Infected: Die Like Supernovas (The Outlaw Book 2) (11 page)

Earlier in the day I’d visited a motorcycle shop near Memorial Park. I found red peel-off decals for my bike and helmet. With them I could transform the motorcycle’s color scheme from black and orange to black and red. And when the Outlaw finished rampaging around the city, I’d simply peel the red decals off and save them for future use. Camouflage! I also cut out some white decals so I could alter the license plate.

Screw it. I was going. This would be fun! The illness and the night and the rush were irresistible. Wooooooooo!!

I looped around Natalie’s and Tank’s building twice and then expanded my search to include other city blocks, hunting for trouble makers that might lead to Tank or Guns. But the city is vast and my chances were small. After the fruitless search I decided to investigate one more spot. The house.
The
House.

I’d been in The House three times; once when I was searching for Katie’s phone, once when I was reclaiming a stolen locket, and once when Tank had kidnapped Katie. Tank owned the house, probably through one of his holding companies. He was rich and invested in property and often visited this one in particular. He used it as a base for illegal operations. It was a two-story mess, situated on a run-down street not far from downtown.

My bike moved in silence behind the row of dilapidated houses, twisting between trashcans in the alley. It was midnight and nothing moved except the breeze. And the Outlaw. I climbed off (but left the battery engaged, ready to jet) and snuck up to the rear porch of the hated house.

Bingo. Activity. Men were lounging on the chairs and a couch, watching boxing. A couple occupants were asleep. The air was hazy.

No sign of Tank.

In the past I might have been afraid to enter such a room. Too many guys, too much muscle, too many possible weapons, too much could go wrong. But that was when Chase was in control of his body. That was when Chase’s fears and rationalities ruled the day. Now? Now the Outlaw was in full possession. The Outlaw did not fear a den of lazy, clumsy crooks.

I walked brazenly into the room, picked up an unopened bottle of liquor and threw it through the television. The bottle and television both disintegrated, shattered glass flying, and the room reacted like a bomb had gone off. I picked up the first man to reach his feet and I hurled him into the other room.
Hurled
him. He traveled over fifteen feet in the air, crunched the far plaster wall, and landed like a sack of dirty laundry.

After that, nobody moved.

“Evening, gentlemen,” I said to my captive audience. I recognized a couple of them from previous interactions.

“The Outlaw.”

“El Diablo.”

“That’s me,” I confirmed. “You boys enjoy the big fight last night?”

“Not us, man,” a little due spoke up. “No way, Outlaw. Didn’t go near it.”

“That’s not what I heard. And how are you, Beans?” I asked. “Remember when I carried you to the hospital?” I’d had multiple run-ins with this particular character. He was all mouth, no heart. He nodded. “Good times, Beans!”

“Why don’t you go away,” he said with every scrap of nerve he possessed. “We ain’t bothering nobody.”

“Ah, poor grammar and a double negative. How I love the ruffians.”

“We didn’t start nothing, man,” he said. “We don’t go south anymore. Getting loco down there, Mr. Outlaw.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“There’s a crazy man, yo. You heard of him? He controls everything with his new drugs,” Beans said and he tried to marshall support from his silent, sullen companions. “Nobody don’t mess with him.”

“What’s his name?”

“Don’t nobody don’t know, man. Rumors about rumors, right? But people talk. He’s crazy.”

“Speaking of crazy,” I said. “Where my old pal Tank?”

Stoney silence. No response.

“You know,” I encouraged them. “Big guy? Ugly? Wears gloves all the time? You call him T.”

Nothing. Angry stares.

“Oh well. Tell him I said hello. I’ll just take Guns and be on my way,” I said, and I pointed at the man in the green hoodie near the television. I’d spotted him immediately.

“The hell you want with me?” Guns asked. He gave the impression of being high. Or drunk. Or aggressively stupid.

“I’ll tell you when we get there,” I said as cheerfully as I could in my deep snarl.

Just then, the house shook, as if from a small earthquake. Dust drifted from the ceiling. Wooden boards everywhere groaned, and a tyrannosaurus rex came down the stairs. Or at least that’s how it sounded, based on the deep booming footsteps.

“Who is making the noise?” asked a voice so low it could have been vibrating out of a subwoofer.

Someone whimpered. Actual whimpering.

Tank, if possible, had gotten bigger, but he looked terrible. In the past he’d dressed immaculately and taken great care of his appearance. Now his hair was a mess, he had bags under his eyes, and his clothes were rags. He squinted against the light. Sometimes I forgot that he wasn’t a super villain; he was a teenager with homework and football practice and parents.

“Beans made the noise,” I answered, rolling my eyes. “You know him. He’s a chatterbox.”

“You,” he said, his baleful eyes alighting on me.

“Not me,” I said, hauling Guns to his feet. “Beans. Now go back to sleep.”

“New outfit,” he said, and he shook his head like an invisible fly was bothering him. “Looks stupid.”

“You don’t like the vest? I like it. Makes my arms look great. By the way Tank, have you been having headaches? Stomach aches? Trouble with stress? Things like that?” I asked on a whim. “Feel like you could die any minute?”

He didn’t answer. He came after me in a rush, like a furious freight train. I jumped away, hauling Guns after me, but I couldn’t move him fast enough. Tank plowed into us, his gloved hands going for my throat. We crashed
through
the rear wall, sprawling and rolling out into the backyard. Tank and I were both temporarily disoriented by the sudden darkness. Guns was knocked out cold. My head was killing me.

“Tank, you big dummy,” I shouted. “How will you explain that to your mortgage insurance?”

He tried to stand but stumbled on the rubble. I grabbed a long section of a broken 2x4 and hit him in the head, using the busted wood like a baseball bat. The board shattered and Tank fell over again, but he appeared to barely feel it. Oh well.

I hefted Guns up on my shoulder like a big sack of potatoes and ran for the bike. Getting on wasn’t easy. I held his inert body between my arms and knees like I would a child, and I opened the throttle. Gravel flew and we leapt out of the alley.

“Man, I hate that house!” I shouted, steering onto the adjacent street.

Tank materialized out of nowhere like a nightmare, landing heavily on the sidewalk. He roared unintelligibly and sprinted after us. I should have been able to speed away from him, but I couldn’t. He was miraculously keeping abreast of my bike, his thick legs pumping steadily, his mouth pulled into a vicious grimace. My speedometer read
35 mph
. Isn’t that faster than humans can run?? I tried increasing our speed but Guns slipped out of my grip, forcing me to decelerate and readjust my cargo. Tank veered off the sidewalk and swung an olympic-sized fist at me. I jerked the handles, barely evading him, and we lost even more speed. His next swing would destroy us.

I glanced up, just in time to see the Los Angeles Sniper rise up like a ghost on the house ahead of us. The Sniper! The Shooter! It had to be. He stood tall, poised, slender, rock solid, feet planted on either side of the roof’s incline, death incarnate silhouetted by the moon. The figure raised a rifle to his shoulder in slow motion.

Time slowed down to heartbeats. I’m dead…the Shooter…Infected…Maybe he’ll hit the vest…Lee’s kevlar plates better work…Katie…Katie…

The Shooter fired, an angry flare bursting from the weapon’s maw. I flinched instinctively. No noise. Silencer! Did he miss??

Tank’s head snapped back! One second he was towering over us, the next he was on the ground, holding his face. He groaned and roared and shook his skull from side to side. He was alive?? A wax bullet!

This is madness! I gunned the engine, popped a wheelie that almost tossed Guns, and streaked away from Tank and the Shooter.

“That was a bad idea….and kind of awesome!”

“…hello?” Lee’s slurred voice came over the headset in my helmet.

“Wake up, Lee,” I barked into the receiver.

“Outlaw?” he asked.

“I just deposited a fugitive into the back of your car. He’s on the police’s wanted list,” I shouted. I was close to fainting. The pain! “He’s tied up. Take him to the police station immediately. Collect the reward. Don’t mention me. It’s a Thank You for the vest.”

I clicked off and almost crashed. The pain was blinding. I could barely see, barely process, barely move. Tonight had been too much. Too much excitement, too much stress, danger, exertion. Every joint ached. Skull about to crack.

I braked to a clumsy halt. Where am I? Lots of lights. I know this place. Safety. Through a fog of delirium I tore off the helmet and pulled on my long-sleeved shirt. I left my bike illegally parked in a handicap spot and staggered up the steps to the Holy Angels Church. I remember this. I remember my mother’s funeral here. I remember spending the night here once. The soft music was playing over the speakers instead of the organ pipes. The smell of incense permeated everything and wafted up from the pew cushion when I collapsed in the back. There were no other midnight pilgrims, just me, no more sounds. Most of the light came from candles burning near the alter. Quiet. Peace. Safe. Heaven.

Sleep.

I didn’t hear Carter enter the church.

My phone was beeping. Unread text messages from Puckdaddy.

>>Shooter requested permission 2 waste u last night

>>Carter said No

>>u 1 lucky dude

>>u dead?

>>hey dummy. u there?

>>u have a few more hours to respond b4 i erase all data on your phone

I stared bleary-eyed until the words made sense. I’d just woken up at five in the morning on a pew in a church under a blanket most likely provided by our football team’s offensive coordinator, Todd Keith. He worked as a Deacon at this church.

I’m not dead
, I typed.
Why would you erase all the data on my phone?

>>good morning stoopid. thought the virus got u

Not yet
, I typed, and I sat up. Mercifully my headache was gone but my neck was intensely sore. I rubbed it and groaned.

“Your neck is sore because you had an aneurism.”

I almost jumped out of my skin. Carter was sitting on the other side of the pew, legs stretched and ankles crossed. He still wore tactical gear, and he was still smoking cigarettes.

“And you had an aneurism because you didn’t take my advice,” he said a little hotly.

“Missed you too,” I croaked.

“Not a joke, hero. You almost died last night. Should have,” he shouted and it echoed throughout the towering sanctuary. “Perhaps I failed to express myself previously. Drop the machismo act. It’ll kill you.”

“How do you know I had an aneurism?”

“You have blood in your cerebrospinal fluid,” he said and he flicked his ash on the floor.

“You shouldn’t smoke in church. And I have blood where?”

“Smoke wherever I want, boy. I checked your subarachnoid. I’ve done it a lot over the years. You didn’t even wake up. Found traces of blood. You had an aneurism. I’m shocked you’re alive.”

“An aneurism? That sounds awful. Shouldn’t I be in worse shape than I am?”

“Your body is trying to both kill you and heal you at an enormously fast rate,” he explained. “After the aneurysm failed to kill you, your brain began repairing itself.”

“How’d you find me?” I asked, gingerly massaging the muscles around my spine.

“One of the Infected. He thought you were dead. Triangulated the wifi signal off your motorcycle. Or so he tells me.” Carter waved his hand in the air to indicate he didn’t understand the technology involved.

“Puckdaddy?”

“Call him what you like. He’s the best alive. And he’s hoping you’ll stay that way. For some reason, he’s rooting for you. I brought you breakfast.”

I located a McDonalds bag under my seat. Five breakfast sandwiches. I could cry.

“How’d you know I’d be hungry?” I asked after finishing the first. “Like, really hungry. I’m starving.”

“I’m Infected too, just like you,” he said simply. “We get hungry, that’s how it works.” After I finished the third, he leaned forward and said, “Listen, hero. You’re right in the middle of this thing. All the symptoms are here. I want you to make it. We need you to pull through. Gotta get yourself under control.”

“You were right,” I said, my mouth full of food. “My body is addicted to excitement. It’s like the Outlaw is in control of my decisions half the time.”

“Not the Outlaw. The virus,” he barked at me. “You get no more chances. Not from me, and probably not from the virus.”

“Got it.”

“You must learn self-control. You
must
. The virus can kill you several ways.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Many Infected die even though they survived the virus. They live through post-adolescence but die in their twenties. That’s one of the reasons why there are only nine of us.”

“What happens to them?”

“Those of us that survive through the end of adolescence face two common pitfalls. The first is if an Infected decides he’s Superman. Most of us do. We get drunk on power. And then we do something stupid. Like you did last night. For example, an Infected died last year. Let’s call him Ten. Ten believed himself indestructible and so he jumped out of an airplane at fifteen thousand feet with no chute. There wasn’t much left of him after the mountain got through,” he said and he shook his head in disgust.

“Okay. Makes sense. Drunk on power, do something stupid. What’s the other way the Infected die?”