An Ex-Heroes Collection

by Peter Clines

  Then he remembered he was awake.

  He lunged up and the parrot chewing on his arm staggered back. It had been a woman once. Very petite. Strawberry-blond hair cut short. Small teeth that had probably made her look even younger. Back when she was alive.

  The dead thing’s camisole was thin, almost sheer. If it hadn’t been caked with blood it would’ve been see-through. The corpse wore tiny shorts and had bare feet. The woman had died in her sleep. Or been killed in her sleep.

  The dead thing stumbled forward again. He grabbed it by the shoulders and kept it at arm’s length. The skin felt like cold meat. It bent its head and snapped its teeth at his wrists. He slipped his hands down onto its arms and kept them pinned at its sides. Its hands pawed the air between them at elbow height.

  His apartment was destroyed again. Not destroyed, he realized, as much as neglected for years. The broken windows. The peeling paint. Mildew everywhere near the windows, dust everywhere away from them. It was derelict. Abandoned.

  And he was wrestling with a dead woman. In her pajamas. While he was in his pajamas.

  George walked the parrot—why was it a parrot? That was from the dreams—back through the apartment and toward the door. The corpse weighed as much as he thought, but it had no balance or coordination. Each push or tug made it stumble.

  Past the dead woman’s bobbing head he could see the apartment door hanging open. The lock had been smashed. The wood was cracked and splintered around the dead bolt. The hallway beyond looked as neglected as his apartment. A dark stain decorated one wall. It wasn’t mildew.

  He twisted the monster’s arms and levered it back a few more steps. It tripped on its own foot and thumped off a wall. He almost shifted his grip to catch it, but then the gnashing teeth and chalk eyes reminded him it wasn’t a woman.

  Another few steps and the dead thing was in the hall. It kept biting the air between them. He bent his arms a little bit and one of its fingers brushed his stomach. The painted nails almost got snagged in his T-shirt.

  He shoved hard and the corpse staggered across the hall to crash into the opposite door. Its skull cracked just below the faux-iron numbers, right on the peephole lens. The dead thing slumped for a moment, then pushed itself back up against the door. Its camisole dragged down to expose more gray skin and a purple nipple.

  George stepped back and slammed his apartment’s door. The broken wood around the lock jammed it before it could close all the way. He gave two more hard shoves and wedged it into the frame. He reached for the dead bolt out of instinct, then fumbled with the chain instead.

  The door shook as the petite woman hit it from the other side. It shook again. And a third time. Then he heard lacquered nails clawing at the wood.

  It would be as hard to force the door open again as it had been to close it. He could use the remains of the couch to block it even more and give himself a few minutes to think. And find some clothes.

  He double-checked the chain and turned to look at his apartment.

  The carpet was clean. The blinds were half-down over the windows. Sunlight streamed in through the glass. He turned back at the door, nestled in its solid frame.

  “Son of a bitch,” muttered George.

  He stepped closer to the door but heard nothing. He lowered his eye to the peephole. The fish-eye view of the hallway didn’t show him anything. It was empty.

  He slid the chain loose and flipped the dead bolt. The door glided open on the hinges. He stepped into the hall and looked both ways. The dead woman was gone. There was no stain on the far wall.

  George went back into his apartment and closed the door behind him.

  He didn’t remember turning the ceiling fan on last night. The nights were getting cool, even in Los Angeles. But the blades were swinging in lazy arcs. The beads wobbled back and forth and tapped the motor housing again and again.

  He’d come home and eaten some leftovers. He remembered wondering when he should call Karen, and not being sure what was the best time of night to reach a supermodel. Then he’d just called and they’d talked for ten minutes. He’d made a joke about all of their ten-minute conversations. She hadn’t laughed, but he’d sensed she didn’t look down on him for it.

  He was supposed to be meeting her at a coffee shop near her hotel at ten o’clock. He looked at the clock. He’d overslept. It was almost seven. Rush hour was in full swing, which meant it’d take him close to an hour to get over to the—

  It meant he was going to be late for work!

  Panic made his heart pound. He could skip his shower, put on some extra deodorant, or maybe a spot of the cologne he wore once a month or so. He’d get crap from the other workers but it meant he could be on the road as soon as he was dressed.

  And then he took another breath. He’d made this decision last night. Whatever was happening to him was more important than work. He’d call Jarvis halfway through the day and tell him the illness had gotten worse.

  Seeing Karen again was more important than work.

  He shook the nerves out of his arms and gave his apartment another look. Not a single sign of the devastation he’d woken up with. Woken up with twice now.

  George double-checked the locks on his door and headed for the shower.

  He’d parked his car around the corner. This morning was a scheduled street-sweeping day, which meant last night the whole neighborhood’s parking habits had shifted. As an early riser, these days usually meant easy parking the night before—George would be long gone before the parking fines kicked into effect. But last night he’d decided to park somewhere safer, just in case, and that had meant parking a block and a half away from his apartment.

  He waited to cross the street as a black sedan with tinted windows rolled past him. There were a few gangs active in the area, and his first thought was somebody was cruising very early in the morning. The car was too basic for that, though. It wasn’t a flashy vehicle, it was a workhorse. A Crown Victoria or something like that.

  So his second thought, right on the tail of the first one, was that it was a cop. Which was also kind of reassuring after the first thought. But even through the tinted windows he was pretty sure the man and woman in the car weren’t cops. They wore dark suits. The woman stared back at him through the glass as they drove past.

  He stepped out behind the sedan and headed across to the corner. He saw his car and grumbled. A black van was double-parked in the street, blocking him in his space. The other driver didn’t even have his hazards on. George steeled himself for a possible confrontation. He knew most folks would move without question and look apologetic when they did, but there was always that small percentage who got angry at the suggestion that every road in LA wasn’t built to be their private parking spot. As he got close, though, the van pulled away fast and headed up the street.

  George pulled out his keys and heard a squeal of rubber. The van had made a wide turn and cut off two other cars. Not just a turn—a U-turn. The van roared back toward him, cutting across the yellow line. It twisted in at the last moment and almost kissed the front corner of his Hyundai just before it came to a stop.

  The two men in the front of the van were both staring at him. The side door slid open and George saw two more men in the back. All of them wore dark suits.

  Another squeal of brakes made him spin. The black sedan had doubled back, too. It stopped in the road right behind him. Its nose was inches from the Hyundai’s rear bumper. The two black vehicles and his own car had him surrounded on three sides. Even as he thought it a second car pulled up in the far lane. They formed a tight box around him.

  The passenger door opened while the sedan settled and a short blonde stepped out. The woman he’d glimpsed as they drove by outside his apartment. Her hair was cut short. She had a face that might’ve been cute when she was younger, but had gotten lean and harsh as she matured. She wore the same dark suit as the men in the van, and her driver.

  The blonde held up something dark in her hand. A twitch of her fin
gers opened it to show a gold shield, a photograph, and some tiny words on a white background. George registered a capital S, but the wallet closed before he could read anything.

  “George Bailey,” the woman said. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. She was just letting him know everything was intentional and deliberate.

  George realized an instant too late he should’ve spent that thinking time trying to run.

  A man grabbed either arm. A third one dropped the bag over his head. It was made of heavy black material, like denim. He heard a zipping sound as it cinched around his neck.

  He fought back. The man holding his right arm let go. George swung his arm around and heard a grunt of pain from someone. The man holding the other arm let go, but then someone slammed into him. The world spun inside the black bag, something hit him in the side of the head, and everything stopped.

  IT WAS VERY stuffy.

  George realized the darkness wasn’t unconsciousness but something draped over his head. He reached up to pull it away and something cold clicked and cut into his wrists. Then he remembered the van and the men and—

  “He’s awake.”

  The bag whipped off his head. The blonde was standing in front of him. She was going through his wallet. She had his driver’s license out and was holding it up to the light. She tilted it back and forth, checking the holograms.

  They were in a square room. One of the dark-suited men stood in each corner. One had a bruise on the side of his head that hadn’t been there when they grabbed him. Another one had splints on two fingers and his thumb. The only furniture was the chair George was handcuffed to and a table off to the side.

  There wasn’t a mirror. He thought there was always a one-way mirror in these rooms so people on the other side could watch what went on. He craned his head around. No mirror, and also no cameras.

  He wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

  The blond woman tossed his license on the table. His credit cards were already there, along with what little cash he had and a few receipts. “George H. Bailey. H stands for Harrison.” She shook her head. “Seriously, with a name like that you’d think Homeland would’ve picked you up years ago.”

  “It’s my real name,” he said.

  “I know,” she said. She pulled a few grocery store cards from his wallet, glanced at each of them, and tossed them on the table. “Your parents were Beatles fans?”

  She stared at him for a moment and George realized she was waiting on an answer. He swallowed and tried to stay calm. “Star Wars,” he said. “Dad said I was almost George Han Bailey, but Mom won out.”

  The man in the corner to George’s left, the one with the bruise, bit back a snort.

  The blonde’s gaze didn’t waver. “Are you a sci-fi geek?”

  “When I was a kid.”

  “Not anymore?”

  “No more than anyone else, I guess.”

  Another long pause stretched out. Her eyes were bright green. The longer he looked, the more he was sure she wasn’t a nice person.

  He looked away from her eyes. “Ummmm … What’s this all about?”

  The blonde tossed his wallet on the table. “You do any sports?”

  “What?”

  “Football? Weightlifting? Maybe a little soccer on your lunch break?”

  “I … no.”

  “Nothing?”

  “I ride my bike to work sometimes in the summer. That’s it.”

  “Ever take anything for that?”

  “What?”

  The blonde nodded at the man with the splints. “You put up a real fight when we grabbed you.”

  “I was scared.”

  “A lot more of a fight than a guy your size and build should be able to. Especially against guys like these.” She paused again. “My friend here thinks you’re on steroids.”

  He shook his head. “No. Absolutely not.”

  “That’s what I told him.”

  “Good,” said George. “You’re right.”

  “You’re way too skinny to be on steroids. My bet was meth.”

  He blinked. “I’m not on anything.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “I have to do a drug test every six months. I don’t even smoke.”

  She held out her hand. One of the men placed a cell phone in it. George realized it was his. She made a few quick swipes at the phone’s screen and then held up the call log for him to see. “Yesterday morning,” she said, “you placed a call to Sandia Labs in New Mexico. The Pulsed Power Project. The call lasted just under nine minutes.”

  This pause was twice as long. George wasn’t sure if she wanted an answer and he didn’t want to risk interrupting her if she started talking again. Once he was sure she was waiting on him, he gave a quick nod. “Yeah,” he said. “I did.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why did you call the lab?”

  “I was looking for someone.”

  “Barry Burke?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you found him.” Another statement, not a question.

  “Yeah.”

  “How do you know Mr. Burke?”

  “I …”

  The blonde set his phone on the table and crossed her arms. “It’s not really a tough question,” she said. “How do you know him?”

  “I’m not sure I do,” admitted George.

  “So why were you calling him?”

  George started to talk, then closed his mouth.

  “Well?”

  “I think … I think I’d like to talk to a lawyer,” George said. “Counsel. Whatever you call it.”

  The blonde’s mouth twitched into a new shape. If it was a smile, it was a cruel one. “A lawyer?” she echoed. “What year do you think this is, George? I don’t have to give you a bathroom if I don’t want to. Answer the question. Why were you calling Barry Burke?”

  Something burned at the back of his throat and he swallowed it down. “To see if I recognized him. Recognized his voice.”

  “But you don’t know him?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t think so? Have you ever met?”

  George shook his head. “No.”

  “Ever talked on the phone before?”

  “No.”

  “Exchanged e-mails? Online chat? Message boards? Anything?”

  “No.”

  “So how would you recognize him?”

  George closed his mouth again.

  “According to the receptionist you were on hold for a minute and a half while Mr. Burke got to the phone. You talked for a little over seven minutes. What did you talk about?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You didn’t say anything? You just stood there with the phone in your hand?”

  “No, of course—”

  “So what did you talk about?”

  “I asked who he was. He made a joke.”

  “What kind of joke?”

  George tried to roll his shoulders. The cuffs bit into his wrists. “I said I thought I had the wrong person. He said if there was another Barry Burke, he probably had a goatee and a sash.”

  The blonde furrowed her brow. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Star Trek,” said one of the agents behind George. “In the mirror universe all of the Enterprise crew wore sashes to show their rank, and the evil Spock had a goatee.”

  “Shut up, Winston,” she snapped.

  “Sorry, ma’am.”

  “I just told you to shut up.” Her gaze settled on George again. “So,” she said, “did you recognize Burke?”

  He thought about it for a long moment. “No.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he recognize you?”

  George paused with his lips half-open. “I don’t know.”

  The blond woman stared at him. “In the past week you’ve stopped twice at the Army recruiting office on Lindbrook. Why?”

  “Look, I think
I at least get to know what this is all about. I’m pretty sure that’s in the Bill of Rights.”

  “We’re getting to it,” she said. “Why were you at the recruiting office?”

  “My car broke down. I was looking for help. Somebody with jumper cables.”

  “And the second time?”

  “Same thing.”

  Her eyebrows went up. “Your car broke down twice in one week, both times in front of the same office?”

  “No,” said George. “The first time was half a block away. The second time was a little before it, but then I knew they had the cables.”

  “Who did you talk to there?”

  “A sergeant, I think. I don’t know military ranks that well. And a lieutenant.”

  “Names?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know.” The huge officer’s name floated up in his memory. “The big guy, the lieutenant, was named Freedom.”

  The blonde traded looks with one of the men behind George. Not the Star Trek fan. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the man thumb-typing into a BlackBerry.

  “Yesterday afternoon,” the blonde said, “you visited a woman named Karen Quilt at the Four Seasons Hotel.”

  “Yes,” said George.

  “Do you know Miss Quilt?”

  “No. I mean, just from her pictures and stuff.”

  “Never met her? Never sent her any e-mails or anything?”

  “No.”

  “You have any feelings for her?”

  He blinked. “What?”

  “Do you have dreams about her? Fantasies?”

  George paused, then shook his head. “No.”

  The blond woman noticed the pause. “Are you stalking her?”

  “No!”

  She picked his phone and her thumb swung back and forth. She held it out so he could see the message on the screen. “Nikolai Bartamian texted her address to you. The hotel she’s staying at.”

  Something twisted in his gut. “Yes.”

  “I’m guessing for someone in his line of work, that’s very frowned on. You know there’s a good chance he’ll get fired for that, right?”

  “Yeah,” said George. “He said he might.”

  She gave him another long stare. “So you’re not stalking her, but you’re willing to risk your friend’s job to get the address of a woman you’ve never met. Am I getting this right?”