Outcasts Read Online Free PDF Page B

Skirmishes erupted daily on military bases.
    America was reeling. So was the world. And the culprit may or may not be sitting in the city below us, pumping more blood with impunity.
    But we weren’t here for him.
    We Jumped and deployed wings, causing us to fall forward instead of downward. Our enemies could see us if they glanced towards the southern horizon. I hoped they saw. I wanted them afraid. To know the Outlaw stalked them. To give hope to the hostages. Samantha and I streaked east at a hundred miles per hour, released the wings and free fell out of sight.
    The Alameda Corridor was a sparkling new railway system, connecting Downtown residents to Long Beach and the whole Pacific Ocean. A few months ago the train had shuttled thousands back and forth each day. Now it was useless, an empty passage twisting through Greater Los Angeles on raised platforms and through underground trenches. It was vacant. Except for the Priest and a small detachment of his cult, silently exploiting this ignored ingress into Downtown.
    A bizarre religion was gaining notoriety. The worshipers proclaimed the Outlaw a deity, and they built a church and sanctuary for his adorers just north of Los Angeles. A man called The Priest headed the cult. A charismatic radical hellbent on causing trouble. He and small groups of followers kept sneaking into the Chemist’s territory, sometimes with disastrous results.
    We floated on parachutes above the zealots as they neared the end of the Alameda Corridor. They never looked up, so focused were they on potential dangers ahead. I gave the signal to Samantha. We retracted our parachutes and landed in their midst.
    The rabble screamed and scattered. This was the first I’d seen them up close; men and women wearing dirty black vests and red Outlaw masks. Of the twenty, half had rods slung over their backs, cheap imitations of my powerful Thunder Stick (a stupid nickname Samantha thought up- I couldn’t think of a better one). The other half had pistols.
    On reflex, one of them fired a .22 at me. The bullet clanked harmlessly against my vest. I didn’t even feel it. Their eyes widened further.
    I pointed a finger at them. They cowered and trembled. “Bad news. Time to renounce your religion. I am a man with a disease,” I told them. “Not a god. God wouldn’t dress like this.”
    “Mighty Outlaw,” came their cries. Some hit their knees. “Subjugate us in your mercy!”
    “We seek to serve!”
    “We seek your favor!”
    “We only live to fulfill your will!”
    I groaned. “Go home! I can’t even legally drink.”
    “Bestow upon us your touch of blessing, inasmuch as you blessed the Priest!”
    They were crying. Crying!
    Samantha was already gone. So was their leader, the Priest.
    “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious!” I shouted. “Would a deity say that? No! Go back down the tracks and go home.”
    I Jumped . They screamed again. Ugh.
    I rendezvoused with Samantha in the abandoned Coca-Cola Bottling building on Central Avenue. I found her upstairs in a ransacked meeting room. She hung a battery-powered lantern in the corner. The Priest struggled on the long table, his hands tied behind his back, a bag over his head.
    She grinned. “I remember when Carter and I did this to you. I thought you were going to kill us both.”
    “My memory of it is less fond,” I grumbled.
    She broke the bonds with a knife thrust and yanked the Priest’s bag off. He scrambled to his feet on top of the table.
    The Priest was a handsome guy. He was tan, thin, had a strong jaw and a popular side-parted haircut worn by soccer players. His eyes blazed and he shoved his pointer finger into my face.
    “You forget your place, apostate!”
    “Better pull your finger back if you want to keep it,” I growled.
    Wisely, he did. “How dare you touch me,” he sneered. “You defile me with your hypocrisy.”
    “Hypocrisy? Don’t you worship me?”
    “Worship a fallen idol? Pfah!”
    Samantha apparently thought this