Random Sh*t Flying Through the Air

by Jackson Ford

  Harry is pushing his cart of bags and bottles down the sidewalk like nothing has happened. Chunks of broken concrete are everywhere, cracks zigzagging, but he just moves his cart around them. When I ask him if he’s OK, I get a vague smile, and he waves me away. He’s never said a word to me, not one, although I don’t know if it’s because he prefers not to talk, or if he’s actually mute.

  I lose Nic for a while. It’s full dark before I find him, sitting on the hood of a car, scrolling through his phone. He has an old Clippers hoodie on over his T-shirt – I have no idea who gave it to him.

  I slide in next to him. “Hey.”

  He looks up. Back down.

  “I’m really sorry about before,” I say quietly. “I didn’t how to help, and then you had the door off, and… I was just scared, that’s all.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  I don’t know what to say to that. There’s nothing I can say.

  “You check in with your Mom and Dad?” I try, after a few moments.

  “What? Oh. Yeah, they’re fine. Pico Rivera’s about the same as here. No power, but the buildings’re all up to code, so…”

  It’s not hard to fill in the gaps. The neighbourhood around us has taken a hit – plenty of cracks in the street, the odd fire, downed power lines. But as scary as it seemed at first, it’s not a killing blow. It’s damage that can be repaired, that can be worked around. From the few conversations I’ve had with neighbours, it seems like most of LA is the same. Hit… but not all that hard.

  Can’t say the same for San Bernardino. Something went wrong there. Buildings that weren’t up to code. Misplaced funds. Apparently it’s been a problem for years. I guess it finally caught up with them.

  “A few of us were talking,” Nic says, as if sensing my thoughts. “We’re going out to San Bern, see if we can help. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but we could use you there.”

  I pull out my own phone. I found it when I went back into my house earlier – through some weird miracle, it was still on the kitchen counter, about the only thing that didn’t get thrown around my living room. There are a bunch of messages on the China Shop group chat. Reggie, asking whether everyone is OK. Paul, wanting to know the power status of everyone’s neighbourhoods, warning us about aftershocks, demanding we check in hourly. Annie, sending picture after picture of Watts, her neighbourhood, including a shot of a weird scaffolding-sculpture-artwork thing. She sends three thumbs-ups afterwards, so I assume it’s important.

  Those aren’t the messages I’m after though. The one I show Nic is from a contact labelled HAIL SATAN. It simply says, Do not go near San Bernardino. Stay within the city limits.

  “Tanner?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He lets out a low breath. “The people in SB were right near the epicentre, and it just… They’re saying there’s over two hundred dead.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Yeah. You in or not?”

  He tries to make it sound casual, but his voice is tight.

  “I can’t,” I say softly.

  “Can’t? Or won’t?”

  “Nic…”

  “Help me understand, Teags.”

  “If Tanner sees me, on the news or whatever, then who knows what she’ll do? Even if I just use my abilities a little…”

  “So you could help save a bunch of people, but you’re not going to do it because your boss might be watching?”

  “That’s not fair. You know that’s not fair.”

  “You don’t have to throw shit around – just put a little of your… your PK or whatever it is into the heavy stuff. She won’t even know.”

  “She will.”

  He mutters something.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” He won’t look at me.

  I just stare at him. When he does meet my eyes, the careful blankness in them is like a physical thing. Diamond-hard, edges sharp enough to draw blood.

  “Come on,” I say. “Don’t be like that.”

  He pushes himself off the car. “You’ve got a couple hundred dead, who knows how many injured and a situation where you might actually be able to do some good. Then you’ve got your job, your life and your fucking boss. It’s… it’s amazing to me that you haven’t figured out what’s more important.”

  “You think I don’t want to help those people? I do. It’s just…”

  “What? Just what, Teagan?” He digs the heel of one hand into his right eye. “Fuck it. They need people out in SB, and I don’t have time to stand here arguing with you about this. You change your mind, you come find us.”

  “Nic, wait.”

  But he’s gone.

  I sit there, in the rain, listening to distant sirens. Thinking of a million things I could have said. I should have made him apologise, say he was wrong, get him to admit that it’s more complicated than he thinks it is.

  But Nic’s a lawyer. He lives complicated. If it was this simple for him, then what does it mean for me?

  If I went out to San Bernardino, and Tanner saw me, everything would be over. Any good I’d be able to do in the future, any bad guys I could take down through China Shop… all that would vanish.

  Two hundred dead.

  I hang my head, knuckles white on the edge of the car hood. Maybe I might be able to help somewhere, lift the guilt that has settled on me like a heavy blanket. But there’s nothing for me to do here. There are no more people trapped under rubble. The fires are out – at least from what I can see. Maybe I should hop into the Batmobile – my black Jeep, still parked up the street from my house – and cruise around. But where would I go? What would I look for? And what if I accidentally do reveal my ability? The thoughts paralyse me, lock my feet to the ground, just like before.

  “Did you know the San Andreas fault maxes out at 8.3?”

  I didn’t see the earthquake preacher come up behind me, but he’s in full flow. “It doesn’t have the capacity to store more energy than that. Not like Cascadia – hoo boy, if that ever goes, we are really in trouble. Well, I say we, but it’s more like everybody in Oregon and Washington. We probably don’t have to worry too much. And people think quakes like these relieve pressure on the fault lines, but actually—”

  “Dude.”

  “—it’s only a ten-thousandth of the total—”

  “Dude.”

  “… Yes?”

  My mouth can’t decide between Go fuck yourself and Stick your dick in a blender, so what comes out is, “Go fuck your dick in a blender.”

  Not my strongest comeback, I know. He gawps at me as I trudge back to my house.

  The power’s still out. The ambient light from outside my windows just barely makes things visible. I sit in the dark, eating direct from the tub of salted caramel ice cream. It was on its side on the floor when I came in, but in a rare moment of clarity, I’d put the lid back on after I’d finished serving us. It’s mostly melted by now, but fuck it. Maybe this is how the night was always going to end: sitting in the dark, alone, eating a tub of ice cream.

  It’s not the quake. Nic just used that as an excuse. He doesn’t want to be with you.

  It’s a nasty thought. Poisonous. And utter bullshit – because really, how self-absorbed do I have to be to put my own hang-ups over a goddamn earthquake? But that’s the thing about poisonous thoughts. Sometimes, you can’t stop yourself taking another bite. I follow this one all the way to its conclusion, relishing the bitter taste. I don’t know why I thought I could pull off tonight. Did I really think I was going to win him back using… what, some stupid fucking Spanish rice?

  My phone buzzes – a text from Reggie. Glad all safe. Most roads and freeways unaffected AFAIK. Would like to see everybody at office tomorrow 9 sharp. Biz as usual!!!

  “Biz as usual,” I murmur.

  I sit in the dark for a long time.

  SEVEN

  Amber

  Amber tries to light her second cigarette. Can’t do it. Her hands are shaking too hard.


  She takes a deep breath, tries to steady them. She’s already dropped the first smoke, which spiralled away into the dark motel parking lot below the balcony, vanishing from sight. They’re not hard up for cash – Ajay took care of them – but it wouldn’t be a good idea to waste what they have. That would bring nothing but trouble.

  It’s full dark. In the room behind Amber, Matthew is asleep. Finally. Passed out on the mussed-up covers, the iPad still propped on his chest.

  A fault line. That’s what it was called. He’d looked it up afterwards, when they were back in the car, feverishly scanning the internet to find out more about what he just did. In the stunned moments following the earthquake, Amber had wondered why it had never happened before – why Matthew had never come across another fault line. None in New Mexico, she supposed. Until a few days ago, neither of them had ever left the state, a state where they were still known as Diamond and Lucas Taylor, instead of Amber-Leigh and Matthew Schenke. The new names are more of a mouthful, harder to remember, which was probably Ajay’s intention when he made up their new IDs.

  Still, the new names had stuck. Then again, who is she kidding? Lucas (Matthew, she reminds herself) had insisted on sticking to them. Amber had called him by his birth name just the once, a few hours after they’d left Albuquerque, and he… he’d… been angry with her.

  Distracted, she lets the lit cigarette fall from her lips. It tumbles off the balcony, the wind catching it, blowing it out of sight. She doesn’t move to light another one, has already forgotten it. She can’t stop thinking about the moments after the quake.

  When the shaking started, he’d cocooned them in a sphere of earth – sealed them in a protective barrier. The terror Amber had felt was unbelievable, holding her in a vice-like grip. Trapped in the dark, the thick air choking her, Matthew cackling with glee as the world roared outside. And afterwards, when he opened the cocoon…

  The gas station building was gone. Collapsed in on itself. One wall remained standing, steel bars sticking up like flagpoles. The awning above the pumps had wrenched loose off its supports, tilted to one side like a ramp, the big Chevron sign hanging by no more than a few shreds of metal. A puddle was spreading out from the pumps, the air above it shimmering. Propane containers rolled loose, their cage torn open. The man who had been filling them was dead. Crushed. The sky above was dark and thunderous, and chill wind had picked up, raising the hairs on Amber’s arms.

  The ground was different. Not torn or broken up; it was if it had been rearranged while her back was turned. There were mounds and bumps where there were none before, small depressions, the earth caving in on itself. The gas station’s concrete apron was cracked and pitted.

  Matthew had started laughing.

  It was the delighted laugh of a child discovering a new toy. He’d spun in fast circles, as if he didn’t know where to look. Hands up to his face, palms plastered against his cheeks. It reminded Amber of a game she used to play with him, when he was very little, before he started to show signs of being different. She’d puff out her cheeks, pretend to squeeze the air out with her hands, and he’d giggle until he was out of breath.

  The light hadn’t changed, the ground bathed in bright sun even though the sky was dark with clouds. Inside the destroyed building, a woman was wailing.

  As she started to grasp what he’d done, Amber had felt the bottom drop out of her stomach. Matthew could move anything natural – wood, leaves, grass – but only a little. Soil, though? Earth and dirt? That was no problem for him. Sometimes, she’d daydream about what it would be like if he wasn’t the way he was. If he was… good. How they’d buy a little plot of land, create a garden, moving earth from place to place like it was lighter than air.

  She had no idea he could do what he did this afternoon. That was something else.

  “It’s a connection,” he’d told her breathlessly. “There’s all this stored energy. I could connect right to it, and let it go. Amber –” he hadn’t called her Mom in over a year “– it was amazing!” She’d never seen him so happy. His whole face was one huge, bright smile.

  Their pickup truck was toast. On its side, axles dented and smashed, one wheel still spinning. Broken glass, picking up the light like uncut diamonds. They found another vehicle around the side of the building – a second pickup, a much bigger one, battered and ancient but somehow miraculously still upright. They had to smash the window to get in, but at least starting it was no problem. The truck was old, which was good – easier to hotwire. She’d done it in a daze, barely aware of what her hands were doing. Amber hadn’t boosted a car in a long time, but it was amazing how quickly it came back to her.

  The road was a ruin, the tarmac folded and cracked like the icing on a cake. Amber had worried they wouldn’t be able to drive, but the pickup had a high wheel-base, and it managed the broken tarmac without an issue.

  It took them a good few hours to reach San Bernardino.

  Or what was left of it.

  They’d been turned back a mile or two from the city, the road blocked by emergency services. Matthew had gaped at the broken buildings on the skyline, at the pall of smoke that was almost blacker than the clouds above them. It had to started to rain – fat, icy drops thudding against the windshield. It was like the end of the world.

  “What happened?” Matthew said to the first fire marshal, as soon as Amber rolled down the window. His face was completely innocent, his voice curious. He was good at that.

  “Earthquake.” The marshal bellowed over his shoulder at an unseen colleague: “Sixteen! I said sixteen!” He turned back. “Sorry – you can’t get into the city.”

  “Did people die?” Matthew said.

  The marshal gave him a fleeting look, as if seeing him for the first time. “Go around over there,” he said to Amber, pointing. “That’ll put you on the freeway south, OK?” Then he was gone.

  He did that, she had thought, staring at the horizon. Matthew. And no one will ever know.

  They’d been directed towards San Jacinto, which the marshals told them was still fine. It took them more than three hours to get there, the new pickup almost out of gas by the time they reached the city limits. For the first part of the drive, Matthew had been almost incoherent with excitement. He was jumping between screens on the iPad, reports and Twitter feeds and pictures. The occasional loud blast of news footage. Matthew kept the volume on high, and several times, it made Amber jump.

  The answer to the question he’d asked the marshal came quickly: two hundred dead, maybe more. She expected Matthew to squeal in delight, even laugh – that’s what normally happened when he hurt people. But instead, he went strangely quiet. As if even he was having trouble processing the number.

  He’s in the motel room behind her. He roused briefly to eat half of one of the cheeseburgers she’d gotten them from a Burger King near the motel, and had tried to do some more reading on the iPad. When he started talking again, it was almost to himself.

  “I shouldn’t have been able to do it,” he’d said. “The fault was way too far underground. It was like it was calling to me though… Hey, do you think there’ll be aftershocks?”

  “I’m not sure, honey,” she’d said carefully. It felt someone else was speaking through her, controlling her mouth. “Are those… That’s when there are little smaller quakes, right?”

  He’d glanced at her, as if slightly surprised that she’d spoken. Then he’d smiled, just a quick one, his eyes brightening. Amber had felt a hot, guilty rush of pleasure.

  “That’s right,” he’d said. “They happen when an earthquake changes the stresses on a fault, and some more sections let go. I was reading about it. I knew about earthquakes of course, and I knew they happened a lot in California, but I never thought I’d be able to actually make them.”

  He kept trying to stifle yawns, and failing, and he’d spent longer and longer looking at the same page on the iPad. Soon, he’d fallen asleep, the tablet on the pillow and the burger wrapper trapped under o
ne bare foot.

  She’d looked at him, wanting to reach out and stroke his hair, a muscle memory she couldn’t excise. Her delight at how he’d smiled at her hadn’t faded. She tucked it away, deep in her mind. It didn’t matter what he was smiling about – just that he was smiling.

  She fumbles with another cigarette, but her hands are shaking too hard to light it. This time, she has to bite her lower lip to stop the shakes, using the pain to make them quiet down.

  She hasn’t had to do that for a while. Not since the time one of her marks turned out to be a cop, and she had to make a run for it. He’d chased her for what felt like ten blocks. By the time she finally lost him, she was so terrified that biting her lip was the only way she could calm herself down.

  The con usually worked flawlessly: the old Flop trick, with a twist. She could fake a convincing hit really well – she had a knack for picking the right moment, choosing an angle where the hit from the oncoming car would leave her uninjured. Amateurs stopped there, hoping to scare the driver into paying up to avoid court. Not her. Diamond Taylor was smarter than that. Instead of pretending to be hurt, she’d tell the startled driver she was fine – shaken, sure, but all good, sir, don’t you fret. Only, the collision had smashed her iPad. She’d hold it up, distraught. Goddamnit, it’s for work, they’re going to kill me…

  Usually, that was all it took for some money to change hands. Sometimes she threw in another wrinkle, refusing to take payment, saying it was all right, it was her fault anyway. At which point, a nearby pedestrian would march over, say he’d seen everything, accuse the driver of negligence, threaten to call the cops, trying to convince her to sue.

  Later, she and the pedestrian would split the cash.