by Alan Janney
“His forces are hiding in those houses?”
“We believe so,” he answers. “That lake and town are both bigger than they look.”
“He could blow the dam.”
Nuts barks, “Don’t see the point. That reservoir holds less than four hundred million cubic meters of water. The Castaic town would be destroyed but he’d do no damage to us. Plus, that’s a big damn earthen wall. Done properly, it’d require tons of dynamite.”
I ask, “What about our recon team?”
The General nods at a technician, who changes the screen. A video plays, shot from a camera situated three feet off the ground, and my blood runs cold. Our recon team is tied up in rope, beaten and bloody and being forced to kneel in the lagoon. The water rises to their chins and they tilt their heads up for air. Our two missing Guardians are with them, woozy and secured with extra coils of heavy chain.
They are being manhandled by thugs. There’s no better term to describe the degenerates shoving our recon team into the lake. The thugs are shirtless, tattooed, ugly brutes. Like Walter.
Anger ignites inside and my heartbeat throbs like an alarm. “Those are our soldiers?”
“Half ours, half the Resistance.”
“If I see our people captured and beaten one more time, I’m going to drive to Washington DC and go on a killing spree,” I growl. Wisely no one responds to the railings of a madwoman. “How long ago was this video taken?”
Suddenly, a voice booms out of speakers situated around the stuffy room. “This is a live feed, dumb-ass. Only the best for PuckDaddy.”
I gape at the speakers in confusion. So does General Brown and everyone else in the room. Our technicians cast curious glances at one another, hands frozen in the air as if they hit a wrong button. PuckDaddy. Did the infamous internet hacker just answer my question? Could he hear me talking? And did he call me a dumb-ass?
After a prolonged silence, he speaks again. “It’s okay. Puck understands your terror. I am totally awesome. But our time runs short, so Puck grants you permission to speak.”
“You can hear us?” I ask.
“Duh.”
“You’re PuckDaddy?”
“Indeed. The one and only. I remember you, Katie, even if you don’t remember me. You can be mad at this intrusion later, but at the moment we have pressing issues. This is a live feed that Walter is broadcasting. What you see is happening live.”
“But. Where are you?”
“I’m everywhere. And no where. I’m not inside New Los Angeles, if that answers your question. Now focus, dummy.”
Dalton and Mason bristle at this infidel calling me names, but they have no way to retaliate. General Brown looks as though he woke up in a science fiction movie and he hates it.
I say, “If Walter’s broadcasting this video then he wants us to see it.”
“Bingo baby. It’s a trap.”
Katie wakes somewhere behind my eyes. Those poor people…we have to help them.
My anger accumulates like the heat of a stoked stove. I feel Mason reflecting and absorbing the emotion. Below me, down the shaft of the tower, other Guardians are wakening and responding to my fury and fear. Soon every Variant within twenty miles will be on alert. “Mason, rouse the Guardians. Get them to the motorcycles, ready to ride.”
“Yes ma’am,” he responds and begins taping on his phone.
“Don’t send the mutants, Carmine,” General Brown cautions. “Fools rush to their doom. My soldiers are prepping. This is a snare, probably for you. We can’t give Walter what he wants.”
He’s right. But I don’t care. I don’t negotiate with terrorists. Nor do I watch hostages die. “I doubt we have time for caution, General. How large is Walter’s force?”
Mason grunts, “Isn’t Walter enough by himself?”
“We aren’t positive,” General Brown says. “Best estimate is three thousand.”
“Walter has a force of eight thousand.” PuckDaddy’s voice rattles from speakers. “An unholy mixture of soldiers, Herders, violent criminals, and his freaky mutants. Puck’s been monitoring that place for the past week with heat recognition.”
“Why the hell does he have our team in the lake?” Dalton grumbles, thick arms crossed over his chest.
“He’s going to drown them,” I reply. “Slowly. So we’ll do something stupid. Like rush to their rescue.”
“We’re not just going to abandon them,” Mason scoffs. He is anxiously bouncing the phone on his palm. “No way.”
Brown shakes his head. “And no way can we waltz into a loaded bear trap. Wars are marathons, and professional soldiers don’t jump at bait.”
I walk closer to the screen, digesting the displayed environs and shackling system. “It’s a gambit. Walter’s betting we can’t win, and that we’ll die trying.”
“Bah. This is an acceptable loss,” Nuts says. He rubs his scalp with knobby fingers, and waves absently at the video. “Plugged into an input/output equation, their deaths represent nothing significant. Collateral damage.”
The Governess nods uncertainly, looking pained. “We are at war. Yes? Casualties are inevitable?”
“Have you all gone mad?” Mason’s eyes are wide and he’s staring in shock. “That’s how the Chemist thought. Not us! We don’t leave men behind. Or women.”
Mason is the same as me. We’re the only two mutants in the room. He and I are not only inured to risk-taking, we crave it. I’m close enough to the screen to run my fingers across the captives’ faces. My fingers tremble with raw tension. “It’d be crazy to go get them.”
“Exactly. Thank you, Queen Carmine.”
“I prefer crazy.”
Brown groans and the Governess throws up her hands. They like to do that. My ersatz parents. I enjoy their frustration on some stubborn, headstrong level.
The Priest, the pristine prick in the back, clears his throat and says, “My Queen, perhaps you’re being too emotional. Too flighty, if I can use the word. See reason. General Brown is clearly—”
I ask, “What do you think, PuckDaddy?”
The speakers reply, “You’re going to go, no matter what Puck says. Katie would never let people drown if she could help it. But Puck humbly requests that you go.”
“Why?”
“You’ll see in sixty seconds. Keep your eyes on screen.”
All of the prisoners have been forced into the water. They’re kneeling, military uniforms soaked, arms trapped behind their backs, shackles attached to something I can’t see. I’m grinding my teeth. What kind of monster—
Walter appears on screen. Like his team, he’s shirtless. He’s made of skin, bone, and thick cords of twitchy muscle. A reclining chair is set on the sand at water’s edge, and he reclines on it. Such a foul man, he’s an abomination under a perfect sky. But he’s got our attention. Not a sound is uttered in our War Department. We watch and he begins bolting metal claws on the tips of his fingers.
Castaic Lake is fifty-five miles from Downtown, but the route is clotted with debris. Portions of the interstate can be traveled at 150 miles per hour, and other portions will have to be carefully navigated. We can’t go by air; we don’t have enough helicopters or pilots, plus Walter has surface-to-air missiles. This is a ground game, and he has home-field advantage.
I’m going to peel Walter’s skin off and shove it down his throat. While he’s still alive.
I feel Variants in the hallway. Clinging to the tower outside. Everywhere. Their essence overflows into our room. Most Guardians are en route to the motorcycles but some are drawn to my anger.
The live feed on screen doesn’t have audio, but Walter is over-seeing the prisoners. He leers and points and shouts from his chair, and everyone is enjoying themselves. “His servants appear to be released convicts,” I observe quietly. Reports indicate that a large number of released convicts have taken up residence in the husk of Las Vegas, causing trouble for the Resistance. Walter has apparently commandeered them.
PuckDaddy replies
, “Correct. After much observation, I conclude he uses the released inmates as slaves. His trained army is comprised of Herders and former soldiers, which are fortifying Interstate 5 as we speak. It won’t be easy to fight your way in.”
General Brown and his commanders are talking in hushed tones. One of his men is on the phone, nodding. His soldiers are mobilizing, but the military is slow to do anything.
PuckDaddy says, “There she is.”
I watch in horror as Kayla is dragged across the sand. Kayla. Her movements are lazy, uncoordinated, like she’s been drugged. Her ankles are chained, her hands are bound behind her back, and she’s wearing a gag. They can’t afford to let her speak, on account of her influential ability. Even in distress she is heartbreakingly beautiful. She is roughly shoved into Walter’s lap. He wraps one arm around her shoulders and lays his hand across her legs, and leers at the camera. He knows we’re watching.
“No!” I scream so loudly the technicians fall from their chairs, clutching their ears. “How did he get her??”
“Now you see,” PuckDaddy says and his voice shakes. “That is why I request you go. I’m terribly fond of Kayla.”
“Let go of her!” I strike Walter’s image, crushing a section of wall. “No!”
“Carmine, our soldiers will be rolling in less than thirty minutes.” General Brown has a hand over his cell phone’s receiver. “Let us handle this.”
I’m raging. Can’t think straight. Not Kayla. Take me. Take someone else. Not Kayla. No. No. No. I only have two friends, and she’s one of them.
Mason feeds off my wrath. I feel insanity leaking from him. Nuts is too strong to be affected by me, and he merely inspects me like I’m breaking.
On screen, Walter stands. Kayla is easily hefted in his arms, being cradled like a little girl. He kisses her forehead and I almost vomit, and he walks into the lake.
I’m panting. Can’t get enough oxygen. “He’s going to open the spillway,” I groan. “Right? Release water from the dam to flood the lagoon? Drown them all?”
“That’s what I’d do,” Nuts affirms. “If I was barking mad.”
PuckDaddy says, “They’ve already tried to activate the pumps. I’m stalling them, but Puck’s powers are limited. It’s only a matter of time.”
General Brown’s commanders bolt from the room. He tell us, “We’re rolling in thirty minutes, Carmine. We’ll reach the lake in two hours and engage their forces. We have superior personnel and weaponry.”
Mason and I share a glance. Too long. Kayla and our team will be dead by then, and then Walter’s men can simply flee north. Brown might be able to help us win a marathon war, but he’s useless in our current battle. I’m torn between logic and passion, so dizzy I brace against the wall.
This is for me. They’re trying to break me. Weaken our resolve. It might work. They want into our Kingdom so they crack small holes in our armor. Hurt us from the inside.
Brown continues, “Priest. Get your Law Keepers to our borders. We’ll need manpower there until our soldiers return.”
“If you think that’s wise.” He dials a number on his phone and raises it to his ear.
Brown continues, “You’re too valuable, Carmine. Don’t throw your life away. Wait for us. Here.”
Wait. Here.
On screen, Walter falls backwards into the lake. He and Kayla both go under momentarily. She surfaces, thrashing to get her nose above the waterline. Walter watches and his mouth opens wide in sick laughter.
“No,” I growl. My vision is red.
Go, go, go, go! They’re dying!
Mason pauses at the door on his way out. “Carmine, I’m going to the bikes. Sorry General. You’re too slow.”
“Mason—”
“I will not leave her,” I pant. “No one gets abandoned. No one gets hurt because of me. I can do this.”
“Carmine,” Brown pleads, hands held up, palms toward me. “We need you alive. We can’t abandon the city.”
Too late. I’m moving. I burst through the nearest window, shattering my way into afternoon sunlight.
Kayla. Walter. I come for you.
- Three -
The mutants swarm. Their glands produce hormones in overdrive, thickening their skin, sharpening their reflexes, creating a thirst for violence. They flock to our gleaming armada of motorcycles. A thousand Guardians already wait with engines purring.
I arrive and they roar. I select a red Ducati and rev the motor. “Take the bikes! We need mobility!”
Walter wants a fight. I’ll give him a massacre.
Mason and the Falcons get to their black motorcycles. They are death and metal. In a span of ninety seconds, every bike is taken, and the Guardians double up. Two on each machine. Four thousand Guardians dwell in New Los Angeles, and three thousand of them are on the bikes. The rest pile into trucks. Due to recent training exercises, the gas tanks aren’t full but there’s plenty to reach Castaic.
Passions are hot, strengthening our emotional connections. My head sizzles from the overwhelming collective disease.
“Stay with me! Stay together! Stay alive!” I shout as loudly as possible, loud enough to be heard for miles. They witness my fist pump in the air and respond. I tug on a helmet, and so do all the other drivers. We can communicate through helmet radios.
I open the throttle. Tires scream and I rocket from the parking lot. The front wheel rises off the ground as power surges, like a bucking stallion.
We were built for battle and I thrum with pure existence. Ecstasy, giving ourselves to the virus. All for one. Our cavalcade streams onto the San Bernardino Freeway and merges with the Five. We’ll be a motorcycle serpent a mile long. I see General Brown’s trucks loading with troops in the Mission Junction. Hundreds of trucks carrying devastating firepower. But they’ll be too late. I redline the Ducati’s RPMs and hit 120 miles per hour.
I used to ride motorcycles with Chase, Katie says. I didn’t know I could drive one.
Chase. He’s been teaching us about fighting with restraint, and here I am emptying the entire garrison. Madness uncontrollable.
My helmet’s bluetooth headset rings. Speakers blare to life and PuckDaddy’s voice pumps into my ears. “Walter’s ready for you. His men wait in ambush at the Castaic Junction, and then again at the entrance to the lagoon,” he says. “Two chokepoints you’ll be forced to fight through.”
“How do you have this phone number?”
“Puck’s been watching you a long time, homie. Plus, I’m awesome.”
I sneak a glance at my side mirror. The performance bikes are keeping pace with me, but the dirt and street motorcycles fall back. They’ll catch up soon when we’re forced to pick our way through obstacles.
PuckDaddy is quiet a few minutes so I can concentrate on driving. I’m traveling at such speeds the world seems to free-fall past. If I had more time, I could have released Chase from prison. Except I don’t know where he is. Or I could have alerted Tank and asked for assistance, but it’d take his giants a while to transport. The Resistance pledged their support, but this fight happened too suddenly. We’re on our own, as I predicted. This is why I trust no one.
Puck’s voice crackles over the speakers, tinged with fear. “Walter manually activated the pumps! I can’t stop them. Water is flowing into the lagoon. She’ll start drowning soon.”
“How soon?”
“I don’t know, maybe an hour? Ask Nuts. I’m no engineer.”
“Keep her alive, Puck.”
“I’m trying! I’ve cut off all their communication.” His ragged breathing distorts his microphone. “But seriously. What are you going to do about Walter’s defenses? You’ll be shredded going over that bridge.”
“I’m going around his defenses.”
“No way, dummy. It’ll take you an hour to circle around from the north. Maybe two.”
“Get Mason on the line. I’ve got a plan.”
* * *
Lake Castaic resides at the intersection of the Angeles and Los
Padres National Forests, and closely borders the harsh Mojave Desert. Nearby mountains are jagged and short, and the ground cover is dust and scrub. It’s an arid land that will soak up our blood instantly.
Walter believes we have to plow straight up Interstate 5 to reach the lagoon before our people drown. He might be right, but I’m banking we mobilized faster than he predicted, and that PuckDaddy stalled him long enough. We’ll take a slightly longer route, a calculated risk.
“Lagoon is swelling. The water level is nearing her chin,” Puck warns. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Katie, but move your ass. Please.”
Forty minutes after leaving the city we bear down on Walter’s first choke point at a hundred miles per hour, nearing the entrance to the wide valley. Our rear bikers are still mired in the mess of vehicles at Santa Clarita, a mile behind. I’m the tip of the spear, and directly ahead is the bristling roadblock, a gauntlet of firepower. We could overrun those defenses but we’d suffer catastrophic loses. Some enemy soldier fires too soon. His unguided rocket detonates and vaporizes a donut shop to my left. I’m almost in range, but we swerve off the interstate at the last moment, onto the Biscailuz ramp. We roar across a parking lot, launch from the curb and land on Lake Castaic’s old dry river bed, a rough surface that will beat our bikes to hell and which runs parallel to the interstate. Our speed dips to seventy miles per hour, and even that is treacherous. We’ve caught them completely off guard, taking a slower but safer route. His forces take long distance shots at us but they’re meaningless. Our tires fling dust into the air, an expanding tornado of dirt in our wake. We churn north faster than his defenses can respond, and we disappear into the mountains which form the eastern rim of the lake’s bowl.
We’re here, Kayla. Hang on.
- Four -
The Outlaw
