Ex-Heroes Peter Clines (bill gates books to read .txt) 📖

“One who knows there won’t be enough time to enjoy them,” he replied. He gave her a thumbs-up and she slid to the next landing.

“Body,” she called. “It’s down.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah. Well eaten. Not enough left to move.”

He gestured Lynne up the stairs and she joined Bee on the bloodstained landing. The corpse was a withered thing, a skeleton held together with strips of human jerky. Most of the fingers and toes were missing. A few scraps of stained cloth surrounded it. Lynne couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman.

Mark shuffled up behind them and swung around the small platform.

“Next flight looks good,” Bee told him.

He gave her a nod and worked his way up to the next level. “Second floor,” he called out. He banged three times on the door.

Lynne moved up the steps. “Exes are as stupid as everyone says, right?”

“Dumb as ants.”

“So where’d the one go that ate this guy? Or woman. Whatever it was. It couldn’t get out of here, right?”

The two scavengers glanced at each other. “Score one for the new kid,” said Mark. He craned his neck over the railing and looked up and down.

“Anything?”

“Still nothing.” He slid his bulky form up the next flight, his rifle aimed at the next landing. “Ahhhhh. Got a leak.”

Bee gestured Lynne up the stairs.

Mark pointed out the dark streams crusted on the third-floor platform. He took a few more steps and peered across the landing. “Another body,” he said. His free hand went up, back down, and traced a circle in the air. “Ex. It’s down.”

Lynne stood on her toes and leaned to see the body. “You sure?”

“Yep. Looks like it tried to go up to the fourth floor and fell straight over backward. Cracked its skull wide open.”

“How?”

“Seen it before,” said Bee. “A body can fall pretty hard when it doesn’t try to stop itself.”

“Back down to two,” said Mark with a wave of his hand. “We’ve got a building to search and we’re falling behind already.”

St. George jumped up as high as he could, crashing through the dried leaves of the trees. Staying focused on the small twist between his shoulders let him go up fifty feet, just a bit higher than most of the buildings. It still wasn’t real flight, even with three years of practice.

He hung in the air for a moment, looking across the rooftops. There were a dozen solar panels the next block over. Some sun-bleached shirts and shorts on a jury-rigged clothesline. Three or four blocks away, a pair of exes pushed against the railing of a rooftop patio.

He sank back down and launched himself up again. The solar cells closest to him were cracked. They might not work.

The hero turned, his arms slicing through the air, and cast his eyes down Vermont. From up here he could see for miles, to the 10 freeway. If he focused a bit, he could see slow, staggering movement everywhere. Over five million exes in Los Angeles county, if Stealth’s estimates were correct.

As he drifted toward the ground again, he saw the figure shuffling up the street. A dark-haired young woman in jeans and a T-shirt. She had one eye, and her left arm ended at the elbow. Something twisted and turned on the blacktop behind her.

He swung his legs and slipped forward, landing in the intersection past the trees. The ex swung its eye toward him and snapped its jaws while it stumbled forward. Its right arm hung back, its wrist connected to the small thing by a colorful cord. St. George saw the bright red Velcro and realized what the creature was dragging.

It was a child. Two years old at the most, leashed to the thing that had been its mother. Its clothes were tatters. Most of its face was raw and bloody from being dragged across countless miles of pavement, and he could see bone and teeth everywhere. The mother would come to a brief halt between steps, the dead child would roll and twist, and then be yanked off balance again as the larger ex shuffled on.

St. George’s boots tapped against the road and the female ex raised its stumped arm to him. It strained to pull the other forward, and the dead child flailed on the ground. This close he could see the damp trail the small ex left as it was dragged.

The hero reached out and the woman closed her mouth on his fingers. It reminded him of a small puppy as it tried to bite, one without the strength to break the skin. The mindless jaws worked up and down and tried to gnaw through his stony skin. Its tongue was a coarse piece of ragged leather against his fingertips. A tooth fell out and clicked on the blacktop.

Ilya called to him from the truck. “Problem, boss?”

“No,” he said with a glance over his shoulder. He braced his free hand on the ex’s forehead and slid his digits free. Another tooth dropped. The dead woman pawed at his arm for a moment, like a kid dealing with a schoolyard bully, while he flicked the gummy saliva from his fingers. Then the heel of his palm chopped through the thing’s spine, severing its head. The body collapsed and the head tumbled away.

The small ex—the child—was on its feet. It staggered at him on stumpy legs, gnashing milk teeth in its small mouth. He couldn’t tell if it had been a little boy or a little girl. It stumbled past the headless corpse of its former mother, and its stubby fingers reached up for a hungry hug.

St. George sighed, drew his leg back, and drove his toes into the ex’s chest. Thin bones cracked under his boot as the red leash snapped and the dead child was launched into the air. It soared up past the rooftops and crashed down a dozen blocks away in a splash of bone and meat.

He looked back at the truck and scraped the tip