by Alan Janney
“I’m willing to let you audition.”
Moment of truth. Time to speak honestly, at least in part. Why else would I come here? I’m the Queen, not a common coward. I don’t run. Deep breath. “Chase…you’re a Los Angeles Ten. Maybe higher. Any girl would be lucky to be with you. You deserve someone great. But. I’m not sure it’s me.”
“Do you want it to be you?”
A long pause. Heartbeat like thunder. Holy cow, what a question. “That’s not easily answered.”
“Why not? Simple question.”
“This would be so much simpler if we’d just met. Pure strangers getting acquainted. But we aren’t. You’re asking me to believe in a fairy tale. Asking me to give myself to a stranger who already loves me. Do I want it to be me? Maybe, but I’m not sure I trust what I want. I want to be Katie again. I want to be in her bed. To remember you. But what good is wishing things like that?”
“I’m not a stranger, though.”
“To me you are, but you don’t see it that way. I don’t know if we get a happy ending, and I’d prefer not to hurt you. If we had no history I could kiss you without the heavy consequences.”
We’ve gotten closer. I don’t remember moving. I’m leaning against him now, my back reclining against his shoulder and chest.
I continue, “It’s not only that I don’t remember. But also that I don’t understand.”
“Understand what?”
“You. You make no sense. There are so many gaping holes in your story, in your logic.”
His breath brushes my ear, my neck. “Give me an example of a gaping hole in the story.”
“For example. Why did the Chemist want to kidnap you? Why you?”
“It wasn’t only me. He spent the majority of the last two years recruiting new Infected, like Walter and Caleb. He placed a special emphasis on me because, in his vision for the new world, I would lead his armies.”
“Again, why you specifically?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Does it involve you commanding the Variants using only your voice?”
“It does.”
“How do you do that?”
“No idea.”
“How many Infected are there?” I ask.
“Thirteen. That I know of. Me, Shooter, PuckDaddy, Carter, Walter, Blue-Eyes, Pacific, China, Zealot, Russia…I’m forgetting some.”
Those names are legend. Hearing him rattle the list offhand about makes my head explode. I haven’t heard of China or Zealot. The plot thickens. “What about Nuts and Caleb?”
“Right, those two. And one more…”
“Tank.”
“Ah yes,” he grunts. “I forgot the stupidest one.”
“Thirteen pure borns. Does the Cheerleader not count?”
“Hannah Walker wasn’t born with the disease. She was the Chemist’s most powerful creation. Until you came along.”
I trace my finger along the ink on his bicep. “Hannah Walker’s name is tattooed on your arm. So are some others. Croc? Shadow? Cory?”
“Friends who died. I got bored in the hospital and my favorite nurse is also a tattoo artist.”
“Are you friends with the Infected? Is there, like, an Infected email string or anything?”
He laughs, a pleasant noise in our black hallway. “No email string. Infected don’t like one another usually. Too suspicious and mean. I’m friends with only Puck and Shooter.”
He shifts and his arms encircle my shoulders. Unlike Tank, there is no nostalgia. I wish he was familiar, but he isn’t. Just mystery and desire. With a body hard as stone.
I ask, “What’s the Shooter like? I idolize her.”
“Me too. Despite the fact she shot me a while ago. She’s very intense.”
I say, “Is the Shooter still here?”
“She is. She visited me earlier today.”
“I want to meet her.”
“You already have. Katie Lopez and Samantha Gear attended the same school for over a year. You two ate at the same lunch table every day. But you’ve forgotten.”
“She went to my high school??”
“Well, she…infiltrated it. Posed as a student. To keep an eye on me. You two became friends.”
“Katie was friends with the Shooter.” I smother a fangirl swoon. “That’s extremely cool.”
He laughs and teases my hair, a commonplace action for him but personal and intimate for me.
“You messed up my hair.”
“So?”
“The rest of the world is terrified of me, and you mess up my hair. It’s nice, though. Being with someone not walking on eggshells.”
“Yeah. I’m great.”
“I have another question,” I say. “You. Shooter. Nuts. Walter. That’s a lot of Infected sequestered in our small corner of the world.”
“And PuckDaddy is nearby too.”
“Why? Why are you all here?”
“For you.” He squeezes my shoulder.
“That fails to fully answer my question.”
“Our whole world revolves around you, currently. Like I said, we’re not some secret society with a common mission. We’re a pack of suspicious misfits, but at the moment everything is centered on you and your band of merry men. And women. Your pack of mutants was causing a societal collapse before you tamed them, so now we’re watching and waiting.”
“Hah. I crashed your party. I bet the others are growling about the new kid stomping all over their lawn.”
“Carter, who is perhaps the most active and social, wants to buy you and add you to his formidable army of mercenaries. Walter wants to kill you. So does Blue-Eyes. Russia is grumpy but possibly doesn’t care that you exist. No idea about Zealot and China. Pacific is insane and most likely hoping you’ll start World War Three. Tank is lurking nearby and probably plans on eating you, because he’s a troll. Who’d I miss? Nuts respects you. Caleb is terrified of you, right?”
“And you?”
“Shooter, Puck, and I prefer you alive. And some of us want to make out with you.”
I experience a stab of hot guilt. I very much want to get lost in him. Forget everything except Chase for the next hour. But my responsibilities are too heavy to ignore for any extended period. And only yesterday I caught myself kissing another man, a scoundrel from the past. Perhaps I should be a modern girl and date any number of guys simultaneously, yet I’m not positive I can. Duplicity might be absent from my DNA.
But he loves me. I believe he truly does. And on some ignored subterranean level, I want to be loved. To be with someone who loves me. And I long to love them back.
I’m on the cusp of surrendering, of pushing him into the bedroom and closing the door, when he takes my hand and examines the fingernails. “I saw the video of you executing the Herders.”
“I do what I have to do.”
“In the past, these perfect hands didn’t hurt others. Only healed.”
“Soon they’ll be employed in the death of Walter.”
He shifts uneasily, and runs a fingertip along my nail. “I’d rather you let me do that. Please.”
“You said that before, but didn’t explain it well. I assume you have reasons beyond sexism?”
“I had two goals during the previous couple years. Keep you alive. And keep Los Angeles standing. I kinda failed at both. I need retribution.”
“And revenge.”
“More or less. Plus, he’s a force of nature. I don’t want you near him.”
The door at the end of the hallway opens and two sentries stick their head in. Aaron and Jonathan. “Should we resume our post, Queen Carmine?”
“Come on in, boys,” Chase calls.
I’m stung. He’d rather have their company than mine? Did he not see my shirt? I stand and brush the hallway dust from my pants. “I was leaving anyway.”
“Come back soon. After you’ve had a shower.”
“What—”
“You smell like Tank.”
Part Four
November, 2019
Alice was a little startled by seeing the Cheshire-Cat sitting on a bough of a tree a few yards off. The Cat only grinned when it saw her. - Alice in Wonderland. Lewis Carroll.
- One -
As my Devotee cooks breakfast, Kayla’s dumb dog Princess scratches at my door from the hallway. We ignore her a few minutes but she starts whining. I throw a pillow at the door and the annoyance stops. Stupid animal. Stupid dog and stupid Tank. And stupid Chase.
I still haven’t showered. Simply to spite that arrogant jerk.
The Kingdom is so close to being self-sustainable. I read over reports as I eat eggs and an orange. We have enough chickens. Enough water. Plenty of fruit, but we need more vegetables. More starches like potatoes and wheat. And sugar. And coffee and fertilizer and salt and so on. We have storehouses ready, but in this time of upheaval I want to be producing everything we consume, not subsidizing from cans.
California provides a vast amount of fruit and vegetables for the world. Or at least it did until recently, but I imagine production has staggered. Finding abandoned fertile farmland and built-in infrastructures shouldn’t be difficult. We can do this, but it’s all about security and safety.
Our country is collapsing differently than in novels and movies. There is no all-consuming scarcity. Turns out, if there’s fewer mouths to feed, there’s more for the rest of us thanks to technology and innovation. As long as we’re willing to work.
I have a meeting before lunch with the Governess and our Overseers, and I spend a precious hour writing up a list of tasks and items to be prioritized. In reality, she’s probably way ahead of me but I can’t help it. Our visions of the future need to be unified, and then General Brown will help ensure its protection. When the lists are done, I pack the laptop computer and head upstairs to the printer. Princess follows me, snuffing and yapping as far as the stairs. “Kayla, come get your dog!”
After printing the documents I check my email. My paper has been graded and returned, and sits in my inbox. An 88 B.
That’s the first B of my entire life.
“More of a B plus, Katie. And I edited on zero sleep. Calm down.”
Everything is falling apart. I never get Bs. And why don’t I shower anymore? I like showering.
“Because the water is never hot, and shut up.”
My phone dings. New text message. From the Priest.
>> My Queen, you’ll be pleased to note I’ve moved the vigilante to a more secure location. His hotel room was certainly not up the standards you expect us to follow.
>> He is now behind actual bars.
>> And what is more, I had the bars electrified. It is impossible for the heretic to escape.
>> The location of his cell is an absolute secret. Only myself and his three sentries know the whereabouts. I think it best if the location is a secret from your highness as well.
>> It is my pleasure to help you remain above reproach.
That’s it; final straw. I make one more note on today’s agenda. Discuss a Law Keeper replacement with the Governess. Time for the Priest to go.
* * *
The meeting runs smoothly. The Governess relishes the goal of expansion and she’s already put into practice many of my ideas. Overseers are moving more chickens south to supplement our fishing boats. Farmers are utilizing additional rooftops and lawns near the ocean to grow vegetables, and Nuts is hard at work establishing an open-air water reservoir for the Shepherds.
She says, “Without oxen, the stable is clean. But from the strength of an ox comes bountiful harvest.”
I stare at her blankly. Huh?
She explains, “We’re growing. But so do our problems grow.” With our swelling population, we’re acquiring new headaches. Lazy citizens demanding bizarre rights. Complainers. Thieves. Corrupt Overseers. Bickering between communities.
“The farther the community is from me, and from the Guardians, the more apt they are to complain. The more freedom they think they have to rebel,” I observe.
“Yes. It is so. But also, newer neighborhoods are not as established. More gray area. Still settling. Still scared.”
“Then they need to work harder. And so do we. Plus, we need a more robust court system, with greater authority in the south.”
She wipes her hands on her dress and gives me a pointed look. “That is the Priest’s speciality. And he is good at it.”
“Tell that pretty boy to get to work, or he’s out.”
“He is pretty, that one.”
“And alert the Overseers; the Falcons and I will circuit the southern communities and deal with discipline issues soon. We’ll drive Greyhounds full of law breakers to the border, if we have to. Anything to get our message across. We have too much to do to suffer the lazy. This is no democracy. Not yet.”
She scribbles on her ever-present notepad. “I will. But is Kayla not better at communication such as this?”
“I can’t find Kayla. If you see her, send her my way.”
* * *
The Guardians experience more of the Kingdom than I do. They leave in swarms and return to their hives afterwards, like worker bees. During patrol duties they are deluged with sensory information, like a dog stretching her head from the car window; New Los Angeles imparts itself onto their consciousness. They arrive home with New Los Angeles layered across their being. And something has them uneasy. Even if their distress is subliminal, I feel it. If they’re agitated, I’m agitated.
I can’t visit all corners of our Kingdom, it’d take me a week. So instead I scale the US Bank Tower, a gargantuan spire providing a clean view in all directions. The tower is multi-tiered with no shortage of foot and handholds. I’m not afraid of heights but as I climb nearer the sky I’m holding on tighter. This is a dizzying, monstrous height, over a thousand feet in the air. Someone’s been up here. I don’t detect the sharp tang of the Cheerleader, but there is a scent. Perhaps a Guardian. Traces of the virus’s power cling to surfaces like residue.
From this vantage I hope to accomplish two things. First, pinpoint the direction of the Guardians’ disturbance. Second, spot the Shooter.
I’ve looked up her photographs a thousand times. Samantha Gear is not classically beautiful but she’s striking, like an eagle. Extremely fit. Sandy brown hair cut short. Startling green eyes that suck me in like tractor beams. She looks twenty-two, which for a Variant means she’s closer to thirty-five. The virus provided the Shooter with extreme hand-eye coordination, giving her professional sniper attributes. There’s nothing she can’t do with a gun. Despite the fact that I barely know how a gun operates, she’s my idol. She’s badass off the charts.
She’s close, haunting the rooftops. I’m going to find her.
I walk circles around the tower’s helipad, breathing deeply and absorbing the city as a whole. I listen and watch and inhale through my nose, and the Kingdom’s ambience becomes more distinguishable, like stars appearing at night the longer I stare. Lap after lap, the zeitgeist almost develops a flavor.
There is a disturbance. After an hour, I sense it. It nags in the back of my mind, like a chore I can’t remember no matter how hard I search. This is what the Guardians feel, an impalpable irritation just out of focus, the feeling that evil things are happening over the horizon.
Another hour passes but I get no closer. No clarity. Only a sense of dread. We’re still missing two Guardians, and I’m no closer to finding them.
The afternoon wears on and I’m about ready to descend the tower when I spot the Shooter. I know it’s her because the Guardians bound from tower to tower like jocund children, but she moves with supreme confidence and precision, a royal arch to her back. She’s materialized on the nearby Ritz, stalking the roof. An impressive rifle is slung across her back and her vest is half unzipped.
“She’s there for Chase,” I whisper. I lay flat on my stomach, peering over the balustrade like a little girl. “But he’s gone.”
She activates her bluetooth earpiece and talks to
someone. Chase? PuckDaddy, the internet hacker? Another Infected? The distance is too great, I can’t hear. But I sense she’s frustrated. She eats a chocolate granola bar and throws the wrapper in anger.
I need to start eating more granola bars. She makes it look hot.
I pull out my phone to snap a photo but can’t zoom in far enough. Kayla and Becky will have to take my word for it; the Shooter is here.
But where is Kayla? She hasn’t texted me all day.
The Shooter is tired of waiting. She shifts her rifle, synchs it tighter across her chest, jogs a few steps and leaps off the roof. It’s so unexpected that I yelp in surprise. She falls fifty feet before calmly attaching her gloves to her pants. She raises her arms and wings snap into place. A wing-suit! Her speed changes to forward motion and she curves around the tower, out of sight.
“Does no one look up anymore?” I mutter, running to the far side of the tower. “How have we not seen her?”
Before I reach the south side, my phone buzzes. A text from General Brown.
>> Carmine
>> I need you at the War Department
>> Immediately
>> We have a problem
- Two -
For the past few days I’ve lived with mounting anxiety, like walking across thin ice and praying it doesn't break. I approach the War Department with the certainty we’re about to be plunged into the deep end. That this is the eruption of ice I’ve been dreading.
General Brown waits, standing with two of his commanders. Dalton is here with the Governess, and so is Mason. Even the reclusive Nuts is attending. The Priest lurks in the back, and Teresa Triplett the reporter is scribbling things she’ll never get to publish. Everyone is here.
“Walter showed his face,” Brown barks, fists on hips.
“Where?”
“Castaic Lake. Fifty miles north.”
I nod, mouth grim. “The staging area. You were right.”
Screens are flooded with various high-definition satellite feeds of the Castaic Lake community. I can’t identify much activity on either the wide view or the focused shots. The lake resides in a wide valley, stopped by a dam on its southern shores. Below the dam is a recreational lagoon for use by the nearby neighborhoods.