Ex-Patriots (44 page)

“NO,” roared Legion.

More than half the trucks were through. Some
of the exes furthest out from the base tried to intercept the
convoy, but they were either run down or gunned down by Freedom and
the rest of the Unbreakables. A few closed from the south but the
guns on the Guardians and Humvees kept them at bay.

Zzzap dipped low and burned a path through
the last of the gate exes. They scattered and their teeth chattered
at him. The pale wraith soared into the twilight sky.

St. George landed on one of the last Humvees
next to Stealth. One of her Glocks put a round between the eyes of
a dead woman that came running at the vehicle. She spun the other
one in her hand and whipped it across the jaw of a dead soldier
crawling up the back of the vehicle.

Another ex threw itself against the side of
their Humvee. It was a dead man wearing a ragged, bloodstained Army
uniform. A large chunk of flesh had been torn from its throat. Its
scalp was peeled away down to the jaw line on the left side of its
face. St. George could just make out the name ADAMS on the front of
its jacket.

“You can’t get away from me,” it growled. The
words echoed. All the exes the Humvee roared past were speaking in
time with it. “This is my world now, Dragon man. I’m everywhere.
There’s no escape.”

St. George grabbed the dead man by the jacket
and lifted him up so they were eye to eye. “I guess we’ll just have
to see about that.”

He let the ex drop and it fell beneath the
Humvee’s wheels. The convoy rolled on, heading west toward
California.

THEN

“Wake up, people,” Johnson shouted over the headset.
“We’re twenty minutes outside of Los Angeles. Let’s be ready and be
focused.”

I was sharing the dark crew compartment of a
Black Hawk with First Sergeant Kennedy, Platoon Sergeant Johnson,
and the men of Unbreakable Twenty-one. The rotors drowned out any
sound that didn’t come over the comm sets. The helicopter had a hot
smell to it. Part of it was the engine, part of it was flying over
the desert. Even at night, the desert was hot in the summer.

I wasn’t fond of the heat. In my second
command position, I’d been in the field for nineteen days when an
insurgent fired an anti-tank round into our Humvee. Somehow I was
thrown clear with minor injuries. Three other soldiers survived,
two men and a woman. I dragged each of them from the wreck. Each of
them had third degree burns on at least forty percent of their
bodies. I remember the smell, which was too much like the scent of
fatty ribs grilling in the summer. Someone told me later it was
probably Sergeant North. One of her breasts was burned off in the
fire.

I needed skin grafts on both hands. The
doctors told me it was a miracle I hadn’t suffered nerve damage.
There was a minor investigation to make sure I wasn’t incompetent
or trying for a 4-F. Then I was given another Purple Heart, a
Silver Star, and promoted to first lieutenant.

More dead soldiers on my hands. Yet another
time I was “one of the only survivors.”

The Unbreakables checked weapons and adjusted
gear. A few of them had their eyes closed and took slow breaths.
“Man,” said Truman. “I always wanted to see Hollywood. Never
thought it’d be like this.”

“Stay sharp, people,” I said. “Remember, best
estimates say there could be five million ex-humans in the city. We
don’t know how well these people have secured their borders. We
don’t even know if they have a solid perimeter. Do not let your
guard down. First thing on our task list is protecting Agent Smith.
Protecting each other is second. Contact with survivors is third.
Clear?”

“Sir, yes, sir,” they chorused.

I still wasn’t sure why Colonel Shelly had
insisted Smith come along, but what’s done was done. I didn’t like
putting a civilian advisor above the safety of my soldiers. He was
in the other Black Hawk with Unbreakable Eleven.

“You heard the captain,” said Johnson. “You
see anything, you hear anything, don’t hesitate. Clear?”

They shouted confirmation again.

“No surprises, no screw ups,” he said. “We’re
on the ground in sixteen.”

Taylor threaded ammo into his Bravo and
looked up. “Hey, you know what they got out here? Fucking celebrity
exes. Did anyone think about that?” He hooked the box in place and
hefted the massive rifle. “We might get to shoot someone
famous.”

Laughter echoed through the helicopter.
Normally I don’t condone profanity. First Sergeant Paine hadn’t,
either. There was a wonderful statement in the first few pages of
Vonnegut’s
Hocus Pocus
, which I read as a very young man.
Simply put, profanity just gives people a reason to ignore you.

It was good to hear them laugh, though. I
knew the long months at Krypton had been wearing them down.

Eddie Franklin threw a cleaning rag at
Taylor. “You looking for anyone in particular?”

“Fucking Uwe Boll,” said the specialist. “If
that dumb fuck’s a zombie I’m gonna put ten rounds in his
head.”

Franklin tapped on his knee. “Does a director
count as a celebrity?”

“D’you know who he is?”

“I’ve heard of him, yeah, but—”

“Then he’s a celebrity.”

“Yeah, but he’s not on TV or anything,” said
Franklin. “If TV doesn’t care about you, you’re not really a
celebrity.”

“Did The Rock live in Los Angeles?” asked
Jefferson. “That’d be pretty awesome, being the guy who took out
the zombie Rock.”

“I’d go big, too,” said Harrison. “Maybe Tom
Cruise or Will Smith.”

“Will Smith’s too cool to be an ex,” said
Franklin. “And he was in
I Am Legend
. He knows how to fight
zombies.”

“Those weren’t zombies,” said Corporal Polk.
His eyes stayed closed. “They were mutant vampires or
something.”

“Whatever. If he’s not still alive, I bet he
went down fighting and didn’t come back.”

Taylor threw the rag back. “What about you,
Hayes? Any famous ex-people you want to shoot?”

The specialist mulled it over for a few
moments. “David Grant Wright.”

“Who the fuck is David Grant Wright?” said
Taylor.

“He did all these Jiffy Lube commercials,”
said the soldier, twisting his lip. “He was their spokesman for a
bunch of years. I hate Jiffy Lube. They had this new guy there once
and he forgot to refill my radiator. Car overheated and I ended up
stuck there for the whole afternoon.”

Harrison chuckled. “So you want to kill their
spokesman?”

“I like Jiffy Lube,” said Truman.

“And he did this crap
Beastmaster
movie I saw when I was a kid. I looked him up once. I’m so gonna
shoot that guy if I see him.”

They all laughed. So did I.

Hayes threw the rag at the man across from
him. “Ryan?”

“Just like
Fight Club
,” said Polk. He
patted his Bravo. “I want Shatner.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Jefferson. “Forget The Rock.
If he’s got Shatner I’m claiming Leonard Nimoy.”

“I’ll take The Rock,” said Truman.

“How about you, First Sergeant?” said
Harrison. “There someone famous you’d like to get if they’ve gone
ex?”

Kennedy shook her head. “I wouldn’t want some
flash-in-the-pan or cult celebrity,” she said. “I’d want somebody
real. Somebody people are going to remember forever, like Natalie
Portman. Or Alex Trebek.”

A few of the soldiers whistled and
nodded.

They all looked at me.

I shook my head. “I’m not here to play
games,” I said. I made sure my tone let them know I didn’t
disapprove of their enthusiasm. “Besides, there’s only one person
I’m hoping to see.” I cracked my knuckles and patted Lady Liberty
on my thigh.

A few of the soldiers nodded. “The Dragon,”
murmured two or three of them.

“You can take him, captain, sir,” said
Franklin. They hollered and a few of them clapped. They were good
people. I wasn’t going to lose any of them.

“We’ll see,” I told them when they stopped
cheering. “Doctor Sorensen’s done great work, but now we’ll see how
we stack up against the real deal.”

NOW

It took them four days to make their was back to Los
Angeles. They lost eight soldiers at a refueling stop just outside
of Salton City. They found a group of fifteen survivors in Palm
Springs.

Now St. George hung in the night sky above
the Mount’s water tower. One hand rested on the tall spire,
anchoring him in place while he looked down at his home. He’d been
back for seven hours and already buried with a week’s worth of
requests, updates, and decisions to make.

He heard boots on the tower’s ladder. The
conical roof shuddered under heavy footsteps. It wasn’t Stealth
slipping up behind him.

“Nice view,” said Freedom.

“That it is,” agreed St. George. He glanced
back at the huge officer. “I never get tired of it.”

“How is Mr. Burke doing?”

“He’s okay now. He went into shock as soon as
he changed back. Doctor Connolly got him on a glucose drip or
something like that. She says he’ll probably be eating and
requesting DVDs tomorrow.”

“And that’s good, right?”

“Well... it’s normal. Let’s leave it at
that.”

The huge officer coughed once, then cleared
his throat. “I wanted to apologize, sir,” he said. “For everything
that happened back at Yuma.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I could shift the blame and say I was
following orders, but I think on some level I knew a lot of it
didn’t make sense. I knew it was wrong. I take full responsibility
for my actions.”

“Don’t worry about it,” repeated St. George.
“Smith was screwing with your head. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I’m still sorry for what happened, sir, and
for how I treated you. You and your woman.”

“Oh, jeeeez,” St. George shook his head and
glanced over at the Roddenberry building. “Don’t let her hear you
say that or she’ll beat you senseless.”

Freedom smiled. “I’d like to see her
try.”

“Yeah, don’t say that either. Seriously, it’s
like tempting fate.”

“Not wearing your coat, sir?”

St. George glanced down at his patchwork
flight jacket. “I’ve got to be honest. Digital camouflage isn’t
really my style. Plus, it’s hot as hell.”

“You get used to it.”

“Maybe when winter rolls around.” He let his
feet settle down onto the roof of the water tower. “So, captain,
what are you going to do now?”

Freedom looked out at Los Angeles. “I’m not
sure, sir, to be honest. First Sergeant Kennedy and I discussed it
several times on the trip out here. The men want me to stay in a
command position, but I think an active military presence doesn’t
fit with what you’ve established here at the Mount.”

St. George shook his head. “Not really,
no.”

“A few of them have even said we should
strike out on our own. Try to make it back to Yuma or maybe Fort
Bliss. See if there’s anyone left there.”

“Could you make it?”

“Probably.”

“Do you really think you’ll find anyone?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Doesn’t sound like the best tactical
decision.”

“Maybe not, sir. But it’s the one that fits
best with who I am.”

St. George smiled. “What if I could give you
another option?”

“Like what?”

The hero bent down and picked up the bundle
resting against the spire. He grabbed it by the corners and shook
it out. Freedom raised an eyebrow.

“Is this a joke, sir?”

“Not at all,” said St. George. “The
position’s been empty for nine months now. A couple people have
tried to fill it unofficially, but I think you might be just the
man for the job.”

Freedom stepped forward, his boots clanging
on the tower. “You’re serious?”

“Very. I talked it over with Danielle on the
trip, and she agrees this is the way to go. And that you’re
ass-kicking enough to deserve this. So does Stealth. We got someone
to let it out for you.”

The larger man took it and shrugged it up
over his body. “It’s tight in the arms. And across the chest.”

“Do you own anything that’s not tight across
the chest?”

“Not at the moment.”

“He can probably add in some more material or
something. What do you think?”

“It is appealing, sir, but I can’t abandon my
commission. Or my men.”

“I’m not asking you to,” said St. George.
“I’m just hoping you can do this for now, help us protect these
people, and keep this place safe and peaceful. It gives your men a
purpose. It gives you a purpose.”

Freedom stretched his arms. It was tight, but
he could still move. “You know, I’ve got to be honest, sir. I’ve
wanted one of these coats ever since I saw
Hellboy
.”

“You can lose the sir. It’s just St. George.
Or George, even.”

“I’ll hang onto sir for now, sir.”

Voices echoed up to them from the base of the
tower. Two men were shouting at each other. St. George recognized
one of them as Roger Mikkelson. He was waving his arms at one of
Christian Nguyen’s regular lackeys.

“Duty calls,” said St. George with a
smile.

The large officer smirked and bowed his head
to the hero. Then he leaped off the water tower and plunged down to
street level.

Captain Freedom hit the pavement and it
cracked under his heels. The two men leaped back, their argument
forgotten. He straightened up and brushed back the lapels of the
leather duster to let the light hit the seven-pointed silver
badge.

“Let’s take it easy there, gentlemen,” he
said. “Now, what seems to be the problem?”

One of the worst sensations in the world is writing
your first book. Don’t let anyone tell you anything different. In
many ways it’s glorious and thrilling, but there’s always that
nagging fear, the one gnawing away at the writer each night. Am I
wasting my time? Will anyone ever read it? Will they like it?