by Alan Janney
“High heels? No thank you. How much were they?”
“That doesn’t matter. They’re Valentino and have rosette details. And I have a matching skirt—”
“No! I’ll take the pink sneakers.” I dress and she helps bind my joints. My bones ache and my head is pounding to the extent that I down a handful of ibuprofen, though it’s never helped in the past. “What have you read online about last night’s attack?”
“Very little. No one knows much. PuckDaddy is apologetic he didn’t see the attack something.”
“Would he have warned us?
“Of course, Carmine. He worships you.”
“He does? I thought he worked for the Resistance.”
She shakes her head, causing fulgent silver shimmers in her hair. “One day you’ll realize how important you are. And that you’re not alone. He does work for the Resistance but he is also our supporter. And also, I don’t think you should date the Outlaw.”
Whoa. “Excuse me?” I say around the bite of chocolate in my mouth.
“Dating him could be a disaster. My advice is to stay away.”
“I thought you loved the Outlaw.”
“I do! But it could endanger everything you’ve worked for. Did you know one of the Falcons attacked him instead of the Herders last night? The Guardians simply can’t control themselves around him. Our Kingdom is surviving, but barely. We can’t afford anything which might upset that.”
I grab a broom and start sweeping dust and dirt out of my room, tossing gathered piles through the missing walls to be redistributed by the slipstream. I don’t allow Cleaners in here, and boys are awful at dusting. “My love life is none of your business. But rest assured, I have no romantic interest in the Outlaw.”
“Yes you do.”
“No. I don’t.”
“Carmine. You’re wearing that silly smile when you think about him,” she says, and she covers her grin with her hand. I shoot a glance at the mirror. I’m not smiling. That is not a smile. That’s…I’m…squinting. She continues, “You’re still Katie Lopez. Whether you like it or not. And according to the legend, Katie and Chase Jackson have been sweethearts since their pre-teens. Part of you still loves him.”
The broom cracks in half. I didn’t break the wood intentionally, it just happened. “Don’t you have a job to do?”
“I’m doing it now!”
“Then you’re fired.”
“You’re really sensitive about the Outlaw.” She’s glowing behind her hand, her pheromones filling my head with visions of flowers and the ocean.
I snap, “How could this possibly be your job? Your job is to be a transcendent annoyance?”
“The Outlaw wants to meet with you! I’m helping you prep.”
I throw the broken broom at her and stomp out of the room. “Tell him no. Or I’m re-assigning you to Sanitation.”
* * *
The victims from last night’s attack are being treated at Good Samaritan Hospital. The building is fully functional, operating at maximum power. The Kingdom has a full staff of Doctors and Nurses and Medics, and storage rooms overflowing with supplies. Injured Guardians won’t be here long; the Hyper Virus will knit them together. Doctors set their broken bones, treat infections, and pump them full of nutrients. The Engineers and Workers will require extra care.
I walk the halls and visit the injured. The Guardians perk up as I enter their rooms. Such a sad state of dependance they were re-born into, requiring another (me) to lead them. They experience hope and despondence in exaggerated proportion, based on their relationship to me. Their proximity to me. I visit Becky, who happened to be nearby last night. She suffered only minor burns but still she fights tears when its time for me to go. She grips my hand fiercely and says, “Sorry…it’s just…easier when you’re around.”
They need each other. They need me. My gut churns when I think about Walter getting his hands on them. Or on Kayla.
* * *
In addition to the injured, three Guardians (including one Falcon) and eight Workers died. Per our customs, we hold a ceremony for them on the piers at Redondo Beach, and their bodies are sailed to sea and sunk. It’s a somber affair, a grisly reminder that we have enemies and they are relentless. I lay flowers on their corpses and cry. Supposedly the deaths in battle are the easiest to bear because we can blame them on the enemy, but I don’t feel that way today. Today I hurt. I sense the weight of all eyes, wondering how I’m going to ensure their safety.
Good question. I toss and turn at night wondering the same thing.
Workers bury the eighty dead Herders in a mass grave inside La Tuna Canyon. Kayla attends and takes pictures, documenting the unnecessary slaughter. She’s at war with the American president, with Blue-Eyes, with Walter, and her weapons are media. This is a disaster, she’ll say. Look what your leaders are doing.
Nuts reports that we got lucky last night. The fire at Magnolia damaged mostly non-essential equipment. He and the Engineers are hard at work pilfering from other power plants, and he thinks we’ll be back at full strength in three days.
The Priest is sweeping northwest LA with Law Keepers. We have spies. Insurgents. Traitors working for the enemy. Some hide in our ranks, and some hide in the capacious empty residential neighborhoods, probably in Reseda and Northridge. The Priest not so subtly blames me for last night, a failure in intelligence, in planning, in defense, and states he should be given more power. More responsibility, more control. He might be right, but I’m too stubborn to acquiesce.
I spend much of the day with General Brown, touring our boundaries, identifying weak spots, examining maps, and arguing over how best to allocate our resources. He doesn’t need my assistance. In fact I get in the way more than I help, but I can’t do nothing. Kayla told me this is a character flaw of mine, that I’m a micromanager, that I work too hard, that I don’t trust others to do their job. But if I don’t, people might die. At four in the afternoon we’re bickering inside the tower’s hot war department. He stands and stretches and says, “Carmine, your help is appreciated. But it’s time you go.”
“Why?”
“You need a break. And you’re denting my table.”
My whole body is tense and my fingers have imbedded into the table’s plywood. I tug them out and mutter, “Sorry, General.”
“I know a thing or two about leadership. And I know you got a hard job. The most difficult on earth, my opinion. So I’d like to give you a word of advice. Then I’ll keep my peace.”
“Anything. Absolutely, by all means. I have no idea what I’m doing.”
He removes his cap and runs a hand over his trimmed pate. “Just this. You built this community through the force of your leadership. People naturally trust your conviction and your work ethic and your strength. Don’t fall into management mode. Learn the difference between management and leadership. Because you’re a natural leader, and that’s what we need. For our little world to prosper, we need Carmine to lead, not manage. You point the way. Trust me, they’ll follow.”
Five minutes later I’m in my apartment, staring at the Maxwell book on leadership. I don’t know what General Brown means. I’m in constant crisis mode; is that leadership? Somehow I don’t think leadership can be learned from a book. Besides, any free moment I find is spent reading the Cinder book, which is shockingly enjoyable.
My phone rings. It’s Mason.
“Guess what I’m doing?” he whispers.
“I’m too tired to guess.”
“I’m tailing the Outlaw.”
I collapse on the bed and close my eyes, pushing against my headache with thumb and forefinger. “If he catches and whomps you, you deserve it.”
“I stumbled on his trail and tracked him. His scent is…it’s hard to describe. He smells like a bright day. Like the sun.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Want to know what he’s doing?”
“Not really.” That’s a lie. I very much want to know.
“He’s
in Glendale. I think he visited your old home. I mean, Katie Lopez’s old home.”
I sit up so fast I slide off the bed and land heavily on my butt. “How do you know?”
“I stuck my head in after he left. Found pictures of a girl that looks like you. But with longer hair.”
“Give me the address. I’m on the way.”
* * *
Mason is sitting on his motorcycle outside a brick apartment building near the entrance to a neighborhood, one mile off the Five. Memories stir as we climb from the truck. Or echoes of memories. Kayla could never find my address, so I never visited. The daylight turns amber as the sun drops, and I’m struck by the familiarity of the shade as it crawls across evergreens. “I know this place. I think…”
Mason says, “Go through the sliding glass door in the back. Dalton and I’ll wait here.”
“Where is he?”
“The Outlaw? Took off. Went north. He has a motorcycle too.” He smiles with pride, absently patting his bike.
It’s just an apartment. An empty one. No reason to be nervous. But my heart hammers as I push the curtains aside and step into the dim room. The walls and bedspread and pictures are shades of pink. Maybe I do like pink?
My home! Katie Lopez responds to the bedroom, and her voice is freighted with passion. This is where I live!
The Outlaw was here. And he does smell like sunlight. However there’s more than just him. The various scents are a full-on assault. Each inhalation is a memory. I remember buying that perfume; Burberry. And the scented tissues. And this! I would scrub my hands and legs with this cheap lotion whenever a boy came over. Pictures flash in my mind. More than one boy. Kissing. I remember kissing. But I can’t summon the faces.
My breath won’t come. I lower to the bed as my head swims, and I anticipate the squeak of springs. The pillow smells of stale shampoo when I lay down. Dust motes dance in the fading light. This is a small bedroom, but I think it’s perfect. I bet I did all my homework at that desk. My mother would cook and I’d leave the door open so we could talk. I can almost smell peppers. After several minutes with my eyes closed I realize my ears have been waiting for the familiar click of air conditioning.
The closet’s been ransacked, but a few items incite a swirl of pleasant emotions. I lock the door, strip, and try on outfits. I’m taller now, but I knew that. The shorts are indecent and the tops are positively scandalous. The bra clasps won’t connect but the shorts button without a struggle. Hah, small victories. I grin, picturing Mason’s face if I walked out wearing these jean shorts and white tank top. I run the brush through my hair and marvel at the length of the strands I find coiled around bristles. Katie Lopez had great hair.
And the sandals fit! Katie loved these. Almost positive. I’m keeping them. I find two old backpacks and stuff them with perfume, the lotion, a teddy bear, shoes, jewelry, some old diaries, and…I cover a sob as I shuffle through a stack of photographs. Katie Lopez, so full of life, so happy. Smiling with her mother. My mother. Another of me hugging a boy. I recognize Chase Jackson. More photos of Chase. Katie is kissing his cheek. Katie and Chase stand on a football field, maybe for prom? That night…that was a special night.
I drop the photographs and cry. My hands tremble and I can’t stop the flood of emotion. Katie Lopez’s soul is in agony and I hear her raging somewhere inside. Her passions come pouring out of me and I’m helpless to prevent her pain. This isn’t fair to either of us. Me, a new creation with no past; and Katie, a real person trapped inside a…a robot. A cyborg. That’s what I am. A programmed machine. I’m nothing.
The past few months, history has become more fixed in my mind. Everything sharpens into focus except me. I can’t make the facts connect with me. I’m a stumbling phantom, blind, being crushed by emotions without source, without warning. Why am I weeping over this prom picture??
I pack the photographs after three minutes of crying.
Mamá. Where is she?
“No,” I say. “Sorry Katie. I can’t deal with her right now.” My voice is shaky. I look at the closed bedroom door. Beyond lies the rest of her apartment. The kitchen. Her mother’s room. My mother’s room. “We’ll come back. Okay? It’s been an exhausting twenty-four hours. I can’t. Not today.”
Katie goes quiet but she’s unhappy. I feel her inside like a tight ball of discontent. I can’t blame her.
On my way out, I notice the flowers. I must’ve knocked them off when I fell on the bed. A bouquet of godetia. My favorites. They are freshly cut, bound with string, and the stems are wrapped with a wet washcloth to keep them healthy. I breathe in their fragrance with my eyes closed. Katie does too, and she sighs happily.
The Outlaw brought me flowers. He knows what I like best. He knows me better than I know me. No. No. I will not cry again. Deep breaths, keep it together.
I force myself to leave. The day is all but gone. Dalton and Mason wordlessly take the backpacks from me, casting glances at the flowers. Mason sits on his bike and points down the street. “He used to live down there.”
I’m numb but I follow the direction of his eyes down an idyllic street. “The Outlaw? You investigated?”
“I remember.”
“Remember? You came before the Evacuation? When Chase lived here?”
Mason takes a while answering. His mind is far off, like wading through thick waters. “We are bound to you, Carmine. The Guardians, I mean. You’ve become part of us. And it used to be that way with the Chemist. But much more so. We follow you because we choose to, because we love you. But we followed the Chemist because that was life. Our entire being was serving. He had gravity and we just fell after him. The Chemist could stir us up, make us so angry, rabid. Almost feral. We’d go onto a mentally catatonic state and become animals, like werewolves, hell I don’t know, but we’d wake up later with these awful memories. The Chemist sent us here. To the Outlaw’s house to kill him. I remember now.”
“What happened?”
He grins suddenly. “This is a fun story.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re in it. So we ambushed Chase Jackson at his house. Hundreds of us. Somehow he got away but we wrecked his place and then chased him here. He is faster than us. And stronger. My clearest memory is of you driving a truck and he’s in the back, fighting us. Him and someone else. A girl with a gun, maybe? It’s all hazy. But I remember you. How funny, right? Now here you are again.”
“I was driving a truck?”
“You don’t remember? Yeah, right through here. Tore up these bushes. That’s my clearest memory. He came here to warn Katie, because we were after both of you. We ambushed him. But you two made it to a truck and escaped. We chased you up the Five! Hah. Forgot about that. A lot of us died. But I didn’t care about them.”
I sit in the passenger seat and rest my head on the dash. Katie is holding her breath. She remembers the truck escape, though I don’t. This is all so…I don’t know how to deal.
He brought me flowers.
“Mason.”
“Yeah?”
“Call Kayla. Tell her we’ll meet with the Outlaw. Tomorrow.”
- Ten -
I’m still awake at one in the morning. I clutch Katie Lopez’s teddy bear and rub her lotion into my hands for the fifteenth time and sort through the accompanying olfactory nostalgia. Nostalgia without memories is disorienting, and the result is I’m homesick without a home.
Finally I kick off the covers with a huff, dress, shrug into my backpack, and Climb down the outside of Olympic. I borrow a sturdy ten-speed and pedal west on the 101 towards Hollywood, entirely alone in the darkness. I ride hard for ten miles, reaching my destination in forty minutes.
The Griffith Park Observatory sits on Hollywood Mountain like a huge white-walled castle. There’s good hiking inside Griffith Park, as well as the old zoo and golf course. The Observatory’s great domes and stately main hall are still exquisite but the green lawn needs a trim. If I was a resident of New Los Angeles, instead of one of i
t’s leaders, this is where I would live. I’d sling a hammock on the east terrace, sleep in the west alcoves when it rained, bring water and food up with me every day after work. However I’d probably feel less confident at night without all the enhancements.
I lay a thin blanket near the solar system lawn model and sit crisscross. After a few minutes, my pulse slows and my body unclenches. Relaxes. Almost melts. My eyes close and I cast myself outwards, a trick I’ve learned over time. I rummage through the Observatory grounds with my senses, like a predatory mammal would, and expand beyond. I Listen. I Smell. I Feel. I map the lives I find. Two owls perch in silent observance on the limb of a sycamore. A family of mule deer also watch, alert and ready for flight. There is a romantic couple frolicking on Roosevelt Municipal beside the embers of their fire. A thousand animals rampage with tiny footfalls through the bracken. A pack of gray foxes near the Hollywood Sign. Soon it becomes too much and I’m overwhelmed, but that’s okay. As my awareness is subsumed by nature, so is my scent cast from the mountain and distributed through the trees and streets. My body makes a strong impression on nature when I allow it.
The Outlaw is nearby, only a few miles distant. Most likely he will detect me. But will he investigate? Part of me hopes so. Part of me desires him, driven to complete distraction by him. But he won’t come. He’s denied entrance until tomorrow and he won’t risk the insult. I force him from my mind as Katie begins stirring restlessly from the catacombs.
Still I wait and allow my scent to travel. Two hours go by before I open my eyes. They are here. They have come silently, stealing through the scrub forest, sneaking up the drive, tentative reconnaissance.
They are the wild Variants living nearby, creatures enhanced and broken on an operating table. As yet unsure of me. Of each other. They aren’t part of my pack and so they’ve hidden in fear. Men and women my age in various stages of decay and superhuman might, surviving as outcasts in this new world without a master, without a creator. Tonight there are twelve. A week ago, only five. We need them and they need us. They need a home. They need companions. Security. A purpose. And the purpose I offer is healthier than Walter’s. Lost sheep in need of a shepherd.
