Peter Clines - Ex-Patriots

“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.”

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.”