An Ex-Heroes Collection

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. “Dr. Sorensen’s done great work, but now we’ll see how we stack up against the real deal.”

  IT TOOK THEM four days to make their way back to Los Angeles. They lost eight soldiers at a refueling stop just outside 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. Dr. 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 on to 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?”

  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. At least.

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

  The folks at Permuted Press, who originally published Ex-Patriots. Jacob Kier let me work on The Eerie Adventures of the Lycanthrope Robinson Crusoe before diving into this book. Jessica, the original editor, 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 as the first editor of Ex-Heroes. A discussion we had about sonic booms and the nature of Zzzap’s energy form became the talk between Barry and Sorensen.

  Mary, soon to be Dr. Mao, pointed me in all the right directions to begin my superhuman research project. Another big thanks to my college roommate, who now goes by Dr. John Tansey, director of the Interdisciplinary Program in Biochemistry and Molecular Biology of Otterbein University. John helped fine-tune the project and made Dr. 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 it the justice it so rarely gets in zombie stories. My friend Jeff talked to me at length about his 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. Again, any mistakes or exaggerations in these pages are entirely my own and not theirs.

  I am indebted to Jen, Larry, and John (Surfin Dead over at zombiezonenews.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.

  David Fugate at LaunchBooks Literary Agency was excited enough by the second book that he contacted me and brought the series to Crown Publishing, where Julian Pavia and the team there somehow pushed it through the most insane publishing schedule ever imagined.

  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, January 9, 2013

  Contents

  Master - Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Prologue: Now

  Location , Location , Location: Then

  Chapter Two: Now

  Chapter Three: Now

  Chapter Four: Now

  Like That George Romero Movie: Then

  Chapter Six: Now

  Chapter Seven: Now

  Chapter Eight: Now

  Do You See What I See?: Then

  Chapter Ten: Now

  Chapter Eleven: Now

  The Writing on the Wall: Then

  Chapter Thirteen: Now

  Chapter Fourteen: Now

  Chapter Fifteen: Now

  Chapter Sixteen: Now

  Chapter Seventeen: Now

  Chapter Eighteen: Now

  Chapter Nineteen: Now

  Chapter Twenty: Now

  Chapter Twenty-one: Now

  Chapter Twenty-two: Now

  Chapter Twenty-three: Now

  Chapter Twenty-four: Now

  Chapter Twenty-five: Now

  Chapter Twenty-six: Now

  Chapter Twenty-seven: Now

  Chapter Twenty-eight: Now

  Chapter Denial, Grief, Bargaining: Then

  Chapter Thirty: Now

  Chapter Thirty-one: Now

  Chapter Thirty-two: Now

  Chapter Thirty-three: Now

  Chapter Thirty-four: Now

  Chapter Thirty-five: Now

  First Impressions: Then

  Epilogue: Now

  Acknowledgments

  “THIS IS THE northwest corner,” shouted a man on the radio. A gunshot blasted over the open channel. “Twenty … something. We’re under attack! Two maybe three hundred of them. We need help!” The call was punctuated by another shot.

  Captain John Carter Freedom of the 456th Unbreakables, considered temporarily on leave from his post at Project Krypton, was only a few blocks from the northwest corner of the Big Wall. He heard two more sharp pops echo between the buildings. Rifles, but unfamiliar to his ears. Civilian weapons. That lined up with the voice’s confusion at radio protocol. Freedom was pretty sure it had been the wall guard who went by the name Makana.

  He looked down at the kids in front of him. Two boys and a girl, barely into their teens. All three of them sat on the curb with their hands zip-tied together behind their backs. They’d been trying to steal a car for a quick joyride when he found them. They’d been cowed by his appearance and surrendered without a fuss.

  Most people were cowed by Freedom’s appearance. He was a bald giant of a man, almost seven feet tall and over three hundred pounds of solid muscle. A leather duster hung open across his broad chest, and a silver sheriff’s star sat on one lapel. Underneath the duster he wore a tan T-shirt and pants checkered with digital camouflage. Strapped to his thigh was a holster the size of a loaf of bread. He rarely had to draw the pistol it held.

  A third and fourth shot rang in the air. The kids’ heads swiveled back and forth from Freedom’s face to the direction of the sound. One of the boys had gone wide-eyed with terror. They knew what the shots meant. They were aware of how vulnerable they were, tied up on the ground.

  “You’ll be fine,” Freedom told them. “There’s a deputy on the way to take charge of you.”

  Three more gunshots. And between the rounds he could hear a growing noise. The click-click-click that made life near the Big Wall so rough for some. The sound of teeth.

  The girl opened her mouth to say something, but it vanished under the snap of his leather duster as he
spun and bolted for the northeast corner. The captain had been quick for his size before joining the Army’s super-soldier project. Now he could run a three-minute mile without breaking a sweat, do five of them before he even started to feel winded.

  The gunfire was near constant by the time he reached the northeast corner. It made Los Angeles sound like Iraq. He could see the half-dozen guards on top of the wall. Four of them were shooting down into the area beyond the barrier. The other two were pushing back the figures climbing onto the upper deck.

  Freedom never broke stride. His legs flexed and hurled him twenty feet into the air. His duster flapped around him, and he steeled himself for combat.

  The top of the Big Wall was a continuous platform made from old pallets and plywood. A double line of rope served as a railing. It was a temporary fix until a more permanent bastion could be built. Freedom hit the wood surface just south of the large square that was the northwest corner and took in the situation as he straightened up.

  This corner of the Big Wall sat at the intersection of Sunset and Vine in downtown Hollywood, right at the center of the road. A Borders bookstore and a vandalized Chase bank stood just outside the barrier.

  Almost a thousand exes stood outside the wall, too. Thirty months since the world ended and people still called them exes rather than zombies. “Ex-humans” was just easier to deal with somehow. Even the military had used the term.

  Back when there had been a functioning military, the captain reminded himself.

  The former citizens of Los Angeles crowded the intersection beyond the wall, filling the air with the endless sound of chattering teeth. Even when there was nothing in their mouths, their jaws gnashed open and closed like machines. Some of those mouths were lined with gray teeth. Others held a mess of jagged stumps that splintered even more as they banged together. Most of them were coated with blood and gore. Their flesh was the color of old chalk, spotted with dark bruises where blood had pooled inside the skin. Most of their eyes were dusty and dull, but more than a few had empty sockets gaping in their faces. Many of the exes had deep cuts or punctures that would never heal but also didn’t stop them. Some were missing fingers, hands, or whole limbs.