by Alan Janney
“Like what?”
“Like he looooooves Katie,” Samantha said. This was astonishing news to Cory and Lee, both of whom choked on their food. And I should have been furious with Samantha for voicing my secret. But I had too many secrets and I no longer cared if the world knew. I loved Katie. Loved her fiercely and jealously.
“Dude! Is that true?” Lee said. “Because I saw you making out with Hannah Walker this morning.”
“It’s true,” I said. Hannah had greeted me in the hallway that morning, wrapped me up and kissed me passionately. I didn’t participate, just tolerated. I’d play along until I could tell Katie how I felt. Sooooo I’d probably end up marrying Hannah. “Please don’t tell her, okay? I haven’t figured out how to completely screw this up, yet.”
“Okay,” Cory said sacredly.
“This will change everything, bro.”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes I know.”
“Why are you rubbing your head?” Lee asked.
“He has a headache,” Samantha replied.
“A bad one,” I said. And then…nothing.
Dreams. I remember Katie. My parents and I used to rent a house across from her building. When we were little we’d leave notes on her older brother’s car and run behind the pine trees when he came out of the apartment. We rolled tennis balls back and forth across the street until one day a car stopped. It was a police car. He told us to stop. Katie cried. She kissed me on the cheek once when I wasn’t ready. I think we were seven. She told me she just wanted to kiss a boy.
Now she was dating a ticking time bomb. And I was… asleep?
Waking up took forever. I clawed to the brink of consciousness several times and even when surfaced I was swimming through strange memories of voices, confusing images, colors, tastes, and smells. A lifetime’s worth of dreams were forcing themselves on me, pretending to be reality, posing as remembrances. The whole universe was inside my eyelids.
“You awake this time, kid?”
That voice was real. I think. Blindly I tried brushing away the false emotions but all I found were sheets. I was thrashing around in a bed.
“Wake up, Chase.”
“Okay,” I groaned. “Where am…?”
“See for yourself.”
I was in my bed, my bedroom, my home. I squinted at the person talking to me.
“Carter,” I said.
“You realize that me being in your bedroom is a bad thing,” he said simply.
“Did you hurt my dad?”
“No. He believes I’m your physician.”
I took a closer look. Carter was dressed like a doctor, complete with a bag of medical instruments. He was leaning against my dresser. He held a revolver.
“Doctors use six-shooters?” I started to laugh. Or at least wheeze. It shouldn’t be funny but it was. I felt drunk or high, even though I’d never been either. “You a doc from the Old West?”
“Chase, you’re on the verge of insanity,” he said quietly. My blood ran cold and I quit laughing.
“Oh.”
“What do you remember about today?”
“…nothing?”
“The Shooter found you right before you picked up a drink machine. You also threw a knife that pinned Babington’s shirt to a wall and heaved another football player halfway across the cafeteria. Fortunately there’s no known video. Yet.”
That wasn’t good. I didn’t remember any of that. On the bright side, it sounded like he didn’t realize I knew the Shooter’s identity.
“The Shooter gave you a shot of tranquilizer and got you out before you hurt someone,” he continued. He appeared grim. As he talked he kept spinning the revolver’s chamber, click click click click. “Only because killing you in a public school is against our rules.”
“Very kind of you.”
“PuckDaddy sent forged medical records to the school, indicating you suffered a stress-induced episode of temporary psychosis, from all the football and school work. Your school believes this is a treatable and preventable malady, and that it won’t happen again. The principal called your father earlier and you are suspended tomorrow.”
“Good. I need a day off.”
He squinted at me, jaw locked, for a long moment. I fidgeted. He said, “She told you.”
“Who told me what?” I asked. Oh shoot, he knows! Run!
“Don’t lie to me. I can tell.”
“Okay fine,” I admitted. “Samantha didn’t tell me. I caught her.”
“How?”
“I figured out where her nest was, tricked PuckDaddy into believing I was still at home, and then surprised her in the tower.”
He didn’t say anything.
“Don’t be mad at her,” I said. “She tried to kill me. Kicked me off the roof and everything. But eventually I won the fight.”
“Why were you looking for her?”
“I was looking for the Shooter. I didn’t know it was Samantha.”
“Why?” he asked again.
“To make her stop shooting people.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s messed up! She was scaring people.”
“It’s so strange,” he sighed, scratching an itch on his forehead with the barrel of his gun, “that you care about others. None of the rest do.”
“Yeah, well, you should.”
“What did she tell you?”
“She says you’re not that big of a jerk. She says you’re just doing what you have to.”
“Which is why I’m here, mate,” he said. Click click click click. Each click sent a shiver down my spine.
“She also said that if you murder me she will kill you in retaliation,” I said in a rush. My brain was scrambled, and all my thoughts were loud and incoherent.
“Liar,” he sniffed.
“Yeah, that was a lie.”
“Here’s why I haven’t killed you yet…”
“Because I’m so likable.”
“Because you are quite advanced in your physical abilities, and I may need to use them,” he said and then he clarified, “If you still have a grasp on your sanity.”
“How can you use me?” I asked. I wished I could get up out of bed. Laying there while he lectured me was really emasculating. I could tell I was being too flippant, but I couldn’t stop. My mouth wasn’t obeying orders.
“To begin with, you could assist me with Tank.”
“You know about him?”
“Of course. Like you, he’s an overly developed young Infected. And he’s a problem.”
“I think so too!” I cried. “Let’s ship him to Antartica.”
“I’ve already tried to kill him, kid. The night he almost disemboweled you on the motorcycle?”
“Right,” I remembered. “Samantha shot him. It was so great.”
“Yes she did. And with a real bullet.”
“Not wax?”
“Not wax.”
“But…” I said. “But…that makes no sense.”
“Exactly. He’s a problem.”
“Wait. No. No way. How could he survive?” I said, staring at him in horror.
“He shouldn’t have. He’s impossibly strong. His bones must be as hard as steal when his adrenaline is going. I’m sure the bullet fractured his skull, but he survived.”
“Wow we are in trouble.”
“It gets worse,” he said. “We tried to kill him again and failed.”
“When? How?”
“The Shooter…er, Samantha purposefully started that fight on the football field. I was lurking nearby. We were hoping you two would injure each other, so I had an ambulance ready to finish you off quietly.”
“Okay. You’re an awful person, but keep going,” I said stonily. I wondered where his Shadow was. On the roof? In the spare bedroom? Under my bed?
“Don’t take it personally. Just business, kid. So you stumble away and we load Tank into the ambulance, and I drive off. I find a quiet street and go into the back to inject pure oxygen into Tank’s veins, to ma
ke sure he’s truly dead. But Tank wakes up, even though he should be toast, surprises me, rips a hole in the ambulance, and escapes.”
“Holy moly. Destroyed an ambulance?”
“Yeah. Very impressive. If he wasn’t such a nightmarish loose end I’d leave him alive. He’d be a powerful ally,” he said.
“He sounds indestructible.”
“Remember, we don’t have super powers. We’re sick. His sickness is messing with his body and will probably kill him. I hope. But he’s still human. We could drown him, or poison him, or burn him alive, or shoot him in the temple. You get the idea. But no way could he be beaten to death when he’s angry.”
“You’re morbid,” I said, feeling a little queasy.
“You asked. And he hates you.”
“You want to use me as bait, don’t you?”
“Maybe,” he nodded. “We know where he lives but we Infected like to keep a low profile. Storming into a condo to murder a kid isn’t exactly our modus operandi.”
“I won’t help you kill someone. Not even Tank.”
“There’s another problem too. This one might stir your deep well of foolish nobel intentions, hero.”
“Okay,” I said.
“You heard of the Chemist?”
“I have,” I said slowly and carefully. I had suspicions Carter WAS the Chemist. Time to keep my mouth clamped shut. If I could.
“He’s building an empire in southern Los Angeles, and he’s largely doing it through a new drug he’s created,” Carter said, oblivious to my deeply dubious expression.
“I heard.”
“But here’s what you don’t know, kid. The Chemist is Infected. And he has some Infected soldiers with him.”
“Whoa,” I said, sitting up in bed. My heard swam. The FBI didn’t know that.
“That got your attention?”
“How do you know?”
“I have many avenues of information. I traffic in information.”
“So the Chemist,” I said, “is Infected, and he has an army of drug addicts waiting in the rougher neighborhoods, and he also has some Infected. How many Infected?”
“I’m not positive. There’s been an unexpected explosion of them in this city. Depends on how many he’s collected. But my earlier estimate of ten Infected total is way off.”
“Why does he want an army in the first place?”
“Because he’s power hungry. And, just a guess, he’s bored,” he shrugged. “Boredom is the primary scourge of the Infected. We grow restless and anxious, like a kid with a new bike he hasn’t ridden yet. My intelligence suggests he’ll strike soon against the rest of Los Angeles.”
“Like start a war?”
He nodded and said, “I think so.”
“He can’t win a war against the United States government with a bunch of drug addicts,” I couldn’t help but laugh.
“He doesn’t care about winning.” His face darkened. “He cares about causing mayhem. And don’t forget his Infected. They change everything.”
“That’s why you want my help,” I realized.
“Correct.”
“To help you fight his Infected.”
“Correct again.”
“That sounds…really…really…really awesome,” I said. Wow! A chance to actually DO something. I knew it was the disease talking, but finally being able to test my body, take it to the limit and see how far I could go, would be exhilarating. I was sick of hiding and pretending. I thought it over. He remained quiet, probably debating my lucidity. “You think if I help you that I’ll get killed, either by the Chemist or by an aneurysm, and that I’ll be one less loose end for you to worry about, but maybe I’ll be of some assistance before I die.”
“Once again, you are correct.”
I crawled out of bed, which suddenly felt too small, and started pacing. “I have a contact with the FBI. I can alert them about the Chemist and his upcoming war.”
“No,” he said abruptly. “No outside help. We handle our own business. Privately.”
“Carter, no way. This sounds huge,” I reasoned. My body had swelled with adrenaline. I was clearly closer to the ceiling and my clothes were all much tighter, despite the fact that I’d started wearing baggier stuff. “You can’t fight an army with just a handful of Infected.”
“I don’t need to fight an army,” he said and his voice was edgy. “I just need to go in, remove the Chemist, and get out. Everything else will fall apart in his absence.”
“He’s going to start a war. You said so yourself. That means a lot of people will get hurt.”
“Yes. Thousands,” he nodded.
“You look like that idea is appealing,” I commented. “Like I said, mate. Boredom.”
“Well I’m not okay with it. We could warn the people. We should warn the people,” I pleaded.
“If we did then the Chemist would know we’re coming.”
“Do you know the Chemist?”
“I’ve run into him before,” he replied, looking out the window and scratching that invisible itch on his forehead with the gun again. “Not for many years, though. I think he’s bored and perhaps now fully insane. A megalomaniac. He’s not being careful and he’s going to expose us. He’s become a loose end.”
“What do you propose we do?”
“I’m searching for him. Every day. But he’s very careful and very well hidden. As soon as I find him, we’ll move. If he starts a war, we sit tight unless there are Infected that need to be eliminated. We wait until he reveals himself and then we take him out.”
“Me, you, and Shooter? Samantha?”
“Right,” he confirmed.
“Anyone else?”
“We won’t need anyone else. Assuming you’re still alive and sane.”
“I don’t see why your plan precludes warning the police? Or the FBI?” I said.
“Because,” he snapped. “We don’t need to. It would warrant additional attention from agencies that we avoid.”
“It could save lives.”
“We’re not in the business of saving lives,” he said with an air of finality. “And neither is the Outlaw, if you want to live.”
Let’s do it, the disease whispered. Let’s warn the people. We can’t let thousands of innocent people die. Besides, it would anger Carter and that’s always fun!
That DOES sound like fun.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Tuesday, February 28. 2018
The Outlaw should warn Los Angeles. Right? I wrestled with the decision for five days. Was this actually a good idea? Who should I tell about the impending war? Would Carter really kill me?
Samantha Gear was plainly on edge. She kept checking her phone and watching the news. PuckDaddy was only answering my texts with one word responses. Two different Outlaw impersonators (called Law Givers) tried to sneak into Natalie North’s building, and the Outlawyers (Outlaw fan club) were raising money for her to come speak at their meetings. Katie reported Tank was acting even crazier than usual, and she was considering calling things off with him. Woohoo! She and Hannah Walker continued lunching together, which made it hard to hold her hand. We were all sitting on a bomb, with the fuse slowly burning away.
My headaches had largely abated but I could feel insanity creeping in. I’d hear voices or see visions or wake up and realize I’d been unconscious for a few minutes. Mundane happenings seemed hilarious or completely confusing. I assumed the disease was applying more and more pressure on my brain, causing these problems. Cory and Lee kept looking at me askance, like I was a stranger.
No Carter. No Chemist. Nothing happened. I slept as often as I could.
At the end of five days I was ready to explode. This was why Samantha took shots at innocent targets; she was insanely bored, almost literally. I was raging, jumping around my room, breaking rocks in my fist, anything to keep from erupting. I needed to do SOMETHING.
You could warn Los Angeles, came the gentle tug in my mind.
Or I could tell Katie how I tru
ly feel about her.
Which one, which one, which one, eeny meeny miny moe, catch an Infected by the toe.
I was going to warn Los Angeles. Katie was MUCH scarier.
I pulled on the Outlaw outfit. The Outlawfit. Hah! I’m so funny. I zipped up a jacket over the vest to avoid being recognized, because I’m sooooooo famous and awesome. I stuffed the mask and bandana into my pocket. I grabbed my helmet. I got on the bike. And then I rode off to save the day.
First! I needed to get control of my emotions and thought processes. Done! Maybe! After I’d driven several miles from my house I turned on the disposable phone and called Isaac Anderson, Captain of the Universe, Mr. FBI himself.
Straight to voicemail. This is Special Agent Isaac Anderson, please leave me a detailed message. Beeeeep.
Noooo! I called again. This is Special Agent Isaac Anderson, please leave me a detailed message. Beeeeep.
“What kind of FBI agent are you?” I shouted through the phone. “You’ll have to read about this on the front page like everyone else, because you wouldn’t answer your phone. This is the Outlaw, by the way.” I hung up.
Well, now what? I didn’t want to do an interview on television. So that left the radio, or the newspaper, or the internet. Newspaper sounded good, but I didn’t know any writers. In fact I only knew the name of one reporter, and she worked on television. Oh well, she could write, couldn’t she?
I dialed the news station.
“Channel Four News. How can I help you?”
I said, “Put me through to Teresa Triplett, please.”
“I’m sorry sir, but she’s gone for the day. Would you like her voicemail? Or can someone else assist you?”
“This is urgent and I need to speak with her,” I growled as I drove past an ice cream shop teeming with parents and their children.
“May I ask who is calling and what this is in reference to?”
“I’m the Outlaw and I need to warn Los Angeles,” I said. As soon as the words spilled out, I realized it was the lamest thing I would ever say even if I lived to be a million.
“Sir,” the lady sniffed. “You’re the third Outlaw that’s called in today.”
“What?? Ugh! What is wrong with people? Hang on. I’ll call you back.” I hung up, switched phones, and rang Natalie North. This was so dumb. Spider-Man never has this problem.
