Ex-Patriots

by Peter Clines

  Too easy?

  “Maybe.” He looked back and forth over the empty streets. “Shouldn’t there be a couple hundred people out looking for us by now?”

  “The soldiers are most likely doing training exercises,” said Sorensen. “They run laps each morning around the inside perimeter of the fence or spend time on the southern firing range.”

  I don’t hear any gunshots, said Zzzap. And still, the alarm’s been raised. Why aren’t they manning the towers and using searchlights and all that?

  “It’s broad daylight.”

  I meant metaphorically. There’s been an alert for over half an hour now and I don’t see anyone anywhere.

  “Here at the center of the base things are quite calm and peaceful. It’s why the labs are near the center. I can go whole days without seeing anyone else.”

  St. George frowned. “Days?”

  The doctor shrugged. “I keep to myself,” he said. He mopped his face with a handkerchief. “Are you sure Doctor Morris will be at her workshop?”

  “Unless they found her she should be there with the armor prepped. Figure maybe another forty or forty-five to get her into it. And then we’ll be ready to deal with Peasy or whatever he’s calling himself now.”

  I think it’s too late for that, said Zzzap. He pointed a gleaming arm at the ground below them. You see what I see?

  At the far end of Dust, a stream of ex-soldiers staggered out of the last Tomb on the left, a few dozen of them so far. They shuffled and spread out like a stain on the base. The sound of chattering teeth vibrated up through the air.

  “Crap,” said St. George. “Think you can handle all of them?”

  If you don’t mind this part of the base being annihilated in the process, sure.

  The hero sighed and swung over to the nearest rooftop. “Doctor, do you mind if I leave you here for a few minutes? You should be safe.”

  Sorensen nodded. “I understand. I’ll be fine.”

  The two heroes zipped through the air and St. George dropped into the midst of the zombies near the open door of the Tomb. He grabbed a dead woman by the arm and swung her in a wide circle, knocking down a dozen of them. Another swing cleared a path to the door and left him holding an arm and most of a shoulder.

  He tossed the limb away and an ex came through the opening at him. He shoved it back inside, knocking down a handful of bodies behind it. With the other hand he grabbed the huge door and dragged it shut. Inside, dead things clawed at his knuckles and broke their teeth on his fingers.

  Once it was closed, he gave it a hard tug and yanked the oversized guide wheels off their track. Just to be safe, he stomped down on the track and twisted his heel. It wrecked his boot, but the door wouldn’t open again without a few hours of work from a repair crew.

  The light shifted and a hiss of superheated air came from behind him. Zzzap vaporized a baker’s dozen of exes, and another handful that had been near the blast charred and crumbled into ash. Ah, hell, said Zzzap. Radio ga-ga. They had Danielle and Stealth, but they both escaped a couple of minutes ago. There’s already soldiers inside the workshop and Freedom’s sending a squad to reinforce them.

  “Damn it.” St. George crushed a dead man’s skull and brought his fist around to shatter another one. He grabbed them by their jackets and threw them over his shoulder.

  Good news is it sounds like most everyone’s still looking for you. They don’t even know I’m out yet. Bad news is it seems like no one’s noticed the exes going nuts.

  “Can you let them know?”

  It’ll be pretty obvious I’m not locked up anymore.

  St. George twisted the head of one ex-soldier and grabbed another while it dropped. “Do it.”

  Zzzap floated higher in the air and focused on the signals swarming around him. Done. And they all just went very quiet.

  The other hero tossed a few more exes into the rough pile he’d made. “If they know you’re out,” he said, “they know we can hear anything they say.” He threw one last ex-soldier. “I think that’s all of them. You want to torch these?”

  The wraith nodded and held out his hands. The shadows leaped away for a moment and the score of zombies were dust. Whoa, he said. That took a lot out of me.

  “You okay?”

  Yeah. Just haven’t eaten anything in a day or so.

  “What?” St. George shot a glance at Sorensen on the nearby rooftop. “Do you need to get away?”

  I’ll be okay.

  “You sure?”

  I’ll be okay, he repeated. He nodded his head at one of the other Tombs. Next building’s empty. So’s the one across the street.

  “Damn it,” said St. George. “He’s making his move.”

  They soared back up to Doctor Sorensen and St. George carried him down to ground level. Sorensen glanced around. The window panes were trembling. “Is that artillery?”

  Half a block down, the Cerberus battlesuit smashed through the doors of the workshop, twisting the steel slats around itself like paper. St. George yanked Sorensen back and shielded the older man from the shards of metal scattering everywhere.

  Once the suit was in the clear it broke into a run. Its armored feet left gouges in the concrete road where they hit. A few moments later it was at the end of the street and racing away.

  “Was that Danielle?”

  I don’t know who’s inside, but it isn’t her. Zzzap tilted his head after the battlesuit. Heck, was that even our giant robot? It looked different to me.

  * * *

  Sixty exes shambled across the base in what passed for tight formation. The lieutenant at the front of the line, a thin man with sunglasses and his cap pulled low, gestured them along and they followed. A few of the soldiers walking by on their own duties noticed the dead men, but the Nest had made them almost commonplace.

  The lieutenant led them up to Barracks Eight. It was closest to the fence line, and the soldiers living there had earned the nickname “Gatekeepers.” A few yards from the door he waved to the specialist on fire patrol. “Cleaning lady’s here,” joked the lieutenant.

  Specialist Gorman looked at the approaching mob of exes and shuddered even as he saluted. “Good afternoon, sir,” he said. “May I ask what’s going on?”

  The lieutenant had turned back to the ex-soldiers as he covered the last few feet, waving them onward. It struck Gorman he’d never seen anyone guide the exes with gestures before, and he wondered if it was something new the doctor had figured out. Then the officer was in front of him and the exes were at the door.

  “I told you,” said the dead man in the lieutenant’s jacket. “I’m here to clean the place out.”

  This close Gorman could see the chalk eyes behind the sunglasses. The ex slapped a leathery hand across his mouth even as two or three others pinned his arms and took away his weapons. They carried him through the doors without breaking stride, an actual wave of the dead.

  The exes marched into Barracks Eight. Thirty of them marched up the four-story stairwell and split off ten-man groups at each level. The first door to the left on each floor was a small armory where the Gatekeepers kept rifles, sidearms, and ammunition. The exes stomped into each one, grabbed the soldier on duty, and chewed out his throat. On the fourth floor, Corporal Hesh got off one shot which was muffled by the walls and the press of bodies. Only Specialist Douglas on the second floor managed a scream, but it was over as quick as the gunshot.

  If anyone heard the scream, they didn’t react.

  The others stayed on the ground floor, and half a dozen of those ate Specialist Gorman. The dead lieutenant kept his hand over the soldier’s mouth and muffled his screams for the two minutes it took him to die. They left enough of his body to be useful when it got up and grabbed his baffled partner as she stepped out of the bathroom. The dead lieutenant sank his fingers into her upper lip and held her jaw shut with the heel of his hand. He glared at the auburn hair poking out from under her duty cap.

  “Fucking redheads,” he muttered as the exes
tore open her stomach. “All you bitches are gonna die.”

  According to the mailboxes in the lobby, Barracks Eight housed one hundred-ninety-nine soldiers. At least half of them should be sleeping until night duties began. The ten exes on the fourth floor split into two groups of three and one of four. They opened the first three doors after the armory and stalked in to grab the off-duty soldiers.

  All three rooms were empty. There were dusty beds and photos covered with cobwebs. The papers on one sun-lit desk were yellow and faded. Some of the exes checked closets and raised clouds in the air as they batted at the hanging clothes.

  The next three rooms were the same. And the next three. And the last six.

  So were all the rooms on the third floor.

  The top two floors were deserted. They had been for months by the look of them. Maybe years.

  “What,” said the dead lieutenant, “the fuck?”

  On the second floor they found a bakers dozen of soldiers trying to sleep in warm rooms with the blinds drawn against the brilliant day. They died, groggy and unarmed, before most of them realized what was going on. In the carnage, the dead lieutenant forgot the top floors.

  * * *

  Smith cranked open the blinds in his office. Freedom was confident he’d have all the heroes in custody within the hour, but Smith wasn’t so sure. Stealth had already escaped once, and he knew Danielle was a lot cleverer than anyone gave her credit for. She didn’t need the battlesuit to be dangerous. Classic mistake, to assume your opponent’s helpless because they don’t have a weapon.

  And he had no idea what they were going to do with St. George. The reinforced cells they’d built in case some of the super soldiers got out of line wouldn’t be enough. Hopefully the hero wouldn’t be too resistant to what Smith had to say and they’d all be on the same side again soon.

  Smith opened the other set of blinds and the last shadows became distinct shapes.

  “Well,” he said. He took a breath and collected his thoughts. “This is a surprise.”

  “It is important that I speak with you,” said Stealth. She brushed her cloak back. Without her weapons and harnesses, she was just a shapely outline.

  “Okay,” he said. He sat down and set his hands on the desk. “Talk.”

  “Move your hands away from the phone.”

  He slid his palms over to the desk lamp. “Go ahead.”

  “Project Krypton is facing an imminent attack from within. The neural stimulator units do not work, and in fact have never worked. The ex-soldiers are being controlled by an individual named Rodney Casares, also known as Peasy.”

  Smith’s brow furrowed. “The superhuman who attacked you last year in Los Angeles,” he said. “I thought he was dead.”

  “His body was destroyed, but it appears his ability to project his consciousness into the undead has allowed him to survive. He is here and he has close to a thousand exes inside your fence line to work with. You must instruct the Army to place the base on high alert and begin the systematic destruction of all ex-soldiers.”

  Smith’s fingers drummed the desktop. “My first instinct,” he said, “would be to think you’re trying to cover for leaving Colonel Shelly in a hospital bed.”

  “Colonel Shelly is dead,” said Stealth. “Doctor Sorensen has been lying to you.”

  Smith looked confused for a moment, but then his practiced smile appeared. “Go on, please,” he said.

  “It would appear the doctor is in league with Peasy, and has known all along the Nest units do not work. He also may have manipulated several events here at Krypton to suit his purposes.”

  The agent shook his head. “Sorensen has trouble manipulating silverware. He’s a brilliant man, don’t get me wrong, but he’s not pulling any strings behind the curtain.” He tilted his head. “That’s a mixed metaphor, isn’t it?”

  She heard the sound of metal on metal in the hall and turned. Harrison, Taylor, and Polk burst into the office, rifles up. Taylor and Polk kept her covered while the staff sergeant moved to Smith. “Are you okay, sir?”

  “Fine, thank you, sergeant,” he stood up and brushed a few wrinkles from his suit. “Excellent response time.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He looked at Stealth and gestured to the desk. “The panic button’s in the base of the lamp, if you were wondering.”

  “You are making a mistake,” she said.

  Smith looked back at Harrison. “Can you make sure Captain Freedom knows you caught her? And that she confessed to the attack in front of you?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “I have done no such thing,” said Stealth.

  Smith’s eyes went up and down her body. “Would you agree we may need to replace all the military police with super-soldiers for now? She seemed to escape with very little effort last time, didn’t she?”

  Harrison gave a sharp nod. “My squad can take over immediately, sir.”

  “Then take your prisoner into custody, sergeant.”

  “Agent Smith—”

  “Ma’am, I suggest you say nothing else until you are read your rights,” said Harrison.

  “I will not—”

  Taylor grabbed her upper arm and pressed his Bravo against her head. “Give me an excuse, cocktease,” he said. “Just give me one fucking reason to spray your stupid cunt brains across the wall.”

  They heard the echo of shouting outside and all the eyes in the room flitted to the window. Less than a second. It took Smith and Harrison a few moments to understand what happened next. They saw it all, but their minds needed time to break the blur down into actual movements.

  One moment Stealth was a prisoner at gunpoint. They looked back from the window and her free hand was up and Taylor’s rifle was aimed over her shoulder at the wall. Her fingers stabbed out and drove four strikes into the soldier’s throat one after another. On the last one her hand twisted over to grab the top of his head and yank it down as she leaped up. Her knee smashed into his face and she spun in mid-air, driving her heel into his chest.

  Taylor crashed into Polk and collapsed to the floor. Everyone knew the soldier wouldn’t be getting up anytime soon.

  Then they realized, in that instant of seeing and understanding, Stealth had crossed the five yards separating the door from the desk.

  She landed with one foot on Harrison’s rifle and pinned it to the desk. She slammed the edge of her palm into his throat. He staggered back and she grabbed Smith’s tie with her other hand. She dragged the smiling man forward.

  “Stealth!” he snapped, holding up his hands. “You don’t want to hurt me, do you?”

  The fist froze inches from his head. It trembled for a moment, as if she was trying to force it through the air.

  “Do you?” repeated Smith. He leveled his eyes at her. He didn’t blink.

  “No,” she said. She opened the fist and let her arm drop to her side. “I do not.”

  Smith brought his arms down. He adjusted his tie and smiled his broad, fake smile. “Good.”

  Chapter 26 - Influence Peddler

  THEN

  There’s no such thing as a smart criminal. It’s a complete myth. You know why? Because if there was such a thing, you’d never know about it. Criminals people hear about get caught. Every bank robbery or liquor store hold-up, those were all morons. And think about it—someone would have to be a complete idiot to put on an eye-catching costume and draw attention to himself and what he can do.

  No, the smart ones would go out of their way not to be seen or heard. They’d hide in plain sight. They’d be that person barely anyone acknowledges is in the room. The real supervillains wear business suits and paisley ties with full-Windsor knots.

  When we first got the news some of the superheroes were alive in Los Angeles—well, superheroes or Bruce Springsteen, take your pick—I don’t think the airman who brought the news even saw me. Freedom didn’t. He doesn’t register half the civilians he meets. He and Shelly had been talking with a few of the officers
for five minutes before the colonel and I locked eyes. It always made him angry when he forgot I was there.

  Especially when I made him forget.

  I never got noticed, though. The middle child who didn’t need much attention. The quiet kid in class who wasn’t so quiet the teachers worried about him. Just the average guy with the average name, sitting there in plain sight.

  I still don’t know if this was something I was born with or something that was done to me. I remember the first time I did it, though. Well, it might not have been the actual first time, but it was when I knew for a fact I’d made someone do something they didn’t want to do. Sophomore year of high school. I spent a week working up my nerve to ask Phoebe Bradshaw out on a date and she shot me down in front of her friends before I even got it all out. I tried to save face while they were all giggling and asked if I could get a blowjob instead. I’d heard the line in a movie and it seemed appropriate.

  Three minutes later we were in an empty classroom and Phoebe was unzipping my jeans.

  It has something to do with questions. It took a while, and I got slapped and punched more than a few times because of it, but I figured that out. The way your brain receives and processes a question is different from how it hears statements or instructions or music or whatever. I can’t order people to do things, but I can ask them and they give me the answer I want. And they believe that answer.

  The rest of high school went very well for me. I got excellent grades, great recommendations from every teacher, and slept with every cheerleader from every sports team. When I started applying to colleges, I got a full scholarship offer from anywhere that would give me an interview. College was a lot like high school, in pretty much every respect.

  It was also where I learned I could push people too far. Or for too long. I mean, I’d figured out the nosebleeds, but college was the Christy incident. She was a minister’s daughter who said her prayers each night and was saving herself for marriage. Until she met me, anyway. After a month or so of using her every way I could think of, I decided to have a threesome with her and her roommate. The sex was great, but the next morning Christy was dead and her brains were leaking out on her roommate’s pillow. Turns out five weeks of making her mind do a complete moral one-eighty had all piled up, triple-sinful sex was the breaking point, and she had five or six aneurisms all at once. On the plus side, I guess, she never felt any pain.