Ex-Patriots (34 page)

Once it was closed, he gave it a hard tug and
yanked the oversized guide wheels off their track. Just to be safe,
he stomped down on the track and twisted his heel. It wrecked his
boot, but the door wouldn’t open again without a few hours of work
from a repair crew.

The light shifted and a hiss of superheated
air came from behind him. Zzzap vaporized a baker’s dozen of exes,
and another handful that had been near the blast charred and
crumbled into ash.
Ah, hell,
said Zzzap.
Radio ga-ga.
They had Danielle and Stealth, but they both escaped a couple of
minutes ago. There’s already soldiers inside the workshop and
Freedom’s sending a squad to reinforce them.

“Damn it.” St. George crushed a dead man’s
skull and brought his fist around to shatter another one. He
grabbed them by their jackets and threw them over his shoulder.

Good news is it sounds like most everyone’s
still looking for you. They don’t even know I’m out yet. Bad news
is it seems like no one’s noticed the exes going nuts.

“Can you let them know?”

It’ll be pretty obvious I’m not locked up
anymore.

St. George twisted the head of one ex-soldier
and grabbed another while it dropped. “Do it.”

Zzzap floated higher in the air and focused
on the signals swarming around him.
Done. And they all just went
very quiet.

The other hero tossed a few more exes into
the rough pile he’d made. “If they know you’re out,” he said, “they
know we can hear anything they say.” He threw one last ex-soldier.
“I think that’s all of them. You want to torch these?”

The wraith nodded and held out his hands. The
shadows leaped away for a moment and the score of zombies were
dust.
Whoa
, he said.
That took a lot out of me.

“You okay?”

Yeah. Just haven’t eaten anything in a day
or so.

“What?” St. George shot a glance at Sorensen
on the nearby rooftop. “Do you need to get away?”

I’ll be okay.

“You sure?”

I’ll be okay,
he repeated. He nodded
his head at one of the other Tombs.
Next building’s empty. So’s
the one across the street.

“Damn it,” said St. George. “He’s making his
move.”

They soared back up to Doctor Sorensen and
St. George carried him down to ground level. Sorensen glanced
around. The window panes were trembling. “Is that artillery?”

Half a block down, the Cerberus battlesuit
smashed through the doors of the workshop, twisting the steel slats
around itself like paper. St. George yanked Sorensen back and
shielded the older man from the shards of metal scattering
everywhere.

Once the suit was in the clear it broke into
a run. Its armored feet left gouges in the concrete road where they
hit. A few moments later it was at the end of the street and racing
away.

“Was that Danielle?”

I don’t know who’s inside, but it isn’t
her.
Zzzap tilted his head after the battlesuit.
Heck, was
that even our giant robot? It looked different to me.

* * *

Sixty exes shambled across the base in what
passed for tight formation. The lieutenant at the front of the
line, a thin man with sunglasses and his cap pulled low, gestured
them along and they followed. A few of the soldiers walking by on
their own duties noticed the dead men, but the Nest had made them
almost commonplace.

The lieutenant led them up to Barracks Eight.
It was closest to the fence line, and the soldiers living there had
earned the nickname “Gatekeepers.” A few yards from the door he
waved to the specialist on fire patrol. “Cleaning lady’s here,”
joked the lieutenant.

Specialist Gorman looked at the approaching
mob of exes and shuddered even as he saluted. “Good afternoon,
sir,” he said. “May I ask what’s going on?”

The lieutenant had turned back to the
ex-soldiers as he covered the last few feet, waving them onward. It
struck Gorman he’d never seen anyone guide the exes with gestures
before, and he wondered if it was something new the doctor had
figured out. Then the officer was in front of him and the exes were
at the door.

“I told you,” said the dead man in the
lieutenant’s jacket. “I’m here to clean the place out.”

This close Gorman could see the chalk eyes
behind the sunglasses. The ex slapped a leathery hand across his
mouth even as two or three others pinned his arms and took away his
weapons. They carried him through the doors without breaking
stride, an actual wave of the dead.

The exes marched into Barracks Eight. Thirty
of them marched up the four-story stairwell and split off ten-man
groups at each level. The first door to the left on each floor was
a small armory where the Gatekeepers kept rifles, sidearms, and
ammunition. The exes stomped into each one, grabbed the soldier on
duty, and chewed out his throat. On the fourth floor, Corporal Hesh
got off one shot which was muffled by the walls and the press of
bodies. Only Specialist Douglas on the second floor managed a
scream, but it was over as quick as the gunshot.

If anyone heard the scream, they didn’t
react.

The others stayed on the ground floor, and
half a dozen of those ate Specialist Gorman. The dead lieutenant
kept his hand over the soldier’s mouth and muffled his screams for
the two minutes it took him to die. They left enough of his body to
be useful when it got up and grabbed his baffled partner as she
stepped out of the bathroom. The dead lieutenant sank his fingers
into her upper lip and held her jaw shut with the heel of his hand.
He glared at the auburn hair poking out from under her duty
cap.

“Fucking redheads,” he muttered as the exes
tore open her stomach. “All you bitches are gonna die.”

According to the mailboxes in the lobby,
Barracks Eight housed one hundred-ninety-nine soldiers. At least
half of them should be sleeping until night duties began. The ten
exes on the fourth floor split into two groups of three and one of
four. They opened the first three doors after the armory and
stalked in to grab the off-duty soldiers.

All three rooms were empty. There were dusty
beds and photos covered with cobwebs. The papers on one sun-lit
desk were yellow and faded. Some of the exes checked closets and
raised clouds in the air as they batted at the hanging clothes.

The next three rooms were the same. And the
next three. And the last six.

So were all the rooms on the third floor.

The top two floors were deserted. They had
been for months by the look of them. Maybe years.

“What,” said the dead lieutenant, “the
fuck?”

On the second floor they found a bakers dozen
of soldiers trying to sleep in warm rooms with the blinds drawn
against the brilliant day. They died, groggy and unarmed, before
most of them realized what was going on. In the carnage, the dead
lieutenant forgot the top floors.

* * *

Smith cranked open the blinds in his office.
Freedom was confident he’d have all the heroes in custody within
the hour, but Smith wasn’t so sure. Stealth had already escaped
once, and he knew Danielle was a lot cleverer than anyone gave her
credit for. She didn’t need the battlesuit to be dangerous. Classic
mistake, to assume your opponent’s helpless because they don’t have
a weapon.

And he had no idea what they were going to do
with St. George. The reinforced cells they’d built in case some of
the super soldiers got out of line wouldn’t be enough. Hopefully
the hero wouldn’t be too resistant to what Smith had to say and
they’d all be on the same side again soon.

Smith opened the other set of blinds and the
last shadows became distinct shapes.

“Well,” he said. He took a breath and
collected his thoughts. “This is a surprise.”

“It is important that I speak with you,” said
Stealth. She brushed her cloak back. Without her weapons and
harnesses, she was just a shapely outline.

“Okay,” he said. He sat down and set his
hands on the desk. “Talk.”

“Move your hands away from the phone.”

He slid his palms over to the desk lamp. “Go
ahead.”

“Project Krypton is facing an imminent attack
from within. The neural stimulator units do not work, and in fact
have never worked. The ex-soldiers are being controlled by an
individual named Rodney Casares, also known as Peasy.”

Smith’s brow furrowed. “The superhuman who
attacked you last year in Los Angeles,” he said. “I thought he was
dead.”

“His body was destroyed, but it appears his
ability to project his consciousness into the undead has allowed
him to survive. He is here and he has close to a thousand exes
inside your fence line to work with. You must instruct the Army to
place the base on high alert and begin the systematic destruction
of all ex-soldiers.”

Smith’s fingers drummed the desktop. “My
first instinct,” he said, “would be to think you’re trying to cover
for leaving Colonel Shelly in a hospital bed.”

“Colonel Shelly is dead,” said Stealth.
“Doctor Sorensen has been lying to you.”

Smith looked confused for a moment, but then
his practiced smile appeared. “Go on, please,” he said.

“It would appear the doctor is in league with
Peasy, and has known all along the Nest units do not work. He also
may have manipulated several events here at Krypton to suit his
purposes.”

The agent shook his head. “Sorensen has
trouble manipulating silverware. He’s a brilliant man, don’t get me
wrong, but he’s not pulling any strings behind the curtain.” He
tilted his head. “That’s a mixed metaphor, isn’t it?”

She heard the sound of metal on metal in the
hall and turned. Harrison, Taylor, and Polk burst into the office,
rifles up. Taylor and Polk kept her covered while the staff
sergeant moved to Smith. “Are you okay, sir?”

“Fine, thank you, sergeant,” he stood up and
brushed a few wrinkles from his suit. “Excellent response
time.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He looked at Stealth and gestured to the
desk. “The panic button’s in the base of the lamp, if you were
wondering.”

“You are making a mistake,” she said.

Smith looked back at Harrison. “Can you make
sure Captain Freedom knows you caught her? And that she confessed
to the attack in front of you?”

“Of course, sir.”

“I have done no such thing,” said
Stealth.

Smith’s eyes went up and down her body.
“Would you agree we may need to replace all the military police
with super-soldiers for now? She seemed to escape with very little
effort last time, didn’t she?”

Harrison gave a sharp nod. “My squad can take
over immediately, sir.”

“Then take your prisoner into custody,
sergeant.”

“Agent Smith—”

“Ma’am, I suggest you say nothing else until
you are read your rights,” said Harrison.

“I will not—”

Taylor grabbed her upper arm and pressed his
Bravo against her head. “Give me an excuse, cocktease,” he said.
“Just give me one fucking reason to spray your stupid cunt brains
across the wall.”

They heard the echo of shouting outside and
all the eyes in the room flitted to the window. Less than a second.
It took Smith and Harrison a few moments to understand what
happened next. They saw it all, but their minds needed time to
break the blur down into actual movements.

One moment Stealth was a prisoner at
gunpoint. They looked back from the window and her free hand was up
and Taylor’s rifle was aimed over her shoulder at the wall. Her
fingers stabbed out and drove four strikes into the soldier’s
throat one after another. On the last one her hand twisted over to
grab the top of his head and yank it down as she leaped up. Her
knee smashed into his face and she spun in mid-air, driving her
heel into his chest.

Taylor crashed into Polk and collapsed to the
floor. Everyone knew the soldier wouldn’t be getting up anytime
soon.

Then they realized, in that instant of seeing
and understanding, Stealth had crossed the five yards separating
the door from the desk.

She landed with one foot on Harrison’s rifle
and pinned it to the desk. She slammed the edge of her palm into
his throat. He staggered back and she grabbed Smith’s tie with her
other hand. She dragged the smiling man forward.

“Stealth!” he snapped, holding up his hands.
“You don’t want to hurt me, do you?”

The fist froze inches from his head. It
trembled for a moment, as if she was trying to force it through the
air.

“Do you?” repeated Smith. He leveled his eyes
at her. He didn’t blink.

“No,” she said. She opened the fist and let
her arm drop to her side. “I do not.”

Smith brought his arms down. He adjusted his
tie and smiled his broad, fake smile. “Good.”

THEN

There’s no such thing as a smart criminal. It’s a
complete myth. You know why? Because if there was such a thing,
you’d never know about it. Criminals people hear about get caught.
Every bank robbery or liquor store hold-up, those were all morons.
And think about it—someone would have to be a complete idiot to put
on an eye-catching costume and draw attention to himself and what
he can do.

No, the smart ones would go out of their way
not to be seen or heard. They’d hide in plain sight. They’d be that
person barely anyone acknowledges is in the room. The real
supervillains wear business suits and paisley ties with
full-Windsor knots.

When we first got the news some of the
superheroes were alive in Los Angeles—well, superheroes or Bruce
Springsteen, take your pick—I don’t think the airman who brought
the news even saw me. Freedom didn’t. He doesn’t register half the
civilians he meets. He and Shelly had been talking with a few of
the officers for five minutes before the colonel and I locked eyes.
It always made him angry when he forgot I was there.