Outcasts (23 page)

“Yeah but-”

“Yeah but what? You did it to save lives?”

I nodded. “Exactly.”

She jammed a finger at the two dead Chosen. “Me too.”

I laced fingers into my hair and paced, nearly tripping on the girl’s dead leg. “This is different. This wasn’t in self-defense.”

“I executed them in defense of others. They would kill again.”

“We had time to use non-lethal methods. We could have called…” I searched in vain for solutions.

“Called who? You and I are the answer. And what time do you think we have? You saw Puck’s messages. The whole damn world is blowing up.”

I sat criss-cross beside the dead girl and held her hand and tried not to cry. Samantha, unnerved, fidgeted and kicked at stones. After a minute she said, “Sorry I called you a princess.”

“I just don’t want to be this way,” I whispered. The girl’s hand felt so small. Cold. Brittle, even though I knew it wasn’t. “I don’t want us to kill. Not when there might be another way.”

“You’re so different from the rest of us, it’s shocking.”

“Maybe that’s why you’re drawn to me.”

Samantha had no rebuttal. She kept kicking rocks down the dark street.

Camino College was being rebuilt. We reached the campus at nine in the morning and watched.

Last August, an American Apache attack helicopter had emptied its arsenal of Hellfire missiles into the belly of the college. At the time, the campus had been serving as a base of operations for the terrorists. The salvo saved my life and nearly killed the Chemist, but the extensive restoration process would last another year. At minimum.

We stood on Cummings Avenue sidewalk. Workers in blaze orange hats and vests hefted detritus onto waiting truck beds. Loads of bricks, wooden beams, ruined masonry and plumbing rumbled away every few minutes. New steel beams arrived to take their place.

“I like this place better during the daytime,” I observed.

“Wuss,” she sniffed.

“You didn’t get chewed on by a tiger.”

“Oh yeah!” She threw back her head and laughed. “I forgot. Oh wow. The past thirteen months have been so much fun.”

“You have issues.”

“YOU have issues.”

“There are too many workers here.”

She squinted at the skeletal remains of structures and the riot of orange hats. “What do you mean?”

“Construction crews aren’t usually this numerous. There are hundreds. Many too young. Many too old. Look over there, little kids distributing water.”

“So?”

“This is a volunteer work force.”

The longer we watched, the more sure I became. The bulk of the cleanup was shouldered by the local community. Not only that, the volunteers appeared eager. Excited. Happy.

We pushed on through Compton and encountered more evidence of the Chemist’s previous occupation. Fortified machine gun nests, partially disassembled. Hollowed out houses. Ruined storefronts. Charred cars pushed to the berm. However, for all the destruction, we saw many more signs of unity and repair. Men swept glass from streets. Children ran with supplies and groceries, and pulled weeds. Women gardened and painted and hammered. Broken windows were patched with plastic sheets. Police helped move furniture. Venders displayed signs offering free food to volunteers.

Samantha her shoved hands into pockets and watched a Buick roll by, windows tinted, music thumping. She turned in a circle on the corner of Poplar and Oleander, peering introspectively at all the activity. “I thought this was supposed to be an unhappy place.”

“Supposedly that’s why the Chemist moved here. The citizens were too divided to resist him.”

“This place feels healthier than the others we walked through. Right? Lakewood practically trembled in fear, tail between their legs.”

We continued, following Puck’s directions, past streets named after trees, past hundreds of one-story, four-room stucco houses with barred windows. Folks nodded or stared behind fences. Not many white people; we stuck out. Samantha observed, “See all the red bandanas?”

“I noticed.”

“Can’t tell if those are gang signals or Outlaw bandanas.”

“Probably some of both. Wanna ask?”

“Want me to shoot your foot?”

Puck guided us to a house on Magnolia, not far from Compton’s small airport. The home was unremarkable from its neighbors except for the high state of tidiness. And the collection of children drawing on the front walk with chalk.

We approached. They regarded us white folk with polite confusion.

“Hi girls! Is Miss Pauline home?”

The four girls shook their heads, white beads clicking in cute dreads. The three boys throwing a football didn’t even glance at me. The youngest girl pointed a finger at me and glared.

“Any idea when she’ll be back?” I asked.

“Who’re you? You the Po?”

I grinned. “No ma’am. I’m just a friend.”

“Nuh uh, no you ain’t, you trouble.”

“I’m the big bad wolf. And you girls look mighty tasty.”

They perked up and smiled and laughed and started running around the yard, screaming. Instant joy.

“Samantha,” I said. “Go play with them.”

“No. Shut up. Kids suck. And you’re weird.”

I called Puck on my cell. “Puck, Miss Pauline isn’t here.”

“…and?”

“Where is she?”

“How the hay-yell should I know that? Puck ain’t omniscient, dummy. Go find her yourse…nevermind, found her. She’s a block away. I kick so much ass.”

Miss Pauline was visiting with neighbors. She appeared about fifty, though Katie once told me black women stayed prettier and youthful longer than hispanic women, so she could be older. Her curly hair had grey streaks. She wore an orange vest, and reading glasses were perched on her nose.

Miss Pauline served as the mayor of Compton. The previous mayor, a former police sergeant elected two years ago, vanished during the Chemist’s hostile takeover. Presumed dead but no one knew for sure. Miss Pauline stepped into the role to fill the void and was now discussed on the internet with hallowed words usually reserved for the Pope or Mother Teresa.

Making her even more interesting, Miss Pauline had also declared herself the acting Sheriff of Compton. No one objected, not even the police. In a world full of scared people trying to survive, a pure-hearted and sacrificial leader is hard to refuse.

“Well now,” she remarked dryly as we approached. “Who we have here? The Great White Hope? Some do-gooder reporters, I suspect?” Her friends on the fence’s far side made commiserative noises.

Samantha scoffed. “Do I look like a reporter?”

“Kinda. Pretty white girl like you. Here in the war. What then? Suffering from guilt? Come to make reparations?”

I liked Miss Pauline instantly. No-nonsense, sure of herself, too busy to make niceties. I grinned. “No ma’am.”

“Come from World Vision? Red Cross? Got too many of you as it is. What then?”

“You defeated the Chemist. Or at least you threw his militia out of Compton. And you did it without violence. I want you to teach me how.”

She stayed silent a long time, resting her weary head on her fist, elbow propped on the fence. She inspected me with pretty green eyes devoid of emotion. Her friends waited silently for her to speak. Nearby dogs snarled at one another in an aggressive territory dispute.

“Boy got some brains,” she said finally. Her words were elongated and tired, the syllables overly-pronounced. “Good-looking too. Remind me of Anthony.” Her friends nodded.

“Anthony?”

“My boy. Lost him at eighteen. You the government?”

I shook my head. “Not really.”

“Not really. Hmph. You know Jesus?”

Samantha made a small noise of disbelief.

I stammered, “Well, I…kind of?”

“Kind of?”

“Well…you know…I like the stuff…he taught.”

“You like his message.”

“Yes ma’am. And church brings me peace.”

“You go to church.”

“Holy Angels Catholic Church.”

“Oh Lordy,” she rolled her eyes at her friends. They cackled. “Got ourselves a Catholic.”

“Is that bad?”

“Had to listen to a Catholic for an hour earlier. Refuse to get his hands dirty. So we kept painting and he kept asking the city for money. With his clean hands.”

Miss Pauline pulled a flip-phone from her pocket and handed it to her friend. “Message Carl. Tell him I’m ready.” Her friend took the phone and started tapping the keys. She cast her gaze back at us. “I don’t message. Can’t see the keys.”

After a minute, an old beat up Crown Victoria appeared. Once a police interceptor, now the car chauffeured Miss Pauline. Carl, a tall bald man, got out and glared.

I opened the passenger door for Miss Pauline. She tugged off the orange vest and said, “Well. Climb in the back, I suppose.”

We did, sliding across the cracked vinyl seat covers. Carl eased the car down the street. Miss Pauline waved a hand at her friends and then spoke to us over her shoulder.

“Go to church but don’t don’t know Jesus,” she said.

Samantha shifted uncomfortably. So did I. I cleared my throat. “You could say that.”

“I could say that.” She looked mildly at Carl. Carl shook his head, eyes on the road. “Boy, how you gonna drive out darkness without the light?”

No words. My brain went blank. I felt like a little boy being lectured about heart surgery. Nothing I could say was correct. My mouth worked soundlessly.

She said, “Want me to teach you. About non-violence.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Why should I?”

“We want to help.”

Carl frowned in the mirror. “Miss Pauline a busy woman.”

“So are we. But I think we’re a good investment.”

“A good investment.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“I believe you. Don’t know why. But I believe you. Take us to the spot, Carl,” Miss Pauline said. Samantha and I rode without speaking, hands in our laps like scolded children. I’d never seen Samantha so intimidated before.

Miss Pauline had
presence
.

We drove to north Compton, a recovering war zone. American military forces had attempted a rescue operation here last year, ten thousand soldiers pushing in from South Gate. Walter, the Infected sadist, allowed them their progress, suffering sustainable casualties, until springing his trap. He massacred the Army, wiping out eighty percent of the American troops. Entire blocks were leveled by rockets, far too big a project for Compton volunteers to handle. The restoration would take years. Decades.

Carl stopped the car near Willowbrook Park, now a charred wasteland and mass grave site.

Miss Pauline got out with a groan and walked stiffly to the intersection. Not another car in sight. We followed her, boots crunching on gravel. She said, “The Chemist, he took most his gang north. Downtown. Back in November, or whenever it was. With the helicopters. You remember?”

I nodded. “I remember.”

“He took most our men. Didn’t have many to begin with. Compton been getting better, but still didn’t have many men. Lose them to gangs or they just leave. Go looking for work. And what we
did
have, the Chemist, he takes half. Recruits them into his army. So the Chemist, in November, he leave. Gets in his helicopters and he goes downtown. Takes his army. Leaves maybe a hundred behind. A small occupying force with guns. Some of them have the sickness. You know.”

“I know the sickness.”

“Maybe a dozen have the sickness. All kids. The rest are older men with guns. He leaves them behind to hold our city hostage.” She walked around the intersection picking up bits of metal as she told the story. There was no trashcan so she dropped the metal inside a tire. Samantha and I felt like morons, watching her. We started picking up trash too. “So I get my girlfriends. And my girlfriends get their girlfriends. And we don’t let the children come. No kids. Just us old women. Hundreds of us.”

Samantha dropped a handful of metal shards into Miss Pauline’s tire. Silent. Subdued. The noises of the world had receded. A new kind of powerful quiet. There was only her voice.

“And we go. We know where the Chemist’s men are. And we go. We praying with each step, real loud, Lord Jesus help us! Help up, God! They hear us coming. We find them. They shoot their guns. In the air. At our feet. It’s about dinner time. They shoot their guns and tell us to leave. But they’re scared. And we keep praying. Oh yes, Lord, we keep praying.” And then, as if the song itself could no longer bear suppression, she sang in rich orotund gospel tones,

“
I’m pressing on, the upward way

New heights I’m gaining every day

Still praying as I’m onward bound

Lord, plant my feet on higher ground
!”

Pain I didn’t know I possessed began uncoiling in my chest, as though strummed by her song.

Samantha’s hands shook. Tiny cuts began staining her hands red with blood, and she cried quietly. She could see the end to the story already. I couldn’t.

“We tell the Chemist’s gangs. Tell them, You can stay or go. If you stay, you have to give us the guns. And never touch them again. All the men have the powder on their faces. Can’t think straight. Some start…” Miss Pauline’s breath caught. She straightened up and massaged her lower back, staring off at the blue sky, lost in memories. “Some start shooting us. Killing us old women. Awful. But we keep praying. And we get our hands on them. The men with the sickness, they are too fast. They spooked and they run. You know? The ones with the sickness move like demons. Too fast for old women. But the others. We get our hands on them. Some keep shooting. Some drop their guns and run. Then all the Chemist people start to running. All his worshippers and workers and doctors and nurses and the rest. Hundreds of them. Thousands. They grab what they can grab and they get in cars and drive off. Went downtown, I suppose. Spooked off by us women.”

Carl might’ve been listening but I couldn’t tell. He walked in circles around the intersection, staring down the roads, a hard man with a hard past.

“Most men drop their guns and cry. And cry and cry and we sang Glory Hallelujah! A few refuse, so we disarm them. That’s hard. They fight like the devil. But there are hundreds of us, you know. We handcuff them and walk them out of town. Out of our Compton. Except one man.” She wagged her finger at us and made a tsk sound. “Except one stubborn old mule. Oh Lord. There was a hundred men for the Chemist. At the start. We got ‘bout sixty back. Maybe seventy. The others ran off or we pushed’em out. All the ones with the sickness, they fled. Found three of them dead later. Killed themself. Sixteen beautiful women lay dead. Some of us injured. It’s all over, except that one man. We chase him and chase him. He keep shooting. Finally. Finally, sweet Jesus, we old women surround him here. Right here in this street. About midnight. He gone outta bullets. He throws his gun. He punches and kicks. We surround him. We sing!” She laughs at the memory, husky and rich. “We sing hymns. He curses. He punches us. Us old women. Gave me a black eye! Finally we get our hands on him and he cries!” She laughed and clapped her hands, over-flowing with emotion and memory. “He cries and cries. Cries for days. Jesus set him free. Heart-broken man. Made no sense for us women to die and sing for him. You know. It broke him. The sacrifice broke him. So now, where’s that stubborn old mule?”