Ex-Communication, Peter Clines [ebook reader online free txt] 📗

were also two large cells that served as drunk tanks and cooling-off rooms. Everyone knew where those cells were.

And then there was Cell Nine.

Cell Nine was in the basement of the Hart Building, one of several office spaces that had been converted into small apartments when the survivors moved into the Mount. When they’d been there for a little over a year, Stealth had ordered Hart cleaned out. The residents were all moved to other locations with many loud complaints and even one sit-in demonstration.

As for the Hart Building, a team was brought in to build a spacious cell in the basement storage area, twelve feet on a side. It was steel bars lined with heavy chain-link fence on both sides. When the cell was done, all the windows were boarded up on all floors, inside and out. All the doors were chained shut, including the fire door on the roof, and the locks welded solid. The only entrance was the front door on 3rd Street, and it had four padlocks on it. Two were keyed, two had combinations. Two guards stood there at all times. Each of them had one key and one combination.

Whispered stories went back and forth through the survivors of Los Angeles about what was down in the building’s basement. Officially it was just high-security storage, but everyone knew you didn’t put objects in a cell, you put living things. Which is how Cell Nine came to be known as the Cellar. And the Cellar was where they kept the Thing.

One of the more popular theories said the Cellar was a prison for infected citizens, or a dumping ground for people who’d been reanimated by the ex-virus. Some people thought the Thing was a reanimated superhero whose powers made him or her too dangerous to let wander through Los Angeles. A few folks who’d been part of the film industry back when the Mount was a studio told stories about how the Hart Building had always been a nexus of supernatural incidents, and had once been considered one of the most haunted places in Hollywood.

Even the guards didn’t know what was in the Cellar. All they knew was that they had strict orders. If the Thing—whatever it was—tried to get out of the building, they weren’t supposed to hesitate or ask questions. They were just supposed to shoot until they were out of ammunition.

It didn’t help the rumors that only one person was allowed into the Hart Building. Once a month he would descend into the basement and the guards would lock the door behind him. He’d stay down there for an hour or two and then come out looking grim.

St. George landed on 3rd Street in front of the Hart Building. Today it was Mike Meryl and Katie O’Hare on guard. Mike walked with a limp from an old injury, so a static guard post was perfect for him. Katie liked any position where she didn’t have to talk to people.

They each gave him a polite nod and bent to the locks. There was only one reason for him to come here, and they’d been expecting him for a day or two now. They set the padlocks on the steps and unwrapped the chain. It ran through four big eye-bolts in the door frame.

The Hart Building didn’t have a lobby. The doorway opened up onto a staircase landing. St. George stepped through and Katie closed the door behind him. He stood there while the chains rattled back into place. The padlocks thumped against the door and he headed down.

There was a short hallway that ended at another padlocked door. This one was more solid, and had rubber bumpers around the edge to help seal the inside from moisture and air. They’d stored videotapes and files down here once, years ago. George dug a key out of his pocket and the lock popped open. A wisp of smoke curled up out of his nose and he opened the door.

Cell Nine was in the middle of the room. A pair of mattresses were stacked in the far corner of the cell, decorated by a mess of sheets and blankets. A few dozen books were piled in the opposite corner. They were all battered paperbacks, or hardbacks that had been torn out of their cover. Nothing hard.

There was no toilet. Not even a bucket. The occupant never needed one, which made sense. He hadn’t eaten anything in almost a year.

The prisoner didn’t look up when St. George entered. He had a book in one hand. He made a show of turning the page and reading another paragraph before his eyes flitted up to meet the hero’s.

“Hello, George,” he said. “It’s been a while. I thought you might’ve finally given up on me.”

“DO YOU BELIEVE him?”

St. George shrugged and set another tomato on the cutting board. “Not really. I mean, he was doing it again when I walked in.”

Stealth gave a faint nod. “I have seen him go through the motions of conversations three times this past week alone. There was no evidence of another speaker.”

“Did you check to see if he was talking to someone on the radio?”

“I did,” she said. She carried a stack of plates and bowls to the table. She balanced them on one hand and held the silverware in the other. “I checked five months ago when his behavior patterns could no longer be denied.”

“What?” The knife slipped to the side and grated against his finger. It ruined the edge of the blade. He glanced from the knife to Stealth and back. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“I knew the answer would upset you. And there is currently nothing we can do about it.”

He pulled another knife from the block on the counter and attacked the last tomato again. “And the answer is …?”

Stealth did something quick with her left arm and a single plate slid onto the table in front of a chair. “He is not talking to anyone, George. I