by Alan Janney
“Why?” I ask.
“Why do we want you as an ally?”
“Yes.”
“Primarily, because I believe we’re on the same side.”
“Our Kingdom isn’t on a side.”
He shoots General Brown a quick glance and clears his throat. “Let me rephrase. I believe our purposes intersect. We share a common enemy.”
“Blue-Eyes.”
“That’s the one. And Walter. The Resistance formed primarily to oppose Mary the Blue-Eyed Witch and her Presidential pet. At the outset we were just a handful. However, during the eighteen months since, we’ve grown to half a million servicemen and women, officers, and law enforcers. Preserving New Los Angeles is one of our primary objectives.”
“Are General Brown and his ten thousand soldiers included in your number?”
“No,” he replies after a beat of hesitation. “Brown is an independent army unto himself. But we count him as an ally.”
“Why is preserving New Los Angeles one of your objectives?”
“Because Blue-Eyes seeks to destroy you.”
“Do you know why?” I ask. I know the answer, but I wonder if he does.
“You’re powerful. You control an uncontrollable herd, so to speak. The Variants were wrecking this half of America before you woke up. Err, Guardians, I mean.”
“You trust the Guardians?”
“I trust you, Katie. And I trust people who trust you.”
My name isn’t Katie, but I let it slide. “You trust General Brown,” I say. “And Chase.”
“Exactly.”
“You know Chase well?”
“I do.”
“Did I really break his back?”
The question is off topic and catches everyone by surprise, but I’ve been curious. He answers, “Ask your Guardians. I wasn’t there when it happened, but we assume his story’s true. He had to be evacuated via helicopter. His recovery is a miracle.”
I grumble, “What an insufferable showoff.”
Isaac Anderson continues, “I don’t think this war will be won with superior fire power. No one wants a Nuke war. Both sides have them, and neither wants massive destruction. Instead, this will be a war of attrition, and territory, and manpower. Both sides have fleets of vehicles but gasoline is at a premium.”
“I’m a mutant,” I say. “My body was opened on an operating table and my brain tampered with. I was infected with a macabre virus and given cellular therapy. You might be in a war, but I’m not. I’m trying to survive. And I’m attempting to keep my fellow surgical patients alive too. So far, that involves sequestering ourselves behind a wall. Not leaping into a war.”
“It’s clear you don’t want to, but like the houses in Normandy in 1942 you’re in a war whether you like it or not. Walter will keep coming. The Herders will keep coming. Blue-Eyes will keep coming. We plan on helping with Walter, but we can’t provide air support. Jet fuel is scarce but surface-to-air missiles aren’t. He has truckloads.”
I rub my eyes in frustration. Why can’t the world just leave us alone. I don’t want to talk about surface-to-air missiles. I don’t want to coordinate with another army. I’m an action junkie, and making long-range plans and alliances are not my forte.
General Brown, perhaps sensing my restlessness, asks, “Why did you come today, General Anderson? This last-minute visit makes me feel like there’s an approaching emergency.”
“Walter is coming.”
I say, “We know.”
“We’d like to send a recon team north of your border. He’s vanished, essentially, but intelligence suggests that he’s building an assault team in that area. The Resistance is stretched too thin on too many fronts, and our resources are depleting. But we can help with recon and munitions.”
Munitions. Intelligence. Depleting resources. Jet fuel. Missiles. Blah blah blah. My ears tune out the chatter and the military jargon and my attention wanders, eventually settling on the armada of commercial jets sleeping near the concourses. I wonder if vagrants sleep inside those jets? Not a bad place to live. With all the nearby fuel trucks, they could turn on the air and cool off and…
“Blue-Eyes thinks she can control Walter,” Isaac Anderson is saying. “But he’s a rabid dog on a leash. He’ll burn her down too. We have reason to believe he’s coordinating with the violent criminal population houses in Las Vegas. We haven’t done all our homework yet, but satellites indicate—”
“Homework!” I slouch in my chair and groan. “Totally forgot my homework. I’m going to fail. Dang it.”
General Brown and Isaac Anderson pause. “I beg your pardon?”
“I have a paper due. Can you two discuss these…trivialities without me?”
Isaac Anderson wonders, “You have homework?”
General Brown says, “Trivialities? Carmine, this busy man flew all this way…”
“Listen boys.” I place my hands on the table and lean towards them. “I’m a nineteen-year-old girl. I don’t want to talk strategy with two old guys. Even if you two are both awesome. Which you are. My brain can’t handle the boredom. I realize that sounds arrogant and insular, but it’s working so far. General Brown, you said I need to focus less on management and more on leadership. So I’m going to leave this minutia to you. I’ve been training the Guardians to fight Walter, and I’ll keep doing so. You two work out the military details. Whatever Brown recommends, we’ll do. Probably. I’m a weapon, a warrior with attention deficit disorder. Not a planner.”
Anderson says, “What if we relocate you and the Guardians to Hawaii?”
“I’m staying.”
“Why? Why can’t you leave?”
“I’m staying.”
“Is it the Inheritors? Can you tell me about that?”
The Inheritors. Everyone coming here wants to talk about them. No. I will not discuss the Inheritors.
I get in the truck and slam the door. Isaac Anderson and Chase both want to evacuate the Guardians. But I can’t abandon New Los Angeles.
Their words come muffled through the window.
“She always like this?”
“Someways, she’s a queen. Terrifying and brilliant. And someways, she’s a typical teenager.”
“Yeah. Well. I hear Beyoncé is a handful too.”
- Twelve -
Brown texts me a summary of their discussion later. Both the Resistance and the Federal Government are disarming nuclear weapons. No one wants a nuclear war. Sounds wise. And oh yeah, Walter will be here soon to disembowel me.
I spend hours with the Guardians, training, drilling, fighting, and so does Mason. He’s exhausting himself at the different barracks, but we need months more to prepare. We aren’t ready.
That night I sit on the edge of my balcony and talk myself out of sliding off. My emotional swings are off the charts. I finished Cinder and have nothing to occupy my mind. My pragmatism must’ve evaporated when the two boys appeared. Katie won’t stop talking; she’s been emotional since Isaac Anderson mentioned her abduction. My adrenaline is raging. I’m jumpy and angry and depressed.
An old magazine article hangs limply from my hand. An article about me. The picture on the front is in full color, taken in late July, and is widely considered one of the most powerful photographs of the 21st century. I am depicted kneeling on the 18th green of a golf course. My head is in my hands and I’m dripping crimson up to my elbows. The Red Butcher. I can quote the Teresa Triplett article from memory.
…even from a man given to abominable surprises, the Chemist’s final secret is devastating. The Inheritor Project was hidden from all parties, even his inner circle…
The Inheritors. Walter came here for the Inheritors. Isaac Anderson asked about them. Kayla cries when the subject comes up. I wish they’d all forget.
…we should have guessed, in retrospect. The Chemist was hellbent on world domination, and the man played the long-game. Imagine Queen Carmine’s surprise, imagine this reporter’s surprise, to learn of the children’s e
xistence only when their mothers began to starve and emerge from the tower basements…
My eyes read numbly over the article. Caleb (the Kid) knew about the Inheritors. He ran from them the way he runs from everything. He let me find out for myself.
…perhaps you still don’t understand the magnitude of the secret. I didn’t at first. Why were these children so special? Why was Queen Carmine shocked into silence for forty-eight hours? The children were infected with the Hyper Virus, but so what? There were only five hundred of them. Eight thousand Variants already rampaged across western America. What difference would five hundred babies make? Little did I know, they made all the difference…
“I read that article,” Chase says. I’m so startled I nearly fall. He’s sitting on the railing one apartment over. Even Katie is surprised. “Awful photo of you.”
“It’s not funny.”
“You don’t like talking about the Inheritors.”
“True.”
“I know you didn’t murder those kids.”
“Why are you here?”
He shrugs. “Killing time before I meet with Mason. I thought we could make out.”
“I met your friend Isaac Anderson today.”
“He’s your friend too.”
“He’s not happy with me. I wasn’t polite. I should have been, but…”
He laughs but then we’re silent again. He knows I’m upset. Treading deep waters. “What should I have done?” I ask.
“Huh?”
“With all those kids? The Inheritors. Five hundred of them. They were Infected, Chase. They weren’t going to grow up and be like Mason. Or like Kayla. The Inheritors weren’t given the disease in late adolescence; they were born with it. Injected at birth. They’d grow up and become like the Chemist. Or Walter.”
“Not necessarily.”
“There are only ten of you guys. You call yourselves Infected, right? Born with the disease? There’s only ten of you and you just about broke the planet in half. Imagine five hundred…” I’m having to force my words out through a constricting throat.
“So you took the baby Inheritors to Ranch Palo Verdes. To Trump National Golf Club, to be exact. And you cut all their throats.” By the way he’s phrasing his sentences and by his tone I can tell he doesn’t believe it.
“No. Nuts mixed a poison. Most drank the poison and just…went to sleep. Teresa didn’t report that part.”
“The babies drank poison.”
“It was mixed in with other stuff. I’d rather not…talk about this, Chase.”
He says, “Why didn’t Teresa report the poison?”
“After the photo was taken…we thought…it was suggested…” My tears flow freely now. “…that people would stay away…if they thought I was a monster.”
“The Red Butcher.”
“Right. The potion was effective. I didn’t have to do much…by hand. But it was messy. And turns out, made a shocking photo.”
“No way. I don’t believe you.”
“That’s because you don’t know me. You still don’t realize I’m not Katie. That I’m not sane. What would you have me do? Let Walter get his hands on those babies? Or Blue-Eyes? In eighteen years they’d unleash the apocalypse. The Chemist knew what he was doing. He created weapons of mass destruction. So I destroyed them. You wouldn’t have?”
“I wouldn’t kill innocent kids, no.”
“That’s a big difference between us. You do what you want. I do what I have to.”
“Why Trump’s golf course?”
I shrug. “Quiet. Secluded. The surf removed the bodies.”
“Apparently there are still courts on the east coast, and I hear Trump is suing you.”
That makes me chuckle. I wipe my eyes and nose. “Him and everyone else. I’m eager to be subpoenaed.”
He leaps from his railing and lands beside me. I want him here. I want him to stay. But he shouldn’t. He takes the article from my dead fingers, and examines the photo. It was snapped as I left the scene of the crime. The weight of the world had crushed me and I collapsed, covered in blood, and Teresa had taken the picture. Murdering five hundred children would’ve been a bigger deal if the world wasn’t heaving, so, instead of outrage, the population shuddered and gave me a nickname. The Red Butcher.
He says, “You’re making me nervous.”
I shrug.
“Did you really kill them?”
“You should probably go. You’ll be thrown in jail if you’re discovered.”
“You don’t want me to go.”
“When do people like you and me ever get what we want.”
“I want to stay.” He touches my arm and I’m so surprised that I grab his finger and twist, on instinct. His knuckle pops.
“OOooooooooOOOoooowwww,” he yelps and grabs his clearly dislocated pointer finger. “What the heck!”
“I just broke your finger!”
“I’m aware!”
“Sorry about that.”
“What’s wrong with you??”
“Pop it back in.”
“No! That’ll hurt. I can’t believe you’re laughing.”
“I’m not!”
“Yes. Yes you are. After you just broke my finger.”
He’s glaring and I can’t stop…well, I’m not giggling because only little girls do that, but I’m smothering laughter. “It’s kinda funny.”
“Absolutely nothing about this is funny.”
“Big bad Outlaw hurt his little finger.”
“No. No. I didn’t hurt my finger. You hurt my finger.”
“I was really depressed and this helps. Thank you.”
Without warning, he kisses me. Right on my lips. It’s warm and soft and over before I can react. My body does crazy things whenever we touch, and now it’s going supernova. Our eyes are locked and we both want more. Katie is absolutely groaning with pleasure, threatening to take control of my body. I tilt my head up and he leans down, and the Priest bursts into my apartment with three Law Keepers.
Chase and I leap to our feet like teenagers caught making out. Which, I guess, we are. I grab Chase by the collar and he chokes in surprise.
He kissed me. He loves me.
“Carmine!” the Priest calls. “We heard shouting!” He and the Law Keepers barge into my bedroom and see us. He stops cold. “I knew it.”
I say, “Look who I caught sneaking around.” I give Chase’s collar an extra tug and he gags.
“You…caught…him?” he asks, icy with suspicion. I’m alarmed to see the Law Keepers are pointing electroshock weapons at us.
“He wouldn’t surrender, so I broke his finger.”
The Priest examines Chase’s hand. He looks back at me, his face a revelation. I broke his own finger two months ago. “Well done, my Queen.”
“Run,” I hiss, so quietly I barely hear myself. My lips are near Chase’s ear. “Go.”
More humanity flows into the room. A sleepy Dalton. My Devotee. Law Keepers. Kayla and her dog.
“Go,” I whisper in the commotion. “Break free and jump. Get out of here.”
He shakes his head.
The Priest is holding forth, bragging to the crowd about his capture. It doesn’t occur to him the Outlaw is not truly caught. It’d take a lot more than a mere three men with weapons drawn.
Chase hisses back, “Do you want me to stay?”
“What??”
“Might be kinda fun. I’ll go to jail if you visit me.”
“You’re insane.”
His finger is grossing me out. Without warning, I grab it in my fist. The bones pop into place. He cries out in pain. Everyone looks at us.
“Sorry,” I shrug. “I thought he was trying to escape.”
“Take me away to jail,” he calls to a surprised crowd.
I groan. “What are you doing?”
“Just get me away from this crazy lady!”
Can’t these people tell he’s toying with him? That this is a farce? I punch him hard in the ribs. �
�Knock it off.”
He continues, like he’s on a high school stage. “I shouldn’t have come back. What awful decision-making on my part! I accept the punishment. Justice is fair and blind.”
The Priest and his Law Keepers close with their tasers and elasticuffs. They look awfully smug for peons about to detain a titan. Chase’s hands are bound behind his back.
“Tighter,” he calls. “Who knows what I’ll do.”
I grumble, “This is so weird.”
“To the slammer!”
“No one calls it a slammer.”
He turns and says, “Remember to visit me.”
“No.”
“You promised.”
“I did not.”
The Priest says, “Seven days. Correct, Queen Carmine? That was your edict? He will spend a week in jail.”
Everyone stares at me.
“Seven?” Chase sputters. “Seems a little excessive.”
Everyone continues to stare at me.
I could cancel the orders. I could admit I like him. I say slowly, “Those were my orders…I guess.”
He is marched from the room. Dalton growls that he only leaves my side for eight hours a day, and apparently that’s too much. The Priest leaves. The crowd disperses. The whole tower is abuzz. We caught the Outlaw! Only Kayla and I are left. She glares at me and shakes her head.
“What?”
“You two,” she says, “are into some weird freaky stuff.”
- Thirteen -
Kayla and Teresa Triplett wisely decided not to publish the story of us incarcerating the world’s first superhero. He’s just sitting there, hoping I’ll visit. But I’m not. Because of my pride.
And because he’s a fool. And I’ve got a Kingdom to run.
I’m aggravated and grumpy. Angry with both Tank and Chase. But I’m not sure why. Chase told me the virus makes us mean and suspicious, could that be it?
I train with Mason and the Guardians until lunch, and then Dalton and I visit the orphanage and read books to students. I smell Chase’s cologne. He’s been here in the past forty-eight hours (before the slammer) calling on Ms. Pauline. She appears happier than usual, harboring Chase’s visit like classified information. After lunch, we tour the eastern barracks and watch Falcons train Guardians to fight with self-control. Then I have a meeting with Overseers about the incoming flood of settlers, followed by Kayla briefing the Council about Dallas, Texas struggling with wild Variants and violent criminals.
