Ex-Heroes, Peter Clines [reading like a writer txt] 📗

going to stoop to that,” he said. “We’re the good guys. The idea is to save everyone, not just the people we like.”

There was a flurry of movement on one of the monitors. Van Ness Gate. A small ex, a boy, had squeezed through the barricade of trucks, and was staggering toward the gate guards. They tripped it with a pole and pinned it down with their rifle stocks. A woman ran into frame with a sledge and crushed the little skull.

St. George and Stealth watched in silence as they wrapped the small figure in plastic and started hosing down the pavement.

“If that is your feeling on the matter,” she said, “we can proceed in that direction for now. You know I value your opinions.”

The hero let out a breath and twin trails of smoke curled up from his nose. “A year and a half ago I was doing maintenance at UCLA,” he said. He stared at the map, at the dozens of green crosses and lines south of Wilshire. “You see movies where society collapses this quick and you just laugh it off. You figure there’s the police, the military, the feds … I mean, they couldn’t all lose it at once, right?”

Stealth looked at him. Even through the mask, he could feel her skeptical stare. “They did.”

“But not everyone loses it at the same moment,” he insisted. “You’d think people would’ve helped each other, tried to hold on to things.”

“Do you remember Katrina?”

He tossed the name back and forth. “Which one? We’ve lost two or three, I think.”

“Hurricane Katrina,” said Stealth, “which decimated New Orleans in 2005. The levees collapsed, brought the floods, and what happened? No one came to help and the city fell into chaos in mere days. Looting. Gangs. Militias. There were hundreds of thousands of citizens who had spent years believing their government did not care about them and were now seeing the proof of it. Then the same government that left them to drown for a week came in, imposed martial law, and ordered them all into what were essentially concentration camps without food or water.”

He shook his head. “Yeah, but that was—”

“And now the dead are walking,” she said. “Exes, zombies, ghouls—whatever you wish to call them. There were epidemic warnings and hazmat teams everywhere, dead people getting up to attack their friends. The police could not stop them. The military could not stop them. We could not stop them.” She ran a finger across the zip codes of Los Angeles. “If people in one city reacted as they did to rising water, is it a surprise things collapsed during a worldwide crisis like this?”

He took a slow breath and set his jaw.

She turned back to the monitors. “Is there anything else to report?”

“No.”

“Go take a shower.”

He glanced across the room at the low-profile door. Her head tilted beneath her hood.

“Go home and take a shower,” she said.

St. George cleaned his hair, then scoured his body, then cleaned his hair again. Even through the steam and the soap, he could smell death. He scrubbed and shampooed and rinsed and repeated until the hot water ran out, and then stood in the cold for another ten minutes.

His apartment in the Mount was a penthouse compared to the place he’d had before, back when the world was alive and he was paying rent. Like most of the living quarters, it was a large office converted into a passable apartment. A living room with a couch and an overstuffed chair, a decent kitchen, and a separate bedroom. He even had some of his own clothes and belongings, not just stuff he’d scavenged since they all moved to the Mount. Being a superhero had a few perks, even after the Zombocalypse. He’d been able to fly home and loot his small studio.

He was half dressed when someone rapped on the door. He knew the knock.

“Hey,” said Lady Bee. She held up a battered box of Cheez-Its. “Thought I’d stop by and check on you. And I brought food.”

“Thanks.”

“You looked like shit when we got back.”

“Well,” he said with a smirk, “there have been one or two missions when things went better.”

She let her coat slide off her shoulders. She was still wearing the too-small shirt. He could see her bright red bra. “You going to invite me in?”

He examined his bare feet. “I don’t think I’m in the mood, Bee.”

“You know you say that almost every time, right?”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

“People trusted me to get them home safe.”

“I know. I was holding his arm, remember?”

He sighed and stepped away from the door. She tossed her coat on the chair before flopping on the couch. “You want some crackers?”

“Not that hungry. Go ahead.”

She unzipped her boots and kicked them at the door. “Nah. They’re one of those weird flavors nobody ever liked.” She stood up, two inches shorter without the heels. “Want to watch a movie or something?”

“I don’t have anything new.”

“So what? We never see more than the first half hour anyway.” She pulled his face down and kissed him.

He pulled away. “How am I supposed to relax?”

“Well,” Bee said, “usually we take off our clothes, find a handy piece of furniture, and spend half an hour or so thinking very naughty and improper thoughts.” She tugged at the bottom of her shirt and two buttons popped open. She gave him a wink and pulled at another one.

“Seriously.” He ran his fingers through his long hair. “This was a fucking disaster. What are people going to think?”

She sighed and let go of the shirt. “They’re going to think you’re human.”

“I’m not human. I can’t be.”

“Trust me, I’ve checked. You match up. Just a lot more stamina.”

“We’re symbols. All of the heroes. People look at us and think we can still fix everything.”

“You’re a symbol, yes,” she said. “But you’re still a guy. A guy who just had a very shitty day and needs to remember there’s more to life than that. If you want to mope all