Sanctuary

Teresa Triplett

Online Blog.

December 3rd, 2018.

First things first.

Mom, Dad, Justin, Anne - I’m alive. Alive and being treated well. I’ve begged them to return my phone, just for a few minutes, so I could contact you but it’s no use. I’m sure the waiting and wondering has been torment. It has been for me, unable to hear your voices. I truly believe I’ll be home in the near future. I love and miss you.

I am a prisoner of the Chemist here in Los Angeles. During the upheaval, intruders stormed the television studio and threw me into the back of a van. I remained there for thirty-six hours, expecting to die any moment. Eventually the violence quieted and I was brought to the Inner Sanctum (his words) to meet the Father (his words). He informed me I was chosen due to my previous interactions with the Man in the Mask.

The Chemist has been a gracious host, almost baffling in his politeness. He calls me his guest, and I’m afforded every luxury. Except freedom. I’m constantly followed, and kept inside a locked hotel room much of the time.

He also captured Elijah Floyd (the photojournalist) for visual documentation, and Elijah stays in the hotel room opposite mine. He’s been a tremendous source of strength and determination through this time of despair.

On to business - The Chemist brought me here to be his chronicler, or memorialist. I’m recording everything he says and does into a running narrative, some of which will be released in real-time onto the internet. What you’re reading now is the first real-time installment. Elijah took the photograph. (Don’t judge my appearance. I haven’t been to my stylist in a month. I miss you, Ross.)

Much of what I record is edited out each night. I’m not permitted to use names or places or anything too specific. So I don’t know exactly what this report will look like in its final form.

In fact, I’ve just been ordered to delete my first significant observation. (It was Outlaw related, I can tell you that. I don’t see how that poor man will survive much longer.)

Here is my second observation: if America doesn’t take the Chemist seriously, the country will cease to exist as we know it…

“Here it comes.” Samantha Gear set her jaw in simmering anger. She was glaring eastwards through a 15x50 tactical telescope.

“I see it.”

She dropped the scope and asked, “You can see that?? Already your eyes are better than mine. I hate you.”

An old C-160 churned through the Los Angeles haze, just ahead of coming dusk. The cargo plane was miles away, above Montebello, but I could see the oily smoke trail and hear the engine cough. It had been sitting at a Canadian airfield for several years until this final flight. In order to land, the plane would fly directly over our heads. We were hidden beside the Los Angeles River, on a Home Depot rooftop overlooking a police-barricaded bridge that lead to Compton, California.

A madman had captured the city of Compton. His forces took the world by utter surprise and effectively walled themselves in with destroyed automobiles, congesting a complete circle of interstate around their territory. He called himself the Chemist and no one had seen him in over three months, although he regularly communicated with authorities to discuss the release of prisoners in exchange for food. The military had attempted retaking the city three times. All three were highly criticized failures, resulting in massive death among the insurgents, the military, and the hostages.

The inbound C-160 was the second cargo plane this week. The Chemist had chosen his kingdom well; Compton had an airstrip. Gunmen loyal to him were commandeering cargo planes from all over the globe and landing them at the small Compton/Woodley Airport, bringing in fresh troops, hostages, ammunition, and ingredients for the mysterious and powerful drug the Chemist supplied his forces with. All the incoming cargo planes carried hostages so the government couldn’t shoot them down.

“That’s the biggest plane yet,” Gear noted, watching the approach. “Too big for the little airstrip?”

“Too big to take off, but not too big to land,” I said. “The Chemist doesn’t care if it rumbles off the far side of the runway. They’ll break it down into parts. Fortify their strongholds.” Most of the smaller cargo planes had been unloaded and taken off again, quickly set on autopilot, and then abandoned via parachute.

“How are we going to stop these supply planes?” she growled behind her scope.

“I haven’t figured that out yet.” I turned my attention back to the city, towards the setting sun. “Puck, have you tried seizing control of the plane’s autopilot?”

A male voice crackled in both our earpieces, “Of course, stupid. No such luck. Plane is too old. Even if I did, they’d start executing hostages until I released.”

We stewed in silent frustration for several minutes while the big plane slowly banked and roared over our heads. The pilot was evidently not accustomed to the weight of the C-160; the plane’s altitude dropped too rapidly on approach. The propellers sped up to compensate, but the landing gear touched down hard and the nose wheel collapsed. The metal screamed across the tarmac, sparks flying, while the pilot mashed the brakes and killed the engines.

“Damn,” Samantha Gear grunted when the big airplane finally came to rest in a cloud of smoke at the far end of the runway, almost out of sight. “Wasn’t pretty. But he got what he needed and that’s all that matters. Every shipment makes it harder for us to remove him.”

Life in Compton was surreal. From our vantage point we could see children playing in the fading sunset, parents chatting on street corners, and men walking home with groceries. Daily activities carried on largely undisturbed, despite the police barricades and enemy gunmen patrolling the streets and rooftops. What else were the people to do? They’d been hostages for over a hundred days.

PuckDaddy, the world’s most feared and skilled computer hacker, blurted into our ears, “Heads up, here comes the jeep.”

I squinted against the sun. Samantha Gear focused her scope on an intersection across the river in enemy territory. Usually PuckDaddy monitored everything from security cameras but the Chemist’s henchmen had systematically disabled them all, so he was forced to watch from a top-down satellite feed. A brown jeep came rumbling down Caldwell and swung onto Atlantic without pausing at the stop sign.

“You’re right, Puck,” I said. Even at this distance I could tell the jeep’s driver was a girl with tight cornrows, trendy sunglasses, and a serious scowl. She looked sinister and ready to fight. “That’s our friend Carla. The girl Samantha shot. Definitely Infected.”

Samantha grumbled behind the scope, one eye screwed up. “I refuse to acknowledge that you can see that far.”

PuckDaddy crackled, “Stop being a stupid baby. Got a visual on target?”

“I confirm. That’s her.”

I asked, “Could you shoot her from this distance? Not saying we
should
.”

She sniffed, “Of course I could.”

“In the head? While she’s in a moving jeep?”

“Probably.”

I watched the brown jeep until it disappeared around a corner. “I don’t condone shooting people. But for the Chemist, I could make an exception.”

“Wouldn’t matter,” she said, stuffing the scope into her bag. “Carter says the Chemist can hear bullets. Whatever that means.”

“Is Carter going in tonight?”

She shrugged and replied, “Who knows. He never tells me anything. You want to go?”

“No,” I yawned. “I’m tired. Had to get up early for football. The last thing I want to do is crawl around Compton all night looking for that maniac’s hideout.”

PuckDaddy chuckled and said, “I can’t believe you’re tired just because you got up early. I haven’t slept in almost three days, dummy. PuckDaddy rules.” He was perpetually listening to the conversation through our bluetooth headsets.

Samantha said, “And I can’t believe you’re still playing football.”

I frowned. “Hey both of you. Shut uuuuup. I still have a life.”

“Yeah, but
football
?”

“I admit the game has lost some of its luster. But I want to beat the Patrick Henry Dragons this year. Besides, it’s better than
shooting
people with wax bullets for
sport
.”

“No,” she shook her head. “No it’s not. And anyway, you have an unfair advantage on a football field. Playing football for you is more like…shooting fish in a barrel. With a shotgun.”

I countered, “I don’t cheat. I’m playing within normal high school parameters.”

“Wait till the games start, quarterback,” she said. “The disease won’t let you play easy. It’ll be craving action so badly you’ll be consumed.”

“What about you? You’re on the football team too.”

She scoffed and said, “I’m just the kicker. There’s no chance I’ll become nightly news. And if you quit the team then I will too.”

“No deal. You shouldn’t be playing anyway. You’re, like, super crazy old.”

She snarled and said, “I’m twenty-nine. I’m young and hot and you always check me out. And watch your mouth or I’ll punch out your teeth.”

PuckDaddy interrupted, “Hey dummies, you gotta move! Contact, coming out the stairwell!”

“What?!” Samantha hissed as we scrambled to our feet. The last thing we needed was for someone to see the two of us on top of Home Depot. “You said no one comes up to the roof.”

“They usually don’t. Don’t yell at PuckDaddy! Just go over the side.”

We were too late. An Army infantry man walked around a big silver air vent, whistling to himself, and stumbled to a stop. He was wearing urban fatigues, a sidearm clipped to his belt, and he’d been adjusting the lens on a powerful digital camera. The kid was clearly here for Compton recon photos. He stood completely still and stared, the blood draining from his face, and his mouth worked noiselessly.

I was dressed as the Outlaw: black pants, black and red vest, and a black and red mask. It might have been the most recognizable costume on the planet.

“What…” he said finally. We didn’t move and we didn’t respond. “But…but…but are you…?” He indicated my outfit. I nodded. “I…we…we thought…the whole world…the whole world thinks you’re dead.”

“And it’s important we keep it that way,” Samantha Gear told him.

“Are you really him?”

“I am,” I confirmed. I always enjoy this part of the gig. He was just a kid, not much older than me.

“The Outlaw!” he stammered.

“I told you not to wear that,” she shot at me. I shrugged.

“Wow…man, I…wow.”

She glared at him and said, “Can you keep a secret?”

“This is…” He shook his head. “This is…I gotta…” He reached for his radio.

Samantha
Moved
. She was beside him in the blink of an eye. Her hand clamped onto his.