A woman called me this afternoon. She didn’t say her name, but I was pretty sure then it was the one they call Stealth. I have no idea how she got my cell number. Hell, she called me Barry and knew I was at home. There was some sort of contagion in Los Angeles, and she needed me to help keep tabs on it. Being able to fly at just over Mach five was her main interest in me (despite what’s been said in Time, People, and on that Learning Channel special, my top speed is nowhere near the speed of light). The fact that my energy state was immune to all diseases was an afterthought.
It took me half an hour to get to Los Angeles from Amherst. She was waiting on the roof of the Capitol Records building, a nice easy landmark, like she promised.
Apparently one thing she didn’t know is what that outfit of hers does to men. Or if she did know she didn’t care. If it was any tighter I could tell if she shaved her legs or not. Dear God, I could actually see her nipples through that suit and I’d swear all the belts and straps were placed to accent her boobs and hips.
She gave me the lowdown on what I was looking for. People with pale skin, a lack of coordination and language skills, high resistance to damage, and a degree of aggression. Some of them might smell like rotted meat.
I have no sense of smell when I am Zzzap.
Sounds like you’ve got a zombie problem, I said, wondering what her curves would look like when she laughed.
She didn’t laugh. I know sometimes people have trouble understanding me when I speak in the energy state. Jerry told me it sounds like I’m gargling a beehive. I didn’t think that was the problem here, though.
So, how many have you seen so far?
Stealth unfolded a map. She pointed to three small crosses, scattered across the city.
Three? That’s it?
“In a city with the population density of Los Angeles, an aggressive disease can spread to thousands of people within hours. I have seen three people who are infected. There is no telling how many are carriers that have not manifested symptoms yet.”
Jesus.
“Do you know Los Angeles at all?”
Not really, but I’m good with landmarks.
She held the map out for me. “Study this. I need you to spend the next six hours scouring the city as many times as you can. Every street, every alley, every cul de sac.” She pointed at one section. “Watch the Hollywood Hills. There are several canyons and hidden streets.”
In the eight months since I became Zzzap I’d gotten very good at memorizing things. Not being able to hold a notepad or post-it made it a necessity. I gave her a nod after studying the map for five minutes. Why isn’t the CDC involved in this?
“At the moment, they believe this is a hoax. All three victims were inanimate by the time they examined them.”
Dead?
Again, no answer. She was one stony bitch. She folded the map and it vanished into her cloak. “Can you do it?”
The first time might take me a few hours. I’ll pick up speed as I learn the city.
“Proceed. I will meet you back here in six hours.” She shook her cloak back around herself, doing a piss-poor job of hiding her curves, and walked away. God, if I didn’t know better I’d swear all those urban-camo lines actually enhanced her ass somehow.
Moving low to the ground through a strange city, the best speed I could manage was around 400 miles per hour. Much more than that causes serious weather problems, not to mention sonic booms (which can shatter windows, windshields, neon signs, and lots of other expensive things). I started circling the buildings, checking every person I passed for the signs of infection.
Alleys. Roads. Parking structures. Subways. Anywhere people could be. I peered in windows where I could, through walls where I couldn’t. On my first pass, I’d say I saw three-fifths of the city’s population. No sign of the mystery disease, although I did stop two muggings and halted a high speed street race by melting the tires of both cars. I figured I could make at least one more pass before it was time to meet up with Stealth again, and hopefully I could catch a good chunk of the rest.
Street. Boulevard. Avenue. Drive. I was an hour into my second run when I saw him.
He was an old guy. His clothes were dark and a bit ragged. Probably homeless, staggering down an alley. His skin was the color of ash and his face was blank. Not emotionless, it just looked like he’d forgotten how to make any sort of expression. A quick check at either end of the street told me we were just north of Beverly between La Brea and Detroit.
I zipped back to hover over him, and a full minute passed before he twisted his head up to look at me. It usually doesn’t take people long to notice the white-hot man-shape sizzling like a sparkler.
His eyes were cloudy. I thought he might be blind. He was staring right at me and not blinking. Something looked very wrong about him, and I couldn’t figure out what.
Good evening, citizen, I said, careful to enunciate each word. Are you okay?
Still wide-eyed. Still no blink. Had I seen him blink once yet?
Sir? Are you feeling okay? Do you need any help?