Outcasts

by Alan Janney

  My phone buzzed. PuckDaddy, the world’s foremost computer hacker, was calling me. I slipped a bluetooth earpiece into place and answered the call, but I didn’t speak. Hannah would hear.

  “Chase? Hello?? You there?”

  I tapped the earpiece twice.

  “Chase? Can you hear me?”

  Two more taps.

  “Can you speak?”

  More taps.

  “Okay. I’m tracking these 911 calls and texts. Is Hannah Walker there?? That’s what the calls are saying. Samantha is en route, but she’s ten minutes away!”

  “Hannah,” Katie was saying. “Let’s move outside.”

  “No.”

  “Hannah, let’s go for a walk? You and me.”

  “No.”

  “I want to. It’ll be fun. It’s a nice night.”

  “He is here, Katie.”

  “Who?” Katie asked, growing frantic. “Andy? Andy is here, but you don’t need him. Chase might be outside.”

  I stood near a wall of bookshelves. I retrieved two heavy metal bookends, projectiles in case I needed them.

  “Katie,” Samantha gasped. “Are you lying?”

  “Hannah-”

  “You’re lying, Katie.”

  I moved into the room, ready to throw. Enough of this.

  Samantha stood abruptly, facing the open front door, facing away from me. I heard it too. Sirens. The sudden move knocked Katie over.

  “Katie, did you call police?”

  “What? No, Hannah. I don’t have my phone with me.”

  “We are friends, Katie. I will come back if I can.”

  Hannah Moved. She went through the front door, a white streak, a phantom, and the students screamed.

  I rushed to Katie. “Are you okay?? Are you hurt?”

  “No.” She was still on the ground, crying. She flexed her fingers. “I’m fine. Nothing broken. That was scary.”

  “What??” Puck blurted in my ear. “Is Katie alright?? What happened?!”

  I said, “That was incredible, Katie. So brave. I about hyperventilated.”

  She smiled weakly and touched my face. “Some secrets are worth keeping.”

  The distant sound of cars crashing came through the front doors. I bounded the stairs and slid to a stop on the stone walkway in the front yard. Lights flashed two blocks away, turning the night blue and red. Three cop cars were parked in the intersection. One smashed in, like it’d been stepped on by a giant. Or an angry cheerleader.

  “She’s gone,” I said.

  Puck asked in my ear, “Who is? Hannah?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hey Nobody,” Andy Babington called. He staggered onto the lawn, holding his throat. “She was here for you, freak. Where were you? Way to let your stupid girlfriend do the work.”

  “She saved your life, Andy. So close your mouth.” I walked back inside to fetch Katie and take her home.

  “You’re an idiot, Jackson. I hate you. You ruin everything.”

  Well. He wasn’t wrong.

  Chapter Two

  Tuesday, January 3. 2019

  Hannah Walker, the pretty white girl from Glendale who died in the Compton fires, was alive and at-large. Although media outlets were overrun with wild stories and viewers grew somewhat numb to this bizarre new world, the Hannah Walker reappearance story dominated headlines, largely because she made a beautiful page one photo. Students were interviewed. Photographs examined. Puzzle pieces put together, and the conclusion reached that she had been the football mutant’s attacker in November. She had somehow survived the fire, and now she roamed free.

  “Dad stationed a patrol car in front of our house,” I reported.

  “Doesn’t matter. Not enough.” Samantha Gear shook her head. “You need to move.”

  “I don’t want to move.”

  “She knows where you live, Chase. Well, kinda. Even if she forgot, she’ll locate it again.”

  “I wish you’d just find her.”

  She growled, “I’ve tried. Tracked her everywhere. That scent of hers is hard to miss. Followed her for miles, but she slips away. Like she knows I’m coming.”

  Samantha Gear is striking. Like most Infected, she’s ramrod straight and muscular. She is pretty the way an eagle is pretty. Her hair is short in a style that Katie once identified as a bob. She’s also one of the most dangerous people alive.

  We were sitting on leather captain chairs inside PuckDaddy’s futuristic mobile headquarters. He’d purchased the nicest RV money can buy and invested another $300,000 transforming it into a rolling computer lab, constantly utilizing local wifi hotspots, ten different cellular signals and direct satellite feed. He paid four drivers to shuttle him around America. They worked in pairs, a week at a time, swapping shifts every twelve hours, paid so handsomely they never questioned the arrangement. From this data hub, Puck monitored and accessed all the digital earth.

  He rarely used the bed, spending twenty-four hours a day at his machines. They brought him sanity, he explained. He slept once every four days, habitually in his chair. Only one time in two years had he ventured outside his RV, and that was to eat Thanksgiving dinner with us. Being away from his computers had visibly drained him and he returned after two hours.

  Puck’s legs were gone, starting at mid-thigh. He still hadn’t explained. He sat on a swivel chair inside a cone of technology. Four keyboards, each with two monitors, at his fingertips. Above the eight computer monitors were ten television sets, tuned to news programs or security camera feeds. He could type on different keyboards with each hand while watching television. He was Infected, and the disease manifested itself in this bizarre fashion.

  Samantha and I watched live satellite camera feed on the big screen television above our chairs. We could see the entire military barricade surrounding Downtown. Highway 101 and the Five bristled with patrolling jeeps and machine-gun checkpoints. This enemy-occupied territory was unlike Compton, which had been an entire city’s populace taken hostage. Downtown Los Angeles was largely evacuated before the Chemist and his forces moved in. Instead of a hundred thousand captives allowed to freely roam the streets and live their lives, five thousand hostages were stashed in the towers and held at gunpoint.

  The Chemist, an Infected terrorist and madman, had attempted demolishing the Downtown spires. His plans had been foiled by a devilishly handsome, swashbuckling high school senior in a wing-suit. And his cohorts. Almost simultaneously, the people of Compton had united and heaved out the enemy occupying forces, nonviolently freeing themselves from the terrorists. Suddenly homeless and foiled, the Chemist had moved in and populated Downtown with his thousands of followers and Chosen. Now the city was a jungle, chiefly without power except for scattered generators. Commercial towers transformed into castles. Apartments into battlements. Entire streets were caved in, the 777 Tower was a pile of ruble, huge gashes ripped the surfaces of almost every high-rise, fires burned at random, and actual tigers prowled the alleys. But worst were the Chosen. They climbed buildings, screamed like howler monkeys, stalked the streets, and repelled invaders. He manufactured hundreds, and was adding to the number every day.

  The American military conducted strategic airstrikes on targets they deemed safe from collateral damage, but there was no evidence the attacks hampered the enemy.

  Despite being only seven feet from us, Puck’s voice came through our earpieces. “Almost there.”

  Samantha replied, “Roger that.” The RV rocked and hummed through south LA, near Inglewood.

  I said, “Puck told me where you’ve been sleeping.”

  Samantha scoffed, “Good for you.”

  “You can sleep inside our house, you know.”

  “I won’t do much good if I’m inside. And asleep.”

  “You don’t sleep?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “You stay awake the whole night??” I cried.

  She scowled. “If you moved, I wouldn’t have to stand guard. Too many people want to destroy you, and y
ou’re easily accessible.”

  “Who wants to destroy me? Hannah? Hannah loves me,” I countered.

  “Hannah wants no one else to have you, moron. She’s insane and she’d kill you without blinking. …not even sure she can blink.”

  “Who else are you guarding against?”

  “Tank.”

  “He’s in jail.”

  She shook her head. “Not for long. And the Chemist will find you sooner or later. You need to move.”

  Puck reported, “One mile out.”

  I asked, “Where would I move?”

  She shrugged. “Don’t care. Somewhere else. Richard needs to move too.”

  “Don’t call my father Richard.”

  “Richard could move into my truck, now that I think about it.”

  “I will vomit. Directly into your lap.”

  She grinned. “What? My truck’s cabin is comfortable! Two people could sleep in it. If we got creative.”

  “Samantha. I’m serious.”

  “It’d be nice and hot. Wouldn’t even need the heater.”

  Before she could react, I undid the clasp on her shoulder holster. She caught the leather harness as it slipped but the movement distracted her; I put my hand under her hamstring and flipped her off the chair. She landed on her back with an angry grunt.

  She hissed, “I hate how fast you are.”

  “Don’t talk about my dad then, you big whore.”

  “Chase!” she laughed. “You may NOT call your future mother a whore.” She stood and brushed herself off while I debated throwing her from the moving vehicle.

  “Hey guys,” Puck called. I heard his voice from his techno-cage and from the speaker in my ear. “Check this out. I’m putting it on screen.”

  The television changed to a different satellite picture. This video feed was zoomed in on an intersection inside enemy territory. An interesting conflict was developing. Chemist gunmen and Chosen were arguing about something we couldn’t hear, but we could see them bickering.

  “Five armed gunmen,” Samantha said, indicating figures with her finger. “Three Chosen, I think. Wish we could hear them.”

  Puck groaned, “I know. It’s like we live in the stone age.”

  I said, “The guy with the shaved head is the boss. Right?”

  “Appears so. But they aren’t happy with him.”

  “There’s an inherent hierarchy within the Chemist’s chaos. A method to his madness,” I mused.

  “I want to know how the chain of command is enforced,” Samantha said, her mouth a grim line. “Who gets promoted. Who doesn’t. How it’s identified. And how discipline is administered.”

  “I don’t think it’s that complicated. I think it happens organically.”

  “That’s what Carter says,” she grunted. “But I want proof.”

  That got my attention. “Carter contacted you?”

  “Twice so far. Just a general update.”

  “I thought he cut ties.”

  “Carter is in the business of resources and information. You and I are one of the many moving pieces on his chessboard. I think he sees me now like he once saw Martin. Not an ally, but not an enemy. A professional acquaintance.”

  “How does he see me?”

  “As a threat. A ticking time bomb. If the Chemist captures you, the world will never be the same. Carter knows that. Plus, you’re one of two or three people on earth capable of killing Carter.”

  “Are you capable?”

  “No. I lose that fight ninety-nine times out of a hundred.”

  “How do you know?”

  She shrugged. “Just do.”

  Puck called, “Agreed.”

  “See, that’s how I think his Chosen work.” I pointed at the intersection on screen. “They just know who’s the strongest. And might makes right in their world. The Chemist allows them to toil autonomously because he built them with a…constitutional need to obey the powerful. The strongest is in charge, like in the wild.”

  “What do you mean ‘built them’?”

  “He told me he put his DNA inside those tigers. He’s doing something other than just squirting his blood into people’s veins. I think he’s altered the virus. He wants the Chosen to be more…obedient.”

  She was scowling in thought, her bright eyes intense. “Infected are not obedient.”

  “Exactly! Carter has a mutiny on his hands because his Infected co-workers hate following orders. Plus, remember Carla? She wasn’t obedient to the Chemist. Infected don’t obey. But his Chosen do.”

  She sucked on her bottom lip a moment. “The disease interacts with us differently, the same way a common cold affects individuals with different symptoms. You’re suggesting the virus gives us different levels of power, and the Chemist altered the disease cocktail so his new creations will inherently assume their place in a hierarchy? Without even being aware of it?”

  “Otherwise they’d attack each other. We Infected don’t like being around our own kind. Somehow, he solved this problem with the new ones.”

  “If might makes right then, because of your freakish power, wouldn’t you be their natural leader? Or Tank? Damn, imagine how they’ll react around Tank.”

  “They hate me. Attack me on sight. So Chosen don’t obey everyone stronger than they are. The Chemist had a trigger which made the tigers attack me and no one else. Maybe he’s doing the same thing with them?”

  “Hannah Walker didn’t attack the Outlaw. She seemed disinterested with you, on top of the tower.”

  “I think her mind is broken beyond tinkering. We’re just lucky she couldn’t smell Chase Jackson up there in the swirling winds.”

  Samantha shuffled restlessly in her chair. “So how does the Chemist make new Chosen obedient to him but hate you?”

  “No idea.”

  She said, “None of this explains why Infected aren’t repelled by you. We’re drawn to you.”

  “Must be a rare side-effect. Watch, here comes another Chosen.”

  On screen, another girl approached the argument, which was now bordering on violence. The girl was small with dark hair. Possibly east Asian. She clearly had the disease inside her. A thousand attributes screamed it, even at this distance.

  The men noticed her and stopped. She was the only girl. They backed away. We couldn’t hear the conversation, but she was shouting. She gestured. They obeyed.

  “Do you see?” I whispered. “The disease is stronger in her. They feel it.”

  “I see.”

  “She’s the smallest, but the most powerful. She’s naturally in charge, until a bigger and stronger animal comes along.”

  She chuckled. “You might be onto something, Outlaw.”

  PuckDaddy interrupted our thoughts. “Contact,” he announced. “Samantha, your motion sensors detected movement and I confirmed with the camera. Target is coming up the corridor. Right on schedule.”

  “Roger that,” she said. “Let’s move.”

  “Girl, you KNOW I love it when you talk all tactical!”

  I pulled my mask into place.

  Puck’s vehicle rolled to a stop and we jumped into a hidden alley. We were beyond the border of the Chemist’s southern boundary, near the unfinished SoLA Village South Tower. We climbed the steel skeleton five hundred feet into the air as quickly as possible.

  Other than the war zone, southern California is beautiful. The sky is an infinite blue, cool and crisp, and the distant ocean sparkles with sunlight. Ahead of us, the San Gabriel Mountains were tipped with winter snows.

  Los Angeles International Airport was shut down. Zero air traffic. The Chemist had destroyed multiple pipelines, resulting in oil shortages. Gas was twenty dollars a gallon. All modes of transportation were struggling, not just air travel. Even the military cut back.

  Lee finished Samantha Gear’s vest two weeks ago. It was just like mine, complete with parachute and wings, except hers didn’t have red Outlaw stitching. He practically hyperventilated while measuring her.

 
Puck spoke into our ears, “Military cameras spotted you two on the tower.”

  I replied, “Let them watch. I’m wearing my mask and Samantha is tired of hiding.”

  Soon we’d be forced to clarify which military we referred to. The American government (including armed forces) was split straight down the middle, being pulled apart by Chemist followers, including Blue-Eyes, the beautiful girl controlling Washington. Skirmishes erupted daily on military bases.

  America was reeling. So was the world. And the culprit may or may not be sitting in the city below us, pumping more blood with impunity.

  But we weren’t here for him.

  We Jumped and deployed wings, causing us to fall forward instead of downward. Our enemies could see us if they glanced towards the southern horizon. I hoped they saw. I wanted them afraid. To know the Outlaw stalked them. To give hope to the hostages. Samantha and I streaked east at a hundred miles per hour, released the wings and free fell out of sight.

  The Alameda Corridor was a sparkling new railway system, connecting Downtown residents to Long Beach and the whole Pacific Ocean. A few months ago the train had shuttled thousands back and forth each day. Now it was useless, an empty passage twisting through Greater Los Angeles on raised platforms and through underground trenches. It was vacant. Except for the Priest and a small detachment of his cult, silently exploiting this ignored ingress into Downtown.

  A bizarre religion was gaining notoriety. The worshipers proclaimed the Outlaw a deity, and they built a church and sanctuary for his adorers just north of Los Angeles. A man called The Priest headed the cult. A charismatic radical hellbent on causing trouble. He and small groups of followers kept sneaking into the Chemist’s territory, sometimes with disastrous results.

  We floated on parachutes above the zealots as they neared the end of the Alameda Corridor. They never looked up, so focused were they on potential dangers ahead. I gave the signal to Samantha. We retracted our parachutes and landed in their midst.

  The rabble screamed and scattered. This was the first I’d seen them up close; men and women wearing dirty black vests and red Outlaw masks. Of the twenty, half had rods slung over their backs, cheap imitations of my powerful Thunder Stick (a stupid nickname Samantha thought up- I couldn’t think of a better one). The other half had pistols.