Infected: Die Like Supernovas (The Outlaw Book 2) (4 page)

“Are you listening to me?” she frowned, interrupting my thoughts.

“What? Sorry. Go ahead.”

“I said, are you sure you want to hear about it?”

“Of course,” I said.

“It was magical!”

“Never mind,” I groaned. “I don’t want to hear about it.”

“Too bad. You asked. His parents are super nice, and they are crazy rich. I mean, wow. And Tank is very sweet and kind.”

“Tank is a stupid name,” I grumbled.

“No it’s not, shut up. He cooked us dinner. Can you believe that?! He cooked for me. Some sort of chicken in raspberry sauce. And Mami liked him too. And it was so nice to get out of the house!”

“What’d you talk about?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “Not a lot. It was a short date. His parents wanted to know how I’ve been since the abduction.”

Katie had vaulted into a temporary celebrity after being rescued by the Outlaw. The police and the media had interviewed her for a couple weeks straight, and she’d even been featured in a small article inside People magazine. Her story didn’t have much staying power because she didn’t remember a single detail.

“We’ll be able to talk longer on our next date,” she said.

“Your
next
date?” I asked, sitting up straighter.

“He asked me out again,” she beamed.

“Did you say ‘Yes’?” I shouted in alarm.

“Of course! He’s so nice, and oh so fine.”

“I think he’s ugly,” I said.

“Of course you do. You’re jealous.”

“Oh shut up,” I sighed, and class started.

Going out again?! What did I expect? That Tank would accidentally let it slip that he was the one that kidnapped her? This was a nightmare. I couldn’t concentrate the rest of class.

At lunch, we sat with Cory and Lee, our two best friends. Cory is a quiet giant and plays football on the offensive line. He’s black, wants to be a chef and primarily listens to classical music. Lee is a little Asian genius that tutors me in math. Like most days, he was dressed in an Outlaw shirt. Lee is also an inventor, and had tried for weeks to get the Outlaw’s attention on Craigslist so the masked vigilante could experiment with one of his weapons. When Katie had been kidnapped I’d pulled on my mask and gone to visit Lee as the Outlaw. I’d used his electroshock device to help rescue Katie, and Lee had been talking about it ever since. If he ever found out that I was the Outlaw he’d be crushed.

Despite our protests Katie regaled us with details about her date with Tank. Cory, Lee and I felt like the parents in Romeo and Juliet, trying to stop this forbidden love.

“I still don’t think Tank’s the Outlaw,” Lee frowned. “I don’t care what those conspiracy websites say, dude. No way. Tank is not the Outlaw.” As always, Lee kept his eyes fixed on the news channel broadcasting from the television suspended on the wall behind us.

“Yeah, he’s absolutely not,” I agreed. Much of the world had forgotten the Outlaw in the two months since his disappearance, but not Lee. He steered our conversation back to him about once a lunch. Rumors were rampant online about the Outlaw’s alter ego, and one of the debated possibilities was Tank Ware.

“Did you ask Tank if he was the Outlaw?” Lee asked Katie.

“No,” she said slowly, uncertainly.

“But…?”

“But he mentioned the Outlaw several times,” she admitted. “When we were alone.”

“He did?” I said, surprised and angered. “What’d he say? What do you mean alone?”

“He thinks I should know who the Outlaw is,” she said. She appeared uncomfortable and hesitant, and she played with her lunch. “He wanted to know if I’d heard the rumors about him being the Outlaw.”

I said, “He wishes. His giant bulbous nose would never fit into that tight mask. Did he knock over anything with his huge nose?”

“His nose is perfect. But I don’t know what to believe. I’ve never met the Outlaw, you know.”

That’s true. Katie had never met the Outlaw. Maybe she should. Hmmmm. That could be hot. I started sweating.

“I met him,” Lee said for the thousandth time. “And Tank is no Outlaw, yo. You know what I’m going to do?”

“You’re going to text the Outlaw,” Cory said, speaking for the first time. “S’what you always say.”

“Yeah, I’m going to text the Outlaw,” Lee nodded.

Katie smiled and said, “You’ve texted him a hundred times. He never responds.”

“Yeah, but I’m going to tell him about Tank pretending,” Lee scowled. “He’s gotta know. He’s gotta whip some ass.”

I kept quiet. I had two cell phones. One was for personal use. The other was for Outlaw business, and Lee had been texting the Outlaw phone incessantly since I’d called him on it in October. I hadn’t responded. I didn’t know what to say.

“Besides,” I said. “The Outlaw is gone. No one has seen him in two months. I bet we never see him again.”

“No way, dude,” Lee shook his head. “No way. He’s coming back.”

“The riots are getting worse,” Katie observed, watching the television. A new controversial law had ignited minority unrest in Los Angeles, and the violence was escalating. Thousands broke curfew every night. The jails were completely full. Racial tensions had erupted into fights at schools everywhere recently, including ours. The law was aimed at illegal immigrants and it was incredibly harsh. Most citizens couldn’t believe the bill had been signed into law, and sympathized with the latino community’s outrage, but laws were laws. The local congressmen and women did not appear interested in overturning it so far.

“Yeah,” Cory sighed philosophically. “And the Sniper isn’t helping.”

“What Sniper?” I asked.

“Someone is running around downtown, nailing people with wax bullets, yo,” Lee chimed in. “No one has seen him. Or them. He’s either hiding in a car or shooting them from a long distance.”

“Wax bullets,” I mused. “Do they hurt?”

“Yes, but not bad. Non-lethal. Scares the bejesus out of the victims,” Lee laughed. “This guy is just causing trouble. Sounds kind of fun.”

Katie scolded him, “Lee, that’s an awful thing to say.”

“See for yourself,” Lee said and he slid me his phone. A grainy security video played, obviously of a gas station. After a few seconds one of the pumpers jerked, spun in a circle, and collapsed. The other customers stared curiously before ducking behind cars. “See, man? Nobody seriously hurt. People just freak out, act like they’re dying.”

“So weird,” I said, and then I stood up. “Be right back.”

Our cafeteria had to be the only one on the planet with floor to ceiling windows on every wall. The floor sparkled with all the sunlight streaming in. I walked across the raucous lunchroom to see my girlfriend. She sat at a power table with the most popular girls in school, chatting and eating carrot sticks and drinking bottled water. My journey attracted attention, especially from Andy Babington, Hannah’s ex-boyfriend.

“Hey babe,” I said, arriving at her table. A thousand big eyes with long lashes turned to scrutinize me.

“Hello boyfriend,” Hannah Walker smiled at me.

“How were your classes?”

“Good,” she said. She smiled again. I smiled too. So did everyone at the table. She waited. I waited. And I thought desperately of something else to say. “How were yours?” she asked.

“Oh, good!” I said. “Yeah, good.”

“Good!”

“Yeah,” I said. I shoved my hands into my pockets. “Good.”

She smiled again. Me too. I was blanking on every other word in the dictionary. I stood there, paralyzed and perspiring.

“I’ll see you later?” she asked, effectively dismissing me.

“Sure. Definitely. See you,” I said awkwardly, pathetically, and slunk back to my table. That was awful. Girls are so confusing. I’m probably the worst boyfriend in the world, but she didn’t make it easy on me either.

Lee said, “That was ugly, bro.”

“Crash and burn,” Cory rumbled.

“Yeah crash and burn, bro.”

I mumbled, “Thanks guys.”

“Really really bad,” Katie said through a beautiful smile. “Just painful to watch. Go do it again. Otra vez.”

“Shut up.”

“Anyway. How’s your father?” she asked, changing subjects. My father was still recovering from a car accident. He used to be a police detective but he’d been unable to do his job for almost a year.

“Getting better,” I said. “He finished physical therapy.”

“That’s great news. Good for him!” she gushed. “I didn’t know physical therapy was over. You never tell me anything anymore, not since we stopped sleeping together.”

“What?” Lee demanded.

“What?” I asked her, turning red.

“Not like that,” Katie said, blushing too. “Back when you used to sleep on my floor. When that creep was texting me and you persisted on bunking in my room.”

“Oh,” I laughed. “Right. Yeah. Then.” I wished I could tell her the creep texting her was really Tank. That would change everything. But I couldn’t. Oooooooh the secrets, the awful secrets.

“So your dad really is feeling better?” she pressed.

“Yeah, he’s good.”

I was good too. Really good. The warnings from Carter felt faraway, almost imaginary, like a dream. I went to sleep early that night, my covers and pillow were perfect and cool from a faint January chill. My dad had fallen asleep in his chair facing the television. The house was quiet. The doors were locked. My girlfriend had texted me a picture of her smiling, telling me she was sorry about being awkward at lunch. I had no headaches. Nothing hurt. Life was bliss.

For that one night.

“Chase Jackson?”

I turned to see who called my name; a girl I didn’t recognize was approaching. She was wearing football pads, which was such an anomaly that I forgot to respond.

We stood on our school’s green practice field under a cloudless deep blue sky. School campuses are a hubbub of athletic practices after classes end. From my vantage point I could see the cross-country team jogging, the cheerleaders tumbling, a few wrestlers stretching outside the gym, and the junior varsity soccer team huddled around their head coach. The varsity football team was with me, drilling. Football season was over but we still practiced our craft several days a week, those of the team that weren’t playing other sports.

For the moment I was alone with a hopper full of footballs. Except for the new girl. I’d been staring at the footballs warily, wondering if I truly was sick, remembering a practice in August when I’d nearly thrown a football clear out of the stadium, and idly calculating how far I could throw one now, when she’d shown up. She was attractive but not in a cute way. She might be the most fit and athletic girl I’d ever seen. She looked hard but friendly. Her brown hair was cut short, barely reaching her chin.

“You’re wearing football pads,” I observed intelligently. I’m so smart.

“So are you. I’m Samantha Gear,” she introduced herself and shook my hand. “You can quit checking me out. I’m trying out for Varsity kicker next year.”

“I don’t understand,” I floundered.

“Are you Chase Jackson? Or the village idiot?”

“Maybe…both?”

“I’m a kicker. I’m good,” she said slowly, patiently, like I was dense. Which I was. “I’ll kick field goals. For the football team.”

“But you’re a girl,” I observed less intelligently.

“I’m good at that, too.”

“Can girls play football? I mean, are they eligible?”

“Girls kick for teams all over the country. It even happens in college now,” she explained with a touch of defiance. I didn’t blame her. “Rumor is you’re a good quarterback, and I wanted to introduce myself.”

“
Lucky
quarterback, more like it,” Andy Babington laughed, walking up beside us. Andy was the starting quarterback last season until he broke his hand. He is tall, blond, strong and attractive. We were not on the best terms. He was practicing with us, honing his throwing motion, because he was throwing for college scouts soon to earn a scholarship. “Right, big guy?” he asked and smacked me on the back. “So. A girl kicker. Hah.”

“More like a kicker that’s also a girl, and also getting a little exasperated with stupid boys. Who are you?” she studied him with mild disapproval, which made me like her more. She crossed her arms and glanced between us. Andy stiffened.

“I’m the starting quarterback for the Hidden Spring Eagles,” he shot at her. “When my hand’s not broken.”

“Never heard of you. And real men keep playing, even with broken bones. I read that Chase played with fractured ribs and busted organs.”

“We already have a kicker next year. Thanks for playing. You’re dismissed,” he sneered.

“I just watched your boy kick,” she bit off the words. “And that’s what he is. A boy. I can kick farther in my sleep.”

“Yeah right,” Andy laughed, hands on hips. “Who are you anyway? A nobody.”

“I just moved here from Oklahoma, where I own the state record for long distance field goal. And if you weren’t so fat I could kick
you
through the uprights,” she said, and then she grabbed my jersey. “Follow me, Chase.”

I let her draw me away from a fuming Babington. I obediently followed because she was fascinating. Who has that kind of guts? That kind of confidence?

“I thought you were bigger than this,” she said, scanning me from shoes to hair. She appeared disappointed. “You look taller and broader in the pictures.”

“I get that a lot.”

“Time for you and your coach to watch me kick,” she said. “And you could have backed me up, you know. With what’s-his-name, the second string quarterback,” she said, and she backhanded me in the gut. Hard.

“I don’t even know you,” I grunted, rubbing my stomach. “And I already forgot your name.”

“But you think I’m hot.”

“Uh…” I stammered.

“It’s okay. I’m used to it. Besides, I’m in your math class. We met in pre-calc yesterday.”

“We did?”

“Yes,” she rolled her eyes. “Now introduce me to your coach.”

She pulled me towards Coach Garrett, a tall, ramrod straight man under a baseball cap and sunglasses.

“Coach,” I said as she shoved me from behind. “I’d like you to meet someone.”

“I’m Samantha Gear,” she interrupted me and shook his hand. “My former football coach called you yesterday, I hope?”