by Peter Clines
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 hoping 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 firs
t 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
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