Ex-Patriots Read online

  Ex-Patriots

  Peter Clines

  Published by Permuted Press at Smashwords.

  Copyright 2011 Peter Clines.

  www.PermutedPress.com

  Cover art by Garret DeChellis.

  Prologue

  NOW

  The night breeze swept the black cloak away from Stealth’s body. As the folds of fabric opened up, they revealed the array of straps and sheaths crisscrossing her skintight uniform. Her boots shifted on the water tower’s sloped peak until the warm wind died down and her cloak and hood settled around her again.

  Her featureless mask looked down at the figures gathered around the base of the tower. They filled the streets of the modern-day fortress which had come to be known as the Mount. Some of them staggered and made awkward lunges at each other. Many of them were eating. Shouts and cries echoed up to her.

  She shook her head and turned to the man hanging in the air near her. “This is a waste of time.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  St. George, once known to the world as the Mighty Dragon, floated next to the tower and ordered gravity to ignore him. A solid six feet tall, his body was well-muscled but leaned towards wiry. His leather jacket, the same golden brown as his shoulder-length hair, was decorated with sutures and grafts. At this point it was two jackets stitched into one. A five-inch tooth was tied to the coat’s ragged lapel with thin straps.

  Stealth glanced over her shoulder at the building that served as her office and the de facto town hall. “We should be drawing up schedules for this week’s construction. The north wall is close to done.”

  “It can wait,” he said. “They all need this. They probably don’t even know how bad they need it.”

  “So you keep insisting.”

  Below them, the celebrating people packed the streets and alleys. Families gathered on the rooftops. They cheered and laughed and called out to one another. Even the guards along the wall seemed more relaxed.

  “You’re grumpy,” said Claudia. She picked her nose while she stared at Stealth.

  Inside her hood, Stealth turned her head to the little girl perched on St. George’s left shoulder. “I am practical.”

  “She is very grumpy,” St. George told the child, “but we’re working on it.” He pulled his arm across her legs like a seatbelt and spun around in the air.

  “Go higher!” yelled Timmy from the other shoulder.

  “Actually,” said the hero, “I think time’s up for you guys. Down we go.”

  “No!” the boy shrieked.

  “Goodbye, grumpy lady,” said Claudia with a wave.

  St. George drifted down to the crowd and handed the kids off to their parents. Dozens of little arms reached up but he waved them off. “No more rides for now,” he told them. “Show’s going to start soon.”

  A few yards away, the blue and silver form of Cerberus waded through the crowd. The battle armor towered over the tallest citizens of the Mount. Most of their heads didn’t reach the American flags stenciled across its gleaming biceps. The metal limbs were extended out, and gleeful children swung from each massive forearm.

  The titan’s armored skull looked up at the sky with lenses the size of tennis balls, then back to St. George. The armored suit was androgynous, but after working with its creator for so long George tended to think of it as female. He gave her a thumbs up and got back a nod from the helmet.

  He looked up to the star-filled sky and keyed the microphone on his collar. “Hey up there. You ready to do this?”

  Far above the Mount, one of the stars swung back and forth through the sky, tracing zigzags and figure-eights across the night. Barry’s voice echoed in St. George’s earpiece. “Yep.”

  “No problems?”

  “No, of course not. What could go wrong?”

  “Didn’t you say something yesterday about setting fire to the atmosphere?”

  “Well... yeah,” Barry said after a brief pause. “But the chances of that happening are really miniscule.”

  From inside the Cerberus armor, the voice of Danielle Morris echoed across the channel. “You could set part of the atmosphere on fire?”

  “Not part of it,” said Barry. “Look, the odds are slim to none, seriously. There’s a better chance of one of us getting—wow.”

  “What?”

  “I just got struck by lightning up here. What’re the odds of that?”

  “Quit it,” growled Cerberus. She set down the children who were climbing on the armor.

  “Trust me,” said Barry, “everything’s going to be fine. Make your little speech.”

  St. George gave the armor a smile as he drifted upwards. Another round of cheers broke out as he spiraled into the air, and several bottles saluted him. Matt Russell’s homebrew reserves would be gone after tonight. The hero gave the crowd a wave and soared back to the top of the water tower.

  Stealth was watching the walls when he landed next to her on the sloped peak. “Are you certain all guards are on duty tonight?”

  “Yes,” he said. “And so are you or you would’ve already dealt with it. Try to relax for one night, okay?”

  She said nothing.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” boomed Cerberus from below. With the suit’s speakers at full volume she was louder than a bullhorn. The voices quieted.

  “A year ago,” she continued, “we’d barely been in the Mount for eight months. We were all still working around the clock just to make this place livable. There was no time for fun. No time for celebration. It was all about survival.” She paused and let the echo of her voice fade. “And not all of us survived.”

  The crowd murmured its agreement, and a few more bottles were raised.

  “So this year, we wanted to make sure everyone remembered the day and everyone had time to celebrate. We’re alive. We’re together. Happy Fourth of July.”

  There was a rumble of thunder and a bright red flower of light filled the sky. A moment later a white blossom appeared next to it, followed by a blue one. Cheers rose and spread out across the Mount. Hundreds of children screamed with joy. The lights faded and four more bursts went off in a row. The sharp thunderclap of a distant cannon echoed in the sky.

  Barry’s voice came over the radio again. “I thought you said you were going to do the President’s speech from Independence Day?”

  “No,” said Cerberus, “you kept saying I should do it. I ignored you.”

  “That’s such a great speech.”

  “Weren’t you about to blow up again or something?”

  Above the Mount, the night sky lit up with another burst of light. The applause echoed for blocks. St. George keyed his mic again. “How long do you think you can keep this up?”

  “I can probably do another ten or twelve like this,” said Barry, “maybe a dozen quick ones as a grand finale. You can’t have fireworks without a finale.”

  “Not going to be too much for you?”

  “I had a big dinner.” Two more bursts lit up the sky, followed by another thunderclap. “Besides, this is totally worth it for the view. I can see most of North America. The top of South America, too, I think.”

  “Wow,” said Cerberus. “How high up are you?”

  “Pretty high. I just dodged a satellite.”

  “Wait,” said St. George. He looked up at the sky and tried to spot Barry’s gleaming form between the stars. “You’re out in space?”

  “Technically, yeah,” Barry said over the speaker, “but I was joking about the satellite. I’m right about at the Karmann Line.”

  “Are you... okay with that?”

  “Well, it’s not like I need to breathe or anything. And this way we’ve got the ozone layer between me and Earth, just in case.”

  “Just in case what?”

 
; “Hey, I’m letting off a lot of energy here. Some of it’s going to slip into the more dangerous wavelengths. Can’t be helped.”

  “It is a wise precaution,” said Stealth. She’d listened on her own earpiece without looking away from the Mount’s defenses. “As you were, Zzzap.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Barry. They could all hear his grin. A pair of gold flowers exploded across the sky and another cheer came from below.

  St. George looked up at the display and pretended not to watch the woman next to him.

  “If it matters so much to you that I take part,” she said, not lifting her gaze, “please just say so.”

  He shrugged. “I just think it would be good for you, too. You need a morale boost as much as anyone else. Maybe more.”

  “I do not find it as easy as some to set aside my responsibilities for a few hours of frivolous entertainment,” said Stealth. “Especially to celebrate the anniversary of a country which, in most senses, no longer exists. There are always more pressing concerns.” She looked out across the dark metropolis.

  He followed her gaze. Each burst of light illuminated the city. Beyond the high walls of the Mount, past the barricaded gates and the rows of abandoned cars in the streets, he could see the other inhabitants of Los Angeles.

  The ex-humans.

  The more distant ones staggered aimlessly. Closer to the Mount, where they could see the guards, they clawed at barriers and reached through gates. They made slow swipes with emaciated fingers. Not one of them reacted to the thunderclaps. Not one of them looked up at the brilliant display in the nighttime sky.

  Not one of them was alive.

  From the top of the water tower he could see tens of thousands of the walking dead—maybe hundreds of thousands—stumbling through the streets in every direction. During the flashes of light, he could pick out some with twisted limbs and many more stained with blood.

  The sounds of celebration and the echo of Zzzap’s fireworks almost hid the chattering. The constant noise that reached everywhere in Los Angeles, that echoed off every building and down every street. The mindless click-clack of dead teeth coming together again and again and again.

  If Stealth’s estimates were correct—and they almost always were—there were just over five million of them within the borders of the city.

  St. George sighed. “You can really kill the mood sometimes, you know that?”

  “My apologies.”

  Chapter 1 - The Doctor Is In

  THEN

  I was in my private lab, gathering the notes for my one-thirty lecture. My teaching assistant, Mary, was dividing her time between searching for the flash drive which contained my PowerPoint slides and organizing a pile of correspondence and journals that had spilled onto the floor from my desk. To her credit, she’d let the papers fall and grabbed the photos of my wife and daughter.

  My beard was scratching against my collar. I’d wanted to have it trimmed before the start of the semester and lost track of time. Now I was heading off to my fourth lecture and it still was a shaggy mess of too-much-silver hair. Eva hates it when my beard gets too long. It was short when we met in grad school. I needed to stop by the campus barber before I ended up looking any more like Walt Whitman.

  I heard the door open behind me while I packed my briefcase, but thought nothing of it until I heard my name.

  “Doctor Emil Sorensen?”

  The speaker was a young man I didn’t recognize. He wore a well-tailored suit he looked uncomfortable in. A double-Windsor-knotted tie. Tight, cropped hair above sharp eyes.

  I’d seen this ploy many times. Every professor sees it at least once or twice a semester. There are a few different names for it, but here the faculty calls it the VIP play. An undergrad tries to look or sound important to put themselves on equal footing with their instructor. Then they explain the extenuating circumstances behind a certain grade or exam result. They drop the names of people who would be disappointed because of it. Which all leads, of course, to the suggestion they should be allowed to resubmit a paper, retake a test, or—in some bold cases—simply have their grade changed to something acceptable.

  I was running late and it was too early in the semester for such schemes. “You have ninety seconds,” I said. “Can I help you with something?”

  Even as I spoke, two more men stepped in behind the first. They were larger and more solid than him. One carried an attaché case. All their suits matched.

  Mary stopped looking for the flash drive. Her gaze shifted from me to the trio of men.

  “John Smith,” said the man. “I know it sounds like a joke, but that’s really my name. I’d like to speak with you for a few moments, if I could.” He had a broad smile I knew from fundraisers and alumni dinners. A practiced smile, but not a well-practiced one.

  “This really isn’t the best time. I have a lecture in about ten minutes on the other side of campus, and—”

  “I hope you’ll forgive me,” said Smith, “but I took the liberty of canceling your lecture.”

  It took a moment for the words to sink in. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  “John Smith,” he repeated. The smile faltered as his hand fumbled with a leather wallet. He opened it to reveal a golden badge and a set of credentials with his photo. He was smiling in the photo. “Agent Smith, technically. I’m with the Department of Homeland Security, seconded to the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. Could we speak alone, sir?”

  He said the last with a nod to Mary. She looked at me with wide eyes. We all spoke a bit too freely at times, and on a college campus paranoia and rumors about the Patriot Act ran like wildfire. “Doctor?”

  I tried what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “Why don’t you go see if there are any stragglers at Bartlett Hall,” I told her. “Let them know this delay doesn’t mean they’re off the hook for next week’s test.”

  She gathered her own papers and paused to make sure I saw the flash drive she’d uncovered. The smile graced Smith’s face the entire time. He gave Mary a polite wave as she slipped out between the two larger men. They closed the door behind her.

  “So what’s this all about?”

  Smith’s face relaxed. As the smile faded, he gained several years. Not a young man, but cursed with the face of one. One of the other biochem professors had the same problem. A young face in a college town meant always being carded at the store and never being taken as seriously as your colleagues.

  “You’re a very impressive man, Doctor Sorensen,” he said. “You’ve got more doctorate degrees than I’ve got years of education. Physiology. Neurology. Biochemistry. A forerunner in molecular nanotechnology and—”

  “I know my own credentials.”

  “From what I’ve read, you got cheated out of the Nobel prize last year.”

  “It’s not about winning prizes,” I said. “Besides, the gene modification techniques Evans and the others developed are brilliant. They even helped my own work.”

  “Of course,” Smith agreed with a polite nod. “You’ve received several grants from DARPA over the past twenty years. If I read the file right, your contract’s been renewed a record-breaking seven times. In fact,” he gave a forced chuckle, “you started working for the government just before my eighth birthday.”

  “Can you please get to the point, Mr. Smith?”

  The smile faltered again. “Well, doctor, the fact is they want to bring you on full time and put you in charge of—”

  “Not interested.”

  His face dropped. “You don’t even know which project I was going to say.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “I’m comfortable with my arrangement the way it is.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  Smith reached out to the side. The man with the attaché case opened it and placed a file folder in the waiting hand. “You’ve seen some of the headlines, I’m guessing?” He walked past me to the table and spread out some clippings and printed
articles.

  THE MIGHTY DRAGON PATROLS LOS ANGELES

  “APE MAN” STOPS ROBBERY

  SHADOWY FIGURE HUNTS RAMPART DISTRICT CRIMINALS

  I’d seen most of them before. A few of my grad students had been saving news stories and images for me since The Mighty Dragon had first appeared in June. I guessed we had twice as many articles as Smith did. Copies were on the flash drive, which reminded me to pick it up and drop it in my pocket. “Have you seen the ones about the electrical man up in Boston?” I asked him.

  His eyes lit up like a child. “I have. What do you think of them?”

  “I’m intrigued, of course, but until I see more concrete proof than a headline in the Post or some grainy photos on a blog, it’s not going to occupy a lot of my time.”

  “But you’ve had your students saving news stories for you.” His smile came back.

  “What are you getting at, Mr. Smith?”

  He avoided my eyes and looked around the lab. “I hate to sound suspicious, Professor Sorensen, but... well, some folks at DARPA have been wondering if you’ve had some success with your human enhancement research that you haven’t told us about.”

  I felt a twinge of panic. Maybe Mary’s paranoia wasn’t that misplaced after all. “You think I had something to do with these people?”

  Smith shrugged. “To be honest,” he said, “I think they’d be thrilled if you had. It’d put the United States far ahead in the superpowers race.”

  “The what?”

  “They’re not just here, doctor,” he said. “People with superhuman abilities are appearing all over the world. Did you see Vladimir Putin on the cover of Time last month?” Smith shook his head.

  “I saw the picture,” I said with a nod. They’d titled it ‘Superman of the Year.’ Putin had been bare-chested in front of the Kremlin, holding a car one-handed over his head. “I thought it was Photoshop propaganda.”

  “Most people did. Thank the CIA for that. But superhumans are popping up everywhere.” Smith slid some more photos from the file folder. “England’s got the Green Knight and the Scarecrow. Japan’s got a whole team of super-samurais. There’s two guys in Iran calling themselves Gilgamesh and Marduk. Hell, we got satellite footage of a dragon flying over Baghdad this morning. Wings, horns, tail, everything.”