Infected: Die Like Supernovas (The Outlaw Book 2)

by Alan Janney

  Stalled traffic ahead. I charged at it and then got off the gas. In the side mirror I watched the FBI narrow my lead. Closer. Closer. Almost touching my rear wheel.

  I yanked on the brake, gunned the engine and spun away. My rear tire laid down a thick coat of rubber while the bike twirled into the opposite lane, aiming back down the tunnel, facing the FBI’s trucks. It happened too fast and they crashed, trying to follow. They collided and plowed into the wall together. I was already gone before they could reverse.

  I took a deep breath and held it. By the time I released the air I was four blocks away and home free.

  “Nice work!”

  “Woohoo!” I cried.

  “I can’t keep up with you on the monitors,” the helmet said. “Do you feel invincible? Indestructible? Are you driving like a maniac?”

  “Absolutely,” I howled. “Wooooooo! That was awesome!” I felt high, almost light-headed with delirium.

  “That’s the virus talking, and it’s going to kill you, stupid. Slow down. Go the speed limit.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re not Batman, dumbass!” the speaker rattled. “What the hell is wrong with you? You’re a kid. You don’t want anyone to know where you live. You left the FBI behind, so slow down, don’t draw more attention to yourself, and get out of there. Stay south on Alameda, get on Interstate 10 and go home.”

  I obeyed. The chaos quickly faded in the side mirrors. I drove through resplendent sections of the city unaware of the recent power outage. None of these cars had alarms honking. My blood pressure slowly returned to normal. Soon I vacated the heart of the city and headed north.

  The high wore off. My body crashed. I felt drained. I was both starving and sick to my stomach.

  “Thanks for the help,” I said, groggily.

  “Shut up. Go home and sleep before you throw up or your head explodes.”

  “So you really are Infected,” I marveled, fighting the desire to race around the cars ahead. They looked like they were moving in slow motion.

  “Duh.”

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “PuckDaddy.”

  The line went dead.

  Chapter Nine

  Tuesday, January 17. 2018

  I didn’t get out of bed Sunday. Everything ached: my bones, my head, my stomach, all of me. The light was a torment. Finally, around dinner time, I roused and ate everything in the house, and then I slept again. My father was worried about me for the first time in months. I even skipped school Monday.

  I didn’t text PuckDaddy. He didn’t text me. The Shooter didn’t show up to waste me. Carter didn’t swing by and kill me himself, even after Saturday night’s hijinks. I’d acted foolishly, thoughtlessly, irrationally. My emotions and adrenaline had usurped my sanity, like I’d been drunk. I must guard against that in the future.

  Monday night, Natalie texted me.

  >>Captain FBI is not very happy with you.

  I smiled and replied, I like him.

  >>He gave me his number.

  Why??

  Are you’re going to date an FBI agent???

  >>Maybe. He’s kinda hott. But the number is for you. He wants you to call him.

  Oh. Right, I texted. I shouldn’t be jealous. I’m not allowed to be jealous. I have a girlfriend. And I was in love with Katie, besides that. Wow, my life’s messed up. Just thinking about the girls churned my stomach. You guys would be a handsome couple.

  >>How’d you do all that?

  Do all what?

  >>Make the lights erupt, extinguish the electricity, ignite the car horns, all that?

  It’s a secret, I typed. And it was, even from me. I had no idea how PuckDaddy did it.

  >>He was extremely startled. And impressed. You should have seen his face.

  >>I witnessed your jump. So did Captain FBI.

  >>It was high.

  >>Impossibly high.

  >>He knows you’re not normal now. He also knows about your disease. He has an audio recording of our conversation.

  Uh oh. I’m dead. Carter was going to kill me.

  The next morning at school Samantha Gear lowered into the seat next to me. I hadn’t seen in her in a few days and I forgot how striking the kicker was; her body looked like a cage-fighter’s or a triathlete’s. She was attractive, but in an intimidating way. Lee dropped into the seat next to her.

  “See, dude,” he cackled, giving her his phone. “I told you.”

  Samantha sighed, exasperated, “Told me what, handsome?”

  “See for yourself,” he indicated the phone.

  “I’m tired, Lee. I’m going to break your phone if this is a joke. What am I looking at?” she asked.

  “The Outlaw, dude. Of course.”

  I half choked on the chocolate granola bar I was eating, and I said, “What??”

  “The Outlaw, Chase. I told you!”

  Samantha screwed up her eyes at the screen and said, “I don’t see anything.” I peered over her shoulder. Sure enough, there I was. I wanted to throttle Lee. He’d taken a photograph of me Saturday night behind his house. “The picture’s too dark. And I just see someone wearing a helmet.”

  “That’s him!” he blurted out.

  “No it’s not. That’s you, wearing a helmet,” she said and tossed him the phone back. “I hate you.”

  “Chase, tell her,” he said miserably.

  I asked, “Tell her what? She’s right. The Outlaw doesn’t wear a helmet.”

  “Yes he does! Didn’t you see the film of him talking to the FBI? He was wearing the same helmet, dude, with the vest I made him.”

  “Ah crap,” I groaned. “I forgot about that FBI thing.”

  Lee frowned, “How could you forget? It’s all over the news, bro.”

  “You made him a vest?” Samantha asked Lee, pulling out her homework. Homework! I’d forgotten to do mine. Now I was two days behind. Dang it. “You sew?”

  “Heck yeah I did,” Lee crowed. “A ballistic vest.”

  “Ballistic?” Samantha asked. “Why?”

  Lee grinned delightedly. “He’s going after the LA Sniper. Wants to be able to survive a gun shot.”

  “Oh he is? The Sniper?” Samantha laughed. A rich, husky, contagious sound. “That’s hilarious!”

  “I agree,” I said. “He’s not going after the Sniper. Just wants to be safe, is my guess.”

  “He going hunting,” Lee nodded sagely. “He told me so.”

  Katie touched me in Spanish 3. She was laughing at a joke and innocently pushed my arm. The instant her hand touched me, I melted. All of my worries, all of my stress, the distant throb in the front part of my brain were all lost in the warmth of her flesh. Like magic.

  For the rest of the class, and into lunch, I kept taking her hand or finding ways to touch her. She alternated between confused, annoyed, and pleased with my insistent attention. I told her the truth, that it made me feel better. She smiled and wrinkled her nose. But I didn’t take my hand off. And I felt great!

  Lee and Cory thought the touching was weird. Even Samantha Gear did, who had started sitting with us. I could sense Katie was unsure of the new seating arrangement, even though she was nothing but nice and accepting of the kicker. As an experiment, I walked over to Hannah Walker and placed my hands on her neck and said hello. She beamed, and although Hannah caused butterflies to take flight in my stomach, she did not take away my headache. I glided back to my table, but Katie wouldn’t let me touch her anymore. Girls are weird.

  “Hey. Where’s my sandwich?” I asked, sitting back down.

  Katie told me, “Cory ate it.”

  “Cory!” I shouted at the giant.

  “You snooze,” he said, his mouth full of food.

  “Don’t eat my food! I’m really hungry.”

  “Here,” Katie said and she slid me her apple. “I’m not going to eat it.”

  “This sandwich is really good,” Cory said appraisingly, examining the remaining portion in his big fist.r />
  “I know,” I grumbled. “I put extra jelly on it.”

  Samantha asked, “Aren’t you a cook, Cory?” The big guy nodded and she said, “Cook for me.”

  “What?” Lee asked, bolting upright. He shot looks at both of them.

  “Yeah,” Samantha continued, using her green laser beam eyes on Cory. “Invite me over tonight and cook for me.”

  Cory looked a little confused and a little scared and a little intrigued. “You wanna come over tonight?” he asked, gulping his food. She nodded slowly. “Why?”

  “I like big guys,” she shrugged. “And I like food.”

  Lee interjected, “You want to come over to my house? I’ll order take out.”

  “You missed your chance,” she answered. “Now I only have eyes for Cory.”

  “Why?” Cory asked again.

  “Cory,” Katie scolded him. “You’re a good-looking guy. Don’t act surprised when girls like you.”

  “Exactly,” Samantha smoldered. “Invite me over. It’s perfect. You’re handsome and I’m pretty.”

  “You are pretty,” Katie agreed, unscrewing her juice. “I’d kill for those eyes.”

  “Oh shut up,” Samantha poked her. “You’re so hot it makes me want to bite you. I would literally shoot Lee in the head if I could have your skin.”

  “I think,” Lee said, “that our relationship has taken an unfortunate turn. Now shut up everyone. I want to watch the television.”

  “Ugh. More Outlaw headlines?” Samantha asked. She’d brought slices of chicken, two bananas, a carrot, and two chocolate bars for lunch. Not even Cory would dare touch her food. She’s intense. But I liked her. “I’m so tired of those. You’re obsessed, little man.”

  “No, no. The FBI thing is old news, dude. This is about the big rumble last night.”

  Katie asked, “What big rumble?”

  “Do you never check twitter? Or watch television?” Lee demanded, seriously affronted.

  “No,” Katie said, and her cheeks colored a little. “Not last night.”

  “Why?” Cory asked, still chewing on my sandwich. “What happened last night?”

  Katie answered, “I had a date.”

  “Oh my goooooooosh,” I groaned. “With Tank?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nooooooooo.”

  Katie asked, “What’s wrong with you? Why do you keep rubbing your head? Do you have a headache?”

  “I’m fine,” I muttered. “Just hold my hand.”

  “No.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you had a date?”

  “Because it happened so last minute,” she replied. “I hadn’t heard from him in over a week, and I assumed he wasn’t going to text me again. But then he just called me out of the blue, said he was out front in his car, and we went to dinner.”

  “I hate it. Hate hate hate it.”

  “I’ve seen pictures of Tank Ware,” Samantha grinned. “That’s one big kid. Muscles on muscles, probably benches twice his weight. Attractive, too.”

  “I think so!”

  “No he’s not,” I growled.

  “Did you have a good time?”

  “Yes,” Katie said, hesitating a little, as if she wasn’t sure. Her eyes darted my way for a fraction of a second.

  “That means you didn’t!” I hooted triumphantly. “I can tell! Wooohoo!”

  “No, I did,” Katie retorted. “He and I are…very different.”

  “You’re perfect, he’s the devil, duh,” I pointed out.

  “It was fine. We laughed a lot. But he acted a little abnormal. Like he had a hard time concentrating. It’s just bizarre, you know? He hadn’t contacted me in almost two weeks and then he shows up like everything is okay? I’m just not sure I trust him.”

  “Good,” I said. “You shouldn’t.”

  “Boys are strange,” Samantha Gear said, nibbling on her chocolate. “Guys are still by and large in a Cro Magnon phase of maturity. I bet Tank wanted to make out too.”

  “Yes,” Katie admitted, scanning me for a reaction. My face didn’t even twitch. Fortunately she couldn’t tell I accidentally crushed one of the table’s metal legs; I clenched my fist and the metal pinched and melted like butter.

  “And?” Samantha pressed.

  “And I didn’t. He wanted to come to my bedroom, but I said no. Maybe next time,” she shrugged.

  “No. Not maybe next time! That guy is scum and doesn’t deserve to live in the same state as you,” I practically shouted.

  Samantha murmured, “Someone’s jealous.”

  “Protective. Worried. Not jealous. There’s a difference. And shut up.”

  Samantha sniffed and said, “Don’t you have a girlfriend?”

  I frowned. “Yeah? So?”

  “Why don’t you sit with her? I’ve seen her. She’s the hottest girl in school. Maybe in the whole city.”

  “Second hottest,” I corrected her instinctively.

  “Who is first?”

  “Katie.”

  “Aw!” Katie smiled.

  “My relationship with Hannah is complicated,” I explained. “So complicated I can’t figure it out.”

  “She can’t be happy about you sitting here with this Latina goddess,” Samantha indicated Katie, who blushed in pleasure.

  I said, “I’m not sure Hannah has emotions, actually. She’s like a robot. Think of our relationship like a really well balanced math equation.”

  Samantha shook her head and said, “Your life is weird, Chase.”

  “I agree,” I sighed. “But I don’t know how to fix it.”

  Lee interrupted us and said, “You guys are missing all the good stuff.”

  “What good stuff?”

  “The war!” he chirped and pointed at the screen. There was aerial footage of a large-scale riot, or protest, or something. I couldn’t tell. Rivers of people were surging into each other. Cars were overturned. Cops with riot gear were forced back. The helicopter was taking fire from somewhere. Bodies fell off houses. The injured and the dead were left behind as waves of combatants receded to crash again somewhere else.

  “Where is it?” I asked.

  “South LA,” Lee said. “Near Compton. And Carson. I read last night that each side had ten thousand guys going at it, bro. Twenty thousand total.”

  Katie asked, “Going at it? What does that mean?”

  “A giant fight. Punching, knives, guns. You know, man, a war.”

  “Why?” I asked. “Is it about the immigration law?”

  “No one knows,” Lee intoned, staring rapturously at the screen. He lived for media drama. “Even the people involved don’t know. In fact, I read that the Bloods and Crips and MS-13 members were all fighting among themselves, too.”

  “What is happening to Los Angeles?” Katie asked. “It’s scary.”

  “The Police had to send everyone they had. Filled the streets with tear gas to break it up. Lasted from seven until four this morning, dude.”

  Dozens were dead, according to the banner at the bottom of the screen. Dozens?! Many claimed to have been hit with wax bullets, presumably by the LA Sniper. Or, the Infected Shooter, as I thought of him. The news channel began to show pictures of wanted individuals, suspected in beginning the fray. I lost interest after a handful scrolled by but then one of the mugshots caught my eye.

  “Hey. I know that guy,” I blurted out.

  “How?” Samantha asked me.

  “Oh, well…,” I said. His name was Guns. Or at least that was his nickname. I’d seen him hanging out with Tank, and I even fought him once. I think. I lost track of the people I’d punched. “Or…maybe not. Might just be my imagination.”

  “Too bad, bro,” Lee told me. “There’s a reward.”

  A reward?

  My evening just got interesting.

  Stay alive.

  Prevent Tank from hurting Katie.

  Stay alive.

  Prevent Tank from hurting Katie.

  Those were my goals and capturing Guns
to claim a reward didn’t help accomplish either one. So maybe this was a bad idea. I paced the bedroom for over an hour, talking with myself. I’d completed my homework at the kitchen table while Dad flipped channels in his chair. Now he was asleep, and here I was pacing. It was the disease talking. I recognized the familiar euphoria, the distant siren call of the night beckoning. I should just go to sleep, give my brain plenty of downtime. But I could hear the illness whispering, leaking epinephrin and energy into my body, transmuting my bed into a completely unacceptable option, an utter waste of time.

  Earlier in the day I’d visited a motorcycle shop near Memorial Park. I found red peel-off decals for my bike and helmet. With them I could transform the motorcycle’s color scheme from black and orange to black and red. And when the Outlaw finished rampaging around the city, I’d simply peel the red decals off and save them for future use. Camouflage! I also cut out some white decals so I could alter the license plate.

  Screw it. I was going. This would be fun! The illness and the night and the rush were irresistible. Wooooooooo!!

  I looped around Natalie’s and Tank’s building twice and then expanded my search to include other city blocks, hunting for trouble makers that might lead to Tank or Guns. But the city is vast and my chances were small. After the fruitless search I decided to investigate one more spot. The house. The House.

  I’d been in The House three times; once when I was searching for Katie’s phone, once when I was reclaiming a stolen locket, and once when Tank had kidnapped Katie. Tank owned the house, probably through one of his holding companies. He was rich and invested in property and often visited this one in particular. He used it as a base for illegal operations. It was a two-story mess, situated on a run-down street not far from downtown.

  My bike moved in silence behind the row of dilapidated houses, twisting between trashcans in the alley. It was midnight and nothing moved except the breeze. And the Outlaw. I climbed off (but left the battery engaged, ready to jet) and snuck up to the rear porch of the hated house.

  Bingo. Activity. Men were lounging on the chairs and a couch, watching boxing. A couple occupants were asleep. The air was hazy.