by Alan Janney
“You and your Falcons stay here. We have too much to do. But scrounge up a team of volunteers. Send that new guy, what’s his name? The Priest. Put him to good use.”
“Why do they call him that?”
“No idea. But he seems eager to help and he has plenty of followers.”
“Yes Queen Carmine.”
“Stop referring to me as a Queen,” I snap, but he’s gone. With his enhanced body he’ll bound down the thousand feet of stairs in only a couple minutes.
I should be able to also, but I can’t. I’m still unaccustomed to this skin and often I stumble around like newborn Bambi. If I attempt descending the staircase like Mason, I’ll fall most the way.
I raise the binoculars (out of habit) and sweep Los Angeles again. More newcomers are trickling in on Interstate 5 and 10, cautiously venturing closer to see if the rumors are true: the Variants in Los Angeles have gone friendly.
I wouldn’t say friendly. Not yet. They’re still angry and suspicious (who can blame them?) but less hostile. The scary speculation about them is what keeps us safe from bands of armed looters and rogue military units. We’d win those fights but we’re not ready. This part of California is dangerous but we’re guarded by hearsay.
Guards. Guardians - I like that. I’ve been brainstorming terminology to use instead of mutants or Variants. Some expression to indicate the Variants living in Los Angeles are different. We’re not wild animals, we’re under control. You can trust us. You can trust the Guardians. Hmmm. That could work.
I absently run my hand over the short prickly hairs on my head as I think. Everyday I wish for my hair. Everyday I find myself wanting to check Instagram, like an itch I can’t scratch because I don’t know my name. Everyday I find myself missing…missing someone…
I’ve reconstructed the events in my mind as best I can from old articles and videos. A man named Martin Patterson (the Chemist) tried to harness the power of an extremely rare disease, creating the Variants here in Los Angeles. His lust for power and his insanity grew out of control and LA had to be abandoned. I was his final project, his pièce de résistance, finished at the end of Patterson’s life.
Even more fascinating than his creations was the revelation that Martin Patterson had the disease himself, as did a tiny society of mutants living in secret for centuries. The military couldn’t stop him so the secret society did. Patterson was killed in March, but by then there was an unmanageable number of new mutants, including some with powerful positions in the government. All went to hell and I woke up three months later. Alone.
And now the city’s empty. It’s almost an out-of-body experience, standing on the tower and surveying the city of angels and knowing I’m the makeshift governor. I don’t want the job; I’ll find some trustworthy grownups soon to put in charge. You handle the stuff like food and housing, and I’ll handle the Variants, I’ll say to the responsible adults. Assuming we find any who trust us.
Los Angeles is not exactly our playground, but it’s close. There’s too much work and no time to play, however, so I sling the glasses around my neck and hurry down the stairs. The trip takes fifteen minutes. A cleaning crew is clearing rubble and detritus from the first floor. I’m assigning jobs as fast as possible and giving the workers generic titles, like Cleaners or Cooks. Not original, but it’s working. The Variants aren’t stable enough to handle mundane tasks like cleaning so I send them out on longer and more strenuous missions.
I’m making this up as I go. There’s no manual.
I exit the tower and Kayla falls in step beside me, like she’d been waiting. “Do you know what they’re calling you?” she asks.
“Who?”
“Everyone on the outside. On the east coast.”
“Why would they call me anything?”
“They’re calling you the Warrior Queen,” she says, and she’s beaming. She’s texting and walking and talking and smiling and bouncing, and everyone we pass stops to watch us.
“I don’t understand how people know who I am.”
“Are you kidding? The whole country is talking about the woman who tamed the mutants. That reporter is here documenting everything.”
“What do you think about the term Guardians? Instead of mutants or Variants?”
“I love it!”
“Of course you do.”
“The Warrior Queen and her Guardians are going to slay the evil Infected Walter! Can I tweet that?” she asks, and she’s already typing into her phone.
“Absolutely not.”
I’m learning on the fly. Especially about the two types of mutants.
The first group we simply call Variants. We weren’t born with the disease. A transhumanist physician nicknamed the Chemist injected it into our veins during a secret surgery, trying to create metahumans. We also received stem cell transplants, gene therapy, and God knows what else. The Chemist made us. We were manufactured. Not natural. We surge through life with varying degrees of madness. I have to remind this group to brush their teeth. For whatever reason, I emerged from the coma stronger than most surgical patients, and more able to think clearly.
Second is the mysterious secret group. We call them Infected, or Others. They’ve been around for hundreds of years, living in shadow and secrecy. Walter is Infected, and there are only ten or fifteen like him alive. This small elite group was born with the Hyper Virus, an incredibly rare occurrence. Natural. Pure. Immensely strong. World breakers.
Their names are hallowed. Some of them are legend. The Outlaw. Shooter. Carter.
Some of them are villains, like Walter and the Chemist.
Some of them are unknown by the general public. Like Caleb and Nuts. And a girl named Blue-Eyes who has seduced the President, or so Kayla tells me. She’s going to be trouble.
There’s too much information and too many people to keep track, like I’m still trying to wake up from a dream, so I’m not even attempting to make sense of it all yet. Today we survive. That’s what matters.
I say, “Kayla, remind me that we need to send Nuts more workers. He’s securing our water supply and he needs extra hands. Some of the new arrivals are going to become Engineers.”
“Yes Queen Carmine.”
“Don’t call me that.”
* * *
I spend the afternoon helping move our belongings, of which there are few, into the Olympic tower. When the Chemist died he left behind warriors like Mason but also a support system of servants. They call themselves the Devotees, and the Devotees have attached themselves to Nuts, and me, and Kayla, and anyone else they deem leadership material. Like butlers, essentially. Some were with the Chemist and his team for years. I can’t make the Devotees stop waiting on me, so we’re moving into the Olympic tower to appease them. That’s where we belong, or so they say.
After the final load I find myself alone in the tower’s dusty lobby. I’m twisting the top off a water bottle when I hear a heavy slam and then a muffled sob somewhere behind me. Curious, I force open a door marked ‘Authorized Personnel Only’ and explore deeper into the bowels of Olympic. At the back of the H/VAC room there’s a woman cowering in a dark corner beside an unmarked door. “I’m sorry,” she cries. “But the elevator don’t work.”
The woman is emaciated. She’s suffering from malnutrition, her clothes are rags, and she smells awful, like gangrene. I crouch beside her and offer my water bottle. She gulps it down and I say, “Take your time. And then explain what’s going on.”
“He told us not to come up but we’re down to two days half rations.” She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “They sent me for help. Do you know where’s Caleb?”
“Caleb? He left last week. What do you mean down to two days rations?”
“He left?” she gasps. “Well…who…” She starts to cry again. I pat her on the shoulder and debate running to fetch food. She asks, “Who is…I mean, I guess, I ought talk to someone. Someone in charge.”
“You can tell me.”
“Did Caleb
leave you any…instructions? Like a message, like maybe from the Father?”
“No. What about?” I ask.
“About important secrets?”
“What’s your name?”
“Heidi.”
“Heidi, I’m confused but I want to help. You’re starving. You need medical care. Where have you been? What is this special secret?”
“Is the Father really dead?”
“He’s been dead for three months or more.”
“You heard of the Inheritors?”
“No. Tell me.”
“Maybe,” Heidi says and she takes my hand. Like holding hands with a skeleton. I help her to her feet. “Maybe I best show you. Cause we’re dying.”
At Heidi’s direction I open the heavy unmarked door. I’m struck by the smell of unwashed bodies as we proceed down a small staircase. Down into her world. She asks me questions but I can’t answer. I’m too shocked to speak.
Part Two
November, 2019
Here, on this mountain, I and my sons and my chosen friends shall build our new land and our fort. And it will become as the heart of the earth, lost and hidden at first, but beating, beating louder each day. And word of it will reach every corner of the earth. - Anthem. Ayn Rand.
- One -
In November, the sun rises at 6:25am. I am awake. From my vantage, the sun climbs between skyscrapers, rising over San Bernardino. Angry red chroma ricochets off windows.
I watch from inside the shattered 717 Olympic Tower. Once a modern residential high rise, now, like every other skyscraper, 717 Olympic bears gaping wounds, and so do many of its inhabitants. My corner bedroom is missing most of the northern and eastern walls, so essentially I live on a balcony, exposed to the tranquil southern California climate. I’m not inured to my view yet, the vast carpet of our abandoned city, still emptier now than at any time since the mid 1800s. A metropolis built to hold eighteen million now contains eighty thousand.
It is a haunting and heart-breaking sight. But it is my home. Eighty thousand is an amazing accomplishment considering our starting point six months ago.
Someone scuffs the carpet in the hallway outside my apartment. The door handle twists, so I step over the man sleeping on my floor, slip over the side and begin a descent of Olympic’s exterior surface. I live on the twenty-second floor, but the high rise offers a surplus of handholds and landing spots. Unnoticed, I Climb down and drop on Figueroa Street four minutes later. Streets are still dark with shadow. Perfect. I don’t want to be seen.
Only a few of the city’s residents are up. Cooks shout and laugh in makeshift cafeterias scattered throughout Downtown. They’ll have breakfast prepared by 6:30am for the Fishers, the Farmers, and the Shepherds. Early birds, all of them, selected for their profession based partly on sleep habits. The Cooks will have another meal prepared at 8am for the Engineers, the Scavengers, the Cleaners, and all the rest.
I move north, pulling the blue zip-up hoodie tight against the chill. The air is damp and cool and makes my joints ache. This early, the wide boulevards are mine alone. The once manicured planters now spill with overgrowth beside the streets.
Gardeners. We need more Gardeners. We put people to work the minute they take up residence here, and surely some of the incoming can use pruning sheers.
As I walk past the old Staples Center, home of the Lakers, Night Guardians begin their return from patrolling Koreatown, Glendale, Hollywood, and everywhere else within a two-hour walk. The Guardians don’t trudge along the dusty road like I do. They Leap from rooftops, screaming like howler monkeys when their adrenaline reaches an unbearable level. Some of them haven’t touched the earth all night, consuming as much as six thousand calories during their prowling. The Leapers jump distances over a hundred feet. They flit like red demons in the dawn, and they protect our borders.
I close my eyes and enjoy the effect their homeward migration has on my sensorium. I don’t have to see the Guardians; I feel them. The herd passes overhead like a thunderstorm.
I’ve gradually convinced New Los Angeles to call them Guardians instead of Variants or mutants. Our Guardians are blessed in different ways. Some leap. Some are strong. Some climb. Some fight. Some are blessed mentally instead of physically. All are enhanced, but in different proportion. Our city has over four thousand. Because I’m here.
The Discipline Assembly doesn’t begin until 10am. I arrive at the old Dodgers baseball stadium three hours early, so to kill time I tour Angelino Heights and Elysian Park. The pretty victorian houses here were the source of bitter arguments two months ago. Some of the rightful owners returned to LA and wanted to live in their own houses again, demanding the new residents vacate. I forget how the Courts ruled. Didn’t care then. Don’t care now.
I sit on a bench in Elysian Park and slap the dust off my cargo pants and Nikes. Only a small portion of New LA has been swept clean of concrete grime and rubble, so we toil constantly in a scrim of soot. The view of Downtown takes my breath away. The horizon is flat other than the stately tower cluster. Barely visible beyond, the horizon twinkles as sunlight begins glinting off Pacific waves. The firmament rises to eternity in a cloudless blue.
Another perfect day to swell our batteries with solar panels. Another frustrating day for rooftop rain-catchers and Farmers, who must now manually haul water to the top of buildings for their potted gardens.
“We live in paradise,” I observe. No one hears me except the closest cow, belonging to a cattle herd which grazes here in Elysian. The park is big and grassy enough to support several dozen.
It’s not paradise, though. It’s a hive of rebels, working feverishly to create a self-sufficient society. We don’t have much time. We reside in the eye of a storm, one which threatens to consume us any day.
My phone buzzes again. I have twenty unanswered texts. I reply, I’m fine. Leave me alone, and I turn on airplane mode.
I’m going to get an earful for that.
While I have the device out, I scan through saved Instagram photos. Hundreds of pics of me, in a prior life. Kayla figured out my identity months ago. I used to be a girl named Katie Lopez, but I don’t recall taking these Instagram photos. Any picture saved during the previous three years lays beyond my powers of recollection.
Having a destroyed history is like staring into a black hole; memories get sucked away when I reach. Who is Katie Lopez? I remember her like I remember an old acquaintance. I force myself through dozens of smiling faces. I should know this. I should know these people. I feel phantom pain. Swirling emotions without foundation. Like walking through fog.
I turn off the phone as my fingers begin to tremble. The Chemist did this to me. Took my memory. It makes me furious. Deep breaths. Slow the pulse. I’ll remember Katie one of these days.
Maybe.
The agitation requires ten minutes to subside, as always. Still an hour before the Assembly, so I wander to the makeshift market erected in the shade provided by the sprawling intersection of the old 101 and 110 interstates. Here Venders set up shop for ten hours a day, displaying the efforts of Scavengers and Farmers and Shepherds and Crafters and Engineers. This particular market is known for beef. If you want fish then you need to visit a market closer to the ocean. If you want eggs, go anywhere. We have chickens galore, and eggs to spare. There are a dozen such markets scattered around New LA, and our populace can get any necessity here.
Our Kingdom is still new. Only half a year old. And so our system of commerce is still in infancy. Right now, in order to survive, we’re all pulling on the same rope in the same direction. You work, you get to eat. That’s our commerce. If you run out of food, visit a cafeteria. We’re experimenting with digital currency, our very own Paypal. Like bitcoin. No one has physical money but we all have phones. So why not? (New LA doesn’t possess an infinite supply of central electricity, but every home has an industrial battery or generator for phones.) The digital currency will be a disaster when it first launches next month, but then we’ll tweak. Un
til then, we all share. It’s very imperfect but it suffices. For now.
We’re doing about as well as the rest of the planet, I suppose. Better than most.
Both the market patrons and Vendors are well dressed. Designer clothes everywhere I look. Los Angeles was evacuated in a hurry during November of 2018, leaving behind billions in retail merchandise and personal belongings. And we haven’t scavenged even a third of the greater Los Angeles area yet.
I do my best to be invisible, even holding my breath, and I enter the marketplace. It’s not a true marketplace yet. But it will be when we have currency. The Vendors have finished setting tables. Most patrons are Scavengers or Cleaners on their way to work. They take an apple or a wrapped parcel of beef, or browse for new gloves, and then ride off on bicycles. The mood is light-hearted and friendly. Fear of severe consequences prevents overt greed, and the absence of haggling keeps the transactions brisk. The Vendors simply make notes about who takes what, and the Vendor Overseer monitors the whole process.
“Back again, Stas?”
“You know it. Got any safety goggles today?”
“Fraid not. Maybe if you Scavengers would quit sitting on your asses all day.”
“Hah! I work myself to the bone while you Vendors stand in the shade.”
“Yeah but I gotta put up with ugly patrons like yourself.”
“Fair enough.”
“Make sure you get a cut of beef before you go. Strips of sirloin today.”
I smile. Friendly conversations like this between the two men are the norm. It won’t last forever, so I enjoy it while I can.
I don’t want beef. I want fruit and veggies and chocolate, so I close the hood even tighter around my face and proceed. The nearest vegetable Vendor is an unhappy looking woman and she glowers when I select a baggie of red and green peppers. She grumbles, “Haven’t seen you around before.”
I shrug.
She continues, “You aren’t circuiting, are you?”