St. George gave him a nod and launched himself up to the roof of the hospital. Another kick got him up and over the stages to the east and headed toward Four.
Four had been a stage once. They’d found some plaques and paperwork that said shows like Deep Space Nine and Nip/Tuck had been filmed there. They’d stripped all the operating room sets there for Zukor, used the set walls for housing, and tied it into one of the Mount’s nearby power houses with heavy cable from the nearby lighting warehouses. Now it reeked of ozone and the air danced on St. George’s skin.
At the center of Four was the electric chair. It was a set of three interlocking circles forming a rough sphere, but the nickname had stuck. Each ring was wrapped with copper wire stripped out of three miles of cable. Five people had spent a month building it. St. George thought it looked just like an enormous toy gyroscope.
Floating inside the sphere was the blinding outline of a man. It was a reversed shadow, like looking at the sun through a man-shaped cutout. Arcs of energy shot from the white-hot figure to snap and pop against the copper rings.
“Morning, Barry,” the hero shouted over the crackling of power.
The glowing figure shifted in the sphere. It had no eyes, but St. George knew his friend was looking at him. A voice made of static echoed over the electric noise. Morning, it buzzed. You ready to head out?
St. George shook his head. “Not yet, but I asked everyone to switch over early. Thought you might like a bite to eat and a nap.”
God, yes, sighed the brilliant wraith. It shifted again and examined the building. Where’re my wheels?
“Over by the door.”
The outline nodded. Catch me, it buzzed.
There was a twist of lightning and the figure was outside the sphere. It sank to the floor and the concrete began to smoke. The shape grew dim, the air flattened, and a gaunt, naked man tumbled to the ground with the sudden “whuff” of a flame being snuffed out.
“Oh, Jesus!” he shouted. “It’s freezing in here. Where’s my clothes?”
“On the chair.” St. George scooped him up, taking the dark-skinned man in one arm like a child.
“Get me over there, for Christ’s sake.”
“Wuss.”
“Big man, picking on the naked cripple,” Barry said. “Get me some damned pants.”
They crossed the room and St. George lowered his friend into the wheelchair. Barry dug through the bundle of clothes and wrestled his way into the sweatpants. He’d been dressing in the chair for most of his life, so it didn’t take long. He tugged a tee shirt over his stubbly head and wrapped himself in a fleece jacket. “No shoes?”
“What do you need shoes for?”
“My feet are cold.”
“So put on the other pair of socks.”
“Are they still serving breakfast?”
“Yeah. And I got you something to eat on the way.” He dropped a shrunken muffin in the other man’s lap.
“Thanks. Which truck are we taking out?”
“Big Red, I think.”
“Good,” said Barry through a mouthful of pastry. “The shocks on Mean Green suck so bad I can feel it in my ass. You know what?”
“What?”
“I think this is the best blueberry muffin I have had in my entire life.”
“I’m sure Mary’ll be glad to hear someone liked them.”
“And I’m not just saying that because it’s been four days. This is one spectacular muffin.”
St. George spun his walkie in his hand. “You know what you want? I can call ahead, have something ready.”
“I will have,” he said with great thought, “a stack of at least five pancakes. Lots of syrup and whatever’s passing for butter these days. Some potatoes. And any of those powdered eggs they’ve got left.”
“That it?”
“We’ll talk later about what I’m taking with me for lunch. So, what’s going on?”
“How so?”
“You’re transparent, boy scout.”
St. George shrugged. “Just talked to Josh.”
“Oh, joy. How’d that go?”
“Same as always. Self-pity, a little self-loathing, determined to end his life a lonely martyr.”
Barry pushed another lump of muffin into this mouth. “One thing you have to say about our brave new world. It’s very consistent.”