Peter Clines - Ex-Heroes

“Why didn’t you—”

“Radios are out. We sent runners.” The hero nodded and hurled himself back up over the rooftops.

Lemon Grove had been a tiny pedestrian entrance, over a block north from Van Ness. When they’d moved into the Mount, they’d welded the rolling gate shut, jammed its drive chain, and boarded up the tiny guard shack with layers of plywood.

Two long, clawed hands gripped the top of the small gate and forced it back down its tracks.

There were six guards. On top of an office trailer, Ilya, Billie, and two others were picking off exes one by one. The Marine was shouting into her walkie. The two guards on the roof of the shack were shooting at the demon on the far side.

“Oh, thank God,” one of the shack-guards said. “I didn’t think anyone—”

“Radios are dead,” St. George interrupted. “Stop wasting ammunition!” He punctuated it with a burst of flame.

They stopped firing and the gate squealed. One of the welds snapped with a sound like a cymbal.

“The demon’s bulletproof. I’ve got him. Take care of the exes.”

St. George leaped up into the sky and arced down to land just behind Cairax. He kicked two exes away and threw a few fists and elbows that shattered skulls. Then he latched onto the demon’s tail and yanked.

The monster flew away from the gate as the hero swung it up, over, and slammed it into the crowded street. He leaped across the distorted body, dragging the tail with him, and shoved another ex away as he landed. He set his boots to the pavement and whipped the demon in a circle, swatting zombies away like flies. After two spins he hurled it across the street into the parking structure, decapitating a handful of exes on the way. The dead thing struck the concrete pillar like a wrecking ball and left a crater. It dropped to the ground in a heap of over-long limbs.

Behind the fence, the guards were cheering.

St. George waded through the exes, cracking heads and necks with each swing of his arms. Gunfire dropped the dead near him. He was halfway to Cairax when the demon lunged back up. Its head panned back and forth before something behind the twisted face focused on him and growled.

“Ahhh,” he said. “Got your attention in there, big guy?”

Cairax lunged at him and he sidestepped. The nest of teeth cracked into the pavement next to his foot. He took the moment to grab a female ex by her coat and hurl her up at the demon. He grabbed two more and swung them like clubs, battering the monster in the head three times before the exes came apart.

The dead thing swept its arms together, knocking over its brethren, but St. George was already in the air. He shot a cone of fire into Cairax’s face and the demon flinched.

“Rookie mistake,” he called out. “Dead things aren’t scared of—”

Cairax grabbed a dead man and hurled it up at the hero. The ex caught St. George in the side and he tumbled to the ground.

The demon moved like a snake, its spine rolling up and down as its head lashed out at him.

He swung a fist and caught it under the jaw. A tooth flew loose and Cairax staggered back from the impact.

The hero lunged up, dove in, and jerked back. A pair of exes held his coat. One was chewing on the leather, trying to work its teeth through a pocket flap. The other reached out with its free arm and grabbed a handful of hair.

He spun with his fist out and broke off the hair-puller’s jaw. The fist swung back and shattered its skull. He shook off the leather-eater and a bullet exploded its head as it stumbled back.

A voice shouted something between the gunfire. Billie, up on the roof of the trailer.

He turned in time to see the demon’s head lunge down again. The creature’s mouth was a Venus flytrap of tusks and fangs. St. George threw his arm up out of instinct and the dead thing’s daggerlike teeth punched through the leather sleeve.

Into his arm.

Agony, more pain than he’d felt in years, roared through him. The jaw hinged shut like a machine and one of the huge teeth scraped against bone as it pushed deeper into his flesh.

Cairax Murrain grinned and yanked him up into the air, shaking its head like a crocodile. St. George’s shoulder twisted and he felt himself flail. He heard people screaming and realized through the pain he was one of them.

He coughed out a ball of fire and the flames cleared his head. He swung his legs, slammed his palm against Cairax’s snout, and tore himself free. The sleeve shredded and just for a moment he saw white spots in the air. Blood splattered the ground, and he wondered how many pounds of meat were still in the ex’s mouth. At least one of its teeth was still in his arm.

St. George landed on his knees and made an awkward lunge back to his feet. Claws slammed into his back and hurled him against a dusty Ford. His skull left a dent in the frame and the world blurred.

Rounds snapped and popped against the dead thing’s leathery skin. It didn’t notice. A ricochet caught an ex in the side of the head and it dropped.

The hero staggered to his feet and grabbed the demon’s tail again as it lashed out. It dragged him across the pavement, tripping countless exes as it tried to shake him off. He twisted the length of muscle and felt bones snap under the leathery skin. Another car rushed up to slam into his back.

The barbed tail snapped like a whip and flung St. George back at the Mount. The mob of exes grabbed at his limbs, his coat, his hair. He shook them off, hurling bodies into the air, and got his feet back on the ground.

The ground was shaking.

Cairax lumbered forward, looming over the horde. Another swipe hurled St. George back again. He tried to focus, tried to make himself light, and slammed into the wall. He slumped to the ground and the exes swarmed over him.

Behind him, the demon roared in delight.

* * * *

“Holy Christ,” said Billie as St. George hit the wall. She’d glanced back away from the street and was frozen. One of the other guards, a man with a dark unibrow turned and his jaw dropped. Ilya threw a look over his shoulder.

Looming over the buildings to the west, a huge sphere of blackness swelled, so dark they could see its edges against the night sky.

* * * *

Stealth heard the cries over the gunfire, saw the dark void swelling at the Gower gate, and knew what it was. The top priority was making Rodney lose control of whatever other dead heroes he had brought to the Mount.

She drew her weapons and leaped down into the crowd, her cloak spreading to slow her fall. The Glocks spat out two-four-six-eight rounds each before she landed in the space they’d carved for her in the mob. A quick split kick broke jaws on two exes. A sweep took down four and gave her a beat.

With one smooth motion she holstered both pistols, swung the cloak aside, and grabbed the two ASP batons stored across the small of her back. A flick of each wrist snapped two feet of black chrome into position. The move flowed into a pair of strikes that shattered heads on either side of her. The batons whipped out again and beat out a drumroll of broken bones, making sure none of the dead things she’d knocked down would ever get back up.

She spun and smashed one baton through a dead brunette’s forehead. The other cracked open a teenage boy’s skull. Her boot lashed out to break the neck of a pink-haired woman. An old man. A small girl caked in blood. A businessman. A police officer with a gaping hole in its chest. Her weapons cut through the air as she marched forward and exes dropped around her.

A heavy Asian woman fell and revealed a Seventeen with a green bandanna wrapped around his head. He was dizzy, still trying to shake off the sight of Gorgon’s eyes. He looked at Stealth, blinked, and tried to raise his rifle.