Followed East

by Andre Gonzalez

  “The president? Why would I get to meet the president?”

  Gerard chuckled. “Relax, kid, it’s part of the process. Everyone who’s ever been a part of The Crew receives final approval from the president. It’s not so much approval—by then you’ve already gone through hell and back—as it is an introduction. President Kennedy started the tradition, wanting to know the faces of every person working to protect the entire planet. And that’s really all it is: a tradition. You’ll have passed the most difficult test in this country, so as an honor, you get to meet with the president in the Oval Office for about 15 minutes.”

  “Wow,” Kyle said, unsure what else to say.

  “Let’s get started, shall we?”

  * * *

  The next two weeks felt like one long, horrendous day for Kyle. He spent every waking moment in the classroom, with occasional breaks in the Outside Room to gather his bearings. Otherwise, between the hours of eight in the morning and six at night, Kyle sat in the classroom learning everything under the sun and moon about the Exalls and The Crew. His brain felt like an overflowing file cabinet having more documents stuffed into it. The desire to play in the gaming room after dinner faded to the way of an urge to sleep. He slept at least ten hours every night, but still woke up exhausted. He lost track of the days, only knowing it was Sunday when an alarm didn’t sound off in the morning. Even on his only day off, he opted to sleep in until noon and lounge around in his pajamas all day.

  After the two weeks of strict learning, Kyle’s training shifted to the gym. He was expected to get into shape while learning basic combat techniques in the mornings, a brief classroom session after lunch, and then finish the day with cardio workouts.

  For someone who typically loitered in the weight room during baseball’s preseason workouts, the days in the gym steamrolled his body like an 18-wheeler. Fortunately, The Crew provided a special ointment for him to apply to his muscle aches each night. The ointment, devised in the laboratory by government scientists, tingled when first applied, then turned the affected areas completely numb. By the time he woke the following morning, all pain and soreness had vanished as if someone had just zapped it away.

  And so his body grew, gaining muscle every week as he lifted weights, swam, ran, and learned the art of different fighting techniques like Krav Maga, Brazilian Jiu Jitsu, wrestling, and boxing.

  “Even though the Exalls cannot feel pain, you can stun them with these techniques,” his instructor, Ira Yung, had told him. “A foot to the throat will still send them sailing backward and buy you a few seconds. I’ve heard plenty of stories where one of our own survived because they escaped after physically fighting off an Exall. It’s not the ideal situation to be in, but it can happen. And you must be prepared.”

  Somewhere in the midst of the training, Kyle had filled out a consent form for a psychiatric evaluation. They wanted to make sure his mind was okay after the grueling start to the program, but they also wanted ammunition to shout at him during a sparring session.

  Some days Ira would blurt out random things in the middle of a fight. “Your parents’ divorce is all your fault. So was your grandmother’s death! Brian is an Exall now, and he wants to come for you.”

  Kyle let the words get to him, sparking instant rage as he fought out of control. Ira promptly ended the fight with a series of combinations that left Kyle on the ground panting for his breath, Ira’s foot held firmly over his throat.

  “Get up!” Ira barked. Kyle flailed to his feet, blood rushing in every direction. “Unacceptable! You can’t ever let your emotions get the best of you when dealing with these monsters. You think what I’m saying is bad? They will fuck with your mind one hundred times worse. You have to be ready for the foulest things, and keep your focus.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry doesn’t cut it, Wells. There is no ‘sorry’ out there. You make that mistake in a real encounter with the Exalls and it will be the last mistake you make in your life. Remember that. They know how to fight, but they’re not that great at it. They rely on mind games to make you snap. You need to learn how to seal your mind from their words, put a wall up around your head that only you can see through. Does that make sense?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ira panted for breath still, the exercise providing him with a good workout as well. “We’re gonna get you into some psychology classes. We have doctors who can teach you how to zone out all of the noise and give you complete focus. They can even show you how to keep an Exall from hijacking your brain—it’s not as hard as you’d think. It’s a great course, really. I’ll see if our doctor is free to begin with you tomorrow.”

  They returned to one final sparring session, Kyle nagged by the constant wonder of what the Exalls could possibly say that was worse.

  11

  Chapter 11

  Dr. Klemens and Brian enjoyed their time on the road together. At a gas station near the Colorado and Kansas border, they upgraded their truck to a black 2018 Ford F-150. It provided so much space that Brian reclined his seat and put his feet up for most of the trip.

  This was also where they let their new friends out of their watch after they all hid together for two weeks in another open field 100 miles east of where the attacks had taken place in Stratton. They spent their time learning about their new abilities with the guidance of Dr. Klemens and Brian.

  “Be free, my friends,” Klemens had told them, standing in the bed of the truck while everyone gathered around at one in the morning. “Go out and spread the news about our kind. Show them the light as I have shown you, ladies and gentlemen. Bring your friends to us, your neighbors, even your family. With enough of us, there will be no stopping what we can do.”

  The group, who had all watched their skins turn gray and their eyes blacken over the last day, howled in appreciation. Then they left the gas station, walking through the night as silently as a cemetery security guard doing their rounds, death hanging in the air.

  “Where are they going?” Brian asked.

  “Looks like everywhere,” the doctor replied, admiring the group of ten new Exalls scattering every which way. “They’ll be near civilization in the morning and we’ll have doubled our numbers again. But you and I must be going – we have a long trip to D.C.”

  “I told you I don’t want to go. I’m not going to hurt Kyle.”

  “That’s precious, but we don’t have a choice. I can feel it tugging at me—that’s where we need to go.”

  Brian had debated running off on his own at least two hundred times, leaving this madman to do whatever he needed, but he also felt the tug, like a mystical rope pulling them to Washington, gradually inching them closer. And even though he said he didn’t want to hurt Kyle, his subconscious—or his inner Exall, whatever it was—said differently. It was as if he had two minds, one wanting to return to his normal life as a high school student, the other wanting to go to D.C. to find Kyle and slash open his throat.

  If you don’t kill him first, he’ll kill you. Brian remembered the words the doctor had eerily whispered one night as they sat around their campfire. He only sees you as an evil creature now. As far as he knows, his friend is dead and you’re just the gray piece of scum responsible. He’ll shoot you so fast—

  Brian had to continually shake his head free of these thoughts. Kyle could be reasoned with—that’s just the way he was. He wouldn’t shoot Brian on first sight.

  “But I want to gut him like a fish,” Brian blurted, slapping his hand directly to his mouth as if the words had come out on their own.

  The doctor howled. “That’s the spirit. Let’s go.”

  Even if Brian did run away, the doctor would just come find him. He had a sense for the events at hand and seemed hellbent on following this internal tug.

  They returned to the truck, its owner dead in the dumpster behind the gas station, and got back on I-70 headed east.

  * * *

  “Do you feel what I feel?” Klemens asked after a long str
etch of silence where Brian daydreamed, staring out the window as the sun chased the moon across the sky.

  “Where are we?” Brian asked, stretching his arms above his head, yawning. “Was I asleep?”

  The doctor cackled. “You sure were. I feel like you’re not embracing your new self, Brian. You know, with these new bodies we don’t actually need any sleep. You must be clinging to your human self.”

  “I wasn’t planning to sleep; it just happened.”

  “We’ve been on the road for six hours. It’s 7 A.M. and we’re about to arrive in Kansas City, Missouri, the home of the best barbecue. Or so I’ve been told.”

  “Okay?”

  “Do you not feel the tingle inside of you like I do? We’re supposed to do something here, recruit more people.”

  Brian had felt a lot of things within his mind, body, and soul since becoming infected with the Exall blood. But the doctor seemed to have more of these “feelings” that always ended with some sort of violent outburst. He reminded Brian of the televangelists on TV who claimed to be overtaken by the Holy Spirit, flailing around on stage with their tongues out like a seizure victim. They were all full of shit, and so was the doctor, but he could never say that to his face – just like the poor clergy members who handed millions of dollars over to the same televangelists.

  “Can’t we just get to D.C. without killing any more people?” Brian pleaded.

  “Killing people?” the doctor gasped. “How dare you, young man. We don’t kill people; we convert them. We share our gift of transforming their bodies to not require sleep or food. Think of how much more productive society will be saving on all that time eating and sleeping.”

  “We’re going to get caught. That’s what I can feel.”

  “That’s called paranoia.”

  “No. I guarantee I feel it coming. Sometimes I have dreams about getting shot in the face by one of them.”

  “Again, that’s why you shouldn’t sleep. Any other nonsense you’d like to try?”

  Brian shook his head. He really did have nightmares. And it was always Kyle who shot him in the face. It didn’t bother him, either—he deserved it for killing Kyle’s grandmother. It was only a matter of time before Kyle rose to the occasion to avenge Susan’s murder. He’d never tell the doctor any of this, that would only speed up the trip to Washington, and he still needed to figure out what he was going to do once they arrived there. He had no plans on meeting with Kyle face to face, whether in his human or Exall form. For now, he had to go along with whatever the doctor planned, hoping the Feds wouldn’t show up to crash their attacks on innocent lives.

  The car slowed as they exited the highway. “Well would you look at that, it’s our lucky day,” the doctor cackled. He pointed across the road where a billboard announced an outdoor concert called Country Jam. “July 2nd? That’s tonight, don’t you know? All the big names are going to be there, Brian. . . and so are we.”

  “We can’t go to that. You have to be out of your mind.”

  “As a matter of fact, I am out of my mind. I’m in this doctor’s mind. And body. And we’re going to spread our joy all night long at the concert.”

  Brian shook his head as they pulled off the highway, the sun rising over a quiet Kansas City, oblivious to what the night would bring for the innocent concertgoers.

  12

  Chapter 12

  Music filled the air, booming louder than the screaming fans packed around the stage. The Country Jam was held every summer at the Starlight Theater, an outdoor venue that seated just under 10,000 people, with more standing room behind the sections of seats. In all, this year’s concert welcomed over 12,000 by the official count.

  The seating area was separated from the concessions and restrooms by a tall wall, and this is where Tammy Bell waited in line for an ice cold strawberry margarita. The show had started at six, but it was already eight o’clock, meaning the names in the lineup became bigger with each new artist stepping on to the stage. Tammy came every year with her closest group of girlfriends, a collection of stay-at-home mothers who all knew each other through PTA meetings at their kids’ school.

  Tammy had gone off to get her third margarita of the night while two friends stayed in their seats, the fourth making a quick trip to the restroom.

  She vowed to not talk to any men at the concert, her divorce only a couple months fresh with emotional scars that surely wouldn’t heal for some time. She felt emotionally numb, like her heart had been cut right out of her chest and placed in a bucket of ice.

  The men would surely come knocking once they noticed her naked ring finger. She kept a strict workout routine and knew she looked great for a forty-year-old mother of two. She had dyed her hair blond a few days after the divorce, needing anything that might make her feel like a new person with a fresh start. While it gave her confidence a boost, it all meant nothing when she crawled into bed by herself. The weekends were even worse when the boys stayed with their father, leaving the house lifeless and depressing. She couldn’t lean on her friends during these dark times either, as they all had their own families to tend to. That’s why she needed to make tonight count. And that’s why her margaritas wouldn’t stop at three. She was shooting for six, and just maybe she could fall asleep without crying.

  She had loved her husband, and suspected she still did, judging by the tears shed every night. But he went behind her back with another woman, cheating not just on her, but on the entire family. He begged for forgiveness, which she eventually granted, but that didn’t change the events that had happened. Tammy was normally easy-going, but the line had to be drawn somewhere, and her now ex-husband had crossed it.

  The affair stayed in the back of her mind like a criminal hiding in the alley, waiting to pounce if she so much as looked at another man. All trust was broken with the opposite sex, and she didn’t want to engage in conversation with a man until a sliver of it had been restored.

  The line for margaritas stretched back about a dozen people, all shifting side to side in a half-hearted attempt to dance to the music that was jumbled bass and noise from their area outside of the concert stage.

  “Is this line moving at all?” a voice asked from behind. A man’s voice.

  Tammy turned and shrugged her shoulders, offering a sideways grin, but not speaking a word. She was going to stick to her guns, and wished her friend would hurry up in the bathroom to keep her company. The man was good-looking: smooth face, strong jaw, and dark hair slicked to the side, streaks of gray peppered in. But that didn’t matter. Not now, at least.

  Just keep looking forward and pretend he’s not there.

  “How are you liking the show?” he asked from behind.

  Blood rushed to the back of her head, right where she felt his eyes staring. She didn’t want to come off as rude, but managed to ignore him, pulling out her cell phone to fidget with and appear preoccupied.

  “Okay then, sorry I asked,” he said.

  She heard a slight waver in his voice and felt awful. It was just small talk, it didn’t mean she was going to turn around and marry the guy. In ten minutes they’d each have their own margaritas and return to their separate lives to never see each other again.

  “I’m sorry,” she said turning around. “I didn’t mean to be rude, I’ve just had a long day.”

  Holy shit, she thought as he grinned at her. She couldn’t help but look him up and down, hoping he didn’t notice the sudden movement of her eyes. The man looked like he could be a TV actor or a model in some middle-age prescription drug advertisement.

  “No need to apologize,” he said. “Just trying to make the time pass in this line.”

  Tammy’s head spun, her third margarita finally kicking into full gear. She had reached the point where her face became numb, and that’s when she knew she was officially drunk.

  “I’ve been in this line all night; it doesn’t get any better.” She said this and immediately wished she hadn’t, lowering her head in embarrassment.

&n
bsp; The man chuckled. “Well these are some of the best margaritas in the world, right? Twelve dollars for eight ounces in a little plastic cup. How could you not stand in this line all night?”

  Tammy burst into a short laughter, stopping herself when she realized the alcohol was making everything seem a bit funnier than it actually was. She was feeling loose and relaxed for the first time in weeks, and it created a sort of utopia in her current state of mind.

  The line shuffled forward, and she returned to her cell phone to send a text message to her friend in the bathroom.

  Hurry up, I think some guy is hitting on me.

  She had her back to him, but still felt his eyes on her, glued to her, but not in the way most men did when they saw an attractive woman. This stare felt authentic, not superficial, as if he were trying to see into her soul.

  “Where are you sitting tonight?” the man asked her.

  “In the hundreds,” she said over her shoulder, immediately returning to her cell phone.

  “Oh really? I’m in 102. Which are you in?”

  She debated telling him. He might come find her, but if he was crazy enough to do that, it wouldn’t have mattered, anyway; he’d still find her as the sections weren’t that big.

  “102,” she said, trying to play it cool.

  “What?! I’m in 102, row 15, right in the middle seats. Which row do you have?”

  Now her heart sunk, but she was already too deep into this conversation to lie. “Row 14.”

  “I’ll be damned,” the man said, a smile in his voice. “How did I miss you?”

  “Well, I’m on the aisle with my friends—that’s probably why.” Tammy said this in a somewhat snooty tone, hoping the man would take the hint and not get any ideas about stopping by her seat that was now too close for comfort. Would that burning sensation of his stare continue throughout the concert? She hoped not, that would surely distract her from the rest of the show.