Ex-Patriots

by Peter Clines

  It was good to hear them laugh, though. I knew the long months at Krypton had been wearing them down.

  Eddie Franklin threw a cleaning rag at Taylor. “You looking for anyone in particular?”

  “Fucking Uwe Boll,” said the specialist. “If that dumb fuck’s a zombie I’m gonna put ten rounds in his head.”

  Franklin tapped on his knee. “Does a director count as a celebrity?”

  “D’you know who he is?”

  “I’ve heard of him, yeah, but—”

  “Then he’s a celebrity.”

  “Yeah, but he’s not on TV or anything,” said Franklin. “If TV doesn’t care about you, you’re not really a celebrity.”

  “Did The Rock live in Los Angeles?” asked Jefferson. “That’d be pretty awesome, being the guy who took out the zombie Rock.”

  “I’d go big, too,” said Harrison. “Maybe Tom Cruise or Will Smith.”

  “Will Smith’s too cool to be an ex,” said Franklin. “And he was in I Am Legend. He knows how to fight zombies.”

  “Those weren’t zombies,” said Corporal Polk. His eyes stayed closed. “They were mutant vampires or something.”

  “Whatever. If he’s not still alive, I bet he went down fighting and didn’t come back.”

  Taylor threw the rag back. “What about you, Hayes? Any famous ex-people you want to shoot?”

  The specialist mulled it over for a few moments. “David Grant Wright.”

  “Who the fuck is David Grant Wright?” said Taylor.

  “He did all these Jiffy Lube commercials,” said the soldier, twisting his lip. “He was their spokesman for a bunch of years. I hate Jiffy Lube. They had this new guy there once and he forgot to refill my radiator. Car overheated and I ended up stuck there for the whole afternoon.”

  Harrison chuckled. “So you want to kill their spokesman?”

  “I like Jiffy Lube,” said Truman.

  “And he did this crap Beastmaster movie I saw when I was a kid. I looked him up once. I’m so gonna shoot that guy if I see him.”

  They all laughed. So did I.

  Hayes threw the rag at the man across from him. “Ryan?”

  “Just like Fight Club,” said Polk. He patted his Bravo. “I want Shatner.”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Jefferson. “Forget The Rock. If he’s got Shatner I’m claiming Leonard Nimoy.”

  “I’ll take The Rock,” said Truman.

  “How about you, First Sergeant?” said Harrison. “There someone famous you’d like to get if they’ve gone ex?”

  Kennedy shook her head. “I wouldn’t want some flash-in-the-pan or cult celebrity,” she said. “I’d want somebody real. Somebody people are going to remember forever, like Natalie Portman. Or Alex Trebek.”

  A few of the soldiers whistled and nodded.

  They all looked at me.

  I shook my head. “I’m not here to play games,” I said. I made sure my tone let them know I didn’t disapprove of their enthusiasm. “Besides, there’s only one person I’m hoping to see.” I cracked my knuckles and patted Lady Liberty on my thigh.

  A few of the soldiers nodded. “The Dragon,” murmured two or three of them.

  “You can take him, captain, sir,” said Franklin. They hollered and a few of them clapped. They were good people. I wasn’t going to lose any of them.

  “We’ll see,” I told them when they stopped cheering. “Doctor Sorensen’s done great work, but now we’ll see how we stack up against the real deal.”

  Epilogue

  NOW

  It took them four days to make their was back to Los Angeles. They lost eight soldiers at a refueling stop just outside of Salton City. They found a group of fifteen survivors in Palm Springs.

  Now St. George hung in the night sky above the Mount’s water tower. One hand rested on the tall spire, anchoring him in place while he looked down at his home. He’d been back for seven hours and already buried with a week’s worth of requests, updates, and decisions to make.

  He heard boots on the tower’s ladder. The conical roof shuddered under heavy footsteps. It wasn’t Stealth slipping up behind him.

  “Nice view,” said Freedom.

  “That it is,” agreed St. George. He glanced back at the huge officer. “I never get tired of it.”

  “How is Mr. Burke doing?”

  “He’s okay now. He went into shock as soon as he changed back. Doctor Connolly got him on a glucose drip or something like that. She says he’ll probably be eating and requesting DVDs tomorrow.”

  “And that’s good, right?”

  “Well... it’s normal. Let’s leave it at that.”

  The huge officer coughed once, then cleared his throat. “I wanted to apologize, sir,” he said. “For everything that happened back at Yuma.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I could shift the blame and say I was following orders, but I think on some level I knew a lot of it didn’t make sense. I knew it was wrong. I take full responsibility for my actions.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” repeated St. George. “Smith was screwing with your head. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “I’m still sorry for what happened, sir, and for how I treated you. You and your woman.”

  “Oh, jeeeez,” St. George shook his head and glanced over at the Roddenberry building. “Don’t let her hear you say that or she’ll beat you senseless.”

  Freedom smiled. “I’d like to see her try.”

  “Yeah, don’t say that either. Seriously, it’s like tempting fate.”

  “Not wearing your coat, sir?”

  St. George glanced down at his patchwork flight jacket. “I’ve got to be honest. Digital camouflage isn’t really my style. Plus, it’s hot as hell.”

  “You get used to it.”

  “Maybe when winter rolls around.” He let his feet settle down onto the roof of the water tower. “So, captain, what are you going to do now?”

  Freedom looked out at Los Angeles. “I’m not sure, sir, to be honest. First Sergeant Kennedy and I discussed it several times on the trip out here. The men want me to stay in a command position, but I think an active military presence doesn’t fit with what you’ve established here at the Mount.”

  St. George shook his head. “Not really, no.”

  “A few of them have even said we should strike out on our own. Try to make it back to Yuma or maybe Fort Bliss. See if there’s anyone left there.”

  “Could you make it?”

  “Probably.”

  “Do you really think you’ll find anyone?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Doesn’t sound like the best tactical decision.”

  “Maybe not, sir. But it’s the one that fits best with who I am.”

  St. George smiled. “What if I could give you another option?”

  “Like what?”

  The hero bent down and picked up the bundle resting against the spire. He grabbed it by the corners and shook it out. Freedom raised an eyebrow.

  “Is this a joke, sir?”

  “Not at all,” said St. George. “The position’s been empty for nine months now. A couple people have tried to fill it unofficially, but I think you might be just the man for the job.”

  Freedom stepped forward, his boots clanging on the tower. “You’re serious?”

  “Very. I talked it over with Danielle on the trip, and she agrees this is the way to go. And that you’re ass-kicking enough to deserve this. So does Stealth. We got someone to let it out for you.”

  The larger man took it and shrugged it up over his body. “It’s tight in the arms. And across the chest.”

  “Do you own anything that’s not tight across the chest?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “He can probably add in some more material or something. What do you think?”

  “It is appealing, sir, but I can’t abandon my commission. Or my men.”

  “I’m not asking you to,” said St. George. “I’m just ho
ping you can do this for now, help us protect these people, and keep this place safe and peaceful. It gives your men a purpose. It gives you a purpose.”

  Freedom stretched his arms. It was tight, but he could still move. “You know, I’ve got to be honest, sir. I’ve wanted one of these coats ever since I saw Hellboy.”

  “You can lose the sir. It’s just St. George. Or George, even.”

  “I’ll hang onto sir for now, sir.”

  Voices echoed up to them from the base of the tower. Two men were shouting at each other. St. George recognized one of them as Roger Mikkelson. He was waving his arms at one of Christian Nguyen’s regular lackeys.

  “Duty calls,” said St. George with a smile.

  The large officer smirked and bowed his head to the hero. Then he leaped off the water tower and plunged down to street level.

  Captain Freedom hit the pavement and it cracked under his heels. The two men leaped back, their argument forgotten. He straightened up and brushed back the lapels of the leather duster to let the light hit the seven-pointed silver badge.

  “Let’s take it easy there, gentlemen,” he said. “Now, what seems to be the problem?”

  Afterword

  One of the worst sensations in the world is writing your first book. Don’t let anyone tell you anything different. In many ways it’s glorious and thrilling, but there’s always that nagging fear, the one gnawing away at the writer each night. Am I wasting my time? Will anyone ever read it? Will they like it?

  As such, the second-worst feeling is when that first book wasn’t a waste of time, was read, and was liked. Because now you have to write another one and figure out some way to make that lightning strike twice. Worse yet, as Hollywood has shown us again and again, there’s no such thing as one sequel. If the first one works, you have to aim for a trilogy. Which means even bigger stakes and even more planning. Which means you’ll probably all be seeing Ex-Communication released a year or so after this book you just finished reading.

  Of course, I couldn’t’ve handled all this alone. So a few deeply felt thanks must be given to...

  Mary, soon to be Doctor Mao, who pointed me in all the right directions to begin my superhuman research project. Also a big thanks to my college roommate, who now goes by Doctor John Tansey, Director of the Interdisciplinary Program in Biochemistry and Molecular Biology of Otterbein University. John helped fine tune the project and made Doctor Sorensen’s work sound far more plausible than I ever could. Any vagueness, errors, or open fabrications are there to serve the needs of fiction and came from me, not either of them.

  The U.S. Army plays a huge part in this story as well, and I know just enough about that life and career to know that I know very little about that life and career. Definitely not enough to do justice to the Army, which it so rarely gets in zombie stories. Jeff talked to me at length about the decision to join the military, as did my dad, Dennis (who spent Vietnam aboard the Will Rogers). Staff Sergeant Lincoln Crisler—a fine author himself—helped with military call signs and communications. My stepsister, Carolyn (Master Sergeant Dade, ret., to the rest of you), spent ages teaching me about command structure, ranks, and life in the military. My best friend, Marcus, who has forgotten more about every branch of the military than I will ever learn, answered questions about weapons, vehicles, tactics, and more at all hours of the day and night. He also helped me smooth out several issues in early drafts. Again, any mistakes or exaggerations in these pages are entirely my own and not theirs.

  Jacob at Permuted Press let me spend some time on a desert island with The Eerie Adventures of the Lycanthrope Robinson Crusoe before diving into this book.

  Jessica, the Permuted editor for this book, caught far too many things that slipped past me, in spelling, grammar, and structure. Also a belated thanks to Matthew, who did a fantastic job editing Ex-Heroes. A discussion we had about sonic booms and the nature of Zzzap’s energy form became the talk between Barry and Sorensen.

  I am indebted to Jen, Larry, and John (Surfin Dead over at Zombie Zone News.Com), who all read early drafts of this book, offered many comments and critiques, and let me know where I’d gone horribly wrong and where I’d gone somewhat right.

  And a very special thanks, as always, to my lovely lady, Colleen, who listens patiently, criticizes fairly, prods gently (or not-so-gently), and has far more faith in me and my ability than I do at times.

  —P.C.

  Los Angeles, February 15th, 2011

  And now a preview of Peter Clines upcoming novel

  ~14~

  Coming in 2012 from Permuted Press.

  Zero

  He ran.

  He ran as fast as he could. As if Hell itself were chasing him. As if his life depended on it.

  He was quite certain it did.

  The truth was, he was dead already. He’d seen enough men bleed out in medical theaters to recognize the wet pulse jetting between his ribs. The knife had done its job with almost surgical precision.

  He mustn’t think about himself, though. Not now. There was too much at stake. He had to keep running.

  If the Family caught him, everyone would die.

  One

  Nate Tucker found out about the apartment as people often learn about the things which change their lives forever—by sheer luck.

  It was a Thursday night party he didn't want to be at. Party was too big a word for it but calling it a few rounds after work seemed too minor. There were half a dozen people he knew and another dozen he was supposed to know but hadn’t really paid attention when they’d been introduced. None of them seemed interesting enough to go back and learn their names after the fact. They sat around tables that had been pushed together, shared communal appetizers some people would argue they never touched, and sipped overpriced drinks they made a point of claiming they’d first had at more exclusive restaurants.

  Nate had realized a while back that nobody talked with each other at these things. People just took turns talking at each other. He never got the sense anyone was listening. He wished his coworkers would stop inviting him.

  Nate was being talked at by a man he remembered as the Journalist with the Hot Redhead Girlfriend. He'd been introduced to the man at one of these things a month or two back. Like everyone else at the table, he considered himself part of the film industry, even though, as far as Nate could tell, the man’s job had nothing whatsoever to do with making movies. At the moment, the Journalist was lamenting a cancelled interview. His subject, a screenwriter, had to dive into last minute rewrites demanded by some producer. Nate wondered if the Journalist got to put that sort of thing in his articles—idiot revisions made to climactic scene to pacify self-centered executive.

  There was a break in the Journalist’s monologue. Nate realized the man was waiting for an acknowledgement. He covered the pause with a cough and took a hit off his beer. “That sucks,” Nate said. “Do you lose out altogether or can he reschedule?”

  The Journalist shrugged. “Maybe. My week’s packed, and he’s going to be busy pulling his hair out.” He took a sip of his own drink. “Anyway, enough about me. What’s up with you? I haven’t seen you at one of these things in ages.”

  Nate, who remembered waving to the Journalist at last week’s almost-party and getting a chin-wave back, shrugged himself. “Nothing much,” he said.

  “Weren’t you working on a script or something?”

  Nate shook his head. “No, not me. Not my thing.”

  “So what have you been up to?”

  He took another hit off his beer. “Work. Trying to find a new place to live.”

  The Journalist’s brow rose. “What happened?”

  “The guys I’ve been living with, they decided to do their own thing,” said Nate. “One’s moving back to San Francisco, the other’s getting married so he and his girlfriend—his fiancée— they want their own place.” He shrugged. “We had a house, but I can’t afford it on my own.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “
Silverlake.”

  “You looking for anything in particular?”

  Nate considered it for a moment. It was the most anyone outside of his roommates had asked about the search. “I’d like to stay near Hollywood,” he said. “I don’t need much space. I’m hoping to find a studio for around eight hundred a month.”

  The Journalist nodded and took another sip of his drink. "I know a place.”

  “You do?”

  The other man nodded. “A friend of mine suggested it when I first moved here from San Diego. Older place in that Koreatown-Los Feliz gray area around the 101.”

  Nate nodded. “Yeah, I know right where that is. It’s closer to work than the place I’m in now.”

  Another nod from the Journalist. “I was only there for a few months, but the rent was cheap and it had a great view.”

  “How cheap?”

  The Journalist glanced around. “Between you and me,” he said, “I was paying five-fifty.”

  Nate choked on some beer. It was a good price to pay if you had two or three roommates. “Five-fifty a month?”

  The Journalist nodded.

  “Five hundred-fifty?”

  “Yep. And that included all the utilities.”

  “You are shitting me.”

  “Nope.”

  “Why’d you leave?”

  The Journalist smiled and gestured with his glass at his Hot Redhead Girlfriend. She was across the table and down a few seats, being talked at by a woman with jet-black hair and matching clothes. “We decided to move in together and got a bigger place. And...”

  Nate raised a brow. “And what?”

  “It’s kind of got an odd vibe to it.”

  “The area or the building?”

  “The building. Don’t get me wrong. It’s a great place. It just wasn’t for me.” He pulled out his phone and began brushing his fingers across the colorful screen. “I think I’ve still got the number for the management company if you want it.”