Sanctuary

by Alan Janney

  “You are meant to rule them, Outlaw,” he whispered, his voice abruptly feverish. He leaned forward in his chair, causing small avalanches in the narcotic powder. “We come along once a generation, you and I. We control our gift, instead of the other way round.”

  Puck whispered in my ear, startling me. “I can’t see you. I can’t hear him. I’ve lost contact with Carter. I don't know how to help.”

  “Perhaps,” the Chemist smiled, reading my mind, “you are waiting for your friends? They won’t be much help, I’m afraid.”

  I whirled, scanning the host above. Samantha and Anderson lay on their sides, balanced precariously on the edge of the two-story roof, hands bound behind their backs. Their mouths were gagged and blood flowed freely from head wounds. My eyes met Samantha’s, and she started bucking so fiercely it took three Infected to quell her.

  Captured.

  Now what??

  If the Chemist dies, this nightmare will too.

  “I vouched for your safe passage,” he said. It was more of a croak. He was tiring rapidly. “I will release them tomorrow, ultimately unharmed. But now that you and I have parlayed, I see you will not be swayed. You bear me ill will. There can be no peace between us.”

  I intentionally sprung this trap, and now I needed to make it pay off. One shot, straight for his throat. I gathered my feet under me, preparing to leap. I felt the host above tensing.

  He continued, “So let us begin. My newest creations aren’t exactly perfected, but they’ll do.”

  Banks of windows either side of me exploded. A foul reek spilled out, and so did two enormous tigers.

  Tigers?!

  They met in the middle of the lawn, between the Chemist and I, barring their fangs and shoving one another with forepaws the size of car doors. I knew nothing about tigers but these seemed…massive. Their heavy heads were level with mine. The bigger one, with a slightly whiter pelage, was roaring in short angry coughs.

  “Genetic engineering, dear Outlaw!” the Chemist cackled with delight. I backpedaled slowly, so terrified I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. Could barely hear. Their scent was overpowering. “Thanks to Nepal, and borrowed research from various tiger genome projects, and a flare of creativity on my part, these two young beautiful animals have been…Infected.”

  Puck was shouting, “What’s going on?? I can’t see! Why is Samantha not communicating?! Did he say something about tigers?”

  I tried to reply but was unable to exhale. Samantha was screaming against the tape across her mouth.

  Infected tigers…

  Not possible…

  “Join me.”

  “No,” I managed.

  “These beautiful beasts are sick. They have a disease that over-produces muscles and bones and adrenaline. Sound familiar? It will kill them before long, but until then… Can you not see the power? The possibilities? I’ve only begun changing the world. You’d be a fool to fight for the lesser side.”

  “You’re more impressed with your fancy cats than I am.” My breath was coming in ragged heaves.

  “They are more than fancy cats. You see, Outlaw…” He learned forward again, torchlight reflecting in his eyes. “…they share my DNA.”

  I backed into a bush.

  “Join me,” he insisted. “I made you. At birth. Don’t force me to undo it.”

  “Sorry about this,” I heard myself say.

  “Sorry? For what?”

  “For killing your tigers.”

  He threw back his head and laughed richly, clapping his hands.

  One of his Infected flicked on a powerful flashlight, throwing a cone of brilliant illumination around me. Quick flashes, on off, on off. The animals responded, curling away from the Chemist and padding towards me. Their powerful shoulders pulled the earth towards them, closing the distance.

  “Killing tigers?” Puck shouted. “What??”

  They didn’t look mad. But they kept coming. My night vision had been destroyed by the flashlight. The animals moved like striped phantoms I couldn’t quite see. His ring of Infected began chanting rhythmically between outburst of laughter.

  “I really need a weapon…”

  “What?! What’s happening??”

  Without warning, the smaller and darker tiger snarled and lunged. He was fast. He? Whatever. He was fast, and his claws extended and he caught me as I desperately tried to jump over him. He batted me out of the air, one razor claw snagging my belt. He dropped to all fours, slamming me into the turf. His fur was everywhere and his musk made me gag, and he lowered his open maw onto my head.

  I put my fist into his teeth as hard as I could. His canines broke, and possibly so did the bone under his eye socket. He reared away, squealing in agony and surprise. Great gouges opened up along my hand and forearm as his broken teeth tugged and ripped.

  “Tiger, tiger, burning bright,” sang the Chemist, his voice shrill and caroming off the bricks. “In the cities of the night. What immortal hand or eye, could frame thy fearful symmetry?”

  The larger animal swiped at me as I scrambled to my feet. Blood ran down my fingers, and blood poured from the wounded animal’s mouth. The spectators laughed and screeched. The Chemist loved a good audience.

  “And when the stars threw down their spears,” he continued the poem, standing as his intensity increased. He used his infamous staff as a cane. “And watered heaven with their tears, did He smile His work to see? Did He who made the lamb make thee?”

  His staff!

  The big tiger lunged, but this time I was ready. I easily leapt over him, though I nearly landed on the smaller, wounded animal beyond. He gave chase, wincing and yowling in pain. The gathering screamed a chorus of madness. I leaped away to avoid terrible claws, momentarily running along the side of the wall, heading towards the Chemist. Closer, closer.

  He laughed and clapped with delight, reveling in the audience’s reaction. Too late did he realize I was coming for him. I reached. He ducked, so fast my eyes couldn’t process it. But I hadn’t swung at him. I swung at his staff. And I got it.

  I sunk knee-deep into the powder. Off balance, he stumbled and sank too, on the other side of the mound. The staff was beyond heavy. It was impossibly heavy. How on earth did a metal rod weigh this much?? I turned in time to see the smaller tiger leave its feet, forepaws stretched towards me. I swung the staff with all my might and connected solidly with the animal’s skull, just behind his ear. In that moment of slowed time, I saw the light go out of his eyes. His brain essentially exploded on contact. Instant death.

  Momentum propelled him into my chest, knocking me down and scattering the powder in a plume of smoke. The animal landed on top of me, pinning the staff and my hands beneath a half ton of dead flesh.

  I couldn’t move!

  Both the Chemist and the big tiger advanced.

  “Very acrobatic. Have I mentioned recently how much I adore your mask?”

  I heaved. Nothing happened. It was like wearing a straightjacket. The flashlight flicked on and off again, spotlighting me, marking me as a target.

  The living tiger stepped onto my shoulder, his jaw’s wispy mane tickling my ear.

  “You will not be devoured,” the Chemist said, like disciplining a child. “I will stop the tiger after you have suffered enough.”

  “Very thoughtful,” I groaned, pushing and squirming.

  The tiger calmly lowered his head and sunk five-inch teeth into my right shoulder. Pain!! Blinded by fur. No light, only darkness. My skin and muscles were thick and tough, but his jaws were powerful. All was strangely quiet, even his untamed Chosen. I could hear Samantha.

  This isn’t how I want to go…

  Katie…

  Suddenly, Puck pierced my eardrum. “There he is!! About time, Carter! Go go go!!”

  The tiger heard it first. He released my rotator cuff and looked up in alarm. Then we all heard the noise. An engine roared. Headlights, coming through the windows.

  A heavy, white and bright orange CalTrans du
mp truck burst through the wall of the math building. Bricks and glass erupted like a bomb going off.

  Croc was driving. He laid on the horn, screaming, “Wooooohooooooo!!” He cut the wheel and plowed straight into the tiger’s haunches. No time for the big cat to react. The animal’s pelvis shattered against the truck’s reinforced grill and the brick wall, and he howled in rage and pain.

  Carter rode in the bed of the dump truck. Before contact with the tiger, he exited the vehicle, leaping into the night, straight over me. My eyes followed him, as if in slow motion, as he sailed headfirst into the stunned Chemist. Carter had a knife clamped in his teeth, which is still one the coolest things I’ve ever seen.

  Before they hit the ground, the sky emptied of Infected. The Chemist’s legion poured in, descended upon us like animals, rallying to their master’s defense.

  A man rose up from the wrecked truck, standing in the bed and hefting a truly enormous gun. It was a hand-held, belt-fed, .50 caliber machine gun, and he squeezed the trigger. The weapon bawled to life and he cut through lines of enemy Infected with molten lead. I couldn’t see his face; he wore a full bomb-proof suit. The enemy Infected returned fire, ricocheting harmlessly off his armor.

  Croc was a ghost. He saw everything before it happened and he slipped through attacking crowds, one step ahead, an invisible scourge armed with knives.

  I pressed the dead animal far enough to squeeze free, and scrambled up to help my team.

  The Chemist’s Chosen came like a tribe of savages, brawny and fast. But also uncoordinated and clumsy, and for the first time I fully understood their disadvantage. They were newborns. I could dispatch handfuls easily, but there weren’t handfuls. There were dozens. And dozens. They were black, white, Asian, Latino, men, women, a seething riot all about my age. I threw them off, absorbing punches and deflecting knives, twisting away from gun barrels. Their bodies were hard and strong and they were everywhere.

  Carter didn’t kill the Chemist. Carter was bodily hauled away by the madman’s Chosen, but they were paying the price. Carter was the devil, an elemental force of nature, and he eviscerated the helpless horde unable to scramble away. He ripped out throats. I tried not to watch.

  “Carter, my fusty old friend,” the Chemist laughed and brushed himself off. “You’re failing again. And tonight, you pay for it.”

  In one whip-like motion, he produced a pistol and fired.

  His aim was true across the distance. Blood spurted from Samantha’s shoulder and she buckled in pain. Her handler shoved her off the roof and she fell, helplessly.

  “Sam!” Croc cried, and he got there before I could. He caught and cradled her.

  All was madness. We were losing the fight. We fought an unending and overwhelming ocean. We’d be suffocated under the sheer weight. Carter had the right idea.

  Get to the Chemist. Our only hope.

  But we couldn’t. Impossible. His fanatics were fearsome, and we were about to be overrun.

  I was shot in the back. The vest absorbed it. Another one caught me in the stomach. My shoulder ached from the bite. Hands everywhere, weighing me down. My energy was spent. My body fought on autopilot with heavy limbs. We needed a miracle. And we got one.

  “Grenades!!”

  Grenades??

  Explosions! Chaos. Screaming. Unbelievably, the HRT guys swarmed in, guns blazing, brave men with wills of steel. The FBI team was heroic and inspiring, but they died too quickly. As skilled as they were, they were slow compared to their targets. Their soft bodies weren’t enhanced, and the soldiers were cut down by Chosen fighting despite ghastly wounds.

  The lead FBI soldier kept absorbing gunshots until he reached me. For a moment, the world stilled and I heard only him. He was a bloody mess and he died in my arms, but not before delivering a message.

  “…evacuation coming…rendezvous at the gym…go now…place…blown to hell…go…” he gurgled as he died.

  “He’s right, Outlaw,” Puck shouted. “I’m scanning Anderson’s phone! You’ve gotta go! Now! Everyone out!”

  Croc and Samantha were gone. I bellowed at Carter and the new guy on the truck. Puck did the same, through headsets. This could still end well. We could get out, via advanced warning, and incoming attacks might destroy the Chemist.

  We retreated through the path carved by FBI warriors. I collected Anderson, who was alive but unconscious. I roared for Croc over and over, but he never answered. Puck reported his phone was moving away from the college.

  Two helicopters came prowling over the campus, stub-wings freighted with death. The smaller attack helicopter pushed forward, obviously acting on coordinates and instructions provided by the HRT team, and began destroying the world with Hellfire missiles and autocannons. The military was tired of playing it safe and decided to scorch this section of earth. The noise and heat was a volcano eruption.

  The transport helicopter landed, flattening the long grass with rotor wash. I slid Anderson’s body onto the deck. Carter and Russia pulled themselves in. I grabbed on as the chopper lifted off from hell and plunged back into the sky.

  A medic secured Anderson and shouted into my ear, “This Special Agent Isaac Anderson? Was he shot?”

  “I don’t know.” I collapsed near the open cabin door. My legs dangled freely above our landing gear and Compton.

  “Puck,” I said with as much volume I could muster. “Where’s dad?”

  “He’s…hang on…looks like he’s okay. Never made it to the heaviest fighting.”

  I nodded. Thank God. That would have been awful. I could still beat him home. Holy moly, did I have school in the morning??

  Carter stood next to me, jaw set, glaring at distant explosions on Camino’s campus. Tiny figures poured out of buildings, like ants escaping a burning colony. “You shouldn’t have gone in.”

  “Think we got him?”

  “No.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Monday, August 31. 2018

  Croc pulled three bullets out of my body. One from my arm, one from my shoulder, and one from my butt. During the firefight my skin thickened and muscles hardened to a tough leather texture, and the jacketed-lead slugs hadn’t deeply penetrated. They hurt coming OUT though. He removed Samantha’s too, and treated us with antiseptics, disinfectants, antivirals, and narcotics; every bottle he had.

  “Only thing I’m worried about is that shoulder, mate. It’s a doozy. Can’t believe you got bit by a tiger!”

  Thanks, Croc.

  I called in sick to school. Samantha too. We laid in our bedrooms and groaned. I phoned for pizza and subs when the sleeping pills wore off and requested food be delivered straight to our rooms.

  Katie texted me during lunch.

  >> Where are you??

  Sick day. Had a rough night.

  >> Poor baby! If you’re lucky, I’ll bring you soup!

  >> Miss you!!

  Then, a little later…

  >> Samantha isn’t at school either.

  She’s taking a sick day too, here with me. I didn’t elaborate. Typing hurt.

  >> Okay

  >> Wow you’re both sick

  >> At the same time

  >> What are you two doing?

  >> Never mind I don’t want to know

  >> I’m so jealous I can’t hear the teacher

  I laughed. Hard. (It hurt) My texts were a little misleading, I now realized. I imagined her reading my messages and getting the wrong idea, her eyes widening, her friends wondering what’s wrong…

  Nothing going on. Promise.

  Don’t be jealous.

  I considered typing, We’re both recovering from gunshot wounds, but that might require a tricky followup explanation.

  >> I’m not allowed to be jealous

  >> I know I’m not

  >> You can do whatever you want

  >> With whoever you want

  >> But

  >> Ugh

  >> I miss you

  I took a screen-shot of those texts and stared
at it within the foggy delirium of hydrocodone.

  She misses me!

  * * *

  The attack was international news. The whole world watched the Chemist throw a larger net around his portion of Los Angeles. The uprising had been fast, brutal, and efficient. His forces struck unexpectedly, overwhelming the thin border patrol, and joined with waiting reinforcements in Paramount. Like last time, he used hundreds of stalled tankers to clog the interstate, very effectively preventing outside intervention. The police and military were wholly and unreservedly defeated. During the chaos, two cargo planes landed at his airstrip with fresh supplies, most likely weapons and drugs. The size of his territory and the number of his hostages had doubled in one night.

  Samantha, Croc and I met Carter the next night at the lumber yard we used for practice. We parked at the rear security fence. The mood was somber; we had whiffed on our chance to fix the planet. The grumpy giant called Russia attended. Russia didn’t speak. Russia glared behind a nose that appeared to have been broken dozens of times. His eyebrows were shockingly thick and his skin was pockmarked.

  “Los Angeles got its ass kicked again,” Carter said. “But we didn’t.”

  Samantha asked, “What do you mean? I feel like I got my ass kicked.”

  Carter handed us each an iPad. I took it with my left hand.

  “We’re all still alive,” he responded. “And we gained valuable intel. Hacker, you seeing these photos?”

  A voice came buzzing out of a speaker temporarily set on the hood of Croc’s truck. “PuckDaddy has the photos.”

  Carter lit a cigarette and pointed at our laptops. “Look through. The three of us wore small cameras. The photos were uploaded and I picked out the most significant. Tell me what you see.”

  The photos weren’t high definition and the lighting was bad, but they were usable. Dozens of still-shots taken during the gunfight on Camino’s campus. Cameras had been affixed to their shirts, and another positioned inside the truck. I flipped through, reliving the melee with a cold knot in my stomach. I paused at photos of the Outlaw.