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

power schematics for several of the major buildings on the lot. I had been assigning new functions to them when George arrived to give a report on the day’s rescue activities and began to pace along the opposite side of the table.

George had abandoned several elements of his uniform and taken to wearing a pair of cargo pants over the remaining bodysuit. I believe without the cape and mask, he felt a degree of self-consciousness wearing only such a tight article of clothing. He had ceased use of his chosen code name, the Mighty Dragon, and no longer made any effort to hide his civilian identity. The survivors of Los Angeles seemed to respect him even more for this gesture.

I have no plans to reveal my identity. Stealth is the only name I am known by within the Mount. I see no need for this to change.

The front of his bodysuit had been destroyed. Judging from the heat and tearing damage at the edges of the area, I believed he had been hit with a 12-gauge at a distance of less than ten feet. He rubbed his exposed chest for the second time since entering my office. The skin was unmarked. Not even a bruise. The light amount of chest hair he had was unsinged.

George’s tone and posture told me this was a personal crisis rather than one that required any action on my part. He needed to unburden himself of this supposed “disaster.”

I had hoped to finish drawing up plans for a field hospital in one of the other office buildings and also a rudimentary power grid using the distribution systems left behind by various film productions. In the long term, however, it would be counterproductive to interrupt him.

He paced back and forth across from me. “We were going through Hancock Park, picking up survivors,” he said. “We’d found three groups. Sixteen people altogether. And then Carter, one of the Marines, she spotted somebody watching us from a third-floor apartment.

“I jumped up to the balcony,” said George. “Grabbed hold of the railing. This woman in a sundress was right there, inside the apartment. She looked like she hadn’t eaten well in a while. Or showered much. She had a shotgun aimed right at me. I was still getting my balance on the edge, and she started ranting about thieves and rapists and murderers.” He stopped to organize his thoughts.

I nodded once in understanding, accenting the movement enough that it would stand out in the low light beneath my hood. “We have encountered such attitudes from other survivors.”

“She was the worst I’ve seen,” he said. “She was almost screaming at me. I think she did it a lot, because her cat was barely reacting.” He sighed. “I put my hands up, tried to calm her down, and she shot me. Knocked me away from the railing and I fell to the ground.”

George paused and rubbed his chest again. “When I jumped back up,” he said, “she was just lying there. Half the shotgun pellets had bounced back off my ribs. She’d been hit in the face and throat. I didn’t even have time to pick her up and get her to the truck. She bled out on the floor of her apartment.” He grabbed a handful of hair in each hand. “She never had a chance.”

I allowed him thirty seconds of silence.

“From what you have said,” I told him, “your mission was a near-perfect success. Sixteen survivors rescued and brought to the Mount without injuries.”

“Someone died. Right in front of me. Because of me.”

“Millions have died, George. We were not able to save them. In the days to come, there will be many more we will not be able to save.”

His lips pressed into a thin line. “But that’s the whole point of this. To save everyone we can.”

“That is our stated goal, yes,” I said, “but the reality is the ex-virus outbreak will continue to claim victims, either directly or indirectly.”

“Then why are we even doing this? What’s the point?”

“As you said, to save everyone we can. Did you rescue the cat?”

“What?”

For many years it bothered me when others could not follow or keep up with my thought processes. Now I accepted it. One of the rare lessons my father had taught me that did not involve violence. The majority of people do not think like us. “The woman had a cat,” I explained to George. “Did you rescue it?”

He nodded. “Yeah, of course. I wasn’t going to leave it there to starve.”

“Good.”

He stared at me. “Are you a cat person?”

George continues to probe for information about my true identity. At first I mistook this for an indicator of romantic interest. However, while his physical attraction to me is clear, I have since realized these attempts represent an attempt to find common ground. George worries he cannot trust someone about whom he knows nothing or with whom he has little in common.

His tactics are, by traditional standards, somewhat clever. George is much smarter than even he believes. He does not ask where I lived in the city. He talks about nighttime noise levels and invites me to share my own recollections of such issues. He laments the lack of heavy clothing in his wardrobe and asks if I am prepared for a winter without heat—potentially a hint into my origins. He sometimes recalls favorite meals from establishments he frequented and asks if there are any regular dishes I miss, hoping I will name a restaurant near my former home. Rather than ask for facts he knows I will not provide, he seeks the pattern around the facts.

I have considered telling him he is wasting his time. His attempts are quite transparent, and I will not reveal information regarding my identity. It is also clear while he may not trust me to levels that satisfy him, he trusts me enough to carry out my instructions with a minimum of explanation or enticement.

“I see an unprecedented rodent problem in the near