by Alan Janney
We need more Guardians. We need them all. I raise the radio to my lips, but a gun fires. A distant retort, sound without source. I’m coughing on the ground so it takes me an extra second to realize Walter’s been shot. He is the only one standing, his opponents all thrown down, and he’s holding his shoulder. General Brown’s gun is gone, so it wasn’t him. Who?? Walter is glaring at the Staples Center two blocks away. I follow his gaze. There is a silhouette on top, a shooter distorted by rising heat. One of General Brown’s snipers? That was a jaw-dropping shot, connecting with Walter as he flickered among us.
“Coward,” he snarls. “An ambush, Red Butcher? Not your style.” There’s a ghost of a smile as his advanced eyes zero in, a glister of recognition. “Shoulda guessed she’d be here. Bitch hid upwind.”
The shooter’s rifle flashes in quick succession. Additional incoming rounds. Walter Moves, scrambling away as high velocity bullets shatter the patio. Then he’s gone, Running west. The Law Keepers scramble. General Brown is shouting into a radio.
Mason is on his feet and chasing. So are the other Falcons, but they move like Olympic sprinters at full speed. They’ll never catch Walter, who moves like a cheetah. He’s gone.
So is the mysterious sniper. The silhouette has vanished. Whoever she is, the girl can shoot. She’s female, according to Walter. He referred to her as a bitch. But maybe he calls everyone that. Seems likely.
I lay on my back and gently rub my neck. Kayla scoots over to check on me. “What a charming man,” I croak.
- Seven -
Two hours later, Walter is spotted in a Toyota Tacoma heading north, returning to his stronghold in Oregon and Washington. Kayla announces that somehow CNN learned of the showdown and is speculating on scandals and conspiracies. She can release footage of the meeting if we’re forced to repudiate rumors of terrorism association. I watch the video; he wrecks us and it’s embarrassing, but at least it’d allay fears. I don’t want the remaining population of America to turn on us.
Lesson learned. The Infected are not to be trifled with. But I’m furious he escaped.
I need to clear my head so, after I debrief with General Brown and Mason, I spend the afternoon with a team of Scavengers and Law Keepers, probing the uppermost subterranean lair of our city. Los Angeles’s metro is not as extensive as lines in other metropolises, especially in the Downtown district. More concerned with transporting people into and out of Downtown, rather than shuttling within, city planners built only five main tunnel systems. These arteries are clotted with detritus and cave-ins and the hideouts of an underground community. We call them Cave Dwellers, and they are harmless recluses who refuse to work or participate in our governed society. Harmless until recently when they began stealing from warehouses. Today we have no intention of evicting them. We only reconnoiter and plan and draw maps, and we’ll present our findings and suggestions to the Council later. Becky is in her element down here, squirming through muddy holes and broken lines, grinning all the while. My presence isn’t strictly necessary, but its fascinating and I want to keep my mind off Walter and his threats.
At six that evening, I trudge up the stairs to my apartment. The stairwell is lit with one lightbulb per landing. Dalton stays outside and keeps Kayla’s dog away. The Devotee takes my jacket and I sit in the overstuffed chair, enjoying the purpling horizon with a vacant mind. I’ve earned ten minutes of rest. Ten minutes of daydreaming. Of peace.
General Brown swears the sniper atop the Staples Center doesn’t belong to him. I ask the Priest and he seems unsure if he should claim credit, but I see through him; he doesn’t know the sniper either. Perhaps it’s an old enemy of Walter’s hunting him down, and I’m unsettled to have such a powerful warrior in the Kingdom.
* * *
I work until ten on the Stanford research paper, snacking on whatever the Devotee brings me. I’ll need to visit a library soon. Much of the information once available on the internet is gone, succumbed to power-loss or destruction.
Mason calls and breaks my concentration. He’s talking through the headset in his motorcycle helmet. “Just got word that the Lakewood punks are back. Raided Anaheim last night.”
His news instantly irritates me. We’re too big. Our territory covers too much ground and we can’t monitor it efficiently, even with our checkpoints and designated Overseers. Drifters and looters sneak in and cause problems, like the gang which keeps popping up in Lakewood. A peaceful community of five thousand settlers recently moved back into Anaheim, grateful and willing to join our Kingdom in exchange for protection. But the Lakewood gang has thousands of houses to hide in, and thousands of pantries to raid for food, and nothing better to do than harass the community in Anaheim.
“Coordinate with the Priest,” I growl. “I want him out there with a squad of Law Keepers. They’ll patrol at night and pinpoint the Lakewood hideout. I’m sick of this.”
Mason pauses. He doesn’t trust the Priest any more than I do. He’s too…unctuous. Not decisive. Not a warrior. But this will toughen him up. I hope. “Are you sure?”
I say, “I want him to handle this. It’s a simple pack of jerks with guns. It’ll be good for the Priest. He and his Law Keepers will locate them and the Falcons will assist in removal. Agreed?”
He sighs. “Agreed. Want me to tag along?”
“Not tonight. Not with the Outlaw still inside our borders.”
“Worried he’ll sneak into your bedroom? Could be hot.”
I hang up.
* * *
I’m manic at eleven. Can’t sleep. Adrenalized by my body’s overproduced endorphins or dopamine or whatever it is. I don’t know much about it. I’m in full fight-or-flight mode, revved up and ready to fly, incapable of controlling the energy.
I sleep five hours on average. I like to be up by seven, but nature made me a night owl. Well, nature or the knife. I grow increasingly crepuscular as time passes. The darkness calls, invigorates me, a seductive beckoning. Some nights I can read to sleep. Some nights I can’t.
Come out. Come out and play, little one.
Dance, Katie says. I’m hearing her more and more often and she she startles me every time. I want to dance.
I want to Jump. Leap with no predetermined landing spot. Just see what happens. Dare death to come collect. The fall would be such a rush, a plunge into bellowing black.
But not tonight.
I check myself in the mirror. I’m a mess, dressed in active wear and ribbons, no makeup, and hair a tangled nimbus. Whatever. At my core, when you pare down all the responsibilities and enhancements, I’m just a nineteen-year-old girl. And tonight I want to dance and throw off steam.
“I’m going to the Mayan,” I inform my Devotee. “Come if you like.”
I leap down the stairs, rebounding off concrete walls like a pingpong ball. Outside, the ground level atmosphere is cool and fresh, typical Los Angeles, a sky full of stars and a solitary streetlamp burning on every corner.
Most Workers are asleep, exhausted from an honest day’s labor. Most, but not all. Our demographics trend towards the young and carefree, and LA still bounces at night in certain spots.
The Mayan is a well-known dance club on Hill Street, not far. New Los Angeles provides no electricity to the club, so dancers bring big batteries charged from personal solar panels baking in the sun all day to fuel the lights and speakers. If I listen closely I can hear it from my tower.
I’m hurrying on bare feet. My Devotee, dressed now in shorts and t-shirt, reaches me at the intersection of Grand and 11th. Apparently alerted by phone, Dalton catches us on Olive one block later.
“Shoulda told me,” Dalton growls, hastily tucking in his red t-shirt, and then shoving a pistol under the waistline at the small of his back.
“Come on Dalton,” I grin. “Catch me if you can.” And I’m off, Sprinting the rest of the way, the two beefy men left in the distance.
The Mayan was a hotspot before the crash and still is today, stuffed with survivors, adventurers f
ull of vitality who are willing to work all day and party all night.
The exterior of the club is a mixture of theater and pink Mayan stone temple. No bouncers at the door. All are welcome. Though even if there were bouncers, the Queen could likely talk her way in. The club has a Latin American flair that I enjoy, probably because Katie Lopez is Hispanic. The throbbing music alternates between salsa remixes and pop techno, and walls flash in shades of crimson and indigo and gold. In less than sixty seconds, I’m lost in the rhythm and the crush of dancers.
Music ignites my biological triggers. My soul transmutes into something more beautiful, more elemental, brighter and happier. I smile and laugh for no reason, awakening to pure existence. Perhaps I am most like Katie Lopez while I dance.
The Mayan is one of the few places enhanced humans publicly mix with the un-enhanced. Guardians interacting with citizens. Our society isn’t segregated, but people are still recovering from the collapse. We all possess a natural fear of the unknown. And Guardians are very unknown, terrifying when fully lost to their disease. But here, dancing at the Mayan, walls fall. Danger becomes desire. Beauties and the beasts.
Old-world celebrities are here, recognizable from a time when LA was the entertainment capital of the world. Some stars lingered, agreeing to work and remain in their luxury homes. They come to dance, much admired, much sought after by nocturnal crowds, but at clubs like this they are eclipsed by Guardians. The exotic instability and subtle hints of enhancement are intoxicating; mutants dance and move with adoring entourages.
My own two-person cortege follows me. I am most tolerant of my Devotee while on a dance floor. His affection is less cloying after I abandon restraint and surrender to my humanity. We dance intimately, pulsating to the same beats. But the spell only lasts as long as the music.
Wine and liquor flow liberally. One day the alcohol will run dry, but not tonight. I don’t drink, guided by conditioning, a built-in respect for the old law; I’m not twenty-one yet. Plus my liver would metabolize the alcohol too quickly. And it smells gross. Katie Lopez must’ve been a major league Good Girl.
Off-duty Guardians notice my arrival immediately. After half an hour, so do the others.
The Queen is here.
The Queen is here.
I don’t care. Let them come. Let them assemble and dance with me. Tonight I am not the leader, I am the prize. We are surrounded and engaged. Covetous girls captivate my Devotee, and even Dalton has fun, his scowl slipping a few minutes. For two hours nothing matters. There is no Witch. No madman promising to kidnap and abuse Kayla. There are no Herders. We simply move.
At one in the morning my biochemical compulsives are satisfied and I’m drowsy, somnolence demanding its dues. I tap Dalton on the shoulder and the crowd parts and watches me leave. Drenched in sweat, I breath in pure air outside and begin the walk home.
As it usually happens after dancing, my body is satiated but my spirit decompresses. The bliss was temporary and unsubstantial, and once again I’m alone. All my ribbons are gone and an elegiac silence looms. A small crowd follows Dalton and me, groupies hoping to be invited to further festivities. But I have no wish for them. My Devotee has vanished, a severe crime but I won’t report him to his Overseer; let him live. I don’t envy his profession, and he’ll return soon enough.
We reach the tower and Dalton denies our followers entrance. They call and wave and yawn and slink off to their homes. My body has begun a trophic tremble, a hollow hungry feeling in my gut. I need caloric input.
We pass the third floor, which always sounds like a raging party, and the Guardians’ ardor hits me like a blast of convection heat, and I blush furiously. The third floor might as well be a furnace. The intensity makes my pulse race, and I hurry up the stairs to escape their influence. What’s got them so excited?
“You could be a SEAL,” Dalton chuckles as we climb. “Got the discipline.”
“Explain?”
“You could have any man in that dance club. Or woman. But you never do.”
“Ah. That. I don’t need the drama.”
“Like you ain’t even human. You don’t feel the need? The urges the rest of us feel?”
“Dalton, are we talking about sex?”
“Hell yeah we are. You don’t need it?”
This is fun. No one has asked me about sex before. No one dares question the queen. I admit, “I feel the craving.”
“And?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Always is.”
“I think Katie Lopez was a virgin. Which means I am too. And I won’t simply throw that away. Not to satisfy a craving.” That was more honesty than I intended. Just tumbled out.
He shakes his head in disbelief. “Cravings are meant to be satisfied.”
“To an extent. That’s why we’re in this mess, though.”
“Huh?”
“A madman tried to get everything he ever wanted. He was never satisfied, craved more and more power. And then he built humans who can barely control themselves. The world would benefit from a global dose of self-control.”
He is silent, the muscle in his jaw flexing as he mulls it over. Then, “So you’re just never gonna…?”
We’re at my apartment. Dalton follows me in, checking to make sure it’s clear. No Devotee. He’ll probably sleep on the couch till he arrives.
Dalton is safe. He isn’t trying to sleep with me. That’s not what he’s after. In some ways, he’s a close friend and not a bodyguard. I slam a granola bar in my mouth and go looking for more.
So I’m just never gonna…? His words carom in my mind. What am I waiting on?
I want to fall in love. That’s what. And it’s a sudden realization. An epiphany which touches down for the first time; I don’t crave sex nearly as much as love. To be loved by someone whom I love. But I doubt that’s in my cards. I don’t live in a land that lets girls like me fall in love. I’m too…unique. My job is too demanding. My body too freakish. Add it all up and you get one very unlovable girl.
The reading lamp flickers in my bedroom. Other than my phone charger, the lamp is the only electrical pull in the apartment. I glance outside in time to see lights fail in other towers, especially in stairwell windows. Few rooms are using electricity, but those which do are experiencing brownouts.
I say, “The Governess is asleep, Dalton. Go wake her and find out what’s happening with the power.”
“Yes ma’am,” he yawns and stumps heavily out of the bedroom.
I’m tired and I collapse onto the bed to wait. But before he reaches the hall door, the Governess herself barges into my apartment. She’s a large middle-aged woman who always wears black clothes and keeps her hair in a bun. She’s no-nonsense, a former city planner, and I like her. “Queen Carmine!” she calls. “Let go of me, you big beautiful thug!”
I grin. “Let her in.”
She hurries into my bedroom, casting an interested glance at my sparse belongings, and she’s breathing thickly. I’m sitting on my bed in the dark. She shines her flashlight on me a moment before clicking it off with an apology. “I’m…I’m sorry to bother you, Carmine…”
“Your power flickering?”
“I heard on the radio. The power station. It’s…there’s…sounds like there are intruders.”
A handheld radio is on her hip and it squawks again. Screams and the unmistakable rattle of gunfire burst from the speaker. We’re under attack!
I’m out of bed in a flash, shoving feet into shoes. “Call General Brown and the Priest and wake all Law Keepers! Dalton, get Mason on the phone. I want them at the power station immediately! And find Nuts!”
We’re in trouble without central power. The solar panels and gas generators are good for smaller personalized uses, but we're utilizing the Magnolia Power Plant as a conduit and glorified battery and generating enough electricity for places like the hospital.
I jam a bluetooth earpiece in my right ear, shove my cell into a pocket, and grab her radio.
Dalton barks, “The hell you think you’re doing? You ain’t going out there without me.”
Too late. I Jump.
- Eight -
The Magnolia Power Plant isn’t far from the Starlight Bowl, from the Outlaw. If he’s the intruder, we’re going to kill him tonight.
I land like a professional acrobat on Apex tower. Cell phones ring in the nearby high-rises. I detect the sounds with enhanced hearing. Off-duty Guardians are being woken. Calling all cars.
I soar across Downtown, covering vast distances with running Leaps and hopscotching roofs, touching down and Launching like the night is a fabric I can climb, like gravity has an off switch, until I reach the northern garages. I land in the cherry red Boxster and tear up the same interstate as last night.
Tonight isn’t reconnaissance.
Tonight is fury.
I am judge and jury. I am death.
The engine surges beautifully. So does the disease in my veins, and I’ll cover ten miles in four minutes. The city is black; a ghost town but I’m the ghost.
I’m wearing only leggings and a tank top, and already my joints begin to protest. My headset rings. It’s Mason. “Falcons en route,” he calls directly into my ear.
“Took you long enough.”
“The Priest and a regiment of Law Keepers are loading up, but they’ll be thirty minutes. General Brown and the troops are moving even slower.”
I grind my teeth and try to remember that not everyone is enhanced. Some people are normal. Normal and slow.
“It’s only us, then,” I say. “Better move your ass.”
Halfway there, the radio burst to life again. A man I don’t recognize, giving updates from the power plant. His voice is strained, panicking.
-We’re under attack!
-Trucks! Guns!
-Herders trapping Guardians!
More gunfire, then silence.
