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

and caught her ten feet above the floor. She grabbed at him like a drowning person, pulling herself tight against him. “What the hell?!” she shrieked.

Kennedy ran in with her pistol drawn.

“It’s okay,” St. George said. “I’ve got you.”

Madelyn blinked again. “Where am I? What’s going on?”

“I needed to wake you up,” St. George said, “and nothing else was working. So I tried the same thing Stealth did.” He settled on the ground and let her down.

She shook her head and looked at Kennedy and Makana.

He gave her a tight smile. “Wakey-wakey, Corpse Girl,” he said.

“Jerk.” She stuck her tongue out at him and stretched. Then she looked down at her legs and grinned. “Oh, thank God,” said Madelyn. “I can walk again.”

Kennedy crossed to Freedom and checked his pulse. “Is he drugged?” she asked St. George.

He shook his head. “It’s Smith. He messed with all of our minds. They’re in some kind of trance. A dream.” He looked at Madelyn. “Do you remember any of it?”

“Most of it, I think.” Her chalk eyes turned up to the ceiling. “Where are we?”

“The Mount.”

She blinked and glanced over her shoulder. “Really?”

“You just said you remembered most of it.”

“Most of the dream,” she said. Her lips twisted as she looked around the stage. “I can’t remember the last time I was awake.”

St. George took a few steps toward the door. “Try to wake up everyone else,” he said. “Use bright light or buckets of water or something. Try to get them oriented when they wake up.”

“Where are you going?” asked Kennedy.

“To find Agent Smith.”

“But we don’t know where he is,” said Madelyn.

“He’ll be where he always is,” said St. George. “Behind the scenes. I’m going to go talk to the mayor.”

St. George stepped out of Stage 32 and hurled himself up into the air. His shoulders buzzed with the sensation of flight. He shot up above the buildings, into the sky, and hovered there for a moment.

The Mount was stretched out below him. Straight ahead was the water tower, off to his left were the facades of New York Street. Los Angeles spread out past the studio walls on all sides. He could see hundreds, maybe thousands, of people—living people—walking in the streets and between buildings. Off in the distance he could see the Big Wall, with dozens of tiny guards walking along the top.

And past that were the exes. Close to the Big Wall they swarmed like ants. They were pinpricks from here, just big enough that he could see them lurch and stagger.

He soared down and swooped over the garden. A few people looked up. Some of them waved. He swung around and landed outside the Roddenberry Building.

Like a lot of the buildings at the Mount, Roddenberry was named after a famous filmmaker. They’d all thought of it as the town hall for years, even when it was nothing but Stealth’s offices and a few conference rooms that got used once a month or so. Now it really was the town hall. Almost half the offices were being used. The mayor was on the fourth floor. He remembered Stealth had agreed it was a good symbolic move to put the mayor’s office where hers had been, to make it clear to everyone the heroes were turning the governing of Los Angeles back over to the people.

St George marched through the lobby, past the half-dozen or so folks there. Once he reached the stairwell his feet left the ground and he flew up the stairs. His body jackknifed at each landing like a high-diver.

The door on the fourth-floor landing was open.

It was very bright. Stealth had always kept it dark, with plenty of shadows. Now light streamed in through the windows. There was a desk just by the stairs and elevators. A young man sat at the desk and looked up as St. George’s feet touched the carpeted floor. Behind him, two large potted plants flanked the doors into the big conference room. They looked plastic. The inner office doors were open, too.

“Oh,” said the man. “You. Do you have an appointment?”

They stared at each other for a moment. Then the man’s face cracked and he chuckled. “Sorry,” he said. “I couldn’t resist. We don’t even have a schedule set up yet. There’s no appointments.”

“Oh.”

“Would you like some water or anything?” He pointed at the large bubbler across the reception area. “It’s cold.”

St. George almost said no, but then realized how dry his mouth was. He filled a plastic cup and drained it. It made him feel a bit sharper and more awake. His stomach grumbled again as the water hit.

“The mayor thought you might be stopping by once you and the other heroes got back,” said the young man. He waved his hand over his shoulder. “Go on in,” he said.

St. George set the cup down and walked past him.

The blinds were up, and Stealth’s old office was flooded with sunlight. All the screens were gone. She’d taken them with her when she moved to … wherever her base was now. It struck him that he didn’t know, and he wasn’t sure if it was because his memory was still spotty or she just hadn’t told him.

The big marble conference table had been moved down to the other end of the room and turned. It was a massive desk now, covered with inboxes, a phone, two computer screens, and a small collection of photos. It all still looked very arranged. There hadn’t been time for any of it to settle and find its natural place yet.

There were three big chairs in front of the desk, and one huge one behind it where the mayor was sitting. With its high back, St. George thought it looked a lot like a throne. He was pretty sure it was a deliberate choice.

He looked around. There was no one in the office but him and the mayor. No sign of Smith that he could see. The mayor was wearing a pant suit and