Peter Clines - Ex-Heroes

“All clear,” she called out over her radio. “Bring it around the corner.”

* * * *

David pushed the apartment door open with his foot and counted to five. He stomped his foot a few times, then counted to five again. Rifle up, he led them into the third apartment. Billie was right behind him with her shotgun, and Ty brought up the rear after double-checking the hallway was clear.

They looked around the corner to the kitchen. Billie banged on the bathroom door a few times, and Ty did the same with the bedroom.

Something thudded against the bedroom door.

“Got one,” he called.

“I’m at the door,” said David.

“Got your back,” said Billie. She raised the shotgun.

Ty kicked the door hard and felt it slap the dead weight when the latch popped. He hit it again and it banged open. The ex was an older man with a Hawaiian shirt. Black pants and striped boxers gathered at its ankles. It stumbled back for a moment and then wiggled toward them.

“Oh, Jeez,” Billie said, biting back a laugh. She pointed to the nightstand where a pair of dentures sat in a glass of cloudy water. “It’s toothless.”

Ty put his rifle out at arms length and braced the barrel against its forehead. The stocking feet shuffled out from under it and the ex tilted back to crash against the floor. As it twisted he walked over and put a round through its temple. The corpse went limp.

Cerberus barked from their walkies. “Who fired?”

“It’s Ty. We had one ex. It’s down.”

“Copy that.”

David’s voice echoed from the living room. “We clear now?”

His partners nodded. “Clear,” agreed Ty. He glanced from the ex to Billie. “Poor bastard died getting dressed.”

“Bad enough being the living dead,” she smirked and held her fist out to him. “If I come back, promise me you’ll get my pants on.”

He rapped her knuckles. “We’ll see.”

She yanked open the bathroom drawers with her free hand. Ty went back to the kitchen and pulled open the first set of cabinets. “Score!” he crowed. “First one opened, not even trying.” He leaned from the kitchen and held out half a bottle of Captain Morgan rum.

“Nice.”

“Whatcha got?” asked Billie from the bathroom.

“Booze,” said David.

“Sweet. Epsom salts are medicine, right?”

“Yep,” said David. “Grab it.”

“Couple cans of soup,” said Ty, “some ramen, half a box of Bisquick. Not much else.” He held up the half-filled canvas bag.

David looked at the box. “Can Bisquick go bad?”

“I don’t know. The date’s still good.”

* * * *

St. George twisted another bolt out of the concrete. The rust and paint made them slip a lot, but if he squeezed hard enough he could work them loose. It got high enough to get his fingers under and he yanked it free of the rooftop. The last solar panel shuddered for a moment as he tossed the bolt over by the air vent.

He paused for a quick glance down below. The street was still clear. Ilya was strapping down the panel that had come down ten minutes earlier. Big Red had seven of them so far, wedged in alongside scavenged bins and boxes.

The hero attacked the last bolt and a minute later the solar panel swung backward like a drunk. “Ready with the next one,” he shouted. “You clear down there?”

“Ready and waiting,” called Ilya. He pulled the ratchet strap he was working on tight, swung his rifle a little further behind his back, and shot a thumbs-up toward the rooftop.

The hero hefted the panel in both hands and hopped off the rooftop. He soared down to the truck bed, Ilya grabbed the panel for balance, and they set it down. Barry shifted on his pile of blankets and muttered in their general direction.

“Two more up on the next roof,” said St. George. Ilya nodded. “Any idea who’s getting these?” He shook his head. “I think one of the East Central stages. I’m sure Stealth has it planned out.”

“‘Course she does.” Ilya stretched another ratchet strap out and hooked it to a support.

St. George looked out at the street. “Still good?”

“Yeah. Nothing for four or five blocks.”

Jarvis and Andy walked up to the truck, each holding a cardboard box packed with cans while Lee covered them. “Looks like somebody’s granddad planned for World War Three,” he said. “A bunch of Korean War stuff and there’s at least two more loads of stuff like this in the duplex over there. A few cases of 30-ought, too.”

“You guys are just finding all the fun stuff today,” said Ilya.

St. George flipped a can of turkey chili in his hand and slotted it back into the case. “Any sign of what happened to grandpa?”

Andy shook his head while they slid the boxes to the back of the truck. “Back door’s off its hinges,” he said, “some blood by the garage. No bodies. Either they ate every inch of him or he walked away.”

“One way or another,” added Lee.

“Get it all,” said the hero, “but take your time. He might be wandering around there somewhere.”

“Him and a couple thousand others,” coughed Jarvis.

“All the more reason to be careful,” said St. George. He glanced at his watch. “I’d love to finish this block today.”

“We can do it,” said Lee. The three men tossed out waves and salutes and marched back to the duplex. The hero kicked off the lift gate and flew back up to the roof.

* * * *

“Last apartment on this floor,” said Lady Bee. She set her swollen shopping bag down and banged on the door. Lynne clutched her rifle. “So, that was them killing an ex?”

Mark nodded. “You find them stuck in bedrooms, bathrooms, stuff like that,” he said. “They don’t know how to work a doorknob, so they just get stuck in places. I’ve seen a lot in closets. Some people just crawled in there to hide and croaked.”

“They don’t feel anything,” Bee said. “No brain activity, no feelings, no nothing. They’re just walking corpses. Clear,” she said to Mark.

He gave the door three hard kicks and the deadbolt ripped out of the frame. He stared into the dim apartment for three Mississippis and then moved in. It was packed with dusty IKEA furniture and pillows. “Avon calling,” he yelled out.

“That stopped being funny before I was born,” said Bee, adding a gentle kick to his ass as she slid past to the kitchen.

“That will never stop being funny,” he assured her. “Lynne, watch her back. I’ve got the door.”

They banged on the small closet and discovered a plastic garbage can filled with ooze and mold. “Kitchen’s clear,” said Bee. She looked at Lynne. “Bedrooms and bathroom next.”

They tapped on doors. The bedroom was just as filled as the living room. The bathroom was barren, with faded black towels. A dark shower curtain fluttered near the open window and a swinging cord tapped out Morse code on the sill. “I think I remember this bathroom from a catalog,” said Lynne.

Bee gave her a wink. “Now’s your big chance to own it.”

“Yeah, no thanks,” Lynne said. She turned back to the medicine cabinet and an ex fell through the shower curtain.

It was a naked, swollen woman, Mexican or Indian, with folds of gray fat hanging off it. The dead thing stumbled over the edge of the tub, knocking Lynne down with its sheer mass and bouncing off the sink to fall on top of her. She screamed and got her arms up in time to block its neck and keep its mouth away from her. The teeth clacked together again and again, showering Lynne with flecks of ivory as its hair swept her face. The meaty hands reached down to paw her.

“Fucker!” Bee turned back. “Mark!!”

“Get it off me!! Help!!”