“Crap. What’s that give us, thirteen full suits?”
“Yup.”
“Not a great number,” said Billie.
“No,” agreed the hero.
“Half the folks just want to wear their leathers anyway,” said Jarvis. “This whole armor idea still ain’t going over that well.”
“It’s too damned hot for leather,” said Billie. “Either people don’t wear it or get heat exhaustion from it.”
“Tell Rocky he gets chicken for dinner tonight if he can finish one more set before we leave,” said St. George. “He’s got my word on it.”
“Hell,” said Jarvis, “for a whole chicken I’ll make the damned sleeves myself.”
“What if he doesn’t?” asked Billie.
“Then we’ll have to make do with what we’ve got.”
“Does that mean cutting three people or having three people go without armor?”
St. George wrinkled his brow. “Let me think on that one.”
They stepped out into the morning light and took a moment to adjust their sunglasses. Off to their right was the Lemon Grove gate, and St. George reached up to rub the blade-like tooth on his jacket as he looked that way. “I’m going to check in with Zzzap and Stealth. I’ll meet both of you at Melrose in thirty.”
Jarvis nodded and loped away. St. George was about to leap into the air when Billie touched his arm. She gestured down the road.
A thin, shaved-bald man waited there with the little girl who’d cut St. George’s bangs. When the man realized they’d seen him he switched the girl’s fingers to his other hand and gave an awkward salute. He walked forward, still holding his hand up, pulling the little girl behind him. He wore a pair of fingerless gloves.
The hero waited for the salute to drop and then shook the hand. “You were the one who actually won the drawing, right?”
“Yeah,” said the man. He was young, twenty tops, and spoke with an anxious, eager voice. His bare arms were decorated with tattoos, and the hero could see the prominent number on the left shoulder. “Andrea’s my niece. She’s wanted to meet you since we moved up here.”
“You were with the Seventeens?”
“Was in, yeah,” the young man said, “but I’m out now. I’m Cesar. Cesar Mendoza.”
Behind him, St. George heard Billie’s boots shift. “Good to meet you, Cesar,” he said, pumping the hand again. “You’ve got a beautiful niece.”
“Hell-o,” the little girl sang. She waved and ducked behind Cesar, blushing again.
“Yeah, I know,” the young man said. “Look, I was wondering…could I talk to you for a couple of minutes about something?”
“Is it urgent?”
Cesar shrugged. “I mean, it’s not life or death,” he said. “Just wanted to talk about some stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Just…you know.” He shot a glance at Billie. “Stuff. Just something I need to get off my chest, you know?”
“D’you get bitten?”
“What? No!”
“Kill somebody?” asked Billie.
“No!”
“Steal something?”
“No! Well…no, not for like two years. Honest, man, nothin’ like that.”
“Can’t be too pressing, then,” St. George said with a smile. He clapped a hand on Cesar’s shoulder. “I’ve got a few things I need to take care of before we head out, but maybe later. I’ll be around all day tomorrow if nothing comes up.”
The young man nodded. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Yeah, tomorrow’d be cool. Thanks, man.” He hefted the little girl into his arms. “Say bye,” he told her.
“Good-bye,” she sang, waving at them.
“Still don’t trust any of those people,” murmured Billie as they walked away.
“Those people?” echoed the hero.
“Don’t play the PC card,” she said. “Less than a year ago the Seventeens were trying to kill us. Now we’re sharing supplies with them.”
“They’re sharing with us, too, don’t forget. Chickens, eggs, a hell of a lot more fruits and veggies.”
She shrugged. “Okay,” she said, “if you think they’re so trustworthy why aren’t any of them scavengers or walking the wall yet?”
St. George watched the young man and the little girl as they turned the corner. “You know, you’re right,” he said. “We ought to do something about that.”
“I didn’t say I have a problem with it,” she said. “I wouldn’t trust any of them with a weapon. Most people wouldn’t.”
“Well, you’re going to have to,” he said. “None of us are going to survive if we keep up this us-and-them mentality. Rotate someone out and put one of the Seventeens on the team for today.”
“What?”
“There’s a couple decent candidates. Nestor. Hector. Fernando. Who’s the woman with the faux-hawk? Desirea?”
“Just to be clear, I started this by saying leaving them out was a good thing.”
He smiled. “That’s why you’re picking who comes with us. Didn’t they teach you about teambuilding in the Marines?”
“Yeah. They said if someone wasn’t part of the team you should shoot them.”
“Choose wisely,” he said. He focused on a spot between his shoulders, and his feet drifted off the ground. “At Melrose in twenty-five. I expect to see at least one person with a tattoo.”
“I’ve got three,” she called up to him.
“You don’t count.”
“I’ll let you see the third one,” she offered.
He pushed down against the world and soared up into the air. The wind felt strange against his scalp, and it took him a moment to remember the new haircut.
Flying the three blocks south to the old Stage Four was excessive, but St. George still hadn’t gotten past the thrill of flight. He’d been able to glide for years, but it wasn’t until the war with the Seventeens and their undead army that he’d been able to make the leap, so to speak, to actual flight. The threat of losing everything they’d worked for, losing friends, and letting down the people who believed in him, had made something click. Now he could fly, and he was stronger than ever.
And the thought of losing Stealth, he admitted, had probably had something to do with it, too.
He shot into the sky, high enough that he could see the beach a dozen miles away and the Pacific Ocean and Catalina Island far off to the south. Stealth had sent Zzzap out there six months ago. The island’s little town, Avalon, was gone. About a thousand exes wandered the narrow streets and out into the hills. He stared out at the dead island and then dove back to the ground.
He landed outside Four. The air stank of ozone. Kids came here at night to watch their hands glow with static electricity. Four had been a stage once, back when the Mount was a film studio. They’d stripped out the sets and linked it to one of the nearby power houses with heavy cables once used by lighting crews.
The other end of those cables ran to the object at the center of Four. It was a set of three interlocking rings, each wrapped with copper wire. They formed a rough sphere that looked like a seven-foot gyroscope. Someone had dubbed it the electric chair while it was being built. The nickname had stuck.
Hovering inside the rings was the form of a man. It was a reversed silhouette, like looking at the sun through a man-shaped cutout. Arcs of energy shot from the brilliant figure to snap and pop against the copper-wrapped sphere. St. George could tell his friend was staring off into one of the stage’s empty corners.
Well, I’m still getting used to it, said Zzzap. His voice was somewhere between a kazoo and pure static, and it buzzed over the crackle of power. You have to admit, this isn’t exactly an everyday thing. And I say this as a guy who more or less turns into a small star.
As St. George approached, the gleaming silhouette turned in the air toward him.
Wow , said Zzzap. They really did a number on you.
“Who were you talking to?”