Ex-Communication by Peter Clines (love story books to read .txt) 📕

ladder flying away. As St. George sank down through the air, the officer unholstered Lady Liberty and turned a pair of exes into a pile of loose limbs.

St. George landed outside the Wall. A group of exes charged him with an A-frame ladder and he stopped it with one hand, knocking them off their feet. He swung the ladder in a wide arc and sent a dozen exes sprawling. He swung again and let it spin away. Another handful of exes dropped, their skulls crushed by the whirling metal.

The guards on the Wall started laying down suppressive fire. He’d given them the moment of breathing space they needed to turn the tide. Exes ran at the Wall and their heads burst or jerked back. One kept stumbling forward as a bullet thudded off its headgear and St. George put it down with a blow that shattered its forehead.

The exes twitched and slowed. Three of them staggered to a halt and their ladder crashed to the ground. Another one dropped the golf club it had been waving. The five-iron tangled in its legs and the dead woman tripped face first to the pavement.

St. George floated into the air and grabbed an ex from the top of a tilting ladder. The ex, a shriveled dead man with a monk-like circle of hair around its bare head, clawed at his arm. The hero drifted back up to the top of the Wall. “Good job,” he told Freedom. “I feel like you didn’t even need me.”

“Every bit helps, sir,” said the captain. “You probably just saved us half an hour before Legion got frustrated and gave up.”

“Hey,” said one of the guards. He pointed at the ex twisting in St. George’s grip. “Is that Picard?”

A lanky woman shook her head. “I think he’s too short.”

“Damn,” said the other guard. “That’d be some serious points, getting Captain Picard.”

Freedom gave the man one of his practiced looks and the man turned his attention out beyond the Wall with a nervous salute. “It was clumsy,” the officer said to St. George. “In a classic siege, your ladders are never taller than they need to be. It slowed him down enough that he lost the advantage his armor’s been giving him.”

St. George swung the dead man out over the edge of the Wall. “You’ve been involved in a lot of sieges?”

“I studied military history at West Point, sir.”

St. George’s earbud squawked again and he glanced either way down the Wall. “Go for St. George,” he said.

“Sorry to bother you, boss,” said a woman’s voice. “Small problem.”

“What’s up?”

The voice paused. “Jarvis passed ten minutes ago,” she said. “We were going to … you know, take care of him, and Zzzap said we needed to wait until we talked to you.”

“That can’t be right,” said St. George. “I was with Jarvis half an hour ago. He was doing fine.”

The airwaves were quiet for an uncomfortable time. Freedom’s face had gone solemn across from him. St. George was struck by the thought of how many people were probably listening in. Other guards. Stealth. Zzzap, watching the signals pass back and forth through the air.

“Doc Connolly says he, uhhhh … he took his oxygen mask off,” said the woman. It was Lynne Vines, he realized. She was pulling a shift at the hospital between scavenging missions. Just like Jarvis did. Like he used to.

“She thinks he did it right after you left,” Lynne continued. “He was so weak he passed out and … well … By the time the machines went off it was too late.”

St. George glared at the ex pawing at his wrist and then hurled it out over the houses as far as he could. It sailed across the street, bounced off a red-tile roof that was probably very expensive a few years ago, and hit the side of a tall apartment building. It left a dark stain on the wall before dropping out of sight.

“St. George?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Copy that. Zzzap’s right. Don’t put him down. Get whatever restraints you can and strap him down to his bed. Once he’s tied down tight, just leave him alone.”

“ARE YOU WEISS?”

It was the third café I’d gone to looking for the man, and I was starting to feel anxious. On one level, I was in no rush and had no deadlines. On another level, this was even more urgent than getting to the right spot for the eclipse.

The guy I thought was Weiss looked up at me. He had long gray hair and a goatee that twirled into a rope under his chin. On a guess, he was seventy pounds overweight. “Who’s asking?”

“A friend of mine in the States recommended you. Said you’re the best tattoo artist in Paris.”

Weiss shrugged. “I just get a lot of the expat trade,” he said. He took another bite of his sandwich, a prissy little thing made out of a croissant. I could see white meat and bright green lettuce hanging out of the edges. It looked tiny in his fat fingers. “It’s my day off, though. Sorry. There’s some guys down in the eighteenth arrondissement who do great work. They can do whatever you need.”

I sat down in the chair across from him. “Not as I hear it.”

He frowned at me. “What are you looking for? A sleeve? Tramp stamp for your girlfriend?”

I shook my head. “Not exactly.”

“Tell you what. Go see Laura in the twentieth. She’s fantastic. She did one of Angelina Jolie’s tattoos. She’s got pictures and everything. Tell her I sent you and she’ll knock ten percent off her prices. We trade back and forth all the time.”

He turned his attention back to the prissy little sandwich. I let him take two more bites before I set my hands on the table and laced my fingers. He sighed and set his brunch down again.

“Perhaps I wasn’t clear,” he said. “It’s my day off. Go fuck yourself.”

“Perhaps I wasn’t clear,” I echoed. “I need a tattoo.”

I stretched my arms and let one of