Ex-Communication: A Novel (20 page)

Max pulled a few different shirts from the bag. He reached back and pulled the scrubs over his head. His shoulders and
chest were covered with elaborate designs. Four smaller ones on his back framed a perfect circle of bare skin.

“I didn’t know Jarvis had so many tattoos,” said St. George.

“He doesn’t,” Max said as he shook out a pinstriped shirt. “I do.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” said Freedom.

“No, it does,” the sorcerer assured them. He pulled the shirt on while he searched for another analogy. “It’s like … Okay, you know how you have hair in the Matrix even if you don’t in the real world? Because in your mind you picture yourself with hair?”

“Are you trying to explain this using
The Matrix
?”

“I’ve been hanging out with Barry a lot, okay? It’s the same thing, though. The soul is all about identity, and the body is part of someone’s identity. Granted, we all tend to picture ourselves a little taller, a little thinner, but past that there are always physical things we just accept as an inherent part of who we are, and these are the things that are hard-wired into our soul. They carry over in cases like this.”

Max gestured down at his chest. “All these tattoos are part of me. It’s how I see myself. You could say they were inked into my soul as well as my skin. But if, say, Billie here came back, she’d probably only bring her Marine Corps tattoo with her, not the rose or the dolphin.”

Stealth shook her head. “Psychosomatic tattoos?”

“If you like.”

“You’ve got a big bare patch on your back,” said Freedom.

“Because that one wasn’t supposed to carry over,” said Max. “Big, soul-scarring magic. One use only. If I can’t see it, it can’t become part of my identity.”

St. George looked at the ink patterns as Max buttoned the shirt up. Now that he knew what they were, he was surprised he didn’t recognize them sooner. He remembered the night Cairax had beaten him bloody, and the tattoo-covered man the zombie demon had turned into.

Billie’s hands knotted into fists as they all mulled over the explanation. “How,” she growled, “do you know I have a dolphin tattoo?”

He rolled his eyes. “I was a ghost here for a year and a half. Believe me, I’ve seen every tattoo everyone has.”

She fumed but said nothing.

The resurrected man pulled a pair of jeans and some underwear from the bag and let his hospital pants drop to the floor. A minute later he tugged on some socks and was searching the bag again. “This was all he had for ties?”

The thought of slapping Max passed through St. George’s mind again. “I don’t think Jarvis was ever worried about formal occasions,” he said.

Max sighed, selected a tie, and tossed the rest back in the bag. “So how are we playing this?” he asked. “I knew my return wasn’t going to get cheers, but I didn’t expect it to be this cold. Am I a prisoner? A partner? A free citizen?”

St. George glanced at Stealth. “I don’t think we need to make you a prisoner,” he said.

“Good.”

“However,” said Stealth, “it would be best if you did not go anywhere unescorted.”

Max knotted the tie around his neck. “Still worried about what Father Andy said? That I’m going to cause an uproar?”

“There is that possibility,” she said, “but I still believe it is slight. There is no need to cause confusion with your borrowed body.”

“It’s not exactly borrowed,” said Max. “I can’t give it back.”

“Stolen, then.”

“I was going to suggest donated. My hair will change color in a day or two, that’ll help,” he added. “I think I might lose a few pounds, too.”

Freedom gave him a look. “Just like that?”

“Coming back from the dead burns a lot of calories,” said Max. “Speaking of which, I haven’t eaten a meal in almost three
years. Not one I’d want to remember, anyway. Any chance of getting some food?”

“Billie,” said St. George, “can you show him around? Maybe keep an eye on him until Freedom gets someone assigned to him?”

She gave a sharp nod and looked at Max. “Ready when you are.”

Max held out a hand to St. George. “Thanks again. I owe you big time.”

St. George looked at the hand for a moment and then shook it. “Let’s just get rid of the demon as quick as we can.”

The sorcerer held out his hand to Stealth, but she stared past him. He pursed his lips, nodded, and left with Billie.

“We require a moment of privacy, captain,” said Stealth.

“Of course, ma’am,” said Freedom. He bowed his chin to the two of them and left.

“Well,” said St. George. “What are you thinking?”

“I am thinking,” said Stealth, “I do not believe his story.”

“Which part of it?”

“The parts involving magic and an afterlife.”

“So … all of it.”

“Several superhumans across the world manifested similar abilities. The Iranian hero Marduk had powers almost identical to yours. The British hero Scarecrow had agility and speed on par with Banzai’s. We know Legion has the ability to project his consciousness. It is possible Cairax survived in the same manner.”

“Max,” corrected St. George. “If he’s telling us the truth, Cairax is outside the Big Wall.”

“If he is telling us the truth,” said Stealth, “but I do not believe he is.”

“Why?”

“His body language is inconsistent. At the least he is withholding information from us.”

St. George nodded. “So what do you want to do?”

“For the moment, we shall allow him the time he wants. There were no scavenging missions scheduled for another four days, so it changes nothing.”

“Okay. And then?”

“Then we shall question him again.”

There was a rap at the door. Dr. Connolly stood outside. “St. George,” she said. “Stealth. Could I speak with you two for a minute?”

A moment passed before the cloaked woman turned her head to Connolly. “What is it, doctor?”

Connolly held up a clipboard, then paused. She looked over her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she said. “The man in the hall. Did … did Jarvis have a brother or cousin I didn’t know about?”

“Sort of,” said St. George.

She looked at the empty bed and the hospital clothes piled near it. “And his body is …?”

“These are questions for another time, doctor,” said Stealth.

She looked at the bed again and blinked. “Was that him? You let him reanimate and he’s … he’s alive again?”

“It isn’t him,” said St. George. “It looks like him, but—”

“Another time, doctor,” repeated Stealth. There was an edge to her voice that cut through the conversation.

They stood in the hospital room for a moment. Then Connolly cleared her throat. “All of Madelyn’s tests are done and they confirm what I suspected the other day. She’s not an ex.”

She held a clipboard out to St. George. Stealth intercepted it and flipped through the handwritten notes. “Explain,” said the cloaked woman.

The doctor shrugged. “She doesn’t have the virus. Her core temperature is actually a little higher than an ex’s, even if it’s still well below normal. All I can think is it might be a new strain we haven’t identified, one our tests aren’t catching.”

Stealth shook her head. “The ex-virus does not mutate,” she said.

“I know. Josh used to say the same thing, but it’s all I can
think of. Plus, all those blood and tissue samples we took? All the cuts and punctures from them are gone.”

Stealth’s gaze rose from the clipboard. “She is healing?”

“Healing’s not really the right word. It implies a process of growth and repair on a cellular level.”

“And she’s not doing that?” asked St. George.

“No. She’s just … getting better. The wounds go away. It didn’t even occur to me that she doesn’t have any injuries from the attack that killed her. Captain Freedom said she was torn apart in front of him, but her only injury is severe scratching on her corneas. I’m guessing it’s because dust on her eyes causes consistent, ongoing damage. It happens as fast as it goes away.

“I also did an extended eye exam. Her irises react to light but at maybe a tenth the speed they should. I tried to get them to dilate and it took fifteen minutes.”

“There are several recorded instances of people whose reactions and vital signs drop below normal ranges,” Stealth commented. “They are often mistaken for dead.”

“Those people are usually in comas,” said Connolly, “not walking around having conversations. And Madelyn doesn’t have low vital signs. She has none. Zero. She’s … she’s a corpse.”

“A corpse which speaks, thinks, and only eats meat,” said Stealth.

“She eats meat,” agreed the doctor, “but she’s shown complete control of herself at all times. It’s just a regular appetite. I can try to come up with new tests, but from a medical point of view …”

“So, if she’s not an ex,” said St. George, glancing at Stealth, “what is she?”

Connolly shrugged again. There was something tired and frustrated about the gesture. “I’m at a loss. Sorry.”

St. George drummed his fingers against his thigh. “You’re sure she’s not contagious?”

“I can’t find a single infectious organism in her,” said Connolly. “I even did a few mouth swabs just to check for basic
bacteria. Nothing. It’s more hazardous to let us walk around than her.”

“What are her anaerobic bacterial levels?” asked Stealth.

“Nonexistent,” said Connolly, “which wouldn’t be surprising in an ex, either, but …” She sighed. “I’m sorry. This is just completely beyond me. She’s walking around, she’s conscious, and she’s dead. And I have no idea why or how.”

“ARE YOU OKAY
, ma’am?” asked Freedom.

Madelyn looked up at him. “Can you not call me that? You make it sound like I’m some ninety-year-old dowager or something.”

“Sorry,” he said. “I forgot. You asked me that before.”

“I did?” Her brow wrinkled up and she managed a half smile. “I guess I forgot, too.” She took a few quick steps ahead and raised her arms to the afternoon sun.

He let her have the distance and kept his pace. “I remember thinking ‘dowager’ was an unusual word for a teenage girl to use.”

“I had to read
Great Expectations
a few months ago for class.” She paused in mid-step. “Well, a few years ago. The word was on the back of the book, but,” she said, with a knowing tone, “Charles Dickens never actually used it himself.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah. And, yeah, I’m okay,” she added. “This is great. It’s just … it feels like forever since I’ve been out without all my gear.”

Freedom still thought it was good she’d decided to wear a coat and long sleeves. Having her blood drained had left Madelyn’s skin chalk white. It wasn’t as noticeable in the bright sunlight, but it was still a stark contrast against her dark hair
and the collar of her shirt. A contrast people were too familiar with. Even with her new sunglasses, the dead girl drew a few long stares from the people along Vine Avenue. Fortunately, not many people chose to live near the Big Wall.

Madelyn didn’t seem to notice them. She took a few more twisting steps with her arms up, turning in a half circle with each movement. Then she stopped and looked up at the huge man again. “Did he suffer much?” she asked him.

“Who, ma’am—Madelyn?”

It got him another half smile, but her mouth went flat just as quick. “My dad,” she said. “Did he suffer much when he died?”

An image flashed through Freedom’s head of the body St. George had recovered just before they’d abandoned the proving ground’s sub-base. The only recognizable parts of Emil Sorensen had been the bloodstained tie and half of a ragged gray beard. His clothes, and the flesh beneath them, had been reduced to tatters. They’d laid his body to rest in one of the base’s watchtowers, out of the undead’s reach.

Captain Freedom had seen it as a complete failure. The entire Sorensen family had died under his watch. Three civilians it had been a specific part of his orders to protect.

“No,” lied the huge officer. “It was quick. He never felt a thing.”

Madelyn nodded and a tear slipped out from under her sunglasses. She wiped it away and started walking again. “Sorry,” she said. “I know I shouldn’t cry. He’s been dead for a year, right?”

“A little less,” said Freedom.

“Sorry. I haven’t had to do this with people much. The memory thing. I’m trying. Damn it.”

The dead girl stopped and dug in her pockets. She came out with a bottle of eyedrops and spun the cap open. Her head tilted back as she raised the bottle.

Freedom made a point of examining the balcony of an apartment building across from the Big Wall. The sound of
teeth from the other side of the Wall echoed off it. He knew a few people lived in the building. He wondered how they dealt with it.

Madelyn coughed and he looked back at her. The wetness turned her chalky eyes into pearls. “Thank you,” she said.

“Of course, ma’am.”

“You’re doing it again.”

“Sorry. Years of training.”

She dropped the bottle back in her pocket and settled her sunglasses back across her face. “If anyone ever asks you, crying with dry eyes hurts.”

Freedom nodded and gestured at the street. “Do you want to go back to your room?”

Madelyn shook her head. “No thanks.”

“Is it comfortable enough? We could get you some books or music or whatever you might like.”