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

each of them. Color was leaking back into the irises, like an old Polaroid photo where an image formed out of haze. “Sorry. That was tasteless. After years without a body, I’m a bit overwhelmed right now.”

Welcome back, Max, said Zzzap.

“Thanks, Barry. I’m guessing you got all the symbols done or we wouldn’t be here right now.”

Stealth pressed her Glock against the bound man’s eye. “What do you mean?”

“Hey,” said Max, “take it easy.”

“You have never mentioned these symbols before as part of your resurrection. You have now just implied disaster if they had not been arranged around the Mount. What is their true purpose?”

“I was going to tell you.”

“You will tell us now.”

He sighed. “I can show you, if you like. It might be easier.”

The North Gate was a few blocks from the hospital. Like all the entrances through the Big Wall, there were a few hundred exes and the air crackled with the sound of chattering teeth. Half of them pressed against the gate. The rest staggered through the street.

In the middle of Bronson was a smoking set of lines, a scar in the pavement stretching from one side of the road to the other. The superheated material had turned a fresh, deep black that stood out from the faded charcoal of the street. Three exes had been slashed in half by Zzzap’s burning touch, too slow to get out of the way and too mindless to realize their danger. Steam still trailed from their severed bodies. A spray of gore marked where one had boiled and exploded.

Two parallel lines marked out a ring fifteen feet across. Inside the double circle was what looked like two triangles—or maybe an hourglass—surrounded by squiggles.

“Nice job, Barry,” said the resurrected man. His handcuffs jingled as he gestured at the symbols. He swayed as he did, and St. George kept one hand on the man’s shoulder.

Thanks.

“So what is it?” asked St. George.

“It’s the Hexagram of Water,” explained Max, “modified with six of the names of God and a thaumaturgic circle.”

“A what?”

“Magic,” said Stealth. “He is claiming this is a magical ward of some sort.”

“Very good,” said Max. “There’s an appropriate one protecting us at each gate, and some stronger ones around the Mount proper.” He waved his hands to the east and south. It was a clumsy motion with the cuffs.

Protection? said Zzzap. The gleaming wraith turned to the man with the salt-and-pepper beard and tried to ignore the glare from Stealth. You said they were part of the resurrection spell.

“Yeah, sorry,” said Max. “It was easier to tell you that.”

“Okay,” said St. George, “so what are you protecting us from?”

“Hang on,” said Max. He was scanning the crowd of walking dead. “Wait for it.”

An ex a few yards away stopped in mid-stagger as its feet brushed the edge of the steaming circle. It had been a petite woman, a redhead with a mane of wild hair clotted with gore and dirt. It wore a tight green henley splattered with blood and filth. It turned, searching, and glared at the people on the Wall.

“There he is,” said Max.

The dead thing raised a hand to point at them. It howled. It was the roar of a mammoth or dinosaur or some other huge, primordial beast. It echoed between the buildings. Half a dozen windows shattered.

St. George winced. Ilya and the other gate guards covered their ears. Even Zzzap flinched back.

The ex filled out, its desiccated flesh swelling with new life. The trembling limbs stretched and its jaw swung open to reveal a bear trap of ivory fangs and tusks. Blue flames burst out of the ex’s eyes and set fire to its hair. Its fingers stretched out into talons. In just a few moments it was over seven feet tall, then eight.

Then the dead woman exploded in a spray of gore and blue fire.

What the hell was that? shouted Zzzap.

“Remember what I said about how being dead was my safe house? Nothing could touch me?”

St. George nodded. “Yeah?”

“Well, I’m not dead anymore.” He pointed at the bright circle of gore that had been the undead woman. “That was Cairax Murrain. He’s pissed I’ve gotten away and he’s coming after me. And anyone he thinks might’ve helped me.”

What?! shouted Zzzap. His head turned from the steaming remains of the ex to his friends. Stealth was statue stiff. Smoke leaked out from between St. George’s lips.

“Yeah,” said Max. “I probably should’ve mentioned this would happen a bit sooner.”

“YOU HAVE PUT everyone in the Mount at risk,” said Stealth. Her sharp voice echoed in the hospital room. She stood wrapped in her cloak, so it was impossible to tell where her hands were. St. George was pretty sure they were near her holsters. He didn’t blame her.

“Don’t be melodramatic,” said Max from the bathroom. “We’re not at risk as long as we stay inside the walls.”

St. George stood by the window. Smoke was pouring out of his nostrils in a steady stream, and he hadn’t been able to get the tickle in his throat under control. Part of him wanted to grab Max and shake him, but he didn’t want to set off the fire alarms.

Freedom stood across from them, his arms crossed against his broad chest. He’d joined them after the radios filled with people talking about the creature outside the Big Wall. He wore his displeasure plain on his face.

The resurrected man tapped the razor on the sink and rinsed away another inch of salt-and-pepper beard. St. George always suspected Jarvis would look a good ten years younger without the beard. He still knew the face beneath it, but it seemed more like a mask now. Jarvis never had that confident, almost smug look in his eyes and tone in his voice. He didn’t have a barely hidden swagger when he moved.

But he did now.

They locked eyes for a moment in the mirror while Max brushed the razor under his nose. For just a moment the confidence and