by Peter Clines
St. George slammed his palm up. Hard. It caught Freedom in the breastbone and knocked him a dozen feet into the air. The soldier hit the ground running and threw himself back at the hero before he could finish getting to his feet. The two slid across the road and into the side of Thirty.
Freedom brought his knee up and St. George folded over with an all-too-human pain. The huge man drove his fist into the hero’s gut twice, then grabbed his collar and threw him back out into the street. St. George coughed out some smoke and a few tongues of flame.
At which point the gate guards opened fire.
A dozen rounds struck Freedom in the back. He turned and caught a dozen more in the chest and arms. He lunged forward, far too fast for a man his size, and three of the guards had been disarmed and knocked down before the fourth had time to re-aim. The soldier took another burst to the chest before snapping the edge of his palm against the guard’s temple. The man dropped like an empty set of clothes.
St. George grabbed Freedom by the neck and hurled him away from the gate. The soldier was charging forward again before the hero could finish turning. They traded blows that echoed in the tall canyons of North-by-Northwest. Then Freedom blocked a roundhouse punch and slammed his fist up into St. George’s gut. The impact sent him sailing into the air. He soared up and over the spiked top of the Gower gate.
He landed outside the Mount.
“Son of a bitch,” muttered St. George as the exes swarmed over him.
* * *
Stealth’s arm swung around and delivered a fast strike to Specialist Truman’s throat before she dragged him between the potted shrubs. One blow to paralyze the voice box and give her time to incapacitate him. The man let out a faint hiss of air. It was a weak noise under ideal conditions. With the Black Hawk’s rotors still making a last few circles in the air, he was effectively silenced.
The soldiers were each carrying an M240B as a standard weapon and a complete set of body armor with no apparent effort. It indicated great strength, bordering on superhuman. It was more time-consuming, but she delivered a series of strikes across Truman’s body. Biceps, armpits, pectorals. Each one hit a nerve cluster, the end result being two arms numb from the shoulders down.
When he still rolled up and grabbed for her she realized how dense his muscle tissue must be. She frowned beneath her featureless mask and drove a punch into his forehead, right where his eyebrows met. He dropped.
Nine seconds to stop one man. Too long. The others had noticed he was missing. She heard one of them call out for him. A change in tactics was required. The soldiers had already demonstrated one weak point. It was somewhat distasteful, but she would have to exploit it.
She jumped up, kicked off the concrete planter, and flipped through the hedges.
* * *
On an average day, there were anywhere from a hundred to two hundred ex-humans milling around on the street outside the Gower gate. A decent amount of noise could draw another hundred on top of that. St. George put the mob of exes he’d fallen into at about one-fifty with another hundred or so close by.
They fell on him with hungry teeth that broke on his skin. Withered lips and fingers worked their way over his arms and shoulders and legs. The only good thing about two years of the undead in Los Angeles was most of them had dried out by now.
He pushed down against gravity and rose up through the mob, carrying half a dozen chattering exes with him. They dropped off as he rotated in the air, some of them knocking down other dead things as they fell. He turned back to the Mount and the first rounds hit him.
The drum-fed monster Freedom carried spat out ten rounds in a two-second burst, and each one hit like one of his punches. The soldier had leaped to the top of the white truck that blocked the gate. “Please stand down, sir,” he called out. “I don’t enjoy doing this.”
St. George faltered in the air as a second burst caught him in the chest. He dipped low enough for thin fingers to grab at his boots again.
Freedom lined up a third shot when he heard the air sizzle behind him and saw how dark his shadow had gotten. He spun and fired off another burst. There was a hiss as the rounds vaporized inches from Zzzap. The captain wasted some more ammunition. There was a hollow clang from his oversized pistol.
Well, said the wraith. He held his hand up. The air in front of his palm twisted and rippled from the heat. That was all pretty impressive until the part where you got here.
“You would be Zzzap, correct, sir?”
Thank God someone knows me. I’m sick and tired of being mistaken for Stealth.
“Give it a rest,” said St. George. He shook off the last ex and drifted over to hang a few yards above the soldier. Smoke was billowing out his nostrils and between his teeth. “So, feel like having that calm talk, now?”
The huge officer looked at each of the heroes in turn and then dropped his oversized pistol. It clattered on the roof of the truck as he raised his hands. “I choose to decline at this time, sir,” he said.
What about name, rank and all that stuff?
“Captain Freedom, sir,” he said. “Alpha 456th Unbreakables, first U.S. Army super-soldier company.”
There was a long pause.
Oh, that is too cool, said Zzzap.
* * *
The woman in black came over the hedge. She spun in the air and her cloak spread like a huge set of wings. It blotted out the sky as she came down at Franklin and the squad’s sergeant, Monroe. Their weapons came up and twin bursts ripped into the darkness. Her descent didn’t shift in the slightest and shadows raced on the ground below her. The sergeant fired another burst as Franklin dove to the side. She came down on the sergeant. He fought for a moment, a thrashing shape beneath the cloak, and then he tossed the fabric aside.
“Nothing,” said Monroe. “Just her cape. She’s gone.”
“She was there,” said Franklin. “We saw her.”
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” said the man in the suit. He was still in the helicopter’s crew compartment.
“Not now, sir,” said Monroe. “We’ve got a hostile in the area.”
“Yeah,” said the man. “I’m very aware of that at the moment.”
The sergeant shot a look over his shoulder. John was sitting very still. His arms were at his sides and his head was tilted back. Monroe gave his eyes a moment to adjust to the shadows inside the Black Hawk and saw the harness straps pulled tight across the man’s arms and body. His collar and tie sat funny, and another second of light-adjustment let the sergeant pick out the black chrome bar pressed against the man’s throat.
Monroe blinked. It had only been a few seconds since he turned his head, but now he could see the very feminine shadow behind John. She gave a slight dip of her head, an acknowledgement he’d spotted her. Then she pulled herself closer to the man named John. On either side of the helicopter soldiers raised their weapons.
“The M240B has a prodigious rate of fire,” she said in a clear voice. “Seven hundred-fifty rounds per minute at its lowest setting. It is not a weapon designed for pinpoint accuracy, however. Firing into an enclosed space will almost guarantee you hit your civilian advisor.”
The weapons stayed up.
No one moved.
“You know what I think?” said the man in the suit. “I think we should all take a moment here and relax. Wouldn’t that be good? Let’s all stop and calm down for a moment before this gets any more out of hand.”
Chapter 12
NOW
A huge crowd gathered a little before noon to watch the second Black Hawk land in the Pickford lot on the other side of the Melrose Gate. Thousands of people packed the streets and rooftops. A few of them glared at the helicopter as it settled down and the wind whipped up clouds of dirt and dust, but most of them stared in amazement. Some applauded.
St. George and Stealth stood on 3rd Street with the crowds behind them. She had slipped back into her cloak and the bullet holes vanished in its folds and gathers. Every now and then a shaft of ligh
t would slip through one of the dime-sized holes and St. George would feel his jaw tighten.
Barry sat in his wheelchair next to them. He’d powered down as a concession to Freedom’s people shouldering their weapons. Danielle lurked behind the chair. She’d given up on anyone helping her with the armor and stood with her head bowed and her arms crossed.
Freedom was a few yards away with his soldiers standing at ease behind him in a loose circle around their helicopter. The man in the suit was inside the circle. They’d insisted on separating him until they could have more troops on the ground.
The Black Hawk had barely settled when a second group of soldiers leaped out and loped across the pavement. Each of them carried the same oversized rifle with the bulky ammo box. They formed their own loose circle around their helicopter.
“Supporting units,” said Stealth. “Each positioned to keep us in line of sight.”
A woman with a collection of chevrons on her jacket gave a set of hand signals across the way to Freedom. He looked back at the man in the suit and gave a nod. The young man called John whispered a few words to the captain, and then made his way across the space to the heroes. Freedom followed a few paces behind. The man in the suit beamed a broad smile. “Let’s try this again, shall we?”
“Sure,” said St. George.
“The Mighty Dragon,” said the young man. “This is a real honor. Wow.” His smile got broader. “Can I shake your hand?”
St. George was caught off guard. He held his hand out without thinking and the man pumped it five or six times. People cheered and applauded. “I’m going by St. George these days.”
The smile shifted. “St. George,” he echoed. “Clever. I like it. And you must be Stealth,” the suit continued. He stepped past St. George to stand before the cloaked woman. “You’re just as formidable as I’ve always heard. I’d love to shake your hand too, if that’s okay? No hard feelings?”
It was so unexpected; she held her hand out. There were more cheers and applause.
“It’s just amazing,” he continued. “You’ve saved so many people. People talk about superheroes and you think about fighting monsters and supervillains and stuff. You don’t think about things like this.”
“I’m sorry,” interrupted St. George. “I didn’t catch your name.”
The young man’s smile faltered and in that instant the hero realized the man in the suit was probably older than he was. “Sorry,” he said. “Caught up in the moment. This is just…It’s so rare we find survivors, let alone such a huge group with, well, people like you.” He straightened his tie. “I’m John Smith. Department of Homeland Security, seconded to DARPA and working with Project Krypton as…well…” He shrugged. “These days I just try to help out wherever I can, like most people.”
He took a few steps back until he stood near the soldiers. “Good job, Captain Freedom,” he said. “You and your people did great considering the opposition. I’ll make sure the colonel and Dr. Sorensen know.”
The huge officer gave a sharp dip of his head. “Thank you, sir.”
“St. George, Stealth,” said Smith, turning back to the heroes, “I believe you’ve already met our super-forces commander.”
“Captain Freedom,” said St. George with a smile. He rubbed his jaw and held out his hand. “So that’s the best name they could come up with, huh?”
“Captain John Carter Freedom, sir,” he said. He took the hand, gripped it hard, and gave a single shake.
“Ahhh. Sorry.”
The crowd, not hearing any of it, applauded again.
Smith broke up the awkward moment with more babbling. It was like nervous hero worship. “You can imagine our surprise,” he said to St. George, “when our sentries looked west on the Fourth of July and saw fireworks out over Los Angeles. Two miles over, as far as we could tell.”
“Yeah, I bet that was a bit of a shock.”
“Of course, we sent out a Predator to investigate,” he continued. “It was a little more disturbing when it stopped sending back telemetry and started pounding out ‘Radio Nowhere’ by Bruce Springsteen.”
Barry cleared his throat. “Told you it’d be memorable,” he said to St. George.
“That was you?” said Smith. “You’re Zzzap, yes?”
“Yes.”
The suit pumped Barry’s hand three or four times. “This is just such a great day. People are going to be going crazy back at Yuma when we report in. I mean, we had some wild hopes of what we might find out here in Los Angeles but…”
Smith stopped talking. Even the crowd sensed it and grew quiet. He stared at Danielle, his mouth open.
After a moment she registered the silence and raised her head to see what was going on. She glanced around, shrunk when she saw everyone staring, and finally registered the man in front of her. She blinked and opened her eyes wide.
“John?”
He lunged past the wheelchair and hugged her. “We thought you were dead,” he said. “Everyone thought you died years ago.”
She pulled away and stared at him with a look that was half amazement, half anger.
“Oh, come on,” he said. “After all that’s happened, you’re not going to say you’re glad to see me?”
Danielle smiled and bearhugged him back. “I am glad to see you,” she said.
Barry inched his chair out of the way. “Soooooo,” he said, “you two know each other?”
She released the man in the suit. “We…kind of dated,” she said with a smile.
This time Smith pulled back to look at her but also didn’t let go. “Dated? We were living together for six months.”
She pulled him back. The embrace lasted for another few moments and then his manic energy took over again. “This is…This is unbelievable,” he said. “We got the news your plane was diverting to Van Nuys and then no one ever heard anything from your team again. Not to sound morbid but, well, we all assumed you were dead and the battlesuit was a rusting statue somewhere.”
“The suit’s fine,” she said. She turned her head and pointed over at the scenery mill she’d converted to her workshop. “It’s right over there. I’d be wearing it right now but…” She shrugged. “You remember what it was like putting it on.”
“The suit’s here?” He blinked. “And it still works?”
“I built it to last.” She looked at the others. “John was my first liaison with the DOD. We met while I was building Cerberus.”
“I think most of us figured that out,” said St. George.
“We need to get you back to Yuma,” said Smith. He looked around. “All of you are welcome, of course. Captain, can we arrange to get some kind of cargo transport out here?”
Freedom glanced at Sergeant Monroe. The man took a look around the Plaza lot and nodded. “Yes, sir,” the captain said.
“One moment,” said Stealth.
Her voice cut across the festive mood. They all paused. The cloaked woman had moved, taking a position between Smith and the workshop.
“You are planning to take the Cerberus suit?”
Smith shifted his gaze from Danielle to Stealth. “Well, I just figured Dan…Doctor Morris would want to come back with us,” he said. “We’ve got better facilities, machine shops, and…well…” He looked at the redhead again. “You know.”
“I do not,” said Stealth. “Cerberus is an essential part of both our community and our defensive measures.”
Danielle’s brow furrowed. “Are you telling me I can’t leave?”
“I am saying—”
“Okay, let’s all stop for a second,” said St. George. He could feel the icy glare Stealth gave him through her mask. “Big day, a lot to take in, everyone’s a little over-stimulated. Not to mention,” he tilted his head at the crowd, “there’s a lot of people here who’ve been waiting for a day like this for some time now.”
“I agree,” said Smith. “We can talk about all this later. Captain Freedom, would your people like to say hello to the crowd?”
; “Yes, sir,” said the huge officer. He turned to the soldiers. “Unbreakables,” he snapped, “dismissed.”
Their salutes shook the air. Then they moved to the crowd, shaking hands and hugging strangers. Some even posed for photos. St. George saw Billie Carter exchange salutes with one and the two began to speak at length about something.
Danielle dropped her voice. “What the hell are you talking about?” She looked at Smith. “Both of you, for that matter.”
“We should discuss this matter in private,” said Stealth. “It is not good for the civilians to see us argue amongst ourselves.”
“We’re not arguing,” said St. George. “We’re just talking.”
“I’m ready to argue,” said Danielle.
“Look,” said Smith, “I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn. I just got excited. This is like winning the lottery three times on the same day.”
“You were so excited to find us here,” said Stealth, “yet your first response was an assault.”
“Standard operating procedure, ma’am,” said Freedom. He loomed behind Smith and made the suited man look even less like an adult. “In an unknown situation, when you hear gunfire, your first duty is to protect your people and take control of the situation. I’m sure you can understand.”
“So you attacked us,” said St. George.
“Because you resisted our attempt to control the situation.”
“We resisted because you attacked us. Welcome to the real—”
“This country is under martial law,” said Freedom. “My authority here is absolute unless otherwise ordered by Colonel Shelly or the President himself.”
There was a moment of silence. His words reached some of the closer edges of the crowd and nervous whispers began to work their way through the people gathered to see the soldiers.
“Martial law?” said Danielle. She raised an eyebrow.
Smith cleared his throat. “As of July 2009, the country’s been under martial law. It still is. Nobody’s thrilled by it, but the fact is the military’s in charge. As the only known ranking officer in the American southwest, Colonel Shelly is the man running things.”