by Alan Janney
On reflex, one of them fired a .22 at me. The bullet clanked harmlessly against my vest. I didn’t even feel it. Their eyes widened further.
I pointed a finger at them. They cowered and trembled. “Bad news. Time to renounce your religion. I am a man with a disease,” I told them. “Not a god. God wouldn’t dress like this.”
“Mighty Outlaw,” came their cries. Some hit their knees. “Subjugate us in your mercy!”
“We seek to serve!”
“We seek your favor!”
“We only live to fulfill your will!”
I groaned. “Go home! I can’t even legally drink.”
“Bestow upon us your touch of blessing, inasmuch as you blessed the Priest!”
They were crying. Crying!
Samantha was already gone. So was their leader, the Priest.
“Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious!” I shouted. “Would a deity say that? No! Go back down the tracks and go home.”
I Jumped. They screamed again. Ugh.
I rendezvoused with Samantha in the abandoned Coca-Cola Bottling building on Central Avenue. I found her upstairs in a ransacked meeting room. She hung a battery-powered lantern in the corner. The Priest struggled on the long table, his hands tied behind his back, a bag over his head.
She grinned. “I remember when Carter and I did this to you. I thought you were going to kill us both.”
“My memory of it is less fond,” I grumbled.
She broke the bonds with a knife thrust and yanked the Priest’s bag off. He scrambled to his feet on top of the table.
The Priest was a handsome guy. He was tan, thin, had a strong jaw and a popular side-parted haircut worn by soccer players. His eyes blazed and he shoved his pointer finger into my face.
“You forget your place, apostate!”
“Better pull your finger back if you want to keep it,” I growled.
Wisely, he did. “How dare you touch me,” he sneered. “You defile me with your hypocrisy.”
“Hypocrisy? Don’t you worship me?”
“Worship a fallen idol? Pfah!”
Samantha apparently thought this was hilarious. She giggled and said, “Your worshipers hate you, Outlaw! What kind of god are you?!”
I glared at the Priest and admitted, “I am confused.”
“Of course you are,” he snapped, staring down his nose at me. I wish he wasn’t towering over my head. “Because you’ve turned your back on the truth.”
“Your religion is based on my deification. I’m here to show you that I’m human. Like you.”
“Our belief system is not contingent on you in the least,” he said dismissively. His eyes were feverish. “I permit the lesser minded to worship you as a bolster to their faith until they mature. I hold out hope for your repentance, but we follow the truth. Not a sham. Not a puppet.”
“Yeah. Well. Whatever. Stop using my name.”
“I can no longer stop championing the truth than I could stop breathing.”
Samantha dropped into a swivel chair and said, “Just curious, oh mighty Priest, but what is this truth?”
“The triumph of goodness and purity, and the downfall of arrogance and evil.” He spoke to her over his shoulder, like she was not worth looking at.
“Sounds good to me. You and I are on the same page there, at least,” I said.
“No we are not. You are a dissenter. A heretic who fell from your once prominent place.” He lashed me with his words like a whip. I felt guilty but I didn’t know why.
“What did I do? Why did I fall?”
Samantha stifled more laughter.
“You are not strong enough and gave yourself over to desires. We seek the Fire Angel now. Heaven’s true Avenger.”
“The Fire Angel?”
Samantha said, “I bet he means Hannah.”
“Oh no,” I shook my head. “Trust me. You don’t want none of that mess. She’s crazy.”
“Jesus Christ seemed crazy during his day too.”
“Yeah, but…he’s Jesus.”
“I am leaving now. I have a flock in need of a shepherd. But I will pray for you.”
Samantha said, “You’ll leave when we let you, Jesus.”
The Priest pulled out a small black device from his stylish brown trench coat. I didn’t like it. His thumb was on a red button. “I am leaving now. Else I’ll fill the room with electricity and we’ll see if you are deities or not.”
“We’re NOT deities,” I groaned. “That’s the whole point! And what is that thing?”
Samantha stood up slowly, no longer laughing.
“This is an electric grenade. A device to protect us from false gods. Such as yourselves.”
I looked at Samantha. “Electric grenade. Is that a real thing?”
“Dunno. Hope not.”
“Listen, you stupid zealot,” I growled. “Stop coming into the city. Innocent people are getting killed or captured. The Chemist is turning your followers into Chosen.”
“They go willingly. They become moles. Informants. Saboteurs. There is much you do not know.”
“No they don’t. They become animals. Slaves. Stay in your compound and worship your Avengers there. Better yet, send your followers away. And stop using my name.”
He locked eyes with me and for an instant I understood his growing infamy. He had a presence. A gravitas, a magnetic and feverish conviction.
“It’s not too late for you,” he whispered. “Repent. Find your conviction. Find your faith.”
“I don’t know what that meeeeeeeans!”
He hopped down from the table, brandished the electric grenade to stop Samantha’s advance, and disappeared through the dark doorway.
I said, “I don’t understand what just happened.”
“You need to get control of your worshipers.”
“He didn’t seem to be worshipping me, Shooter,” I pointed out.
“I don’t blame him. Your zipper’s down.”
Chapter Three
Thursday, January 4. 2019.
Tank
“Food!”
I didn’t move. Just stared at the ceiling.
“Big guy, you hungry? Chow time.”
Still didn’t move. Even though I was famished.
The short-haired girl had suggested starvation. The girl with guns. Keep him hungry. Keep him weak, she said. They took her advice.
I’m going to break her neck.
“Alright, big fella. I’ll leave the food tray in your cart. Pull it through when you’re hungry. Doc says you need to keep putting the cream on your face.” He left.
I liked him. He started last week. Government’s recent strategy, because the old one didn’t work.
They want my blood. They need samples. Couldn’t get the needles into my skin when I first arrived, so the short-haired girl told them to calm me down.
Don’t feed him. Take the blood when he’s asleep.
She’s a dead woman.
They tried. Tried everything to knock me out. Tried gases. Didn’t work; not even woozy. Tried shooting me with electricity, but I’m too fast. They don’t dare come in here with me. They stay behind their electrified steel. I would break them, otherwise.
I’m at the Federal Correction Institute, near the Navy base. Locked in a cage inside a big room. I can hear the ocean through my one window. All four walls and the ceiling of my cage are steel bars carrying electrical currents. Smart. But they made it too big, gave me too much room to move.
It’s dangerous. Guards are terrified of the bars. They won’t get close to them. Neither will I. Electricity hurts. So does fire.
They want my blood. Study it. Figure out why I’m a freak. Diagnose me. Use me to diagnose the girl on fire. Diagnose the Outlaw.
My new handler is nice. Nice cop. Maybe that’ll work. Last guy was the bad cop. I killed him. He got too close to the bars and I tossed my drink at him. The water splashed through the bars and connected with his face, transferring current for that single instant
.
That was a good day.
I sat up in bed. So tired.
My bed is a standard size, not big enough for me. I barely sleep. Starving.
Miss my parents. They half-heartedly pursue legal ways to release me, but they’re not sure what to think. I’m a freak. They’re humiliated. Visited me once.
Miss Katie. She sent me a letter. And a care package with chocolate.
Katie. She’ll be mine again one day. The Outlaw controls her somehow. Poisons her against me. But he won’t be around much longer. Going to put my thumbs into his ears and squeeze until they connect in the middle. My body always relaxes with the thought of his death. Plotting his death is like meditation.
I dragged myself out of the tiny bed and walked across the cold concrete. The eight-foot high bars were only twelve inches above my head. They crackled with power and tingled my skin.
I sat down with an exhausted grunt at the cage’s door and tugged on the string. A small wooden cart with wooden wheels rolled towards me, bringing food. Chicken and rice and juice.
Eating less than two thousand calories a day. I need over twice that. Maybe three times. The short-haired girl told them my body burns more calories than normal, even for a big guy like me. Don’t starve him but keep him weak, she said.
I’ve wondered what I’d do at full strength. Bust through the floor? It’s possible. Charge and go through the bars? Wouldn’t kill me. But I’d have to wake up before the other guards arrived.
Always one guard here. He stared at me from his stool, near the room’s entrance. Maybe at my face, which will bear horrible scars forever. Maybe at my bulk, which is impressive.
They told me I’m the most famous prisoner alive. News vans park outside. So they said. They want to help. So they said. Interviews. Doctors. If I’d just cooperate.
I ate the food. Not enough. Never enough.
We just want a sample of your blood, they said. What’s wrong with that? Give us a sample and we can feed you a little more.
What’s wrong with that? I’m pissed, that’s what’s wrong with that.
I might, though. If I get more food then I could escape.
I lumbered back to bed and collapsed into it. The frame is slowly bending.
So tired.
* * *
I woke up later that night, in time to see breaking news on CNN. The special was called, ‘Opening Communication with Hyper Humanity.’
I knew that man. The man on the screen. The bald one. Pretended to be my doctor. He’s got the same freak condition I do. He’s on TV?
I sat up. “Officer. Turn the volume up, please.”
First time I’d spoken to this particular guard. It startled him. My voice was still strong. He fumbled with the old television set until the volume increased.
“…and are you affiliated with the Outlaw?”
The bald man replied, “I’m not here to answer questions. I have a statement and then I’m leaving.”
The text beneath the bald man identified him as ‘Carter.’ That’s what Chase Jackson had called him too.
Carter continued, “Your situation is more precarious than you realize. The man you call the Chemist is essentially creating biological freaks he can unleash on your population, and it’s about to get worse. I’ve recently obtained proof that he is behind the capture of the world’s foremost geneticists and stem cell researchers. Happened two years ago. He’s crafting the destruction of the world while you and you government have your head up your ass.”
He was being interviewed by a lady off-screen. They were on an airport runway in the dark. Tonight? Right now? She said, “What are-”
“This is a civilization-changer. A world-breaker. A society-collapser. The Chemist is infecting thousands with a disease, altering normal young adults into aggressive and powerful monsters. An army.”
“Are you one of these aggressive and powerful people?”
“I’m not like his army. Neither is he. Neither is the Outlaw, we’re all different. These new creations aren’t as strong as we are. Yet.”
“But-”
“Time for me to go. Listen. Listen carefully. The Chemist is a man named Martin Patterson. I know him better than anyone. I know he has multiple saboteurs and moles in every branch of your military and government. I know his tendencies. And I know his goal is to remake our whole damn planet before he dies. You need my help. Hell, you need all the help you can get. I’m willing to consult with your military for thirty days, and then I’ll disappear. My price is ten million dollars a day.”
The bald man turned and the video ended abruptly.
A visitor was in my room. I hadn’t notice his entrance. He thumbed down the volume but continued to stare thoughtfully at the screen. The guard had disappeared.
My visitor was grotesquely thin. Old. Long gray hair tied in a ponytail. Wearing a long trench coat and leaning on a staff.
I heard him say, “Good for you, my old friend. Though you sell yourself short. You’re worth more than that. Should have asked ten times that amount.”
I stood up. I knew this man. But even if I didn’t, all the hairs on my body still stood on end. Like he changed the temperature. Something about him churned something within me. Emotions long dormant flared to life. I hated him. And I loved him.
I growled, “Chemist.”
He turned to face me. “Call me Martin.”
“No.”
“I’m glad Carter forwent cigarettes for his interview. Appearances are important, you realize.” He turned back to watch the silent television. “That should stir things up. But I wonder just how many informants he can identify?” He spoke softly to himself. I didn’t interrupt. This man was dangerous, despite his feeble appearance. My hands shook with the thought of hurting him. “A worthy opponent,” he whispered, and then turned to face me. “What did you think of his statement?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care.”
“Ah yes. Of course. Ogres can’t think. Yes? You’re just muscle?” He lowered himself carefully onto the stool. “Just a giant in full bloom.”
“Why are you here?”
“I watched the videos, you know. Of Hannah attacking you on the football field.” He smiled, indulging in my pain.
I’d seen the news. I knew the girl on fire was a cheerleader from Hidden Spring High come back from the dead and crashing parties.
The Chemist said, “I made her. Created her anew. Isn’t she breath-taking?”
“Not the word I’d choose.”
“Her skin can absorb small amounts of gasoline, and then burn like a torch for short periods of time. A fascinating side-effect. Unfortunately her hair always gets consumed in the flames, but her eyes and lungs and sinuses are impervious now. The virus is truly astonishing, yes?”
“I know nothing about it. No one has told me a thing.”
“Well, truth be told, Ogre, we know very little. Even me. I just inject my subjects with it, and then tinker with their bodies while the virus burns. It’s actually not even a virus. We just call it that. It works; that is enough.”
“Why are you here, old man?”
“For your blood.”
I shook my head. “You can’t have it.”
“Yes. Yes I can. You see, dear Ogre, I don’t care if you live. If I must, I’ll murder you in your cage and then get the blood. We can do either.”
“Why do you want it?”
He shrugged. “You’re a genetic abnormality, even without the disease. You’re an outlier. A giant. A beautiful one. And I require your DNA for a project.”
“What project?”
“It’s a secret.”
“Release me and you can have my blood peacefully.”
“Forgive me, but I’d prefer you dead, in fact. I cannot control you. I’m not here to bargain with a man behind bars.”
“Release me and you can have my blood and the secret identity of the Outlaw.”
His breath caught. His face was already pale, but what color he did pos
sess drained away. He gripped his staff with both hands.
“You possess this information?” he asked. His voice wavered pathetically, like he was faint.
“Yes.”
“A former colleague told me the Outlaw attended Hannah’s memorial service but there were hundreds of mourners. I couldn’t divine his identity from the photographs.”
I nodded. “I’m sure he was there.”
“Do you know where he is now?”
“No. I’m in a cage, old man. How would I know? But I know his name. And his address.”
He shifted in excitement and his eyes were wild. “I’m surprised you couldn’t use this information to bargain with your captors.”
“I tried. They weren’t interested. I think he’s got guys protecting him from the inside.”
“Fascinating. Some of your jailers know the Outlaw’s identity, and they aren’t blabbing? He is truly the most remarkable man. Such loyalty! How does he do that?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care.”
“We have a deal. You provide me blood and a name. In exchange, I provide you freedom.”
I arched an eyebrow.
He smiled and said, “You can trust me, Ogre. No foul play. I am a gentleman. I promise.”
“The Outlaw’s name is Chase Jackson. He’s a senior at Hidden Spring High. Now let me out.”
Chapter Four
Friday, January 5. 2019
Someone pounded on my front door. Then did it again. And again.
I groaned and rolled out of bed. Nine in the morning. Too early for visitors, especially near the end of Christmas vacation. Probably Samantha. She wanted me to start jogging. I was going to throw the couch at her.
I stumbled down our townhouse’s two flights of stairs to the main floor, full of sunlight and the remnant fragrance of Dad’s coffee. I opened the door. Special Agent Isaac Anderson stood there, looking like a winded and worried FBI Captain America.
“Hey FBI,” I grunted. “It’s early. Come back later.”
“Chase, pack your bags. We gotta go. Now.”
“Aw, why? I haven’t even had breakfast-”
