Ex-Patriots Read online

  “A dragon?”

  He shrugged. “Some of the agency folks think it might be some kind of metamorphosis or something.” His tongue tripped over the word. “That something, maybe someone, changed into—”

  “I know what metamorphosis means.”

  “Right, sorry. Anyway, don’t you see, professor? That’s why we need to get you back on Project Krypton. No more consults, no more outside evaluations. We want you working full time with us on this. And you don’t want to miss out on a chance like this, do you?”

  “No,” I found myself saying. I knew Smith was right. Eva and Madelyn were going to be angry with me. I’d promised them I wouldn’t take on extra projects this year. “I thought Krypton was done for good?”

  “The Secretary of Defense likes it. He brought it back two years ago, but it’s been kept pretty quiet. The Future Force Warrior project gets most of the headlines on Wired, anyway.”

  “Then why bring back Krypton?”

  “Well, Future Force is doing well,” he said, “and they’re also hoping to have that new exoskeleton project in the public eye in the next seven or eight months. But when it comes down to it, the Vice President, the Secretary, and the Joint Chiefs want to see the real deal in our corner and they think you’re the man to do it.”

  I furrowed my brow. It’s a bad habit. Eva says it’s giving me wrinkles. “Our corner? I’m not sure I understand.”

  He gestured at the papers and images on the table. “All of these other superhumans are answering to their country’s government,” he explained. “Almost every one of them. Some are even on payroll. I mean, think about it, doctor. There’s no point in having superheroes in the United States if the government doesn’t control them.”

  Chapter 2

  NOW

  There were at least three dozen more people in the shop than needed to be. A rumble of conversation echoed through the warehouse-sized room. The rolling tables and racks had been wheeled away. In their place, a single chair sat centered under the cleanest skylight.

  St. George sat in the chair. His leather jacket had been tossed aside on one of the tables, revealing the cherry-red tank top that still made summer in Los Angeles feel too hot. He looked at the crowd, then at the handful of people who stood around his chair.

  Jarvis tucked a sturdy hacksaw under his arm and clapped his hands. “All y’all quiet down,” he said. “No reason to turn this into more of a circus than it already is.” He paused to scratch his chin beneath his salt-and-pepper beard. “We all know this ain’t a one person job. We drew lots last week and each of the winners are going to get a chance at him.”

  To St. George’s left, Andy held a pair of well-worn bolt cutters, and by his shoulder a woman clutched a pair of bright blue tin snips. Billie Carter stood on the other side of the chair with a pair of wire cutters. Mike Turner had another set of bolt cutters. Right in front was a little Latina girl with a black set of wire cutters. She was bouncing up and down. St. George smiled at her and she blushed.

  Jarvis turned to the hero in the chair. “Last chance to back out, chief.”

  The hero smiled. “I’m good,” he said. “This is long overdue.”

  The older man shook his head and let his own hair settle past his shoulders. “Personally, I think it makes you look distinguished.”

  “Maybe,” said St. George, “but it’s too damned hot in the summer.”

  “You let it grow any longer we’d all start calling you St. Fabio,” said Mike.

  “St. Hippy is more like it,” said Billie. She squeezed her wire cutters a few times for emphasis and a round of chuckles echoed in the room. She still wore her hair cropped military-short.

  Andy stepped forward and held up the bolt cutters. He moved behind St. George and began to gather the golden hair into a ponytail.

  “Et tu, Andy?” St. George said with a grin.

  “How could I pass up the chance to cut the hair off a legendary strong man?” Andy said with a smile. “If I ever get ordained, I could tell that story every Sunday to a rapt congregation.” He settled the ponytail into the mouth of the bolt cutters, took a deep breath, and levered the handles together.

  The hair resisted. Andy took another breath, threw his weight into it, and there was a crackle of sharp pops, like breaking spaghetti. It echoed through the shop and the ponytail dropped to the floor. The crowd hollered and applauded. Andy looked at the gouged blades of his bolt cutters and shook his head.

  Mike wobbled forward. It had been eight months since an ex had tried to bite through his shoe and cracked half the bones in his foot. Doctor Connolly still wasn’t sure if he’d ever walk without a limp. “Little off the top, boss?” he said with a wicked grin.

  Over the course of the hour, they sawed and clipped and chopped at the hero’s hair. In the end the tools were chipped and pitted, but the floor was covered with hair. There was a final burst of applause from the crowd as St. George looked at himself with a hand mirror.

  “Reminds me of a haircut I got in college once.” He set down the mirror. “Hope everyone had fun,” he said, and gave Andrea a wink. “Time to get back to work. The day’s wasting.”

  The crowd funneled away as he shrugged into the jacket. A few moments later he was alone with Billie and Jarvis. “We ready?” he asked.

  She gave him a sharp nod. “Luke’s got the extra fuel tanks loaded in Road Warrior. We’ve got overnight gear if we need it. Stealth’s even letting us take three extra cases of ammunition. One nine millimeter, two of three-oh-eight.” She glanced at her watch. “Team assembles in thirty-nine minutes.”

  The hero glanced at Jarvis. “What’s the armor situation? Did Rocky get those last three sets of sleeves done?”

  “He did not,” said the bearded man. “He says it’s an art and it takes as long as it takes. I told him y’all wouldn’t be pleased.”

  “Crap. What’s that give us, thirteen full suits?”

  “Yup.”

  “Not a great number,” said Billie.

  “No,” agreed the hero.

  “Half the folks just want to wear their leathers anyway,” said Jarvis. “This whole armor idea still ain’t going over that well.”

  “It’s too damned hot for leather,” said Billie. “Either people don’t wear it or get heat exhaustion from it.”

  “Tell Rocky he gets chicken for dinner tonight if he can finish one more set before we leave,” said St. George. “He’s got my word on it.”

  “Hell,” said Jarvis, “for a whole chicken I’ll make the damned sleeves myself.”

  “What if he doesn’t?” asked Billie.

  “Then we’ll have to make do with what we’ve got.”

  “Does that mean cutting three people or having three people go without armor?”

  St. George wrinkled his brow. “Let me think on that one.”

  They stepped out into the morning light and took a moment to adjust their sunglasses. Off to their right was the Lemon Grove gate, and St. George reached up to rub the blade-like tooth on his jacket as he looked that way. “I’m going to check in with Zzzap and Stealth. I’ll meet both of you at Melrose in thirty.”

  Jarvis nodded and loped away. St. George was about to leap into the air when Billie touched his arm. She gestured down the road.

  A thin, shaved-bald man waited there with the little girl who’d cut St. George’s bangs. When the man realized they’d seen him he switched the girl’s fingers to his other hand and gave an awkward salute. He walked forward, still holding his hand up, pulling the little girl behind him. He wore a pair of fingerless gloves.

  The hero waited for the salute to drop and then shook the hand. “You were the one who actually won the drawing, right?”

  “Yeah,” said the man. He was young, twenty tops, and spoke with an anxious, eager voice. His bare arms were decorated with tattoos, and the hero could see the prominent number on the left shoulder. “Andrea’s my niece. She’s wanted to meet you since we moved up here.”

  “You
were with the Seventeens?”

  “Was in, yeah,” the young man said, “but I’m out now. I’m Cesar. Cesar Mendoza.”

  Behind him, St. George heard Billie’s boots shift. “Good to meet you, Cesar,” he said, pumping the hand again. “You’ve got a beautiful niece.”

  “Hell-o,” the little girl sang. She waved and ducked behind Cesar, blushing again.

  “Yeah, I know,” the young man said. “Look, I was wondering... could I talk to you for a couple of minutes about something?”

  “Is it urgent?”

  Cesar shrugged. “I mean, it’s not life or death,” he said. “Just wanted to talk about some stuff.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  “Just... you know.” He shot a glance at Billie. “Stuff. Just something I need to get off my chest, you know?”

  “D’you get bitten?”

  “What? No!”

  “Kill somebody?” asked Billie.

  “No!”

  “Steal something?”

  “No! Well... no, not for like two years. Honest, man, nothin’ like that.”

  “Can’t be too pressing, then,” St. George said with a smile. He clapped a hand on Cesar’s shoulder. “I’ve got a few things I need to take care of before we head out, but maybe later. I’ll be around all day tomorrow if nothing comes up.”

  The young man nodded. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Yeah, tomorrow’d be cool. Thanks, man.” He hefted the little girl into his arms. “Say bye,” he told her.

  “Good-bye,” she sang, waving at them.

  “Still don’t trust any of those people,” murmured Billie as they walked away.

  “Those people?” echoed the hero.

  “Don’t play the PC card,” she said. “Less than a year ago the Seventeens were trying to kill us. Now we’re sharing supplies with them.”

  “They’re sharing with us, too, don’t forget. Chickens, eggs, a hell of a lot more fruits and veggies.”

  She shrugged. “Okay,” she said, “if you think they’re so trustworthy why aren’t any of them scavengers or walking the wall yet?”

  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’s 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 teambuilding 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 page boy-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 page boy 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 pre-existing 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.”