by Peter Clines
Stealth’s head shifted inside her hood. “What is the other possible result of passing the wards?”
“He might try to possess whoever goes out there. But the odds of pulling it off with an unprepared body are next to nil. Really, it’s just another way he could kill people.” Max splashed some water on his face and the last of the salt-and-pepper beard was gone. A few drops spotted his hospital scrubs.
“What do you mean?”
Max grabbed a towel and wiped off his cheeks and chin. He let it drop and ran his fingers across his scalp. “If it isn’t suitably prepared with the right sigils and agreements, a normal human body just can’t take the stress of demonic possession.”
“Yours did,” said St. George.
“Yeah, but mine was prepared, plus I had the safeties in the medallion. Anyone else would just burst like the exes. It’s like boiling a frog—you’ve got to go slow to even have a chance of it working.” The sorcerer gestured at himself. “Look how long it took me to work my way into Jarvis’s body. He’d need at least twice as much time.”
Max stopped and ran his fingers across his scalp again. “Weird having short hair. Kind of weird having hair at all, to be honest. Been a long time.” His lips shifted and one of his cheeks bulged. “Jarvis was missing one of his back teeth, too. That’ll take some getting used to.”
St. George felt the hostility coming off Stealth. Max either didn’t notice it or didn’t care. The hero cleared his throat rather than smacking the sorcerer. Max glanced at him, then put his hands down.
“If what you are saying is true,” said Stealth, “the demon could possess an ex just as you did.”
Max shook his head. “He’s too big. A demon needs a sentient soul to use as … as an opposing force, sort of. Without one, going slow isn’t an option. They just rush right into a body, like filling a water balloon with a fire hose. Believe me, if the wards weren’t up, people would be popping left and right in here. Cairax is just too impatient for his own good. That’s why his kind didn’t overrun the world millennia ago.”
“If it knows that,” asked Freedom, “why’d it try to possess the exes outside?”
“Why do people punch walls?” Max shrugged. “And it’s pretty creepy, you’ve got to admit. It sends a message.”
“If what you are saying is true,” said Stealth, “demonic possession should still be a common occurrence.”
“Well, it’s more common than people think,” said Max. “Up until the ex-virus, they couldn’t come through on their own, and once it had wiped out ninety percent of mankind, there just wasn’t a point. Why make the effort to manifest in this world for just a few souls? Y’know, unless they really wanted to kill someone.”
“Wait,” said Freedom. “Why couldn’t they come through before the ex-virus?”
“Because of the Pope.”
“What?”
“The Pope. That’s the whole point of there being a Pope. He’s God’s chosen warrior against evil. You didn’t think the son of God really wanted to create some borderline-fascist religious bureaucracy, did you?”
“You’re joking,” St. George said.
Max shook his head. “The fisherman’s ring. Annulus Piscatoris. Ever hear of it?”
“Yeah, it’s like the Pope’s signet or something.”
“Or something. The real one, not the decoy but the one that’s passed down in secret, is an anti-touchstone. As long as it’s on a living finger, nothing demonic can manifest on Earth in a material form within nine hundred and sixty-three miles of it. Did you know there’s a cardinal whose sole duty is to hang out near the Pope so he can put the ring on if he dies unexpectedly? He’s the one who wears it while they’re choosing a new one, too.”
They all stared at him.
“You,” said St. George, “are making this up.”
“So if we cannot leave,” said Stealth, “what are we expected to do?”
“Just relax,” said Max. “After a while he’ll get bored of stalking around out there and head off to plot some demonic revenge against me.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know. A little time. Ten or twelve days, maybe.”
“Ten or twelve days?” echoed Freedom.
The sorcerer nodded. “Two weeks tops.”
St. George felt the fire building in his throat again. “You’re saying we might not be able to go out into the city for two weeks?”
“Two weeks at the absolute most,” said Max. “It’ll probably be less than that.”
“There’s no chance we could sneak out?” Freedom asked. “A small team, maybe with a diversionary action?”
Max shook his head. “Cairax is a demonic spirit. He can be in multiple places at once and he can see every living thing inside the walls. There’s no getting out without him knowing.”
“The other option,” said Stealth, “is we surrender you to this entity now.”
Freedom’s lips twitched at the corners.
“You could,” Max admitted, “but we’re the good guys. Besides, it probably wouldn’t make a difference. Demons are legendary for holding a grudge, and there’s no way you’d convince it I misled you.”
“Lied,” corrected Freedom.
“It’s all in your point of view,” said Max. “All of this will blow over in a couple of days. Trust me.”
“I think we’re all having a little trouble with that right now,” said St. George.
There was a knock on the door and Billie entered with a duffel bag. “Hey,” she said. “I got a bunch of his clothes. Did you want to dress him up for a funeral or something? He didn’t have an actual suit.”
“Too bad,” said Max. “I like a good suit.”
Her eyes flitted to the resurrected man and she gave a polite nod. Then she looked at him again and her eyes went wide with recognition. One hand rose up. The other one dropped to her holster.
Freedom set a hand on her shoulder. “At ease,” he said.
“Jarvis,” she said, “you’re—”
“I’m not Jarvis,” said Max.
“But you were dying,” she said. “I came and saw you.” After three years of dealing with the undead, St. George could see the conflict on her face. She wasn’t sure if she should hug her friend or shoot him.
“It is not Jarvis,” said Stealth. “His body is being used by another … person.”
Max took the bag of clothes from her. “Thanks,” he said. He held out his hand. “Billie Carter, right?”
Billie looked over her shoulder at Freedom, then at St. George. The hero gave her a small nod. She held out her hand.
“Maxwell Hale,” he said. “Max. Pleased to meet you.”
“You, too,” she said. She stared at him. Her gaze flitted from his eyes to his chin and up to his hairline.
Max pulled a few different shirts from the bag. He reached back and pulled the scrubs over his head. His shoulders and chest were covered with elaborate designs. Four smaller ones on his back framed a perfect circle of bare skin.
“I didn’t know Jarvis had so many tattoos,” said St. George.
“He doesn’t,” Max said as he shook out a pinstriped shirt. “I do.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” said Freedom.
“No, it does,” the sorcerer assured them. He pulled the shirt on while he searched for another analogy. “It’s like … Okay, you know how you have hair in the Matrix even if you don’t in the real world? Because in your mind you picture yourself with hair?”
“Are you trying to explain this using The Matrix?”
“I’ve been hanging out with Barry a lot, okay? It’s the same thing, though. The soul is all about identity, and the body is part of someone’s identity. Granted, we all tend to picture ourselves a little taller, a little thinner, but past that there are always physical things we just accept as an inherent part of who we are, and these are the things that are hard-wired into our soul. They carry over in cases like this.”
Max gestured down at his chest. “
All these tattoos are part of me. It’s how I see myself. You could say they were inked into my soul as well as my skin. But if, say, Billie here came back, she’d probably only bring her Marine Corps tattoo with her, not the rose or the dolphin.”
Stealth shook her head. “Psychosomatic tattoos?”
“If you like.”
“You’ve got a big bare patch on your back,” said Freedom.
“Because that one wasn’t supposed to carry over,” said Max. “Big, soul-scarring magic. One use only. If I can’t see it, it can’t become part of my identity.”
St. George looked at the ink patterns as Max buttoned the shirt up. Now that he knew what they were, he was surprised he didn’t recognize them sooner. He remembered the night Cairax had beaten him bloody, and the tattoo-covered man the zombie demon had turned into.
Billie’s hands knotted into fists as they all mulled over the explanation. “How,” she growled, “do you know I have a dolphin tattoo?”
He rolled his eyes. “I was a ghost here for a year and a half. Believe me, I’ve seen every tattoo everyone has.”
She fumed but said nothing.
The resurrected man pulled a pair of jeans and some underwear from the bag and let his hospital pants drop to the floor. A minute later he tugged on some socks and was searching the bag again. “This was all he had for ties?”
The thought of slapping Max passed through St. George’s mind again. “I don’t think Jarvis was ever worried about formal occasions,” he said.
Max sighed, selected a tie, and tossed the rest back in the bag. “So how are we playing this?” he asked. “I knew my return wasn’t going to get cheers, but I didn’t expect it to be this cold. Am I a prisoner? A partner? A free citizen?”
St. George glanced at Stealth. “I don’t think we need to make you a prisoner,” he said.
“Good.”
“However,” said Stealth, “it would be best if you did not go anywhere unescorted.”
Max knotted the tie around his neck. “Still worried about what Father Andy said? That I’m going to cause an uproar?”
“There is that possibility,” she said, “but I still believe it is slight. There is no need to cause confusion with your borrowed body.”
“It’s not exactly borrowed,” said Max. “I can’t give it back.”
“Stolen, then.”
“I was going to suggest donated. My hair will change color in a day or two, that’ll help,” he added. “I think I might lose a few pounds, too.”
Freedom gave him a look. “Just like that?”
“Coming back from the dead burns a lot of calories,” said Max. “Speaking of which, I haven’t eaten a meal in almost three years. Not one I’d want to remember, anyway. Any chance of getting some food?”
“Billie,” said St. George, “can you show him around? Maybe keep an eye on him until Freedom gets someone assigned to him?”
She gave a sharp nod and looked at Max. “Ready when you are.”
Max held out a hand to St. George. “Thanks again. I owe you big time.”
St. George looked at the hand for a moment and then shook it. “Let’s just get rid of the demon as quick as we can.”
The sorcerer held out his hand to Stealth, but she stared past him. He pursed his lips, nodded, and left with Billie.
“We require a moment of privacy, captain,” said Stealth.
“Of course, ma’am,” said Freedom. He bowed his chin to the two of them and left.
“Well,” said St. George. “What are you thinking?”
“I am thinking,” said Stealth, “I do not believe his story.”
“Which part of it?”
“The parts involving magic and an afterlife.”
“So … all of it.”
“Several superhumans across the world manifested similar abilities. The Iranian hero Marduk had powers almost identical to yours. The British hero Scarecrow had agility and speed on par with Banzai’s. We know Legion has the ability to project his consciousness. It is possible Cairax survived in the same manner.”
“Max,” corrected St. George. “If he’s telling us the truth, Cairax is outside the Big Wall.”
“If he is telling us the truth,” said Stealth, “but I do not believe he is.”
“Why?”
“His body language is inconsistent. At the least he is withholding information from us.”
St. George nodded. “So what do you want to do?”
“For the moment, we shall allow him the time he wants. There were no scavenging missions scheduled for another four days, so it changes nothing.”
“Okay. And then?”
“Then we shall question him again.”
There was a rap at the door. Dr. Connolly stood outside. “St. George,” she said. “Stealth. Could I speak with you two for a minute?”
A moment passed before the cloaked woman turned her head to Connolly. “What is it, doctor?”
Connolly held up a clipboard, then paused. She looked over her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she said. “The man in the hall. Did … did Jarvis have a brother or cousin I didn’t know about?”
“Sort of,” said St. George.
She looked at the empty bed and the hospital clothes piled near it. “And his body is …?”
“These are questions for another time, doctor,” said Stealth.
She looked at the bed again and blinked. “Was that him? You let him reanimate and he’s … he’s alive again?”
“It isn’t him,” said St. George. “It looks like him, but—”
“Another time, doctor,” repeated Stealth. There was an edge to her voice that cut through the conversation.
They stood in the hospital room for a moment. Then Connolly cleared her throat. “All of Madelyn’s tests are done and they confirm what I suspected the other day. She’s not an ex.”
She held a clipboard out to St. George. Stealth intercepted it and flipped through the handwritten notes. “Explain,” said the cloaked woman.
The doctor shrugged. “She doesn’t have the virus. Her core temperature is actually a little higher than an ex’s, even if it’s still well below normal. All I can think is it might be a new strain we haven’t identified, one our tests aren’t catching.”
Stealth shook her head. “The ex-virus does not mutate,” she said.
“I know. Josh used to say the same thing, but it’s all I can think of. Plus, all those blood and tissue samples we took? All the cuts and punctures from them are gone.”
Stealth’s gaze rose from the clipboard. “She is healing?”
“Healing’s not really the right word. It implies a process of growth and repair on a cellular level.”
“And she’s not doing that?” asked St. George.
“No. She’s just … getting better. The wounds go away. It didn’t even occur to me that she doesn’t have any injuries from the attack that killed her. Captain Freedom said she was torn apart in front of him, but her only injury is severe scratching on her corneas. I’m guessing it’s because dust on her eyes causes consistent, ongoing damage. It happens as fast as it goes away.
“I also did an extended eye exam. Her irises react to light but at maybe a tenth the speed they should. I tried to get them to dilate and it took fifteen minutes.”
“There are several recorded instances of people whose reactions and vital signs drop below normal ranges,” Stealth commented. “They are often mistaken for dead.”
“Those people are usually in comas,” said Connolly, “not walking around having conversations. And Madelyn doesn’t have low vital signs. She has none. Zero. She’s … she’s a corpse.”
“A corpse which speaks, thinks, and only eats meat,” said Stealth.
“She eats meat,” agreed the doctor, “but she’s shown complete control of herself at all times. It’s just a regular appetite. I can try to come up with new tests, but from a medical point of view …”
“So, if she’s not an ex,” said St. George, glancing at Steal
th, “what is she?”
Connolly shrugged again. There was something tired and frustrated about the gesture. “I’m at a loss. Sorry.”
St. George drummed his fingers against his thigh. “You’re sure she’s not contagious?”
“I can’t find a single infectious organism in her,” said Connolly. “I even did a few mouth swabs just to check for basic bacteria. Nothing. It’s more hazardous to let us walk around than her.”
“What are her anaerobic bacterial levels?” asked Stealth.
“Nonexistent,” said Connolly, “which wouldn’t be surprising in an ex, either, but …” She sighed. “I’m sorry. This is just completely beyond me. She’s walking around, she’s conscious, and she’s dead. And I have no idea why or how.”
“ARE YOU OKAY, ma’am?” asked Freedom.
Madelyn looked up at him. “Can you not call me that? You make it sound like I’m some ninety-year-old dowager or something.”
“Sorry,” he said. “I forgot. You asked me that before.”
“I did?” Her brow wrinkled up and she managed a half smile. “I guess I forgot, too.” She took a few quick steps ahead and raised her arms to the afternoon sun.
He let her have the distance and kept his pace. “I remember thinking ‘dowager’ was an unusual word for a teenage girl to use.”
“I had to read Great Expectations a few months ago for class.” She paused in mid-step. “Well, a few years ago. The word was on the back of the book, but,” she said, with a knowing tone, “Charles Dickens never actually used it himself.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah. And, yeah, I’m okay,” she added. “This is great. It’s just … it feels like forever since I’ve been out without all my gear.”
Freedom still thought it was good she’d decided to wear a coat and long sleeves. Having her blood drained had left Madelyn’s skin chalk white. It wasn’t as noticeable in the bright sunlight, but it was still a stark contrast against her dark hair and the collar of her shirt. A contrast people were too familiar with. Even with her new sunglasses, the dead girl drew a few long stares from the people along Vine Avenue. Fortunately, not many people chose to live near the Big Wall.