Carmine: Rise of the Warrior Queen

by Alan Janney

  Dalton and I leave to inspect the eastern Downtown barracks in Little Tokyo. The Miyako Hotel is a twelve-story slate gray building stuffed with mutants. Most of them are still asleep when we enter but my proximity soon rattles their nerves enough to disturb slumber. They emerge from their rooms and clot the hallways and Miyako hums with happy energy. We proceed down hallways and up staircases, and I leave my arms stretched wide so the Variants can caress my hands. I don’t understand the biology but I know skin contact helps them. I stop in each hallway and issue the same announcement: “You make me very proud. Your service to the Kingdom keeps us safe. It is an honor to work with you. But your rooms are disgusting. We cannot thrive in filth. Clean up your things. Wash yourself. Brush your teeth. You need to relearn discipline. Discipline will help protect your sanity. When I return, I expect improvement.”

  Becky lives in this hotel. As I exit the building, she follows and holds my hand. “They love you so much,” she says. She’s a Scavenger but I have a hunch she skips duty and uses our friendship as the excuse.

  “I need to blow off steam, Becky. Too much adrenaline. Let’s go for a jog.”

  “Yes Queen Carmine.” She gets her sneakers and we set off west and south. Dalton follows behind us in a truck.

  After three blocks, I ask, “Have you heard—”

  “The Outlaw is coming? Yes.”

  “Did—”

  “No I never met him. Or fought him.”

  Becky possesses unusual symptoms. She woke up from the surgery and was able to read people. And I mean read them. Predict what they’ll do or say. She says, “You’re not sure what to think. Or how to feel, about the Outlaw.”

  “You got that right.”

  “He’s hot.”

  “So? Appearances—”

  “Can be deceiving, but that’s stupid. If he’s hot then he’s hot.”

  “Becky—”

  She smiles. “You’re blushing, Queen Carmine.”

  “Okay. No more talking. And don’t call me that.”

  By the time we finish, fifty other joggers trail us ten yards back. Dalton honks until they go away. After that, I have two free hours so I go to my office. I pace and stalk and fume and try not to think about the Outlaw. My heart rate has begun slowing when Kayla forwards a call to my phone. It’s Mason, leader of the Falcons, a man I trust.

  “I heard the Outlaw is coming?” he asks. I can tell he’s grinning.

  “No. He’s not welcome. He’ll have to go elsewhere. What’s the status on Walter?”

  “Did I tell you I fought the Outlaw once? In the Gas Tower. He came in through the window, like three hundred feet in the air. He’s so fast, Carmine, it’s like fighting an archangel.”

  “Mason—”

  “I was with a squad of, I don’t know, maybe ten Variants? He kicked our asses. Like a bomb went off. I might be the only one left, actually, now I think about it. Who else was there that night? I can’t remember.”

  “Mason—”

  “I think the others died. He hit me with that stick of his, you know? The one in the photos? Hit me in the shoulder and broke my arm. Knocked me through a wall.”

  I try not to crush my phone. Mason is the most talkative man I know. And perhaps the deadliest Guardian I have, a former gang member. He can’t help it, I tell myself. His mouth is too big. “Mason, focus. Tell me about Walter.”

  “Walter’s on the train, chugging towards the UCLA station. Be there in two hours. He’s sitting in the passenger car. Still no signs of duplicity.”

  “Good. Cars are waiting for you.”

  “Right-o, Queen. I’ll escort him to the Ritz, stash him with a heavy guard, and report.”

  “Thank you, Mason. Safe travels.”

  “Queen Carmine?”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t go meet the Outlaw without me. I want his autograph.”

  He hangs up quickly before I can yell at him.

  * * *

  My office is the smallest room on the 22nd floor. No beds. No couches. Just a desk facing west and a chair. On the desk is a laptop connected to an industrial battery that my Devotee keeps charged.

  I am a student at Stanford. The university is located in San Fransisco, which currently stands strong and resists evacuation. The world might be more unsettled than at any point since World War Two, but Stanford believes future doctors and lawyers still need to be educated. I take courses through correspondence. Katie Lopez had been accepted there, so I simply altered her course load to two online classes this semester. Anthology and Communications.

  Kayla once asked me, “Why are you taking college classes? I mean, you’re the Queen, for goodness sake.”

  “Because we’re trying to have a civilization, Kayla. And I’m not a queen,” I answered.

  But there’s a deeper response to Kayla’s inquiry. I’m a student because it helps me remain human. I woke up a hunter, a predator. I’m the chief of a savage tribe, often engulfed by violent urges. The Hyper Virus pushes madness into my processes, causing mania and mood swings. College classes are a deliberate injection of normalcy into my life.

  My grades are good. Katie Lopez was intelligent. I remember her high school and experience a flush of pleasure, a recollection of success.

  Today, though, there will be no successes. I try working on a research paper, but I can’t. I attempt studying for approaching final exams. No use. I’m too full of unanswered questions. After thirty minutes of frustration, I slam my textbook and open up an internet browser. I find an article written by Teresa Triplett, dated two weeks ago.

  I scroll through the paragraphs. “Blah…blah…blah.” Nothing of interest until the bottom.

  …As for the Outlaw, he remains safely ensconced inside Luke Air Force Base in Arizona, progressing through rehab. Here at New Los Angeles, a contingent of Outlaw supporters (including yours truly) eagerly anticipate his long-heralded return, a homecoming which seems more likely after cell phone video surfaced on Monday of the man in the mask jogging laps around the runways. Not even a broken back will ultimately deter him from his task, so it seems. He told me in a private email in July that Katie Lopez was not lost, and that he was going to make her remember. In so doing, he’ll rekindle the planet’s foremost storied romance. In July, that promise seemed preposterous, but now? I’ve watched the video of his jog at least a dozen times, and he appears to be a man on a mission. A man in love. A man desperate. So, Queen Carmine, sooner or later the hour tolls for thee…

  “Delusions of grandeur,” I growl and rub at the headache behind my eyes. I’m not sure why he irritates me so much, but he does. It’s probably his entitlement, his cocksure belief he’ll simply waltz back and fix things. That assumption implies I need fixing. That I’m broken. Like all my hard work isn’t enough.

  Maybe in another life, Outlaw. A prior life which ended six months ago.

  Now if I could only calm the passions which thunder whenever I think of him.

  * * *

  That night I stand on the peak of the 717 Olympic. Our high-rise is near the southern boundary of Los Angeles’s tower cluster. Directly north is a forest of skyscrapers, mostly empty, mammoth and haunting and impersonal and cratered by war. Last year, the city would have been aglow with energy, brilliant crystal shards thick to the horizon. Now it’s black, save for tiny coal fires. The wind sings through antennas over my head and the chill makes my joints hurt.

  “Where is he?” I ask.

  Kayla is lounging in a deck chair, eyes fixed on her phone. “Who?”

  “The Outlaw.”

  “He’s in Burbank.”

  “I know that. But where?”

  “Near the mountains.”

  “Where?”

  “Ugh,” she groans. “One second, my Queen. I’ll find out, my Queen.”

  “Thank you.”

  She works her phone for a minute and reports, “He and his followers are camping in the Starlight Bowl.”

  “That’s within our borders. Our
checkpoints are a sieve, at best. That vexes me.”

  “I doubt he knows about the checkpoints. They came over the mountains.”

  I ask, “Why does he have followers?”

  “Who has followers?” Mason McHale emerges from the stairwell, walking with his usual swagger. He bows slightly in greeting. “My Queen.”

  “The Outlaw has followers,” I respond. “Is it a coincidence Walter is here and the Outlaw is on his way?”

  Mason shrugs and sits next to Kayla. “Maybe not. They hate each other.” He turns to Kayla. “Hello angel.”

  She takes her eyes off her phone long enough to roll them. “My name is Kayla.”

  I ask, “They hate each other?” but no one listens.

  Mason pulls a necklace over his head, and holds it out to Kayla. A diamond ring dangles from it. “Let’s get married, my love. Tonight.”

  “No!” she squeaks. “And quit asking me.”

  “Never. Did Adonis ever quit chasing Aphrodite?”

  “What? I don’t know! Shut up.”

  “Hey,” I say, “Why does the Outlaw have followers?”

  Mason shrugs again. “Security. If you’re near him, you’re safe. Well, normal people are safe, I mean.”

  “He walked here from a military hospital in Phoenix,” Kayla answers. “Started a week ago. Stragglers joined him when he passed. Now he’s got several hundred. Maybe a thousand.”

  “Do you think he got the message? That he’s not welcome?”

  “Yes. PuckDaddy delivered the message himself.”

  I frown. “How did he do that? Do they know each other?”

  “Probably,” she says. She’s ducking from Mason as he tries to stroke her hair. “Both PuckDaddy and the Outlaw are supporters of the resistance. At least those are the rumors. Stop it!”

  “What do you have against affection, my love?”

  “Are you so desperate for it? Go visit the third floor then.”

  He winks, a strand of golden hair sliding between his fingers. “I get asked there every day. But I wait for you.”

  One of the many problems I need to solve is the third floor of our tower. Guardians overflow with energy and adrenaline and hormones, and their sentry duties aren’t enough to suppress it entirely. Those with less self-control find a release for their urges on the third floor, or in similar spots around the city. Teresa Triplett spoke of it once, saying, “The third floor is pure rampant sexual activity. Like the Olympic Village, which is a fitting name.”

  Gross.

  “You’ll be waiting a long time, Mason, if you want me to join you on the third floor,” Kayla remarks.

  “Worth it.”

  “I’m leaving,” I say.

  They both stand. I’m on the tower’s balustrade, staring north, but I feel their concern boring into my back. My heels are on the security railing, my toes protrude into space. I want to fall. It’s a longing all Guardians feel. The adventure. The unknown. The danger. We clean one or two Guardians off the pavement every week, those who give in to the craving. Just thinking about the plunge dumps endorphins into my bloodstream. Part of the insanity.

  “Going where?”

  “Burbank,” I say.

  “Carmine, my Queen,” Kayla’s voice grows frantic. “I don’t…that’s not a great idea. Why would you go there?”

  “I want to see the Outlaw. And then tell him to leave.” Besides, I often go out during the night. We hunt for looters, thieves, Herders, spies, and any other unwelcome visitor. This is my role in New LA.

  I’ve never jumped this high. I’ve leapt around small buildings but nothing like this. The Apex apartment tower is across the street. I can make it. Easy. I’ve seen Mason do it, but he’s had the disease three times longer than me. It’s second nature to him but I’m still uneasy. The longer I stare, the further away Apex tower recedes.

  Kayla is mustering up arguments on why I shouldn’t go. I don’t care. I Jump. High. Far. At the pinnacle of my parabola I roll over, weightless for an instant, suspended in silence, and descend toes first. I nearly overshoot my target, landing on the furthest edge of Apex’s large helipad, which is painted with a big fading red 15. The concrete buckles slightly with the impact.

  I hear Mason before he arrives. We Leap differently. He displaces more air than I do and his touchdown is heavier, but he’s more accustomed to jumping and his landings are accurately pinpointed. He can’t jump as far however, despite his experience, which gives me a small amount of pleasure. Mason straightens beside me and says, “I’m coming with you.”

  “Kayla’s orders?”

  “It’s fifteen miles. Will you jump the whole way? I was up there recently and it’s no small hike.”

  “I’ll take a car from the northern garage. Meet me there.” Then I’m gone, strong legs launching me into stars. The next landing spot is the TCW, a brown office goliath, much higher than than the Apex. Too far for Mason; he’ll pick a different route.

  Again I miss my mark. I sail fifty yards like a dart, rotating slowly, arms wide, eyes closed. It’s bliss. Heaven. Freedom. Until I begin the descent. I aimed for the top and I won’t get close. The cold air is loud in my ears, and the eastern surface of the TCW expands to fill the horizon until I plunge through a window. I skid to a stop on the thin carpet underneath a wreckage of chairs. My face hurts from smiling, and I shake off the glass and dust.

  “Ouch,” I laugh, almost girlish with enchantment.

  I exit from the shattered window and touch down on the Jetro building. Then Ernst & Young. I hop all the way to the Cathedral of Our Lady of Angels. Aerobatic and breathless, moving like a phantom. A clumsy phantom. My lungs burn when I finally land in the church parking lot. So good. I cherish the pins and needles in my chest.

  This small section of the city is dedicated to the Guardian’s armada. The once vacant lots are now populated with vehicles. Cars, trucks, but mainly motorcycles. Over a thousand of them. Colorful Kawasaki, Suzuki and Yamaha sport bikes. Racing motocross bikes. Honda, BMW, and Harley Davidson street motorcycles. All of them have full tanks, and keys in the ignition. No one can touch them except our Guardians, and only then in case of emergency. Nuts finds the bikes and the luxury sports cars awaiting repairs in garages, and he fixes them when he can’t sleep. I climb into a cherry red 2018 Porsche Boxster and lower the roof. Mason slips into the passenger seat, sucking oxygen, and I gun the engine.

  We take the Five north. I churn through silky gears and top out at 135 mph. The interstate is void of vehicles and the blacktop flows like liquid under our tires and the only danger is the chance of stray animals.

  The Hyper Virus makes us jumpy. We’re full of adrenaline, ready to snap, and staying sane requires constant effort. Jumping from towers and stomping the gas is therapy, probably like the release Guardians feel on the third floor. Except without STDs and hurt feelings and unwashed bodies. When we arrive at Burbank I am significantly more relaxed, my demons exorcised, like I’ve just eaten a big, satisfying meal.

  The Starlight Bowl is an outdoor concert venue built into the side of a mountain near Wildwood Canyon Park. Following Mason’s directions, we roar up the peak and park at DeBell Golf Course, a mile from the Bowl. There is a soft glow emitting from over the rise, and we cautiously make our way through the brown brush and scrub trees. Mason chattered the whole trip but now his voice drops to a whisper and then into silence.

  We exit the forest above the Bowl. A clearing unfolds below us, two hundred yards away. Fifty tents have been erected, and hundreds of people sleep on the grass and the stage. Embers burn in fire pits. Sentries patrol with flashlights.

  I can’t go any closer. My feet won’t move. My heart hammers louder than the car engine did.

  I feel him.

  The Outlaw’s presence looms ahead like a thundercloud. Like a drop in barometric pressure. The disease is thick in his veins, creating a nearly visible aura.

  It’s intoxicating. It’s seductive.

  It’s frightening.

>   I am terrified. A new emotion for me. Like I’m standing on the edge of an endless abyss and afraid of heights. I’m overwhelmed to the point of tears.

  I manage to ask, “Do you feel him?”

  “Of course,” Mason replies. “He’s an avalanche.”

  “He can’t come into the city. The Guardians would lose their minds.”

  Emotions swirl inside. I’m drawn to him. Like a siren call, he physically pulls me. And yet I hate him. I do. My whole body is rigid and my jaw is set and the desire to destroy him rises like a wave. I want violence. He’s a colossal danger, so powerful that I can’t help but hate him.

  Suddenly we’re not alone. Other Guardians silently slide through the trees and join us on their nightly patrols, drawn like moths to a flame. We all stare with wide eyes at the Bowl and it’s occupants.

  I ask, “Do you feel it too? The need to hurt him?”

  “Absolutely. This is the third time I’ve been close enough to smell him. My body is…outraged by his.”

  I shake my head. What is wrong with me? Such a strong response. Teresa Triplett warned me, but I assumed I’d be impervious. All the Guardians are standing or sitting with rapt attention, erect backs, and barred teeth. Like wild animals.

  There’s a strange noise. Someone is humming. Loudly.

  “Knock it off,” I hiss.

  Mason looks askance at me. “What?”

  “The humming.”

  “No one is humming.”

  I gape. He can’t hear that? It’s so loud. It’s…

  It’s in my mind. It’s a tune in my brain but I’m not controlling it, like speakers are activated deep in my ear canals.

  He asks, “You okay, Carmine?”

  Katie Lopez is humming in my head! It’s her. I feel her smiling with pleasure and humming. She’s happy and it makes me flush with emotion. I want to rip the Outlaw’s head off but she’s happy to be near him. This is new. And wild.

  “Carmine?”

  “I’m a mess,” I whisper, shoving Katie Lopez deeper into the recessed halls of my consciousness. I’ve wanted to remember for so long, and now some small part of me responds at the exact wrong time. The irony would be amusing if I wasn’t so amped.