Sanctuary: Among Monsters (The Outlaw Book 3)

by Alan Janney

  “Cities are like rivers,” Carter said at last. “Energy flows through them constantly, never at rest. They move. They swell and retreat, and rise and fall. Life grows naturally within. But not Compton. It’s become a bog. A swamp. Nothing gets in, nothing escapes. The discontent, the hate, the anger is accumulating like pond scum.”

  “Right-o, Carter.”

  “What have you observed, Mitch?”

  “The town is feral. Putrid,” Croc said. “The people have lost their life. No spirit. They’re bored. Bored and angry.”

  I said, “Bad combination.”

  “Too right, love.”

  Carter lit a cigarette and said, “There’s a great story about George Harrison, one of the Beatles. Are you two old enough to remember the Beatles? I’ve always enjoyed them. Anyway, the Beatles helped usher in the drug culture of the Sixties. Did a lot of LSD. So George Harrison went to visit Haight-Ashbury, a hippie commune in San Francisco. It should have been a utopia, according to their beliefs. Just a bunch of free-thinkers, smoking dope, doing acid, listening to the Beatles, peace, love, harmony, all that. But it wasn’t. Harrison was horrified. Called it ghastly. He finally saw the truth. It was a pile of unwashed drug addicts, hungry drop-outs in dirty laundry. Listless and covered in their own filth. Drug utopias are an illusion, a happy fantasy. Can’t work. So here’s the question, my Infected brethren. Martin is one of the most intelligent men alive. He knows this small drug-infested kingdom can’t last. He knows this is a lie. What’s he doing?”

  I had no answer.

  Croc grinned and said, “If you don’t know either, Carter, we’re up a creek.”

  Carter ticked a list off on his fingers. “Compton’s hospitals are low on supplies. The Bloods and Crips are at each other’s throats, and the body count is mounting. A big chunk of the population is either high or crashing, continuously. There’s no law and order, other than what the gunmen enforce through homicide. Fresh produce is long gone. Everyone is getting tired of eating from cans. Parents are exhausted with their children. Tell me. What’s he doing?”

  I said, “He’s stalling.”

  “Why.”

  “He needs something here.”

  “What.”

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “Maybe he’s still collecting all the Infected he created at birth.”

  “I think that’s over,” Carter said. “The outbreak lasted for nine months. More or less. We’ll see no new cases. That’s my guess. The number of Infected in the world is once again set in stone. But I agree with you; he’s stalling. Waiting on something.”

  “What?”

  “I wish I knew,” he laughed darkly, filling the air with smoke. “It’s not just a territory grab. He knows he can’t compete with the entire American government. They’ll break in eventually. Soon. After the Outlaw exposed him in the newspaper, he should have retreated. He’s collected a stable of new Infected; he should have taken them and gotten the hell out of dodge.”

  “He’s dying, right?” Croc asked. “Kicking the bucket? Maybe he can’t leave.”

  “That’s not how Infected work. We keep our vitality and our energy until our organs quit. He’s still active. I have evidence of him roaming the country.”

  I said, “Maybe he’s staying until he can capture the Outlaw.”

  We were silent, considering the implications. It fit. He was obsessed with Chase. And nothing else made sense.

  “I hope not,” Carter said darkly. “If he gets the Outlaw, we’ve lost.”

  Chapter Nine

  Friday, August 28. 2018

  Friday. Game day! Our first one.

  The hallways were festooned with red and black, and I was pounded on the back all the way to science class. The teacher had finger-painted my number onto her cheek. She even forgave my forgotten homework; I’d gone straight to bed last night after training with Croc. I was exhausted, but he looked fresh as always, because he was a beautiful punk.

  To everyone’s surprise, Lee landed the job of co-anchor on our school’s morning newscast. He had so many credits that he technically graduated last May, so now he took media studies and a bunch of classes for college credit. Usually his news stories focused on current events and social media, but today he unveiled a video titled “The Genius’s Game Plan.” He used last year’s game film (and newer practice footage) to illustrate how we should beat the Pasadena Panthers. It was witty and clever, and also demonstrated he knew absolutely nothing about football. He ended with, “That’s how we’ll win. And if we lose? Don’t blame this genius, bro.”

  “Too right,” Mitch crowed. “We’ll all blame Chase!” Everyone laughed. Ha. Ha. Hilarious.

  Next came my favorite time of the day: English class with Katie. We played a daily game of racing to the room for the right to sit behind the loser. The loser was harassed during class by the winner, who was hidden from the teacher’s eyesight.

  Katie won again today. Her brown hair was back in a ponytail, she had eyeblack on the tops of her cheeks, and she was wearing my jersey. She was so pretty and happy that even her friends openly admired her.

  “Hi Chase!”

  “I’m going to text Tank a photo of you wearing that jersey.”

  “Don’t you dare!”

  “Break up with him and I won’t.”

  “You’re a stinker.” But she smiled. So big and beautiful it hurt to look at her. “I will never wear it again if you do.”

  “Yes you will. Because I’m soooooooo great.”

  The guy next to us said, “Ew.”

  “Hey you shut up, Cody. I saw your last quiz, smart-guy. It was a B. You need to focus on English. Not on Katie.” He stared wide-eyed at me through his stylish glasses, his mouth working without sound. “Just kidding, Cody. I like your bowtie.”

  “Chase. Sit down.” Katie tugged my shirt. “You’re in an honors class. Not on a football field.”

  Class started. Before long, Katie passed me a note on pink paper.

  She wrote, If you were a vegetable, you’d be a cute-cumber!!

  I wrote back, That’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard.

  Maybe you’re a banana. Because I find you a-peel-ing!

  Hooooooly cow.

  = P Let’s see you do better.

  Marry me.

  Chase!

  Okay, fine. Come over later and let’s make out.

  Instead, let’s go to Starbucks. Because I like you a latte!

  So bad. Focus on English.

  English?? I thought we had Chemistry!!

  I drew a dirty picture of us. She gasped and balled up the paper.

  * * *

  I arrived late to lunch. Again. The table was packed. Again. This time with a second row of seats around the central table. No empty chairs in sight. Sigh.

  Katie caught me by the hand as I was heading outside to eat in the courtyard. “Come on, handsome. Don’t abandon us. We only sit there because of you.”

  “Going to share a seat with me?”

  “I will share a seat with you the rest of my life.” She blushed. I might have to. She drew me back to the cafeteria. “Even if I marry the King of England, I’ll still share a seat with you. Besides, you’re the most popular guy in school. You’re nobility. You tell anyone to move and they will.”

  “Really?”

  “Well. Anyone except Samantha.”

  “No, I mean, I’m the most popular guy in school?”

  “Gosh you’re clueless.” She shook her head as we sat down at the table. “Somethings never change.”

  Lee asked, “What never changes, bro?”

  “I liked your morning report.”

  Cory nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, that was fly.”

  I asked, “How long did that video take to make?”

  “Not long. I’m a genius, dude.”

  “Right. I forgot.”

  “My next report will be on the Outlaw!” he announced triumphantly.

  “What??” I sputtered. “Why? Don’t do that.”
>
  Katie cheered. “Great idea, Lee! He’s my favorite.”

  I risked a glance down the table. Mitch and Samantha were rolling their eyes. There were so many students, and so many conversations, they’d have to shout for us to hear them.

  “Do you want to be interviewed, dude? I mean, Katie? You have a personal Outlaw video on your phone. And he rescued you. Twice!”

  “No thanks,” she wrinkled her nose. “I’m a little tired of interviews. I want to leave all that in the past.”

  Lee shrugged and said, “Whatever. I’m going to show everyone texts the Outlaw sent me.”

  I frowned. “Why?”

  “To establish legitimacy, man. Prove I’m an authority on him.”

  “That’s a breach of trust.”

  Cory, chewing a chicken patty sandwich, nodded and said, “For real. That’s cold, Lee.”

  “Dude, no it’s not! You all shut up!”

  “Lee,” Katie said softly. “What if word gets out in the media that you communicate with the Outlaw? You could become a target. And the Outlaw would eventually hear you betrayed him, and he’d quit texting you.”

  “Fine!” he huffed. “Whatever. But you can’t spoil all my fun. I’ve figured out the Outlaw’s real identity.”

  Samantha straightened in her chair. Katie cried, “Oooooooh, I want to know!”

  I said, “He doesn’t really know, Katie.”

  “Yes I do, dude! Or at least, I’ve narrowed it down.”

  “How?”

  “I can’t tell you!” he practically shouted, knocking over his bottle of water. Before it could spill, Croc caught it from across the table and sat it upright again. I’d seen him do that twice, both times in the blink of an eye. “I’ll never ruin the surprise!”

  “You don’t know who the Outlaw is, little man,” Samantha teased, raising her voice to be heard. Our conversation was extra weird because so many kids were eavesdropping. The little blonde girl next to me kept bumping me by accident (I think) and smiling. She was cute. No idea who she was.

  “Okay fine I’ll tell you. Dang you people are nosey,” he complained. He didn’t know. There was no way. But still, I got a little nervous. “Okay, here are the clues. He’s big. He’s athletic. He’s got a cannon for a right arm; we all saw him throwing on the Compton videos. I’ve watched them dozens of times, and he can throw a hundred miles an hour. I guarantee it, dude. He only operates at night, which means he’s a night-owl. Nocturnal. Crepuscular.”

  “Cre-what?” I asked.

  “Shhhhush!!! And he’s more active between the months of October and April. Those are our clues. Can anyone figure it out?” he asked. To his credit, we were all a captive audience. Katie’s eyes screwed up in thought. Cory stared off into the distance. Samantha and Croc shared a concerned expression. My hip was pressed into Katie’s, so that was cool.

  The little blonde girl next to me whispered, “Do you know who it is?”

  “Yes,” I whispered back, conspiratorially.

  “Who?”

  “Me.”

  She dissolved into silent giggles. I’m so funny.

  “Okay, dudes,” Lee said, like a magician about to reveal his secret. “I’ll tell you. The Outlaw is…a starting pitcher for the Los Angeles Dodgers!”

  General approval hummed from the table. Katie loved the idea. Samantha snorted. Cory nodded and chewed thoughtfully.

  I said, “Lee, I think that’s brilliant.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Makes total sense. Athletic. Puts on the mask after night games. More active in the offseason. Throws hard. Lives downtown. It’s fantastic.”

  “Thanks bro.”

  The girl next to me piped up. “I think Chase is the Outlaw!”

  Everyone laughed, but Samantha gave her such a withering stare I thought she might never return.

  * * *

  That night, as per tradition, Katie’s mom made a pre-game dinner for Cory and me. This year Katie also invited Samantha Gear and Croc. Her small kitchen table was dangerously over capacity. Even dad stopped by! We ate so many shepherd-style tacos that Samantha raced to the store for extra groceries and Croc slipped a hundred-dollar bill into Ms. Lopez’s purse. She kept referring to us as her familia grande.

  After dinner we returned to school, took a dozen pictures with tailgaters in the parking lot, and marched into the glistening locker-room. The only thing more exciting than a Friday night football game is the almost certitude of victory. Expectations for the season were skyscraper-high. The face-painted fans were delirious with victories not yet earned.

  Croc was nervous. I hadn’t expected that. I wasn’t nervous, just eager. Perhaps my butterflies had been ground into dust by the previous twelve months. He paced in front of my bench, spinning a football on each of his pointer fingers.

  Cory said, “Croc. Chill, homie. You ‘gon be good.”

  I grinned. “Yeah mate. This will be fun.”

  “Too right,” he nodded, but he didn’t stop pacing.

  “What’s got you worked up?”

  “M’not.”

  I asked, “Didn’t you race motorcycles? The chances of breaking your neck are much less on a football field.”

  “Yeah,” he nodded. “Yeah. But if you wreck a ringdinger, the only person disappointed is yourself, mate. Jus’ you and the bike. Don’t you ever worry about that? Disappointing the mob?”

  “Well…maybe…”

  “Katie’s mum will be watching, right? What if we play like buggers? What if we lose? She cooked dinner for nothing. And what about Katie? Your dad?”

  “Alright, Croc!” The first hint of cold anxiety crept in. What if I did play bad? “Maybe you should shut up now.”

  “Yeah,” Cory agreed, looking a little queasy. “That was messed up.”

  I felt better on the field. The Panthers didn’t look nearly as monstrous as last season. They stomped the green grass, raced through warmups, and bellowed like animals, but they looked more like kittens than jungle cats.

  “Did they get smaller?” I wondered out loud.

  “No sir,” Coach Garrett said, walking up with a clipboard clamped in his hand. “You’ve gotten better. And more experienced.”

  “I’m going to torch those poor guys.”

  “That’s the plan.” He smacked me on the butt, the way football players often do. However, my adrenalin was pumping and my skin and muscles were hardening, and he walked away with a grimace, shaking his hand.

  The players were announced. The band played. The fans roared. The national anthem was sung. Cory and I had been selected as two of our team captains; we shook hands with the opposing captains at midfield, and lost the coin toss.

  As we trotted back to our sidelines, above all the screaming and madness, I distinctly heard Katie laughing and cheering with her friends. Her soft voice pierced the cacophony, like a searchlight in the night. Infected often have heightened senses. Perhaps mine were tuned towards Katie in particular?

  “I know!” she was saying, the sound intimate and warm in my ears despite the distance. “I knocked over my drink in less than thirty seconds. I’m clumsy.” More laughter. Her friend brushed beads of water off her shorts. “At least I didn’t get it on Chase’s jersey.” More discussion from friends. “Yeah, I sleep in this most nights. Please don’t tell my boyfriend!”

  Katie was fifty yards away, but I was watching and listening like we were at the same lunch table. The experience was dreamlike. She pulled strands of hair from her face, surveyed the field, and found me. Our eyes locked. Hers widened slightly with surprise and pleasure. Her heartbeat quickened, the pulse in her neck visible to my eyes. I felt like I’d been struck with electricity.

  “Chase.” Samantha Gear hit me with her helmet. “Focus. I don’t want to lose my first football game.”

  I shook out of my trance. Samantha glowered at me like a drill sergeant inspecting her troops. The sounds of the stadium crashed back into my ears, filling the void left by Katie’s absence.
>
  “What’s the matter, kicker? Nervous?”

  She shot back, “Heck yes, I’m nervous.”

  “Why? This is a game. You’ve been in combat.”

  “I never played school sports. I’ve never been cheered for. Or booed. This is intense. So get your act together,” she called as she ran onto the field for kickoff.

  “Yes ma’am.”

  Samantha was pumped. Her kickoff sailed across the field and out of the end zone, practically impossible for a high school student. That hadn’t happened once last season, not even close. The other team watched it fly by in disbelief. She’s a girl?? Our fans nearly hyperventilated in delight.

  Back on the sidelines, she scowled at me defiantly, so I kept my mouth closed. I didn’t need to tell her the kick was too far. She knew.

  “Hell, Samantha,” Coach Garrett said, chomping his gum with relish. “Never seen that before. School division is going to test you for steroids.”

  “Once in a life-time kick, coach,” she explained. “Won’t happen again.”

  “Better not,” I mumbled under my breath.

  “Shut. Up. I’m excited.”

  Croc intercepted the Panther’s very first pass. He darted in front of the receiver, plucked the ball neatly out of the air, and ran out of bounds. Our players and coaches pounded him on the back. He released a primal roar, tore off his helmet and pumped his fist at the crowd. He was so happy and handsome I worried our fans might rush the field.

  I grabbed both of them by the necks of their jerseys. “Nice game so far, high school students,” I hissed. “You’re playing well for teenagers. Keep up the good work, normal kids.”

  The message didn’t penetrate. I could tell. The virus was a roaring inferno inside their bodies, filling their eyes with mania. They were volcanoes.

  I couldn’t stay mad at them, though. I ran onto the field with the offense, the crowd raged, and I was engulfed by the disease too. The virus floods our bodies with vitality and life, and I could have thrown the ball to the moon. The fight-or-flight response was consuming. My breath came in ragged heaves. I wanted to start a fight against the other team. The entire other team. I wanted to leap into their midst and start swinging, not from hate, but from urgency, to release pressure.