Peter Clines: Ex-Patriots

“And the kiss?”

She didn’t make a sound, but he recognized her body language.

“Okay, then,” he said. “See you when I get back.”

* * *

Roddenberry to the Melrose Gate was only a quick hop. A small crowd had formed, but St. George could pick out Cerberus looming by the gate and the leather-clad scavengers around Road Warrior as he drifted to the ground.

Road Warrior was a twenty-four foot truck that had been used for hauling equipment out to filming locations back when the Mount was in the movie business. The scavengers had chopped the roof and most of the walls off of the box and built a new frame inside it, making the vehicle into a gigantic pick-up. The truck had two large reserve gas tanks, a winch, and a wedge-like steel prow which had served as a battering ram more than a few times. There were bench seats for eight people in the back with plenty of standing room, and a steel platform on the cab’s roof could hold two or three more.

Billie and Jarvis had a small handcart covered with shimmering piles of metal they were handing out to each of the scavengers. Lady Bee was there, along with Lee and Paul. He could see Ilya, Lynne, and a few other regulars in the back of the truck. Luke Reid sat on the hood of the truck. St. George saw Hector de la Vega standing a few feet away from the main group. He made a point of locking eyes with the tattooed man and giving him a nod.

They threw rough salutes to the hero. Most of them were shaking out the chainmail armor and checking sizes against themselves. None of them looked pleased.

“Trade ‘em if you have to,” said Billie. “They’re sort of sized. Let’s get everyone as close as we can.”

“Did we get the sleeves?” St. George asked Jarvis.

The salt-and-pepper man shook his head. “No go, chief,” he said. “He says at best he’d need another day.”

St. George frowned and looked at Billie. She shrugged.

“I feel like I should be in Lord of the Rings or something,” said Lee.

A set of chainmail armor hit the pavement like a bag of pennies. “This stuff sucks, boss,” said Paul.

Lady Bee nodded in agreement. She’d gotten the nickname from her striped hair. “None of it fits right and it weighs a ton,” she said. “And I’m pretty sure I asked for a chainmail bikini.”

“I asked for Bee to get a chainmail bikini, too,” chimed Ilya. She blew him a kiss and everyone laughed.

St. George waved them all to silence. “Hey,” he said, “anyone else with bulletproof skin raise your hand.”

Lee cleared his throat and started to put up his palm. Billie cuffed him across the back of the head.

“You need to have something out there,” he continued. “It’s been five months since anyone’s been bitten, but we’ve had two close calls in the past month. If everyone kept their leathers on it wouldn’t be a problem. But it’s too damned hot and once one person pulls off their jacket we all do.”

They all glanced at each other. Everyone was in tank tops and t-shirts with their leathers piled next to them. Paul prodded the chainmail with his boot. “Is this our only choice?”

“Think of it like a shark suit,” said Jarvis. “They can still bite y’all, they just can’t break the skin. And it’s a lot cooler.”

“Except it weighs twenty pounds so we’ll just get hot that way,” muttered Lynne.

“Chain mail bikini would weigh a lot less,” said Bee. “I’m just saying.”

“Shit looks gay.” They all glanced back at Hector. He scratched his neck by the razor-stubble that was his hairline. “I ain’t wearin’ it.”

Billie’s nostrils flared and St. George set a hand on her shoulder as she went to step forward. “It’s armor, people,” he said. “It’s not the greatest solution, but it’s what we’ve got. If we find something better, or it starts getting cool again, it’s gone. But for now you wear it so you can all come home at the end of the day and brag about killing famous exes.”

There were a few mutters. Lee worked his arm into one of the sleeves and flexed a few times. It made a metallic, rustling noise. Lady Bee raised her hand.

The hero tipped his head to her. “What’s up, Bee?”

“Does this mean I’m not getting the chainmail bikini?”

“Give it up.”

“I like my jokes like I like my men,” she said with a wink. “Ridden to death.”

Jarvis dropped the last empty box on the cart. “Who didn’t get any?”

Ilya raised a hand. So did a scruffy redheaded kid and a rail-thin older woman.

St. George sighed and made a decision. “You two are out for today,” he said. “We should have enough next time we go out.”

“They can have mine,” called Hector.

“Ilya, can I trust you to keep your leathers on?”

The dark-haired man gave a sage nod. “You got it, boss.”

“Hey, I’ll keep mine on, too,” said the thin woman.

St. George shook his head. “Sorry. Ilya’s probably the only person I trust to sweat it out.” He looked at the group. “Everybody else, let’s get ready to move out.”

Luke stood up on the hood of Road Warrior and swung himself through the cab’s window. Billie slapped her hands together. “You heard the man,” she bellowed. “Armor up, gear up, load up.” She pointed a stern finger at Hector. “You, too, de la Vega, or its back to the mushroom farm.”

St. George walked towards the tall archway and the sound of chattering teeth to stand next to Cerberus. The titan was staring out at Melrose Avenue. The gates were mobbed with exes, as always. Since last fall’s battle with the Seventeens, it felt like there were always a few more than there had been before.

Two years in and most people still said exes rather than zombies. Thinking of them as ex-humans made it easier somehow. They reached between the bars and flailed at the two heroes with slow, clumsy limbs. Their eyes were pale and cloudy. St. George knew from experience they were dry to the touch. All their flesh was chalky gray, colored with dark purple bruises where blood pooled up beneath the skin.

Most of the exes at the gate carried some injury that would’ve been fatal if they were still alive. Several of them had gunshot wounds. More than a few were missing fingers or hands. A dead woman close to the hinge had scraped two ruts in her forehead, right down to the bone, swaying back and forth against the gate. Another one was charred to the point it was featureless. An elderly woman in a bathrobe was missing both eyes. A few bodies back, away from the gate, the hero saw a male ex with a samurai sword through its chest.

Here and there, though, were a few of the worse ones. The ones who still looked human. A little boy with dark hair, a Pikachu shirt, and chalky eyes. An older man with a beard who could’ve just spilled a few drops of wine on his shirt. A well-curved blonde with alabaster skin and full lips. Being in the plastic surgery capital of the world made for some very well-preserved dead people.

All of them worked their jaws up and down, snapping teeth together again and again. The chattering never let up. A few of them had turned their mouths into a mess of gore and shattered enamel, but kept clicking the jagged stumps against each other.

Cerberus stared past all of them. It was easy enough for her to look right over the mob of exes to the bone-white cross on the other side of the intersection. It stood as tall as the battlesuit and was marked with three bold words, each carved into the wood and painted black.

NIKOLAI BARTAMIAN

GORGON

They’d salvaged what parts of his uniform they could. The body armor. The duster. The goggles. What was left of him, what hadn’t been chewed apart, they burned. They’d found his last requests sitting out in his grungy apartment.