Carmine: Rise of the Warrior Queen

by Alan Janney

  My blood runs cold. This has happened before in other locations. I see it all in my mind. The Herders will have attacked the Power Plant, drawing attention from nearby Night Guardians, and then used electroshock weapons to subdue them. Last time the Herders kidnapped fifteen, worth a fortune. Soldiers for the Blue-Eyed Witch. I bet the Herders are already rumbling away in a truck, laden with unconscious prizes. Smash and grab.

  Mason calls me again. “Wait for us, Carmine! We’re on the way. It could be a trap specifically for you.”

  The sky throbs an angry red. I round a bend on the Five and see the blaze. It’s from a nightmare. Hundreds of gunfire bursts. Blasts of electricity, more dazzling than the sun. Bright coils of fire spiral upwards. The Power Plant is an expansive industrial park, bigger in appearance than the Water Filtration Plant. Metal towers and smokestacks and buildings for acres, and all is chaos.

  “The Herders came in force,” I snarl. “Maybe a hundred.”

  “Wait for us,” he warns.

  “Too late. Trucks already rolling up Victory Boulevard to the interstate ramps. Get here!”

  I couldn’t stop if I wanted. I only maintain partial control on my sanity, on my actions. The need, the hunger, the thirst for action is unquenchable.

  I can do this.

  A convoy is exiting the madhouse in a hurry. A heavy jeep leads the way, gunner on top, preceding an eighteen-wheeler and rearguard, headlights puncturing the black as they rumble up the entrance ramp at Mile 146. My direction. They can’t escape. They have my people. I roar past their ramp, cut the wheel and engage the emergency brake. The little sports car locks rear wheels, squeals in a 180 degree turn, and faces the oncoming motorcade. The leading jeep exits the long pretzel turn and accelerates onto the interstate heading north, heading straight at me. Behind it, the eighteen wheeler is picking up steam.

  The jeep is a stripped down Humvee, military grade, camouflage paint, heavy gun on top. I rev my engine, frissons radiating in my fingers, and launch forward. A game of chicken; I don’t care if I lose because the eighteen-wheeler will be forced to grind through vehicle wreckage. Bring it on. The distance between is vanishing quickly. The Hummer’s high-beams click on, further destroying my night vision, and the machine gun rattles to life. Brilliant bursts of death, and my car shudders. My body can’t withstand those heavy rounds so I crouch low under the wheel. The little Boxster is instantly ruined; smoke pours from the hood, and my windshield shatters. But I don’t swerve.

  I want to crash. I crave the noise. Madness spreads like a fever. Adventure and death are almost sensual in their power.

  The Humvee chickens out. He jerks sideways at the last instant, plowing into the concrete retaining wall, throwing his gunner violently forward. One down.

  The massive eighteen-wheeler doesn’t flinch. He grinds gears and bellows forward onto the wide interstate. I don’t flinch either. My Boxster disintegrates into his grill. Tires burst with the impact. Steam and fire erupt from undercarriages, covering the road. The big truck’s engine breaks and front axle snaps. Men scream.

  I neatly soar over the truck’s cab, fifteen feet high, my luxury car left to melt alone. I alight and slide across the slick trailer roof, and the big vehicle’s death throes vibrate through my shins. I shove fingernails into the roof’s surface and peel the layered metal back like a giant can of tuna.

  It’s a trap.

  Inside are Herders, picking themselves up from the collision. This convoy is bait, intended to capture more Guardians. Or me. A man on the floor squints at my silhouette above and fires his gun. I’m hit in the shoulder. It feels like being struck with a sledge. The slug doesn’t penetrate because the disease dumped enough adrenaline to temporarily transmute my muscle to rock and my skin to tough hide. But it hurts and I’m knocked off the truck. I land hard on the road, my ankle pops and I lose my air.

  The second Humvee can’t brake in time and it slams into the rear of the smoldering eighteen-wheeler. Injured men groan and scramble clear. A destruction illuminated by fire.

  Herders. I despise them. My hands itch to open the truck’s gas tanks, to incinerate the men inside. But I’m not like them. I don’t destroy the defenseless. This fight is over; I’m needed at the Power Plant.

  I turn to run. A Herder rises from his smoking Humvee and fires a high-powered, riot-control net gun. The net is metal chain and it hits me from behind. I’m covered as if by a blanket, and the small battery releases its charge. A snap of sick blue light and I’m electrocuted, struck down in the middle of Interstate 5.

  “Got her! I got the witch!”

  The shock isn’t lethal. Maybe if I hadn’t been wearing rubber soled shoes? But the electro-muscular disruption overrides muscle control and singes my skin. The men howl and encircle me. They have electrified batons, electric cattle prods, net guns, and (the worst) lightning poles.

  It’s hard to kill Guardians. The easiest way is fire and electricity, but flamethrowers are too volatile and lightning guns only exist in science fiction. Lightning can’t be shot, like bullets can. It has to transfer between termini with a strong differential in electric potential. So the Herders travel in pairs with charged poles and throw lightning back and forth.

  Their mistake is giving me too much time to recuperate. My muscles cease twitching as they surround me. I’m shot again, this time by a shotgun. Agony. My body curls in on itself. But again, no permanent damage.

  “No, no! Don’t kill her! I got this.”

  A man approaches with a sizzling cattle prod. It’s deadly, delivers a much bigger payload than the net. I’ll be rendered insensate and wake up immobilized.

  He nears. I cry and they laugh in response. I will enjoy this.

  Closer. Closer.

  I Move. I’m off the ground before he can blink. The net spins into two men with electrified batons, enveloping them. Metal mesh connects the batons to their skin. The circle completes and electricity releases into flesh.

  They scream. Their skin melts.

  I disarm and fry my closest attacker with his own cattle prod. He has no chance to be surprised.

  We’re all lucky it isn’t raining.

  I hate this. And I crave it. The violence makes me sick, and fills me with disparate rapture. I used to be a girl, now a monster built with one purpose; demolition. I vanish within the melee. My fists are hammers and I drive them into my enemy, crushing bone. My nails are razors and I open their bodies, slicing cleanly through armor. I’m not good at fighting yet. My movements are clumsy and I’m inefficient at high speeds, but to my un-enhanced opponents it’s like battling the wind. I’m hit only once, a lucky elbow to my jaw. The bones in his arm break.

  Suddenly the night explodes with lightning, freezing the scene in my eyes. Herders scramble and throw heavy bolts of power between them, a lethal game of catch using batteries and rods. The proximity causes my hair to stand on end. It’s mindless and desperate and they can’t control the lightning. Nature is too powerful a force to command safely. I’m living proof. I am a wraith among them, a demon, and they shoot and sizzle each other instead. It’s disgusting slaughter.

  And it’s over. Two dozen men lay groaning or dead on the pavement. I am burnt and hurt and furious and the smell turns my insides and I roar as a lion, as a dragon, as a goddess would. My voice is heard for miles. Abandon hope, all my enemies. I come for you.

  The men wear suits and helmets. The helmets have cameras attached, transmitting a live feed. I pick one up and glare into it.

  “Your men shatter against me. Come yourself, Witch. Let this be settled.”

  No time to catch my breath; another convoy is approaching. Jeep, truck, jeep, like the last one, banging around the entrance ramp at thirty, forty, fifty miles per hour. I bet this one isn’t bait. It’s gotta be full of wounded Guardians, struck down with awful weapons. I’m too tired. Too injured to stop it. I cast around for something, anything. There is a mounted machine gun on the Humvee’s roof, however I’d be a sitting target.
r />   The oncoming mass of machine won’t be stopped by me. But I have to try.

  All at once, the flight of Falcons screams out of the dark. Their headlights blaze to life and they swoop in elegant formation beside the Herder motorcade. All eight Falcons, flying together on motorcycles.

  The cavalry has arrived.

  The foremost enemy Humvee swerves to miss flaming wreckage. Three Falcons converge and Leap from their black motorcycles. They swarm the jeep like wolfs taking down big game. The gunner is dispatched, doors ripped off, and driver yanked out, a fast devastating attack so gorgeous I almost feel bad for the men inside. The Falcons jump off before the Humvee t-bones the far barricade.

  The next wave of Falcons conducts a similar attack on the big eighteen-wheeler, except Mason hauls himself into the cab and jams the brakes to avoid a crash. Tires scream and dissolve.

  The rearguard accelerates, the last Humvee’s heavy gun rattling and chewing up the pavement. The final two Falcons jump aboard and the gun silences.

  Surviving Herders spill from all three vehicles, heavy with armor and equipment. These are expert hunters and former special-ops, men trained for years, hardened fighters, and they are shredded by the Falcon Variants. You can’t hit what you can’t see. Mason and the Falcons Move, too fast, and they strike with long knives, and the Herders have no advantage of surprise. The cowardly Herders make their living through ambush, and without it they fall before us.

  Afterwards, the Falcons scavenge through bodies, taking ID and weapons and valuables. I break the lock on the trailer. Before I open it, Mason asks, “What about the survivors? The Herders? Some of them live.”

  “Let them limp home,” I say. “Let the world see what becomes of our aggressors.” Perhaps we should execute them, but I have no stomach for it. Too much blood tonight. Plus the Herders are already wounded and the message might connect more solidly when they return home scarred.

  I swing open the doors. Within the darkness, twenty Guardians are trussed by heavy chain and elasti-cuffs. All of them unconscious. All of them caught by surprise, bearing fresh electrical burns.

  “Mason, assign a sentry. Call for Law Keepers and Medics to tend these Guardians.”

  Mason nods and slaps a hand on a Falcon’s shoulder, a man taller than himself. “Yes ma’am. Chris will handle it. What about us?”

  “Back to the power plant. We are needed.”

  * * *

  Half a mile away, an inferno is melting the western corner of the Magnolia Power Plant. Gunfire has stopped within the vast complex.

  Mason and I find our Engineers hiding behind abandoned trucks in the parking lot across Magnolia Boulevard. Their faces glow with flame and fear.

  “Report. Tell me everything, quickly.”

  A wizened, shaggy man gulps air. “Yes Queen Carmine. They arrived in three trucks and approximately five hummers. They have guns. The fire started in the offices and warehouse. They shot at us to pin us down,” he pants. “They captured all the Guardians who went in. Sixty seconds ago, they quit shooting.”

  “Three trucks? I’ve only seen two.”

  “Yes ma’am. The big one is still in there.”

  So the enemy is still inside, securing more of our fallen family. I won’t wait. I press my radio into his hand. “Call for firetrucks. Got it? Update General Brown. And tell Nuts to hurry.”

  In times of stress, the Guardians operate on instinct. Pack animal mentality. They wait by my side, quivering, muscles trembling, hounds yearning to be unleashed. I bolt across the street and they sprint at my side. This is why the Blue-Eyed Witch and Walter want them; the Guardians would follow them as they follow me, blindly into combat, an unstoppable force moving as one.

  The Herders have retreated deep into the complex and are piling into the largest truck I’ve ever seen. It’s an armored troop transport capable of moving hundreds. More of a long tank broken into two locking segments, like two wide train cars, moving on twelve reinforced wheels taller than I can reach.

  “Dios mio,” Mason grunts. We stand on the second floor landing of an exposed metal staircase, watching the beast belch diesel smoke. “What the hell is that thing? Most’ve cost fifty million to build.”

  The army-green transport rumbles forward. The drivers peer through thin slits in the cab, probably steering mostly from camera feed. My people are inside that dragon.

  From our second-story perch, we have to jump up to land on the transport’s roof. There are no defenses because the tank doesn’t need them. We’re powerless against this overwhelming machine. We kick and pry and pull and don’t even dent the thick steel. Knives break when they strike the tires. There’s no weakness to exploit. Can’t get in. Can’t stop it.

  “What do we do?” Mason asks. We stand on top as it rumbles out of Magnolia. It takes up two lanes and carelessly crushes any obstruction.

  “We can’t stop it.” My bruised hands are on my knees and I’m sucking wind. “We need rockets to break the engine or puncture the tires, but General Brown won’t get here in time.”

  The dragon is picking up speed. Ten miles per hour. Fifteen. Twenty. It turns left on Front Street and thunders north. Our hidden Engineers stare with wide eyes from the parking lot as we pass. We’ll be on the interstate in two minutes.

  I was stupid not to have a stronger guard here, armed with heavy munitions. This is my fault.

  “Mason, you and the Falcons find your motorcycles,” I call over the groaning engine. “Get to General Brown and grab all the armor piercing weapons you can carry. I’ll stay with the transport and guide you over the phone.”

  He shakes his head. “You’ll be twenty miles away by then. Alone.”

  “This is not a debate, Mason.”

  “Look!”

  “The Outlaw!”

  We turn to see a man fall from the sky and land heavily on the transport’s nose. He is dressed in black pants, black vest, and a red mask which covers his eyes and hair and ties in the back, like the pirate from Princess Bride. The crimson mask is theatrical and dramatic and stupid, and also kinda hot. It’s the most well-known costume…ever. He carries a heavy metal rod in his hands, slightly longer than a baseball bat, and he drives it down through the driver’s thin viewport, puncturing the dragon’s eye.

  There’s a small explosion of fire and sparks. The engine’s drone increases in pitch, and its drivetrain lurches sickly. The Outlaw has wounded it. A sudden change in direction throws the Falcons off the sides, and I barely cling on. The rod must have gone straight into the dash, pulverizing controls. The behemoth barrels over a fence and across railroad tracks, moving like a drunken, charging grizzly bear into an abandoned lumber yard. The Outlaw drives his bat through the second viewport, splitting steel and rending the dragon uncontrollable. His jaw is set and he ignores the mayhem. The truck storms through tall stacks of lumber and the engines smoke heavily. We push the growing mountain of destruction ahead like a plow, careening into old cargo trucks.

  Too much strain. Too much electrical damage. Gears shred. The engine blows, rupturing oil and steam, and the beast shudders. The churning wheels cease laboring, and we settle on slackening hydraulics. My ears ring with sudden silence.

  Soldiers shout and pour from the rear gates. Dozens. They meet the Falcons. They meet me. They meet death. Forked lightning jumps. Men fall. Five minutes of hell.

  We suffer one casualty. A Falcon catches a bolt of energy through his chest. He will not rise, and I Feel his death. The rest of us are shot. Burnt. Bleeding. Exhausted. Sick. But alive.

  I sit in the lumber yard, side by side with Mason in the carnage. This is why we were created. Built with bones of iron. Thick skin. Lethal nails. Snap reflexes. Built to kill. But I hate it. I want to leave the field of strewn bodies but I’m too tired.

  Mason is spitting sweat and blood from his lips as it drips down his nose. “This sucks. When are they going to learn?”

  “When is she going to learn,” I say. “This is the work of one woman.”


  “The Blue-Eyed Witch? You’re sure?”

  “She attacks with Herders. Walter would use Variants.” He waves vaguely towards the steaming dragon. “Looks like twenty Guardians stashed inside.”

  “General Brown should arrive any minute. He can transport them to the hospital.”

  “Look,” he says and nudges me. He points to the roof of the lumber yard’s warehouse. A man. In a mask, watching us. “Your guardian angel. Good thing he was nearby.”

  “Coincidence?” I ask. “Or planned?”

  Mason laughs and stands. “You really can’t remember, can you. He would never plan this.”

  He offers me his hand. I take it and haul myself up. I sneak another glance. The Outlaw is gone.

  - Nine -

  “What are those?” I ask.

  Kayla responds, “Sneakers. Your Devotee brought them.” She didn’t sleep last night yet she’s fresh and exquisite in a white babydoll dress, alacrity personified.

  I’m standing in my bathroom, examining scorch marks from last night. Only one would require intense medical treatment if my skin wasn’t enhanced. An electrical burn that fused bits of black fabric into my chest. It’ll heal in a few days, two or three times faster than a normal person. An advantage of being mutated.

  The Falcons and I require new shoes. The extreme speed and instant changes in direction grinds off tread in a single night. “But those are pink.”

  “So?” Kayla asks.

  “The Devotee brought pink sneakers?”

  “Well. He brought several. I selected the pink pair. They’re cute. Try them on.” The sneakers are Saucony, pink with rose colored laces.

  “I don’t like pink. You’re not my haberdasher, Kayla.”

  “No one knows what that means, Carmine. But you’ve got great legs and these shoes will draw attention to them.”

  “But-”

  She beams and clasps her hands, and her sudden flush of excitement hits me like a tanning bed lamp. “If you don’t like these, I have a pair of white platform peep toes picked out. I’ve been saving them for weeks.”