by Peter Clines
Cairax lunged again and the garbage truck shook as the chains went tight.
A quick blink shifted her screens and gave her picture-in-picture of the rearview cam. She could just see Andy’s profile behind the lift gate. “Who’s hurt?”
“Jarvis is bleeding pretty bad but I think we’ve got it. Ty … I think Ty’s dead. Half his throat’s gone.” There was a pause. “We’ve got four guns on Cairax’s forehead.”
“He’s bulletproof,” hissed Cerberus. “He’s mine. Get baldy.”
The Seventeen banged on the roof of the garbage truck with the AK’s stock. “You all done whispering over there?”
“You wanted to talk,” she thundered. “Talk.”
“Here’s the deal,” shouted the bald man. “They all drop their guns, you get out of the suit, we take everyone hostage, and you all get to live.”
“Hostage?”
“Our chief wants one of your people. And all the guns you’ve got in your little film-studio fort. Your ninja-woman boss trades the man and the guns for all of you. Everyone goes home happy.”
“And then we’ve got no weapons and you march in.”
He barked out another laugh. “No weapons? You looked in the mirror, big girl? Your side has all the best weapons. You’ve got all the living weapons.”
“And you’ve got some dead ones.”
“A few,” he said with a smile.
“The Boss of Los Angeles,” repeated Stealth.
Within the cell, the ex nodded. “You want to hear it all now or you need a minute? I know this messes with people the first time they see—”
“Speak.”
“Game’s changed. We’re expanding and you’ve barely survived until now. You can keep your home here on one condition.”
“Which is?”
The ex held up his arm and pointed a pale finger past her. “We want him.”
Gorgon raised an eyebrow. “Me?”
“You’ve fucked with the SS since you first appeared,” said the dead ganger. “We owe you big-time, all of us. We’re going to torture you for a month, bleed you a drop at a time, and then choke you with your own balls. And after you die, you’ll come back and we’ll do it all again.”
“I’m shaking,” said Gorgon.
Stealth held up a hand. “Who is your leader?”
“He’s the Boss of LA, head of the Seventeens. He rules this city except for one little fort here in Hollywood.”
“That does not tell us who he is.”
“Everyone called him Peasy on the news,” grinned the dead thing, “so that’s what he’s been using.”
A long moment passed before Stealth tipped her head. “Is there any more to this message?”
“Figured you’d send a team out for the truck we spiked last night. Some of our people are taking them hostage right now. You get them when we get the eye-guy.”
“I doubt that will happen.”
It grinned, showing off the pentagram. “I don’t. Got a few superpowers of our own these days.”
Cerberus shifted, her feet scraping on the pavement. “And if we don’t feel like being hostages?”
The bald man looked down at the straining thing on the front of the truck. “I let the demon loose and take anyone it doesn’t eat.”
“It’ll go after your people, too.”
He shook his head. “No,” he grinned, “it won’t. Any other clever ideas?”
She heard a faint scrape and looked back again. Another rifle barrel had slid out, peeking over her shoulder. She switched back to main view and tried to see the bald man’s eyes behind his sunglasses. “I’m thinking I could throw your big bad truck half a block once I tear the demon’s head off,” she growled.
“You got to get current, big girl,” the Seventeen said. He slung his AK back over his shoulder and waved his arms at the buildings around them. “You’re still thinking then, not now. We’re the way things are, the way they’re going to be from now on. We’re the majority. You need to get out of this superhero-survivor mentality if you plan on seeing Christmas.”
Her arms ached for the cannons. One burst would turn the bald man to mist. A cloud of red mist with boots.
“So, I see a lot of guns aimed this way,” he said. “You want to drop ’em all, or are we going to do this the fun way?” Again with the stupid grin.
The titan flexed her fingers, wrapping them into armored fists the size of footballs. “It’s not going to be fun.”
“Matter of opinion. Any last words?”
“Yeah.” She glanced up at the sky. “What took you so long?”
The bald man looked up and the air exploded into flames between them.
St. George landed in front of Big Red, inhaled, and spat a second cone of fire at the Dodge. He leaped back up, twisting in the air over the pickup, and threw more flames down on the people in the truck bed.
The Seventeens screamed. A few leaped from the Dodge, and as they did it blossomed into a ball of light and heat. The tree branches above caught fire.
Another leap carried the hero back to the garbage truck. The demon flailed at the air in his direction. Gunfire washed over the street. The rounds chimed as they struck Cerberus and wrinkled St. George’s clothes. A few sparked off the pavement. His new sunglasses exploded into shards of black plastic.
Some spotty return fire came from Big Red. The Seventeens crawling from the burning Dodge winced and threw up their hands.
The bald man stood on top of the truck and grinned. He swung his AK down and emptied the magazine at St. George. The hero’s leather jacket shredded apart.
“HOLD YOUR FIRE!” bellowed St. George. Smoke poured from his mouth as his voice echoed on the street over the gunshots, the sound of the burning truck, and the cries of the wounded Seventeens.
The bald man’s AK ran out of ammo and locked. He shrugged and tossed it down into the truck. “Give it a rest,” he called out to his people.
“So,” said St. George, “let’s review. You’ve just wasted a bunch of ammo, we did not. We’re bulletproof, your people are not. We’re near our base, you are not. Did I miss anything?”
“I’ve got the demon,” said the bald man.
“Then set it loose,” St. George said. “If you really think a zombie version of Cairax can take two heroes who were both better than him when he was alive, go for it.”
The bald man’s smile faltered.
“Just keep in mind, the minute you do, the kid gloves are off. Right now you can all walk away. You unleash that thing and we take it and you apart.”
The two men stared each other down across the dusty street. A curl of smoke twisted from St. George’s nostril. Cairax leaned forward again, snapping the chains tight.
The bald man nodded. “This one’s yours, dragon man,” he said. He stomped twice and the huge truck began to back away. “Just remember if Peasy doesn’t get his man by—”
A crack echoed on the street and the Seventeen’s glasses leaped from his head. The bald man tumbled back into the garbage truck and it came to a halt with a hiss of brakes.
Billie lifted her eye from the sights.
Fire flashed in St. George’s mouth. “What the hell was that?!”
She shrugged. “Cerberus said to take him out.”
“What?”
“Before you got here,” explained the armored titan.
“Things changed. They were leaving!”
“So what?” said Billie. “They just killed Ty!”
One step put St. George at the truck. He yanked the rifle out of her hands, twisted it into scrap, and she flinched away. “They kill,” he shouted at her. “We don’t. Not unless there’s no other choice. We’re the good guys. We’re supposed to be better than them.”
“They killed Ty,” she snarled. And then her eyes went wide.
“Hey, dragon man,” called someone behind him.
The bald man.
He was back on top of the garbage truck. A gory hole spread across the side of his f
ace. The eye hung low in the shattered socket, and the flesh had peeled back to reveal the ivory teeth set in his jaw. The slow blood was dark and clumpy.
His good eye leered at them from a sunken socket. Without the sunglasses, they could see the chalky irises and wide-open pupil. The eyes of the dead.
“As I was saying,” he said, “Peasy gets his man by the end of the week, or we grind your home into the mud. You got me?”
St. George stared up at the dead thing. “What the hell are you?”
“New rules, dragon man,” the ex said. “We’ve been playing by new rules for months and you’re just finding out now.”
The hero landed on top of the garbage truck next to the dead man. Down in the bin, a score of rifles leaped to cover him, but the bald man waved them away. Up close St. George could see the ragged flaps of flesh Billie’s shot had made, the dark veins under the skin, smell the decay. The ex grinned at him through its mangled face.
“End of the week,” it said. “The boss gets what he wants, or you all die.” It reached up and gave its mangled face a prod. “You might want to get in a little target practice before then.”
The ex stomped his foot again. The truck beeped as it backed up to Marathon. St. George stepped back, gliding down to the street. The bald man gave him a salute as the truck turned and rolled back out to Western.
Cerberus thudded up next to him. “He’s an ex.”
“Yeah.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.” He glared up at her. “Where the hell do you get off telling them to kill people?”
“We were outnumbered and outgunned. We did what we had to.”
“Do it again, Danielle, and I will peel you out of that suit and scrap it with my bare hands. Clear?”
“Don’t get all high and migh—”
“Luke,” he bellowed. “How many extinguishers are you carrying?”
“Just the one we brought with us. We stripped most of them out last night.”
He pointed at the flaming Dodge. “Somebody get that fire under control. The rest of you, spread out. Standard watchdog. Try to raise the Mount again. Get Mean Green back out here with some more firefighting gear.”
“Road Warrior’s already got two extra extinguishers on it,” said the driver.
“Whoever can get out here first. Last thing we need is a major fire running loose in the city.”
There was a single gunshot from the truck. Billie lifted her pistol from Ty’s forehead and rammed it back into her holster.
GORGON POUNDED HIS FIST on the door as he entered the mill. “You here?” he called out. He shrugged out of his duster and walked into the huge room.
Cerberus had adopted one of the studio’s workshops as her own. It was a large space, but the armor maintenance filled most of it. Film-set walls made a small private area for her bed and a few pieces of furniture. The plumbers had knocked one of the side-by-side bathrooms apart and replaced it with a bare-bones shower.
The room was centered on four large worktables made from full-sized sheets of plywood. Carved shapes of foam were mounted on each one, cradles for specific pieces of equipment. One table had a laptop. Another had a small Honda generator mounted under it.
A four-step ladder stood between them. The metal titan stalked back and forth by it, fastened to the wall by a thick power cable that ran into the armor’s waist. “Where’ve you been?”
“Domestic disturbance.” He threw his coat over a chair and tugged at his gloves.
“We’re going to be late.”
“We’ll be fine. Not like they can start without us.”
“The wrenches are over there.”
“Okay.”
“You’re not going to be able to get it all on your own. We should wait for St. George.”
He shook his head and tapped his goggles. “I told you, I broke up a fight on the way over here. I’m good for an hour or so. I told him to just get Barry.”
“Are you sure?” She stood in front of the ladder and held her arms out to either side.
“Stop putting it off and strip,” he said with a smirk.
“Fuck you.” She blinked a few commands to the suit’s computer, whispered a passcode, and across the armor two dozen matchbook-sized panels popped open to expose bolts. The wide collar of armor slid apart to reveal another four sockets. “The head first.”
“Yeah, I know.” He stepped up the ladder and looked her in the eyes. “We’ve done this a couple dozen times now.”
“Sorry.”
Gorgon slid the Allen wrench into the collar and worked out each of the front bolts. A few minutes later he reached around the armored skull and loosened the two in the back. He pocketed the wrench and grabbed the helmet with both hands. “Ready?”
Cerberus nodded, the faint hum of the battle suit vanished, and its eyes went gray as it stiffened into a statue. He heaved and the armor’s sixty-pound head came up. He heard a faint hiss as seals opened, half a dozen clicks as USB plugs popped out of sockets, and then a deep breath.
Danielle had pale skin that made her freckles stand out. Her strawberry-blond hair was damp and plastered in strings against her forehead. She winced at the sudden expanse of open space, blinked a couple times, and tried to peek over the armored collar. “Got it?”
“Yes, I’ve got it,” he sighed. He stepped down the ladder and set the helmet down in one of the cradles near the laptop. “You reek, you know that? How long have you been in there?”
“Thirty-nine hours.”
He climbed back up the ladder and attacked the bolts on her left shoulder. Fifteen minutes later the armored limb was in its own cradle and he was working on the next one.
She shook out her hand and squeezed the fingers into a fist two or three times. Her arm was sheathed in black Lycra. It looked skinny and frail compared to the rest of the battlesuit.
Gorgon moved the ladder behind her. Six bolts held the back half of the torso in place. He finished the last one and tapped her on the head. “Ready to get out?”
She wrapped her arms around the suit’s chest and nodded.
The armor plates scraped apart and the torso split down the sides. The back half was the size of a car hood. Six interlocking plates attached to a titanium spine weighing three hundred pounds. Gorgon tipped the section toward himself, took a step down the ladder, and let it drop into his arms. He took a few steps back and set it down on one of the tables.
Danielle twisted her head back. “Good?”
He stepped up the ladder and put a hand on the small of her back just below a harness strap. The Lycra was damp with sweat. “Got you.”
She let go of the chest plate and dropped back. He got his arms around her, took another step up, and lifted. She wiggled her hips and her legs slid free of the armor.
“Jesus,” he said. “You stink like a locker room.”
“Shut up and put me down. And watch your hands for once.”
He let her legs drop and she put weight on her feet. Her knees buckled and she grabbed at him.
“Sure you’re good?”
Her skintight suit let him see every tremble and quiver. “I’m fine,” she said. “It just takes a minute.” She took a few wobbly steps until she was used to being human again and stumbled to the nearest table.
“We’ve still got about forty minutes if you want to shower.”
Danielle stretched a pair of cables from the laptop to the helmet. “You’re not exactly springtime fresh yourself,” she said.
He glanced down at the wet spot she’d left on his chest. “Yeah, well, that’s why I always bring a spare.” He peeled off his T-shirt and tossed it on the table near the armor’s right arm.
A longer cable unspooled to the back section on the next table. She seated it and accessed the main processors along the armor’s spine. Her attention went to the laptop and made it clear she had no interest in seeing his very broad and naked torso. A few strokes on the mousepad activated a set of diagnostic programs and she glance
d over the screen to watch him pull the fresh shirt across his chest.
“I’m going to hit the shower,” she said. “Are you going to wait?”
He shrugged. “If you want.”
She nodded at the flimsy curtain separating the bathroom from the workspace. “I’m trusting you to at least act like a gentleman.”
“I’ll be working on my goggles with my back to you.”
Danielle rolled her eyes and wondered if he was ever going to take the hint. A minute later she was surrounded by the comfort of the tiny shower stall. She left the curtain open just enough so it didn’t look deliberate. Not enough she felt exposed. Ten minutes later she walked from the shower to her bedroom in a wet towel and bared her teeth at his back.
“Set,” she said a few minutes later.
“Wait there.” He gave one of the tiny screwdrivers a half turn and tapped the trigger a few times. On the workbench, his goggles flashed open and shut. Another slight adjustment, another test, and he lifted the lenses back to his face.
“You good?” She’d walked up right behind him.
He turned. “Yeah. Thanks for the tools.”
“No problem. Let’s get this over with.”
She killed the overheads at the door, leaving a circle of light at the center of the room. The last sections of the armor still stood between the workbenches, headless, armless, and backless. The power cable ran off into the darkness.
Only a few hours and she could have it back on.
Gorgon scowled across the table. “What’s he doing here?”
Josh sighed and turned to St. George. “I told you this would be a waste of time.”
“He is here because I asked him to be,” said Stealth.
“Why?” asked Danielle. “Connolly’s our senior doctor. If anyone should be here it’s her.”
“Because he understands the virus,” said Stealth. “And he understands us.”
“And Doctor Connolly’s setting a broken arm right now,” said Josh. “Nice to see you, too, Danielle.”
Barry placed his palms on the table and hefted himself up out of the wheelchair. He swung his butt onto the tabletop. There were half a dozen pictures of the prisoner scattered across Stealth’s usual collection of maps.