by Alan Janney
Walter’s hardened soldiers fire rockets from across the wide lagoon, smoking projectiles which slam the dam’s boulders and belch shrapnel into the sky. The explosives are too slow and we evade them like softballs thrown underhand.
I lead the charge. At the last second I issue a war cry, an ear-splitting blast; my enemies cower and I dive into their midst. Their bodies break upon impact with mine. A handful of the brave convicts take shots with assault weapons but they’re too late and too few. Our mutated muscles operate at hyper speed and we sweep through them as a wave washes over sand figurines. We have fists like hammers, fingernails like knives, daggers too fast to dodge. The convicts melt before us and we don’t break stride.
The Herders assemble into defensive positions near the southern tip. How I despise them. Cowards hiding behind cowardly weapons.
“She’s drowning! They all are! Water way over their heads!” Puck reports.
We’re circling the enormous lagoon. Kayla and the troops are under water at the far end. Our Leapers begin Hurling themselves into the sky and diving under, desperate to find a way to release their drowning friends. Our Swimmers streak across the surface, Churning water with webbed feet and herculean strokes.
We can’t fail. I can’t fail.
The once picturesque picnic and camping park is defiled by violence, as thousands of Herders and enemy soldiers swarm the recreational grounds and brace against our onslaught. The soldiers pour a continual rain of gunfire in our direction but we move like a pack of wolves, too fast for them to pick off efficiently.
A bullet strikes me in the shoulder. No? No it doesn’t; it strikes the man to my left. But I feel it and experience his pain. Other Guardians are shot, and each one penetrates my awareness. They hurt, I hurt.
“Destroy the Herders first!” I roar, and then I dive into the lagoon.
The electronics in my bluetooth headset short-circuit immediately. The water is murky and agitated, and silt stirs off the lagoon floor but I see well enough to spot our Guardians. Kayla and the other prisoners thrash against restraints which are chained to a massive poured concrete slab at the bottom of the lagoon. Our Swimmers and Leapers strain to break the heavy links. They’re panicking, unable to think clearly, and they aren’t doing any good.
Above the surface, one of my Guardians takes a direct hit to the head and he dies instantly. I experience the loss as though a small part of my soul is cleaved. Another Guardian is electrocuted, and I’m hit again with a jolt of pain. The connection we share must be growing stronger. Katie is weeping and heartbroken.
I wave for the attention of nearby Swimmers and I draw them after me to the bottom. My lungs haven’t begun to burn, but Kayla’s have to be. Thirty feet under, ears popping, sinuses aching, I plant my feet on the big concrete block and take hold of thick chains. So do my fellow Guardians. We pull, groaning bubbles, braced and heaving against the slab.
A sudden spasm of pain erupts in my muscles. Painful tingles along my skin. And then another blast. The Herders must be shocking the lagoon with electricity, but the body of water is too big. The power diffuses too far and too wide to kill us. Could that have been their master plan? To cook us all in the lake? It won’t work.
Pull! Pull! On our third tug, the steel anchors break loose. Chunks of concrete fall apart.
They’re free. Kayla’s free.
We grab our chained comrades and haul them to the top. Kayla breaks the surface and I tear the gag from her mouth. She coughs and sputters. A hundred drowning soldiers begin surfacing with the assistance of Guardians.
We were underwater less than a minute, but the fight is nearly over. The grass is stained with blood and fallen bodies. We have shown the world our true might. We move as an undeniable force of nature, felling thousands of our armed enemies but losing only eighteen of our own. I felt all eighteen deaths, and my sorrow accumulates like a sudden depression.
“Immunity!” I cry from the lagoon. I’m removed from the battle but the Variants heed my cry. They are tuned to me. “Grant the soldiers immunity! Only the soldiers.”
There is no quarter for Herders, who are a special breed of villainy. But I have a soft spot for soldiers sent here by their government, sent here to die without knowing why.
The battle begins drawing to a close. I pull Kayla to shore, where we both lay panting a moment. Her head lulls against the sand, eyes closed, and I begin the task of releasing her. “Where is Walter?” I call.
No one knows.
“Find Walter! This fight isn’t over!”
A portion of our Guardians check on their fallen friends, and the remainder round up enemy soldiers who’ve surrendered. Hundreds of the soldiers granted immunity sit in the picnic area with hands on their heads. They’re teenagers, or early twenty-somethings. Scared kids, staring wildly at the enhanced humans. Some of our Guardians are so engorged with adrenaline that they scream uncontrollably or vomit into the grass.
“Where are Walter’s Variants?” I ask the captured men. None of them answer. “He was here. Where are his mutants? I don’t see any.”
This was not an army. This was not a unified military force, but rather an aggregation of confused soldiers and angry stragglers desperate for purpose. They were decoys hurled into a demolition. Savage times indeed.
Finally, a boy with a buzzcut points a shaky finger northwest, towards the far side of the lake’s rim. I can’t see through all the trees, so I walk back out to the lagoon. Mason follows. He’s bleeding from a cut on his face and bullet wound in his shoulder.
Arrayed across the western side of the dam, half a mile distant, Walter’s Varients stand like sentries. I now understand the Outlaw’s warning; they aren’t like us. These are mutants hammered into warriors. They are halloween and hardware, wearing chunks of metal as armor, and holding wicked swords. This is Walter’s true army, or at least a portion, and he withheld them from combat.
Mason mutters, “They look like goblins.”
“There’s less than a thousand,” I note. “They don’t mean to fight. Not today.” My muscles quiver and my stomach heaves, common side effects following a battle. After an hour of hell, the sudden calm is jarring. The warriors on the dam high above us begin turning and disappearing beyond our sight. Retreating. I say, “He sent his Herders and soldiers to die. I don’t understand. This makes no sense.”
Mason’s phone rings. He doesn’t recognize the number, but he answers it anyway, listens, and shoots me a bemused glance. “It’s our friend the computer hacker. He sounds excited.”
I walk out of the lagoon, which is swelling with water and will soon overflow its banks, and I sit next to Kayla beneath a pine tree. “Tell him his girlfriend is safe.”
“PuckDaddy says he spotted Walter in a truck. He’s headed north, back home. His mutants are following him.”
“Wuss.” I comb my wet hair backwards. “Walter keeps running from our fights.”
Mason extends the phone to me. “He wants to talk. Apparently I don’t rank high enough.”
I speak into it, “I’m tired and I’m sitting in a field of dead bodies. Leave me alone.”
PuckDaddy’s voice is urgent. “Blue-Eyes kidnapped the Outlaw. At least I think she did.”
It’s such an astonishing statement that no response comes to mind. My mouth works uselessly.
“Did you hear me? She’s in New Los Angeles.”
“Blue-Eyes? She’s still there?”
“Think so. Chase sent me a partial text.”
I ask, “Where is General Brown?”
“He and his trucks are ten miles behind you. It’ll take them over an hour to turn the convoy around and return. But I don’t think Blue-Eyes came with an army.”
I ask, “How’d she get in?”
“I’m scanning cameras, which is really hard in a city without central power. I’m spotting intruders. Puck thinks she brought seven or eight soldiers with her, maybe? They’re searching for something.”
“The Inheritors. She’
s looking for them. But they do not exist. She won’t find them.”
“Maybe not, but she’s got the Outlaw. Which means we’re screwed.”
I’m experiencing too many emotions to process. Exhaustion. Relief. Anger. Confusion. Jealousy. We’re screwed? I think back to my encounters with Chase, and memories flash across my mind. Memories of him falling from the sky and slaying the steel dragon. Memories of him commanding my Guardians with just a word.
PuckDaddy is right. We can’t let Blue-Eyes just claim him. If anyone gets to claim Chase, it’s me.
“We can’t let her get away,” I say. “Not with the Outlaw.”
“Yes. Exactly. Bingo. She can control him. What are you going to do?”
Good question. I feel like I’m a balloon about to burst. I have no way to get home. I’m two miles from my bike, and an hour’s ride from the city. What do I do?
What can I do?
Nothing. I think of nothing.
I lost. I can’t do this.
Chase. We have to help Chase!
I can’t, Katie. I don’t know how! “Puck…I have no way to get there.”
“You have to.”
I’m on the verge of tears. I fell into their trap. I’m furious I didn’t recognize the danger. “Our bikes will run out of gas. We burnt most of it getting here…what do I do? I’m fifty miles away. There are no nearby cars…I can’t…I don’t…”
“I’m scanning. You’re right, no cars. Wait. Wait, hang on…there’s a small helicopter at the helipad.”
“A helicopter? I can’t fly!”
“Find someone who can!”
I lower the phone and shout to the kneeling soldiers. “Can anyone fly a helicopter?”
No hands go up. Not a single one.
Then, from behind me, “I can. Probably. Maybe. Or at least, I tried a simulator once.”
I turn to find a woman approaching, an impressive rifle hefted onto her shoulder. Strong green eyes, Sharp chin. Short sandy brown hair. No extra body fat. Bullet-proof vest. Grenades on her belt.
I realize, “You’re the Shooter.”
“Hell yeah I am, but call me Samantha.”
“You’re here,” I say. Stupidly. She’s the Shooter, my idol. The Guardians glare at her, angry and swollen with suspicion.
“I tagged along with your crew. I can’t resist a good dustup.”
I say, “Blue-Eyes is downtown. She’s got Chase.”
Her eyes widen a fraction. “That bitch. Let’s move. You’ve got a witch to kill.”
After this calms down, I’m going to fangirl all over her.
- Six -
The helicopter is a tiny blue Robinson R22, in which Samantha and I barely fit. After five minutes of fiddling with controls and getting advice from PuckDaddy (who accessed an online manual of sorts), and another five minutes of near disasters, we are pointed south and traveling at ninety miles per hour. Before we can exit Castaic, Samantha clips two trees, narrowly misses a telephone pole, and briefly dips our landing gear into the lake.
I shout through our thick headsets, “You said you could fly!”
“I am flying!”
“This isn’t flying, this is ricocheting!”
Puck is in our earpieces, talking loud enough to be heard over the thumping of rotors, and he notes, “She’s doing remarkably well for her first time.”
“First time??”
“The simulator was much easier than this,” Samantha grumbles. “And it always looked so simple. But the pedals are tricky.”
We pass General Brown’s caravan on the interstate. Half of his motorcade, nearly a hundred jeeps and trucks, are in the process of executing an about-face. Mason has apparently updated the General on the abbreviated battle at Castaic and the threat now within our borders. Brown was correct; emptying the Kingdom of all Guardians was ill advised. I should have listened.
The nose of our chopper keeps rotating to the south, drawing us off course. Samantha swears and works controls at her feet until we return to the appropriate heading. The engines surge like a rollercoaster, thrusting us up into azure skies and subsequently dropping again as she tries to manage our power. At the apogee of our surges, the whole of New Los Angeles unfolds; Mount San Antonio on our left, stately towers in the hazy distance, and a carpet of commerce and houses as fas as I can see. My home. A visual reminder of what’s at stake. Nothing less than everything is jeopardized if she escapes with the Outlaw. A man who can frenzy the Variants and lead the Infected.
Samantha asks, “Puck, how’d Blue-Eyes get to Chase so fast?”
“No idea.”
“The tunnels,” I answer. “Metro lines. The Guardians have been uneasy for days, and it’s because the enemy was creeping under our noses. Has to be.”
Samantha grunts an agreement. “Makes sense. As we rode away, they popped out. But she won’t use the tunnels as her escape route. Too slow.”
“Puck’s been monitoring the Pacific Ocean,” he says. “No nearby yachts appear to be waiting as getaway vehicles. That doesn’t mean they can’t hijack an abandoned speedboat at one of the docks, though. The Marina still has a couple left.”
Samantha says, “I doubt they’ll take to the sea. Too unpredictable, and the Navy hasn’t declared allegiance to her.”
“Watch where you’re going! Less talking, more piloting,” I shout.
“Whatever. That house is too damn tall.”
The internet hacker and I fall silent, sharing the understanding that my pilot needs fewer distractions. Where could Blue-Eyes go? Speed is essential, she knows, else we’ll catch her. She brought a small force for a smash-and-grab burglary, not for combat. Our border checkpoints are still intact, and she’ll want to avoid them. Possibly the ocean, but doubtful. Her best option might be to head south towards our least protected flank.
“Hmmm. This is interesting,” Puck says in our ears.
“What?”
“Katie is receiving text messages.”
“My name is Carmine,” I snap. “And my phone is dead.”
“I recently began to monitor your messages and phone calls,” he says, off-hand. “Even if they haven’t been delivered to your device yet.”
This is so stunning, so intrusive, so infuriating that I can only growl.
He continues, “And right now Tank is messaging you.”
“Tank!” Samantha barks. “That big dumb handsome Infected kid? What’s he want?”
“Possibly none of your business.” I hate everyone. I hate the world. Monitoring my phone calls. I should choke PuckDaddy with his own power cord.
“Don’t be mad at Puck,” he says. “Chase told me I could.”
“Chase told…so what?! Who gave him that authority?”
Katie murmurs sleepily, as though she’s just waking up, Puck would do anything for Chase. They’re best friends. Puck used to be alone, operating as a machine. No friends, just business partners. Chase changed all that, the way he changes everything.
There are too many voices in my head!
Katie starts droning about her junior year in high school and I forcibly tune her out as Puck sputters through various reasons he should be allowed to monitor my device.
“Anyway.” Samantha rolls her eyes. “What does Tank want?”
“Tank texts that they caught a car speeding south on the 405. After threatening to have them stepped on, Tank learned that both men are Federal pilots, and they’d been heading towards the airport. He has detained them.”
“Towards the airport?” Samantha wonders. “No plane has landed there in months.”
“No, but dozens are ready to take off,” I say. “That’s it. Blue-Eyes is going to fly out. It’s easy and fast. Even if Tank captured those two pilots, she’ll have a backup with her. I bet those two were insurance.”
“You’re right,” Samantha announces. “Changing our heading. Due south towards the airport. We’re ten minutes out.”
“Your bodyguard Dalton is texting you too,” Puck reports. “
He’s not happy either.”
“Can you respond to Dalton? Update him on the situation.”
He mutters something about not being my secretary, but he agrees.
Samantha wonders, “Tank used the word they. Who is he working with?”
“Giants. It’s a long story. And I’d rather you focus on not crashing,” I say.
She grumbles under her breath, “You better not be sneaking away to make out with that oaf. I don’t care how great an ass he has.”
* * *
It’s easy to miss Los Angeles International from the air. Other than the Downtown spire cluster, the city is flat and gray. Exactly like the airport. No lights illuminate the airport anymore, and because we’re flying so low the runways are beneath us almost before we see them.
Samantha has come to a more cohesive understanding with the helicopter, and she pulls up so we have a better vantage. A dozen jumbo jets rest like slumbering white whales at the many terminals. Sprinkled around the tarmac are smaller planes. There’s too many.
Samantha has a reluctant edge to her voice. “Should you authorize General Brown to shoot down any plane that takes off?”
“No!” I sputter in surprise. “The plane could be carrying the Outlaw.”
“That would be brutal, I know, and Chase is my friend. But, it’s better he die than to—”
“Never. Shut your mouth. Absolutely not.”
“The longer he’s with Blue-Eyes, the more control she’ll have. Eventually Chase will cease to exist, and he’ll be a mindless zombie for her. I’ve seen it happen. And she’ll send him after us. One by one he will hunt and kill us.”
PuckDaddy remains conspicuously silent. Samantha sets her jaw and pointedly doesn’t look at me. I won’t kill Chase. I don’t care if this is war. He’s important to me. Katie stirs uneasily between my ears.
