Ex-Patriots (14 page)

Freedom tumbled across the pavement and
rolled to his feet next to the capsized truck that blocked the
North Gower Gate. His helmet skittered loose across the street. He
drew his oversized sidearm and squeezed off four thundering bursts
at St. George. Over a dozen slugs hit like punches. They pattered
off the hero’s chest and shoulder and chimed on the ground with the
spent shells from the pistol.

St. George glanced over his shoulder, but it
looked like most of the stray rounds had just taken chunks out of
Thirty-One’s outer wall. “Look,” he said, “isn’t this a little
cliché? I’m one of the good guys. I’m pretty sure you’re one of the
good guys. Let’s pull our heads out of our asses before either side
does something stu—”

The four guards from Gower Gate lunged
forward with pikes and weapons drawn. One of them howled a
battle-cry. A pike got close to Freedom and he grabbed it by the
end and snapped the tip off. He blasted the ground by their feet.
“Drop your weapons,” he bellowed.

The guards smiled. One pointed behind
him.

He turned and St. George’s fist cracked
across his jaw. The soldier shook it off and a second punch knocked
him back against the truck. He swung a roundhouse with his free
hand but the hero leaped away and up.

Freedom holstered his weapon and charged
across the pavement. He leaped up and tackled St. George in
mid-air. The hero’s concentration faltered and they slammed into
the ground.

The huge soldier drove three quick punches
into St. George’s face with the distinct sound of large stones
being slammed together. Each one drove the smaller man’s skull down
into the pavement until the surface cracked. “You will stand down,
sir,” said Freedom. “I’m not going to tell you ag—”

St. George slammed his palm up. Hard. It
caught Freedom in the breastbone and knocked him a dozen feet into
the air. The soldier hit the ground running and threw himself back
at the hero before he could finish getting to his feet. The two
slid across the road and into the side of Thirty.

Freedom brought his knee up and St. George
folded over with an all-too-human pain. The huge man drove his fist
into the hero’s gut twice, then grabbed his collar and threw him
back out into the street. St. George coughed out some smoke and a
few tongues of flame.

At which point the gate guards opened
fire.

A dozen rounds struck Freedom in the back. He
turned and caught a dozen more in the chest and arms. He lunged
forward, far too fast for a man his size, and three of the guards
had been disarmed and knocked down before the fourth had time to
re-aim. The soldier took another burst to the chest before snapping
the edge of his palm against the guard’s temple. The man dropped
like an empty set of clothes.

St. George grabbed Freedom by the neck and
hurled him away from the gate. The soldier was charging forward
again before the hero could finish turning. They traded blows that
echoed in the tall canyons of North-by-Northwest. Then Freedom
blocked a roundhouse punch and slammed his fist up into St.
George’s gut. The impact sent him sailing into the air. He soared
up and over the spiked top of the Gower gate.

He landed outside the Mount.

“Son of a bitch,” muttered St. George as the
exes swarmed over him.

* * *

Stealth’s arm swung around and delivered a
fast strike to Specialist Truman’s throat before she dragged him
between the potted shrubs. One blow to paralyze the voice box and
give her time to incapacitate him. The man let out a faint hiss of
air. It was a weak noise under ideal conditions. With the Black
Hawk’s rotors still making a last few circles in the air, he was
effectively silenced.

The soldiers were each carrying an M240B as a
standard weapon and a complete set of body armor with no apparent
effort. It indicated great strength, bordering on superhuman. It
was more time-consuming, but she delivered a series of strikes
across Truman’s body. Biceps, armpits, pectorals. Each one hit a
nerve cluster, the end result being two arms numb from the
shoulders down.

When he still rolled up and grabbed for her
she realized how dense his muscle tissue must be. She frowned
beneath her featureless mask and drove a punch into his forehead,
right where his eyebrows met. He dropped.

Nine seconds to stop one man. Too long. The
others had noticed he was missing. She heard one of them call out
for him. A change in tactics was required. The soldiers had already
demonstrated one weak point. It was somewhat distasteful, but she
would have to exploit it.

She jumped up, kicked off the concrete
planter, and flipped through the hedges.

* * *

On an average day, there were anywhere from a
hundred to two hundred ex-humans milling around on the street
outside the Gower gate. A decent amount of noise could draw another
hundred on top of that. St. George put the mob of exes he’d fallen
into at about one-fifty with another hundred or so close by.

They fell on him with hungry teeth that broke
on his skin. Withered lips and fingers worked their way over his
arms and shoulders and legs. The only good thing about two years of
the undead in Los Angeles was most of them had dried out by
now.

He pushed down against gravity and rose up
through the mob, carrying half a dozen chattering exes with him.
They dropped off as he rotated in the air, some of them knocking
down other dead things as they fell. He turned back to the Mount
and the first rounds hit him.

The drum-fed monster Freedom carried spat out
ten rounds in a two-second burst, and each one hit like one of his
punches. The soldier had leaped to the top of the white truck that
blocked the gate. “Please stand down, sir,” he called out. “I don’t
enjoy doing this.”

St. George faltered in the air as a second
burst caught him in the chest. He dipped low enough for thin
fingers to grab at his boots again.

Freedom lined up a third shot when he heard
the air sizzle behind him and saw how dark his shadow had gotten.
He spun and fired off another burst. There was a hiss as the rounds
vaporized inches from Zzzap. The captain wasted some more
ammunition. There was a hollow clang from his oversized pistol.

Well,
said the wraith. He held his
hand up. The air in front of his palm twisted and rippled from the
heat.
That was all pretty impressive until the part where you
got here.

“You would be Zzzap, correct, sir?”

Thank God someone knows me. I’m sick and
tired of being mistaken for Stealth.

“Give it a rest,” said St. George. He shook
off the last ex and drifted over to hang a few yards above the
soldier. Smoke was billowing out his nostrils and between his
teeth. “So, feel like having that calm talk, now?”

The huge officer looked at each of the heroes
in turn and then dropped his oversized pistol. It clattered on the
roof of the truck as he raised his hands. “I choose to decline at
this time, sir,” he said.

What about name, rank and all that
stuff?

“
Captain Freedom, sir,” he
said. “Alpha 456th Unbreakables, first U.S. Army super-soldier
company.”

There was a long pause.

Oh, that is too cool,
said Zzzap.

* * *

The woman in black came over the hedge. She
spun in the air and her cloak spread like a huge set of wings. It
blotted out the sky as she came down at Franklin and the squad’s
sergeant, Monroe. Their weapons came up and twin bursts ripped into
the darkness. Her descent didn’t shift in the slightest and shadows
raced on the ground below her. The sergeant fired another burst as
Franklin dove to the side. She came down on the sergeant. He fought
for a moment, a thrashing shape beneath the cloak, and then he
tossed the fabric aside.

“Nothing,” said Monroe. “Just her cape. She’s
gone.”

“She was there,” said Franklin. “We saw
her.”

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” said the man in the
suit. He was still in the helicopter’s crew compartment.

“Not now, sir,” said Monroe. “We’ve got a
hostile in the area.”

“Yeah,” said the man. “I’m very aware of that
at the moment.”

The sergeant shot a look over his shoulder.
John was sitting very still. His arms were at his sides and his
head was tilted back. Monroe gave his eyes a moment to adjust to
the shadows inside the Black Hawk and saw the harness straps pulled
tight across the man’s arms and body. His collar and tie sat funny,
and another second of light-adjustment let the sergeant pick out
the black chrome bar pressed against the man’s throat.

Monroe blinked. It had only been a few
seconds since he turned his head, but now he could see the very
feminine shadow behind John. She gave a slight dip of her head, an
acknowledgement he’d spotted her. Then she pulled herself closer to
the man named John. On either side of the helicopter soldiers
raised their weapons.

“The M240B has a prodigious rate of fire,”
she said in a clear voice. “Seven hundred-fifty rounds per minute
at its lowest setting. It is not a weapon designed for pinpoint
accuracy, however. Firing into an enclosed space will almost
guarantee you hit your civilian advisor.”

The weapons stayed up.

No one moved.

“You know what I think?” said the man in the
suit. “I think we should all take a moment here and relax. Wouldn’t
that be good? Let’s all stop and calm down for a moment before this
gets any more out of hand.”

NOW

A huge crowd gathered a little before noon to watch
the second Black Hawk land in the Pickford lot on the other side of
the Melrose Gate. Thousands of people packed the streets and
rooftops. A few of them glared at the helicopter as it settled down
and the wind whipped up clouds of dirt and dust, but most of them
stared in amazement. Some applauded.

St. George and Stealth stood on 3rd Street
with the crowds behind them. She had slipped back into her cloak
and the bullet holes vanished in its folds and gathers. Every now
and then a shaft of light would slip through one of the dime-sized
holes and St. George would feel his jaw tighten.

Barry sat in his wheelchair next to them.
He’d powered down as a concession to Freedom’s people shouldering
their weapons. Danielle lurked behind the chair. She’d given up on
anyone helping her with the armor and stood with her head bowed and
her arms crossed.

Freedom was a few yards away with his
soldiers standing at ease behind him in a loose circle around their
helicopter. The man in the suit was inside the circle. They’d
insisted on separating him until they could have more troops on the
ground.

The Black Hawk had barely settled when a
second group of soldiers leaped out and loped across the pavement.
Each of them carried the same oversized rifle with the bulky ammo
box. They formed their own loose circle around their
helicopter.

“Supporting units,” said Stealth. “Each
positioned to keep us in line of sight.”

A woman with a collection of chevrons on her
jacket gave a set of hand signals across the way to Freedom. He
looked back at the man in the suit and gave a nod. The young man
called John whispered a few words to the captain, and then made his
way across the space to the heroes. Freedom followed a few paces
behind. The man in the suit beamed a broad smile. “Let’s try this
again, shall we?”

“Sure,” said St. George.

“The Mighty Dragon,” said the young man.
“This is a real honor. Wow.” His smile got broader. “Can I shake
your hand?”

St. George was caught off guard. He held his
hand out without thinking and the man pumped it five or six times.
People cheered and applauded. “I’m going by St. George these
days.”

The smile shifted. “St. George,” he echoed.
“Clever. I like it. And you must be Stealth,” the suit continued.
He stepped past St. George to stand before the cloaked woman.
“You’re just as formidable as I’ve always heard. I’d love to shake
your hand too, if that’s okay? No hard feelings?”

It was so unexpected; she held her hand out.
There were more cheers and applause.

“It’s just amazing,” he continued. “You’ve
saved so many people. People talk about superheroes and you think
about fighting monsters and supervillains and stuff. You don’t
think about things like this.”

“I’m sorry,” interrupted St. George. “I
didn’t catch your name.”

The young man’s smile faltered and in that
instant the hero realized the man in the suit was probably older
than he was. “Sorry,” he said. “Caught up in the moment. This is
just... It’s so rare we find survivors, let alone such a huge group
with, well, people like you.” He straightened his tie. “I’m John
Smith. Department of Homeland Security, seconded to DARPA and
working with Project Krypton as... well...” He shrugged. “These
days I just try to help out wherever I can, like most people.”

He took a few steps back until he stood near
the soldiers. “Good job, Captain Freedom,” he said. “You and your
people did great considering the opposition. I’ll make sure the
colonel and Dr. Sorensen know.”

The huge officer gave a sharp dip of his
head. “Thank you, sir.”

“St. George, Stealth,” said Smith, turning
back to the heroes, “I believe you’ve already met our super-forces
commander.”

“Captain Freedom,” said St. George with a
smile. He rubbed his jaw and held out his hand. “So that’s the best
name they could come up with, huh?”

“Captain John Carter Freedom, sir,” he said.
He took the hand, gripped it hard, and gave a single shake.

“Ahhh. Sorry.”

The crowd, not hearing any of it, applauded
again.

Smith broke up the awkward moment with more
babbling. It was like nervous hero worship. “You can imagine our
surprise,” he said to St. George, “when our sentries looked west on
the Fourth of July and saw fireworks out over Los Angeles. Two
miles over, as far as we could tell.”