Ex-Communication: A Novel

by Peter Clines

  Captain Freedom stood at ease and explained what he needed.

  Father Andy listened without a word. His jaw shifted when the captain finished. “I see.”

  “Is there a problem, sir?”

  “Possibly.”

  “In Iraq and Afghanistan, the chaplains assigned to us would do similar things for some of the men.”

  “Some of the men,” the priest said, “but not you?”

  “Hopefully you’ll forgive me, father,” said Freedom, “but I’m actually a diehard Baptist. In this case, though, I’m hedging my bets.”

  Andy reached up to run a finger along his collar, giving it a slight tug. “I’m not actually a priest, you know,” he told the captain. “I was never ordained by anyone. The responsibility was thrust upon me.”

  “You wouldn’t be the first to say such things,” the huge officer said with a solemn nod.

  “What I’ve been preaching isn’t really Catholicism. It’s more of a general Christian mishmash to give solace to as many people as possible.”

  “I understand,” said Freedom. “We’ve all been a bit loose with our denominations over the past few years.”

  “It’s just that what you’re asking for is … well, it’s pretty hard-core Catholic. I’ve never done it before. Never even seen it done, so I’ll be winging it. And this needs a lot of weight behind it, especially considering the circumstances.” Andy’s hand dropped away from his collar. “I just want you to be clear there’s a good chance this won’t work. Not the way you want it to, anyway.”

  “All the same, sir,” said the captain, “I’d feel much better if you could.”

  Father Andy turned back to the altar. “We’ve got plenty of candles. I just filled the aspersorium this morning. Let me go get my vestments.” He looked over his shoulder. “If you want it done right—at least, what I think is right—it’s probably going to take forty minutes or so.”

  Freedom followed him to the altar.

  Max ran his fingers along the futuristic katana’s blade. The engraving looked like printed circuits. He tossed it back on the table. “It’s crap,” he said. “The tang’s not much more than a steel bolt and it’s just riveted onto the blade.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Billie. She’d supervised the pile of weapons being brought in from guards and scavengers. A few civilians had heard about the search and donated fencing sabers and ceremonial weapons.

  “It means it’s crap,” said Max. “You could wreck this thing by twisting the pommel two or three more times. Hitting something with it will just make the blade snap off in your face.” The sorcerer waved his hand at the table of weapons. “Most of this stuff is crap. The only blades that are any good are ones that wouldn’t work for this.” He reached up and grabbed the back of his head and took a few slow, deep breaths.

  “So,” said Stealth from the gates, “we have nothing.”

  Max let go of his head. “Yeah.”

  “There’s got to be something we can do,” said St. George. “You trapped this thing once before, can’t you do it again?”

  “It took three years of preparation and an eclipse,” said Max. “If you can scrounge up an eclipse in the next seven hours, I’ll see what I can do about the rest.”

  “Can’t you just make a stronger barrier?” Billie asked.

  Max reached up to loosen his tie. “With the right materials and a few months of research, sure. This just isn’t something I ever planned on, facing off with a physically manifested demon.”

  St. George drummed his fingers on the table. “Can it be hurt?”

  The sorcerer raised an eyebrow. “Without the sword, you mean?”

  “Yeah. Once it’s physical, can we hurt it?”

  “Technically, yeah,” said Max with a shrug. “You’ve got to understand, everything we’ve got in the Mount—even some of the big stuff you brought back from Krypton—it’s going to be like hunting dinosaurs with slingshots. And if it’s possessing Regenerator, it’s going to have his powers, too. We’ll have a minute, tops, before it heals from whatever we do to it.”

  Stealth looked at the table of blades. “Including wounds from the sword?”

  “No. Well, it’s hard to explain.”

  “Please attempt to.”

  “You don’t even have the right knowledge for a frame of reference. It’s like trying to explain quantum physics to one of those isolated tribes in the rain forest. I can give you some neat analogies, but that’s about it.”

  “Then, again, please do so.”

  Max sighed. “Okay, in simple terms, if the demon believes it can be hurt, and we believe we can hurt it, it’ll be hurt. It’s like Jung on steroids. That’s why all the big symbols are so important. It’s the same reason silver bullets have been able to kill werewolves ever since Siodmak wrote the Wolf Man screenplay.”

  Billie’s brow furrowed. “What?”

  “Never mind, bad example,” he said, shaking his head. “Okay, you know how you can be in the Matrix and even though you know it’s all just in your mind—”

  “You’re using The Matrix again?” asked St. George.

  “You don’t like it, get Barry some new DVDs,” snapped Max. “Even though you know it’s all just in your mind, the injuries will still translate through to the real world because the illusion is so perfect. The sights, the sounds, the feelings—no matter what you know, your mind can’t deny all the information coming in. Belief trumps knowledge, like a psychosomatic injury.”

  “I do not accept that,” said Stealth.

  “Look, just trust me, okay?”

  “Okay, then,” said St. George. He picked up one of the swords from the table. “So what’s our best choice here?”

  Max shook his head. “We don’t have a best choice here. If this is it, our best choice is getting some pointed sticks and painting them silver.”

  Billie stepped forward. “I’ll make sure they all get back to their owners,” she said.

  “Don’t bother,” said the sorcerer. “They’ll all be dead by tomorrow anyway.”

  “We have to do something, Max,” snapped St. George. Fire flashed in his mouth. “Anyone can sit around and bitch about how bad things are. We’re the ones who are supposed to fix it.”

  “We can’t fix this,” said the sorcerer.

  “Well, that’s the difference between you and me, then,” said St. George. “I’m going to try.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “We can’t just wait for it to get in here,” said the hero. “Ilya and Dave should be done with their search soon. If we’re lucky, they’ll have another dozen swords and one of them will work, or at least be useful. Supposedly I’m tough enough to stop it from possessing me, so I just need to hold it off as long as I can while I look for Josh.”

  “If what Max says is true,” said the cloaked woman, “the odds are it will kill you.”

  Twin streamers of smoke curled up from his nostrils. “Probably, yeah.”

  Max cleared his throat and killed the moment. “Not probably,” he said. “You’ll be going to your death.”

  Stealth glared at him. They could all sense it, even through the mask. “If you continue to speak in such a demoralizing manner,” she said, “I will paralyze your larynx.”

  Two fingers on each of his hands curled back. He met her glare through the blank planes of the mask. Max didn’t back down, but was aware Stealth was two inches taller than him, not counting her cowl. After a moment his face calmed and she turned away.

  St. George looked at Max. “Symbols are important, right? I’m the guy who beat him before, so maybe it’ll remember me and be a little scared or something. It might give me an edge.”

  “It will,” said Max. “Not much, but it’ll help.”

  “Then that’s what we’ll do,” said St. George. “We’ll get the best sword we can and I’ll go out to find Josh and face the demon. Maybe I can slow it down and give the rest of you time to figure out another plan. If I’m really lucky, I’ll g
et Josh back here somehow.”

  Max let out a long sigh and closed his eyes. “I’ll go with you,” he said.

  Billie raised an eyebrow. Stealth crossed her arms.

  “Give it a rest,” he said. “You’re right, okay? George is right, I’m a cowardly pessimist, let’s move on while there’s still time to save the world.”

  “What are you thinking?” asked St. George.

  Max shrugged. “I’m the only other person remotely protected from Cairax. I can draw some of his attention, maybe. Give us a little more time.”

  “You don’t sound too confident,” said Billie.

  “Honestly, two of us aren’t going to confuse him much more than one.”

  “Well,” said St. George, “then I guess we hope the guys find a good sword.”

  Max nodded. “Maybe I can make something up for you. A simple shield spell or a glamour. Something so he can’t lunge right into you.”

  St. George felt smoke trickle out of his nose. “If you can do that, I could’ve gone to get the other sword.”

  “No, you couldn’t,” said Max. “This’ll be a one-time-only trick, and I’m not even sure it’ll work the one time.”

  “This should have been mentioned before,” said Stealth with another glare.

  “Yeah, real sorry about that,” Max said. “I was going under the stupid assumption we didn’t want anyone marching out to a horrible death.”

  They stared at each other for a moment. Then Billie gathered an armload of blades from the table and headed back into the Mount. “I’ll check on the guys,” she told St. George.

  He gave her a nod and looked at the sorcerer. “How soon do you want to head out, then?”

  Max looked up at the sun, then traced a few paths across the sky with his eyes. “We’ve got a little over seven hours, if all goes well. Odds will be slightly in our favor if we go earlier and maybe catch one of them before they start to bond. We should go see what your guys have found for weapons so far.” He stopped and looked around. “Do you hear something?”

  “There is a crowd approaching,” said Stealth. Inside her hood, her head turned to the west. “I would estimate between thirty and forty people.”

  As she spoke, the crowd flowed around the south corner of Gower Street. St. George guessed there were three dozen of them, and spotted a few children holding hands with parents. At the front of the crowd was Christian Nguyen. She was talking with a few people around her, and every few steps she’d raise the Bible in her hand a little higher for emphasis. When she saw the heroes she waved.

  “They are all members of the After Death movement,” Stealth said.

  “Great,” said St. George. “Any idea what they want?”

  “With Ms. Nguyen’s aggressive nature, I have been expecting them to make some list of demands under the grounds of religious freedom. There are several possible things they could be prepared to ask for.”

  “Or maybe they’re just all out for an after-lunch stroll?”

  Stealth looked at him. “I find that unlikely.”

  “At least they’re not carrying torches and pitchforks,” said Max. “That’s always a plus in my book.”

  The crowd got closer and St. George took a few steps toward them. “Christian,” he called out. “Always a pleasure. What can we do for you After Death folks?”

  “We don’t use that name,” she said, closing the gap between them. “It’s a term others have applied to us. We just think of ourselves as Christians.” She held her Bible with both hands and gave a thin smile. “No pun intended.”

  “Of course not.” It occurred to St. George that he kind of missed the old Christian, the one who just hated the heroes and fought against anything they suggested or any action they took. She was troublesome, but she was predictable. Since she’d found religion, talking to her always gave him the sensation of walking in a minefield.

  “We have a request,” she said.

  Stealth shifted her posture enough to make her cloak ripple. “This cannot wait until the district meeting next Tuesday?”

  “I plan on bringing it up there as well,” she said, “but many of us felt this was a matter of extreme urgency.” There were nods and echoes of agreement from the crowd.

  “George,” said Max, “we’re on a tight schedule here.”

  “Mr. Hale,” said Christian, “you of all people should appreciate our worries. This is a matter of immortal souls.”

  He blinked. “What?”

  “You’re living proof the dead can come back,” she said. “You can lead the way for all our loved ones. The girl, Madelyn, is a flawed creature, but you’ve returned unharmed.”

  “I’m two inches shorter and I’m missing a tooth,” said Max.

  Christian let her gaze slide back and forth between St. George and Stealth. “We’d like you to stop shooting the exes outside the Big Wall.”

  St. George coughed in amazement. It came out as a puff of smoke threaded with yellow flames. “I’m sorry?”

  “Perhaps explore some nondamaging way to stop them,” said the former councilwoman. “We’re concerned you may be injuring them spiritually, and perhaps ruining their chances of returning to this world.”

  Max snorted. “They aren’t coming back.”

  His words threw Christian for a moment, but she recovered. “You can bring them back,” she said. “With enough time and help, you could bring all of them back and restore the world.”

  Max glanced at St. George. The hero gave a faint shrug.

  “Look,” the sorcerer said, raising his voice, “I get that you need to cling to something. But those things out there aren’t your loved ones, and I can’t turn them into your loved ones. They’re just meat. The people you knew are dead. They’ve moved on.”

  “Like you did?” A faint glimmer of something familiar crossed Christian’s eyes. It was her old haughty, confident look, the one she used to give in council meetings. The one that showed up when she thought someone had made a mistake she could exploit.

  “Maxwell was a special case,” said Stealth. “He should be considered the rare exception, not the rule.”

  “But there could be other exceptions,” said someone in the crowd.

  “No,” said Max, “There aren’t.”

  “The Bible talks about all this,” said another man. “The end of days, the dead coming back as zombies. It’s all true.”

  “There’s dozens of resurrections predicted in the Bible,” agreed Max, “but even the ones in Revelation aren’t about zombies rising up to attack mankind. They’re just saying when the end comes, the dead get to enter Heaven first because they’ve been waiting the longest.” He waved his arm out at the Big Wall, at the distant sound of teeth. “I know it’s comforting to believe this stuff, but it’s just not true. I’ve got suits with more personality left in them than your average ex. Everything you loved about them is long gone.”

  “But I’ve seen my sister,” said one man. “She’s still wearing her favorite shirt.”

  “She’s wearing clothes, Mr. Diamint,” said St. George. “It’s just what she died in, like a lot of other exes. Captain Freedom can tell you just because they’re still wearing a uniform doesn’t mean they’re thinking like soldiers. Last time we were over in Burbank there was one wearing a cell phone costume. It doesn’t mean he’s still thinking about his phone contract.”

  “How do you know?” shouted one man. Harry, one of the part-time drivers for the scavengers. He tended to follow Christian around. His nose was still crooked from being broken a year and a half ago. “How can you know what’s happened to their souls?”

  “I know,” said Max. “I was there, remember?”

  Again, his words tripped them up. Harry glanced at Christian. Doubt flickered on her face.

  “When it comes to cheating death,” the sorcerer told the crowd, “I’m the only guy who brought a parachute. Everyone else fell the whole way. And believe me, having been dead, they were the lucky ones. The last thing you shoul
d be wishing for is that they’ve spent the past three years in the purgatory I did. I was ready for it and it almost drove me insane.”

  A woman in the back sniffled. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Christian said. “You’re just confused because of your journey.”

  “You can’t have it both ways,” said Max, raising his voice a little more. “You want to believe I’m the way to bring your families back? That’s great, but if you believe me, then I’m telling you it can’t happen. Your friends and loved ones are not outside the Big Wall waiting for someone to flip a switch so they can be alive and hug you again. The real world doesn’t work that way. Real problems don’t get solved with a snap of a finger. The exes are just walking corpses. They’re dead. That’s it.”

  Diamint’s shoulders slumped. It was a gesture of resignation, but St. George saw a little relief in it, too. Another man looked up at the sky and pressed his eyes shut. The sniffling woman started to sob. A man put his arm around her. Christian clutched her Bible in a death grip.

  “Don’t you get it?” said Max. “You’re not praying, you’re just … wishing. And wishes don’t come true.”

  Someone else started to cry. Diamint drifted away and led a woman with him. Another man slumped against one of the oversized potted plants flanking the gateway into the Mount.

  “I’m sorry,” said St. George.

  “You’re just saying this to make us look foolish because of our faith,” Christian said. “That’s why people believe in me just as much as you. People can depend on me when things get tough.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you … you have to ruin everything, don’t you,” she snarled. “Keep all the good things for yourselves. You can’t even let people have hope, you have to ruin it.”

  “This is a false hope,” Stealth said. “Nothing good can come of it.”

  “It lets people cope,” snapped Harry.

  “It allows people to deny the reality of our situation,” said the cloaked woman. “That is a luxury none of us can afford.”

  “We have to look forward,” said St. George. “If we just cling to what the world was—what our lives were—we’re never going to accomplish anything.”