by Alan Janney
“And ordered your followers to throw me off a tower the other night? Yeah you’re being docked points.”
“I found the reports. I shattered your vertebra and sacrum bones. I almost killed you, and still might. Surely you can find another girl.”
“Where else would I go? We all give ourselves away. Our life is spent in pursuit of something. Mine happens to be a person.”
“You love me.”
“I loved Katie. Are you her or not?”
I grin. I grin out of happiness, and at the sheer lunacy of our situation. “You love me.”
“You wish.”
“You want to kiss me.”
“You wish again.”
“Just do it.”
“Nah.”
“Come on. Get it over with.”
“You haven’t earned it.”
“Earned it??”
“Besides, I can’t cheat on Katie with you.”
“I am Katie.”
“Are you?”
“Ugh. You’re exhausting,” I groan.
“You want me to cheat on you with you? That’s messed up. You’ve got issues.”
“And you’re the biggest one at the moment. What if this is like a Disney movie? Katie won’t wake up until you kiss her?”
“Then where would you go? Katie comes back and Carmine goes…?”
Kiss him Kiss him Kiss him Kiss him.
“I’m trying,” I growl.
“What?”
“Katie says you’re an idiot.”
“She does not.”
“And she wonders why you’d want to kiss a Seven anyway?”
“Seven and a Half.”
“Did you and Katie ever…you know?”
“Sex?”
“Sex.”
“We definitely can’t do that, Carmine. Not with Katie watching.”
“I’m not offering,” I growl.
“Like right here on the sand?”
“Chase. Focus.”
“No. We never did. We wanted to get married soon. That was the last thing we said to each other.”
That stops me. My knees buckle and I sink onto the sand. In my mind, this was a game. Pure flirtation. But to him, this is no game. “Wow, Chase, I…”
He sits beside me, and wraps his arms around his knees. “What?”
“That is so sad. I didn’t know. I can’t remember that.”
“There wasn’t an official proposal or a ring or anything. The world was falling apart and we decided to get married sooner rather than later. Those were the last words you said to me, until a few days ago when you welcomed me to New Los Angeles.”
Katie Lopez surges and forcefully tilts my head over to lean on his shoulder. I smell his cologne. I say, “I’m sorry. If you’d have told me I could have…”
“Been nicer?”
“Or something. I don’t know. This whole thing has been really hard on you. I never thought about it from your perspective, you know? I apologize for banning you from New Los Angeles so quickly. You walked all this way to see me and I was awful.”
“Okay. Fine. I give in. You’re an Eight.”
“You’re darn right I’m an Eight. At minimum.”
* * *
“Where the hell you been?” Dalton barks at me when I return to the tower. He’s out front, hands on hips, and everyone in the courtyard stares at us. Embarrassing. Kayla is behind him, practically hopping. No, she’s actually hopping.
“Down boy,” I say. “Sometimes I don’t let you tag along because you slow me down.”
“You tell me where you’re going or I’ll tag your ass with a tracking anklet,” he says.
“Carmine Carmine Carmine,” Kayla chips. “The Outlaw! He’s here.”
I blurt, “I wasn’t with him.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“No…he’s…I didn’t…how do you know?”
“He was spotted five minutes ago. The Law Keepers are hunting him now.”
“Hah. Good luck with that.” I pause at the elevator while the Worker radios for the car. “Dalton, tell Mason and the Falcons I need to meet with them later. Maybe after dinner? Right now I want to see some of General Brown’s upgrades, and then we’ll talk with Law Keepers about the underground tunnels. Those are my plans. Happy?”
“Carmine, don’t you care the Outlaw broke your edict about New Los Angeles? You banished him.” Kayla pauses a moment to examine my outfit, and she says suspiciously, “You look…nice. Why do you look nice? Where have you been?”
“You picked these out. Does this outfit no longer meet your approval?”
“No, but sweetie those are short.”
Shoot. I knew it.
“And have you noticed how happy the Guardians are? I just saw two singing a duet from that Nicole Kidman musical, you know, the one in Paris? The rest are jumping and smiling and acting goofy. What’s gotten into them?”
I am saved by the arrival of the Priest. He storms into the tower lobby in a holy fury and he is trailed by two of his fanatical followers. “Carmine,” he rants. “I told you. What did I tell you? That the self-righteous do-gooder is insubordinate. A law breaker. We have photos of him walking the streets in west LA.” He takes a breath and admires my outfit. Ugh. Don’t look at me. “I have the Outlaw surrounded and he’ll be in custody before lunch.”
“Glad to hear it,” I remark. No chance.
This little man annoys me. He couldn’t catch Chase with an entire army.
Right you are, Katie. I continue, “Custody? But we only incarcerate violent offenders. Correct?”
“Justice must be served, Queen. I’ve already called for a meeting of the Courts and—”
“If you catch him, and I’m sure you will, rebuke him thoroughly. But we cannot throw the Outlaw into prison for his first offense.”
“His first? And what of the stories passed around? That he visited you the other night in your bedroom?”
“Don’t believe every rumor you hear, Priest.” Except that one. That one is true. Katie snickers.
“Like you said at the Herder execution,” he smirks, “we do not live in a world in which we can grant mercy.”
“We don’t incarcerate first-time non-violent offenders. Not in this Kingdom.”
“Trust me, Queen, he’ll be back. What do you suggest as discipline for his second offense, Queen?”
Dalton is rumbling beside me. He’d like to break the man’s nose. The Priest has backed me into a corner. A corner in which I keep secrets. “I sincerely doubt you’ll catch him twice.”
“And if we do? Surely the man didn’t get to you. Surely you haven’t fallen for the heretic?” He laughs quietly and his breath smells of wine.
I snap, “Kayla, post a bulletin online. If the Outlaw returns again then he’ll spend a week in our jails. Happy, Priest? Now it’ll be up to you to apprehend him.”
The elevator car arrives and we board, leaving the Priest behind. Kayla is already at work on her phone. She pauses and asks in a tentative voice, “Can I post a pic of you in those shorts on Instagram?”
* * *
Mason is excited about training with the Outlaw. I swear him to secrecy but that might not be enough. Perhaps I should wire his mouth shut.
That night, after everyone is asleep, I sneak off to Glendale to a lumber yard Chase suggested. He is there, and so are the Falcons. I perch on a stack of bricks and monitor the secret training from a distance.
Chase is just…quicker than they are. Smarter. Stronger. I don’t know how else to explain it. He moves like Neo from the Matrix, one of Katie’s favorite movies. He works patiently with the Falcons, primarily forcing them to slow down. Mistakes are made when you fight out of control, he repeats again and again. How did this nineteen-year-old boy learn so much? He puts them through drills, forces them to concentrate instead of battling with blind aggression. The Falcons are our best fighters and they can’t touch him unless they all gang up.
After two hours of training, th
e Falcons are thoroughly exhausted and beaten. The Outlaw appears fresh, though he presses a hand to his hip now and then. I experience a pang of guilt; did I really break his back? No way. He’s just saying that. Chase tells the Falcons to meet him again tomorrow night. Before he leaves, he glances my way and winks across the distance.
- Nine -
The following day I’m in the War Department, staring at maps on walls. General Brown is with me, as are a handful of his commanders.
Brown shakes his head as we scroll along our border. “Ain’t no way a large group can get in undetected now, Carmine. Anyone coming here either goes through a checkpoint or sneaks past one at a time. Walter could smash his way in, but we’d know.”
I ask, “And the ocean?”
“The Navy hasn’t declared for either the Resistance or the Federal Government. Mostly they’re sittin’ dead in the water, trying to conserve fuel. But their radars still work and we’ll know if any troop transport approaches.”
“You have men aboard those Navy ships? Spies loyal to you?”
“No. I got spies who are loyal to you. And the Outlaw. Walter is no friend of the Resistance. If he tries to crack our borders, the Resistance is prepared to support.”
“Do you still communicate with them?”
His hands are on his hips and he nods slowly. “I do. Get used to it.”
That makes me nervous. Too many eyes. Too many cracks in our armor. I have serious trust issues; waking up abandoned will do that to a girl. I know I need to get over it, and that it negatively impacts my leadership. But I’m not sure how. “So if Walter can’t get in…what’s he doing?”
“That is a question I’d very much like an answer to myself.”
My phone buzzes. It’s a text message. From Tank, my friend the giant from Beverly Hills. Katie has no response.
>> hey mamita
>> come meet me
>> got something to show you
>> trust me, its worth your time
“Thank you, gentlemen. I’ll get out of your way.” I leave the War Room and close the door behind. Dalton looks up from sitting crisscross on the hall floor, sees me texting, and returns to his novel.
Where should I meet you?
And this better be good.
>> Tell you what
>> I’ll meet you halfway
>> In Santa Monica
He gives me an address, which I save into my phone. Now to ditch the bodyguard. I jog down the stairs and return to my apartment. Dalton follows, glances in, sees my Devotee waiting, and assumes his place outside. “I’m taking a nap,” I tell the Devotee. I really need to find him a more appropriate outfit, other than a robe. Or a different job. This is kinda absurd.
“Would you like—”
“No, I don’t want company, thank you.” I close the bedroom door and immediately slip over the side of my shattered wall.
Twenty minutes later I’m in a truck heading west, having abandoned my security detail once again. I never used to do that, and I’m not sure why I’ve started now. I’m not really into either Chase or Tank. Or at least not much. Queens can’t have crushes. Can they? I’m no Queen, so… Am I a warrior or a woman? An executioner or a girl with a crush? Perhaps I shouldn’t need to choose one or the other, but so far I’m finding that difficult. Maybe this is what happens when nineteen-year-olds are thrust into positions of leadership; we screw things up, including ourselves. In a perfect world I’d be sitting in a classroom, taking notes, instead of trying to save a city and ignore boys.
Santa Monica is inside our borders but just barely. I haven’t followed up with the Overseer responsible for the settlers here, but when I arrive I see signs of life. A mom and two children at the beach. Clothes hung out to dry. Three men hauling supplies in a wheelbarrow. Good. This is good. Hardworking people bringing life to our neighborhoods.
Tank’s address leads to a dilapidated development two miles inland. A big black truck is parked in the drive. My blood is pumping, adrenaline pouring into veins, muscles tensing. This could be a trap.
He’s sitting in a dusty recliner, heavy boots propped up on a coffee table, eating graham crackers with white-gloved hands. His double-bladed axe leans against the wall.
Gosh he’s big. Big shoulders, big forearms, big thighs, big jaw. He’s strong too. The disease gives him a musk, almost like a pleasant sauna, and he glows.
“There’s my baby,” he grins.
“This house sucks. So far I’m not impressed.”
“What about this chair? Looks big enough for two.”
“No chair with you in it is big enough for two.” There’s Hershey Kisses on the top shelf of the pantry and I help myself. I hear rats scurry behind the fridge. “You live here?”
“Naw. I live outside your sanctuary. Don’t need the hassle.”
“Where?”
“Houses up in Tarzana. We use Canyonback as our playground. Nobody for miles.”
I frown. “Houses? We?”
“Nice to see you again.”
I don’t reply. Not going to play his game. This guy is trouble. Large sexy trouble. And I’m not sure I want to get mixed up in it.
He points at my arms. “What’s with the ribbons?”
“My joints hurt. They help.”
“Your skeleton grew funny.” He tugs off one of his white gloves and splays his fingers. They’re blocky and misshapen, like the bones are too large for his skin. “Mine too. Got that in common.” He stands, puts the glove back on, and brushes cracker crumbs off his white button up shirt.
“Tank—”
He hugs me. My voice gets muffled in his chest. He has the audacity to kiss the top of my head. “Thanks for coming, babe. I know I haven’t earned your trust. Not after being a rascal in our past lives.”
“A rascal? Who says rascal?”
He releases me and plays with my hair. “I like your new look.”
“Tank, why am I here?”
“Okay. Down to business. So I found some of your Variant pets wandering in the state parks.”
“Not pets. And I call them Guardians.”
“Whatever. And these guys have broken brains. You know? Whatever the Chemist did, they don’t work right anymore. Got the intelligence of five-year-olds.”
“I’ve seen that before. We have a hotel Downtown where we house Guardians who can no longer function by themselves. It’s heartbreaking. I can take them off your hands…”
He chuckles and crosses his arms. “Naw. I like them. We’ve become buddies. Want to meet one?”
“I assume that’s why you brought me.”
He tilts his head to the ceiling. “Thompson! Come on down here.”
There’s a heavy groan of wood, and dust filters down from cracks in the ceiling plaster. Another groan, then another, like rolls of thunder. They’re heavy footsteps and each one causes a minor avalanche. Tank says, “Even those of us who got the virus from birth, we don’t know much about it. But I’m guessing the Chemist didn’t predict this.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, gaping at the stairs with mounting apprehension.
“I only find males. So it’s probably a testosterone thing.”
Down the staircase stumps a giant. Tank is big, but he’s within the boundaries of human limitation. Tank is as tall as Lebron James maybe. However, this guy is gargantuan. I backpedal out of the room, into the kitchen, and onto the front lawn. Tank follows, a grim smile on his face, and then the giant unfolds from the door. He’s over ten feet. Possibly eleven.
I can’t find enough air. “Tank…what…”
“This is Thompson.”
“I recognize him. He…he found me in the forest, same time I found Kayla. His name is Travis. He was tall…but not…you know…not like this.”
“They go through a growth spurt soon after the headaches drive them from your city. Thompson?” Tank calls loudly at the giant. “Your first name Travis?”
Travis nods. His eyes are fixed on me. He’s not just tall, he
’s thick too. He must weigh four hundred pounds. No, more than that. Over five. He’s wearing a tunic (a sheet with a hole cut for his head) and a kilt (a green blanket tied around his waist). What else would fit him?
Tank says, “I figure for some, the virus just keeps growing. Most of them stall around eleven and a half feet.”
“Most? How many have you found?”
“Fifty-one. The noise of your Kingdom starts to wear on them, so they say, and they flee into the woods and start growing. Sooner or later they find me.”
“Drawn to your power, I bet. You take care of them?”
“They can handle themselves. I mostly…shepherd them. Keep them from wandering off. Help them make clothes. Stop the fights. This group, they have a temper. Worse than mine.”
“What do they eat?”
“Everything. Fortunately there’s food in every house and animals are creeping back in. These guys are fast and can chase down deer if they work together. Spitted a bear two nights ago.”
Thompson is almost twice my height, no exaggeration. I place my hand on his stomach, which is at eye-level, and he smiles. The physical connection brings him peace. “Travis. I’m pleased to meet you again. I’m glad you’re okay. And that you’re still alive.”
Travis laughs, a deep booming cough, and says, “Thaank youuu, Queeeen.” The words are leisurely and pronounced with a slow tongue. “Happyyy to seeee you toooo.”
Tank says, “None of them talk much. They like to laugh, though.”
“I can bring physicians. Are they….do they need medical care?”
“Don’t think so. Thompson you need to see the doctor?” Tank shouts, like he needs to reengage the giant’s attention. Thompson shakes his head and reaches his hand into the tree top for a bird. “Pretty simple bunch. I’m telling you, like five-year-olds. They get nightmares. Like to play outside. Run. That kind of thing.”
“I’m glad you showed me. But I’m not sure how I can help.”
“Not asking for help. These big guys love you. Talk about the Queen all the time. They want to help you.”
“Oh yeah?” I smile. Travis Thompson is no longer paying attention to us. He’s peering into the neighbor’s second floor window on his tiptoes. “How?”