by Alan Janney
Soon Rick was ready, Teresa got the cue from her producer, and we were rolling.
“This is Teresa Triplett, reporting with Channel Four News from Los Angeles. Please forgive the poor lighting, but it was a prerequisite for this interview, at the behest of the Outlaw himself, making a welcomed appearance at last. Outlaw, these are dark and scary times for us Los Angelenos. Since your warning earlier this year, our world has erupted. We’re desperate to know: who are you, and how did you know trouble was on the horizon?”
Her question caught me off guard, and I stammered, “I’m a friend of Los Angeles. But that’s not why I’m here.”
“The Chemist appeared soon after our last interview, and America still doesn’t know what to do about him and his terror group. What involvement do you have with him?”
“I am his enemy. Just like you. But while-”
“We have footage of you and the Chemist and others doing things that defy normal human limitation. Who are these people?”
“Teresa,” I said, and I took her fist and microphone in both my hands. She tried to pull away, but my fingers were iron. Her hand shuddered and she tried suppressing fear. “You want to have a rapid-fire question and answer session. But we’re not.”
“The people of Los Angeles-”
I spoke over her words. “I am here for the people. And I want to speak to them.” I looked into the camera, which I hoped conveyed the gravity of my careful word selection. “I bring a warning. The evil you face is stronger than you realize. Stronger than I realized. Their sinister influence has even reached members of our government and military, preventing decisive action. But the darkness will not prevail. Not if forces of good band together. I will not rely on the government, and neither should you. Good men and women must cast evil out where they find it.
“But this battle will not be won overnight. And in the meantime, you are in danger. I suggest, if you have children and you have the means to leave Los Angeles, you should.”
Teresa couldn’t mask her astonishment. “Evacuate? Which areas?”
“All areas. We’re not just fighting the Chemist. His strength has grown, and so have his weapons. We’re battling hatred and arrogance and disease and our own biases. We’ll not win with brute force alone.”
“Then how…how will we…”
“Leave, if you can. Otherwise, stay here with me and together we’ll drive out the darkness. Together. The Outlaw doesn’t fight for you. The Outlaw fights with you.”
* * *
Dad gave me a high-five. “Best one yet, kiddo. I’m inspired.”
Puck texted me, >> dang Outlaw nice 1
Lee texted me, >> OUTLAW!!! CHASE!!! AAAAAAAAAA THAT WAS AWSOME!!!!
Katie texted me, >> Did you see the Outlaw interview? I love him so much.
Natalie North texted me, >> Goosebumps, my superhero. I have goosebumps. If I didn’t have a boyfriend, you’d be in trouble tonight. =) (By the way, that was still too short. You MUST do the Time interview)
The Chemist emailed me.
So you are a true believer. How disappointing.
I will enjoy breaking you.
And Los Angeles.
And your girlfriend.
I’m coming for you, Brutus.
I will discover your real name.
I will find out where you live.
I will knock on your door.
I will tear down your high places.
-Martin
His notes had become shorter. That was a bad sign, I bet.
I trudged upstairs, tired and eager for bed. Before entering, some preternatural awareness, some sensory receptor I didn’t even know was active, detected movement within my room. I had a visitor.
Katie! My day just got a lot better.
A girl was under the sheets.
But. No. It wasn’t Katie…
Like a sensual phoenix molded imperfectly and scandalously from worn clay, Hannah Walker was reclining in my bed, smiling and resting on her elbow. In the light of my lamp, her injuries appeared more severe. The virus had prevented her destruction, but her skin was thick and twisted, like a burn victim. Her smile was stretched and her eyelids didn’t close properly, unable to hide the madness therein. She wasn’t wearing anything other than the sheet.
“Hello quarterback.”
Facts and memories began bursting like fireworks in my mind.
She doesn’t know Chase Jackson is the Outlaw.
Carla said Hannah was obsessed.
And insane.
The world thinks she’s dead.
She’s Infected, powerful enough to bring the house down.
Dad is downstairs.
I can’t call Puck or Carter for help.
The police wouldn’t be able to handle her.
What on earth should I do…????
“Hello…Hannah.”
“You don’t seem surprised to see me.” Her voice was still a painful rasp, though perhaps stronger now. I bet the virus was healing her, still.
“I’m very surprised! Just a little stunned.” I sat cautiously at the head of the bed. She laid down fully, head on my pillow, looking upwards at me through lashes and short blond hair. “How are you…alive?”
“A man saved me. An amazing man. The Father.”
What would Carter do? Probably kill her. What would Croc do? Or Samantha Gear? I had no idea.
She smiled, “Have you missed me?”
I answered truthfully. “I’m very very glad you didn’t die. I cried. A lot. Are you living with your parents?”
“I just visited them.”
“Good. Did they…I bet they were…how did it go?”
“Now they are dead.”
Her eyes remained on mine, unblinking, shallow blue pools, clean and free from human emotion. In the air I smelled the tang of gasoline. “Is that a joke?”
“I only need one Father.”
“Hannah, your parents, did you-”
“I will take you to him. To the Father.”
“Have you been to a doctor? Maybe we should go see one.”
“I don’t need a doctor.” She yawned and stretched indolently, pressing arms over her head and touching my skin with her fingers, remarkably warm. “The Father said I am Twice Chosen, doubly blessed, and I will live forever.”
“The gift that will keep on giving,” I mumbled.
“I slept for years and years,” she sighed, “and dreamed only of you. Loving you. Marrying you. Killing you. Burning you. Kissing you. Your cheerleader. My quarterback. My future.”
I had no words. My mouth moved futilely.
“Now we can be together, while all the world burns. And burns. And screams.” Her eyes were mostly closed, her voice softer.
“Hannah…”
“You’re not in love with anyone,” she said, a trace of malice in her syllables. “I know you waited. For me.”
Katie.
Did Hannah really kill her own parents? I wouldn’t doubt it.
Katie.
Does Hannah remember? After we broke up, I admitted to her I loved Katie. Dear God, please let Hannah forget.
“Hannah, who knows you’re still alive? Any of your old friends? Or family?”
“No,” she cooed. “The Father says it is not time.” She suddenly sat up, facing me. The sheet fell from her shoulders. “I cannot stay awake long, not yet. The Father told me that will change. Eventually. But you can have me. While I sleep. My quarterback.”
I snatched my comforter from the floor and threw it around her. Despite the injuries, she maintained a very eye-catching physique. I pulled both sides of the comforter closed, like a robe, and she leaned against me, her head nestled under my chin, my arms around her shoulders.
“I am happy,” she said. Her breath caressed my neck, and again I smelled gasoline.
“Hannah-”
“For the first time, I am happy. Please, Chase. Please don’t leave me? Not again? The dreams, Chase. The fire. Please?”
I coul
dn’t help it; tears sprang into my eyes. Hannah Walker had been a bizarre and brutal girlfriend, and gotten even worse after we broke up. And she died at least partly because of her prejudices and arrogance. And now she was insane and possibly a murderer. But…she also sounded like a frightened little girl, desperately needing to be loved.
I’m not Carter. I don’t use people, don’t require things of them, don’t abandon them in times of need. I will be the opposite of Carter.
“I won’t leave you,” I said. “I will help. As best I can.”
Her head nodded but she was already asleep.
A short time later, the Outlaw carried Hannah’s sleeping body into Gateway, a local mental health center. She slept like a baby. The sliding doors slid open for us and the tired receptionist gaped.
I announced, “I need to speak with the doctor on duty. And we’ll probably need a straightjacket.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Friday, October 22. 2018
The news broke the following day; Mr. and Mrs. Walker had been murdered in their sleep. Police had no suspects.
What do I doooooooooo?!?! Hello, police? Yeah, the murderer is their daughter, who's been dead the past six months. She’s insane and freakishly strong and will probably kill you if you wake her up.
The staff at Gateway had been very helpful, and took in Hannah based solely upon my request. I’d probably been granted extra favors due to being the Outlaw. As Katie put it, I was being given perks.
But what else could I do with her? I didn’t know yet. I couldn’t just ship her back to the Chemist. Hey! Keep track of your stuff!
I left a long note for her, explaining I would come visit soon, and I wasn’t abandoning her, and I was so glad she was alive. I hadn’t signed it, so no one would connect Chase Jackson to the Outlaw.
Speaking of the Outlaw, I was telling Katie the truth about him. About the Outlaw. Monday night, right after she broke up with Tank. Whether she freaked out or not, it was time.
Besides, she’d be fine with it. Right?
The other big news story of the day: the Los Angeles exodus began. Apparently some of the city’s embattled citizens believed me, and they left. City officials estimated thirty thousand residents packed up and fled by supper time. A drop in the bucket compared to the fifteen million living in greater Los Angeles, but more would follow. City planners and politicians publicly decried the migration, labeling me a doomsayer and warning about disruptions to the local economy.
That night, we won our final football game before playing the Patrick Henry Dragons. It was an effortless affair, an easy victory, so I threw an interception to help the other team out. And to make my stats look more human.
I drove Katie home afterwards. She nibbled on my neck the whole way. “This doesn’t count as kissing,” she said. At her door, I returned the favor. She gasped and laughed and told me to stop and then we were kissing. Her mouth was warm and eager to please. Too soon her mom burst through the door and pushed us apart.
“No!” she scolded us. “You two wait! It is not time!”
I snuck around to the rear sliding doors, but her mom met me there too, glaring at me from the curtains like a specter. “You!” she said, stifling a smile. “I thought Chase was a gentleman! You should not sneak into young girls’ bedrooms!”
“Yes ma’am,” I said sheepishly. Katie was inside, giggling. “I love her. So much!”
Her face melted, and I thought she miiiiight let me in…but her resolve stiffened at the last moment, and she slammed the door closed.
* * *
The military finally retaliated at midnight, launching a full invasion. The Chemist’s stronghold was assailed on three different fronts: 1) Navy SEALs and the FBI’s HRT and Army Rangers all HALO jumped into Paramount; 2) the army’s infantry pushed into Compton from Downtown, overwhelming forces moving en masse; and 3) the carrier strike group, parked ten miles off the California coast, launched strategic missile strikes to support the efforts.
In future history books, military experts will credit the Chemist’s deeply embedded moles and spies for the disaster. The attack was anything but a surprise to the Chemist.
The army’s infantry was slaughtered, a true national tragedy. Twenty thousand soldiers forced their way south without significant resistance, until the trap was fully set. Only after retreat became impossible did Walter give the signal; kill them all. Bombs and gunfire and carnage, ten city blocks wide and ten city blocks deep. The few tanks and aircraft providing support were easy prey for Walter’s unending supply of rockets. After the initial massacre, Infected roamed the killing-fields like Death with his scythe, too fast to be resisted with any efficiency. The soldiers fought and died bravely, taking with them as many enemies as possible. Afterwards, in the burnt wasteland that used to be Northern Compton, fifteen thousand soldiers and two thousand terrorists lay dead, and the Chemist chuckled darkly on his throne undisturbed.
The paratroopers in Paramount fared much better, but only because the enemy willingly surrendered the territory. Paramount was retaken by America, but the price was far too high.
The media loudly wondered where the Outlaw and the Fearsome Four were during the battle. I really hated that nickname. The Outlawyer’s frontman, the increasingly troublesome Priest, released a YouTube video denouncing the bloodbath as just retribution for casting aside the Outlaw.
The other question on everyone’s lips - How would the Chemist respond? Surely it would be cataclysmic.
I watched the news alone the following morning, crying tears of frustration. Dad was downtown, but alive. He hadn’t woken me in the middle of the night. Neither had Puck. Samantha was gone.
I texted Isaac Anderson. WHY?? Why didn’t you tell me?? We could HELP!! You need monsters to fight these monsters!!
He replied quickly. >> I had no idea. The government is divided, and many of us were never even notified this was coming. Impossible, but true. We haven’t been this divided since Vietnam, or maybe the Civil War. Besides, despite our victories and public accolades, I’m not trusted. I’m very unpopular right now.
That makes two of us.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Friday, October 29. 2018
Monday was supposed to be the best day of my life. In fact, I penciled that on my calendar. Katie would break up with Tank. I’d drive straight to her door and ask her out on a real date, for that very night. During the most romantic date of all time, I’d confess I was the Outlaw. She would understand and marry me on the spot.
But. Nothing goes as planned.
My intention was to trail them to Tank’s condo, in case he got violent, but Katie departed during football practice without telling me. Katie’s mom drove her downtown, and she was waiting for Tank when he returned from his own football practice. She dumped him in the lobby, while her mom watched from the car.
“I told him I wanted to do it in person, because I respected him so much,” she told me, through her tears.
“What’d he say?”
“Nothing! He was silent. That was the creepy part.”
Without word, Tank got into the elevator and left. Katie and her mom drove off, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.
Halfway home, as they exited the Five, an unmarked car side-swiped them, forcing their Camry off the road and into a cluster of palm trees. It was a hit-and-run and the perpetrator got clean away. Ms. Lopez’s driver-side door caved in, breaking her shoulder. She also suffered severe seat-belt burns and a concussion. Katie was scared but unscathed.
I visited them in the hospital that night, and Katie cried while telling me the whole story. On Tuesday, Ms. Lopez came home from the hospital. On Wednesday, Katie stayed home from school.
The identity of the attacker remained a mystery. I had an educated guess, but no way to prove it.
Croc and Gear only attended classes once that week, just enough so they could play Friday night against Patrick Henry. Samantha nodded grimly when she heard the news about Katie, but she didn�
��t respond. Croc didn’t speak the whole day. Neither looked well, like they weren’t sleeping. Our lunch table was a somber vacuum of joy.
Finally, Friday.
In the sports world, our showdown became national news thanks to Tank’s freakish and historic season (and partly thanks to mine, despite my best efforts). The Dragons were the number one ranked 5A team, with ten players receiving full scholarships to division-one college teams. My team, the Eagles, were ranked number five. The winner would move on to state play-offs as the heavy favorite.
Rumors circulated that after the game, assuming the Dragons won, during the pageants and celebrations and confetti, Tank would officially sign a letter-of-intent to play at USC.
I wanted to rain on that parade.
Our school bus lumbered into the city, traveling against the outbound congestion. Another ten thousand were taking to their heels, families leaving Los Angeles behind, heading for greener pastures. With dour satisfaction I watched the traffic, much of which had luggage strapped to the roof, through the bus window.
Samantha spoke up from the adjacent seat. “I think it was a good idea.”
Her voice startled me; she hadn’t spoken since Wednesday. Croc sat beside her, eyes closed, listening to music through headphones. “What was?”
“Telling people to abandon the city.”
“What did Carter think?”
“Didn’t care. He’s moved on. Cat’s out of the bag, so to speak.”
I glanced at Cory, sitting next to the window. He was absorbed in a game on his phone, not paying attention.
I asked her, “Is Carter still planning on leaving?”
“This weekend. Maybe Monday.”
“Why are you talking now? Are you no longer mad at me?”
“Mad at you?” To my absolute astonishment, her eyes welled up. An actual tear! I didn’t know Samantha could cry. “Wow. Sometimes I forget that you know nothing.”
Our bus plunged into the shadow of downtown canyons. Soon, Dragon banners began adorning the storefronts. Green and black bedecked fans streamed in increasing numbers towards the stadium. We lurched into the parking lot and police were forced to push back Dragon fanatics, booing and screaming at us. The coaches and players scampered off the bus and hurried into the visiting team’s tunnel as rotten fruit rained down, splattering the pavement with pulp gore. Samantha cackled and taunted them, pirouetting and side-stepping the aerial bombardment.
