Peter Clines - Ex-Communication

“We’ll be fine,” said Ilya.

St. George shot up into the sky. He carried Jarvis up above the buildings, until they were higher than the hills and could see Hollywood proper on the other side. He took a moment to orient himself off the larger landmarks, found the Cinerama Dome, and followed the street another block to the corner of the Big Wall.

The same corner he’d beat Legion back from a few nights earlier.

“Damn,” said Jarvis. He shivered in the chill air. “Forgot to tell you I’m scared of heights.”

“Yeah,” said St. George, “you should’ve brought that up. Hang on.”

He focused between his shoulders and the Valley rushed below them like a speeding river. Jarvis tensed in his arms, and the older man’s white-streaked beard flattened against his face. His skin looked pale, but St. George wasn’t sure if it was from the flight or the wound.

He raced past the NBC Universal building, over the Bowl to Hollywood and Highland, and then dove toward the Wall. He caught a quick glimpse of the sentries and then he sank through the air to the Hollywood Community Hospital.

Churches and apartments weren’t the only thing the people of the Mount had gained when the Big Wall went up. They had a real hospital now, a six-story white building with full facilities and offices. It was another symbolic structure, even if it was undersupplied and understaffed.

The guards looked up when they heard his jacket rustle above them and focused on Jarvis in his arms. After the outer walls, the hospital was the most guarded place in the Mount. Armed men and women stood ready for when a patient died. It was their job to put a bullet between the eyes of each dead body before the ex-virus reanimated it.

“Wounded man,” called St. George. “Make a path.” His boots touched the pavement and the guards stepped aside, pulling the doors open as they did. He marched past them.

The lobby was dominated by the large warning sign they’d brought from the old Zukor building, listing potential symptoms of infection. Another symbol. St. George shouted for a doctor while he headed for the emergency rooms.

Jarvis looked up at him. “Boss,” he said, “you got to promise me one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“You know what.”

“Yeah, don’t worry about it. You’re going to be fine.”

“I don’t come back. Don’t let it happen.”

“Nobody comes back. You know that.”

“I don’t want my body stumbling around drunk, embarrassing me. Hurting anyone. Y’all make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“It won’t happen if you don’t get drunk next weekend.”

“I ain’t joking.”

“Neither am I,” said St. George. “Nobody comes back.”

SERGEANT EDDIE FRANKLIN, sometimes called Doc Ed despite all his protests, took in the ragged jeans with a glance and peeled the gauze pads away from Jarvis’s leg. The skin around the bite was pale and clammy. “How long ago?”

“Maybe ten minutes,” said St. George.

“Did he hook onto you, sir,” the doctor asked Jarvis, “or’d you get him off quick?” Like most of the former soldiers, Franklin was still formally polite with most people. He’d been a combat medic with the 456th Unbreakables, which made him close enough to a doctor for most people at the Mount.

“Not even two seconds,” said St. George. “He kicked it right off.”

“And then shot it,” added Jarvis.

Franklin had two fingers against the salt-and-pepper man’s throat and a palm on his forehead. “You’re cold.”

“I was just a thousand feet up in the air doing a hundred miles an hour. Damn right I’m cold.”

Franklin nodded and pushed the gurney down the hallway to a room. St. George followed for a moment, but knew he’d only be in the way. He found Jarvis’s eyes. The older man gave him a smile and a thumbs-up. Then the doors closed and he vanished.

One of the guards outside tapped his headset. “East Gate’s calling for you, boss.”

The hero bit back a sigh and nodded. He dug his earpiece out of his pocket and looped it over his ear. “Go for St. George.”

“Hey, boss,” said a voice. It took him a moment to recognize Elena, one of the regular wall guards. “Heard chatter you were back. Got a minute?”

“Yeah,” he said. “What do you need?”

There was a brief pause. “I think it might be better if you came out here to see. East Gate.”

“Okay. I’ll be there in five.” He pulled the earpiece off. For a moment he thought about crushing it. Then he thought about setting fire to every ex outside the Big Wall. And then he thought about just finding Stealth and curling up in bed for a day or two.

Someone cleared their throat. “Jarvis going to be okay?” asked one of the men in front of the hospital.

St. George met his gaze. “I don’t know. Maybe. He was bitten.”

The guards sighed and shook their heads. “Damn,” said the man. “That sucks. I really liked Jarvis.”

“Everyone likes Jarvis,” said St. George. He thought about crushing the earpiece again. Instead he focused and soared up above the buildings.

The East Gate was a misleading name. It was still just a solid line of stacked cars running north to south through the center of Melrose and Western. Where the gate would someday be was marked with a few bright lines of yellow spray paint. Since the scavengers had done most of their work on the east half of the city already, the East Gate was the last side of the Big Wall scheduled to get a working entrance.

Elena, Derek, and a bald man St. George didn’t recognize waited on the wooden platform at the top of the stairs. They had an oversized umbrella and a few big chairs from the nearby furniture store set up there. All three of them looked out at the intersection of Melrose and Western. A few hundred exes staggered in the street between a bank and a storage center. Building the Big Wall had used up so many cars the roads around the barricade were wide, empty spaces.

His feet thumped on the platform and they turned. “Hey, boss,” said Derek.

“What’s up?”

“Something kinda weird,” said Elena. Her finger stretched out and pointed down Melrose. “See the white building a block down on the right, just after the red one?”

St. George nodded. From his angle, the building looked like a large house or maybe a small apartment building. Curved bars that looked more decorative than functional stretched over the windows.

“Okay. Keep an eye on it.” Elena took in a deep breath and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Hey!” she shouted. “You still there?”

Her voice echoed down the street and the exes at the base of the Wall shifted their focus to her. Their heads leaned back and their hands stretched up toward her. Their snapping jaws got more frantic. Another two dozen or so moved toward the wall and joined the mob flailing for the humans on the platform.

A block away, an arm stretched out between the bars of one of the second-story windows. It waved up and down a few times. “I’m here,” a voice yelled back. It sounded female. “They’re still all around the door.”

“Hang on just a little longer!” Elena shouted back. “Someone’s coming soon.”

“Okay.”

St. George watched the arm slip back into the building. “Why didn’t you send a team out for her?”

“We almost did,” said the bald man. “Then Derek noticed the exes.”

The hero glanced down at the crowd of undead. “Are they doing something odd?”

“Not exactly,” Derek said. “They’re not doing anything.”

St. George looked out at the street for a moment and then his brow furrowed. His eyes went from the flailing exes below the platform to the ones down the street. There were at least a dozen of them in front of the white building, still milling around. “They aren’t, are they?”