Peter Clines - Ex-Heroes

A voice shouted from the back of the crowd. “The exes spoke!” It launched a wave of cries and questions.

“But the Seventeens—”

“How are they—”

“The exes said—”

“What if they—”

St. George held up his hands until they quieted down. “I know there’s a bunch of creepy stuff going on,” he said, “but you have to believe me. There is nowhere in this city safer than right here, right now.”

Stealth stepped out of the shadows behind some civilians and they shrieked. “St. George is telling you the truth,” she said. “Return to your homes, protect your loved ones, and we shall protect all of you.”

The mob was just a crowd now, and the crowd broke apart. People helped Gorgon’s victims to their feet and carried the ones that couldn’t walk.

“Make sure all the stage entrances are locked,” called St. George. He helped Christian up and ignored the unsteady glare she shot at him. “Tonight you’re in or you’re out, people.”

As they scattered Stealth pulled the camera from her belt and summoned an image. St. George caught a glimpse of the monstrous ex, tight enough to make out the cross tattoo on its head. “This being seems to have some sort of history with you,” she told Gorgon, handing him the camera. “He mentioned you by name several times.”

Gorgon pondered the distorted face for a moment and a grim smile formed under his goggles. “Well, fuck me,” he said. “I guess he found his gamma rays after all.”

“You know him?”

“Yeah.” He handed the camera back. “That, my friends, is Rodney Casares, top enforcer for the SS. We’ve got grudges that go way back.”

St. George glanced at the picture again before the camera went dark. “That’s what you wanted to get back here for?”

“No,” she said. “That was a confirmation. Gorgon, summon every guard, scavenger, and volunteer you can. Issue extra ammunition and prepare the walls for a full assault. Then meet us in the lobby of Roddenberry in fifteen minutes.”

She gestured at St. George to follow her.

* * * *

Josh Garcetti checked on his latest patient, an appendicitis case. She’d come in on her own, he’d pulled out the offending organ, and now she was asleep. Her stitches were clean and tight, no seepage at all. He tried not to dwell on the fact that at one time he could’ve repaired her without a single incision.

He made a few quick marks on her chart, stepped out to the nurses’ station, and made another set of notes on the night log. Then he turned to the cabinets and found himself inches from Stealth.

He stumbled back and the move yanked his withered hand out of its pocket. “Jesus,” he snapped. “Do you have to pop out of nowhere like that?”

The cloaked woman said nothing.

Footsteps made him turn and St. George stepped in from the hallway. He was bare-chested and covered with bruises.

“George,” Josh said with a nod. “What happened to you? What the hell’s going on?”

“When we were discussing the recon mission,” said Stealth, “you said you have had the virus hanging over you for two years. You were bitten less than fifteen months ago.”

He blinked twice, then a third time. “That all? Feels like a hell of a lot longer. Sorry I don’t have a computerlike mind like you.” He shrugged and repocketed his dead hand. “Is that everything? Mr. Willis would love to get a few Vicodin so he can sleep.”

Her feet shifted and she was between Josh and the cabinet.

He sighed and pointed at a row of bottles. “Do you mind?”

“The first definite sighting of an ex-human,” she continued, “was twenty-two months ago. An unidentified woman assaulted a group of Seventeens in a parking lot. The attack which infected Rodney Casares.”

Josh shrugged again, but his angry eyes flitted between the two heroes. St. George realized his hands had rolled themselves into fists.

Stealth still hadn’t moved. She was tense but fluid. She was confident.

“Your wife died two years ago, didn’t she, Regenerator?”

The doctor’s glare settled on her even as his shoulders slumped, and St. George felt something twist in his stomach.

They’re going to kill me for this. I was one of the most important heroes on this coast. When I first started out I was the Immortal, the man who couldn’t be killed. A regular Jack Harkness, for those of you who watch BBC America. I’ve been shot, stabbed, beaten, crushed, impaled, and even eviscerated. And I don’t even have scars. Everything I was—everything I am today—-is because of Meredith. She was the love of my life. People say shit like that all the time, I know, but there’s just no other way to put it. I thought I was in love twice in college, once with a foreign exchange student, and once because I mistook phenomenal sex for love. There was one time in my early twenties when I wanted to be in love, wanted so bad to make this woman happy, but I just couldn’t. It wasn’t there. Not until Meredith. Stupid and clichéd as it may sound for Hollywood, we met at a wrap party for a movie. Some low-budget Sci-Fi Channel thing. She was dating a grip. I was with a makeup artist. From the moment I saw her I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Black hair, blue eyes, and a set of mismatched earrings. She’d lost one of each and just decided to make a set with what was left. We started talking at the bar, chatted all night, and pissed off both our dates. A month later we were both single. Two months after that we were together. And two years after that she died. It didn’t happen quite like that. There was a lot more to it.

Finding a Beverly Hills–adjacent place we both liked. Buying furniture.

Teaching her how to drive a stick. Rescuing a pair of stray kittens we named Lewis and Clarke. Proposing to her while we were getting lawn-bowling lessons. And then there was the oddness of me developing superpowers. Meredith helped with that, too. She was there for every part of it, keeping me sane. That first time, straining noodles, we both thought it was just dumb luck the boiling water didn’t leave me with red skin and blisters.

Then there was the broken glass we thought slashed my hand, but there wasn’t even a hint except for the cut in my shirt cuff. Of course, the one we couldn’t ignore was the kid with the green bandanna stabbing me in the gut. I know now he was a Seventeen.

Then I just knew he was the punk who made Meredith scream by trying to kill me. We’d just seen Eddie Izzard at the Wiltern and were walking to where we parked, a few blocks up Oxford. She never liked parking in structures and called it a scam. The kid grabbed her arm, shouted for my wallet, and then he twisted her arm and she screamed. I lunged and pounded him until he was unconscious, and that’s when we realized he’d stabbed me six times during our fight. Six bloody holes in my shirt, but not a mark on me. When we saw the news reports about the Mighty Dragon, Blockbuster, Zzzap, and the rest, we both knew what I had to do. Meredith bought a full-body motorcycle suit and stitched on a logo, and for months I was the Immortal, the man who couldn’t be killed. I was hit by cars and shotgun blasts. Threw myself off buildings. One night after a gang shoot-out I got home and pulled twenty-three bullets out of myself. And then we made another discovery. Mere cut herself with a kitchen knife while chopping broccoli.

Nothing deadly, maybe a stitch or two. We laughed—it was bound to happen someday, she was so clumsy. And I held her finger and felt a tingle, a flow of my power, and she gasped as it closed up. The skin sealed together without so much as a pucker. A medical resident who could heal with a touch. My success rate at the hospital went up. My popularity with my fellow heroes and police did, too. It took another month for my codename to change to Regenerator. I teamed up with most of the heroes at one point or another.