Ex-Purgatory: A Novel (39 page)

“You did?”

She took a quick step back. St. George heard someone move behind him. He turned and Freedom slammed a football-sized fist into his head.

It didn’t hurt, but he wasn’t ready for it and the force of the blow sent him reeling for a moment. Before he could shake his head clear Freedom had spun him around, grabbed his belt and one shoulder, and was forcing him across the room. The larger man took one step past St. George and lifted him up, the perfect position to—

He flailed, tried to stop himself, but it was too late.

Freedom hurled him at the window. St. George crashed through the blinds and felt part of the aluminum frame snap under his shoulder. All he could hear was the chime of broken glass and the rustle of the blinds tangled around him and the rush of wind in his ears.

Four stories gave him just enough time to turn and see the pavement rush at him like a speeding truck. He clenched his shoulders, his back, everything he could think of. Something would make him fly, but he couldn’t think of it in the second before he—

—woke up.

St. George opened his eyes and took a few deep breaths. He stared up at the distant ceiling. He could see exposed beams and catwalks, all painted black, and a few different lighting fixtures. Most of them were banks of fluorescent tubes, but some big china-hat lights hung up there, too.

His neck flared as he tried to sit up. There was a blanket between him and the concrete floor, but nothing else. His butt and elbows ached. His back and legs were sore.

A spot on his back tingled, right between his shoulder blades. He focused on it and fanned the tingle like a weak flame. It grew across his body and out, pushing down on the floor. On the world.

He rose into the air.

He relaxed his concentration and his boots tapped the concrete. He looked down at himself. Boots, jeans, and a black motorcycle jacket to replace the one Cairax destroyed. He felt his head and found a thick mass of hair that needed a shower and was a month past needing a cut.

His stomach grumbled. He was hungry. He rolled his abs and his stomach growled again. Hungry, but not starved. Maybe a little over a day without food? Two days, tops. He ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth, touched it to his lips, and guessed the same without water.

He looked behind him and forgot food.

Stealth, Barry, and the others were all unconscious. Each of them was sprawled on a blanket. Freedom stretched off the ends of his.

St. George ran to Stealth. She was in full uniform, with her hood pushed back off her head. He grabbed her shoulders and she leaped off the floor into his arms. He was strong again. Very strong. He took a breath, remembered how to treat the fragile world, and lowered Stealth down to the blanket.

She had a pulse, and he could feel her breath through her mask, but she wouldn’t wake up. He tapped her cheek, kissed her forehead and lips, and tugged at her mask. He knew from experience that unbuttoning his shirt in the same room could wake her up. Pulling at her mask should’ve provoked a much more extreme response. Most people would lose teeth.

“Hey,” he said. His voice echoed in the empty space. He raised it to a shout. “Stealth! Karen! Wake up!”

Nothing.

He looked at the others. None of them stirred, either. Barry
was wearing sweats, the kind of thing he wore just before or after a shift in the electric chair. Danielle was in street clothes, but he could see the collar of her Cerberus contact suit under her shirt. Freedom had his leather duster on over his Army uniform. Cesar and Madelyn were both in regular clothes. Her eyes were open and staring at the ceiling. It looked like they were dusty. St. George put two fingers on her pale neck and confirmed she didn’t have a pulse. She also wasn’t breathing.

In her case, he took it as a good sign.

They’d been set out in a wide circle, feet pointing outward, their heads toward the center. The placement seemed too deliberate to be an accident. There wasn’t anything connecting them, but all of their heads were within twenty or thirty inches of each other.

Not our heads, St. George realized. Our brains. He’s got our minds close together.

He looked around. He was pretty sure he was in one of the old studio stages on the Mount. They’d all been converted into living space when the Mount had first been set up, but most of them had been abandoned since the Big Wall went up and people had better housing options. They’d been stripped down and left empty shells, with most of the lumber going to the Big Wall.

Empty shells no one ever went to.

He gave his friends a last look and then lumbered to the door. His limbs were stiff. He forced his legs to take longer steps, made his arms swing higher.

He pushed on the door. It was stuck. He hit the bar again, hard, and dented it. He heard something scrape, a bang, and a jingle of metal. The door swung open.

The sunlight was blinding. He saw a few stick figures heading toward him, and a few blinks put blurry flesh on them. They stopped a few yards away.

“Sir,” said one of them. It was a woman’s voice. “What were you doing in there?”

One last blink turned the blur into First Sergeant Kennedy. One of Freedom’s soldiers from Project Krypton. She was still
wearing her uniform, but she’d rolled the sleeves up in tight, military fashion. Makana stood next to her. Alive. A few steps behind them were some other guards St. George recognized.

He looked over his shoulder. A huge, blue 32 was painted on the wall behind him. At his feet were a few broken links of chain and a twisted padlock. “What day is it?” he asked.

Makana raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“What day? How long have we been gone?”

“We?” asked Kennedy. “Is the captain with you?”

“We thought you were all off on a mission,” said Makana. “Have you just been sitting in there all this time?”

“How long?” snapped St. George.

Makana and Kennedy glanced at each other. “Maybe two days, sir,” the sergeant said. “You all left night before last.”

“You said you didn’t want to influence the election,” said Makana. “So you all went out on some scouting mission for a couple days, to check up on Legion or something.”

“What election?”

“The election for mayor,” Kennedy told him. After watching St. George’s expression, she added, “It was yesterday.”

“Yesterday?” St. George shook his head. Dates and times were a jumble. He tried to put everything in order, to make sense of it, and had a sudden understanding of what life had to be like for Madelyn on a regular basis. He took a deep breath while his memories sorted themselves out. “Who said we went away?”

Kennedy and Makana glanced at each other. “Well … you did,” said the dreadlocked man.

“When? How?”

Kennedy nodded in agreement. “You held a big meeting at the Melrose gate with four or five hundred of us. The captain, you, Stealth, Dr. Morris. You all said you were going to step away for three or four days.”

St. George looked at Kennedy. “When did he get here?”

“Sorry, sir?”

“Agent Smith,” he said. “John Smith. When did he get here?”

The first sergeant’s brow furrowed. “Agent Smith?”

“Yes.”

“Sir, we haven’t seen him since we left Project Krypton,” she said. “Last reports had him heading for Groom Lake.”

St. George stared at her. “He’s not here?”

“No, sir.”

“You’re
sure
he’s not here?”

Kennedy’s brows knotted for a minute, and then she scowled. She knew what he had done to her soldiers. And how he’d done it. “To the best of my knowledge,” she said, “Agent Smith has not been seen anywhere here at the Mount, sir.”

He looked at her for a moment, and then at Makana. “Okay,” he said. “Wait here.”

He staggered back into the stage. His legs were warming up, and his blood was flowing. He looked at the ring of his friends and made a decision.

He gathered Stealth in his arms, cradled her head, and looked up. The ceiling was about forty feet up. He glanced at her masked face, back up at one of the high girders, and threw her into the air.

Her cloak whipped around her as she soared upward. She rolled once, twice, and reached the top of her climb. Her knuckles rapped on one of the china-hat lights.

Then she plunged back down.

He flew up and caught her in midair. Her cape had wrapped around her like a shroud. She was limp in his arms. He put his ear close to her mouth and felt the same slow breaths.

“Damn it.”

He landed near the others and set her back down on her blanket.

“Boss?”

St. George looked over his shoulder. Makana had followed him in. The dreadlocked man gazed at the heroes sprawled on the floor of the huge space.

“Are they all …?”

St. George shook his head. “They’re alive,” he said. “I just can’t wake them up.”

Makana looked at him, then at the empty blanket he’d been on. “How’d you wake up?”

“Stealth had Freedom throw me out a fourth-floor window.”

“What?”

“Not important. I think Smith knew she’d be the hardest to keep under his control. She probably got a double dose or whatever it is he does.”

The dreadlocked man looked at the others. “So you can’t wake ’em up?”

“I don’t know.” St. George shifted, kneeled, and patted Madelyn’s cheeks. Up close he could see her eyes were dry. He shook her shoulders and poked her in the side.

“Pinch her earlobes,” said Makana. “I heard once that’s a good way to wake people up.”

St. George tried it. Nothing. He picked her up in his arms. “Stand back,” he said. “I’m going to try this again.”

Madelyn’s body tumbled toward the ceiling. Her arms swayed and her back arched. She reached her high point, her head tipped back, and she started to plummet back toward the stage floor.

Then she blinked twice and screamed.

St. George leaped into the air 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.