“It’s all been your fine instruction, Mr. Holmes,” he said toasting her with a plastic bottle. He took another sip and pointed at one of the nearby remains of a tree. “D’you notice the stumps?”
She nodded. “Firewood. As Zzzap reported, they are using fires for heat, light, and food preparation. I would guess most bookstores, newsstands, and office suppliers in this area have suffered a similar fate.”
“They’ve got the country club, too, don’t they? And Century City.”
“And telephone poles. And several hundred thousand tires, I would guess.” She nodded at a row of wheel-less cars. “They would be unusable for cooking, but could still provide light and heat. Are you in love with me?”
He spit out a mouthful of water. “What?”
“You have regular sexual relations with Beatrice Strutton, but you remain emotionally obsessed with me. I believe she is aware of this as well.”
“Okay, how do you know--”
“There is nothing that goes on in the Mount I am not aware of, St. George. You know this. And you have not answered the question.”
“You’re so smart, you tell me.”
She turned her head to the exes below. “I believe you have allowed what began as a physical attraction and fascination with my superior confidence to develop into emotions you hope I will recipro--”
“I was being rhetorical, y’know.”
Stealth knelt against the edge of the roof.
“What?”
She stared down at the street below. “They are not moving.”
“Because we’re not.”
The crowd of exes stood frozen on the street. Their mouths were still. Dozens of hands hung limp at their sides. They locked eyes with the two heroes.
Her head shook inside the hood. “Not at all. Not reaching for us. Not even moving their jaws.”
The silent crowd stared up at them. White eyes. Cloudy eyes. Single eyes. Empty sockets.
“Okay,” murmured St. George. “Just when you thought the walking dead couldn’t get any creepier.”
The dead things and the heroes stared at each other for another moment. Then the exes nearest the diner trembled, and the subtle shift rippled though the crowd. Dozens of feet shuffled on the ground. Their teeth snapped together. Their arms rose up as they clutched again and again for the people they could not reach.
“Well,” he said, “that didn’t seem at all suspicious.”
She stood up from the ledge. “It is apparent something is altering the behavior of exes across the city,” she said. “Are you ready to move on? We need to reach the Seventeens’ territory at least two hours before dawn.”
He tugged the backpack over his shoulders. “We’ll be fine.”
Stealth nodded and hurled herself across the rooftop, leaping up onto the next building. St. George threw himself into the air after her.
The exes watched them go.
Gorgon walked up Avenue C into the North-by-Northwest area. The name had started as a joke and stuck. Now the residents used it with pride.
He cast a long, fuzzy shadow in the streetlights. As it always did, the mental image of an old western flashed through his mind, the sheriff’s shadow stretching up Main street to some gunslinger’s boots.
Near the edges of New York Street a figure waved to him from a small group. The bearded man, Richard-something. North-by-Northwest was his area. He stepped away from his group and toward Gorgon.
“What’s up?”
“Do you have a moment?”
“Sure.”
The bearded man gave a faint nod and took another half-step away from the other conversation. The men kept talking, but their eyes followed the district leader and the hero. “There were a lot of rumors flying over dinner,” Richard said. He twisted the big ring he wore on his middle finger. “I was hoping you could put them to rest.”
“I guess that depends on what they are,” said the hero.
The older man nodded. “Is it true you found some exes who can talk?”
Behind his wide goggles, Gorgon rolled his eyes and gave a silent sigh. The news hadn’t taken long to get out at all. “Where did you hear that?”
“It’s been floating round since Big Red got back yesterday. One of the men said it was a talking ex that killed Tyler O’Neill.”
“Yeah, see... that’s how rumors go crazy and why you shouldn’t talk about stuff you don’t know anything about.” He swung the duster back and set his fists against his hips. The sheriff pose. “Ty was killed by the Seventeens. Regular punks using regular weapons. Doctor Connolly could confirm that if anyone bothered to ask her.”
“We tried. She and Doctor Garcetti said Stealth asked them not to discuss it.”
Gorgon closed his eyes and thought of a few choice profanities. “Well, I can. He died of a gunshot wound to the throat. He bled out in under two minutes. You can look in the back of Big Red for the stains.”
The bearded man shivered and one of the ones lurking in the background stepped forward. “But there was an ex there. I’ve heard from a couple people there was.”
Another silent swear or three. “Yes. Yes, there was. You’re... Mr. Diamond?”
“Daimint. I run the leatherworks.”
“Right, of course. Sorry.”