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

bed. None of them could reach that high, but the men and women in the back shoved them off with pikes and spears anyway. The salt-and-pepper man stabbed his weapon down through a chubby woman’s skull and she dropped.

The guards pushed the gate shut behind them, the two sides meeting just as the truck cleared. There was a clang as the pipe dropped back into place, followed by the click of the legs dropping back into their brackets. Derek gave a thumbs-up through the bars.

“We’re out,” yelled St. George. “Cerberus, mount up.” He swung his arms and sent two exes hurling through the crowd like a pair of bowling balls into a forest of pins. There were already four or five dozen more shambling down the street toward the gate from either direction, drawn in by the movement and the noise.

The lift gate carried the battlesuit up to the bed, then folded up behind her. Cerberus turned to watch their rear, and the truck swayed with each step. She turned her head and signaled the driver.

“Rolling out,” called Luke. Big Red growled, swung to the left, and picked up speed as it headed down Melrose Avenue. Exes were battered aside by bumpers or fell beneath the wheels. St. George flew up and landed on the reinforced rack on top of the cab next to Lady Bee.

Guards waved to them from the Mount’s walls and watchtowers as they headed off into the wasteland that had once been Los Angeles, destination for tens of thousands of dreamers every year.

ST. GEORGE DROPPED down to the cab’s running boards. “You still want to head over to Vermont and straight up?”

The driver nodded. “Nice and clear all the way to Hollywood Boulevard. That’s where you wanted to start, right?”

The hero nodded.

Big Red rolled down Melrose. St. George and Cerberus had spent weeks clearing off the roads surrounding the Mount. Here and there exes stumbled out of open doors or from behind wrecked cars. They staggered and loped toward the truck with grasping arms, then forgot it when it was a block away.

“I’ve been thinking,” said Lady Bee as St. George swung back up to the roof rack. “I bet Spider-Man would kick your ass.”

He peered over his sunglasses at her. “What?”

“Spider-Man,” she said. “If the two of you fought, he would totally kick your ass.”

“Spider-Man’s not real, y’know. He’s a comic book character.”

“Look who’s talking.”

“I never had a comic book.”

Lady Bee swung her head and her rifle back and forth, watching the sides of the road. She was wearing a shirt a size too small under her motorcycle jacket, and whenever she turned to the left he caught a glimpse of the fire-red bra she was wearing between the buttons. “In that movie he held up a whole warehouse wall,” she pointed out. “To save his girlfriend.”

“That’s a movie. It’s special effects. They did it with computers and stuff.”

She grinned. “Can you?”

“Can I what? Lift a wall?”

“Yeah.”

“Guess it depends on the woman.” He shook his head. “Probably not. The most I can lift is about three and a half tons. Maybe four if I’m worked up.”

“So Spider-Man would kick your ass.”

“Okay, fine. If Spider-Man was real, and we decided to fight for some reason, yes, he would probably kick my ass.”

Bee nodded. “See? You’re not that great.”

“Whatever.” He looked back down Melrose. “Is this your idea of flirting?”

“Maybe.”

“I don’t think you’re doing it right.”

“Maybe.” Her head swung back and forth again. “You know, Superman would mop the floor with you. It wouldn’t even be a fight.”

Next to Cerberus, a skinny brunette clutched at the pike she’d been assigned. The end was a gleaming spear tip, either from the prop house or the top of a flagpole. Her shoulders hunched every time a new ex appeared, and her knuckles whitened on the wooden shaft.

“Haven’t come out often?” asked the metal titan.

She shook her head. “My second time since I came to the Mount.”

“When was that?”

“Almost a year ago.”

Cerberus dipped her armored chin. “Just remember, you’re faster and smarter than them. Stay calm, don’t do anything stupid, and it’s almost impossible for anything to go wrong.”

The girl nodded. “I’m Lynne.”

“Cerberus.”

“Yeah. I know.”

They crossed Western without incident. The heroes had cleared the street by hand months ago, moving cars onto the sidewalk as searches expanded farther and farther from the Mount. As Big Red came up over a hill, looking down at the overpass for the Hollywood Freeway, Luke let up on the gas. “You see what I see?” he asked the men in the cab.

St. George stood up, getting a view of the road ahead.

Both sides of the overpass were clogged with automobiles. Cars and trucks stacked on top of each other and wedged beneath the concrete bridge. St. George could see a bright green cab, an LAPD squad car, and two motorcycles in the pile.

Lady Bee pulled a set of binoculars from the large mailman’s bag she wore. “I count at least a dozen exes,” she said. “All staying down.”

Luke let Big Red come to a stop a few blocks away, across from a gas station. He glanced up at the hero on the roof. “You’re the boss,” he said with a shrug. “What’s your call?”

St. George dropped to the pavement. “Safeties off, everyone,” he called out. “Stay sharp until we know what’s up.”

The back doors of the cab opened up and the men slid out with weapons ready. Lady Bee stood up on top of the cab and swept the area with her bright eyes. Behind her the pikes clattered to the truck bed as more rifles swung up. Cerberus turned and lumbered to the front of the truck, her head even with Bee’s. She glanced down at Barry, still asleep in his nest of blankets.

St. George took a few steps and then one leap carried him the three blocks to the roadblock. An ex lay there in a heap, a heavy Latino woman. A bullet hole pierced her forehead