Carmine: Rise of the Warrior Queen

by Alan Janney

  “He can fly?”

  * * *

  Finally back in my bedroom. So tired. And confused. I collapse into bed, not caring that a few of the Guardians follow me in, like worried service dogs.

  My phone has a text message from an unknown number.

  >> so that date didn’t go as planned

  >> let’s give it another shot

  >> soon

  >> but without all your friends

  - Five -

  The following day I invite Dalton back inside the tower on the condition he ceases all communication with the Outlaw. He agrees. He is lying.

  I send a note of apology to General Brown for flipping his jeep, and a promise that I’ll read the reports soon. He doesn’t reply.

  Busy. I need to stay busy.

  Packs of wild dogs are becoming a bigger problem, so I prowl Downtown with a squad of Guardians and we eliminate dozens of them. These hounds are rabid, beyond help. We load the broken animals onto a truck and I ignore the poignant symbolism as best I can.

  At day’s end, the Outlaw still hasn’t contacted me.

  I don’t care. I don’t care that he didn’t text me again. Not even a little. Even though I kick fitfully at my sheets like a jilted lover. I found photos of him taken a year ago, pictures of the Outlaw flying with a wing-suit. The wings fold into his pant legs when not in use. Extremely inventive. Maybe he’ll let me try them.

  Why would he? I was vicious to him. And my ‘friends’ threw him off a high-rise. And I didn’t respond to his messages. I can’t tolerate you, I said. There’s not a single reason for him to text again.

  Except I want him too. He interests me. I stay up late reading the book on leadership so I’ll be awake. Just in case.

  But he doesn’t.

  - Six -

  I barge into Kayla’s room, which is furnished in utter dichotomy of mine. Hers is a maze of lavish furniture and original artwork, all of it flowers and still-life scavenged from the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. Bottles of sparkling waters everywhere. Two laptops. A dozen phone cords plugged into small chargers. Thousand-dollar cashmere blankets. Scented candles. Vases of fresh flowers. Her canopy bed is draped with diaphanous curtains. So is her dog’s.

  Kayla herself wears a white nighty, fashionable even in her sleep. She’s sprawled primly on the carpet, head resting on a lacy throw pillow.

  “Good morning, my Queen.” She smiles sleepily and stretches. She looks like a bombshell pinup. Her bedroom has two walk-in closets, a panoply of fashion.

  “Don’t call me that. And he still hasn’t texted me.”

  “Who hasn’t? Did you put those ribbons on by yourself? Because we can do better. Did you know that pictures of you taken at the stadium are viral? The next fashion trend will be green off-the-shoulder tunics and little silver hair clips. Simply because you wore them two days ago. This broken country is obsessed with the rebel warrior queen.”

  “Why are you on the floor? Did you sleep last night?”

  “I did not. But I will soon. It’s been ages since my last beauty rest.”

  “You were up all night texting with PuckDaddy, your hacker.”

  “Among others, yes,” she says and closes her eyes with false dignity. “I’m quite popular, you know. And I’ve been keeping tabs on Walter’s troop migration.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Hard to pinpoint. Walter’s Variant warriors are sneaking away in small handfuls so we can’t track them. My informants within the Resistance don’t know either. The only thing we know for certain is that his army appears to have thinned by a third in the last three days.”

  A tight ball of sick dread settles into my stomach. Walter promised he’d return. And I don’t know if we can resist him.

  “Okay.” I take a steadying breath. “Okay. Alert the Guardians. Mandatory assembly tonight in the Disney Concert Hall. After you send the message, take a nap.”

  “On it,” she chirps, and she begins working magic on her phone. “You said someone hasn’t texted you?”

  “Nobody. Forget I said anything.”

  “The Outlaw?”

  “No.”

  Her dog Princess lifts her furry head up long enough to examine me. Even that dumb dog can tell I’m lying.

  I should text Chase. It’d be polite. He’s always been a worrier.

  “Were you expecting him to text you?” Kayla has quit working on her phone and she examines me with a piercing stare.

  Crud. Coming here was a bad idea. I wave my hand, brushing off her question, and I turn to leave. “Forget I said anything.”

  “Carmine…”

  “Goodbye.”

  “Are you and the Outlaw engaging in textual relations?? Because the Governess forbids it.”

  I’m at her door when I detect an odor, disparate from Kayla’s perfumed palace. A sharp biting whiff. I turn and follow my nose, pushing deeper back into her apartment. It’s coming from her open window. What is…?

  Katie Lopez knows the scent. I do too. From somewhere. An unpleasant whisper of recognition.

  Kayla’s window looks south towards Huntington Park. I lose the trail inside her silky curtains. I stick my head out and discover it again. The odor is being circulated by the Olympic’s downdraught, and without pausing I climb onto the ledge.

  “Carmine?”

  I close my eyes, tasting the air with all my senses. The stimulant is faint and probably long gone, but I’m compelled. Up. That’s where it is. Up. So I Climb, using each level’s outcroppings as a handhold. I move much slower than the Outlaw but I reach the shattered observation deck soon enough, and I’m hit by the reek.

  It’s not an entirely unpleasant odor, actually. Just a potent one. A rich mixture. I inspect the entirety of the roof, and discover the faint traces of a woman’s lotion. And the scent of soap. And the disease, a particularly strong strain. And perfume. And finally, the tang of gasoline.

  The puzzle pieces fit. The Cheerleader. The Fire Girl. She was up here. Recently. Maybe last night? She climbed down the south face, and I can almost see her trail, an ill-defined impression she leaves on the universe. Without thinking, I follow. For whatever reason, descending a tower is harder than ascending and it takes over five minutes.

  I find three Guardians squatting on haunches and staring west down Olympic Boulevard. After the long descent, I squat next to them, catch my breath, and follow their eyes.

  All three are boys. Well, boys my age. “What do you smell?” I ask.

  “We don’t know.”

  “Something.”

  “Something powerful.”

  I smell it too; maybe the Cheerleader rested here a few moments. I nod and pat their shoulders. “Better leave this one to me.”

  Perhaps I should alert Dalton or Mason, but this feels like a journey I must make alone. Before long, I’ve left Downtown. The trail shoots straight towards Hollywood and Beverly Hills. I lose her track every few minutes so I can’t follow in a car or on a bike. She’s fast and determined and I’m so focused I don’t feel the passing hours. My phone buzzes persistently so I turn it off. Soon I’m in sparsely populated neighborhoods, and I’m alone for all intents and purposes, and still her trail leads ever on.

  Why am I doing this? My plate is too full for this insanity.

  She hasn’t deviated from West Olympic Boulevard, always returning after a handful of blocks on Wilshire. I munch on apples and oranges plucked from trees heavy with ripe fruit. What on earth will I do if I catch her? No idea.

  Her trail plunges into Beverly Hills and I pause near the entrance to the ritzy neighborhoods. No official rules were established but sometime during the previous four months these lavish palaces became off limits. One of those cultural anomalies which spring up organically; no trespassing. Ten million dollar homes. At least they used to be, and even now in the decay of society most citizens of New Los Angeles feel uncomfortable here. Homes too rich for our dusty feet.

  There’s also the fact that many wealth
y former owners return periodically, bribing their way through our borders with armed guards to retrieve abandoned valuables. Some reside here permanently, living quiet lives and hoping to escape our notice. Our Kingdom is too big.

  Dealing with rich interlopers is on my to-do list. I don’t want to kick them out; I want to involve them in our Kingdom.

  The Cheerleader’s journey takes her north, past Sunset Boulevard and into the hills. These houses are absolute jaw-droppers but I’m wearying of the trek. Maybe she lives in a palace up there, and maybe she’ll keep moving. Maybe I’ll chase her into the night and still never get a glimpse. I’ve wasted too much time on this rabbit hunt. It’s after lunch and I’m miles from the city.

  Some other time, Cheerleader. Time for me to go.

  I’m on my way out of the neighborhoods when I see movement below. A person walking, coming around the bend. I slip into the hedges beside a stucco palace and wait for him to pass. Just to be safe. And it’s hot and I’m tired and grouchy and don’t want to chat.

  The biggest man I’ve ever seen pauses at the foot of the drive. Maybe seven feet tall? He’s gargantuan. He is wearing jeans and heavy boots, a tight t-shirt, and white gloves, strangely enough. Across his back is strapped an honest-to-goodness double-bladed axe. Not the cheap costume kind that Lord of the Rings fanatics wear, but a thick tool used to fell trees.

  Katie leaps inside my chest. She’s knows this man. I do too.

  “Tank?” I gasp. “Tank Ware?”

  The man tenses, clearly caught of guard, and his hand involuntarily goes for the axe handle. Tank’s a Hispanic boy about my age. He sees me and relaxes.

  “I thought I smelled you.” He grins. “Recognize you anywhere.”

  “What are you doing here? It’s been…wow, I don’t even know.” We naturally fall into an embrace. He’s so big.

  “Looking for someone.” His voice resonates from his wide chest like a sub-woofer. “Someone dangerous. But then I smelled Katie Lopez. How’s my baby?”

  “I’m not your baby. But I’m very glad to see you.”

  He hasn’t let go. I haven’t let go either. Friends are worth their weight in gold in a savage land.

  I ask, “Why are you in New Los Angeles?”

  “I live nearby. Just outside your border.”

  “And you never came to see me?”

  He takes me by the shoulders and holds me at a distance. “I heard you lost your memory.”

  “The rumors are true.”

  “Heard you don’t remember anyone.”

  “Some people. But not well.”

  “Then why do you remember me?”

  His question has me at a total loss. Why do I remember him? He’s Tank Ware. Memories come back like the sun breaking through clouds. At one point last year, he was the highest rated high school football player in America. Very wealthy. Aloof, but a lot of fun. The further I reach, the more I recall. He used to live Downtown. Nice parents.

  “I…I’m not sure. But you’re very familiar. I remember you the way friends should.”

  “That’s all?”

  “You have the Hyper Virus,” I realize suddenly. “That’s why you glow.”

  “I glow?”

  Memories keep storming. I close my eyes. I remember dating him. I remember kissing. I remember… “You’re my ex-boyfriend. We dated.”

  “Damn right.”

  “You’re a Variant, but not like me. You’re Infected.”

  “Hate that term.”

  “You’re, like, one of only ten Infected alive. Wow this is… I don’t know. I’m disoriented. Why would I remember you and no one else?”

  “Destiny, babe. Fate. Pure and simple.”

  I grin at him. His face and neck bear the scars from old burn injuries. He’s not deformed, but the right right side of his face looks melted. His handsome visage is not totally ruined, but it’s close. I can’t remember what happened…

  I say, “Walk me back downtown. You can tell me about your life now.”

  “No go, kid. Your goons don’t like me much.”

  “The Guardians?”

  “Whatever the hell you call the freaks.”

  “Then what are you doing in this neighborhood? They patrol here at night.”

  “Like I said. Looking for someone.”

  “The Cheerleader?”

  He nods, his mouth a fixed line.

  “I was too.”

  He asks, “You going to kill her?”

  “No. I don’t know if I can. I was hoping to drive her away.”

  He shakes his head and crosses his thick arms. “She won’t go.”

  “Why not?”

  “She’s obsessed. Fixated on Pajamas.”

  “Pajamas?”

  “Chase Jackson. You know, the little runt?”

  “The Cheerleader is obsessed with Chase?” I experience a hot flash of jealousy. Katie really needs to cool her mood swings. “Were you going to kill her?”

  “I am. One of these days.”

  “As a favor to Chase?”

  “As a favor—” he repeats and then laughs, like thunder rumbling. “You really don’t remember, do you.”

  “No. It’s maddening.”

  He points to his ruined face. “She did this.”

  “Yikes.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Fair warning, Tank. Walter is coming. I don’t know when, but he’s threatening to kill me and capture the Guardians. New Los Angeles might get a whole lot less friendly soon.”

  He nods slowly. He’s inspecting me, head to toe. A lingering inspection. Almost a leer. “You remember the night Walter took you from me?”

  “I don’t. He mentioned a giant. Must be you.”

  “I owe Walter. He’s next on my list. After Hannah.”

  The Cheerleader. Her name is Hannah?

  Hannah Walker.

  “I need to show you something,” he says.

  “What?”

  “Not today. Soon. Before Walter gets here.”

  “Okay, what?”

  “Give me your number. I’ll call you.”

  I do. We hug again, a lingering affectionate embrace. And it’s the closest I’ve felt to home in months.

  - Seven -

  I don’t know how many Guardians live in New Los Angeles. Approximately four thousand. The number fluctuates because I periodically add to the pile, and every week some of them surrender to the siren call and they leap to their death. Plus it’s challenging to take roll because they find it difficult to sit still.

  Tonight they’re all here, traveling as much as two hours from their distant sentry posts. Some of them haven’t seen me in weeks. Immediately following our assembly, the Night Guardians will leave for their patrol duties.

  We pile into the Disney Concert Hall, a big, gleaming, silver geometric rupture of a building. It’s built to seat less than three thousand, but the Guardians improvise. They squat in the aisles. Cling to curved walls. Hang from the draped spotlights. It’s hot and stuffy with testosterone and adrenaline. We’re an array of miscellany; some of us wear jewelry, some of us barely dress at all. We’re tall, short, thick, thin, all of us enhanced beyond the limits of accustomed human endurance.

  I’m still on cloud nine from my encounter earlier with Tank. Finally, I remember someone. More than that, I know him. Very little of our relationship is missing, just the last few weeks perhaps. I feel quasi-normal for the first time in months.

  It helps that he’s a big handsome man. With an axe.

  They swarm as I enter. I cannot press deep into the concert hall because they need to touch me first. Brief caresses. They squeeze my shoulders. Grip my hand. All four thousand. This is the second episode of our ritual.

  My relationship to the Guardians is impossible to explain. We don’t have telepathy, but we share a connection which goes beyond physical. “Like ants,” Becky once said. “And you’re the queen.” I’m in a good mood, and so right now they are too. We feed off each other. My head buzzes
with the overwhelming collective connection.

  Eventually I stand in the middle of the room, surrounded on all sides, and raise my hand. “Stay with me. Stay together. Stay alive.”

  They roar in return and it’s a heady experience. They need me and I need them, and together we’re a living force. A pack at full strength.

  “Thank you for coming on short notice. It does me good to see you. My strength returns when we gather,” I announce. “I wish we had more time, but our business is urgent. We have enemies and I don’t know how immediate is the threat. One day soon, my friends, we will be able to rest. To lower our guard and enjoy peace. But that day is not today. Our safety and the safety of the innocents within our care require vigilance. So our time together will be brief.

  “You’ve heard of Walter’s recent visit. You know the man. Many of you fought along side him before the Chemist died.” At the mention of the two names, the crowd shivers. Muscles quiver in fear. In hatred. “He has returned. He seeks to enslave us, in the same manner as he has two thousand of our brothers and sisters. Directly to my face he explained that you are manufactured property that belongs to him. And he is coming to claim what he thinks is rightfully his.”

  The crowd is dead silent, an indication of how seriously they take Walter. How much they respect the threat he represents.

  “Listen carefully to me, brothers and sisters. He is wrong. You are not property. You are not slaves. We must admit that our bodies react to his. That he calls to us. That he is stronger than us. But that is all we grant him. Not one more inch does he deserve from us. We will pay him no allegiance. In fact, we will resist him to our last breath.

  “We will be true to each other. We will be true to our new Kingdom. And we will fight him. It’s either that or surrender, because he is coming. He’s on the move. And I will die a thousand deaths before I surrender.”

  They respond to the emotion in my voice with their own, screaming in a single voice so loud it distorts my sensory input. I raise my hand and wait for quiet again.

  “We were built for war. Our bodies were. But my soul longs for peace. So what shall I do? I will use my body as a tool to defend the innocent. To protect our home. To protect you. To protect our future. I call on you to do the same. If you cannot muster the strength, go quickly. Because here you will be called upon to support your family. Here we will fight.