Ex-Patriots

Chapter 2 NOW

There were at least three dozen more people in the shop than needed to be. A rumble of conversation echoed through the warehouse-sized room. The rolling tables and racks had been wheeled away. In their place, a single chair sat centered under the cleanest skylight.

St. George sat in the chair. His leather jacket had been tossed aside on one of the tables, revealing the cherry-red tank top that still made summer in Los Angeles feel too hot. He looked at the crowd, then at the handful of people who stood around his chair.

Jarvis tucked a sturdy hacksaw under his arm and clapped his hands. “All y’all quiet down,” he said. “No reason to turn this into more of a circus than it already is.” He paused to scratch his chin beneath his salt-and-pepper beard. “We all know this ain’t a one person job. We drew lots last week and each of the winners are going to get a chance at him.”

To St. George’s left, Andy held a pair of well-worn bolt cutters, and by his shoulder a woman clutched a pair of bright blue tin snips. Billie Carter stood on the other side of the chair with a pair of wire cutters. Mike Turner had another set of bolt cutters. Right in front was a little Latina girl with a black set of wire cutters. She was bouncing up and down. St. George smiled at her and she blushed.

Jarvis turned to the hero in the chair. “Last chance to back out, chief.”

The hero smiled. “I’m good,” he said. “This is long overdue.”

The older man shook his head and let his own hair settle past his shoulders. “Personally, I think it makes you look distinguished.”

“Maybe,” said St. George, “but it’s too damned hot in the summer.”

“You let it grow any longer we’d all start calling you St. Fabio,” said Mike.

“St. Hippy is more like it,” said Billie. She squeezed her wire cutters a few times for emphasis and a round of chuckles echoed in the room. She still wore her hair cropped military-short.

Andy stepped forward and held up the bolt cutters. He moved behind St. George and began to gather the golden hair into a ponytail.

“Et tu , Andy?” St. George said with a grin.

“How could I pass up the chance to cut the hair off a legendary strong man?” Andy said with a smile. “If I ever get ordained, I could tell that story every Sunday to a rapt congregation.” He settled the ponytail into the mouth of the bolt cutters, took a deep breath, and levered the handles together.

The hair resisted. Andy took another breath, threw his weight into it, and there was a crackle of sharp pops, like breaking spaghetti. It echoed through the shop and the ponytail dropped to the floor. The crowd hollered and applauded. Andy looked at the gouged blades of his bolt cutters and shook his head.

Mike wobbled forward. It had been eight months since an ex had tried to bite through his shoe and cracked half the bones in his foot. Doctor Connolly still wasn’t sure if he’d ever walk without a limp. “Little off the top, boss?” he said with a wicked grin.

Over the course of the hour, they sawed and clipped and chopped at the hero’s hair. In the end the tools were chipped and pitted, but the floor was covered with hair. There was a final burst of applause from the crowd as St. George looked at himself with a hand mirror.

“Reminds me of a haircut I got in college once.” He set down the mirror. “Hope everyone had fun,” he said, and gave Andrea a wink. “Time to get back to work. The day’s wasting.”

The crowd funneled away as he shrugged into the jacket. A few moments later he was alone with Billie and Jarvis. “We ready?” he asked.

She gave him a sharp nod. “Luke’s got the extra fuel tanks loaded in Road Warrior . We’ve got overnight gear if we need it. Stealth’s even letting us take three extra cases of ammunition. One nine millimeter, two of three-oh-eight.” She glanced at her watch. “Team assembles in thirty-nine minutes.”

The hero glanced at Jarvis. “What’s the armor situation? Did Rocky get those last three sets of sleeves done?”

“He did not,” said the bearded man. “He says it’s an art and it takes as long as it takes. I told him y’all wouldn’t be pleased.”

“Crap. What’s that give us, thirteen full suits?”

“Yup.”

“Not a great number,” said Billie.

“No,” agreed the hero.

“Half the folks just want to wear their leathers anyway,” said Jarvis. “This whole armor idea still ain’t going over that well.”

“It’s too damned hot for leather,” said Billie. “Either people don’t wear it or get heat exhaustion from it.”

“Tell Rocky he gets chicken for dinner tonight if he can finish one more set before we leave,” said St. George. “He’s got my word on it.”

“Hell,” said Jarvis, “for a whole chicken I’ll make the damned sleeves myself.”

“What if he doesn’t?” asked Billie.

“Then we’ll have to make do with what we’ve got.”

“Does that mean cutting three people or having three people go without armor?”

St. George wrinkled his brow. “Let me think on that one.”

They stepped out into the morning light and took a moment to adjust their sunglasses. Off to their right was the Lemon Grove gate, and St. George reached up to rub the blade-like tooth on his jacket as he looked that way. “I’m going to check in with Zzzap and Stealth. I’ll meet both of you at Melrose in thirty.”

Jarvis nodded and loped away. St. George was about to leap into the air when Billie touched his arm. She gestured down the road.

A thin, shaved-bald man waited there with the little girl who’d cut St. George’s bangs. When the man realized they’d seen him he switched the girl’s fingers to his other hand and gave an awkward salute. He walked forward, still holding his hand up, pulling the little girl behind him. He wore a pair of fingerless gloves.

The hero waited for the salute to drop and then shook the hand. “You were the one who actually won the drawing, right?”

“Yeah,” said the man. He was young, twenty tops, and spoke with an anxious, eager voice. His bare arms were decorated with tattoos, and the hero could see the prominent number on the left shoulder. “Andrea’s my niece. She’s wanted to meet you since we moved up here.”

“You were with the Seventeens?”

“Was in, yeah,” the young man said, “but I’m out now. I’m Cesar. Cesar Mendoza.”

Behind him, St. George heard Billie’s boots shift. “Good to meet you, Cesar,” he said, pumping the hand again. “You’ve got a beautiful niece.”

“Hell-o,” the little girl sang. She waved and ducked behind Cesar, blushing again.

“Yeah, I know,” the young man said. “Look, I was wondering…could I talk to you for a couple of minutes about something?”

“Is it urgent?”

Cesar shrugged. “I mean, it’s not life or death,” he said. “Just wanted to talk about some stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“Just…you know.” He shot a glance at Billie. “Stuff. Just something I need to get off my chest, you know?”

“D’you get bitten?”

“What? No!”

“Kill somebody?” asked Billie.

“No!”

“Steal something?”

“No! Well…no, not for like two years. Honest, man, nothin’ like that.”

“Can’t be too pressing, then,” St. George said with a smile. He clapped a hand on Cesar’s shoulder. “I’ve got a few things I need to take care of before we head out, but maybe later. I’ll be around all day tomorrow if nothing comes up.”

The young man nodded. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Yeah, tomorrow’d be cool. Thanks, man.” He hefted the little girl into his arms. “Say bye,” he told her.

“Good-bye,” she sang, waving at them.

“Still don’t trust any of those people,” murmured Billie as they walked away.

“Those people?” echoed the hero.

“Don’t play the PC card,” she said. “Less than a year ago the Seventeens were trying to kill us. Now we’re sharing supplies with them.”

“They’re sharing with us, too, don’t forget. Chickens, eggs, a hell of a lot more fruits and veggies.”

She shrugged. “Okay,” she said, “if you think they’re so trustworthy why aren’t any of them scavengers or walking the wall yet?”

St. George watched the young man and the little girl as they turned the corner. “You know, you’re right,” he said. “We ought to do something about that.”

“I didn’t say I have a problem with it,” she said. “I wouldn’t trust any of them with a weapon. Most people wouldn’t.”

“Well, you’re going to have to,” he said. “None of us are going to survive if we keep up this us-and-them mentality. Rotate someone out and put one of the Seventeens on the team for today.”

“What?”

“There’s a couple decent candidates. Nestor. Hector. Fernando. Who’s the woman with the faux-hawk? Desirea?”

“Just to be clear, I started this by saying leaving them out was a good thing.”

He smiled. “That’s why you’re picking who comes with us. Didn’t they teach you about teambuilding in the Marines?”

“Yeah. They said if someone wasn’t part of the team you should shoot them.”

“Choose wisely,” he said. He focused on a spot between his shoulders, and his feet drifted off the ground. “At Melrose in twenty-five. I expect to see at least one person with a tattoo.”

“I’ve got three,” she called up to him.

“You don’t count.”

“I’ll let you see the third one,” she offered.

He pushed down against the world and soared up into the air. The wind felt strange against his scalp, and it took him a moment to remember the new haircut.

Flying the three blocks south to the old Stage Four was excessive, but St. George still hadn’t gotten past the thrill of flight. He’d been able to glide for years, but it wasn’t until the war with the Seventeens and their undead army that he’d been able to make the leap, so to speak, to actual flight. The threat of losing everything they’d worked for, losing friends, and letting down the people who believed in him, had made something click. Now he could fly, and he was stronger than ever.

And the thought of losing Stealth, he admitted, had probably had something to do with it, too.

He shot into the sky, high enough that he could see the beach a dozen miles away and the Pacific Ocean and Catalina Island far off to the south. Stealth had sent Zzzap out there six months ago. The island’s little town, Avalon, was gone. About a thousand exes wandered the narrow streets and out into the hills. He stared out at the dead island and then dove back to the ground.

He landed outside Four. The air stank of ozone. Kids came here at night to watch their hands glow with static electricity. Four had been a stage once, back when the Mount was a film studio. They’d stripped out the sets and linked it to one of the nearby power houses with heavy cables once used by lighting crews.

The other end of those cables ran to the object at the center of Four. It was a set of three interlocking rings, each wrapped with copper wire. They formed a rough sphere that looked like a seven-foot gyroscope. Someone had dubbed it the electric chair while it was being built. The nickname had stuck.

Hovering inside the rings was the form of a man. It was a reversed silhouette, like looking at the sun through a man-shaped cutout. Arcs of energy shot from the brilliant figure to snap and pop against the copper-wrapped sphere. St. George could tell his friend was staring off into one of the stage’s empty corners.

Well, I’m still getting used to it, said Zzzap. His voice was somewhere between a kazoo and pure static, and it buzzed over the crackle of power. You have to admit, this isn’t exactly an everyday thing. And I say this as a guy who more or less turns into a small star.

As St. George approached, the gleaming silhouette turned in the air toward him.

Wow , said Zzzap. They really did a number on you.

“Who were you talking to?”

Nobody. The brilliant wraith shrugged and gestured around him. People. On the radio.

St. George nodded and ran his hand through the short strands of hair. “So, how’s it look?”

Zzzap tilted his head. You know what’s big after the Zombocalypse? Hats.

“Seriously.”

Remember when you were a little kid and your mom always made you get that page boy-looking haircut?

“How’d you know?”

It’s what every mom did.

“So it looks like that?”

Yeah, it’s a little worse, said Zzzap. It’s like a blind person tried to do a page boy with a pair of hedge clippers.

“Great.”

Zzzap shifted again. The rings crackled as he shed a few more kilowatts of power. You still heading out?

“Yeah. You still nervous?”

The wraith shrugged. It’s a big thing, he said. You and I have been over to the valley a few times but really no one’s gone there in almost two years. Hell, I think Danielle was the last one there when she came over with her Marines.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to call them ‘her Marines.’”

Whatever .

“We’ve got to go sometime,” said St. George. “We’ve cleaned out everything we can find on this side of the hills. Now it’s either the beach or the valley, and the valley’s got a lot more resources.”

I know. You have to admit, though, it’s just kind of weird. I’ve gotten used to the valley being ‘somewhere else,’ y’know?

He nodded. “There seems to be a lot of that going around,” he said. “We’re getting…insular, I guess. Is that the right word?”

Yeah .

“Plus I just had a talk with Billie about the Seventeens. We’ve got to start including them more, starting now. She’s going to have one of them come out with us.”

Really? Zzzap bowed his head for a moment. You sure you don’t want me coming out with you?

St. George shook his head. “We’ll be fine. This way you can keep Danielle powered up here and still make it out to us if anything goes wrong.”

Assuming you have time to set off a flare.

“If we don’t have time to set off a flare, there’s not much you’d be able to do anyway.” He held up his hand and counted off three fingers. “Remember, red is trouble, blue we need you but it’s not urgent, white means we’re spending the night over there.”

The wraith shuddered. Better you than me.

“Hey, it’s my last choice, too.”

* * *

Another quick flight took St. George west across the Mount to the four-story, tan and white office building called Roddenberry. It was named after the man who created Star Trek . For the past year and a half, it had served as town hall for the survivors of Los Angeles.

Stealth’s office was on the top floor. She’d converted one of the large executive conference rooms into her command center. The blinds were always shut and the lights at a dim glow. It was lit by dozens of monitors she’d pulled from every office in the building, showing constant images of every street and entrance to the Mount. George wasn’t sure how many of the cameras were pre-existing security systems and how many she’d installed herself.

She’d also moved into another room, hidden away behind a low-profile door, which she used as a spartan living quarters. He knew it was the only place she ever took her mask off. He’d never seen the room, which meant odds were no one else had, either.

“We’re heading out in a few minutes,” he said. The conference room door drifted shut behind him. “I know you’re here. Are you behind me?”

“No.” The shadows rippled between two of the windows. The glare seeping around the blinds had hidden her right in front of him. She stepped forward. “Are you positive you wish to include a member of the Seventeens in your scavenging party?”

“News travels fast.”

She rolled her shoulders and the cloak folded back away from her body. “It should not surprise you that I know such things,” she said. “Please answer the question.”

“Well, first off,” he said, “there aren’t any Seventeens in the Mount. Anyone here gave up their gang affiliation months ago. Which means they’re just people.”

“Very well.”

“And despite that, as was just pointed out to me, we’ve all been hesitant about giving these folks any trust or responsibility.”

“Trust must be earned.”

“True,” he agreed, “but if they’re going to earn it they need a chance. So I think we need to start giving them chances.” He shrugged his own shoulders. “Worst case, a bunch of people are proven right and we know some folks can’t be trusted with a rifle. Best case, we’ve got more guards and more scavengers.”

She gave a nod inside her hood. “Your logic is sound. Who will you take?”

“I tossed out a few names but I left it up to Billie Carter.”

“One of your suggestions was Fernando Gomez. I would advise against him.”

St. George glanced at the monitors. “Have you started hiding microphones or are you that good at lip reading?”

“Lip reading,” she said, “although I could have deduced he would seem like a logical choice to you.”

“And he isn’t because…?”

“He is the highest-ranked former Seventeen living here in the Mount. If your goal is to unify the two communities, you should not make your first pick the leader of one. Make it clear the person you choose is the most competent from the pool of potential candidates, regardless of their former command structure.”

“And if he is the most competent?”

“Gomez once attempted to fight Gorgon while wearing a welding mask and using the name Painkiller. If he is the most competent they have to offer, this entire discussion is moot.”

St. George smiled. For months the dead hero had been a sore spot everyone tried not to touch, even Stealth. They’d finally hit the point where they could remember him in a good light. “Two jokes in, what, six weeks,” he said. “Once you loosen up, you turn into a regular comedian, don’t you?”

“The term would be comedienne.”

“Never mind, then.”

“Are you still taking the Cahuenga Pass into the valley?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ve talked it over with Luke and Billie. It’s narrow, but it’s a lot clearer and safer than the freeway. Even if I had Cerberus with me, it’d take most of a week just to clear a path from Western to the Lankershim exit. Better to stick to the surface streets. It’ll let us check some of those little shops and restaurants up at the top of the pass, too.”

Stealth gave another nod and turned her attention to the maps and charts on the conference table. “Check in with me when you return.”

“That’s it?” He said. “No good luck wishes? No kiss?”

“I do not believe in luck, George. You know this.”

“And the kiss?”

She didn’t make a sound, but he recognized her body language.

“Okay, then,” he said. “See you when I get back.”

* * *

Roddenberry to the Melrose Gate was only a quick hop. A small crowd had formed, but St. George could pick out Cerberus looming by the gate and the leather-clad scavengers around Road Warrior as he drifted to the ground.

Road Warrior was a twenty-four foot truck that had been used for hauling equipment out to filming locations back when the Mount was in the movie business. The scavengers had chopped the roof and most of the walls off of the box and built a new frame inside it, making the vehicle into a gigantic pick-up. The truck had two large reserve gas tanks, a winch, and a wedge-like steel prow which had served as a battering ram more than a few times. There were bench seats for eight people in the back with plenty of standing room, and a steel platform on the cab’s roof could hold two or three more.

Billie and Jarvis had a small handcart covered with shimmering piles of metal they were handing out to each of the scavengers. Lady Bee was there, along with Lee and Paul. He could see Ilya, Lynne, and a few other regulars in the back of the truck. Luke Reid sat on the hood of the truck. St. George saw Hector de la Vega standing a few feet away from the main group. He made a point of locking eyes with the tattooed man and giving him a nod.

They threw rough salutes to the hero. Most of them were shaking out the chainmail armor and checking sizes against themselves. None of them looked pleased.

“Trade ‘em if you have to,” said Billie. “They’re sort of sized. Let’s get everyone as close as we can.”

“Did we get the sleeves?” St. George asked Jarvis.

The salt-and-pepper man shook his head. “No go, chief,” he said. “He says at best he’d need another day.”

St. George frowned and looked at Billie. She shrugged.

“I feel like I should be in Lord of the Rings or something,” said Lee.

A set of chainmail armor hit the pavement like a bag of pennies. “This stuff sucks, boss,” said Paul.

Lady Bee nodded in agreement. She’d gotten the nickname from her striped hair. “None of it fits right and it weighs a ton,” she said. “And I’m pretty sure I asked for a chainmail bikini.”

“I asked for Bee to get a chainmail bikini, too,” chimed Ilya. She blew him a kiss and everyone laughed.

St. George waved them all to silence. “Hey,” he said, “anyone else with bulletproof skin raise your hand.”

Lee cleared his throat and started to put up his palm. Billie cuffed him across the back of the head.

“You need to have something out there,” he continued. “It’s been five months since anyone’s been bitten, but we’ve had two close calls in the past month. If everyone kept their leathers on it wouldn’t be a problem. But it’s too damned hot and once one person pulls off their jacket we all do.”

They all glanced at each other. Everyone was in tank tops and t-shirts with their leathers piled next to them. Paul prodded the chainmail with his boot. “Is this our only choice?”

“Think of it like a shark suit,” said Jarvis. “They can still bite y’all, they just can’t break the skin. And it’s a lot cooler.”

“Except it weighs twenty pounds so we’ll just get hot that way,” muttered Lynne.

“Chain mail bikini would weigh a lot less,” said Bee. “I’m just saying.”

“Shit looks gay.” They all glanced back at Hector. He scratched his neck by the razor-stubble that was his hairline. “I ain’t wearin’ it.”

Billie’s nostrils flared and St. George set a hand on her shoulder as she went to step forward. “It’s armor, people,” he said. “It’s not the greatest solution, but it’s what we’ve got. If we find something better, or it starts getting cool again, it’s gone. But for now you wear it so you can all come home at the end of the day and brag about killing famous exes.”

There were a few mutters. Lee worked his arm into one of the sleeves and flexed a few times. It made a metallic, rustling noise. Lady Bee raised her hand.

The hero tipped his head to her. “What’s up, Bee?”

“Does this mean I’m not getting the chainmail bikini?”

“Give it up.”

“I like my jokes like I like my men,” she said with a wink. “Ridden to death.”

Jarvis dropped the last empty box on the cart. “Who didn’t get any?”

Ilya raised a hand. So did a scruffy redheaded kid and a rail-thin older woman.

St. George sighed and made a decision. “You two are out for today,” he said. “We should have enough next time we go out.”

“They can have mine,” called Hector.

“Ilya, can I trust you to keep your leathers on?”

The dark-haired man gave a sage nod. “You got it, boss.”

“Hey, I’ll keep mine on, too,” said the thin woman.

St. George shook his head. “Sorry. Ilya’s probably the only person I trust to sweat it out.” He looked at the group. “Everybody else, let’s get ready to move out.”

Luke stood up on the hood of Road Warrior and swung himself through the cab’s window. Billie slapped her hands together. “You heard the man,” she bellowed. “Armor up, gear up, load up.” She pointed a stern finger at Hector. “You, too, de la Vega, or its back to the mushroom farm.”

St. George walked towards the tall archway and the sound of chattering teeth to stand next to Cerberus. The titan was staring out at Melrose Avenue. The gates were mobbed with exes, as always. Since last fall’s battle with the Seventeens, it felt like there were always a few more than there had been before.

Two years in and most people still said exes rather than zombies. Thinking of them as ex-humans made it easier somehow. They reached between the bars and flailed at the two heroes with slow, clumsy limbs. Their eyes were pale and cloudy. St. George knew from experience they were dry to the touch. All their flesh was chalky gray, colored with dark purple bruises where blood pooled up beneath the skin.

Most of the exes at the gate carried some injury that would’ve been fatal if they were still alive. Several of them had gunshot wounds. More than a few were missing fingers or hands. A dead woman close to the hinge had scraped two ruts in her forehead, right down to the bone, swaying back and forth against the gate. Another one was charred to the point it was featureless. An elderly woman in a bathrobe was missing both eyes. A few bodies back, away from the gate, the hero saw a male ex with a samurai sword through its chest.

Here and there, though, were a few of the worse ones. The ones who still looked human. A little boy with dark hair, a Pikachu shirt, and chalky eyes. An older man with a beard who could’ve just spilled a few drops of wine on his shirt. A well-curved blonde with alabaster skin and full lips. Being in the plastic surgery capital of the world made for some very well-preserved dead people.

All of them worked their jaws up and down, snapping teeth together again and again. The chattering never let up. A few of them had turned their mouths into a mess of gore and shattered enamel, but kept clicking the jagged stumps against each other.

Cerberus stared past all of them. It was easy enough for her to look right over the mob of exes to the bone-white cross on the other side of the intersection. It stood as tall as the battlesuit and was marked with three bold words, each carved into the wood and painted black.

NIKOLAI BARTAMIAN

GORGON

They’d salvaged what parts of his uniform they could. The body armor. The duster. The goggles. What was left of him, what hadn’t been chewed apart, they burned. They’d found his last requests sitting out in his grungy apartment.

“This was a lot easier when I used to go out with you,” she said.

St. George glanced up at the armored head. “You never liked doing it.”

“Never said I did. I just said it used to be easier.” Cerberus shrugged her massive shoulders and looked away from the cross. “Let’s get it over with.”

A few of the guards pulled the additional support legs from the bars. Two others, Derek and Makana, flexed their hands inside heavy gloves and stood ready to grab the steel pipe that rested across the two halves of the gate. The exes reached for them, and each man batted dead fingers away.

St. George glanced back at Road Warrior . The truck’s engine idled and Luke flashed the headlights at him. The hero gave the driver a thumbs up and shot into the air.

He sailed up and over the tall arch of the gateway. He kicked a few exes as he landed in the wide intersection and they pinwheeled away, knocking down others as they went. The hungry dead turned toward him and stumbled away from the gate.

St. George let them get close. They tried to drag him down and broke teeth on his stone-hard skin. He batted them away with a sweep of his arm and they flew back to crash through the horde. He threw punches and felt skulls shatter under his knuckles. He grabbed a body by the shoulder and swung it around, battering even more exes to the ground. His boots came down to smash their heads. Within two minutes of landing he’d cleared two dozen of them.

The gate squeaked open behind him, and he heard the deep thump of heavy footsteps. Cerberus strode out, her three-fingered hands letting off arcs of power. Exes couldn’t feel pain, but the nerves were still there. A 200,000 volt blast along those nerves would cripple their muscles long enough to drop them. The titan swept her hubcap-sized palms across the mob by the gate and they dropped at her touch. They were struggling back to their feet when she marched over them and waved Road Warrior out behind her. The truck rolled forward and crushed exes beneath its thick dually tires. She gestured it past her and it rolled up to the intersection.

St. George leaped back over the truck, landing next to Cerberus. From the back, Jarvis tossed a long pike down to him. “Get going,” the hero said. “I’ll catch up.”

Road Warrior revved its engines and turned onto Melrose. Some of the scavengers saluted St. George and Cerberus as they pulled out, and a few waves came from the guards walking the walls.

Behind them, the hero grabbed the pike by one end and knocked down a wide swath of exes. The armored titan slammed out a punch that went through an ex’s head and caved in a skull behind it. They cleared a path back to the gate, where the guards fended off exes with more pikes.

An opening appeared and Cerberus strode through it. The gate clanged shut behind her and Derek and Makana dropped the bar back into its brackets. St. George nodded to them through the bars, batting exes away as he did. “Everyone okay?”

“Piece of cake, boss,” said Derek.

“Cerberus?”

The titan turned and looked down at him. “Burned up about a fifth of my reserves with the stun fields, but no problems otherwise.” The armored skull shifted, and St. George knew she was looking at the cross again.

“Okay, then. See you all tonight. Watch for flares.”

A few more salutes were tossed his way and St. George flew up into the sky. The withered fingers of exes dropped away from him.