Outcasts (10 page)

Our squad escorted us to the gunner bay and shook our hands. The three of us climbed aboard and we lifted off. Samantha glared at the cameras and I waved a Thank You to the MPs.

Anderson pressed headphones into our hands and yelled in the mic, “Do you think they bought it?”

“They better. Or I’m tearing this place apart,” I said.

The girl beside me kept her head down. She was not Katie Lopez, but the resemblance was there. She played the part well for cameras, which would broadcast our departure to the world. The real Katie Lopez was hidden under Colonel Brown’s bed, holed up with two pistols, pinned in with shoe boxes, and probably praying for me. The only three people on earth who knew her location were me, Dad, and Colonel Brown. Dad would arrive to fetch Katie within the hour. My heart would hammer and bruise my ribs until then, but I didn’t know what else to do on such short notice. She was safer than the rest of us.

The girl crawled up to sit in the co-pilots seat and act as gunner. I glanced down; the black land below rushed by and sparkled with crystalline lights.

“Navy SEALs en route!” Anderson called. “We have to time this perfectly, otherwise we give the enemy time to deploy rockets.”

Samantha gasped in the darkness and began inspecting a weapons cache at our feet.

Mike Matthews, our loyal pilot, yelled,“We land first. Then the SEALs.”

“Matthews will remain in case we need emergency evac.”

I said, “We?”

“Hell yeah, we. Natalie is in that tower.”

Samantha held up a bizarre gun. She might cry. “A sawed-off Benelli with magazine feed? I’ve never seen this before.”

Anderson chuckled over the rotor chatter. “Our armory is full of illegal projects, apparently. Thought you might like it.”

I asked, “What is it?”

“A short, semi-automatic shotgun,” Samantha replied, looking over the black weapon. “With a magazine for extra shells. Wide and powerful scatter. Nasty death.”

“Three magazines at your feet. Thirty shots total. Illegal magnum load. You need more shells?”

“If I need more that thirty, we’ll be dead.”

“Outlaw, you need a gun?”

“No way. Guns kill people.”

He and Samantha shot each other a knowing, frustrated glance. I indicated the Thunder Stick strapped to my back. “I’m here to hit the Chemist in the head really hard with this. That’s all.”

He held up his iPad for us to see. On screen was a blue labyrinth dotted with red bursts. He had to talk loudly. “This is thermal imaging of the tower. Top of the tower is mostly vacant. Just a handful of heat signatures per floor. Maybe guards, maybe hostages, maybe off-duty workers searching for peace and quiet? Point is, we should land easily.”

Samantha asked, “Is this a live feed?”

“No. NSA updates me every five minutes or so. Once we land, SEALs will rappel twenty floors, making a quick descent to the Chemist’s location.”

Our pilot called back, “Be advised, we’re over enemy territory and I got eyes on the SEALs chopper. Gas Tower dead ahead.”

Downtown was a vast black hole compared to the surrounding brilliant city. No power for the Chemist, except for flashlights and generators. Chosen and Infected didn’t need lights to see at night.

Puck called me and Samantha. We piped him directly into our bluetooth headsets.

He said, “PuckDaddy is nervous.”

“Shooter is amped,” Samantha replied.

“Contact!” pilot Mike Matthews yelled. “SEAL chopper taking fire!”

“There goes our surprise,” Samantha growled. We leaned out from gunner door and into the wind, searching for gunfire on the mammoth towers sliding below.

Puck said, “It’s not coming from the Gas Tower. No active heat signatures on the roof.”

“There.” Samantha pointed to the north. “Two California Plaza.” The nearby tower’s glass carapace duly reflected moonlight, and from it’s zenith came bright gunfire aimed northwest, away from us. “Just firing pistols, but they’ll have rockets soon. I can hit them with my assault rifle before they damage the chopper.”

“Nah,” I grinned. “I got’em.”

“You
got
them??”

I leapt before she could stop me.

Anderson rushed to the side and stared wildly into the night. “What the hell! Where’d he go??”

I ground my teeth. “I hate when he does this.”

I couldn’t see the Outlaw but I knew what he was doing. Using his wings. Chase possessed internal compasses and altimeters, capable of instinctive recalculation so quickly it defied belief. I focused on Two California Plaza and the sporadic gunfire bursts. “Watch.” I pointed. A black phantom, darker than the night, swooped across the rooftop and the guns fell silent. Enemies eliminated. His feet never touched down. Fast. Efficient. Ferocious.

“How’d he do that?” Anderson asked in awe.

“He’s a showoff.”

“He’s flying.”

“He’s dramatic.”

Puck shouted into my ear. “You’ve got hostiles running up the Gas Tower stairwells. I’m monitoring infrared cameras.”

“Get us on that tower!” I shouted to both Anderson and the pilot, WhatsHisName. “Our landing is getting hotter.” Our machine dipped and roared in response. The Gas Tower is a tall, monolithic glass structure, wide and deep except at the top. The pinnacle of the skyscraper tapers to a point, providing a smaller landing surface amidst three gaping exhaust vents.

The Outlaw got there first, just as the first wave of Chemist troopers rushed onto the white helipad. They were helpless against Chase. For three reasons. One, he was too fast. They couldn’t aim at him because he moved like lightning. Two,
if
the bullets hit him it wouldn’t cause permanent damage because of the ballistic vest and his rock hard skin. Three, he used his Boom Stick to deflect the bullets. Like the Chemist did. I had no idea how the Outlaw did that, and neither did he. He spun away from their crosshairs, swung the rod like a bat and brought them down with crushing blows. It was like watching a tornado wreck trailer parks. He grew more dangerous every day.

Anderson and I jumped out of the Black Hawk and landed on the helipad’s big red ’12'. I carried an assault rifle across my back and the shotgun in my fists. The disease was an insatiable hunger in my body, thirsting for action and danger, sharpening my reflexes. My hands shook with adrenaline and violence. I wanted to cut this tower in half and ride it down.

The Outlaw stuffed the Rod of Treachery (or whatever he called it) into his vest. His body was swelling and growing. He looked six and a half feet tall, but he
felt
like Everest. “This won’t work,” he said.

“What won’t work?”

“Rappelling,” he answered, and the SEAL helicopter came thundering in. “The SEALs won’t make it.”

“Why not?” Anderson shouted.

“Chosen are climbing the outside walls.”

Anderson’s eyes bulged. I asked, “How do you know?”

“I can feel them. Sense them. Hundreds are coming.”

“Feel them?”

“Close your eyes,” he told me. “They have the disease. You and I are sensitive to it.”

I tried. I tried reaching out with my senses, exploring for…whatever it was that the Outlaw felt. I could detect the disease when I was near it, but not from a distance. And not under angry helicopter blades.

Eight heavily armed men disembarked, and their transport took off again. Only eight??

“He’s right,” Anderson announced, looking at his updated thermal imaging. “Hostiles on the inside
and
outside of the walls. They’re like monkeys. This tower is lighting up like a damn Christmas tree.”

A SEAL asked, “Hostiles climbing the exterior walls?”

“Affirmative.”

“We can engage as we repel.”

“No,” I rolled my eyes. “You can’t. They’re too fast and they’ll cut your ropes.”

The Outlaw said, “Shooter, you take the SEALs and start pushing down through the tower. Release as many civilians as you can.”

Isaac asked, “What will you do?”

“I’m going after the Chemist.”

Puck moaned, “Ah crap.”

Chase continued, “If he escapes, he might travel upwards. If so, Samantha you stall him until I get there.”

I growled, “I hate this.”

He grinned, obvious through his mask, and said, “And try to enjoy yourself. This should be fun.”

He jogged to the security fencing atop the 750-foot tall spire and leapt off. A SEAL swore in surprise. I wanted to go watch his free-fall until he engaged his wings and entered the 30th floor at a hundred miles per hour, but we had a job to do.

“Puck,” I said, “keep me updated.”

“Roger that, homie.”

We hustled down the helipad stairs to the broken penthouse doors. I plunged into the building first, using enhanced eyesight to scan ahead, sidestepping empty cans and water bottles. Isaac and the SEALs wore night vision goggles. The air tasted stale. Angry voices caromed up the concrete stairwell. We didn’t have long.

“Puck, any bodies on top level?”

“Negative. There’s a cluster three floors below.”

In my ear piece, I heard Chase crash through glass. Screaming. Gunfire.

I gripped the gun so hard I thought the barrel might bend.

We descended until we found a big 47 painted on the door and we pushed in. Not a moment too soon. A horde charged past our floor on their trek upwards, unaware we hid on the other side of the wall. I heard them. I felt them. Diseased. Chosen. My skin crawled.

We now had enemies above and below.

Each floor of the Gas Company Tower was a 20,000-square-foot labyrinth. Puck could see the vague heat outlines but couldn’t guide us directly to them. He saw a cross-section image, and was only able to alert us when we got close from his point of view. We moved silently, following a trail of trash.

This setting would make a great haunted house. I loved it. I longed to go pump shotgun shells into screaming maniacs hooting above us. I’d get my chance. First, we needed to release hostages.

Wish Carter was here.

We found a mother clutching two daughters in a back office, staring wildly at us. Their sole purpose in living alone on the 47th floor was to discourage American rockets. A candle burned on the nearby table. They wore blue robes with red sashes. The two girls were under seven years old. Their room stank. Mattresses laid in the corner.

“Let’s go,” I said. “We’re getting out of here.”

“W-who’re you? The F-Father says we should stay.”

“Get up!” I ordered. They obeyed. “Puck, update me on the Outlaw.”

“He’s alive. Going from room to room, beating everyone up.”

Chase’s voice came through the mayhem. “Sounds boring when you put it that way.”

Puck said, “Shooter, there’s elevator shafts everywhere. There’s one just down the hall. You can climb down the cables.”

“Stairwells too full?”

“All stairwells are basically glowing. PuckDaddy recommends the elevator shaft,” he said.

I looked at the SEAL team and hissed, “Listen up. We’re climbing down the elevator shaft. I need a volunteer to stay with the hostages and escort them up when the coast is clear.” Hands went up. I picked one at random. “The hostages are wearing blue robes. I think that signifies they can’t be harmed. The Chemist’s men won’t hurt his property, so don’t get yourself killed trying to protect them. They’ll live. You stay alive. Hide near the stairwell until it’s time.”

“Roger,” he said.

“Let’s move.” We pried open the elevator doors, grasped the heavy cables, and slid down three floors.

I heard Puck tell Chase, “Outlaw, you’ve got company!”

“Whoa,” the Outlaw said in my ear. “They have new weapons!”

“Cool, what kind?”

“Tell you later! I’m busy temporarily retreating.”

I cursed quietly, dangling 650 feet up in a dark elevator shaft. “This isn't going well,” I whispered and winced at the echoes.

We discovered two more groups of hostages on the 44th floor, giving us eight total. All women and children.

Thumping on nearby windows. Chosen were crawling exterior walls, ascending to the top. They hadn’t seen us inside.

Puck said, “Outlaw, from my screen, it looks like you’re in the same room with the Chemist.”

Chase’s voice came garbled and ragged. “You’re right. Except that bright heat signature isn’t the Chemist.”

I pressed the bluetooth headset tight against my ear and said, “What?! Who is it??”

Chase responded grimly, “Walter.”

“Walter,” I snapped. Isaac saw my expression and his hope drained away. No Chemist. “Kill that son of a bitch.” Walter was evil. Pure destruction. The Chemist was a maniac, but Walter was a monster in cornrows. Eliminating him would be the next best thing.

There was a violent burst of noise in the speaker. Voices. Grunting. Growling. Air. And then nothing.

“Chase?” I said. No response. My pulse was frozen, my heart refusing to beat until I heard his voice. “Chase??”

“His connection is gone,” Puck told me. He sounded stunned.

“What’s that mean??”

“Means…I’m not getting any signal from him.”

“Can you see his heat signature?” I asked desperately.

“Lost it. My screen is on fire, there are so many bodies on that level. …That floor might
actually
be on fire.”

I set my jaw. “I’m going after him.”

“You’ll run out of bullets long before you get there. In fact, whoa! Hostiles on your level!” he cried into my ear.

The SEALs saw them first and opened fire, deep booms destroying the quiet. Chosen. They came down the hallway like an avalanche, some moving over the walls and ceiling.

“Grenades!” I ordered, throwing one of my own, and then released the devastating power of my shotgun. It kicked and roared, louder than the others. Our black hallway lit up with fire, highlighting faces twisted in rage. Animals. Insanity.

I pulled the trigger again. The firing pin struck brass inside the chamber, creating a spark. Gun powder lit. One hundred steel pellets burst forth at a thousand feet per second. The closest Chosen disintegrated into hamburger, hard skin unable to resist the shot.

Our grenades went off, puncturing holes into landscape and the tide of bodies. I was shot in the shoulder but it didn’t penetrate. A SEAL took a round and collapsed. I fired six times, pulling the trigger so fast it sounded like one loud eruption. The six remaining SEALs and I melted the first wave.