Ex-Heroes

Two NOW

St. George balanced on the point of the water tower, the highest point on the lot, and looked down at the fake city.

It was just a couple of buildings and a pair of short roads, and from this angle their facades were obvious. But compared to the rest of the Mount, New York Street looked normal. Normal and peaceful. It wasn’t unusual to find people wandering there, where they could walk two blocks on a sidewalk and pretend the world was still safe and made sense.

He’d visited the Mount twice. Before, when it was just a film studio. A friend of a friend had gotten him on the lot years ago and they’d spent an afternoon walking the choked streets and alleys. At the time, it had seemed like the most amazing place in the world. He remembered the fake city from that visit.

The second time had been at night, in costume. He’d stood on this very spot on top of the water tower and looked past the walls of the studio at the glowing expanse of Hollywood while the wind whipped his cape. He’d felt like an honest-to-God superhero.

It all seemed so long ago. Just over the West building he could see the North-by-Northwest residential area. Close to a thousand people packed into less than a city block. Stage Fifteen, on the far side of New York Street, has a large cluster of tents set up on the roof. Scavenged solar cells, water barrels, and gardens covered the rooftops.

It had taken two months after they moved into the Mount, but most of the stages had been changed into mass housing. Now there were two dozen families living in each one. The plus side was they all had plenty of space and huge rooftops for private gardens. The downside was two dozen immediate neighbors and lack of privacy.

As they’d all quickly discovered, lack of privacy was the killer. Over a hundred fights broke out the first week. Two of them ended in deaths. Stealth had thrown the murderers over the fence at the North Gower Gate. Their screams hadn’t lasted long, but the lesson had.

He looked over his left shoulder. Far in the distance, halfway to the ocean, he could see the towers of Century City. They’d filmed one of the original Planet of the Apes movies there. Just off to the left, he could see a few thin lines of dark smoke trace paths in the crisp blue sky.

People could say a lot of negative things about the apocalypse, but there was no arguing the air quality in Los Angeles had really improved.

As a gust of wind came from the west, he turned from the film sets and hurled himself off the tower. He soared across what had once been a parking lot and pool for water movies. It had taken them two months to fill it in with all the potting soil and dirt they could scavenge from the Home Depot up on Sunset, plus a few drugstores, but now it was just under half an acre of farmland in the heart of the lot. Over a dozen people walked the rows of soybeans, spinach, and potatoes with watering cans. Their tired eyes looked up at the hero as he flew over them.

He passed another rooftop and let himself drop between buildings. He could see himself reflected in Zukor’s mirrored windows before he landed on the narrow length of Avenue L. One of the guards in front of the hospital gave him a sharp nod, the other a lazy salute. The third man bowed his unusual head.

Gorgon had struck St. George as shifty and underhanded from the day they’d first met, probably because he always hid his eyes. He did it for everyone else’s sake, but it still bothered people. A huge pair of mechanical goggles covered half of Gorgon’s face. A spinning iris of dark plastic made up each lens, mounted in a rim the size of a can of tuna. He hadn’t been as good about combing his hair or shaving since Banzai had died, and, wearing his leather duster, he looked like a Japanese cartoon character.

A seven-pointed sheriff’s badge rode high on the duster’s lapel. Someone had dug it up from one of the prop or costume trailers. After Stealth’s lesson at the gate, Gorgon had taken it upon himself to patrol the streets, halls, and rooftops of the Mount. He wore the silver star with grim pride.

“Morning,” he said.

“Gorgon. Surprised to see you here.”

“Had to make a drop-off. Fight in the mushroom farm.”

“Again?”

“The big guy, Mikkelson,” said one of the guards. “Throwing his weight around again, yelling about starving.”

“I put him down,” said Gorgon. His head tilted a bit, a twitch, and let the lenses catch the light. “He hit his head on one of the trays and cut his forehead.”

“Still weird to see you here,” said St. George with a halfsmile.

Gorgon coughed. “I was the only one who could carry him up the damned stairs. You know what the Stage Five farm’s like.”

They all nodded.

He swept down the sides of his trenchcoat and gave the sheriff’s badge a quick brush. “Anyway, I’ve got rounds to make and I’m behind now.” He tipped his head to St. George. “Watch yourself out there this afternoon.”

“Hey, yeah,” said the other guard. He tipped his head after Gorgon. “Boss says all y’all’s going out today?”

St. George nodded. “Sheets have been up for a few days. You didn’t see?”

The man shook his head. He had a salt-and-pepper beard that added a dozen years to his face.

“If your shift’s over by eleven, be at Melrose,” said the hero. “We can fit you in.”

“I’ll be there.” The guard shifted the rifle on his shoulder.

Another guard stood inside the door and gave him a nod. Zukor was the most heavily defended building on the lot. If an outbreak happened inside the walls, it would start here. Each emergency room had three armed guards and all the medical staff carried sidearms. If someone died, putting a bullet in their brain was a top priority.

St. George paused at the large sign dominating the right-hand wall. Each of the letters was four inches tall. He’d memorized it at this point, but its sheer size made him look every time.

WARNING SIGNS FEVER-DIZZINESS-CHILLS-WEAKNESSHEADACHES BLURRED OR DOUBLE VISION-DIARRHEANAUSEA CONGESTION-PALE SKIN-TROUBLE BREATHING

PERSONS EXHIBITING ANY OF THESE SYMPTOMS MUST PRESENT THEMSEVLES FOR TESTING AND QUARANTINE IMMEDIATELY

The Adolph Zukor Building hadn’t always been the Mount’s hospital, but Stealth had pointed out they needed something more central and better equipped than the small first aid office off Avenue P. Deeper into the lobby was a statue of the man himself. St. George had moved it out of the way when they put the sign in.

He found Doctor Connolly in her office. Roger Mikkelson was sprawled across the examination table, his head wedged in place with two rolled up towels. She tied off a fourth and final stitch in the man’s forehead and mopped up some blood with a piece of gauze.

“Shouldn’t you use anesthetic or something when you do that?”

A few streaks of silver highlighted Doctor Connolly’s crimson hair, and fine wrinkles marked the edges of her eyes. She’d been a medical researcher when they found her in the remains of Hollywood Presbyterian. Now she was in charge of their small hospital staff. “Anesthetic’s a limited resource,” she said, “and Gorgon told me I had at least half an hour before he regained consciousness.” She smiled and peeled off her gloves. “To what do I owe the honor?”

He gestured up to the lights with his chin. “We’re going to have to put you on solar for a while. Barry’s coming out with us.”

“How long?”

“Four or five hours, tops. Do you have anything critical?”

She shook her head. “Slow week.” She nodded at Mikkelson. “He’ll be out of here once he wakes up. We’ve just got a broken leg, a concussion, and a gunshot wound staying here tonight.”

“Who got shot by who?”

“Zekiel Reid, Luke’s brother. He nodded off on the Marathon roof with his finger on the trigger. Ricochet caught him in the calf.”

“Idiot.”

“Lucky idiot,” Connolly said. “At that range he could’ve blown his foot off. If the bullet got him in the thigh, he would’ve bled out hopping here.”

“You don’t sound too surprised.”

She shrugged. “We’ve been seeing more and more accidents from the wall.”

“You think they’re trying to get out of guard duty?”

“I think they’re bored silly.”

“Yeah. Who would’ve guessed survival would be so dull?”

“To hell with that,” she snorted. “Who’d guess living in a movie studio would be so dull?”

“When I get back I’ll see about setting up shorter shifts. I think Gorgon has a few people ready to go on active guard duty.”

“Can I toss an idea at you? It’s something I’ve been thinking about.”

“Sure.”

She settled back against the wall. “Back before Nine-Eleven, I did a semester abroad in Egypt. Cairo American College. They were already nuts about security then. It took a serious effort to go anywhere and not have line of sight to a soldier or a police officer. Turns out they were having the same problem, though. All these men standing around for hours and hours every day with nothing happening. They were getting careless and having tons of accidents. Soldiers were shooting themselves in the leg or the foot. If they were on a tower they could even shoot people below them.”

St. George nodded. “How’d they solve it?”

“They stopped loading the guns.”

He smiled. “I don’t think that’ll fly with Stealth.”

Connolly shook her head. “They gave them ammo. They just didn’t let them stand around with it. They’d tape two clips together, one up, one down. That way the guns weren’t loaded, but all they had to do was flip the clips over and they’d be ready to go.”

“And you just happened to notice all that?”

“I was fifteen years younger, twenty pounds lighter, and traveling alone.” She gave him a smirk. “Men talked to me about anything they could think of.”

Across from them, Mikkelson groaned and twitched. A shiver passed through him and a slow hand reached up to feel his stitches.

“I hear it’s like having one of the worst hangovers of your life,” she said with a nod at the shuddering man.

“That it is. Any other news?”

“I think we’ve made a small breakthrough with the ex-virus. Nothing groundbreaking, from a practical point of view, but I’ll know for sure when some tests finish up this afternoon.”

He nodded.

Mikkelson almost fell off the table and swore under his breath. He stood on wobbly legs, took in a breath to start shouting, and saw St. George. The hero gave him a slow nod. “Problem, Roger?”

“I just wanted a couple extra mushrooms,” he muttered. “I was hungry. What the fuck’s the big deal?”

“I think when you take stuff that’s not yours they call it stealing.”

“They’re fucking mushrooms.”

“They’re food. You want more rations, you bring it up at your district meeting.”

“Whatever. What would you know about it? You don’t even eat.” He rubbed his stitches and pushed past them into the hall.

“You want to leave those alone,” said the doctor. “Come back in a few days and I’ll take them out.”

He waved a dismissive arm back at her.

“Roger,” St. George called down the hall. “This is two strikes for you. Next time it’s not me or Gorgon. You’ll have to deal with Stealth.”

The big man gave them another glance, but his eyes softened. He shoved his hands in his pockets and clomped down the stairs.

Connolly glanced at St. George. “You do eat, don’t you?”

“God, yes,” he said. “I dreamed about ultimate cheeseburgers last night. A big pile of them, all warm and wrapped in paper. I’d kill for some meat these days.”

She laughed. “One other thing?”

“Sure.”

“Can you talk to Josh? I think it would mean a lot to him.”

“Why?”

“He’s getting depressed again.”

“I mean, why would it mean anything coming from me? Heck, at this point you probably know him better than I do.”

“I do,” she said with a nod. “And that’s why I think he still relates better to you than he does to me. Not to swell your head or anything, but he used to be one of you and now he’s just one of us.”

“Wow. How superphobic of you.”

She smiled. “Did you just make that up?”

“No, I heard Ty O’Neill use it once. You know it’s a hell of a lot more than just losing his powers, right?”

“I know,” she said. “But there’s only so much I can deal with. The dead wife I can relate to. Loss of godlike powers …” She shrugged.

He sighed. “Yeah, okay. Where is he?”

“In the infirmary. Doing his rounds.”

“Ahhh,” said George. “Spreading his cheer and goodwill to all the patients.”

* * * *

The man once known as Regenerator stood by a hospital bed, checking his patient’s chart. His right hand rested in the wide pocket of his lab coat and a purple stethoscope dangled around his neck. The young man in the bed was out cold, his lower leg bound tight with white gauze.

St. George cleared his throat. “What’s up, Doc?” Josh Garcetti glanced up from the chart. “Hey,” he said. Without moving his pocketed hand he hung the clipboard at the end of the bed and held out his left. “Long time no see. What’ve you been up to?”

St. George caught the awkward hand and shook it. “Trying to survive the end of the world. You?”

“Same thing, smaller scale.” He made no attempt at a smile. The two men were close to the same age, the same height, but even slumped Josh’s shoulders were broader. Like so many people these days, his hair had gone gray years before it should have, and a few strands of pure white highlighted the mop. In white makeup, he could’ve passed for a somber Greek statue. In the lab coat, he was almost spectral. They walked back to the hallway. “Heard you’re heading out later today.”

“Around eleven.”

“Who’s going with?”

“Cerberus and Barry. I just came over to tell Connolly you’ll be on solar all afternoon.”

The doctor nodded and leaned against a set of file cabinets. A beat passed. Then another.

“You should come out some time.”

Josh shook his head. “No. Thanks for the offer, but no.”

“I think it’d do you some good.”

“How?”

“You haven’t gone out once. Hell, have you even been near an ex since …?” St. George paused again before giving an awkward nod at the pocketed hand. “Not really, no.”

“We could use you out there. You’ve got experience.”

“I have experience in field hospitals,” he said with a shake of his head. “I was never much of a fighter. Just good at not getting hurt.”

“You were good at making sure no one else got hurt, too.”

“No,” he said. His face hardened. “No, I wasn’t.”

“Fuck. You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

He closed his eyes. “I know. Sorry.”

“It’s coming up on two years, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Eleven more days.”

“You know …” said St. George as he edged out onto the emotional thin ice, “last year things were still pretty hectic. You want to get a drink or something? Talk? We could get Barry, Gorgon, maybe even convince Danielle to take the damned armor off.”

Josh turned to the cabinet behind the counter and examined the contents with sudden interest. “Again, thanks but no. I’m just going to stay home. Besides, Gorgon wouldn’t want to see me.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Let’s just drop it, okay?” He massaged his temple with two fingers.

“You should really come out, though.”

Josh opened his eyes. “Look, it’s a nice thought, but let’s face it. I’m too much of a distraction out there.” He pulled his other hand out of the lab coat’s wide pocket. “Everyone’ll just be looking at the damned bite instead of watching their own asses.”

As he raised the hand the sleeve sagged a bit and revealed part of his withered forearm. The flesh was pale and splotched with gray. Dark veins ran into his palm and met up with yellowed fingernails. The teeth marks were still visible, a semicircle of ragged holes just beneath his wrist.

For the first few months of his superhero career Josh Garcetti called himself the Immortal. He could heal from wounds in less time than it took to make them. Fire, bullets, broken limbs—he laughed at all of them. Then he discovered how to share his healing factor with others and he became Regenerator.

Then his wife died. And then the world went to hell. And then an ex bit his right hand. In one of the last field hospitals, as everyone pulled out and all the last-ditch emergency plans kicked in, a dead cop rolled over on the slab and sunk his teeth into Regenerator. Put him in a coma for three weeks, but it didn’t kill him and he didn’t change. For the past fourteen months his healing factor had done nothing but keep the infection from spreading past his biceps.

St. George tried not to stare at the hand. “You can’t hide in here forever, Josh.”

“Of course I can,” he said. “What do you think we’re all doing?”

They looked at each other for a moment. The hero made a noise that was half snort and half sigh, accompanied by a puff of black smoke.

“Look,” said the doctor, “I’ve got some immunizations to get ready for and an inventory to do. It was good seeing you, George. Be careful out there, okay?” He worked the hand back into its pocket, gave a faint bow with his head, and walked away.

* * * *

St. George stepped back out into the open air. “Hey,” the hero called to the guard with the salt-and-pepper hair, “what’s your name, anyway?”

“Jarvis,” he said with a grin. The guard gave a sharp, threefingered salute. “Pleased to meetcha.”

“Same. Melrose gate. Eleven.”

“See you at eleven,” echoed the bearded guard.

St. George gave him a nod and launched himself up to the roof of the hospital. Another kick got him up and over the stages to the east and headed toward Four.

Four had been a stage once. They’d found some plaques and paperwork that said shows like Deep Space Nine and Nip/Tuck had been filmed there. They’d stripped all the operating room sets there for Zukor, used the set walls for housing, and tied it into one of the Mount’s nearby power houses with heavy cable from the nearby lighting warehouses. Now it reeked of ozone and the air danced on St. George’s skin.

At the center of Four was the electric chair. It was a set of three interlocking circles forming a rough sphere, but the nickname had stuck. Each ring was wrapped with copper wire stripped out of three miles of cable. Five people had spent a month building it. St. George thought it looked just like an enormous toy gyroscope.

Floating inside the sphere was the blinding outline of a man. It was a reversed shadow, like looking at the sun through a man-shaped cutout. Arcs of energy shot from the white-hot figure to snap and pop against the copper rings.

“Morning, Barry,” the hero shouted over the crackling of power.

The glowing figure shifted in the sphere. It had no eyes, but St. George knew his friend was looking at him. A voice made of static echoed over the electric noise. Morning, it buzzed. You ready to head out?

St. George shook his head. “Not yet, but I asked everyone to switch over early. Thought you might like a bite to eat and a nap.”

God, yes, sighed the brilliant wraith. It shifted again and examined the building. Where’re my wheels?

“Over by the door.”

The outline nodded. Catch me , it buzzed.

There was a twist of lightning and the figure was outside the sphere. It sank to the floor and the concrete began to smoke. The shape grew dim, the air flattened, and a gaunt, naked man tumbled to the ground with the sudden “whuff” of a flame being snuffed out.

“Oh, Jesus!” he shouted. “It’s freezing in here. Where’s my clothes?”

“On the chair.” St. George scooped him up, taking the darkskinned man in one arm like a child.

“Get me over there, for Christ’s sake.”

“Wuss.”

“Big man, picking on the naked cripple,” Barry said. “Get me some damned pants.”

They crossed the room and St. George lowered his friend into the wheelchair. Barry dug through the bundle of clothes and wrestled his way into the sweatpants. He’d been dressing in the chair for most of his life, so it didn’t take long. He tugged a T-shirt over his stubbly head and wrapped himself in a fleece jacket. “No shoes?”

“What do you need shoes for?”

“My feet are cold.”

“So put on the other pair of socks.”

“Are they still serving breakfast?”

“Yeah. And I got you something to eat on the way.” He dropped a shrunken muffin in the other man’s lap.

“Thanks. Which truck are we taking out?”

“ Big Red , I think.”

“Good,” said Barry through a mouthful of pastry. “The shocks on Mean Green suck so bad I can feel it in my ass. You know what?”

“What?”

“I think this is the best blueberry muffin I have had in my entire life.”

“I’m sure Mary’ll be glad to hear someone liked them.”

“And I’m not just saying that because it’s been four days. This is one spectacular muffin.”

St. George spun his walkie in his hand. “You know what you want? I can call ahead, have something ready.”

“I will have,” he said with great thought, “a stack of at least five pancakes. Lots of syrup and whatever’s passing for butter these days. Some potatoes. And any of those powdered eggs they’ve got left.”

“That it?”

“We’ll talk later about what I’m taking with me for lunch. So, what’s going on?”

“How so?”

“You’re transparent, boy scout.”

St. George shrugged. “Just talked to Josh.”

“Oh, joy. How’d that go?”

“Same as always. Self-pity, a little self-loathing, determined to end his life a lonely martyr.”

Barry pushed another lump of muffin into this mouth. “One thing you have to say about our brave new world. It’s very consistent.”

* * * *

Big Red was parked next to the guard shack. It was a twenty-four-foot truck that had been used for hauling set dressing back when the Mount was in the movie business. The new residents had cannibalized and customized it for scavenging runs. They’d chopped off most of the box and built a new frame for it, making it into a gigantic pickup. It had a backup gas tank, a winch, and a cow catcher that had served as a battering ram once or twice. The doublecab sat four, another six rode in the bed, and a steel grill let two more ride on top of the cab. A petite woman with yellow and black stripes in her short hair was already there, seated on an old couch cushion. Lady Bee had an M-16 slung over her shoulder and a tactical holster strapped to one thigh. Someone once told St. George she’d been a movie costumer in the old days. She blew him a kiss as he walked past the truck.

Luke Reid was at the wheel, as always. He was a blond, broad-shouldered Teamster who used to drive trucks for a living before everything went south. St. George saw Jarvis in Big Red ’s back, along with Ty O’Neill, Billie Carter, Ilya, and a few others he sort of recognized. They all gave him salutes and determined nods. Barry was already asleep in the giant truck bed, stretched out on a thick pile of furniture blankets with his wheelchair strapped to the wall next to him.

St. George walked up to the Melrose Gate and stopped a few feet away from the dozens of grasping hands reaching and clawing between the bars. The exes had the gate mobbed, as they always did. It was the only place they could still see into the Mount, see all the succulent, tasty people standing inside.

Although, no one was sure if exes could see anymore. Almost no one used the word zombie. They’d been “exes” since the first presidential press conference. It made them easier to accept, somehow. The ex-living. Ex-people. Most of them still looked human. Usually the uninjured ones and the newer ones that hadn’t fed.

The former citizens of Los Angeles reached for St. George with discolored, rotting fingers. He could hear their joints pop as they moved. Dozens of jaws hinged open and closed, clicking their dark teeth together.

A curly-haired blonde whose mouth was caked with gore. A bald man with a gashed scalp and one ear. On opposite ends of the gate were a man and a woman in running clothes. By the left hinge, next to the female runner, was one with a face scoured down to the bare bone. A teenaged boy with a Transformers shirt and a clotted stump where his left hand should’ve been. A grandmotherly woman in a business suit stiff with blood. A black man near the break in the gate who stood still and stared back at St. George with blank eyes.

Their skin was anywhere from sidewalk gray to white, sometimes colored with dark purple bruises. Their eyes were all dull and faded, like cloudy glass. Many of them were just worn out. Flesh dry and cracking from months in the sun. Covered with injuries that would never heal but could never kill them.

St. George didn’t recognize any of them. That always made it easier.

A huge blue and platinum statue thudded over to stand next to him. His head didn’t even reach the stars and stripes stenciled across its armored biceps. The titan’s androgynous lines made it hard to think of as anything but an ‘it,’ even knowing there was a woman inside. She looked down at the hero with bright lenses the size of tennis balls. “You know I hate doing this, right?”

He nodded. “You’ve mentioned it.”

Cerberus turned her gaze to the crowd of exes. “Just so you remember on the day I finally snap. Where’s Barry?”

“Asleep in the truck. You charged up?”

The armored figure gave a clumsy dip of her head. The Cerberus Battle Armor System wasn’t built for subtlety. Of course, she hadn’t built it with subtlety in mind. Even without the M-2s mounted on her arms, Cerberus could take on almost anything left in the world. St. George had seen the nine-foot battlesuit rip a vault door off its hinges, lift a cement truck, and wade through a swarm of exes without scuffing the paint.

The guards had already unlocked the gate’s four reinforcing legs, and Derek and Carl stood waiting on either end of the long pipe resting across the Melrose Gate.

“Everyone ready?” shouted St. George. “Gate? Luke? Guards?”

They all nodded.

He leaped into the air and soared over the archway. As he sank back to street level outside the gate, his foot lashed out and an ex flew back. He grabbed two more by their necks and hurled them across the six-lane street.

The exes sensed life and the mob closed on him. Hands grabbed at him. Bony arms wrapped around his neck. A faceless thing that may have been a woman once bit down on his arm and lost two teeth.

St. George seized a wrist, swung the dead thing in a wide circle, and knocked down half a dozen more before launching it into the air. It clanged into the stoplight over the intersection. He slammed his palm into a breastbone and the ex flew back through some bushes into a wall. Another tried to grab his calf as it crawled to its feet and his boot broke its spine just above the shoulder blades.

“Still creeps me out, watching that,” said Derek.

Carl stared out at the battle. “Seeing them pile on him?”

“Seeing them not do anything to him.”

“Open it up,” barked the battlesuit. Cerberus clenched her three-fingered hands into fists as big as footballs.

The guards hefted the pipe from its brackets and trotted out of the way. The gates swung open and Cerberus stomped out. Some of the clawing exes were dragged along, their arms tangled in the gates. She brought her armored fist around like a wrecking ball and shattered their skulls. Another punch crushed an ex’s chest even as it sailed backward.

St. George flung off a dead man gnawing at his shoulders. The ex slammed into an old grandmother and they both tumbled away from the gate. Another one reached for him and the hero grabbed its elbow and swung it into the air. Its flailing legs knocked down three more exes before the arm snapped off and it tumbled away across the cobblestones. “Make a path!” he shouted.

Cerberus spread her fingers and brought her stun fields up. Her gauntlets sparked and snapped with white lines. The titan stomped toward the street and exes dropped at her touch. She left a path of figures wiggling on the ground behind her. “Bring it out!” she bellowed with a wave.

Big Red ’s engine growled and Luke guided the truck forward through the gate. The heavy tires crushed legs, arms, and skulls beneath them. A few exes flailed at the cab and the truck 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.