by Alan Janney
“His army advances. So must we prepare. We will work with General Brown and his troops. With the Priest and his Law Keepers. And we will prevail.
“While we wait to see his intentions, we shall train. You will remain at your station, but too long have we ignored our need to harness the strength and speed which consume us. I will circulate among you. Mason and the Falcons will circulate among you. You are powerful beyond imagination, but so are our enemies. They prepare for war, and so shall we. We will begin drilling. Practices intended to sharpen you further, to prepare you for the looming battles.
“So tonight I ask you to return to your posts with vigilance and urgency. To steel yourselves for what is to come. To look for my arrival. And to heed my call for greater discipline, for increased training. A storm is coming. But we will prevail against it.”
I raise my fist again. They raise theirs.
“Stay with me. Stay together. Stay alive.”
- Eight -
Somedays I’d kill for a Chick-fil-A spicy chicken and egg breakfast sandwich. And hash browns. That might be worth biking all the way to Utah. Assuming Chick-fil-A still exists. Like most days, however, I wolf down a lukewarm fruit smoothie and examine our domain from my balcony.
General Brown and his troops are circumnavigating New Los Angeles and installing cameras and motion detectors. More guards are stationed at armed checkpoints and the mountains are being crenellated. We still can’t locate Walter and his vanishing army. Neither can the Resistance, so Brown claims. He and I have been communicating solely through texts.
My to-do list looms. Of paramount importance is training the Guardians to face stronger enemies. Of lesser urgency is the ongoing work to remove dead bodies from the million homes in our Kingdom, those who were too old to flee. The Doctors keep harping on the contagion these corpses could spread. I also need to remove Cave Dwellers from the subway lines. And keep sweeping for wild dogs. And evict the gang near Anaheim. And welcome the thousands of newcomers. And on and on.
A Chick-fil-A breakfast sandwich would solve a lot of these problems, in my opinion.
My phone beeps. A text message.
>> Hey pretty lady
>> What’cha doing?
It’s the Outlaw. Chase. Finally, he texts me. Katie smiles in the back of my skull and tells me that Chase should come over.
Instead, I reply, I’m working.
>> When was your last day off?
I sniff. July, maybe?
Not all of us live on permanent holiday. I don’t get days off.
>> You need to. Have one day for rest every week.
I wish. Pure fantasy.
>> Take the morning off.
My fingers hesitate. I’ve got so much to do…
>> Please. I’m already at Venice Beach
I probably shouldn’t. Everyone I know has forbidden it. Plus I’ll have to sneak past Dalton again. But he’s right; I haven’t had a day off in a long time.
And he’s cute, Katie says.
I can’t argue.
Okay. I’ll be there in an hour.
Don’t get spotted. Our Law Keepers are on high Outlaw alert.
* * *
It takes me an hour and a half. I can’t decide what to wear, suffering from a sudden inability to dress myself. I change shorts three times and try on twenty pairs of shoes. I’m not superficial, I’m just bad at this. I want to ask Kayla, Where’s the line between perfect and too short? Flats or heels? Flip flops or sandals? But I can’t because then she’d know I’m sneaking out. I snort; Queens don’t sneak out. I do what I want. I’m simply doing it quietly. After fifteen minutes of frustration I throw a pair of wedges through the rear closet wall and I leave the apartment barefoot.
Venice Beach is an eclectic place despite the great evacuation. Its population vacillated between the wealthy and impoverished for a century as gangs and gentrification battled to gain dominance. The current population still reflects this melting pot of cultures. Several dozen off-duty Workers of all shapes and colors lounge under the palm trees which dot the sidewalks like tall lollipops. This is a lazy, care-free place. Much of the community bikes to work instead of living downtown, probably because they dislike living so close to authority. No one takes note of me as I walk across the sand. Slowly. Queens do not hurry. Not for boys.
He’s wearing jeans and flip-flops and a tight cerulean t-shirt that does wonders for his crystal blue eyes. And for his torso. And arms.
“Nice outfit,” he says.
I don’t care. I don’t care that he noticed. I refuse to. “You too.”
“It feels good to wear normal clothes, doesn’t it.”
I nod. “And to pretend we’re normal people?”
I’m at the ocean. With Chase. A rush of deep contentment comes over me. Katie is at peace.
He chuckles. “I haven’t felt normal in a long time. Thanks for taking the morning off.”
“It was a worthy suggestion.” I walk into the ocean for the first time in weeks. The water is clear and warm, and I close my eyes a moment to enjoy existing. To remember that not all the world is a battle. Some corners of the earth remain solely to feel good between my toes. He takes my hand in his; he feels better than the Pacific, and once again the storm in my temples rolls away.
“Fine,” I say. “I admit it. The headache goes away when we hold hands.”
“Are you familiar with Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs?” he asks.
“Certainly.”
“I’ll explain the headaches. The Hyper Virus kills, like…ninety-five percent of its victims. Statistically, you should have died after injection. But the Chemist kept you unconscious for the worst of it, and he surgically reinforced parts of your body so you’d emerge even stronger. He took care of your basic physiological needs, in other words, to keep you alive. Those headaches you feel are the result of your changing frontal cortex. Instead of an aneurysm, you have headaches. Are you following?”
“Of course. A five-year old could follow so far.”
“My headaches have mostly gone away, thanks in part to you. Last year, during our senior year, you used to hold my hand even when you didn’t understand. You were fulfilling my need to be loved, which is the next level of the Hierarchy. We’re very vulnerable as we transform, and the more needs we have met the better. Human touch is powerful. That’s why when I hold your hand, your headaches get better. More of your needs are being met.”
“How do you know I have them? The headaches, I mean.”
“No one knows your face like I do. I know when you have a headache. And I can tell your skin has gotten a shade lighter.”
He’s examining my arms, rubbing his fingers up and down my forearm and bicep. I ask, “What do you mean?”
“I don’t think your color has fully returned from the three months in a coma. In retrospect I should have wheeled you outside more often.”
“I’m darker than you.”
He pinches me and says, “Because you’re Hispanic. And I’m Caucasian.”
“I doubt the nurses would let you wheel a patient into the parking lot to work on her tan.”
“There were no nurses during the second half. I could do what I wanted.”
“What? Explain?”
He takes my hand again and we start walking south in the surf, like we’re a normal couple. In his mind we might be. He’s evidently comfortable with my body, enough that he takes my hand and brushes my shoulders while everyone else in New Los Angeles is afraid to touch me. I’m quickly falling under his comfortable spell. Lost in his atmosphere. He says, “The hospital was evacuated, but I wouldn’t let them move you. So we stayed by ourselves for a month.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is. The nurses were overrun so I’d been caring for you myself for weeks by the time they left. I’d feed you, change your catheter bags, stretch you, give you medicine, and read to you. Just you and me.” I’d think he’s crazy, but he’s smiling to himself as he recalls those months.
Oh sweet Chase. He’s just the kind of fool to throw his life away for me. Poor sweetheart, all alone.
I stop. He stops. I place my free hand over my eyes to staunch the mutiny welling there. “Chase. Before we go on, you need to know that I cannot control my emotions. At the moment, I’m trying not to weep and I’m not sure why.”
“The disease. You have raging hormones.”
“If your story about the hospital is true, you have saddled me with a debt I can never repay. I wouldn’t even know how to begin.”
“No debt. That’s what we do. We take care of each other.”
“No. That’s not what friends do. I’m worried you’re expecting things from me - things you deserve - that I just don’t have to give.”
He starts walking again, tugging me after. “Like what?”
“Like reciprocal unconditional love.”
“Nah. I’m not expecting that.”
But I love him. So so much.
He’s taller than me. I’m walking higher up the slope of sand and yet my forehead still barely reaches his chin. He’s not as tall as Tank, but who is. I say, “I don’t love you. I’m serious. I don’t even remember you.”
“I know.”
“Then what are you expecting?”
“Just a chance. I only want to be around you now and then.”
I shake my head and finish wiping my eyes. I’m a gross mess. Good thing I don’t care what he thinks… “See, that’s the problem. You say hopeful romantic things, like we’re in a fairytale movie. But I sincerely doubt that’s how this plays out.”
“Why the doubt?”
“For one thing, I have a nemesis. A sadistic maniac who promised to butcher me.”
“Ah,” he says. “Walter.”
“Walter.”
Walter…
He says, “He’s returning.”
“Exactly.”
“So leave.”
“I can’t. I won’t. I promised myself to the Guardians. Somehow they’re my people. They trust me.”
“It’s a big world. It’s not hard to hide four thousand people. I’ll help.”
“Run and hide?” I scoff. “That’s your solution?”
“Is there another reason you don’t want to leave this place? A secret you’re keeping?”
“No.”
“The Inheritors?”
Dang it. First Walter and now the Outlaw want to discuss the Inheritors. I refuse to talk about them. “You don’t know me as well as you think you do. I’m not Katie.”
He considers me a moment and nods in understanding. “You crave the action. The risk. You need adventure the same way you need nutrition.”
“Yes. Well phrased. I feel the need. This burning urge for the world to get loud.”
“You’re an adrenaline junkie like me. It’s so weird. I struggled with the disease for months. Over a year. It wrecked my life and you didn’t know what was wrong. Now it’s my turn to watch you struggle. And even though I know what’s wrong, I’m not sure how to help.”
“I know a way.”
“Sure.”
I say, “Train Mason and the Falcons. They’re my best warriors. Teach them to fight, teach them anything they don’t know already.”
“Good idea. I’ll start tonight.”
“So soon? That easily?”
“For you, Katie, anything.”
Katie leaps in my chest and she groans. Oooooh.
Knock it off, Katie. Keep it together. Her passions hit me like a hot flash. “You’ve got to stop that,” I growl.
“Stop what?”
“I know your voice. I remember it. You spoke to me during the coma. Your vocalization has some dream-like power over me. You have the voice of God and it connects straight to my soul.”
“If I quote an Emily Dickinson poem, you might hurl yourself at me?”
“Coming here was unwise. I should go.”
“Why?”
“Because, you idiot, we’re holding hands in the ocean. This is romantic as hell, Chase. But it can’t be. I’m a mess. I have nothing to offer. I don’t even know you. But when I’m around you everything inside me feels like it’s falling apart.”
He stays silent.
“I’m not Katie. Want to know why I’m so confident about that fact? I hear her. She’s in my head. Like, her actual voice. Thoughts and opinions that aren’t my own.”
He doesn’t answer. In fact he takes a step back and his eyes widen a fraction. His gaze shifts from me to the ocean and back, and he swallows. A slow minute passes and I hurt for him. “What does she say?”
“I think she operates on pure emotion now. She reacts to things that happen to me. She’s an optimistic person. She’s very positive, and passionate. Especially about you. Sometimes she’s so in love with you she can barely breathe.”
He laces his fingers in his hair and walks away. For a moment it appears he might keep going, but he returns. The corners of his mouth pull down in tragic, ravishing heartbreak and he cries. What more powerful force in the universe could there be? Love shatters us all. I watch his agony and wonder if I shouldn’t have confided that secret. The bottoms of his jeans are getting wet from the surf.
“Yeah,” he half-laughs and half-sobs. “She was always optimistic. Upbeat.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Tell me what you see when you look at me. Please? We grew up together. You’re a pillar of my life. I’ve always known where I stood with you. Part of my identity is who I am in your eyes. And now? I have no idea. Who am I to you? What’s going on inside?”
“Chase, maybe this isn’t the best time? I don’t know you like you know me.”
“Please.”
I take a deep breath. “I remember you as a boy. The same way I remember other childhood friends. I have strong emotions that storm in my chest when I think about you. But no recent memories. You’re a beautiful stranger, one that I’m inexplicably drawn to.”
“Drawn to?
I know I’m blushing but I plow forward with the truth. Just this once. “You’re the Outlaw, you buffoon. The planet’s premiere sex symbol. I feel what most women feel around you, I assume, except I feel it much stronger. Because of our convoluted past.”
We start walking again. I think he wants to ask more questions but he’s satisfied with my honesty. At least temporarily. What an absolute disaster we are. Most of his longings are emotional while mine are corporeal.
Offhand I ask, “Do you remember Tank?”
“Of course I remember that big dumb idiot. Why?”
“Oh,” I laugh, surprised at his strong reaction. “No…no reason.”
“Katie.”
“My name is Carmine.”
“Why are you asking about Tank?”
Oh boy. Maybe I should not talk. Ever. “For some reason, I remember him. Like…completely. Everything else faded but not him.”
He stares stonily ahead and his jaw flexes. “Well. Isn’t that fantastic.”
“I take it you’re not a fan?”
“Of course not. He’s tried to kill me a dozen times. And failed. Because he’s stupid. He dated you just to hurt me.”
“And maybe on account of my sparkling personality? And killer physique?”
“Shut up. That guy is garbage. He’s still around. I can smell his stench now and then.”
Didn’t smell bad to me. I thought he smelled big and sexy. “Do you have any idea why I’d remember him?”
“Unfortunately I do.”
“Tell me.”
“No. He’s ugly.”
“Please?”
“The Virus affects people differently. To some, it grants increased intelligence, like PuckDaddy. To others, increased beauty and influence, like Blue-Eyes and your friend Kayla. Increased jumping and strength, like me. Increased coordination, like Samantha Gear the Shooter. For some, it's more of an all-around enhancement, like Carter and like Pacific,” he says, mentioning these strangers like I should know who they are. “
But for Tank, it’s simple brute strength. Nothing fancy. And when the Chemist operated on you, he planted stem cells and DNA into your limbs and your bones and your spine and your brain and God knows where else. The Chemist implanted his own DNA. And…also Tank’s. Don’t ask me how. I understand nothing about this crap. Simply put, a portion of your genes were spliced with Tank’s. That’s one reason you’re so powerful, I bet.”
“Fascinating. That explains all the incisions. So I remember Tank because of genetic cellular therapy?”
“Whatever. He’s stupid.”
“Are you jealous?”
“Of course.”
I grin. “What do you see when you look at me? I told you. Turn about is fair play.”
“The truth?”
“The truth.”
He squints and tilts his head to the side. “A California Seven. Maybe Seven and a Half.”
“I don’t understand. A California Sev— …are you joking?”
“What? That’s really good.”
“That’s what you see? You’ve put me on a scale of One to Ten? A Seven?”
“And a Half! Five is average. You’re way above average.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. This shirt used to cost a thousand dollars. And it would be hard to wear these shorts any better. A Seven??”
“You’re not considering the exchange rate. A California Seven is a Virginia Eight. A Texas Ten. A Pittsburgh Twelve.”
“What is Kayla?”
“Well. That’s not fair. She’s make-believe, basically. She’s a Disney Ten. Like…Ariel or Jasmine.”
“You’re the worst. I can’t believe I dressed up. I even put on a real bra instead of active wear.”
“Prove it.”
“A Seven.” I roll my eyes but can’t muster up any real anger. He’s clearly teasing. I don’t know if he’s in love, but he’s fond of me. Crazy fond. He listens to every syllable, really listens. Like what I say matters. “Would I be an Eight if I hadn’t broken your back?”
