by Alan Janney
I debated burning it down, to relieve the worshipers of their ridiculous religion. Soon I’d probably be forced to come clean with the media and discuss the illness, if only so people would stop leaping to absurd conclusions.
>> You need to do the interview with Time Magazine, Natalie told me.
But I don’t waaaaaaaaant to.
>> I insist. Please?
Why not with Teresa Triplett? She’s always been very helpful.
>> Why not with Time? You’re being labeled the Person of the Year!!
Boooooooring. But I didn’t tell her that.
* * *
The Chemist wrote me a curt email. It said,
Bravo.
Now witness my retribution.
- Martin
His revenge was swift and terrible. Tuesday night at 11:30pm, Chemist forces swarmed over security fences at every major military base within two hundred miles. Armed with firearms and explosives and superhuman quickness, the attackers caught the bases completely off guard and ravaged the facilities.
Chain-reaction explosions at Los Angeles Air Force Base in El Segundo destroyed or damaged 100% of the attack aircraft, and their airstrips were spiked with bombs and rendered unusable. (To make matters worse, this was the primary airstrip used for military ingress. No reinforcements could arrive via this location until crucial repairs were completed.)
The detonation of munitions at the Naval Weapons Station on the coast was heard as far as thirty-five miles away. Vast warehouses and underground bunkers went up like volcanoes.
Los Alamitos, the joint forces facility, was left without a single helicopter or transport jeep.
The reports issuing from the bases were all the same: the enemies came to destroy, not to kill, and they were too fast to be shot. The United States suffered relatively few casualties compared to the billions lost in equipment. The attack was aimed at vehicles, not personnel, and the result was staggering: for the time being, much of the world’s most powerful military was immobile and stranded on the West Coast.
The attack was especially effective because a larger-than-usual military contingent had gathered around Los Angeles, prepping to invade the occupied territories. The Chemist hadn’t just destroyed vacant outposts; he’d gone after the biggest and most heavily-armed assemblage on American soil in decades.
The special forces at Los Alamitos had the most success in repelling invaders. That’s another way of saying, they managed to kill a few.
Wednesday morning, after the sun came up and the smoke cleared and the damages tallied, the awful truth was realized: the military was missing twelve fully-armed attack helicopters, four vertical take-off Harriers, and three cargo choppers. The Chemist had robbed the United States of America, stealing hundreds of millions worth of equipment, and he could open fire whenever he wanted. Strategists suggested the cargo helicopters were probably filled with weapons and ammunitions, maybe even fuel, for the vehicles.
It wouldn’t be difficult for recon satellites and drones to locate the stolen vehicles, once the armed forces regrouped. But chances were the Chemist would have his new toys well protected with civilians, preventing recapture or destruction. However, it would be days or weeks before such an operation was even possible due to the sudden lack of mobility.
The in-fighting among the military branches revved up, humiliation rife over the catastrophe. It was a global embarrassment. The media screamed for answers, and politicians screamed for heads to roll. The Pentagon and Joint Chiefs of Staff and Generals and the Admirals all deflected responsibility. So who was to blame?
“I’ll tell ya who’s to blame,” Carter said, chewing on an unlit cigarette. He dropped a fresh set of large photographs onto his truck’s hood. “She is.”
Croc, Samantha and I were meeting with Carter and Russia that night in our usual spot, the lonely, gravel parking lot behind a construction depot.
After my meeting with Carla, we had immediately reported the disastrous news to Carter, that the Chemist could Infect adults with a high rate of success and his army was already hundreds strong. Much to our surprise, Carter hadn’t been angry with us. He praised our bold counter-insurgence strategy and called the intel ‘priceless.’ As much as I hated to admit it, being praised by Carter felt awesome, like pleasing an angry father.
Now, at 10pm, we huddled around his truck, staring at pictures of Blue Eyes, the witch. Even in still photographs, she was shockingly attractive. Carter continued, “She’s seduced at least a dozen of the most powerful men in Washington, both on Capitol Hill and the Pentagon. With her in their ear, and Martin influencing the politicians in California, it’s no wonder the military just got their pants yanked down.”
“She’s a looka,” Croc nodded. “I’m glad we haven’t been properly introduced.”
Carter said, “I agree, Mitchell. I’m rethinking Gear’s suggestion, that she go eliminate Mary, otherwise known as Blue Eyes.”
Samantha’s jaw was set. “Just say the word.”
I asked, “What’s she doing that’s causing problems?”
“She’s whispering in their ears, hero,” he responded, an edge to his voice. “Planting suggestions. Those jackasses do whatever she says. She’s the reason the U.S. hasn’t retaliated against the Chemist yet. He’s been sitting there with impunity for months, because the Blue-Eyed Witch has the Defense Committee stalling and fighting in congress.”
“And when a decision is finally reached, certain high-ranking generals will dissent,” Samantha growled.
“Exactly. Martin has paid or blackmailed them to break ranks.” He struck a match and lit the cigarette, and offered the smokes to Russia. Russia lit up, too. They looked cool. Maybe I should give it a shot. “The whole thing is a mess.”
I said, “I want to give names of the saboteurs to the FBI.”
“Tough.”
“You have a better idea?”
“I do. We need to alter our strategy. Samantha and I came here to recruit you, and keep an eye on Martin. But things have drastically changed since January. Martin is no longer just a nuisance that should be disposed of within the Infected community. He’s become a global menace.”
“Too right. A bloody maniac.”
“My goal has always been to prevent our discovery.” He was frustrated and animated, his deep breaths inhaling and spewing the same smoke over and over. “The last thing we needed was media attention. But now…thanks to the bloody maniac, and to pajamas here, the whole damn planet is after us.”
Samantha said, “Don’t blame Chase. He’s always done what he thinks is best for Los Angeles.”
“I do blame him.” His eyes were fiery. Carter at night was especially scary; larger, angrier, and his shadow appeared to give him black wings. “If he had, just once, followed my instructions, this whole ordeal could be finished.”
I scoffed. “Give me one reason why I should follow your instructions.”
“Because you’re a child! An arrogant and ignorant toddler playing games with grown-ups, and you’ve cost us everything.” His voice was a whip, snapping with accusation. Samantha casually moved her body to stand between Carter and me.
I shouted at him over her shoulder. “You and I have never been playing the same game, Carter! I don’t need your instructions, because we’re not going in the same direction.”
“Think about this, little boy.” He simmered and smoked and boiled. “There’s not an Infected alive today who didn’t need my help. Even Martin, in the past. Every Infected for the past thirty years only survived because of ME! They all accepted my help.”
“Because you forced them! You brought a GUN to our first meeting, because you were going to kill me if I didn’t play by your rules! Are you sure you’re any better than the Chemist??”
The final straw. I pushed him too far.
It happened in the blink of an eye. Maybe even faster…
Croc saw what was happening first, and he reached for Samantha protectively.
Carter prod
uced a pistol, like a murderous magician.
He shot at me over Samantha’s shoulder.
I yanked the Stick of Treachery free from my vest, and slashed it across my body.
I got lucky; the rod connected with the bullet, which ricocheted harmlessly into the lumber yard.
No one moved. The Stick rang in my hand, like a siren masking the gunshot echo.
Carter lowered the heavy weapon in disbelief. I didn’t blame him. That was cool. It happened on instinct.
Russia spoke for the first time, a deep, blubbery voice. He woofed in surprise and said, “Kiddie has new toy.”
“…what…” Carter sputtered. “Where the hell did you get that?!”
“We’re not friends, Carter,” I said with a lot more steel in my voice than I felt. The Stick was pointed at him, my arm straight like a fencer. “But that doesn’t mean we have to be enemies.”
Russia laughed again, a dark humorless noise, and I couldn’t tell if he had a new appreciation for me or a new hatred. I was surprised to see Samantha’s two guns out and pointed at Carter, a fact I hoped he overlooked.
“Very well,” Carter said stiffly. He shoved his gun back into a leather holster. “I wash my hands of you, ungrateful little boy. Enjoy your independence. You will die alone.”
Samantha was glaring at both of us. But behind the anger, I saw fear. At least she’d put the pistols away.
Croc shifted awkwardly and chuckled, “Well…now what?”
Carter stared hard at me for an uncomfortable ten seconds, then snapped, “We’re leaving.”
“Leaving?”
“Leaving Los Angeles.”
The furrows in Gear’s forehead deepened. “But the Chemist is still here.”
Carter began packing up and throwing things into his truck. “Martin just effectively declared war on the United States, and America doesn’t lose wars. The George Washington, a Nimitz Class nuclear-powered aircraft carrier, has been diverted from off the coast of Asia. The entire carrier group will arrive within a few days, prepared to bomb his fortress and launch a full invasion. Martin will strike first, or be long gone by then. Along with most of his Infected. Either way, our work in Los Angeles is at an end.”
“You can’t just abandon the city!” I shouted. “You helped start this mess!”
“What we do is not your concern. We’re leaving. You…actually, kid, I don’t care what you do.”
“Los Angeles needs our help!”
Carter shoved a finger at Gear and Croc. “You two. We’re flying out in less than a week. I want to lay low and locate Martin’s next landing spot. Once I do, we leave immediately.”
“Righto, boss,” Croc said grimly.
Samantha didn’t respond, her eyes distant, arms crossed over her chest.
Carter and Russia roared off into the black night. Croc coaxed a silent Samantha into his truck, and they left. I remained in the parking lot, lonely and miserable and confused, holding the Stick of Treachery.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Thursday, October 21. 2018.
Tank’s long punishment would finally come to an end on Monday, only four days away.
“I’m meeting him Monday night,” Katie purred into my ear during English class. “And then I’m coming straight to your house.”
“Whatever shall we do?” I asked.
“I’ll be a single girl,” she winked. “You’ll think of something.”
I was growing more and more worried about that break up. Tank was born an angry giant, and now he was infested with a virus that thrived on adrenaline and emotion, crippling his feeble brain even further. I might tag along in the shadows, for her safety.
Croc and Samantha attended school and football practice, which surprised me. I figured they’d keep their distance.
“Carter doesn’t control our personal lives,” Samantha snapped, when I asked.
“Besides, mate,” Croc grinned. “If the Chemist attacks, that right bastard, we’ve been ordered to kill you instead of protect you.”
“Which we’d never do.” She was fuming, obviously battling her emotions and the virus’s inflammatory responses. “And we have a football championship to win before we leave.”
* * *
Dad was in the kitchen when I came home from practice. He’d been watching me warily the past few weeks, like I could implode any minute. Today he looked especially troubled.
He asked, “How you doin, kid?”
“Better than you. You look rough.”
“Haven’t slept in a while. The military lost their rides, so police have been scrambling to pick up the slack.”
I started devouring chocolate cookies and pulling homework out of my backpack.
He proceeded slowly. “I know we don’t talk about this much. But. How is your…other profession?”
“The whole masked-vigilante gig?” I grinned. “For a part-time job, it’s surprisingly troublesome.”
“I’ve debated grounding you for the cargo-jet stunt you pulled.”
“Dad! Come on,” I laughed. “That was brilliant. You should be proud.”
He lowered into a chair with a grunt. “I am. After all this is over, and I don’t have to worry anymore, you can tell me about it.”
“I heard a carrier group is going to park off Los Angeles.”
He looked surprised. “How the hell do you know that? That’s top secret stuff.”
“Dad, do you think the Outlaw should do an interview? I’m being pressured to.”
Anytime I called myself the Outlaw, we both flinched. This was still new territory for us. “Who is pressuring you?”
“Natalie North.”
“Natal…the Natalie North? You and she communicate?”
“That’s kinda weird, huh,” I nodded, opening my math book and starting on an apple.
“Tell me about it later. Why would you do an interview?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. She thinks it’d be good for Los Angeles. Give them hope.”
“She’s probably right.”
“Plus, I feel I should warn them, you know? If the people knew everything I do, they’d leave town. In fact, I’d advise them to.”
He thought quietly for a minute. He was a big man, stoic and rough after years of working Homicide, grilling witnesses, and wrestling perpetrators. He looked years older than he did a few months ago. And maybe…years lonelier. Finally he said, “I think that’s a good idea. If the chiefs weren’t bitching at each other so much, we would have called for an evacuation already. Maybe the Outlaw could do it for us.”
“Okay.” I checked my watch. “I’ll do it right after homework.”
* * *
I called Puck from my motorcycle.
“Hey man,” he said. His voice was somber and lacking the usual moxie. “Why are you driving downtown?”
“I need a favor. Call Teresa Triplett and tell her I want to do a live interview. In like…thirty minutes. On her roof, in total darkness.”
“Chase…I’ve been ordered not to help you anymore.”
“Oh, come on! Carter sucks! Forget that guy.”
“You still don’t get it. He’ll kill me.”
“Fine, fine,” I sighed, which partially fogged my helmet visor. “But I hope you break free from his reign of terror. For your own sake.”
“Yeah, okay, whatever.”
“In the meantime, would you at least connect me with Teresa’s personal cell phone?”
* * *
I leapt easily onto the roof of the Channel Four News building, and by sheer happenstance I almost landed on Teresa Triplett. She was early.
The first Teresa Triplett/Outlaw interview was considered one of the most widely-circulated news articles of all time. The paper sold out four times, and the website crashed due to heavy traffic. The notoriety launched her into the upper stratosphere of celebrity reporters, and since our conversation in March she’d also interviewed the President, Academy Award winners, Nobel Peace Prize recipients, and even t
he Pope.
She was wealthy now; that was obvious, even in the dark. Her clothes had gone from professional and trendy to tailored and lavish. Her hair and makeup were flawless, though I’d given her no warning. She even smelled rich.
She gasped and nearly fell over, but I caught her. She giggled nervously, and then wrapped me up into an unexpected hug. I took the opportunity to scan the rooftop. My night-vision was improving; darkness had become several shades less black, for lack of better phrasing. We were alone.
I reduced my voice to a low growl. “What’s this for?”
Her voice was muffled. “I decided if I touched you immediately, I wouldn’t be scared of you.”
“Oh.”
She released and said, “Also it was a quick moment of indulgence.” She regained her composure, brushing hair back into formation. “Because of you, I have the career I always wanted. I’m very grateful you chose me for your interviews.”
“This will be a short one.”
“Speaking of…you don’t look quite as big.”
“My body can swell, like a muscle after exercise. Plus, I think people view me differently, depending on their fear level.”
A cameraman stumbled onto the roof, hauling equipment. He saw me and dropped a bag. “It’s him. Holy lord, it’s really him.”
“Rick,” she said, like reassuring a child that’s seen a ghost. “We’re professionals. And he’s nice. Get set up.”
I asked, “Just the one camera?”
“As you requested. I’d do this interview in a clown suit if you asked.”
