An Ex-Heroes Collection

by Peter Clines

  In retrospect, my reaction was a little … well, comic-book, I guess. I mean, he could’ve been a stranded alien or something. I didn’t know. I just saw this big nightmare thing loping down the alley at me talking about fear.

  So I punched it.

  It hurt. Whatever it was, it was a lot more solid than it looked. It staggered back a few feet, but the tail lashed around to help it keep its balance. It reached up and felt its jaw, just like a person would. Its fingers were all stretched out, too, with big claws on the tips. I bet it could’ve palmed a car tire.

  I braced myself for it to charge and felt the tickle in the back of my throat that meant I had fire waiting.

  For a moment its face twisted up in a scowl. Pure rage. I was about to die. No doubt in my mind. But maybe I’d keep it from hurting a few more folks.

  Then it took a deep breath and let it out through the forest of teeth. “Ahhh,” it said. “Forgive me. I do sometimes speak out of turn.”

  “What?”

  It stood up straight, or as straight as it seemed able to do, and bowed. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Cairax Murrain, infernal viscount of the Abyss, Reaver Lord, and newly arrived hero of Los Angeles.” Its tail thrashed at this. It took a chunk out of one of the concrete trash cans that dotted the boardwalk.

  I was still a little confused. I think I said “What?” again.

  “We fight the same battles for the same cause, oh Mighty Dragon,” it said. “When I adopt this form, all my strengths and powers are set to the causes of truth, justice, and so on and so forth.”

  I risked a glance over my shoulder. “What were you doing with the kids?”

  The monster shook its head and made a clicking sound with its tongue. “Such a shame,” it said. “The bourgeoisie youths releasing their primal instincts on a helpless drunkard.”

  It gestured behind it. A homeless man with a bloody face was curled in a ball. While I watched he glanced up at the thing looming over him. He shook his head, whined, and buried his face deeper in his arms. AA was going to have a new member in the morning.

  “A nonviolent lesson was in order,” continued the monster. “Fear is such a wonderful deterrent, and whets the appetite as well. Although,” it said, striking a thoughtful pose, “was I all that different as a boy? Or is that just Cairax adjusting how I see my own memories?”

  I wasn’t entirely sure what it was talking about, but I thought I was starting to get the gist of it. “You … you’re a person? A human being?”

  “Indeed. Hidden within this frame is one of the greatest sorcerers of our generation.”

  “Okay,” I said. I guess as back stories went it was interesting. “What was your name again?”

  “Cairax Murrain.”

  “Cairax,” I echoed. “Sorry about, y’know, the punch. I just saw a monster with a kid.”

  “Of course,” said Cairax with a dip of his head. “Although, what is it they say about first impressions?”

  “You only get one chance with them?”

  The monster grinned. “So often, they are correct.”

  ST. GEORGE HUNG in the air over the water tower. It wasn’t the highest point inside the Big Wall, but it was familiar to him. He needed a good dose of familiar.

  It had been two nights since Cairax had died or been banished or whatever. St. George had flown Freedom to the hospital. Stealth and Madelyn passed through the South Gate of the Big Wall forty minutes later, and ten minutes after that the exes were banging their teeth together again. There hadn’t been a sign of Legion since then.

  His own wounds were healing. As he’d learned the last time he fought the demon, his immune system was powerful enough to handle any disease he encountered. Dr. Connolly took a trio of blood samples this time. “Who knows how long it’ll be before something breaks your skin again,” she said.

  Freedom was still in intensive care. His ribs had been set and taped, and he’d received several transfusions. Freedom’s massive frame held over fifteen pints of blood, and he’d lost more than six. His soldiers had lined up to donate. Even the ones who didn’t match his type insisted on donating to the slowly growing blood bank.

  He was racked with disease. Connolly was pretty sure Cairax Murrain’s last gift to Freedom was a fast-acting case of the bubonic plague. The huge officer was in quarantine with three different IVs filling him with fluids and antibiotics. St. George had wanted to try a transfusion, to see if his blood would help Freedom fight off the disease, but he was the wrong blood type. “Besides,” Connolly told him, “I’m not entirely sure your blood wouldn’t treat his whole body as an infection.”

  Last St. George had heard, she was prepping an ice bath to bring the captain’s temperature down but expected him to make an eventual recovery. “It would’ve killed anyone else by now,” she said, “but the man’s got the constitution of a bull elephant.”

  The sun came up seven hours early and bathed the water tower in brilliant light. St. George’s musings vanished with the darkness. I thought I might find you here.

  “Hey,” he said. “What are you doing out of the chair?”

  I asked Stealth if I could come talk to you.

  “And she said yes?”

  Yeah. Most folks are already asleep, and there’s hours of battery life.

  “So,” he asked his friend, “what’s up?”

  I just wanted to say good-bye.

  St. George smiled. “You flew over here to tell me you’re going back to Four?”

  No, George. I came to say good-bye.

  A faint chill shimmied down St. George’s back. “What do you mean?”

  Now that I know what I am, I realize I’m not supposed to be here.

  “What?”

  Zzzap tilted his head back and looked out into space. It’s time to return to my place in the heavens. Time to embrace my destiny.

  “Barry, what the hell are you talking about?”

  Good-bye, George. You’ve been a good friend. I’ll miss you.

  “Wait, you can’t be seri—”

  The gleaming wraith shot up into the sky, a falling star in reverse. In an instant he was one pinprick of light among thousands. Another star in the night.

  And then he was gone.

  St. George stared up into the sky, his jaw still open, unsure what had just happened. The after-image of Zzzap still burned his eyes. He shouted his friend’s name, then yelled it again over their private radio channel.

  No response.

  He sank down and the heels of his new boots clanged against the roof of the water tower.

  Then a bolt of light shot down out of the night and halted in front of him.

  Nah, I’m just screwing with you, said Zzzap.

  “You bastard,” said St. George. “I think I just had three different heart attacks.”

  Let’s be real. This place would fall apart inside of a week without me.

  “So you don’t think you’re an archangel now?”

  Oh, hell no, said the gleaming wraith. Last thing I want is to be a religious figurehead. Plus, isn’t there a law or a commandment about impersonating God or something like that?

  “Maybe the one about false idols?”

  Yeah, that sounds about right. Besides, I was just a good symbolic representation of an archangel, not the real deal.

  They hung there for a moment, looking down at the city. So many people had moved out when the Big Wall was done, the population of the Mount itself had dropped to almost nothing. It was clearest at night, when they could see how few lights there were at the center of their square mile of city.

  So, Zzzap said. Maddy Sorensen’s really the Swamp Thing, huh?

  “What?”

  Swamp Thing. “Anatomy Lesson” by Alan Moore?

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Is this another television show?”

  No, said the wraith. Well, yeah, but that’s not what I’m … You know what, forget it. It’s not my fault you’ve got huge holes in your education.

/>   “Fine.”

  I was referring to the fact she’s ninety percent nanites or whatever she is.

  “How’d you hear about that?”

  Dr. Connolly told me about it while I was getting checked out after we got back. We were talking about Freedom and Dr. Sorensen, and then Maddy came up.

  “She’s supposed to be keeping it a secret.”

  Zzzap nodded. She is. I think she just figured since I was one of the cool kids I’d be hearing about it sooner or later. He turned in the air and looked northwest, toward the hospital. Are you going to tell her?

  St. George shrugged. “I don’t know. This is up there with ‘you’ve got cancer’ or ‘your wife is dead’ or that sort of thing. I think if we decide to tell her it needs someone better trained than me.”

  I think it’s probably better if it comes from you.

  “How do you figure?”

  You know she’s got a huge crush on you, right?

  “What?”

  Yep.

  “Ignoring the twice-her-age thing, I thought she was into Freedom.”

  The gleaming wraith shook his head. He’s the big brother she always wanted. I think he’s fine with that, too. It’s letting him deal with that rucksack of guilt he’s always carrying around. You’re the one she’s having schoolgirl dreams about.

  “I doubt it.”

  George, trust me. One thing life in a wheelchair has given me is amazing powers of perception regarding when women are interested or thinking of you as a friend.

  St. George chuckled. “Great.”

  That’s how I can tell Stealth’s really in love with you.

  “What?”

  I mean, I could tell at dinner, I just hadn’t figured out who she was. But she’s crazy about you, George.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I needed to hear that right now.”

  Thought so.

  “One question, though.”

  Shoot.

  “If your powers of perception are so fantastic, why’d it take you so long to realize it was her?”

  The gleaming wraith shifted in the air a bit. Honest truth?

  “Sure.”

  I know this sounds a little wrong coming from me, but … well, I always figured Stealth was white under the mask.

  St. George laughed.

  You know, probably some uber-blonde like Tricia Helfer or Rebecca Romjin. I wasn’t expecting Zoe Saldana’s hotter, older sister. It kind of threw me, that’s all.

  “I think I thought that for a while, too,” said St. George, “and then it just didn’t matter what she looked like.”

  A voice crackled over his headset. Zzzap’s head tilted, watching the radio signals buzz through the air. “Hey, boss,” said the voice. “It’s Makana over at the East Gate. You on?”

  He turned in the air and tapped his mic. “Go for St. George.”

  “That you and Zzzap up there on the tower?”

  The gleaming wraith waved to the east and let off a pulse of light. “Yeah, it’s us,” said St. George. “What’s up?”

  “We’ve got kind of a thick patch of exes over here, heading up to the Corner. We’re not cleared for shots, but I was wondering if you’d want to come thin them out a bit?”

  “We’ll be right over,” said St. George. He looked over at his friend. “Want to go throw some zombies around?”

  Mindless violence against the undead? said Zzzap. Count me in.

  The two of them shot into the sky, heading east.

  Three books in, and people are still interested in a handful of superheroes I made up in fifth grade. This is a source of constant amazement to me. My thanks to you for reading this far, and hopefully past this.

  Of course, I couldn’t’ve made it this far on my own, and for this book I owe a collection of thanks to a number of people …

  David found the Ex-Heroes series a new home at Broadway Books, and in doing so he made sure you’re all going to be seeing a fourth book somewhere not far down the road, and possibly one more after that as well.

  Matthew talked with me a lot about religion, faith, and the Bible. I’m not a very religious person myself, but I also didn’t want to be writing thin parodies of religious people. Any mistakes or offenses on this front are entirely mine.

  Sam and Sara helped me make sure Maddy didn’t sound too much like a guy in his forties writing about a girl in her teens. Also, once again, thanks to John (aka Professor Tansey of the Otterbein University Department of Chemistry), who traded a lot of e-mails about nanotechnology with me and made sure I wasn’t writing about little robots that looked like mechanical insects or spaceships. Corpse Girl owes a debt to all three of them.

  Laura, Thom, and Carrie all talked to me a bit about tattoos. Meredith told me lots about removing them.

  Claudia and Mindy helped expand my vocabulary where Spanish profanity was concerned.

  John, Larry, and CD all read early versions of this book and helped make sure no one else had to see most of those early mistakes and stumbles.

  Julian at Broadway Books forced me to stay on my toes and made sure that—even though we were dipping into magic—things still followed logical rules and reasons.

  Last but by no means least, many thanks, as always, to my lovely lady, Colleen, who listens calmly while I insist this latest project isn’t going to work, reminds me that’s what I say every time, and then tells me to get back to work. With love.

  —P.C.

  Los Angeles, April 11, 2013

  Contents

  Master - Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Then

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Then

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Then

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Then

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  People Can Depend On Me When Things Get Tough. Then

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Epilogue

  Epilogue II

  Acknowledgments

  SYLVESTER TAPPED HIS pencil on his knee. He did it like a drumroll, so the sound was sharp against his jeans. He always had a pencil, even though she couldn’t remember him ever using a notepad. Three months now, a dozen sessions, and he’d never taken one note.

  He was bald, but she was pretty sure he shaved his head. It made it tough to figure out how old he was. His tight goatee came to a perfect point under his chin. He had dark brown eyes, and his eyelids hung low. It gave him a relaxed, thoughtful appearance.

  Sylvester stopped tapping the pencil, leaned back in his chair, and gave her a look. “How are you sleeping?”

  She shrugged. “Same as always.”

  “Which means?”

  Her fingers danced on the arm of her wheelchair. “I don’t like the mask. If I try to do anything except sleep on my back it pulls at my head or leaves marks on my face. And it doesn’t fit right. Air leaks out and blows over my eyes, so they’re always dry when I wake up.”

  “Has it always been like that?”

  She shook her head. “No. I mean, the whole thing only started a while ago. Near the end of senior year.”

  “Have you
tried different masks?”

  “Yeah. Dad tried altering them, too. It doesn’t make any difference.” Her lips twisted into a weak smile. “I think I’ve got a funny-shaped head.”

  “It looks fine to me,” he assured her.

  She blushed. Just a little. “Thanks.”

  “You understand why you have to wear it, right?”

  She nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Do you resent it?”

  “Didn’t we go over all this ages ago?”

  “We did,” said Sylvester, “but I want to see if your answers have changed any.”

  She shrugged again. “It’s keeping me alive. The doctors—the other doctors—they say I stop breathing as soon as I fall asleep. The first couple times it happened they were pretty sure I’d died in my sleep. Severe sleep apnea.”

  “One of the worst cases on record,” he said.

  “Yup. Mom gets worried whenever I stay up late because she’s worried I’ll nod off in class and asphyxiate.”

  “Big word.”

  “I’ve heard it a lot.”

  “So do you resent it? The mask?”

  “It’s keeping me alive.”

  “That’s not really an answer.”

  She sighed. “I don’t like it, but that’s just the way it is, right? I wish I didn’t need it, but I also wish I didn’t need to use a wheelchair most of the time. And I wish I had red hair, too.”

  “Why red hair?”

  “Because black hair and pale skin make everybody think you’re some kind of Goth. Red hair and pale skin mean you’re a sexy Irish girl.”

  “Are you Irish?”

  “No, but nobody knows that.”

  He tapped the pencil three times on his knee, then a fourth. “Are you worried how the mask’s going over at college?”

  Sylvester had covered one side of his office with black-bordered motivational posters. She still wasn’t sure if it was serious or a joke to make people lighten up. “A little bit,” she admitted after a minute of poster-studying.

  “Why?”

  “Honestly?”

  “That’s the whole point of this.” The pencil tapped twice for emphasis.