Ex-Heroes Read Online Free Page A

eyes. “Look, it’s a nice thought, but let’s face it. I’m too much of a distraction out there.” He pulled his other hand out of the lab coat’s wide pocket. “Everyone’ll just be looking at the damned bite instead of watching their own asses.”
    As he raised the hand the sleeve sagged a bit and revealed part of his withered forearm. The flesh was pale and splotched with gray. Dark veins ran into his palm and met up with yellowed fingernails. The teeth marks were still visible, a semicircle of ragged holes just beneath his wrist.
    For the first few months of his superhero career Josh Garcetti called himself the Immortal. He could heal from wounds in less time than it took to make them. Fire, bullets, broken limbs—he laughed at all of them. Then he discovered how to share his healing factor with others and he became Regenerator.
    Then his wife died. And then the world went to hell. And then an ex bit his right hand. In one of the last field hospitals, as everyone pulled out and all the last-ditch emergency plans kicked in, a dead cop rolled over on the slab and sunk his teeth into Regenerator. Put him in a coma for three weeks, but it didn’t kill him and he didn’t change. For the past fourteen months his healing factor had done nothing but keep the infection from spreading past his bicep.
    St. George tried not to stare at the hand. “You can’t hide in here forever, Josh.”
    “Of course I can,” he said. “What do you think we’re all doing?”
    They looked at each other for a moment. The hero made a noise that was half snort and half sigh, accompanied by a puff of black smoke.
    “Look,” said the doctor, “I’ve got some immunizations to get ready for and an inventory to do. It was good seeing you, George. Be careful out there, okay?” He worked the hand back into its pocket, gave a faint bow with his head, and walked away.

    * * * *

    St. George stepped back out into the open air. “Hey,” the hero called to the guard with the salt and pepper hair, “what’s your name, anyway?”
    “Jarvis,” he said with a grin. The guard gave a sharp, three-fingered salute. “Pleased to meetcha.”
    “Same. Melrose gate. Eleven.”
    “See you at eleven,” echoed the bearded guard.
    St. George gave him a nod and launched himself up to the roof of the hospital. Another kick got him up and over the stages to the east and headed toward Four.
    Four had been a stage once. They’d found some plaques and paperwork that said shows like Deep Space Nine and Nip/Tuck had been filmed there. They’d stripped all the operating room sets there for Zukor, used the set walls for housing, and tied it into one of the Mount’s nearby power houses with heavy cable from the nearby lighting warehouses. Now it reeked of ozone and the air danced on St. George’s skin.
    At the center of Four was the electric chair. It was a set of three interlocking circles forming a rough sphere, but the nickname had stuck. Each ring was wrapped with copper wire stripped out of three miles of cable. Five people had spent a month building it. St. George thought it looked just like an enormous toy gyroscope.
    Floating inside the sphere was the blinding outline of a man. It was a reversed shadow, like looking at the sun through a man-shaped cutout. Arcs of energy shot from the white-hot figure to snap and pop against the copper rings.
    “Morning, Barry,” the hero shouted over the crackling of power.
    The glowing figure shifted in the sphere. It had no eyes, but St. George knew his friend was looking at him. A voice made of static echoed over the electric noise. Morning, it buzzed. You ready to head out?
    St. George shook his head. “Not yet, but I asked everyone to switch over early. Thought you might like a bite to eat and a nap.”
    God, yes, sighed the brilliant wraith. It shifted again and examined the building. Where’re my wheels?
    “Over by the door.”
    The outline nodded. Catch me , it buzzed.
    There was a twist of lightning