Outcasts (33 page)

Was the tiger…purring? I couldn’t see them, but in my mind’s eye she was scratching the cat’s ears and neck and in return receiving a pleased, soft rumble. Of COURSE the tigers loved her and hated me! It made perfect sense; nothing else was going right.

At my door, directly outside. “Did you find something? Such a good boy. Where are your friends? Do you sleep here? My big boy.”

The rolling door wasn’t locked. Not that it would matter if she wanted to get in. But she might notice this unit had been opened. She might notice footprints in the dust. I was weak. Wrecked. Unable to resist her.

“You’ll find Chase. I know you will. The Father said you would. Such a big, big, handsome, good, sweet boy. I want to take you home. Want to sleep in my room? Want to come with me? Want to go looking for Chase? Let’s get you something to eat. Come on. Come on! Good boy. Good booooy.”

The sounds retreated. Hannah Walker walked back out of the building, tiger in tow. Going. Going. Gone. My heart hammered, pulsing painfully in my wounds. That was close. Close to disaster.

I needed food. Chocolate. Suddenly famished. Only food enough for a few more meals. But that’d suffice. I’d eat once more and leave the rest for Carter. Quietly and stiffly I dug out the last chocolate bar and a bag of peanuts.

Puck texted me.

>> bad news outlaw

>> teresa triplett (the reporter) just updated her blog

>> she’s still a captive

>> she announced the live streaming execution 2night

>> Execution of an Outlaw, she called it

>> the…poop is hitting the fan

He was right. Incoming calls and texts lit up my phones, both Chase Jackson’s phone and the Outlaw’s.

Dad. Samantha. Lee. Isaac. Russia. Natalie North. Former teammates. Numbers I didn’t recognize. Samantha again. And again.

My eyes unexpectedly filled with tears. I would receive no message from Cory.

Puck, I’m turning off my phone.

Tell them I love them.

And tonight, love will win.

And if it doesn’t…I tried. For them.

I powered the phone off.

10:55 pm.

Five minutes to go.

I shook like a leaf. Partially from chilly winds whipping through the exposed steel beams. Partially from adrenaline and terror. But mostly from a deep, profound sadness.

Now that I stood atop the Wilshire, I understood why the Father chose it. At 1,100 feet, this tower reached further towards the moon than its peers. Impossible for snipers to get a shot. Harder for the American military to get photos from the ground. The lengthy, monolithic sides were glass and unscalable. Up here, he reigned with impunity.

The recent helicopter attack had wrecked much of the upper levels, which worked to our advantage. The Father had hidden equipment here among the destruction and no one knew. Not even me, until an hour ago when preparations began in earnest.

Three stationary cameras were mounted and filming, and banks of lights blasted the night into oblivion. Everything centered around the expansive and shallow rooftop pool, empty except for the tall object inside, still covered by sheets. One end of the pool had been crushed by rockets, so it was a large rectangle without a fourth wall, open to the air. The mysterious object had been set near the missing wall, dangerously close to the exposed drop off. One wrong step and I’d fall a thousand feet. But that wasn’t what worried me. I couldn’t even look at the dreadful thing covered with red sheets. I didn’t know. I didn’t
want
to know. An instrument of death.

Teresa Triplett, the pretty reporter, sat in the corner with a laptop and chronicled everything she saw. She remained out of the light, out of view, because she couldn’t stop crying. She’d ruin the perfect broadcast.

A dozen Twice Chosen stood with us, here to work cameras and aid in theatrics. And for protection. The hands of six Twice Chosen glinted with long slivers of steel, talons sharpened with lasers and capable of splitting a human hair. The Father, despite his mania and apparent glee, was nervous. He shivered too, just like me.

“What if it’s a trap?” I asked.

“Of course it is,” the Father snapped, his teeth chattering. “He comes to kill me, nothing else.”

“You will let him?”

“Don’t be dense,” he said. “He will fight. He will be humiliated. He will be maimed. And then…”

“And then?” I asked, realizing too late he was quietly crying. Oh wow. Oh wow.

“And then he will be
mine
.”

“What if he arrives with explosives?”

“Then I slowly kill the girl until he discards them. Honestly, Kid. When I contemplate your deep stupidity, I’m forced to miss Carla. Her treachery may be more desirous than your idiocy.”

“What if he doesn’t show?”

Another sigh. “Then he is humiliated. Exposed as a coward. And we televise her slow death, forcing his appearance. But he will show. Now hush.”

“What if the military drops a big bomb on us?”

For a moment I thought he would hit me. He thought about it. But the moment passed. “That depends. If the Outlaw is present when the bomb drops then perhaps…perhaps I will die with him. Of my own volition.”

“Why??” I gasped.

“I’m not sure. It strikes me as poetic. Now, Kid, if you speak again, I’m going to slit your throat.”

I did not speak again.

Please don’t die, Outlaw. Please don’t die.

Someone
has to kill the Father. Someone brave.

The seconds ticked by, ticking ticking ticking. The world was shrinking to the size of a snow globe, nonexistent outside our circle of artificial light. I felt like we were quickly using up the universe’s remaining oxygen and I gulped mouthfuls to stave off lightheadedness.

At 11:00 pm, the Father snorted air from his noise like a bull, left his place outside the light and moved towards the pool. As per my orders, I followed him into the glare. He moved down the concrete steps, now in full view of the active cameras.

The Outlaw got there first. He fell from the sky, pulled by something beyond gravity, like a comet descending out of orbit. He landed and the tower shook. Which was impossible. But it did. The Father rocked back in surprise. The upper crust of the pool’s cement cracked with the impact. Of our dozen Twice Chosen, exactly half turned and fled. So powerful was his entrance, his presence, that they simply couldn’t withstand it.

He towered over us, body fully engorged as it often became in times of stress. He took up space in ways that made no sense. His skin was striated with muscles and rivers of dried blood. He was immense. He was magnificent.

He wore no mask and the full collision of his gaze shattered me. I staggered. Put your mask on, I almost begged. Too intense. The mask shields
us
from
you
! He looked at the Twice Chosen and three more retreated shamelessly. Turned and ran, abandoning steel weapons. What would it be like to experience the Outlaw if I didn’t have the disease? I felt like I was being mildly electrocuted, like he created a constant thunderstorm. Surely not everyone felt that.

The Father was holding his breath. His hands tightened on the staff. Today, for the first time I could remember, he wore gloves. Expecting fierce combat. Now he laughed, “He plunges from the heavens like a god! Such an entrance!”

The Outlaw glared at the cameras, at the lights, at me, and at the Father. “Let her go.”

The Father nodded to me. I nearly fainted. On unsteady legs I left his side and approached the Outlaw. He watched me with no interest. Not unkindly. He’d never been unkind to me. In fact, at every opportunity he’d tried to rescue me. He allowed me to pat his legs and boots and vest.

“You may leave him his weapon,” the Father called, indicating the rod shoved into the back of the Outlaw’s vest.

Other than two phones in his pocket, I found only one thing of interest. Tubes were shoved into small vest compartments. I removed one tube and examined it.

“Pepper spray,” the Father laughed when I presented it to him. “I can smell it. This is how you arm yourself?” He shook the small canister and tossed it from the tower. It wouldn’t land for a long time.

“I’m here to die, Martin,” the Outlaw responded. His voice was strong and frank, as opposed to the Father’s fluted, overly formal tones. “Prove to me Katie is alive and free.”

The Father indicated the cameras. “First, dear boy, a few preliminaries. For the sake of our viewing audience. For the sake of your jury. You are here to pay penance for your sins. You are found guilty of disturbing the peace, of crimes against humanity, against me, of defiance, of insubordination, of murder, lying, deceiving the good people of America. Of the earth. Shall I go on?”

The Outlaw stood as a rock. No reply. No expression.

“By surrendering tonight, you admit your guilt. You place yourself into my custody. Under my authority. Under my discipline. Under my judgement.” The Father paused to allow the Outlaw a chance to speak. Silence. “Have you nothing to say, Outlaw?”

“I’m not here as the Outlaw. I’m here as Chase Jackson, a boy who loves a girl you kidnapped. Release her. And take me in her place.”

The Father blanched. For a brief moment, he floundered. This wasn’t going according to plan. He wanted the Outlaw enraged. Out of control. Wild. Disrespectful. Combative.

He continued, “Release her. I’ll confirm her safety. And then…do what you need to do.”

The Father chuckled. “You will not run.”

“I will not. I’m getting the better end of our bargain.”

“Very well.” The Father raised a radio, with fingers clearly shaking. He spoke into it. “Katie Lopez is to be released immediately.”

The Outlaw asked, “Where?”

“She shall be driven north on Grand, out of my Sanctuary, and delivered to a place of your choosing.”

Below us, far far below, an ambulance began to wail. The Outlaw searched us for meaning, for clues. “She’s in an ambulance?”

“Yes.”

“Why? Why an ambulance?”

“It’s perfectly safe.”

The Outlaw made a phone call and put it on speaker. Ringing. Someone answered. “Outlaw! Holy…you’re calling me now?! If the Chemist doesn’t kill you, I will!”

“Samantha,” he said calmly. “I need you to drive to the northern barricade.”

“I’m already here, waiting on a helicopter.”

“Stay there. An ambulance is driving Katie out. Please intercept it and confirm Katie’s safety.”

“No! Not if it means you’re going to die!” the voice roared.

The Father cackled but it was fake. False bravado.

“Thank you, Samantha. Call me when you have her, please.” He hung up.

Then began the longest eight minutes of my life. And possibly of the Outlaw’s. Of Chase Jackson’s. The siren faded into the distance, lost in high swirling vicissitudes. He remained stoic but his eyes leaked in desperation. I’d never seen a man my age care so much about someone else. He couldn’t be older than nineteen. How could this girl mean so much? The Father tried baiting him into conversation but was rebuffed with wintery silence. Somehow, someway, the Father had lost control of this engagement.

“I should tell you,” he said as time drew near, “that Katie Lopez is not alone. I released a physician to accompany her. Doctor Whitmer, one of the world’s foremost neurobiologists and surgeons, is in the ambulance also.”

This new piece of information was almost too much. Chase came closer to panicking. “Why? Why does she need a doctor?”

“Just to be safe.”

His phone rang. He answered it on speaker. “Samantha,” he said. His voice thickened with emotion. “Give me good news.”

The voice which answered was panting and rattled. “I checked the vehicle. There’s no explosives. Katie is here. She’s unconscious. She’s being attended by a physician.”

“Why is she-”

The voice continued, “She’s safe. She’s alive. But Chase…ugh, I’m sorry. It…it looks like the Chemist performed the same surgery on her that he did on Andy Babington.”

The phone exploded in the Outlaw’s fist. Veins throbbed in his neck and arms. His body trembled and purpled. “That wasn’t part of the deal,” he thundered in quiet, awful agony. “Why did…why…
why
??”

“She has not suffered,” the Father responded pleasantly. “Not in the least. And your friend Samantha is wrong. It is not the same surgery. This one is far, far more advanced. Doctor Whitmer will keep her asleep for months, and she will awaken as a new being. A god. A goddess who will live for hundreds of years. Not that you’ll be around to see it.” His smile widened in wicked antagonism.

For a moment, we stood on the edge of a knife. The Outlaw raged inwardly. He fumed and cried. The Father tensed for glorious battle. This had been the final straw. The last torment necessary to tip the Outlaw into blind wrath. Chase shook his head back and forth, like a dog killing the prey within his jaws. In addition to all his other battles, the Outlaw also wrestled with insanity. “You. Should not. Have done that. She’d done nothing wrong. Nothing…nothing…”

The Father moved his staff off the ground, balanced in both fists, ready to defend.

Then, slowly, the moment of crisis passed. The Outlaw crossed through every violent, painful human emotion and emerged on the other side in tact. He took deep breaths and wiped away tears. “Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

“Okay
what
, Outlaw? Ready to spring your trap?”

“A deal is a deal. I surrender.”

I called Captain FBI. “Anderson, you watching this?”

“Affirmative. Streaming live on my phone. Like seven billion other people.”

My heart was overheating. Brain running too fast, verging on overload. “Chase isn’t going to fight! The Chemist is going to kill him.”

On screen, one of the Chemist’s henchmen approached that weird, tall
thing
in the empty pool. I recognized that henchman. He was Infected. Chase called him Baby Face. The henchman grabbed a fistful of red sheets and tugged. The covers slid off to reveal the contraption.