Ex-Isle by Peter Clines (electronic reader TXT) 📕

a dozen ragged holes had been punched in the target, each one the size of a golf ball.

Danielle turned her attention back to the battlesuit’s dissected arm. Servos hissed as she wrapped the steel fingers into a ball. The fist pulled back to her shoulder, like the first step in a salute, and something clacked inside the arm. St. George ran his eyes across the different struts and cables, but couldn’t spot the source of the sound.

The arm straightened out with a clicking, ratcheting noise. The clicks became twangs and then pings as it slowed to a stop. The sounds of tension. Danielle adjusted the arm, aiming it at the plywood. “I think that’s good,” she said to Gibbs.

“Three,” he said, “two, one.” He tapped a button on the laptop, something clicked in the battlesuit’s arm, and St. George heard a quick noise like a guitar string being plucked and muffled.

Something smashed into SW PLAT 2 with the sound of metal on concrete. The target rocked on its stands and then came to rest. A fresh hole had appeared at shoulder height.

Danielle’s lips formed a tight grin.

“Nice shot,” said Gibbs.

St. George walked toward the plywood. “So what the heck is that?”

“I wanted to call it a slingshot,” she said, “but Gibbs pointed out it’s a lot closer to a repeating crossbow.”

“A cross-shot?”

“Yeah,” said Danielle, shaking her head, “I’m not calling it that.”

“Sling bow?”

“Sounds like an indie film,” Gibbs said.

St. George reached the target and poked a finger through the hole.

“By my math,” she said, “it hits about four hundred and forty miles per hour. That’s double what an arrow can do from a compound bow but about half the velocity of your average pistol round. And it tumbles a lot, which is okay at close range but sucks as it gets farther out. It’s got a range of about thirty yards before the aim turns to crap.”

“That’s not bad.”

“It’s not great, either.” Danielle tapped her forehead. “The whole reason the bullet in the head works with exes is because the hydrostatic shock from a rifle round turns the brain to jelly. A pistol round bounces around inside the skull two or three times.”

“And turns the brain to jelly,” added Gibbs.

“Don’t some people survive getting shot in the head, though?”

Danielle nodded. “And so do exes, every now and then. Or they keep moving, anyway. But head shots are still the best bet, so that’s what I’m basing this around. And right now, this isn’t fast or powerful enough to take care of that.” She crossed her arms again. “I just need to figure out something that’ll go in a streamlined magazine, be light enough to give us decent range, but still strong enough to punch through a skull.”

St. George shrugged. “What about nails? Like a super nail gun or something.”

“Sounds good on the surface,” Gibbs said, “but how many stories have you heard about someone who survived with a nail in their head?”

St. George nodded. “Ahhh. Anyway, I need to go talk with Freedom, and I should let you get back to wo—”

“Hey,” called a voice. “St. George. How you doing, man?”

He turned. “Hey, Cesar.” The young man had filled out in the arms and chest, but St. George still thought of him as a kid. Probably because of the wispy beard and mustache Cesar kept trying to grow.

He still wore his driving gloves. They hid a series of long scars stretching across the palms of both hands. One time, while “driving” a getaway car, he’d hit a spike strip. The car’s tires had been ripped to shreds, and when Cesar phased out of the vehicle he discovered his hands and feet had been slashed, too. It’d been a lesson not to be too reckless with his powers.

Cesar set a canvas bag on the counter. “We got lunch,” he said. “You want some? There’s plenty. I can share.”

Gibbs pulled at the lip of the bag. “What’d you get for our last meal?”

“Our what? Stir fry.”

“Again?”

Cesar shook his head. “Bro, there’s three people in the whole Mount who make food to go. You want something else, open your own taco stand or something.”

“I’ve got to get going,” said St. George. He pushed himself off the ground and drifted backward through the door. “I’ll stop by when I get back. We’ll…have lunch and hang out for a while or something.”

Danielle tugged her welding gloves back on. “Sure,” she said with a nod. “Lunch.”

“I want to hang out and have lunch,” said Cesar.

Danielle waved the welding torch at him.

St. George spun in the air and sailed up into the sky. He rose above the buildings, turned once to get his bearings, and headed north toward the Corner. The sun was already low in the west. The day was already gone and he’d barely done anything.

Just as he remembered it was still morning, the sun roared toward him out of the west and came to a halt in the sky. It was shaped like a man. The brilliant silhouette crackled as it hung in the air in front of him.

George!

“Hey,” he said. “I wasn’t sure when you were due back.”

The wraith shook his head and pointed behind himself. You’re never going to guess what I found back there.

“In Santa Monica?”

Out in the Pacific. I mean, we’re superheroes in the middle of a zombie apocalypse and this is still really frakkin’ cool.

“IT’S AN ISLAND,” said Barry. “A man-made island. Right around here.” He spun his finger in a circle somewhere in the mid-Pacific.

Captain Freedom peered down at the map spread across the desk. St. George leaned in and almost bumped heads with the mayor. “Sorry,” he said.

“My fault,” said Richard. He was a short man with a beard he tried to keep neat and professional, but it kept getting away from him. He shuffled his feet a bit. Even after all his time running the Mount, even here in his own office, he was still timid around the