by Peter Clines
St. George sighed. “If it’s what you want to do, fine, but you don’t have to. You can just take the night off. It won’t be the end of the world.”
“Yeah,” agreed Jarvis. “End of the world happened years ago.”
IT WAS A little over a block from the West Gate down to the church, maybe two blocks from where St. George left Billie and Jarvis. He knew flying there was silly, but it was always good for people to see one of the heroes during the day.
Plus, it just felt cool to fly. Breathing fire and bending steel bars were great, but pushing himself away from the ground and hanging in the sky was just amazing. He’d never felt so free in his life.
He soared up a good thirty feet above the trees and spun once in the air. Far to the north, up in the hills, stood the letters of the Hollywood sign. It was getting gray after years of neglect. The thought crossed his mind of going up there with a few gallons of water and washing it. It’d be a big boost for everyone to see the whole thing bright and white up above them.
Two blocks west were the walls of the Mount, their original fortress. From here he could see the huge globe of the Earth balanced on one corner of the studio wall. Just past the globe and the stages there, he could see the top floor of the Hart Building. He knew he had to head over there soon, but wanted to make another stop first.
To the south, just inside the Big Wall, was the church. It wasn’t the only church inside the barriers. They’d found a dozen of different sizes, denominations, and languages—but not one synagogue or mosque, which had caused a fair amount of grumbling. The one at Rossmore and Arden was the one St. George always thought of as the church, though. It was a large, Gothic building, with arched facades in the front and back and a cross on the high rooftop above the doors. He wasn’t a particularly religious person, but he understood the need for symbols.
He landed on the steps. The big square doors were open to let in the breeze. He walked inside.
The church was lit by windows and a few candles. A dozen people were scattered through the pews. Two men stood near the back of the church, right by the door, speaking in hushed tones. One of them glanced at St. George and gave a faint tip of his head in acknowledgment.
Andy Shepard, former scavenger, was now Father Shepard, although he’d at least gotten most everyone to go with Father Andy. He tried to argue that he’d never been ordained, but eventually he broke down under the realization it was him or nothing for the practicing Catholics left in Los Angeles. They’d even found him a collar.
And the number of practicing churchgoers had gone up since the Zombocalypse. There’d been prayer and spiritual guidance inside the Mount, but it was a huge thing for many people to set foot in a church again once the Big Wall was finished. Especially if it had been their church before the end of the world. St. George had noticed how many people headed to the different services each Sunday morning. Not surprising, all things considered.
Father Andy exchanged a last few words with the other man and they shook hands. Then he stepped over to St. George and extended the hand again. “A bit weird to see you here,” he said. “What’s up?”
“Just checking in,” said the hero. “I was flying by, realized I hadn’t talked to you in a while. How are things going?”
Andy shrugged. “Not bad. The confessional’s been busy. There’s a lot of people who’ve been burdened by things they’ve done, stuff they want to get off their chests.”
“Anything I should know about?”
Andy shook his head. “It’s survivor’s guilt more than anything else. That’s why all the churches are so popular. Hell, my last sermon was standing room only. Can’t tell you the last time I saw that in a church.”
“Are you allowed to say ‘hell’ now that you’re a priest?”
“I have to say ‘hell.’ It’s part of the job description. Although, technically, if I’m the last one left I think it makes me the Pope.”
“Pope Andy the First does have a ring to it,” said St. George.
The priest shook his head. “I’ve got to be honest. After all we’ve seen, I’d be tempted to take the name Thomas.”
St. George smiled.
“Nothing else?” asked Father Andy.
The hero looked up at the big cross above the altar. “What can you tell me about the A.D. folks?”
Andy let out a noise somewhere between a chuckle and a snort. Then he shrugged. “Well, they’re following general Christianity, for the most part,” he said. “More of an oversized prayer circle or Bible study group than an actual religious sect. I mean, in the big scheme of things, they’re like all of us. They’re trying to understand God’s plan and establish a set—”
“No,” said St. George. “I’m not looking for a polite religious comparison. I want to know what you think about them.”
The priest took in a slow breath, leaned against the back of a pew, and lowered his voice. “Look, I know every religion thinks every other religion’s got it wrong, so anything I say they could probably say against me, but still … these people are grasping.”
“How so?”
“How well do you know your Bible?”
St. George shook his head. “Not at all really. I mean, I know a couple of the stories, but …”
“Don’t worry about it.” Andy crossed his arms. “The After Death folks go through the Bible and cherry-pick verses that fit what they want to believe. Thessalonians, a fair amount of Revelation, one of them even spouted a few verses of Ezekiel at me once. They just pull stuff from anywhere without considering context. Have you ever heard the phrase ‘When there is no room in Hell, the dead shall walk the Earth,’ or some variation on it?”
“A few times, yeah.” He took an educated guess. “Is it from Revelations?”
“Revelation, singular,” said Father Andy. “And no, it isn’t. It’s just the tagline from an old zombie movie.”
“It’s not even based on one?”
Andy shook his head. “But they’re still treating it like the word of God. They just clutch onto anything that lets them cope with what’s happened to the world. More to the point, they try to spin all of it their way, no matter what the context or classical interpretation is. These days, I’m pretty damned liberal in interpreting the word of God, but I still can’t see any way to resolve their beliefs with what the book actually says.”
“You can say ‘damn,’ too?”
“Yep. Seriously, we all need to cope in our own way, but their whole mind-set is just a little too zealous for my liking. And I’m saying that as a Catholic priest.”
“Yeah.”
Father Andy uncrossed his arms and set them down on the back of the pew. It was a very relaxed pose. “I would’ve thought Stealth would’ve had all this down in a file somewhere already. With much more precise references.”
“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, t
hat 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.