Ex-Purgatory, Peter Clines [top ten books of all time .txt] 📗

Danielle shudder. She was fighting not to curl up in a ball. He could see it on her face.

They passed a three-car collision and a row of stores with all the picture windows smashed. St. George put down another dozen exes with his signpost, and he was pretty sure Stealth and Freedom stopped as many between them. At Le Conte Avenue he glanced back at the group. “We’re about a third of the way to her dorm room,” he told them.

Danielle frowned. “How do you know she’ll be there?”

“I don’t,” he admitted. “I just don’t know where else to look.”

Freedom threw a kick that crushed an ex’s rib cage. “More important, sir,” he said, “how do you know where her dorm room is?”

“Relax,” said St. George. “She spent two weeks trying to get me to remember all this.”

Stealth lunged forward and thrust with her staff. The tip smashed through a dead woman’s teeth and up through the roof of her mouth. The ex closed its jaws on the broomstick once, twitched, and fell over.

As the body slumped, a breeze blew down the street. St. George heard a growl that grew into a roar. It took him a moment to recognize it. He looked up and saw Stealth focusing, trying to locate the sound.

Danielle took another step forward.

“Hang on,” he told her.

A bus plowed through the intersection. Its brakes hissed once and then it moved on. A poster for KTLA Channel Five stretched across the side of the bus.

A horn blasted behind them. A green Jetta was a foot from Freedom’s shins. The driver banged on the horn again and gestured them out of the street. It wasn’t a polite gesture. A few cars backed up behind him honked as well. The tail end of rush-hour traffic flowed around them while they stood in the street.

They glanced at each other and St. George took a step toward the sidewalk. Stealth gazed at him. “What are you doing?”

“Getting out of the street.”

“It is not a real car.”

“I know,” St. George said, “but it’s going to be easier to think without all the imaginary horns going off.”

They stepped out of the lane into a parking space. The Jetta driver blared her horn again as she drove by. The rest were more concerned with making the next light.

Freedom went to step up onto the sidewalk and Stealth grabbed his arm. A trio of men in suits walked toward them along the sidewalk. One was on a cell phone, the other two were talking.

“They’re just people,” said Freedom.

“No,” said Stealth. “They are exes we are being made to perceive as people.”

“Are you sure?”

The men got closer and St. George raised his signpost. They walked past without slowing. One of them glanced at St. George, then his gaze swept over to Stealth and her broomstick. They didn’t look back. The one on the phone swore as a teenager flew by on a skateboard. The teen didn’t even glance at the four heroes in the parking space.

“If all the people are …” Danielle closed her eyes and snapped her fingers three times. “If they’re all exes, why aren’t they attacking us?”

Another bus slowed and spat out a handful of people. They scattered in different directions. None of them glanced over at the heroes. A young woman in a UCLA shirt jogged past them, her headphones blaring. She glanced up at Freedom and smiled.

“That,” said St. George, “is a good question.” He lowered the sign.

“A better one,” said Stealth, “is why were we not attacked before?”

Freedom glanced over his shoulder, back toward Wilshire. “Before what?”

“Before regaining our awareness of the world,” she said. “If we have been wandering through Los Angeles for weeks under Smith’s influence, how are we still alive? St. George may have survived with his increased damage resistance, but the three of us have no such abilities. We should be dead.”

“Cheery thought,” Danielle muttered.

“She’s right, though,” said St. George. “Just because we don’t see them as zombies doesn’t mean they’d stop acting like them.”

“Maybe we just got lucky.”

Stealth shook her head.

“There were about forty of those things around this intersection,” said Freedom. “I’d guess there’s close to twice as many people now, not counting the ones in cars.”

“And there’s five times as many cars,” added Danielle. “Are they all just hallucinations or whatever?”

“Let’s keep moving,” said St. George. He lowered the sign a little more, letting it hang level with his hip. “Same formation. Don’t let anyone get too close.”

A crowd of students slid past them, heading onto campus. Most of them ignored the heroes. One looked at the signpost in St. George’s hands and grinned. He gave the hero a cheerful “Dude,” before continuing on his way.

“Keep a safe distance from them,” said Stealth. “They may appear benign, but they could be attacking us.” She shifted the staff in her own hands. It stayed out away from her body and extended back to help shield Danielle.

St. George led them past the medical plaza, then headed west. He glanced over at the facilities management building and wondered if Jarvis was there. At this time of day he’d just be finishing with all the new requests.

Then he remembered that Jarvis had never worked on campus. It had been so many years, and the false memories were still crisp and clear. He remembered Jarvis—the real Jarvis—had joked about the Zombocalypse taking care of his unemployment problem.

“George,” murmured Stealth.

He glanced up and realized he’d let a trio of young women get close to them. Two women and a very effeminate young man, he realized a moment later. They glanced at St. George and the others, but kept walking. A female voice slipped back to them a beat later. “Did you see? That guy was carrying a street sign.”

A man and woman in ROTC uniforms paused and snapped quick salutes to Freedom. He returned them automatically. They waited for him to go by and then continued on their way.

As they passed the tennis courts, two young men in sweatshirts stared