Outcasts (13 page)

“Hey. Dad. Are you and Samantha…romantic?”

“Aggressively so.”

“Ewwww, Dad!” I covered my face with a pillow and punched it. “Gross gross gross. Why’d I ask that.”

“I gotta go. Duty calls. A third of the force has quit and moved east. Keep in touch.”

He left. I crawled out of bed and stretched, loosening all the sore muscles and joints. I took a shower, and pulled on khakis, a blue Air Force polo and my sneakers.

Two airmen saluted when I opened the door into a bright hallway. I returned the greeting as best I could.

“Good morning, sir. I have a list of messages for you.”

I grunted, “Read them to me over breakfast.”

“This way, sir.”

I filled two plates from a breakfast buffet and sat down at an empty linoleum table in a large cafeteria. The conversations had temporarily halted when I walked in. A nearby group of burly and grim giants got up from their table and sat at mine.

“I was with you, sir. Last night,” one of the five giants said. He was black and, despite the severity, he had a friendly face. His eye was swollen nearly shut and his nose was busted. “So were these two.”

I asked, “You were the SEALs on the tower?”

“And we’re home, thanks to you.”

“My condolences on the loss of your fellow SEALs. They died well.”

He nodded. “We watched you fight. Watched the enemy cower. We’re all in, sir. We’ve requested reassignment to your protection detail.”

“You’ll have to clear it with my current protection detail. She doesn’t play well with others.”

“The hot girl with a shotgun?”

I laughed around a bite of eggs. “That’s her. She won’t make your life easy.”

“The only easy day was yesterday, sir.”

Yesterday was NOT easy. I glanced at one of the airmen who’d been at my door. “Any idea where my phone is?”

“Yes sir. Ms Lopez has it. She said it was buzzing too much and waking you up.”

“Where is she?”

His face paled. “I’m not sure, sir. Sorry. I’ll find out. But she told us she’d meet you later.”

I nodded and ate some bacon. I love bacon.

“FBI pilot Mike Matthews is at the airfield,” he continued, reading off his notes. “He’s re-fueled and sleeping in the HRT helicopter, ready if you need him. Air Force is assigning him a gunner.”

A cluster of soldiers approached our table, probably just wanting to take a picture. They had camera phones. The SEALs glared at the cluster, stopping them cold. After a long uncomfortable moment, the soldiers took the cue and left.

The kid with notes kept going, “Special Agent Isaac Anderson reports there is a meeting at ten hundred hours. Your presence is required.”

“You can get me there?” I asked.

“Yes sir. You don’t need to prepare. And the Shooter will also attend.”

“The Shooter?” I grinned.

“That’s…that’s how she identified herself.”

One of the SEALs nodded. “Hot girl with a shotgun.”

I had nowhere to be for twenty minutes, so I remained at the table, drank juice, and chatted with the stony SEALs. The SEALs related details of last night’s fight to their comrades, using salt and pepper shakers and knives to demonstrate relative positions. On their small battlefield, I was a bottle of hot sauce. I approved. They got lost in their retelling and allowed an audience to gather until the cafeteria filled.

They finished their narrative by saying, “The last we saw, sir, you and the Shooter jumped off the roof. Thought for sure you’d be dead. You were wearing a parachute?”

“A wing-suit,” I replied. The crowd murmured. Pictures of this wing-suit had circulated online a few months ago.

“Damn small wing-suit.”

“I’ve got a good tailor.”

The nervous airman found his voice. “Sir, we need to go. The briefing begins in five minutes.”

I drained my juice and stood. So did the SEALs. They surrounded me and followed the airman, shouldering aside the mass of bodies. I did my best not to look overwhelmed in this bizarre parade. Through a labyrinth of corridors we marched silently for several minutes. Underground, I bet. I got lost quickly. Without a guide, I’d die down here. Finally we paused at a fancy elevator guarded by two armed soldiers.

A grey-haired, uniformed man shook my hand and said, “Chase Jackson, I assume? I’m Major General Roberts. Welcome to the Los Angeles Air Force Base.”

“I appreciate the hospitality.”

“Gentlemen,” he addressed the SEALs. “I’ve been informed that your reassignment requests have been processed and approved. But you’ll have to remain here, outside the restricted areas.”

“Yes Major General,” answered the SEALs. They were standing at attention. Perhaps I should stand straighter, too.

The elevator scanned Roberts’ retina and we shuttled deeper into the earth. He commented, “I had the pleasure of meeting Ms. Lopez. She’s even more lovely than her photographs.”

“I have the pleasure of dating her. And it’s been even better than I hoped.”

He chuckled. “She reminds me of my daughter. All smiles and optimism. I have a grandson on the way. My first. I’m trying to keep the world intact for him.”

“Not a fun time to be pregnant.”

“It speaks well of you, son, that men follow you so easily.” He raised his chin to indicate the SEALs far above us. “Good men don’t blindly follow poor leadership. That helps the rest of us trust you.”

“Better find yourself a parachute,” I said. “Following me gets weird.”

“Parachutes are useless without a safe place to land,” he grumbled, turning sour. “The time for parachutes and all safety precautions might soon be at an end.

“I’ve got a friend who’ll be delighted to hear that.”

“I met
her
too. She’s…intense.”

“Yeah. And you probably met her during one of her
good
moods, too.”

He escorted me to a wide, wooden-paneled room with a mahogany table and black swivel chairs. One wall was a bank of television screens and computer monitors. The air smelled like money and secrets. Most chair were occupied with fancy old people who stood to shake my hand as Major General Roberts introduced me around the room. They were all heads of hard to pronounce military directorates. Some wore badges, which would help with name recall. I sat down between Isaac, who appeared to be healthier than he had in weeks, and Samantha, who appeared deeply bored.

I whispered to Isaac, “How many of these folks do you trust?”

“Don’t know most. So I don’t trust them.”

Television screens flickered on. Video conference calls piped in from around the globe. Isaac quietly identified the Secretary of State; Secretary of Defense (“I trust him,” he said); Director of the CIA (“Him too.”); a representative from the Joint Chiefs; and finally the President of the United States, a handsome and square-faced guy going silver around the ears. He put on reading glasses and squinted at the screen.

“Holy smokes,” I murmured. All the bigwigs greeted each other, deferring especially to the President, and made light-hearted smalltalk.

“Remember what Carter said about the President,” Samantha whispered.

Isaac whispered back, “We are aware the President’s under the influence of a powerful Infected girl, but we don’t know how to intervene.”

“Blue-Eyes,” I said in a hushed voice. “I remember her.”

As if on cue, the President peered intensely through his computer screen and broke into a grin. “Ah! Do I spy the infamous Chase Jackson?”

I froze. Like someone sucked out all my oxygen and replaced it with ice water. The President of the United States of America just addressed me by name.

“Uh, yes…yes sir,” I stammered, staring around. Where the heck do I look?? He’s in a computer screen. Where’s the camera?

“I’m a long-time admirer of yours, young man. I’m glad to finally pass along my appreciation face-to-face. So to speak.”

“Oh…well…thanks.”

“I look forward to hearing your report on last night’s traumatic events.”

“Yes sir.”

A lady across the table frowned at me. “I thought you’d be taller.”

“And older.”

“So,” the President mused to himself, leaning back in a chair. “You’re at the Air Force Base in Los Angeles. Not a very isolated location for such a wanted man.”

Suddenly, I knew. I knew without a shred of uncertainty that Blue-Eyes was in the room with him, eavesdropping on the video conference. His body betrayed her. He smiled too big. Kept glancing off screen. He was nervous. This was a performance. She controlled him. My hackles rose.

He continued, “I just watched one of the Lopez videos. Has everyone seen those things? Outstanding. Just outstanding. Is she at the Air Force base too?”

“Lopez videos?” I wondered out loud. “What Lopez videos?”

The Secretary of State, a stern women with brown hair piled atop her head, said, “The
Katie Clips
. They’re fantastic. I applaud her efforts.”

“The
Katie Clips
??” I cried. I looked to Samantha for help but she shrugged.

The room laughed at me, and then took turns explaining. Katie Lopez had over two million followers on Instagram. Two million!? Her followers had grown steadily since she appeared in People magazine. Beginning last month, she had been posting short videos on her Twitter and Instagram accounts, in which she discussed what to do in emergency situations, explained how teenagers could help their country and families, and read short excerpts from famous patriotic poems and essay. Her favorite was Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Her common-sense suggestions presented with humor, encouragement, and hope, from the girl who had survived everything, were viral gold. The videos were aimed at young girls, but she was so pretty and likable that her popularity grew.

The Secretary of State sighed, “Of course her followers tripled yesterday when the Chemist released his Outlaw bounty. I’d like to meet her.”

Major General Roberts chuckled, “Her recent video is about how to kill time while your boyfriend is trying to save the world and you’re worried about him. I loved it. I know the youngsters loved it. She’s upstairs right now, filming PSAs with the Navy, accompanied by guards I trust. She’s going to Stanford?”

I nodded, a little numb. I’m the worst boyfriend in the world. How could she not tell me about this? Better question, how could I not notice?

The Secretary of Defense, a stern man with hollow cheeks, spoke up. Anderson trusted him. “Let’s begin the meeting, if we can. Special Agent in Charge, you’re the director of the Hyper Humanity Terrorism Joint Task Force. Why don’t you guide us through this circus?”

“Certainly,” Isaac said and he stood up, clearing his throat. “First, a preliminary clarification. We have two civilians in attendance. For legal and protocol reasons, we are awarding military rank to Chase Jackson and Samantha Gear. Effective immediately, they are designated as GS-12, or the equivalent of a military O-4 rank, with all due benefits and security clearances.” He glanced at us and winked. “Congratulations, you two. You just became majors in the military. Only, don’t try to pull rank. It won’t go over well.”

“Okay,” I said, dumbfounded and confused. Did I outrank my dad, now? Samantha didn’t seem to care.

The President said, “Bravo!”

“I hope you’ve all had a chance to review my debriefing and the footage from last night. If not, here’s a quick summary. Thanks to NSA intelligence, we identified a high-profile target within enemy occupied territory. Specifically, inside the Gas Tower downtown.”

On the big screen, silent night-vision and infrared videos of the rooftop battle played. I watched with interest.

He continued, “We scrambled a squad of Navy SEALs with orders to capture or kill the target, and also authorized Chase Jackson and Samantha Gear, codenamed Outlaw and Shooter, to accompany. The mission was not a success. The target, who we believed was the Chemist, escaped. We brought home nine hostages and lost five Navy SEALs.”

“Not a success,” the President repeated.

We sat silently and watched the mayhem, culminating in the Pave Hawk’s ferocious attack, which was blinding when viewed with night vision.

The Secretary of Defense asked, “Incredible footage. Special Agent, can you describe the combat? And the enemy?”

“Yes sir. Same as previous engagements. He deployed an army of untrained civilians with guns, often displaying evidence of drug use. And of course, hundreds of Hyper Humans who are too fast for us. We’d have died in minutes without the Outlaw and Shooter.”

“The enemy appears to…fare poorly against the Outlaw and the Shooter.”

“Yes sir,” he laughed without mirth. “The enemy is not too fast for
them
. The enemy dies. Or runs away.”

Everyone at the table scrutinized us, looking for clues. So did the people on camera. Samantha rolled her eyes.

The Secretary of State cleared her throat on screen and said, “Well, I have a stupid question, and I’m not even sure how to phrase it, but how do they…do you…the Outlaw and-and the Shooter…why are they able to…how do they do that?”

Everyone at the table nodded in complete understanding of her inability to articulate the question.

“We have an illness, ma’am,” I shrugged. “The same as the enemy.”

Samantha shouted at the screen, “We’re just better at it.”

The Director of the CIA flipped through several sheets of paper. He said, “Mr. Jackson and Ms. Gear, Special Agent Anderson’s report mentioned new hand-to-hand weapons wielded by the enemy. Several varieties, including electroshock. Did you encounter these?”

“Damn right, we did,” Samantha said. “Almost cut me in half. Took out your SEALs, too.”

“The weapons are new,” I confirmed. “Infected often fight at close range. These gadgets are designed with that in mind.”

The Secretary of State cleared her throat again and said, “Mr. Carter never mentioned the weapons.”

I asked, “Mr. Carter?”

“Yes. Your colleague, the bald man known as Carter.” She took a deep, unhappy breath and said, “We’ve met his demands, against my better judgement, and he’s consulting on this new threat.”

The President sat up straighter and yelped, “He is??”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“I did not authorize this.” He was looking above and beyond his camera now, watching something off screen. Watching Mary, the Blue Eyed Witch. My blood boiled.