Ex-Patriots (12 page)

“No one has been injured. That was not an
attempted attack. They were caught off guard by the sight of
you.”

“It’s not like they didn’t know we were out
here.”

“It is one thing to know a flying man
exists,” said Stealth. “It is quite a different thing to see him in
person.”

“Put me in, coach,” said Barry’s voice. “I
can do more good up there.”

“No.”

“But I can—”

“If the power were to go out just as a
squadron of military helicopters arrived, it would cause chaos
throughout the Mount. Maintain your position.”

The helicopters roared forward again. This
time St. George stood his ground in the air, arms crossed over his
chest. They crossed the miles between them in seconds. He was
tensing in the air when they pulled up to hover a hundred or so
yards away from him.

A full minute passed as the hero and the
helicopters stared at each other five hundred feet above the
Mount.

“They’re all talking about you,” said Barry
over the earpiece. “Three of them are pretty sure you’re the Mighty
Dragon and two think you’re somebody new. They’re not quite sure
what to do.”

“Well,” said St. George, “let’s make sure
they know who they’re dealing with, then.” He took in a quick
breath and tasted a familiar sizzle at the back of his throat. He
turned his head to the side and puffed it out as a fireball the
size of a Volkswagen.

It made his point. Four of the helicopters
split off. Three of them were the Apaches with miniguns. They
circled in the air and fell back half a mile or so. St. George
squinted down at the dark shape on top of the water tower. “Any
idea what’s going on?”

“You would need to confirm from your
position,” said Stealth, “but I believe they have retreated to just
beyond the Big Wall.”

He looked down and tried to pick out streets
in the pre-dawn gloom. She was right. He could see the rough,
uneven line of stacked cars running up Vine and across Beverly.
“Good call,” he said. “Any idea why?”

“They are respecting our airspace,” she
said.

“Our what?”

“ARE YOU THE MIGHTY DRAGON?”

The amplified voice echoed in the air for a
moment. The lone Black Hawk had turned its side to St. George. A
young-looking man in a dark suit waved to him from the open cabin
door. He wore a bulky headset with cables that ran back into the
helicopter.

“If someone asks if you’re a god,” said
Barry’s voice, “you say yes.”

“It is a test of trust,” said Stealth. “You
have demonstrated who you are. They wish you to confirm their
beliefs.”

“You don’t have to talk me into it,” he told
them. He cupped his hands to his mouth and tried shouting back, but
he was pretty sure the people in the Black Hawk couldn’t hear him
over the rotors. After a second attempt he gave an exaggerated nod
of his head. The man in the suit smiled.

“WITH YOUR PERMISSION, WE’D LIKE TO LAND AND
SPEAK WITH YOU.”

He glanced down at the tower again. Stealth
had vanished. “Thoughts?”

“Direct them to the Plaza parking lot,” said
her voice in his ear. “I shall meet you there.”

St. George looked behind him and to the left.
The Plaza lot was right by the Melrose Gate, separated by a line of
shrubs in heavy planters and some fencing. Because it was so close
to the outside it had never been populated with tents or shanties
like so many other spaces. He drifted through the air toward it and
pointed down at the open expanse.

The helicopter shifted in the air. “WE’RE
GOING TO CALL IN THE OTHER BLACK HAWK TO SERVE AS A GUARD,” said
the man in the suit. “JUST THE ONE. IS THAT OKAY WITH YOU?”

St. George gave another big nod. The man gave
him another smile and a thumbs up. The hero dropped down a hundred
feet or so and glided over to hover near the lot. The helicopter
swung in a low arc to place itself over the wide square of
pavement. The air thumped as another craft moved forward to hang
high above the landing zone. St. George saw a handful of soldiers
in full battle gear looking at him from the second Black Hawk’s
cabin doors.

He drifted down to meet the man in the
suit.

* * *

“I’m telling you,” said Matt, “it’s that guy
from that space cowboy show that was on a couple of years ago.” He
jabbed the dead man again. “You can’t see that?”

The other gate guards ignored him. Even the
exes at the gate seemed distracted by the roar of the landing
helicopter. Some of them were reaching up, as if their bony fingers
could pluck the vehicle from the air.

The rail-thin woman glanced at Makana. “Who
do you think it is?”

He shrugged. “Army, maybe. Or the
Marines.”

“It’s the Army,” said Matt, glancing back
from the gate. “Check out the markings.”

Makana shrugged again. “If you say so.”

“Is anyone going to look at this ex? I’m
telling you, it’s whatshisface. Nathan something.”

“Dude, whatever,” said the dreadlocked man.
He gave the zombie a quick look. “Yeah, it’s probably him.”

“Sweet.”

They all turned their attention back to the
helicopter as it settled on the pavement. Behind them, Matt pulled
out his pistol. He took it in both hands and lined up his shot.

* * *

The Black Hawk cut its engines. The noise
level dropped as the long rotors slowed their relentless slashing
at the air.

St. George dropped to the ground on the far
side of the lot. Two soldiers on board trained their rifles on him
and two more looked out the far door. Their weapons were huge
things with dictionary-sized boxes mounted on them.

The man in the suit wrestled with his
harness. Then he fought with it. One of the soldiers reached over
and flicked something. The straps dropped away and the man almost
fell out of his seat. He caught himself and made it look as if he
was climbing down.

The two soldiers facing St. George tensed and
he saw one of the gun barrels shift off to his left. “U.S. Army,”
said Stealth. She was a few steps behind him. “Their weapons appear
to be M240Bs with a modified ammunition case and larger heat
shields.”

“Yeah,” said St. George. He cleared his
throat. “I though they looked different.”

“It is classified as an infantry medium
machine gun,” she said. “It is unusual for an entire squad to be
armed with it because of its weight. Each one weighs over thirty
pounds with ammunition.”

“They don’t seem to be having any trouble
with them.”

“Hello,” shouted the man in the suit. He
stood on the pavement by the Black Hawk. The soldiers had moved
forward, still sheltered by the helicopter’s armor but still
flanking the man. “I’m John. It’s good to see you.”

“You too,” called back St. George.

“Mind if I come a little closer?”

“Not at all.”

“What if we meet halfway?”

St. George gave a nod. “That’d be fine.”

He could feel Stealth’s glare on him. “You do
not need to agree to his every request,” she said.

“Take it easy,” he said, taking a few steps
forward.

The gunshot rang out and echoed between the
buildings.

One of the soldiers lunged at the man named
John and carried him to the ground. The other one dropped to his
knee and focused his oversized weapon at St. George. Two more
soldiers had appeared, weapons aimed at the heroes. They shouted
short, clipped orders back and forth through the helicopter’s open
doors.

“What did you guys do out there?” Barry asked
over the earpiece. “Is someone shooting?”

St. George looked back at Melrose. Makana and
one of the other guards were wrestling a skinny man to the ground.
The hero knew what had happened. “Screw up,” he said. “Big screw
up.”

“How are they responding?” said Stealth. She
swept her cloak back to expose her holsters but didn’t draw
yet.

“They’re saying something about... they’re
deploying Captain Freedom,” Barry told them. “That’s not military
code for a big-ass bomb or something, is it?”

THEN

Fucking bitch. I cannot believe this. She’s going to
do it again.

It’s supposed to be a man’s Army. That was
what I got beaten into me growing up. Be a man, Kurt. Nine more
years and you’re the Army’s problem. You better cry now because
there’ll be no crying then. They’ll make a man out of you, yes they
will.

And what’s up with the rest of the squad
cheering her on? Stupid bitch’ll start to think she belongs here.
She’s only doing six-forty. All of us can do six-forty at this
point. We’re all fucking Olympic supermen.

She’s just like all those dumb cunts in
school I had to put up with for years. They all thought they
belonged. They thought they were special. Giggling at me in the
back of class. Yelling for their friends. Crying to the teachers.
Kurt Taylor’s staring at me again. Kurt, don’t do that. Kurt, stop
it. They wouldn’t know a real man if one came up and punched them
in their stupid Barbie faces.

Finally get out of high school and the U.S.
Army’s waiting for me just like the old man said. I get in and what
do I find? Tons of bitches who all think they’re as good as me.
Better than me. My fucking platoon sergeant is some dyke bitch.
Jesus, Mary, and fucking Joseph.

Wally Monroe slaps my arm. “Taylor, dude,” he
says to me. He points at Sergeant Kennedy, on her back with her
tits in the air, pumping away. Gus is spotting her. “I think the
sarge’s going to beat your record.”

“Yeah, great,” I say. I think about adding
“Who the fuck cares?” but he’s a smart guy for a grunt. He figures
it out.

So I sign up for Project Krypton thinking
this’ll take care of everything. No more questions who’s supposed
to be top dog A-number-one around here. It’ll separate the men from
the boys and leave the girls in the dirt. They can wise up and go
back to popping out more little soldiers for the U. S. of A like
God wanted.

And what the fuck do I find? A month after
surgery three-quarters of the program’s washed out and there’s
still three bitches here. And they’re doing better than me. They’ve
got the fucking dyke balls to keep trying to make me look bad.
Always faster. Always stronger.

My arm’s still sore. Got our last shots this
morning. I hate needles. Hate ‘em. There are air guns now that
don’t use needles, but they’re still shots. Doc Sorensen says from
here on in it’s up to us. No more shots, just a few tests every
other day. Our bodies will keep up or not.

The money’s on not for most of us. There’s
only thirty-eight soldiers left. Orders came down and Shelly pulled
us all together into one company. Sorensen said he expects the
dropouts are done. There should be enough of us left to make a
solid platoon or two.

One of the bitches is already looking sick.
Or maybe she’s just on the rag. Stick a cork in it, sister, this is
a man’s Army. If you can’t hack it go back to blowing jocks under
the bleachers for a dollar.

They all applaud and Gus and Monroe each
throw another plate on either side of the bar. Seven-hundred ninety
pounds. If the bitch does ten reps she’ll tie my record. Monroe
shoots me a smile. They’re all cheering for her again.

I was the first one to break seven-fifty. Me.
I’m the strongest, you fuckers.

While I’m waiting my turn I grab a pair of
free weights. I’m curling one-fifty with no problem these days.
Never guess it looking at any of us, especially the chicks.
Sorensen says it has to do with muscle density and fast-twitch
fiber or something. I’ve gained fifty-eight pounds of muscle, but
I’ve only gone up one shirt size.

I’m getting antsy just hanging around the
base, too. Should be thankful, though. Signed up thinking I’d get
to go kill towelheads in Iraq or Affuckistan or somewhere. Then
they sent me out here to Arizona and I found out how much I hate
the fucking desert. I’m sunburned half the time, sweating all the
time. Iraq or Affuckistan or Ari-fucking-zona, they all suck. Maybe
I’ll fake sick and see if I can get reassigned.

I do twenty reps while the bitch ties my
record. She sits up for a moment, shoots me a wink, and gives Gus a
look and a nod. “No way,” he grins.

“Do it,” she says. She’s sweating and
grinning like a bitch in heat. “Two more.”

The squad hollers. Sergeant Kennedy’s going
to do nine-forty. She’s going to beat me. Fucking bitch cunt
whore.

Gus and Monroe are scrounging up two more
seventy-five pound plates across the gym when Ryan Polk comes in.
He’s working as one of Colonel Shelly’s staff when he’s not here
with the rest of us. Let him make corporal. “News from the
outside,” he says as he pulls off his jacket. “It’s getting
worse.”

Nobody has to ask what. About four weeks ago,
in mid-March, we started hearing news stories about an epidemic.
First couple cases were in Los Angeles, but then we heard about
outbreaks in Vegas and New York and Boston. There was a news story
about someone getting sick in London and then Colonel Shelly
clamped down on all of it. That told us how bad it was. One of the
MPs told me they clamp down on big bad news so no one does anything
stupid and runs home or something.

The other bitch, Britney, goes up to him.
Yeah, we’ve got a fucking cunt soldier named Britney in our squad.
“What’d you hear?”

Ryan grabs a set of free weights and starts
doing curls, too. Our muscles get stiff fast if we don’t keep using
them. “I heard Colonel Shelly say they’re deploying the National
Guard in nineteen cities,” he says. “They’re talking about martial
law.”

I can’t believe that. Not here in the U.S. of
A. “No fucking way,” I say.

“That’s what they were saying. It hasn’t
happened yet but they think they’re going to have to.”