by Alan Janney
Croc looked up from his tablet and grinned. “Samy looking as gorgeous as evah! Even with tape across her yapper.”
She ignored him, and stated, “I see too many Infected.”
Carter nodded. His bald scalp dully reflected the nearby street light. “I agree.”
“He shouldn’t have this many. Where’d they come from? We only heard about a handful.”
“Keep looking, specifically at his Infected.” His plosive syllables were punctuated with blue smoke puffs. “He has too many. What else about them?”
I said, “There’s something wrong with his Infected. I noticed last night.”
“What did you notice?”
“I’m not sure. Something was…off. I spoke with one of them, but he couldn’t communicate well. Like he was too full of rage to process.” I snapped my fingers, remembering a detail. “He referred to himself by a weird title. I forget what…”
Puck chimed in from his speaker. “Called himself Twice Chosen, or something like that.”
“Right. That was it. The Chemist referenced it too.”
“Twice Chosen,” Carter echoed, hard eyes searching stars and memories for clues. “Twice Chosen. Twice Chosen. I don’t know what that means.”
I shrugged. “Neither did I.”
The giant called Russia wasn’t looking at the photos. He was staring at us with bored, baleful eyes. He needed a shave and a haircut. His thick arms were crossed over his barrel chest.
“Here’s what I think.” Carter tapped the screen of my iPad, scattering ash across it. “I think whatever process Martin uses to preserve his Chosen from aneurysms and insanity, I think it doesn’t completely work. I think his enhanced army is full of unsound minds. Almost like rabid dogs, living only to please their master.”
“Too right.” Croc agreed. “They went after you like a mama bear protecting cubs. You got too close to their master.”
“That’s my opinion too, Mitchell.”
“Insane or not, they’re dangerous. They made quick work of the FBI team. And who’s this guy?” I flipped back and forth through a sequence of photos showing Carter fighting off Chemist goons, and in each picture there was a man dressed all in black, attacking Chosen from behind. “I don’t remember him.”
Samantha Gear grinned. “Spooky, right? That’s Carter’s Shadow. I met him.”
“Wow. So he does exist. I think I saw him during the Compton showdown in March. He’s very good. I never even saw him last night.”
Carter grunted. “He’s essentially invisible when he wants to be.”
Croc turned in a circle, scanning the lumber and construction materials. “Where’s the bloke now? I wanna shake his hand.”
“He never tells me.”
Samantha held up her iPad, displaying a photo of a dozen Infected. “Carter, let’s assume that his brain preservation process isn’t perfect, and his Chosen are at least partially deranged. But that doesn’t explain where he got them. He has…jeez, I don’t know. Thirty? Forty?”
“I count around forty. A surprising number. The hacker is running facial recognition software, and comparing their faces against missing person reports. I want to know who they are. The photos aren’t high quality, so it’s difficult. He’s trying.”
The speaker buzzed. “I have a name, you know.”
I paused at a picture of the Chemist. “Carter, why does the Chemist look like this? The last time I saw him, he was healthy and jumping around. Not last night. He looks like a corpse in these photos.”
“I agree.” Samantha peered over my shoulder at the photo. “Radical change in his body and energy level.”
“I have a theory.” Carter flicked his dead cigarette away and immediately lit a new one. Russia watched him without interest. “I think he’s draining his body of blood, as often as he can, in hopes that he’s already contagious.”
We all fell silent. A contagious Chemist would be worst case scenario for peace in our future. We wouldn’t feel the repercussions for two decades, but if he was injecting hundreds or even thousands of infants then there would be mass hysteria eighteen years from now as teenagers across the globe began throwing cars and dropping dead.
“You think he’s storing the blood?”
“Doubt it. He’s a brilliant neurobiologist. I imagine he’s tinkering with the virus on a molecular level, and then injecting every infant he can get his hands on. Though after last night, I’m optimistic we’ve temporarily disrupted his machinations.”
Croc said, “If he’s contagious, then isn’t the fella almost dead? Like, any day now?”
“Possibly, but I doubt it. He doesn’t have long, but he’s creative, as evidenced by his mutated tigers. He’ll delay his death as long as possible, through any means necessary.”
“What’s this final video?” I asked. The photos ended with a silent video in slow-motion. The video was of me, fighting, as seen by the camera in the truck. The Outlaw was spellbinding, a madman shouldering aside the storm. My muscles pumped like engines, throwing destructive wrecking-ball fists and trampling others beneath my feet. I threw a guy over the math building. I couldn’t remember half this stuff. Russia picked up the iPad and browsed to the file with his thick fingers.
Carter laughed without humor, pointy white teeth clamped on a filter. “That video is evidence of the reason Martin is after you, tiger.”
“Because I’m awesome? And I do not love that nickname.”
“No, although you certainly move faster than the rest of us. Watch it again.”
I did. I was fighting my way towards Samantha, away from the dying tiger, and constantly battling several Chosen at once. There were always enemies ready to engage me, waiting their turn. Waiting and watching. Mostly watching…
I concluded, “His Chosen aren’t attacking all at once, like they did with you.”
Carter nodded.
I viewed it again, and said, “A handful of his Chosen are fighting, but most are just…staring. They could have overwhelmed me, but they didn’t.”
“That is what Martin is after. Most of his Chosen don’t want to hurt you. Highly unnatural. Infected usually despise each other. Look at us. The Infected I’ve worked with over the past decades don’t like living on the same continent. Our skin crawls being near each other.”
Big Russia barked a deep laugh and said, “Yah.” Samantha nodded.
“But not the Chemist. He’s always had followers. And so do you, kid. You’re the first in…two hundred years? His Chosen are staring at you, astonished, because they feel what we all feel. Instead of being repelled by you, we are drawn towards you. Something in the way the virus interacts with your body chemistry. And it’s powerful. And Martin wants to control it.” He flicked his cigarette at me. It bounced off my shirt, leaving a small ash stain. “You’d be an unstoppable weapon for him, a unifying force within his chaos. Which is why you should have stayed out of Compton.”
“We almost had him,” I protested.
“You walked straight into a trap.”
“And it worked. We got within inches.”
“The three of us had to save your ass.”
“Took you long enough.”
“You were tiger food, little boy. And Martin was going to use you as a pawn.”
“I’m not his pawn, and I’m not yours either, old man.”
“Every time you speak to him, every time you two interact, he learns more about you. He’s tracking you, mate. Hunting you. If he discovers the Outlaw’s identity, if he finds out who Chase Jackson really is, then he’ll show up at your door and kill everyone you love.”
Samantha interrupted us. “Okay, boys. Cool it. Is this a picture of me?” She held up her screen for us to see. “Is this a screenshot of a web article?”
Both Carter and Russia were still glaring at me. Carter’s veins were visible in his neck and he was taking deep breaths.
“Hey.” Samantha snapped her fingers twice. “Hey. What’s this picture?”
“That�
�s a picture the police are circulating,” he growled. “Of you. A street camera got a clear picture. The hacker deleted copies as fast as he could, but people are beginning to store data on external hard drives so he can’t get to them.”
Samantha examined it from all angles, wrinkling her nose. “It’s not that clear. I look good, though.”
“Love, you look gorgeous.”
“Thanks, Croc. Now hush.”
Puck rattled, “There are digital photographs of all of you dummies. Though none that clear. And our good friend Captain FBI is facing significant discipline from the government.”
“I still have a difficult time believing you went to the FBI,” Carter sneered. His grip on the truck was so ferocious the hood was bending. “You have undermined decades of secrecy.”
“Sorry to hear that. Guess you shouldn’t have infected a bunch of infants, eh?”
He seethed and for a long moment I thought he might swing at me. He was furious and his blood boiled and the disease was a storm inside his body, turning his muscles and skin to steel while my disease lay dormant. I knew baiting him was a bad idea, but I couldn’t stop. He shook his head and snorted, like a bull. “Your arrogance is going to kill us all.”
“You think I’m the one who’s arrogant?! I’m looking for help! I know we need it. You’re the man with the Lone Ranger act.”
Puck’s voice came from the speaker. “This argument is stressing me out. Is it crazy tense there?”
Samantha quipped, “Yes. We’re having a Who’s Tougher contest. We’re all losing.”
I shrugged. “The Avengers don’t get along either.”
Russia scoffed, like an arctic blast.
Carter said, “What? Who?”
“Shouldn’t we meet somewhere cooler than a lumber yard?” I asked. “We’re, like…a secret group of…super secret soldiers. The entire planet is fascinated with us. We need a heli-carrier. Or at least an office. With a shiny table.”
Puck shouted, “That would be crazy awesome!” The speaker vibrated so violently it almost slid off the hood.
Carter and Russia turned at the same time, storming back to their truck. “Children,” he spat, “My patience with you is almost at an end.”
He drove off with angry taillights and angry tires spitting gravel at us. Croc whistled. Puck said, “What? What happened?”
Samantha grabbed me by the arm. “Listen, Outlaw. Listen carefully. About five years ago, Carter killed a man. We called him the Extractor. Don’t know his real name. He was Infected. Carter surprised him. Put a shotgun to the Extractor’s eyeball and pulled the trigger. All because the Extractor had changed plans without consulting Carter. The Extractor disobeyed orders, but he thought he was doing the right thing. Didn’t matter. Carter killed him.”
“Oh yeah.” Croc chuckled grimly, scratching his unshaven face. “Forgot about that mess. Extractor was a solid bloke, too.”
“Chase. Carter will do the same to you. He will. I promise. I’m surprised he hasn’t yet, to be honest.”
I winked. “I’m tougher than the Extractor.”
She hit me. Hard.
“Ow!” I yelped. “That was my bad shoulder. My tiger shoulder.”
“Wuss.”
Chapter Fourteen
September. 2018
September passed in a blur. Like my life was on fast-forward. My days were crammed with fluff that felt less and less relevant to the real world. Coach Garrett’s rants were hollow and distant. Video games with Cory and Lee were a maddening waste of time. I had Bs and Cs in all my classes. Not a single A. But I didn’t care; the school would be overrun soon if the Chemist wasn’t captured. When Dad scolded me, he might as well have been complaining about the moon.
Sometimes I wonder if, after the story of my life has been told, all I will remember is Katie.
During September, my life was divided into two categories. When I was with Katie, and when I wasn’t. English class was the best part of school. You know that scene in The Hobbit when Bilbo climbs the tree to escape the dark scary endless forest, and at the top of the tree he finds butterflies and brilliant sunlight and for that one shining moment all is well? That’s what being with Katie was like. Whatever it is that happens to girls, propelling them out of late adolescence and fully into adulthood, that had happened to Katie. She was no longer a child. Katie Lopez belonged on a college campus. And she’d be the prettiest one there. And the smartest. And the nicest. I was so attracted to her it scared me. Sometimes I couldn’t think of words when she smiled.
Katie’s heart was torn in half, split between me and a monster. When she and I were together during English class and after-school tutoring, our chemistry was red hot. The air crackled. We alternated between being unable to look at each other, and long intense eye-contact. Some days she would sit across the kitchen table like I was a leper. Other days she sat so close our legs touched, and she found any excuse to touch me, setting my skin on fire. I ate extra granola bars after study sessions.
But she also had genuine affection for Tank. He was charismatic, rich, and handsome, and treating her better each passing day. They were a famous couple. People Magazine gave them an exclusive page in the 50 Most Beautiful edition, and rightly so. They were a scintillating redemption story in the midst of Los Angeles’s tragedy.
I hated that guy.
Tank was churning out impossible football stats. He finished the first game of the season with six sacks, two forced fumbles, two rushing touchdowns, and he also injured the other team’s starting quarterback, running back, and free safety. He kept up the absurd production for the whole month, vaulting himself even higher into our national football ethos. High school football magazines called him a Once-In-a-Generation Athletic Freak, possibly the most highly touted senior of all time.
My team, the Hidden Spring Eagles, also rolled through September. We won all four games by an average of twenty-four points. College scouts attended our games in droves. Our late season showdown with Tank’s Patrick Henry Dragons loomed larger and larger with each game.
“It’s not fair,” I told Samantha Gear one day at practice, the first drizzly day in weeks. She held a magazine in her angry fists, glaring at the article about Tank. “I jumped out of a helicopter. Fought twenty guys. Faced down two tigers. And I can throw a football over a mile. It’s not fair to the other teams. You know? To the kids on those teams.”
She mumbled something unintelligible.
I sighed. “Maybe I should quit.”
“No.” She bunched up the magazine in a thick wad. “That wouldn’t be fair to the kids on this team. You’re playing well, but you’re also playing within the limits of reason. Tank isn’t. Just keep doing what you’re doing. Besides. I like playing. I don’t want to quit.”
The Shooter’s face was splashed all over the news, and more than one person at our school commented on the resemblance to Samantha. She laughed and told everyone the photograph was of her. After that, the students just treated the likeness as a joke.
The media dubbed us the Fearsome Four. City employees and amateur photojournalists must have combed through thousands of pictures taken from scattered automated cameras, because authentic photographs of Carter, Russia, Samantha, and the Outlaw surfaced on the internet. (Puck didn’t try erasing the data. The proof of our existence was now too substantial to fret over.) Somehow Croc had avoided exposure. So had Shadow.
Our evacuation was discovered and sensationalized. The helicopter pilots had reported the rescue of four men: two strangers, the Outlaw, and Special Agent Isaac Anderson. Speculation was rampant. Some media outlets called us The Outlaws, but Samantha nearly killed me the one time I mentioned it.
Isaac Anderson disobeyed direct orders that night, resulting in five deaths and two serious injuries. However, his court-martial was being commuted due to extraordinary circumstances. Evidence began pouring in from photographs, pilot testimony, radio reports, and eye-witness accounts suggesting Anderson made decisions based on the goo
d of Los Angeles, and that his alliance with the Outlaw and the Fearsome Four was an unprecedented and bold war-time collaboration, resulting in the destruction of the Chemist’s fortress. The press screamed for interviews with Anderson, demanding details of his clandestine involvement with Hyper Humanity.
The Outlaw was once again cast as a heroic public defender. Banners were hung near Natalie North’s building, stating The Outlaw Fights For Us. Her relationship with Anderson wasn’t public knowledge. Yet. She texted, thanking me for getting Anderson out safely. And asking me to come visit.
* * *
On the final Sunday of the month, Dad and I went to church. I love that place. As the world was thrown further into disarray and I increasingly realized we spent too much time worrying about vapid priorities, the church’s message seemed more and more…true. Love. Honesty. Forgiveness. Denial of self. These words pierced my heart in ways that Nike commercials didn’t.
I forgot all about them, however, as we returned home. Tank Ware stood in my driveway.
The Tank.
My driveway.
Gosh I hate that guy.
“Who is the giant?” Dad chuckled as we parked.
“Tank Ware,” I grumbled. “Patrick Henry Dragon.”
“Oh yeah.” The muscles in Dad’s jaw flexed. “Want me to run him over?”
“The only injury would be to our car.” I shoved the door open and climbed out.
Tank smiled the sparkling, winsome smile he used to dupe the planet. Had to give him credit; he could act. He was dressed in his customary white button-up shirt and thin cotton gloves. “Jackson family!” he roared good-naturedly, like he wasn’t Satan. “I’m sorry to barge in like this. I suppose my church lets out earlier than yours.”
That stopped me. “You go to church??”
“First African Methodist Episcopal Church, my whole life.”
“What the heck do they preach over there??” I was genuinely bewildered. Maybe I didn’t understand church as much as I assumed. Was this a kidnapping and bullying church?
