He passed another rooftop and let himself drop between buildings. He could see himself reflected in Zukor’s mirrored windows before he landed on the narrow length of Avenue L. One of the guards in front of the hospital gave him a sharp nod, the other a lazy salute. The third man bowed his unusual head.
Gorgon had struck St. George as shifty and underhanded from the day they’d first met, probably because he always hid his eyes. He did it for everyone else’s sake, but it still bothered people. A huge pair of mechanical goggles covered half of Gorgon’s face. A spinning iris of dark plastic made up each lens, mounted in a rim the size of a can of tuna. He hadn’t been as good about combing his hair or shaving since Banzai had died, and, wearing his leather duster, he looked like a Japanese cartoon character.
A seven-pointed sheriff’s badge rode high on the duster’s lapel. Someone had dug it up from one of the prop or costume trailers. After Stealth’s lesson at the gate, Gorgon had taken it upon himself to patrol the streets, halls, and rooftops of the Mount. He wore the silver star with grim pride.
“Morning,” he said.
“Gorgon. Surprised to see you here.”
“Had to make a drop-off. Fight in the mushroom farm.”
“Again?”
“The big guy, Mikkelson,” said one of the guards. “Throwing his weight around again, yelling about starving.”
“I put him down,” said Gorgon. His head tilted a bit, a twitch, and let the lenses catch the light. “He hit his head on one of the trays and cut his forehead.”
“Still weird to see you here,” said St. George with a half-smile.
Gorgon coughed. “I was the only one who could carry him up the damned stairs. You know what the Stage Five farm’s like.”
They all nodded.
He swept down the sides of his trenchcoat and gave the sheriff’s badge a quick brush. “Anyway, I’ve got rounds to make and I’m behind now.” He tipped his head to St. George. “Watch yourself out there this afternoon.”
“Hey, yeah,” said the other guard. He tipped his head after Gorgon. “Boss says all y’all’s going out today?”
St. George nodded. “Sheets have been up for a few days. You didn’t see?”
The man shook his head. He had a salt and pepper beard that added a dozen years to his face.
“If your shift’s over by eleven, be at Melrose,” said the hero. “We can fit you in.”
“I’ll be there.” The guard shifted the rifle on his shoulder.
Another guard stood inside the door and gave him a nod. Zukor was the most heavily defended building on the lot. If an outbreak happened inside the walls, it would start here. Each emergency room had three armed guards and all the medical staff carried sidearms. If someone died, putting a bullet in their brain was a top priority.
St. George paused at the large sign dominating the right-hand wall. Each of the letters was four inches tall. He’d memorized it at this point, but its sheer size made him look every time.
WARNING SIGNS
FEVER - DIZZINESS – CHILLS – WEAKNESS - HEADACHES
BLURRED OR DOUBLE VISION - DIARREAH - NAUSEA
CONGESTION - PALE SKIN - TROUBLE BREATHING
PERSONS EXHIBITING ANY OF THESE SYMPTOMS MUST
PRESENT THEMSELVES FOR TESTING AND QUARANTINE
IMMEDIATELY
The Adolph Zukor Building hadn’t always been the Mount’s hospital, but Stealth had pointed out they needed something more central and better equipped than the small first aid office off Avenue P. Deeper into the lobby was a statue of the man himself. St. George had moved it out of the way when they put the sign in.
He found Doctor Connolly in her office. Roger Mikkelson was sprawled across the examination table, his head wedged in place with two rolled up towels. She tied off a fourth and final stitch in the man’s forehead and mopped up some blood with a piece of gauze.
“Shouldn’t you use anesthetic or something when you do that?”
A few streaks of silver highlighted Doctor Connolly’s crimson hair, and fine wrinkles marked the edges of her eyes. She’d been a medical researcher when they found her in the remains of Hollywood Presbyterian. Now she was in charge of their small hospital staff. “Anesthetic’s a limited resource,” she said, “and Gorgon told me I had at least half an hour before he regained consciousness.” She smiled and peeled off her gloves. “To what do I owe the honor?”
He gestured up to the lights with his chin. “We’re going to have to put you on solar for a while. Barry’s coming out with us.”
“How long?”
“Four or five hours, tops. Do you have anything critical?”
She shook her head. “Slow week.” She nodded at Mikkelson. “He’ll be out of here once he wakes up. We’ve just got a broken leg, a concussion, and a gunshot wound staying here tonight.”
“Who got shot by who?”
“Zekiel Reid, Luke’s brother. He nodded off on the Marathon roof with his finger on the trigger. Ricochet caught him in the calf.”
“Idiot.”
“Lucky idiot,” Connolly said. “At that range he could’ve blown his foot off. If the bullet got him in the thigh, he would’ve bled out hopping here.”
“You don’t sound too surprised.”