And it was dead. After all this time, St. George knew that skin tone at a glance. He spun the dial of his monocular, pushing the lens as tight as it could go.
A tattoo of a cross decorated its right temple running into the black buzzcut. On the opposite side of its head were a few flaps of inked flesh where the ear had been ripped away to show sinew and ivory. Beneath the dark eyebrows the bone had swollen and bulged, like some museum-exhibit caveman. The thick brow made the sunken eyes look even deeper, pearls of cloudy white in skull sockets. It had enormous teeth, the size of matchbooks, and its jaw pushed out to hold them all.
“It looks like a gorilla,” he muttered. “Zombie Mighty Joe Young.”
It lumbered across the street and onto the makeshift stage. Applause, cheers, and hollers echoed back and forth across the street. The ex held its monstrous arms up to the crowd like so many rulers before it.
“Look,” she murmured. “The ones in the pen.”
Across from the platform, three hundred exes had stopped milling in the cage. Now withered salutes rose over their heads. A few blocks away, the exes in the second pen did the same.
“Jesus,” he said. “What the hell is going on?”
Mighty Joe leered at the crowd and pumped his fists in the air. The exes thrust gaunt hands upward again. He brought his palms down to quiet the crowd and hundreds of dead arms flopped to their sides.
“They’re responding to him,” Stealth said.
“DIECISIETE!” shouted the monstrous ex. His voice echoed out of the swollen chest and down the block. “Forever and always!”
Most of the crowd echoed the cheer and howled. The exes opened their mouths in a silent shout.
“Eight more youngbloods,” he roared. “They done their duty, shown their loyalty to the SS. They’re in!”
A small line formed at the edge of the stage. Three Latinos, two Asians, two African-Americans, and a white girl. They were bare-chested except for the woman in her bra.
The first one walked onto the stage, very small next to Mighty Joe. The ex unwound one of his bandanas as a bodyguard grabbed the young man’s forearm. Beneath the green cloth, the huge palm was pitted and slashed. He made a fist, shook his hand a few times, and the wounds glistened wet.
The female bodyguard pulled out her machete, cleaned the edge between two fingers, and pulled it across the fledgling Seventeen’s hand. The man gritted his teeth as blood swelled up. The monstrous ex reached down and the bleeding limb vanished within his huge fingers. “One of us,” he rumbled. He took the hand away and slapped his palm down on each of the man’s shoulders.
The youngblood’s legs trembled under the impact and he nodded his head. They guided him past the giant to an old woman who washed out the wound and sponged the gore from his shoulders. Her peroxide foamed on his skin. The bodyguard was already slashing the next palm.
“Deliberate infection,” mused Stealth. She lowered the camera.
“Followed by immediate disinfection. If this is patient zero, maybe he’s got some purer strain of the ex-virus. Could be why some come back smart. He obviously is.”
“Perhaps. I do not think it is an ex,” she said. The infrared monocular was pressed up to her eye again. “Its body temperature is seventy-one degrees. Twenty degrees higher than the average ex.”
“And almost thirty lower than the average human,” said St. George. “What the hell is he, then?”
“I am not sure.”
“Doesn’t look like he’s got universal appeal, either.” Half the mob shifted on their feet, not cheering with the hardcore Seventeens near the stage. The crowd members toward the back studied the ground or cast wary eyes at the ritual the huge ex was conducting.
“I would guess many of them did not realize they were sheltering with a street gang, let alone one led by a monster. They were looking for safety.”
The ex turned to the group that had crossed the stage. Each of them had tied their hand in a swatch of green even as he rewrapped his own. “You’re in forever now,” he bellowed. “All of you. Even if you die, even if you come back, you’re always a Seventeen.”
He slammed his hands together once, twice, three times. The crowd picked up the applause. The youngbloods caught dozens of backslaps, headrubs, and arm punches.
“Getting close to two years since I got this.” Mighty Joe continued. “Two years since I became the biggest boss in the city. Getting bigger and badder every day.” He flexed arms like beer kegs and the crowd whistled and shouted.
“Everybody went down except us. The Bloods, the Crips, the XV3s. The police caved, the Army caved, even the fucking Marines went down. And we’re still here and we’re deep!”
He punched the air again. The Seventeens in the crowd howled and raised their weapons. A few shot at the sky. The exes threw up their arms. A low chant worked its way through the crowd and faded just as quick.
St. George tilted his head. “What are they saying? Ammo?”