“Jesus.” I heard something click on the rooftop and realized I’d dropped my mask. She kept talking in the same calm voice, as if the end of the world was something she dealt with all the time.
“There are still thousands of survivors scattered across the city. People who have endured in fortified buildings or complexes. Individuals, families, and in a few places I have seen groups of several dozen. Our first priority will be to assess these survivors and gather them to a single, secure location.”
“What were you thinking?”
She pointed southeast. “You are familiar with Paramount Studios?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Just under thirty acres of area. Five major entrances, two minor, all easily sealed. Two underground tunnels. The walls are eight feet at their shortest point, in the northeast corner, and are topped by outward-curving spikes. It is an ideal fortress.”
I tried to picture the big, wrought-iron gates. “Couldn’t you say that about most of the studios? I think Universal City is bigger.”
She shook her head. “I have made several observations and believe Paramount has the best combination of existing resources, defensibility, and long-term potential.”
“And where do we fit in?”
“There will be rogue elements inside and out. We shall serve as protectors and wardens until some system of government can be reinstated.”
“You and me?”
“All of us who are left here in Los Angeles. Myself, you, Gorgon, Zzzap, Midknight, Cerber—”
“Midknight’s dead.”
She twitched. “What?”
“Yesterday. You didn’t know? He was overwhelmed at one of the checkpoints near the Hollywood Bowl.” I scratched the back of my neck. “He’s already walking again.”
“I see.”
“Thought you didn’t make mistakes?”
“Everyone makes mistakes. I merely make far fewer than most.”
“To be honest, I was surprised he made it this long. His power was kind of defensive, you know? Not much good against exes.”
“You disposed of him?”
I shrugged and made a fist around my hair. It was getting long in the back. On the ground, my mask stared up at me. I knew I wouldn’t be picking it up. The Mighty Dragon, dead on the roof of the Kodak Theatre. Another ex-hero.
“I took him up into Griffith Park,” I told her. “That’s where I’ve been dropping our people if they turn.”
“He is dangerous if his powers are still active.”
“They are,” I said. “He probably is.” I looked back out over the dead metropolis and let a few streamers of smoke thread their way out of my nose.
“George?”
“I had to put down Blockbuster last week, you know. I was the only one strong enough to break his neck.”
“He was doing a phenomenal amount of property damage as an ex,” she said. “He walked straight through seven blocks of Beverly Hills. Over forty-three structures were leveled.”
The day was almost gone. The sky was burning up, and shadows stretched across the city. I hadn’t watched a sunset in over a year.
“It’s been a very long summer,” I said. “I didn’t feel like killing anyone else I knew. If you like, I can take you up where I dropped him and you can do it. He’ll be easy to find.”
She didn’t respond, and for a moment I thought she’d vanished again. “That will not be necessary,” she said.
“Good.” I looked her in the face. “So, what’s your plan to save Los Angeles?”
“You are a symbol among heroes and civilians alike. They will all accept your recommendations and follow where you lead. We can begin to contact survivors and guide them to the Mount.”
“The Mount?”
“A simple abbreviation. It conveys a sense of stability and defense rather than reminding them of the illusions film creates.”
“Good point.”
“I believe we can have the majority of the city’s survivors there in four to six weeks. With a few simple questions and reviews, we should be able to create a balanced and optimum population. Doctors, teachers, engineers, and others who will have the most long-term usefulness. I believe we can then prepare—”
“No.”
She twitched again. “What?”
“No.” It was a moment of clarity. One of the first ones I’d had in several weeks of hard decisions and acceptable losses. “If we do this, if you want my help with it, it isn’t some stupid selection process where we pick and choose a few hundred who we decide are worth it. We just save everyone we can.”
“The studio lot cannot support thousands of people.”
“Not as it is, no. But we could adapt more of the buildings to housing, plant gardens, do things to make it work. I won’t be part of a plan that involves leaving most people outside to fend for themselves.”
“A limited selection is our best hope for survival.”
“If that’s our best hope then we shouldn’t survive.”
Her head shifted ever so slightly. I had enough female friends to recognize the gaze I was getting.
“Look,” I said, “this is going to sound really stupid, but you have to understand something.” I passed my hand across the red-scaled suit. It was stained and fraying but it still glimmered in the fading sunlight. “You called me a symbol, and you’re right. This suit stands for something. It isn’t me living some childhood fantasy or anything like that. It’s about hope.”
“Hope?”
I took in a deep breath, and smoke twisted around my head as I let it slip through my teeth. “Do you know what my favorite show was when I was a little kid?”
The look again. “I would have no idea.”
“Doctor Who. British sci-fi show.”
“I am familiar with it. Christopher Eccleston, David Tennant, and Matt—”
“No,” I said. “The new show’s great, but I grew up on the old one. The low-budget, rubber monster show with Tom Baker and Peter Davison. I watched it on PBS all the time as a kid.”
I looked out at the dark ruins of Hollywood, at the stumbling shadows dotting the streets as far as you could see. The only other living person within half a mile was standing behind me, her eyes boring into my head.
“The Doctor didn’t have superpowers or weapons or anything like that. He was just a really smart
