As he raised the hand the sleeve sagged a bit and revealed part of his withered forearm. The flesh was pale and splotched with gray. Dark veins ran into his palm and met up with yellowed fingernails. The teeth marks were still visible, a semicircle of ragged holes just beneath his wrist.
For the first few months of his superhero career Josh Garcetti called himself the Immortal. He could heal from wounds in less time than it took to make them. Fire, bullets, broken limbs—he laughed at all of them. Then he discovered how to share his healing factor with others and he became Regenerator.
Then his wife died. And then the world went to hell. And then an ex bit his right hand. In one of the last field hospitals, as everyone pulled out and all the last-ditch emergency plans kicked in, a dead cop rolled over on the slab and sunk his teeth into Regenerator. Put him in a coma for three weeks, but it didn’t kill him and he didn’t change. For the past fourteen months his healing factor had done nothing but keep the infection from spreading past his biceps.
St. George tried not to stare at the hand. “You can’t hide in here forever, Josh.”
“Of course I can,” he said. “What do you think we’re all doing?”
They looked at each other for a moment. The hero made a noise that was half snort and half sigh, accompanied by a puff of black smoke.
“Look,” said the doctor, “I’ve got some immunizations to get ready for and an inventory to do. It was good seeing you, George. Be careful out there, okay?” He worked the hand back into its pocket, gave a faint bow with his head, and walked away.
* * * *
St. George stepped back out into the open air. “Hey,” the hero called to the guard with the salt-and-pepper hair, “what’s your name, anyway?”
“Jarvis,” he said with a grin. The guard gave a sharp, threefingered salute. “Pleased to meetcha.”
“Same. Melrose gate. Eleven.”
“See you at eleven,” echoed the bearded guard.
St. George gave him a nod and launched himself up to the roof of the hospital. Another kick got him up and over the stages to the east and headed toward Four.
Four had been a stage once. They’d found some plaques and paperwork that said shows like Deep Space Nine and Nip/Tuck had been filmed there. They’d stripped all the operating room sets there for Zukor, used the set walls for housing, and tied it into one of the Mount’s nearby power houses with heavy cable from the nearby lighting warehouses. Now it reeked of ozone and the air danced on St. George’s skin.
At the center of Four was the electric chair. It was a set of three interlocking circles forming a rough sphere, but the nickname had stuck. Each ring was wrapped with copper wire stripped out of three miles of cable. Five people had spent a month building it. St. George thought it looked just like an enormous toy gyroscope.
Floating inside the sphere was the blinding outline of a man. It was a reversed shadow, like looking at the sun through a man-shaped cutout. Arcs of energy shot from the white-hot figure to snap and pop against the copper rings.
“Morning, Barry,” the hero shouted over the crackling of power.
The glowing figure shifted in the sphere. It had no eyes, but St. George knew his friend was looking at him. A voice made of static echoed over the electric noise. Morning, it buzzed. You ready to head out?
St. George shook his head. “Not yet, but I asked everyone to switch over early. Thought you might like a bite to eat and a nap.”
God, yes, sighed the brilliant wraith. It shifted again and examined the building. Where’re my wheels?
“Over by the door.”
The outline nodded. Catch me , it buzzed.
There was a twist of lightning and the figure was outside the sphere. It sank to the floor and the concrete began to smoke. The shape grew dim, the air flattened, and a gaunt, naked man tumbled to the ground with the sudden “whuff” of a flame being snuffed out.
“Oh, Jesus!” he shouted. “It’s freezing in here. Where’s my clothes?”
“On the chair.” St. George scooped him up, taking the darkskinned man in one arm like a child.
“Get me over there, for Christ’s sake.”
“Wuss.”
“Big man, picking on the naked cripple,” Barry said. “Get me some damned pants.”
They crossed the room and St. George lowered his friend into the wheelchair. Barry dug through the bundle of clothes and wrestled his way into the sweatpants. He’d been dressing in the chair for most of his life, so it didn’t take long. He tugged a T-shirt over his stubbly head and wrapped himself in a fleece jacket. “No shoes?”
“What do you need shoes for?”
“My feet are cold.”
“So put on the other pair of socks.”
“Are they still serving breakfast?”
“Yeah. And I got you something to eat on the way.” He dropped a shrunken muffin in the other man’s lap.
“Thanks. Which truck are we taking out?”
“ Big Red , I think.”
“Good,” said Barry through a mouthful of pastry. “The shocks on Mean Green suck so bad I can feel it in my ass. You know what?”
“What?”
“I think this is the best blueberry muffin I have had in my entire life.”
“I’m sure Mary’ll be glad to hear someone liked them.”
“And I’m not just saying that because it’s been four days. This is one spectacular muffin.”
St. George spun his walkie in his hand. “You know what you want? I can call ahead, have something ready.”
“I will have,” he said with great thought, “a stack of at least five pancakes. Lots of syrup and whatever’s passing for butter these days. Some potatoes. And any of those powdered eggs they’ve got left.”
“That it?”
“We’ll talk later about what I’m taking with me for lunch. So, what’s going on?”
“How so?”
“You’re transparent, boy scout.”
St. George shrugged. “Just talked to Josh.”
“Oh, joy. How’d that go?”
“Same as always. Self-pity, a little self-loathing, determined to end his life a lonely martyr.”
Barry pushed another lump of muffin into this mouth. “One thing you have to say about our brave new world. It’s very consistent.”
* * * *
Big Red was parked next to the guard shack. It was a twenty-four-foot truck that had been used for hauling set dressing back when the Mount was in the movie business. The new residents had cannibalized and customized it for scavenging runs. They’d chopped off most of the box and built a new frame for it, making it into a gigantic pickup. It had a backup gas tank, a winch, and a cow catcher that had served as a battering ram once or twice. The doublecab sat four, another six rode in the bed, and a steel grill let two more ride on top of the cab. A petite woman with yellow and black stripes in her short hair was already there, seated on an old couch cushion. Lady Bee had an M-16 slung over her shoulder and a tactical holster strapped to one thigh. Someone once told St. George she’d been a movie costumer in the old days. She blew him a kiss as he walked past the truck.
Luke Reid was at the wheel, as always. He was a blond, broad-shouldered Teamster who used to drive trucks for a living before everything went south. St. George saw Jarvis in Big Red ’s back, along with Ty O’Neill, Billie Carter, Ilya, and a few others he sort of recognized. They all gave him salutes and determined nods. Barry was already asleep in the giant truck bed, stretched out on a thick pile of furniture blankets with his wheelchair strapped to the wall next to him.
St. George walked up to the Melrose Gate and stopped a few feet away from the dozens of grasping hands reaching and clawing between the bars. The exes had the gate mobbed, as they always did. It was the only place they could still see into the Mount, see all the succulent, tasty people standing inside.