An Ex-Heroes Collection

by Peter Clines

  “She probably does,” the hero said with a shrug. “I was just flying by and saw the church, and their church a little farther down. Figured I’d stop by and talk to you about them.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  Father Andy met his eyes for another few seconds and then nodded. “Okay,” he said. “But you know, if you ever want to talk about anything …”

  “I know where to find you.” They shook hands again. “Do you miss going out on scavenging runs?”

  The priest smiled. “Going out to fight with zombies over cans of beans? Not as much as you’d think.”

  St. George sailed back into the air. He flew in a lazy circle and swung down by the southwest corner of the Big Wall. The After Death church was below him, a newer building that looked more like a meeting hall than a place of worship.

  There were three people he didn’t recognize standing in the parking lot, each with a book tucked under their arm. One of them caught a glimpse of him and they all shielded their eyes to look up. They smiled and waved. The man who’d first seen him looked more familiar when he smiled.

  It occurred to St. George, not for the first time, that there were enough people living in Los Angeles now that he couldn’t recognize them all on sight.

  The people went back to their discussion. St. George widened his flight circle to take him out over Larchmont and back across the South Wall. A few sentries waved or saluted as he flew past. He returned the gestures.

  He passed over rows of houses that once had prices in the high six figures, maybe even seven. Most of them were first come, first serve now. Many of them had solar panels on their roofs, scavenged from across Los Angeles. It had only taken the end of the world to make the city embrace green technology.

  He flew north and passed over the Melrose Gate. It was still strange to see the gates standing open and the streets mostly empty.

  Cerberus was outside on the edge of the cobblestones, just where the road turned back to sun-cracked pavement. The armored battlesuit looked up at him with tennis ball–size lenses. He waved, and the metal skull returned it with a casual nod before turning and heading down the street. It had been in front of Gorgon’s cross, a memorial to another hero who’d died defending the Mount over a year ago. That meant it was Danielle in the suit.

  Danielle Morris had created the Cerberus Battle Armor System for the U.S. military just before the ex-humans appeared. There wasn’t time to train anyone else, so she’d become the suit’s de facto pilot and spent most of the past two and a half years inside it. Like most of the heroes, she’d just come to accept it.

  But then they’d discovered another superhuman inside the Mount, a reformed Seventeen named Cesar Mendoza who tried desperately to get people to call him “the Driver.” Cesar could project himself into machinery and possess it, which meant he could use the Cerberus suit just as well as Danielle. And with the fall of Project Krypton the year before, there was even a lieutenant living at the Mount now who’d spent months training to use the battlesuit.

  The catch was, Danielle still didn’t trust either of them with it.

  St. George considered flying after the titan and talking to her, but he knew they both had other things to do. He turned in the air and looked across the parking lot to the Hart Building. He could see most of it. The guards there were probably waiting for him.

  Then he spun and flew to the other side of the Mount.

  He landed outside a large, warehouse-like building called Stage Four. The air prickled and St. George felt his hair rise off his scalp. Three years back, when the Mount had been a film studio, they’d shot television shows in Four. Now it was the hub of the new Los Angeles power grid.

  Inside Four smelled like a welding shop. At the center of the huge space was a trio of interlocking rings—each wrapped with copper wire—that formed a rough sphere. The whole array resembled a seven-foot gyroscope, but everyone still used the nickname that had come up when it was being built. It was the electric chair.

  The brilliant outline of a man, the negative image of a shadow, hovered at the center of the sphere. Arcs of crackling power shot from the gleaming figure to the copper-wrapped rings. St. George had known the other hero long enough to see his friend was staring over at a table dominated by a large flatscreen and a pile of DVDs.

  Zzzap didn’t notice St. George’s entrance. He was busy arguing with the television.

  Because it’s dumb, that’s why, said Zzzap. The buzz of his voice echoed in the large room. He paused for a moment and then shook his head. Look, being able to run implies a certain degree of physical coordination, which means a specific level of brain activity and consciousness. You can’t be mindless and have brain activity. He waited a few moments, then shook his head again. Well, then just look around. Have you ever seen one run in real life?

  The television, St. George noticed, wasn’t turned on.

  No, Legion doesn’t count because he’s only sort of mindless—what? The wraith spun inside the circle. Hey, he said to St. George. I didn’t hear you come in.

  “Yeah, you seemed kind of busy.”

  What? What do you mean?

  The hero stared at his friend for a moment, then nodded at the television. “What’s with all that?”

  All what?

  He gestured at the blank television.

  Oh. Nothing. It’s cartoon withdrawal, that’s all.

  “Cartoon withdrawal?”

  I have a Yu-Gi-Oh! addiction, okay? It’s not pretty, but there it is. I just love the way he talks when he’s the King of Games.

  “No, I’m serious.”

  Addiction is a serious thing, George. Don’t mock it.

  “You’re really determined not to talk about this, aren’t you?”

  I’m fine. What’s up?

  He drummed his fingers on his thigh. “Are you sure?”

  Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?

  He shrugged.

  So what’s up?

  The hero rocked back and forth on his heels. “I’m cooking dinner tonight. You want to come over?”

  You’re cooking?

  “Yeah.”

  Cooking food?

  “Is this hard for you to understand or hard to believe?”

  A little of both. The brilliant wraith crossed his arms and leaned back. This isn’t some cheesy superhero thing where you’re going to throw hot dogs in the air and try to cook them with your fire-breath, right?

  “If I had hot dogs, I wouldn’t waste them like that.”

  Good.

  “I’ve pulled in a couple favors. I’ve got two loaves of almost-French bread, a bunch of tomatoes and onions, and some of that homemade pasta the Ashmores are making over at Ren-Mar.”

  The stuff that’s like thick fettuccine?

  “They’ve gotten better since that first batch. I figure I can make something that passes for Italian food. So take the night off and come over.”

  Zzzap looked at him. What’s the occasion?

  St. George shrugged. “I just felt like doing something nice with my friends. Is that so wrong?”

  Who else is coming?

  “You, me, hopefully Danielle.”

  Danielle’s coming?

  “If I can get her to come out without the armor on, yeah.”

  The wraith’s head tilted back to look at the copper-wrapped rings above him. I don’t know, he said. Do you think Stealth’ll be okay with it? With me just taking a night off?

  “I already cleared it with her,” said St. George.

  Okay, then, yeah, I guess so.

  “I really didn’t think I’d have to talk you into eating a meal.”

  No, no, I’m in, said Zzzap. Sorry. I’ve been kind of distracted.

  “I’ve noticed. You sure everything’s okay?”

  Zzzap’s head twitched. Yeah, of course. Stop trying to put your problems off on me.

  The hero frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  You think I don’t
know what all this care and concern is really about? You’re putting off going to see him, aren’t you?

  “Maybe,” he sighed.

  You don’t have to go, you know.

  “I told him I would,” said St. George. “Hell, I’m the only person he ever sees.”

  We’re the only ones who know. Would you want him talking to anyone else?

  The room’s proper name—the one taped under one of Stealth’s countless security monitors—was Cell Nine.

  The Mount had six solitary cells for prisoners, but none of them got much use since the original South Seventeens gang had collapsed and been absorbed into the general population. There were also two large cells that served as drunk tanks and cooling-off rooms. Everyone knew where those cells were.

  And then there was Cell Nine.

  Cell Nine was in the basement of the Hart Building, one of several office spaces that had been converted into small apartments when the survivors moved into the Mount. When they’d been there for a little over a year, Stealth had ordered Hart cleaned out. The residents were all moved to other locations with many loud complaints and even one sit-in demonstration.

  As for the Hart Building, a team was brought in to build a spacious cell in the basement storage area, twelve feet on a side. It was steel bars lined with heavy chain-link fence on both sides. When the cell was done, all the windows were boarded up on all floors, inside and out. All the doors were chained shut, including the fire door on the roof, and the locks welded solid. The only entrance was the front door on 3rd Street, and it had four padlocks on it. Two were keyed, two had combinations. Two guards stood there at all times. Each of them had one key and one combination.

  Whispered stories went back and forth through the survivors of Los Angeles about what was down in the building’s basement. Officially it was just high-security storage, but everyone knew you didn’t put objects in a cell, you put living things. Which is how Cell Nine came to be known as the Cellar. And the Cellar was where they kept the Thing.

  One of the more popular theories said the Cellar was a prison for infected citizens, or a dumping ground for people who’d been reanimated by the ex-virus. Some people thought the Thing was a reanimated superhero whose powers made him or her too dangerous to let wander through Los Angeles. A few folks who’d been part of the film industry back when the Mount was a studio told stories about how the Hart Building had always been a nexus of supernatural incidents, and had once been considered one of the most haunted places in Hollywood.

  Even the guards didn’t know what was in the Cellar. All they knew was that they had strict orders. If the Thing—whatever it was—tried to get out of the building, they weren’t supposed to hesitate or ask questions. They were just supposed to shoot until they were out of ammunition.

  It didn’t help the rumors that only one person was allowed into the Hart Building. Once a month he would descend into the basement and the guards would lock the door behind him. He’d stay down there for an hour or two and then come out looking grim.

  St. George landed on 3rd Street in front of the Hart Building. Today it was Mike Meryl and Katie O’Hare on guard. Mike walked with a limp from an old injury, so a static guard post was perfect for him. Katie liked any position where she didn’t have to talk to people.

  They each gave him a polite nod and bent to the locks. There was only one reason for him to come here, and they’d been expecting him for a day or two now. They set the padlocks on the steps and unwrapped the chain. It ran through four big eye-bolts in the door frame.

  The Hart Building didn’t have a lobby. The doorway opened up onto a staircase landing. St. George stepped through and Katie closed the door behind him. He stood there while the chains rattled back into place. The padlocks thumped against the door and he headed down.

  There was a short hallway that ended at another padlocked door. This one was more solid, and had rubber bumpers around the edge to help seal the inside from moisture and air. They’d stored videotapes and files down here once, years ago. George dug a key out of his pocket and the lock popped open. A wisp of smoke curled up out of his nose and he opened the door.

  Cell Nine was in the middle of the room. A pair of mattresses were stacked in the far corner of the cell, decorated by a mess of sheets and blankets. A few dozen books were piled in the opposite corner. They were all battered paperbacks, or hardbacks that had been torn out of their cover. Nothing hard.

  There was no toilet. Not even a bucket. The occupant never needed one, which made sense. He hadn’t eaten anything in almost a year.

  The prisoner didn’t look up when St. George entered. He had a book in one hand. He made a show of turning the page and reading another paragraph before his eyes flitted up to meet the hero’s.

  “Hello, George,” he said. “It’s been a while. I thought you might’ve finally given up on me.”

  “DO YOU BELIEVE him?”

  St. George shrugged and set another tomato on the cutting board. “Not really. I mean, he was doing it again when I walked in.”

  Stealth gave a faint nod. “I have seen him go through the motions of conversations three times this past week alone. There was no evidence of another speaker.”

  “Did you check to see if he was talking to someone on the radio?”

  “I did,” she said. She carried a stack of plates and bowls to the table. She balanced them on one hand and held the silverware in the other. “I checked five months ago when his behavior patterns could no longer be denied.”

  “What?” The knife slipped to the side and grated against his finger. It ruined the edge of the blade. He glanced from the knife to Stealth and back. “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “I knew the answer would upset you. And there is currently nothing we can do about it.”

  He pulled another knife from the block on the counter and attacked the last tomato again. “And the answer is …?”

  Stealth did something quick with her left arm and a single plate slid onto the table in front of a chair. “He is not talking to anyone, George. I monitor all broadcast communications within the Mount, and many beyond it. There have been no radio conversations that match up with the ones he is having. I have checked during sixteen separate incidents since then. He is not communicating with anyone.”

  St. George stopped dicing. “What does that mean?”

  She didn’t meet his eyes. “It means he is talking to himself. Under normal circumstances, this would be seen as a sign of several possible personality disorders. Chronic anxiety. Dementia. Schizophrenia.”

  His eyes fell to the cutting board and he was quiet for a moment. Then he looked at her again. “Under normal circumstances?”

  Another plate slid onto the table from the stack in her hand. She framed it with silverware. “It is worth noting that Zzzap speaks to himself,” she said, setting down a spoon. “Barry does not.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I cannot say conclusively. The majority of his time is spent as Zzzap, and most of his time in his human form is spent sleeping. However, in five months of observation I have never seen Barry speak to himself.”

  “So it’s something about being Zzzap that’s doing this to him.”

  “Perhaps. Or something he is only susceptible to in his energy form.”

  St. George glanced at the door. He lifted the cutting board and used the knife to sweep the diced tomatoes into the pot. “So what do we do?”

  She assembled the final place setting. “I do not know,” she admitted. “We have converted many buildings to solar power, but Zzzap still supplies half the electricity within the Big Wall. It would be a major setback if we decided he was unable to do this.”

  “You think it’s that bad? We couldn’t even keep him in the chair?”

  Stealth sighed and looked at him. “While Zzzap has often referred to himself as a small star, the truth is that his energy form is far closer to a nuclear bomb, one frozen in the instant after detonation. It is his conscious will that ke
eps the explosion from proceeding.”

  St. George set an onion down on the cutting board and cut it in half.

  “Consider the possibility of him seeing hallucinations as well as hearing them. If Zzzap were to fire one of his blasts at street level within the Mount, my best estimates have over sixty people killed or wounded, increased to one hundred fifty in the attempt to contain fires and damages.”

  “If he’s insane.”

  “Correct,” said Stealth, “although I have seen nothing yet that makes for a convincing diagnosis of any type. As I said, there is currently nothing we can do.”

  “We can keep an eye on him. Let him know we’re here.” He finished chopping the onion and added it to the pot.

  She came back to the kitchen. “I assumed that was a given.”

  He set a handful of mushrooms on the cutting board. “I’m still not sure sometimes.”

  “I care about his well-being,” she said. “Zzzap is a valuable asset to the Mount.”

  St. George smiled. “That’s what you used to say about me.”

  “It is still true. Any personal feelings I may have do not change that fact.” She gathered up the glasses. “I am no longer certain this is a wise course of action.”

  “Not confronting him?”

  “Dinner.”

  “It’s going to be fine. You’ll be fine.”

  She walked back to the table. “I feel very exposed.”

  “It’s dinner,” he said. “Not reconnaissance.”

  “Neither Barry nor Danielle is expecting to see me here, let alone in a casual situation.”

  St. George finished slicing and added the mushrooms to the pot. “Look, they have to find out sometime, right? I’m surprised no one’s figured it out yet. So this is a fine way to do it.”

  “I am not convinced of that.”

  “Are you getting scared?”

  She stiffened. “Of course not.”

  “It’d be totally natural if you were a little nervous about this.”

  She stared at him. “I am not scared and I am not nervous. You may stop your clumsy attempt at reverse psychology, George.”