Sanctuary

by Alan Janney

  “Mighty kind of you, sir, but I just came to get Chase’s advice on a few football matters. I won’t trouble you long, and I won’t come inside.”

  “Very well. Nice to meet you, son.” They shook hands again. “Chase, I’m going inside. Need anything?” He shot me a knowing and understanding look.

  “I’m starving. Start making lunch?”

  “You got it.”

  He threw a quick salute and strolled inside our townhouse. I stayed outside with the Dragon.

  “Mighty kind of you, sir,” I mimicked him. “Law’have mercy, sir, been going to church m’whole life!”

  Tank threw his head back and laughed. He had gotten bigger. Must be close to seven feet now.

  I said, “That’s quite an act you have.”

  “Thank you, thank you.” He nodded. “Gotsta keep up appearances. But you know all about that, pajamas.”

  “Do you actually attend a church service?”

  “Sho’ do. Lawd Jesus save my soul when I’s just a wee child, sir.”

  “Okay. Enough. Why the heck are you here? We said No Families. I know where you live too.”

  He paused and the grin faded. A deep breath. He shoved his huge hands into his huge pockets. First he stared at the ground, then squinted at the city skyline, and then back at the ground. By all appearances, he appeared to be struggling with words. He had the audacity to kick a pebble during his deliberations.

  Finally, “I’d like to call a truce.”

  “A truce? You cannot be serious. A truce.”

  “Entirely serious.”

  “You promised reporters you’d reveal my identity. You threatened me on national television.”

  He shrugged. “I won’t.”

  “You told America you were going to beat me up.”

  Another shrug. “I won’t do that either.”

  I sniffed. “Couldn’t if you wanted.”

  “Listen, tiny hero,” he grunted, a hint of his dangerous side, “I won’t pretend I like you. But I think you and I have more in common than not. Especially at the moment.”

  “You been talking to Carter?”

  “Carter? Don’t know no Carter.”

  “Yes you do,” I snapped, intensely annoyed at this bizarre conversation. “Bald guy? In Compton with us that night in March? Old chums with the Chemist?”

  “That guy.” He nodded, slow and deep, lost in angry thought. “He pretended to be my doctor.”

  “Yeah, that’s him. He’s everywhere.”

  “My last day at the hospital, he told me I was like him. Told me I’d see him again.”

  A car drove by. My neighbor. She slowed down and gawked at us as she passed. Tank nodded and waved. He was quite a sight. I would slow down and gawk too if I didn’t know him already.

  I said, “Don’t plan on getting chummy with Carter. He’s tried to kill you twice. Now he wants to use you. To help him defeat the Chemist.”

  “Can he explain what’s wrong with me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know.” He shuffled uncomfortably. “The headaches? The nausea? I’m seven feet. I have to hide how strong I am. Since I woke up, I’ve been having hallucinations, and hearing voices. Sometimes, my skin feels…” He trailed off.

  “Hallucinations? Voices? Huh…” I rubbed my lower lip in thought. “Maybe the disease made you crazy. Well, crazier.”

  “What disease?”

  “…you don’t know about the disease?”

  “No. The hell should I? What disease?”

  “Jeez Tank,” I sighed. I laced my fingers behind my head and started pacing the driveway. I assumed he’d known the truth about the disease for months.

  “Same stuff as you. Right?” he asked. “We’re the same, right? You have a disease too?”

  “You kidnapped my best friend. You tried to kill me. Multiple times. You burned down my homecoming dance. You’re dating someone very important to me, just to cause me pain. And now you show up here and want help??”

  He held his hands up in front of him like a shield. “I get it. I do. I get that. You don’t have to tell me. I’m leaving. First, though, about the Latina…”

  “Katie? If you want to call a truce then leave her alone. Break up with her, and then I’ll trust you. A little. Maybe.”

  “See, that’s the thing, pajamas. I like her.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “I love her.”

  I groaned. “Oh my goooooooooosh. You can’t love her! Don’t be stupid! She’s an angel and you’re a dumpster fire. She’s good, you’re evil.”

  He chortled and shook his head. “Don’t know what to tell you, hero. I’m in love.”

  “NO YOU’RE NOT! You do not possess the ability!” I saw red. It wasn’t a figure of speech. The world was turning shades of red. “You don’t deserve her. You’re not worth one hair on her head.”

  “We agree on that.”

  “Shut up.”

  He laughed again. I hate when he did that. “Thought you’d be happy! I’m going to treat her right. The way she deserves to be treated.”

  “No no no no.” I bumped my fist into my forehead with each word. “You don’t get it! You can’t treat her that way. You have no hope. The dirt cannot treat the sun the way the sun deserves to be treated.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way.” He seemed legitimately offended, the big ogre. He turned and walked to his brand new Hummer. “But anyway. She cares about you. So the truce is good on my end.”

  “Yeah,” I chucked sarcastically, caustically. “I’ll take your word for it. I’ll take the murderer’s word. I’ll take the crime boss’s word. I’ll take the kidnapper’s word that he’ll keep his hostage safe.”

  “Cool it, little hero,” he growled, halfway into his SUV. “I’m trying to do the right thing.”

  “I’ll tell her.” I couldn’t see. Tears of anger and frustration welled in my eyes. My voice bordered on breaking. “I have to. I will tell her the truth about you, and who you are.”

  “Likewise, Outlaw. Truce.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Wednesday, September 30. 2018

  “Jackson!” Coach Garrett called as I was trudging out the locker room, toting a laundry bag over my shoulder. Practice was over, and all I could think about was driving to Katie’s apartment. “Stick around for a minute, champ.”

  I walked into the conference room with him. Coach Todd Keith was sitting at the glossy table, flipping through paraphernalia. The table was covered. The rest of the team was in the adjacent room, still showering and changing into clean clothes. I was first to leave because my tutor was the cutest.

  “Yes sir?”

  Garrett clapped me on the shoulder, and he grinned. “Time we start talking about this. Don’t you think?”

  “Talking about what?”

  Coach Keith, our offensive coordinator and my intermittent spiritual advisor, held up a college brochure. “Your future.”

  “College,” I realized.

  “College.”

  Garrett sat down and indicated I should too. Instead I let my eyes wander the names of colleges. Every big program I’d ever heard of had a pamphlet on the table. I placed my knuckles on the surface and stared. College.

  “I field about three calls a week from college coaches,” Garrett raved. He was chomping gum and wearing sunglasses, even indoors. “And they all want to talk about you.”

  “And that’s just the big-time universities,” Coach Keith said. “USC. UNLV. San Diego State. Oregon. Arizona.”

  “What do they want to know?”

  “Everything,” Garrett grinned. “Everything about you. Most importantly, how soon can you visit their campus.”

  I heard Croc in the other room, joking with the guys. He’d quickly become a crowd favorite, and not just because he was good.

  “These colleges want me to play ball for them?”

  “They do.”

  “On a scholarship?” I asked.

  “E
veryone is offering you a full ride,” Coach Keith said. “Though not every school can guarantee you playing time as a freshman. You’d be redshirted at programs with established quarterbacks.”

  “Never had this many calls before,” said Garrett. “Our P.R. department has requests from over a hundred schools.”

  “A hundred,” I echoed.

  “Which is why,” Garrett said, banging his hand on the table, “it’s about dang time we figure this out. Tell us your favorites and we’ll schedule visits.”

  “My favorites,” I said. I was repeating a lot. I couldn’t stop.

  “Yep.”

  “I haven’t even thought about college,” I admitted, sheepishly. My face was hot. “I don’t…I don’t know a thing about any of them.”

  Their expressions were incredulous. I didn’t blame them. This was every football player’s dream, and I hadn’t thought about it?

  I continued, “You know, it’s just…with all the, ah, the war in Los Angeles and…you know, college hasn’t been on my mind.” I paced and rubbed my eyes, talking into my palms. “That’s…a little embarrassing, I know.”

  “Well hell, son. All right. Talk to your dad about this? He and I’ve spoke a few times.”

  “Um. No. No, I guess I haven’t.”

  Coach Keith asked, “Everything okay at home?”

  “Yeah, sure. No problems.” I picked up a football pamphlet for the University of Southern California, and I tried to be interested in it. But I wasn’t. Couldn’t even fake it. Like chasing after wind. All was vanity.

  Croc stuck his head in the door. “Hey mate! I’m takin’ off. See you later at your place. I’m making suppa!”

  “Okay,” I replied without turning. “See you. Might be late.”

  “See you boys!”

  The coaches nodded to him and he left. Garrett grinned and said, “Starting to get calls about him, too.”

  “About Croc?” I chuckled. “Playing college football?”

  “Yes sir. A fine player.”

  “A fine player,” I repeated. “Coaches are calling about Croc playing college.” Impossible. Ludicrous. So much they didn’t know. He couldn’t…I couldn’t…

  I sank into the chair across from them and put my head into my hands. I couldn’t believe this was happening. My normal life was slipping away, and I had to let it go. Colleges would test me for steroids and drugs and who knew what else. And I couldn’t let it happen, not even once. My blood tests would come back off the charts, if they could even get the needle into my skin.

  Your life has been rewritten, Croc told me.

  You’re Infected.

  You will never have a normal life again.

  He was correct. About football, at least. I couldn’t play in college. No chance. It wouldn’t be fair to the other players. I’d have to pretend every day, every practice, that I wasn’t abnormal. Pretend I couldn’t outrun them all. That I couldn’t just jump over the pile.

  “Something wrong, Chase?” Coach Keith asked.

  “No,” I said. But big tears were running down my face. “Well. Yes, I guess there is.” Coach Garrett was frozen. Football players don’t cry. “I won’t play football in college.”

  Neither of them spoke. I’m not sure they were breathing either.

  “I decided recently. It’s just…not for me, you know?” I wiped my eyes and my cheeks. This was awful. Dad was going to be crushed.

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Just not.” I couldn’t stop crying.

  Coach Keith asked, “You’ve spoken with your family about this?”

  “Just me and my dad. And I haven’t told him, no.”

  “Well, don’t make up your mind yet.”

  “You’re one of the top three quarterback recruits in the country, son,” Garrett barked in disbelief. “I’ve seen how hard you work. You love this!”

  “I know.” I stood up, leaving teardrops on the table. “I’m sorry. We’ll talk more later. After I speak with Dad. Okay? But, don’t schedule any visits.”

  * * *

  I told Katie about my decision to not play football in college. She didn’t understand. I promised I’d tell her one day. One day soon. I cried. She cried. She kissed my cheek, and my shoes and shirt instantly felt tighter as my body responded.

  After tutoring I found Samantha Gear sitting on the front steps of my home. Croc was inside singing and cooking.

  I inquired, “What are you doing out here?”

  “Keeping my distance.”

  “From Croc?”

  She nodded and rubbed the palms of her hands up and down her thighs. “From a lot of things.”

  I dropped my bag and sat next to her. There were very few bad days in Los Angeles. The air was sunny and warm, even in the early evening, and the palm trees stood happy and still.

  “I told Coach,” I sighed. “About not playing college football.”

  “Ugh. I’m sorry, Chase. That’s the worst.”

  I nodded.

  She commiserated, “Being an Infected, it really is a debilitating disease. But it’s not your body that’s destroyed, it’s your life.”

  “I am now fully realizing that.”

  “It gets worse, too,” she said with a wry grimace. “I wish I had better news, but that’s the truth.”

  “How so?”

  She took a long time replying, staring at the grass and rubbing her legs like she was cold. “Because of Katie.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, alarm tightening my stomach.

  “Think about it, Chase. How old is the Chemist?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Over 200. Why?”

  “And how long will Katie live?”

  I didn’t respond. I’d never thought about the math. Even if I could make her love me, which seemed doubtful, I would potentially outlive her by…well, who knew. But it might be a long time.

  “Yeah,” I said slowly. “But that’s an issue I’ll deal with in the future. I have too many problems on my plate as it is.”

  “Your love life isn’t just a problem you can ignore.” She lowered her forehead to her knees. I’d never seen Samantha pensive before. Pensive? Or depressed? “At the end of the day, you’re a human. And humans want to be loved.”

  “Are you sad?”

  “No. Sad sounds weak. More like…melancholy.”

  “I don’t get you, Gear. You’ve got a great guy inside who loves you. A lot.” I jerked a thumb over my shoulder towards Croc, who was belting lines from Don't Stop Believing, by Journey. Between verses he and my dad made small talk.

  “He’s Infected.” She grumbled the words, clearly aggravated by my inability to grasp this. “Infected don’t get along.”

  “He likes you.”

  “He likes me in short bursts,” she explained, sitting up and running fingers through her hair. “He’s affectionate once a year or so, and then he gets wary of me and leaves. Like all Infected. Well, except for you. But when he’s around, I’m tense and I can’t help it. I’m on high alert, like two alpha males in the same room.”

  “So your body won’t let you be with him?”

  “Right. We’re like magnets that repel each other. All Infected are. Can’t help it. Plus, he’s not my type.”

  I grinned. “You have a type? What is it?”

  “Shut up, Chase, or I’ll punch you in the eye.”

  “No seriously. What’s your type?”

  “Croc is too pretty. He’s too…goofy. I prefer men. Like, manly, dirty, hard-working, serious, strong men. Not silly boys like Croc.” While she spoke, her fingers flexed in front of her, like she was trying to create the guy out of thin air.

  “Dirty men. Gross.”

  “You know the guy that hosted Dirty Jobs? I forget his name. Tall guy, deep voice?”

  I laughed. “Yeah, I know him. I think he looks a little like Dad.”

  “Whatever his name is,” she grinned mischievously. “I’m into him. He’s older, I know, but that’s good too.�
�

  “Older men are good?”

  “Very. This is weird, Chase. I haven’t talked about my love life in…ten years? Maybe twelve?”

  “But you have the same problem as me. You’ll outlive everyone, right?”

  “Yep.” She nodded. “I know I can’t be with the same man until I die. I’ve made my peace with that. And I’m not the type of person that fantasizes and daydreams about living with Prince Charming forever. But, it’d be nice. For a little while, to be with a big strong man.”

  “A big strong television-show host.”

  “Or a firefighter. Like the station chief. Big guy, can take a punch. A smart man that bosses other men around.”

  “You’re weird.”

  “Or, you know…a cop. A police officer? Those are good too.”

  “I’ll be on the look-out for you!”

  “No thank you.”

  “This’ll be fun. I’m looking for a guy older than you, big, tall, strong, serious, deep voice, bosses people around, like a firefighter or a cop and…” I was ticking her requirements off on my fingers, but I stopped. Somewhere in the recess of my brain, awareness dawned. The coin dropped into the slot. She was staring fixedly straight ahead. I could tell her heart was pounding because of the pulse in her neck. I said, “Samantha.”

  She didn’t look at me. Her expression was wooden, eyes wide. We were both taking deep breaths.

  “Samantha.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Samantha, it sounds suspiciously like you’re describing my father.”

  She didn’t respond. Her fingers were curled under her toes.

  I continued. “My father. The man whom you call Richard.”

  “Chase…”

  “My father Richard, who is old as heck.”

  “No he’s not,” she retorted. Her voice quavered. “He’s like forty.”

  “Right. Super crazy old.”

  “I’m thirty.”

  “This…” I stared at the same point in the distance she was staring at. “This…this is a lot to absorb.”

  “It’s not my fault.” Her voice was small. Samantha was one of the most dangerous people on earth. Out of seven billion or whatever, she was certainly in the top ten. But the threat of romance completely cowed her. “You made me live here.”