Peter Clines - Ex-Communication

One of the more popular theories said the Cellar was a prison for infected citizens, or a dumping ground for people who’d been reanimated by the ex-virus. Some people thought the Thing was a reanimated superhero whose powers made him or her too dangerous to let wander through Los Angeles. A few folks who’d been part of the film industry back when the Mount was a studio told stories about how the Hart Building had always been a nexus of supernatural incidents, and had once been considered one of the most haunted places in Hollywood.

Even the guards didn’t know what was in the Cellar. All they knew was that they had strict orders. If the Thing—whatever it was—tried to get out of the building, they weren’t supposed to hesitate or ask questions. They were just supposed to shoot until they were out of ammunition.

It didn’t help the rumors that only one person was allowed into the Hart Building. Once a month he would descend into the basement and the guards would lock the door behind him. He’d stay down there for an hour or two and then come out looking grim.

St. George landed on 3rd Street in front of the Hart Building. Today it was Mike Meryl and Katie O’Hare on guard. Mike walked with a limp from an old injury, so a static guard post was perfect for him. Katie liked any position where she didn’t have to talk to people.

They each gave him a polite nod and bent to the locks. There was only one reason for him to come here, and they’d been expecting him for a day or two now. They set the padlocks on the steps and unwrapped the chain. It ran through four big eye-bolts in the door frame.

The Hart Building didn’t have a lobby. The doorway opened up onto a staircase landing. St. George stepped through and Katie closed the door behind him. He stood there while the chains rattled back into place. The padlocks thumped against the door and he headed down.

There was a short hallway that ended at another padlocked door. This one was more solid, and had rubber bumpers around the edge to help seal the inside from moisture and air. They’d stored videotapes and files down here once, years ago. George dug a key out of his pocket and the lock popped open. A wisp of smoke curled up out of his nose and he opened the door.

Cell Nine was in the middle of the room. A pair of mattresses were stacked in the far corner of the cell, decorated by a mess of sheets and blankets. A few dozen books were piled in the opposite corner. They were all battered paperbacks, or hardbacks that had been torn out of their cover. Nothing hard.

There was no toilet. Not even a bucket. The occupant never needed one, which made sense. He hadn’t eaten anything in almost a year.

The prisoner didn’t look up when St. George entered. He had a book in one hand. He made a show of turning the page and reading another paragraph before his eyes flitted up to meet the hero’s.

“Hello, George,” he said. “It’s been a while. I thought you might’ve finally given up on me.”

“ DO YOU BELIEVEhim?”

St. George shrugged and set another tomato on the cutting board. “Not really. I mean, he was doing it again when I walked in.”

Stealth gave a faint nod. “I have seen him go through the motions of conversations three times this past week alone. There was no evidence of another speaker.”

“Did you check to see if he was talking to someone on the radio?”

“I did,” she said. She carried a stack of plates and bowls to the table. She balanced them on one hand and held the silverware in the other. “I checked five months ago when his behavior patterns could no longer be denied.”

“What?” The knife slipped to the side and grated against his finger. It ruined the edge of the blade. He glanced from the knife to Stealth and back. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“I knew the answer would upset you. And there is currently nothing we can do about it.”

He pulled another knife from the block on the counter and attacked the last tomato again. “And the answer is …?”

Stealth did something quick with her left arm and a single plate slid onto the table in front of a chair. “He is not talking to anyone, George. I monitor all broadcast communications within the Mount, and many beyond it. There have been no radio conversations that match up with the ones he is having. I have checked during sixteen separate incidents since then. He is not communicating with anyone.”

St. George stopped dicing. “What does that mean?”

She didn’t meet his eyes. “It means he is talking to himself. Under normal circumstances, this would be seen as a sign of several possible personality disorders. Chronic anxiety. Dementia. Schizophrenia.”

His eyes fell to the cutting board and he was quiet for a moment. Then he looked at her again. “Under normal circumstances?”

Another plate slid onto the table from the stack in her hand. She framed it with silverware. “It is worth noting that Zzzap speaks to himself,” she said, setting down a spoon. “Barry does not.”

“Are you sure?”

“I cannot say conclusively. The majority of his time is spent as Zzzap, and most of his time in his human form is spent sleeping. However, in five months of observation I have never seen Barry speak to himself.”

“So it’s something about being Zzzap that’s doing this to him.”

“Perhaps. Or something he is only susceptible to in his energy form.”

St. George glanced at the door. He lifted the cutting board and used the knife to sweep the diced tomatoes into the pot. “So what do we do?”

She assembled the final place setting. “I do not know,” she admitted. “We have converted many buildings to solar power, but Zzzap still supplies half the electricity within the Big Wall. It would be a major setback if we decided he was unable to do this.”

“You think it’s that bad? We couldn’t even keep him in the chair?”

Stealth sighed and looked at him. “While Zzzap has often referred to himself as a small star, the truth is that his energy form is far closer to a nuclear bomb, one frozen in the instant after detonation. It is his conscious will that keeps the explosion from proceeding.”

St. George set an onion down on the cutting board and cut it in half.

“Consider the possibility of him seeing hallucinations as well as hearing them. If Zzzap were to fire one of his blasts at street level within the Mount, my best estimates have over sixty people killed or wounded, increased to one hundred fifty in the attempt to contain fires and damages.”

“If he’s insane.”

“Correct,” said Stealth, “although I have seen nothing yet that makes for a convincing diagnosis of any type. As I said, there is currently nothing we can do.”

“We can keep an eye on him. Let him know we’re here.” He finished chopping the onion and added it to the pot.

She came back to the kitchen. “I assumed that was a given.”

He set a handful of mushrooms on the cutting board. “I’m still not sure sometimes.”

“I care about his well-being,” she said. “Zzzap is a valuable asset to the Mount.”

St. George smiled. “That’s what you used to say about me.”

“It is still true. Any personal feelings I may have do not change that fact.” She gathered up the glasses. “I am no longer certain this is a wise course of action.”

“Not confronting him?”

“Dinner.”

“It’s going to be fine. You’ll be fine.”

She walked back to the table. “I feel very exposed.”

“It’s dinner,” he said. “Not reconnaissance.”

“Neither Barry nor Danielle is expecting to see me here, let alone in a casual situation.”