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

woman loves to hear.” She gave the broken foot a light tap with her boot and he bit back a moan. “Why’s it so hard for most of you guys to figure that out? You got this?”

Derek nodded, and Bee and Mike limped away.

They’d found a comfortable spot on a rooftop that gave them a view. The elevator tower made a bit of shade from the late morning sun. Stealth had slid out of her cloak just before sunrise, making a sniper’s nest for herself on the gravelly roof. St. George tried very hard not to look at her painted-on bodysuit and think about how easy it was to picture her naked.

She peered over the edge of the roof and down at Olympic Boulevard. From here they could see the triangular intersection that seemed to be a central plaza. People walked the streets in large groups that looked like work gangs. Her fingers produced the monocular from her utility belt, and she aimed the lens at the bound thing across from them. St. George pulled one of his own from a side pouch of the backpack.

The dead thing that had been Cairax was chained to the front railing of the Pavilions grocery store. It was a two-inch pipe, sunk deep in the concrete, and the bright, chipped paint clashed with the demon’s bruise-colored hide. Its arms were stretched wide, and St. George guessed there were over fifty feet of thick steel links keeping those limbs tight against the rail, with maybe another fifty crossing back and forth over its chest and neck. The spiked tip of the long tail was bound to another pipe. Its head leaned forward, and the oversized fangs gnashed together like a slow-moving kitchen appliance. A pair of Seventeens stood a lazy watch at a small table.

Without looking up, Stealth asked, “Is that enough to hold it?”

“Probably.” St. George had teamed up with Cairax a few times in the old days. He knew the monster was at least as strong as he was before becoming one of the tireless undead. “If he still had a brain, and some leverage, he could get out, but I’d say he’s pretty safe like that. His tongue’s been cut out, too.”

“Or bitten off.”

At the triangular center of Beverly and Olympic dozens of thick plastic pallets had been piled together into stacks a yard tall. Particle-board sheets crossed back and forth on top to make a platform fifteen feet square. A dirty section of carpet had been thrown across the center. It was backed up against a tall, spiraling monument of some kind. A severed head was speared on top of the metal center pole.

“Could be a stage,” offered St. George. “Maybe they do live concerts.”

He felt her eyes shift to him from her monocular even though her head didn’t move. “There are bloodstains on the rug. I do not think it is from a musical performance.”

“Depends on the band.”

Another group walked by, this one armed with farm implements.

“All in all, it doesn’t seem too different from how we’re living.”

“Except our guards watch the exes,” she said, “not the civilians.”

The cage measured thirty feet on a side and took up the short turning lane. It was made of the portable fence sections used for concerts and county fairs. Each panel was bolted together, plus extra chains had been wrapped around each connection. Braces reached down to buttress each section, and shiny white sandbags weighted each leg. A dozen sheets of fraying plywood were bolted against the walls. A similar structure could be seen a few blocks west on Olympic, past El Camino.

“I count approximately three hundred exes in the closest pen,” murmured Stealth, “but I have yet to see one walking about.”

“Sunlight speeds up decay.” He gave an awkward shrug. “Maybe the smart ones stay inside until dark.”

Stealth pulled a slim black panel from her belt and lifted it over the edge of the roof. The camera took three silent pictures. “Does that strike you as a very solid structure?”

“The pen? I was just thinking about that. It looks flimsy as … Wait a second.” He squinted into his monocular. “See the door with the plywood crossbar? Look three bodies over from that, to the right.”

“Yes?”

“The bald ex with tattoos. That’s the one that chased Big Red and Cerberus. The one the Seventeens were taking orders from.”

She adjusted the camera lens and brought the dead man into sharp focus. “Are you certain?”

“I was face-to-face with him. I’m sure. You can see where Billie shot him.”

The hooded woman lowered the camera. “If he is intelligent, why is he penned in with the others?”

“He looks kind of mindless now, doesn’t he? A regression of some kind?”

She nodded. “Or progression. Perhaps the intelligence is a temporary condition.”

“Would explain why none of them are walking around free. Can’t risk having one turn.”

“Still …” Her face shifted beneath the mask, and he recognized the frown. “Why keep the pens within their safe perimeter?”

“You mean why not keep them two or three blocks away outside their wall? Good question.” They studied the cage and St. George watched the sentries pace back and forth and light a pair of cigarettes. “They don’t follow the guards,” he said.

“Some of them do,” she corrected him, “but they seem listless.”

“Drugged?”

“Without an active cardiovascular system, toxins and sedatives will not circulate throughout their bodies.”

“As far as we know. Still … same question. Why keep hundreds of exes within your safe zone, locked up in flimsy cages with minimal guards?”

Gorgon was just past the Hart building when Richard called out to him. The older man had Christian with him. They took a few quick steps to catch up with him and tried to keep pace. “What’s going on?” Richard asked. “I heard there was an attack this morning. Inside the walls.”

The hero nodded. “John Willis. They’ve got him in Zukor, but it doesn’t look good.”

“People say the prisoner, the smart ex, got loose and attacked him.”

Gorgon shook his head. “It didn’t get loose. They