Infected: Die Like Supernovas (The Outlaw Book 2) (13 page)

Thoughts of Katie and Hannah and the aneurism forced me to a mall kiosk on Monday night, where I purchased a disposable cellphone with a temporary number. I thumbed off the new phone’s location services, synced it with my bike helmet, drove to Beverly Hills and called Beans.

“What,” Beans answered.

“Tank’s gone crazy,” I rumbled inside my helmet. “Explain.”

“The hell is this?” he yelped.

“You wrote that Tank’s going insane,” I snarled. “Talk fast.”

“Oh!” he cried. “Oh. Waitwaitwaitwaitwait a second,” he panted, and I could hear him running. “Hang on hangonhangon…gotta get somewhere I can talk.” I rolled my eyes and kept motoring up and down extravagant streets teeming with extravagant shoppers and extravagant cars. Anyone trying to track this phone would have a hard time pinpointing me because I was in perpetual motion. “Okay,” he gasped, sucking in air. “This the Outlaw?”

“The Easter Bunny,” I corrected him. “Tell me about Tank.”

“He gone loco, yo,” Beans said. “He started using drugs, mano, and that ain’t Tank. He’s clean. Never touched the junk before, yo. Now he’s snorting up blow by the shovel.”

“Tank on coke,” I sighed. “Just great. Because the world isn’t broken enough.”

“What?”

“He’s trying to manage his pain,” I reasoned, partly to myself. “I think he’s sick. And in a lot of discomfort.”

“Yeah, mano, always talking about a headache,” Beans agreed.

“Has he ever passed out?”

“Hell yeah he has. Anytime he starts talking about you. Just falls on his ass, yo.”

Aaaaaaaah crap. That confirmed it. Tank was Infected. I didn’t know whether to offer him help or pray the virus killed him. I need to tell Carter.

“And, yo, he’s straight obsessed with you, pana, you know? His parents gonna cut off his cash if he goes out anymore, you know, at night.”

“You know about his parents?” I asked, shocked. “I thought you guys didn’t know who he was.”

“Nah. Told you. Gone crazy. Talking in his sleep, homie. Stumbling around like a zombie, saying weird crap.”

“You need to turn him in,” I said. “Let the police handle it.”

“Not a snitch, yo. Be trippin.”

“Honor among thieves?” I asked, taking another lap down Rodeo Drive.

“What?”

“Nothing. Anything else?”

“Yeah,” Beans said. “The Chemist’s been after him.”

“The Chemist? What’s that?”

“Yo. You don’t know about the Chemist?” Beans asked. I grew weary of people pointing out how little I know. “The homie in south LA? Started the rumble, yo.”

“Tell me about him.”

“Don’t nobody know,” he said. “Just this guy south. Chemist. Controls all the drugs, got some kinda new recipe. He sent us a batch, but T threw it out.”

“Smart move,” I observed.

“But he’s after T, mano. Wants to be allies or some crap.”

“So there’s a guy living in South LA that has a new type of drug, and he starts big city-wide fights, and he wants to be allies with Tank. That right?”

“Yeah man.”

“Okay. Thanks for the info. Now do me a favor. Forget where the Latina girl lives,” I said, and I parked my bike in an open spot in front of a designer boutique. It must have been a famous shop because girls were taking selfies in front of it.

“Yeah, Outlaw. Yeah mang. You got it.”

“I’m serious.”

“Alright alright,” he shouted. “A la gran!”

“You need to stay away from T. It’s going to get worse. If you need to talk to me, don’t drop notes off at her door. Post a note on Craigslist. Use codeword Beans. I’ll scan it every few days.”

“Aight.”

I hung up, searched through my contacts, located Isaac Anderson’s number, called him on the new phone, and continued my itinerant motorcycle trek through downtown Beverly Hills. Just me and the luxury cars.

“Isaac Anderson,” a brisk voice said on the other end.

“Captain FBI,” I grinned, picturing the handsome agent’s surprise. “This your cell phone?”

“It is,” he said. “Who is this?”

“Don’t try to track me,” I said. “I’m mobile and I’m using a disposable phone. It’d be a waste of your time. So let’s just talk.”

“Outlaw,” he identified me. “I can’t track you from my cell anyway. You have my word. I’m in my kitchen chopping vegetables, that’s all.”

“Are you keeping tabs on the Chemist?”

“You know about him, huh,” he chuckled.

“Of course,” I lied. I didn’t know anything. Ever.

“That was a pretty slick stunt you pulled,” he said. “We still can’t determine how you did all that magic.”

“You are referring to your pathetic attempt at arresting me? And my easy escape?”

“I wouldn’t call it pathetic,” he said. I could hear him frown. “We weren’t prepared for…all the tricks you have up your sleeve. I got chewed out by both the Deputy Director and his Assistant.”

“That’s a shame. Now tell me about the Chemist.”

“Yeah, he’s a problem. Fortunately for you he’s turned into priority number one.”

“What are you doing about him?” I asked, remembering to mask my voice just in case he was recording our conversation.

“Our section, and the U.S. Marshals, and the Sherrif’s office, and LAPD have formed a temporary joint task force. It’s been a real picnic, all us buttheads in one boat. But the Chemist is bad news and we want to grab him before it gets worse. To be honest I was hoping you might have some intel.”

“What’s in this new drug of his?”

“I wish I knew,” he sighed, sounding exasperated. “Neither our forensics team nor Los Angeles Vice can figure it out. First of all we can’t get our hands on much of the stuff, and secondly it’s a designer cocktail we don’t have experience with. Probably originating out of Europe. Seems to be effective. His thugs are unbelievably loyal to him.”

“He’s sending the drug to different gang leaders around the city as a present,” I told him. “At least that’s the way it appears.”

“We suspected as much,” he confirmed. “The Chemist is particularly effective because he’s a good marketer. His gang is spreading fast and absorbing other groups.”

“Ever seen a picture of him?”

“We think we have a few grainy photos. But what we have doesn’t fit the profile. He’s making inroads with gangs like Bloods, Crips, and MS13. Black and latino gangs. But our photographs are of a caucasian. A big white male, identity unknown. A handful of guys in lockup confirmed he’s the mastermind. We thought for a while the Chemist might be the LA Sniper too.”

“No. Different guys,” I said.

“Yeah?” he asked. He sounded like he was drinking something. “You know the Sniper?”

“The Sniper is not the Chemist,” I said. “Trust me. From what I know, the Sniper arrived recently to Los Angeles.”

“A portion of our team believes
you’re
the Sniper.”

“Hah,” I cracked. “The Sniper about took my head off the other night.”

“He shot at you? The Sniper
missed
?”

“Not exactly.”

“What were you up to?” he asked, and I heard a smile in his voice.

“Saving the world. The usual.”

“You told Natalie North that you’re sick,” he changed the subject.

“Yep. How do you propose helping me?”

“Come to my office.”

“No chance,” I said.

“I played the recording for a physician in our Laboratory. He said it sounds like you have an unknown form of progeria.”

“Progeria. The aging disease?”

“Right. Patients with progeria age rapidly. Simplistically, they have the body of a thirty year old when they’re eight. You spoke as though your body is doing similar things. Am I right?”

“Not…really,” I considered it. “Not aging. More like improving at a fatal rate. But I don’t know much about it.”

“How do you know you have this disease?”

“You saw me jump off the roof,” I reminded him. “Right?”

“Oh, I’m aware you’re a weirdo,” he said, and to my shame I laughed. Dang it. The Outlaw doesn’t laugh. “Thankfully Natalie and I are the only two who saw the full extent of that jump. But how do you know your diagnosis?”

“That’s not your concern.”

“It’d be easier to help if I knew.”

“Sorry.”

“I have an idea, then,” he sighed.

“I’m listening.”

“Leave a blood sample with Ms. North. Let my guys examine it,” he said.

I didn’t respond for several blocks. I wove in and out of traffic, examining his offer from all angles, until I finally came to rest at a red light. His idea had merit. Carter certainly wasn’t much help with my disease. Carter was basically a vulture, waiting around until I finally kicked the bucket. Could the FBI actually help me survive? I’d have to do it in secret, because the Shooter would waste me the instant my betrayal was discovered.

“I’ll think about it.”

Back in October I agreed to participate in a televised high school quarterback competition. I’d been having a good season and I didn’t realize all the changes that were happening to my body then, otherwise I’d never have agreed to it. But at least I got out of school. Now the day of the competition had arrived, and Mr. Desper, our school’s director of public relations, personally drove Andy Babington and me to a football stadium in Santa Monica. Andy sat in the front. Fox Sports had set up cameras and tents and interview stations around the field, and it was a typical gorgeous clear California afternoon.

Babington had several buddies in attendance but I didn’t. While he talked and joked with the other alpha males, I sat by myself and stewed.

What was I going to do? I hadn’t really thrown a football in two months, but I could now probably chuck it across town. Thanks to the bizarre disease I could win this competition easily and break all the records and get myself on every television set in America. But I wouldn’t be playing on level footing. I had an unfair advantage. All the quarterbacks began throwing to loosen up so I played catch with Mr. Desper. I spun the ball in my hands and smiled grimly. This ball and I could do anything. It would go anywhere for me. In my mind’s eye, visions of passes appeared, paths I could use to deliver the football anywhere, including through car windows a mile away.

“Hey, Chase,” Mr. Desper called. “Take it easy. Save it for the cameras. You’re stripping the skin off my hands.”

This competition was only open to Californians and the surrounding states. Fifty guys had been invited. A pretty reporter introduced us one by one to the camera and rattled off our statistics from last season. I politely answered a few questions and then returned to my seat.

There were three challenges. An obstacle course. An accuracy contest. And a long distance throw. The contestants began cycling through them. Each of us had a name and number pinned to our shirt so our progress could be tracked. Two former professional QBs I didn’t recognize sat in the stands, commentating into microphones for the camera.

My turn. How fast should I go through the obstacle course? Several cameras were recording me; I didn’t want to embarrass myself but I also didn’t need to draw extra attention.

The buzzer sounded and the Outlaw violently seized control of my body. I hadn’t realized how fast my heart was beating, how much adrenaline I had pumping. I practically flew through the obstacle course, far too fast! My legs refused to listen. Chase Jackson was merely a passenger trying to wrench command away from the virus. I was moving like the fate of the world depended on it. Near the end, after scorching through a shuttle run, I made a desperate attempt to sabotage the virus and throw my body at the ground. It partially worked; I stumbled. I gasped and panted, pretending I was out of breath, telling myself, “Slow down, slow down, slow down.” Despite the costly stumble I finished the course in second place, behind a state finalist sprinter.

I stalked to the coolers, gulped down some Gatorade, and returned to my seat. “Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid,” I scolded myself. “What is wrong with me?”

“What the hell
is
wrong with you, son?” Mr. Desper asked, sitting down in the adjacent seat. He appeared upset. “You just got second place. Which is good. But you walked right past the girl trying to interview you. You’re talking under your breath, like you’re crazier than a jack-in-the-box. You keep shaking your head at nothing. Your eyes are twitching!”

“Ugh,” I groaned. “Sorry. I’m not myself today.”

“You should go act chummy with the other contestants,” he said, pointing at the crowd. A handful of the guys were watching me. “For appearances’ sake. Everyone thinks you’re insane. Which means they think I’m a jackass. And our school is a bunch of jackasses.”

“I’m not talking to anyone,” I said and pressed my face into a towel. “I already know too many people. I just need some peace.”

“You’ve no time for peace, Mr. Jackson. You have two more events.”

The accuracy event was easier to fake. I just simply missed on purpose. I wanted a respectable score, so my misfires weren’t far off target. Instead of dropping the ball into the trash bin, I knocked it over. Instead of throwing the ball through the hoop, I threw it straight over it. Andy got a better score than me and he snickered with his friends when the scores were posted. I finished middle of the pack, and Mr. Desper was obviously disappointed.

Last, the event I’d been dreading, was the long distance toss. How do I
look
like I’m throwing as hard as I can while actually only throwing
a fraction
of that? Most of the other athletes had completed all three events and were milling around, killing time until the winners were announced. The ball spun in my hand as I stared down the field, stalling. Markers had been pinned into the turf, designating the current farthest tosses. They appeared ludicrously short.

“Let’s go, Chase,” Mr. Desper clapped behind me.

Okay. I’m just going to land the ball on the marker of the current leader. One of the flags was a lot farther away than the rest, so someone here had a cannon for an arm. I’d tie him. Brilliant. This way, I wouldn’t be much of an anomaly. I took a three step drop, gathered and threw a long tight spiral.

While the ball was in flight, the marker moved. It wasn’t a flag at all! I had aimed at a piece of trash scuttling across the field. I held my breath. This could be a disaster. The ball thumped down and all the guys started cheering. The announcer called out, “76 yards!” I let my air out in relief. Okay, that wasn’t too bad. I beat the other throws by seven yards, which was within reason. I waved to the audience and the cameras, and I declined to throw again.