something to do with the Nest?”

  The doctor shook his head. “No, of course not,” he said with a sigh. “The Nest doesn’t even work.”

  St. George looked at the older man and followed his eyes to the oversized diagram on the big screen. He recognized it from Stealth’s sketch the day before. The neural stimulator.