Outcasts (7 page)

“I’ll fly you anywhere, sir!”

“Careful what you wish for.”

“Name’s Mike Matthews.” He jerked a thumb at himself. “The Outlaw’s personal pilot!”

His enthusiasm surprised me. One reason I wore the mask was because I assumed I’d lose everyone’s respect when they saw my face and my youth. But Mike Matthews looked straight at Chase Jackson with unabated trust. That was reassuring. As if reading my thoughts, Katie nudged me and winked.

Anderson was on his phone the entire time, updating us with a hand over the receiver.

He told Katie, “Highway Patrol is escorting your mother to her sister’s. They’ll both be taken to a safe house near San Diego.”

“Thank you,” Katie said. She visibly unclenched, some of the stress draining out of her. Her eyes vacantly watched the palm trees below as wind tossed strands of her hair.

“Outlaw, we have a police detail staying with your father. He refuses to leave active duty, but he’ll start sleeping at the station.”

Samantha Gear sniffed her approval. She was texting with Carter and PuckDaddy.

Anderson continued, “He’s seen pictures of your destroyed house. He says you’re grounded.”

We all laughed. Especially Samantha.

But it wasn’t true. The days of being grounded were over. Chase Jackson was no longer a high school student. This helicopter would fly where I ordered, and everyone aboard would blindly follow my lead.

The blind leading the blind.

What would I do now?

Katie. She’d always been my north star. Keeping her safe, my priority. But she’d reject that now. She possessed an innate sense of right and wrong, of justice, and she’d never allow herself to be a distraction.

Her fingers found mine and squeezed. Samantha quit texting, crossed over to our side of the gunner bay and squeezed next to Katie, pinning her between us. “Now what, Outlaw?”

I shrugged. “McDonalds? I haven’t had breakfast yet.”

Katie pinched me. “Be serious.”

“He is,” Samantha said. “Our bodies burn calories at a murderous rate. He and I will go into shock soon unless we eat.”

“What fascinating monsters you are,” Katie commented. “I wish I could cook for you.”

Anderson had apparently been listening in the middle of orchestrating a symphony through his cellphone and his two radios. He held one to his mouth and said, “Anyone got eyes on a McDonalds? Special request for breakfast sandwiches.”

“And coffee.”

“And chocolate donuts.”

Katie said, “And yogurt and granola. …
what??
I don’t need all those additives. Wearing tight pajamas on a helicopter requires dietary sacrifices.”

“You are quite eye-catching,” Samantha agreed, inspecting Katie’s outfit and then her own. Samantha wore cargo pants, a shoulder holster, and her black shirt was splattered with blood. “I’m as attractive as a garbageman in this.”

“Not true,” Katie protested. “You’re so fit, you’d look good wearing actual garbage. I wish I could take video of all this. It’d be Instagram gold.”

Anderson ordered food while I retrieved a pair of jeans from my duffle and tugged them on over my shorts. My red bandana partially pulled out from a side compartment. Should I put it on? I felt exposed without it, especially in a helicopter.

Samantha glared down at the rotating earth. “We’re going to Los Alamitos.”

“Where?”

“Los Alamitos, the Joint Forces base in Orange County.”

Anderson covered the receiver and said, “Bingo. You’ll be safe there. I know a guy.”

We thundered straight towards a broad emptiness in the suburbs of eastern Los Angeles, a brown expanse of runway strips and military housing. The Los Alamitos campus was enormous and ugly. “It’s perfect,” Samantha observed.

“The whole world is wondering where this Black Hawk is going. Including my supervisors. And I’m not telling them. And these guys,” Anderson jerked a thumb at the quiet agent with an assault rifle and at the pilot, “aren’t spilling. The secret will get out soon, but I think we’ve bought a few hours. Maybe even a day or two.”

“Perfect,” I said. “Anderson, we owe you.”

“Hell yeah you do. But we gotta hammer out a plan of attack. And soon.”

I asked, “The Chemist is in Los Angeles?”

“He was last night,” Anderson nodded.

Samantha frowned and said, “How do you know?”

“He freed Tank Ware from prison.”

Samantha swore and punched the metal fuselage so hard her fist left an imprint. “I
knew
I should have ended that ape when I had the chance.”

Katie’s voice was quiet. “Where’d he go?”

Anderson held up his palms. “Out to sea. That’s all we know. But he can’t stay hidden long.”

He appeared exhausted. I’d been so caught up in my own struggles I failed to notice his. His eyes were red, framed by dark circles, and he needed a shave. Katie noticed too. She squeezed Isaac’s hand and said, “Have you heard from Natalie?”

He tried to smile but couldn’t. “No. Not since the Downtown takeover. Teresa Triplett mentions her in the Chemist blog now and then, so I know she’s alive.”

Katie nodded sympathetically. “I read the updates. I met Natalie North once, did you know?”

“I didn’t.” He grinned, genuinely this time. “I haven’t told anyone we’re together. It’s a hard secret to keep, because I’m so proud of her.”

I said, “That settles it. That’s the plan. We’re going after the Chemist. And we’re going after Natalie.”

“That’s always been the plan. Not working so far.”

I said grimly, “This time is different.”

“How so?”

“I don’t have homework or English class. Samantha and I are going in and we’re not coming out unless we’ve got his head.”

Samantha pumped her fist, a small but fierce motion. “That plan makes me so happy I could cry.”

We landed on the far side of a hot Los Alamitos tarmac, away from prying eyes. The four of us hopped off and Mike Matthews launched the Black Hawk into the firmament again. Anderson got behind the wheel of a waiting jeep and we climbed in.

He explained in the sudden silence, “I’m working with a small group of trusted individuals. Influential members inside all branches of intelligence, military, and law enforcement. We call ourselves the Resistance, and our main goal is to provide resources to our Hyper Human allies. With the military and governmental infighting, we don’t advertise our existence. One of the Resistance is a colonel here. He allocated this jeep for us and a place to stash you.” He ground the gears and gunned the gas, and we lurched down the runway. Like every nearby base, Los Alamitos bore scars from a recent Chemist rampage. This airfield was still being repaired so larger fixed-wings could land. We rolled through a graveyard of scorch marks.

I said, “I’m not crazy about being
stashed
.”

“Me either,” Samantha announced. “Infected are incapable of being stashed. We’ll go crazy.”

Anderson grumbled, “Just trying to keep you three alive. There’s only so much help I can provide.”

“You’re doing great, Special Agent,” Katie said. “And we’re very grateful. Aren’t we?”

“And you’re hot,” Samantha noted. “So that helps.”

I said, “This place is perfect. Temporarily. We’ll lay low until its time to move out. Where are we staying?”

“The guest room at the Infirmary. But I’m not positive where that is. I’ve never been here.”

Our journey in the jeep did not go unnoticed. Four strangers in civilian clothes were uncommon on a Joint Forces base. Katie especially stuck out.

“Here,” Samantha growled and stuffed a duffle bag into Katie’s lap. “Hug that to your chest. You’re too attractive and curvy, especially in your pjs. All these half-wits are staring.”

Los Alamitos is not pretty. It’s old and utilitarian and without adornment. No grass, just soldiers jogging in cadence over dusty earth. Anderson said there was a pool and golf course, but we’d never use them. We motored through cinderblock housing and offices and armories, all painted military grays and khakis, until we stumbled across the Infirmary. A small apartment was built into the back, just a bathroom and small bedroom. Several bags of McDonalds were steaming on the bedside table. I ate a sausage biscuit in one bite.

“One cot?” Samantha arched an eyebrow at the rickety mattress.

“I’m not your concierge,” Anderson yawned. “Go check into a hotel if you want. See how that goes. Colonel Jordan should be here soon. I don’t want to be spotted, so I’m leaving the base immediately.”

The jeep roared, and he was gone. Samantha glared at the door, hands on hips, for a full fifteen seconds before announcing, “I look military. I’m not staying in this tiny room. Back later. And I’ll bring clothes for Miss Pajamas.” She grabbed a McDonalds bag and slammed the door.

The room was small. No windows. No televisions.

Katie said, “Well…”

“That was an interesting morning.”

“Shall we eat?”

“Let’s snuggle first.”

She smiled. “We’d be fools not to.”

I couldn’t stay quiet. I was too amped. Too juiced. Too much adrenaline. I paced back and forth until after lunch, when Katie grew tired of my simmering energy and pushed us both outside. We found a rec hall with a television but we could barely see the screen. The hall was standing room only, way above capacity, bodies crowding for a better view. The video footage of Chosen rioting over Glendale startled everyone, even me and Katie. Those freaks were
fast
. How on earth did we escape? The newscast displayed the wreckage which used to be my home, as well as the ten-mile backup on the interstate. Fortunately our names weren’t being used, even though our helicopter dash had been caught on several cellphone cameras.

“It’s only a matter of time,” Katie observed. “A few hours. And then they’ll be confident enough to release your real name.” Katie did not fit in, even wearing camouflage fatigues. She was too soft, too pretty, too feminine, her voice too bright.

I wanted to fight. My blood boiled. I’d been attacked. The Chemist sent monsters to my
house
! To Katie’s! He came early, hoping to catch us asleep. He invaded our private lives. And Tank sold us for his freedom, breaking our rule about no families. I wanted to break things. I needed justice. A reckoning.

We found Samantha Gear at an outdoor firing range. Where else. A small crowd gathered to watch. She stood perfectly still, her left elbow propped on her left hip, glaring down the length of a sniper rifle. She was still dressed in camo cargo pants and a tight black shirt.

A buzzer sounded. Targets moved. She fired five times, sharp blasts, spinning copper cartridges, and she shattered five mechanical moving targets.

Two soldiers stood in front of me, whispering.

“See how fast she works the bolt? Christ almighty.”

“Not even using a scope.”

“Scope? How could she? Moving too fast.”

“I’m not that accurate when I’m kneeling. She’s just standing there. Who the
hell
is she?”

Samantha turned and glared at the crowd. She held up a pair of fingers.

“You boys have two problems!” She started stalking up and down the line of admirers, professional soldiers in awe. “One, you’re moving too slowly. You’re concerned with silence. Forget silence. This isn’t elegant. War isn’t elegant. There’s no silence in combat! You shouldn’t be using a bolt-action anyway. You need the semi-automatic M110. Reloading messes with your mind. When you’re worried about silence and about reloading, then you’re
worried
. Worried. Guns. Don’t. Hit. Targets.” Her teeth were grinding and she snarled in their faces. “Your enemy, this new enemy on the television screens, won’t give you time to worry. They’ll rip you open. Never practice silence. Never practice worried. Practice angry. Practice desperate.

“Next! Your second problem! You’re practicing with scopes?! No! Lose the damn scopes! Anyone can hit anything with a scope from a mile away. You don’t need to practice that. You don’t need to practice with a scope. This isn’t Boy Scouts! This isn’t Sniper Camp! You need to practice firing at targets sprinting at you fifteen feet away. Practice firing at targets moving too fast to see. There will be NO time for scopes! Scopes make you worry. You won’t have time to worry. You won’t have time to
fret
over being accurate. Forget about accuracy. Your ass will be dead. You want something to worry about? Worry that you won’t even hit them
once
. That you won’t have time to fire. That you’ll miss entirely. Forget perfection. Forget aiming for the heart. Just hit them anywhere. If you can. Otherwise you’re dead.”

She tossed her rifle to the man behind her, and said, “Where’s your Armory Officer? Where’s your Gunnery Sergeant? Speed up the targets. Triple the speed. Get semi-automatic weapons, not single shot sniper rifles.”

Katie whispered to me, “She’s very impressive. I didn’t know she could do all this stuff.”

One of the observers, probably the senior ranking officer in attendance, spoke up. His hair was buzzed and he spoke quietly. “This is very impressive. But I don’t recognize you, soldier. You’re not Green Beret. And I don’t believe you’re Navy SEALs. Our soldiers need to use the weapons they’ve been trained on.”

Samantha stared at the emblem on his shirt and said, “That’s very cute, Captain. However it’s obvious you’ve never seen combat. None of you boys have. Just arrive here from some safe outpost in Texas?”

“Training matters. Repetition matters. Comfort level matters. Working as one unit matters. And who are you?”

Samantha
Moved
. She had the Captain’s firearm out of his holster without warning, and she pressed the muzzle into the soft underpart of his jaw. The assemblage tensed and stepped back as one body. It happened so fast. I groaned.

“Tell me about comfort level now, Captain,” Samantha said quietly. “Go ahead. I’m listening. Explain to me how repetition is going to save you.” His eyes were wide and he didn’t move. More guns emerged, pointed at Samantha. Voices were raised. Radios began squawking. “Here’s the point, Captain. Your enemy is ten times faster than you are. You have no time to worry. No time to reload. No time to aim through a scope. Get it?”