Ex-Communication: A Novel (6 page)

Danielle Morris had created the Cerberus Battle Armor System for the U.S. military just before the ex-humans appeared. There wasn’t time to train anyone else, so she’d become the suit’s de facto pilot and spent most of the past two and a half years inside it. Like most of the heroes, she’d just come to accept it.

But then they’d discovered another superhuman inside the Mount, a reformed Seventeen named Cesar Mendoza who tried desperately to get people to call him “the Driver.” Cesar could project himself into machinery and possess it, which meant he could use the Cerberus suit just as well as Danielle. And with the fall of Project Krypton the year before, there was even a lieutenant living at the Mount now who’d spent months training to use the battlesuit.

The catch was, Danielle still didn’t trust either of them with it.

St. George considered flying after the titan and talking to her, but he knew they both had other things to do. He turned in the air and looked across the parking lot to the Hart Building. He could see most of it. The guards there were probably waiting for him.

Then he spun and flew to the other side of the Mount.

He landed outside a large, warehouse-like building called Stage Four. The air prickled and St. George felt his hair rise off his scalp. Three years back, when the Mount had been a film studio, they’d shot television shows in Four. Now it was the hub of the new Los Angeles power grid.

Inside Four smelled like a welding shop. At the center of the huge space was a trio of interlocking rings—each wrapped with copper wire—that formed a rough sphere. The whole array resembled a seven-foot gyroscope, but everyone still used the
nickname that had come up when it was being built. It was the electric chair.

The brilliant outline of a man, the negative image of a shadow, hovered at the center of the sphere. Arcs of crackling power shot from the gleaming figure to the copper-wrapped rings. St. George had known the other hero long enough to see his friend was staring over at a table dominated by a large flatscreen and a pile of DVDs.

Zzzap didn’t notice St. George’s entrance. He was busy arguing with the television.

Because it’s dumb, that’s why
, said Zzzap. The buzz of his voice echoed in the large room. He paused for a moment and then shook his head.
Look, being able to run implies a certain degree of physical coordination, which means a specific level of brain activity and consciousness. You can’t be mindless
and
have brain activity
. He waited a few moments, then shook his head again.
Well, then just look around. Have you ever seen one run in real life?

The television, St. George noticed, wasn’t turned on.

No, Legion doesn’t count because he’s only sort of mindless—what?
The wraith spun inside the circle.
Hey
, he said to St. George.
I didn’t hear you come in
.

“Yeah, you seemed kind of busy.”

What? What do you mean?

The hero stared at his friend for a moment, then nodded at the television. “What’s with all that?”

All what?

He gestured at the blank television.

Oh. Nothing. It’s cartoon withdrawal, that’s all
.

“Cartoon withdrawal?”

I have a
Yu-Gi-Oh!
addiction, okay? It’s not pretty, but there it is. I just love the way he talks when he’s the King of Games
.

“No, I’m serious.”

Addiction is a serious thing, George. Don’t mock it
.

“You’re really determined not to talk about this, aren’t you?”

I’m fine. What’s up?

He drummed his fingers on his thigh. “Are you sure?”

Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?

He shrugged.

So what’s up?

The hero rocked back and forth on his heels. “I’m cooking dinner tonight. You want to come over?”

You’re cooking?

“Yeah.”

Cooking food?

“Is this hard for you to understand or hard to believe?”

A little of both
. The brilliant wraith crossed his arms and leaned back.
This isn’t some cheesy superhero thing where you’re going to throw hot dogs in the air and try to cook them with your fire-breath, right?

“If I had hot dogs, I wouldn’t waste them like that.”

Good
.

“I’ve pulled in a couple favors. I’ve got two loaves of almost-French bread, a bunch of tomatoes and onions, and some of that homemade pasta the Ashmores are making over at Ren-Mar.”

The stuff that’s like thick fettuccine?

“They’ve gotten better since that first batch. I figure I can make something that passes for Italian food. So take the night off and come over.”

Zzzap looked at him.
What’s the occasion?

St. George shrugged. “I just felt like doing something nice with my friends. Is that so wrong?”

Who else is coming?

“You, me, hopefully Danielle.”

Danielle’s coming?

“If I can get her to come out without the armor on, yeah.”

The wraith’s head tilted back to look at the copper-wrapped rings above him.
I don’t know
, he said.
Do you think Stealth’ll be okay with it? With me just taking a night off?

“I already cleared it with her,” said St. George.

Okay, then, yeah, I guess so
.

“I really didn’t think I’d have to talk you into eating a meal.”

No, no, I’m in
, said Zzzap.
Sorry. I’ve been kind of distracted
.

“I’ve noticed. You sure everything’s okay?”

Zzzap’s head twitched.
Yeah, of course. Stop trying to put your problems off on me
.

The hero frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You think I don’t know what all this care and concern is really about? You’re putting off going to see him, aren’t you?

“Maybe,” he sighed.

You don’t have to go, you know
.

“I told him I would,” said St. George. “Hell, I’m the only person he ever sees.”

We’re the only ones who know. Would you want him talking to anyone else?

The room’s proper name—the one taped under one of Stealth’s countless security monitors—was Cell Nine.

The Mount had six solitary cells for prisoners, but none of them got much use since the original South Seventeens gang had collapsed and been absorbed into the general population. There were also two large cells that served as drunk tanks and cooling-off rooms. Everyone knew where those cells were.

And then there was Cell Nine.

Cell Nine was in the basement of the Hart Building, one of several office spaces that had been converted into small apartments when the survivors moved into the Mount. When they’d been there for a little over a year, Stealth had ordered Hart cleaned out. The residents were all moved to other locations with many loud complaints and even one sit-in demonstration.

As for the Hart Building, a team was brought in to build a spacious cell in the basement storage area, twelve feet on a side. It was steel bars lined with heavy chain-link fence on both sides. When the cell was done, all the windows were boarded up
on all floors, inside and out. All the doors were chained shut, including the fire door on the roof, and the locks welded solid. The only entrance was the front door on 3rd Street, and it had four padlocks on it. Two were keyed, two had combinations. Two guards stood there at all times. Each of them had one key and one combination.

Whispered stories went back and forth through the survivors of Los Angeles about what was down in the building’s basement. Officially it was just high-security storage, but everyone knew you didn’t put objects in a cell, you put living things. Which is how Cell Nine came to be known as the Cellar. And the Cellar was where they kept the Thing.

One of the more popular theories said the Cellar was a prison for infected citizens, or a dumping ground for people who’d been reanimated by the ex-virus. Some people thought the Thing was a reanimated superhero whose powers made him or her too dangerous to let wander through Los Angeles. A few folks who’d been part of the film industry back when the Mount was a studio told stories about how the Hart Building had always been a nexus of supernatural incidents, and had once been considered one of the most haunted places in Hollywood.

Even the guards didn’t know what was in the Cellar. All they knew was that they had strict orders. If the Thing—whatever it was—tried to get out of the building, they weren’t supposed to hesitate or ask questions. They were just supposed to shoot until they were out of ammunition.

It didn’t help the rumors that only one person was allowed into the Hart Building. Once a month he would descend into the basement and the guards would lock the door behind him. He’d stay down there for an hour or two and then come out looking grim.

St. George landed on 3rd Street in front of the Hart Building. Today it was Mike Meryl and Katie O’Hare on guard. Mike walked with a limp from an old injury, so a static guard post
was perfect for him. Katie liked any position where she didn’t have to talk to people.

They each gave him a polite nod and bent to the locks. There was only one reason for him to come here, and they’d been expecting him for a day or two now. They set the padlocks on the steps and unwrapped the chain. It ran through four big eye-bolts in the door frame.

The Hart Building didn’t have a lobby. The doorway opened up onto a staircase landing. St. George stepped through and Katie closed the door behind him. He stood there while the chains rattled back into place. The padlocks thumped against the door and he headed down.

There was a short hallway that ended at another padlocked door. This one was more solid, and had rubber bumpers around the edge to help seal the inside from moisture and air. They’d stored videotapes and files down here once, years ago. George dug a key out of his pocket and the lock popped open. A wisp of smoke curled up out of his nose and he opened the door.

Cell Nine was in the middle of the room. A pair of mattresses were stacked in the far corner of the cell, decorated by a mess of sheets and blankets. A few dozen books were piled in the opposite corner. They were all battered paperbacks, or hardbacks that had been torn out of their cover. Nothing hard.

There was no toilet. Not even a bucket. The occupant never needed one, which made sense. He hadn’t eaten anything in almost a year.

The prisoner didn’t look up when St. George entered. He had a book in one hand. He made a show of turning the page and reading another paragraph before his eyes flitted up to meet the hero’s.

“Hello, George,” he said. “It’s been a while. I thought you might’ve finally given up on me.”

“DO YOU BELIEVE
him?”

St. George shrugged and set another tomato on the cutting board. “Not really. I mean, he was doing it again when I walked in.”

Stealth gave a faint nod. “I have seen him go through the motions of conversations three times this past week alone. There was no evidence of another speaker.”

“Did you check to see if he was talking to someone on the radio?”

“I did,” she said. She carried a stack of plates and bowls to the table. She balanced them on one hand and held the silverware in the other. “I checked five months ago when his behavior patterns could no longer be denied.”

“What?” The knife slipped to the side and grated against his finger. It ruined the edge of the blade. He glanced from the knife to Stealth and back. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“I knew the answer would upset you. And there is currently nothing we can do about it.”

He pulled another knife from the block on the counter and attacked the last tomato again. “And the answer is …?”

Stealth did something quick with her left arm and a single plate slid onto the table in front of a chair. “He is not talking to anyone, George. I monitor all broadcast communications
within the Mount, and many beyond it. There have been no radio conversations that match up with the ones he is having. I have checked during sixteen separate incidents since then. He is not communicating with anyone.”