by Jackson Ford
Standing there, on the tarmac of the burning airport, I have never felt so small.
I lift a shaking hand to my earpiece. “Paul? Annie? Anybody?” I swallow. “This is Teagan. You there?”
Not even static. Just dead air.
I start walking, not really caring about the direction, just knowing that I have to move or I’m going to collapse. Was Nic at work when it happened? Did he get out OK? What about Reggie? “This is Teagan, please come in. Over.”
Is it my imagination, or was there the very faintest hint of something other than static? I freeze, speak the words again, like they’re a magic spell.
Nothing. No response. I keep moving, making my way across the uneven ground. I’m starting to see people now: customs agents and runway workers and fire fighters, swarming like ants. A fire engine shoots past me, siren blaring, loud enough to make me stick my hands over my ears. I don’t know where it’s going – it’s heading for the runway in the opposite direction to the fires. Maybe it’s trying to get away.
I almost collide with a man as he weaves onto the tarmac. He’s wearing a high-vis jacket that used to be yellow. It’s a dark brown now, covered in drying blood from the horrific gash on his forehead. I gape at him, not sure if I should yell for assistance, help him myself or just run.
“There’s a fire,” he says, clear and calm. “Someone should call 911.”
Then he collapses. Like he’s been shot.
That same horrible indecision. Do I help him? Find someone?
My body moves for me. In seconds, I’m kneeling beside him, scrabbling for his wrist. I can’t find a pulse, no matter where I put my fingers. But I’ve always been bad at finding pulses, so I stick a finger under his chin, and that’s when I see he’s gone. I don’t need a pulse to know that. His eyes stare at nothing, glazed and empty.
Oh, shit.
My earpiece crackles. “—over where the—”
“Paul?” I hit the earpiece so hard I almost wedge it into my ear canal. We must be back in range – there’s interference, but I can hear him. I can hear him! “Paul? Are you there?”
“—gan, we’re—”
“Paul, I’m OK. Tell me where you are.” My legs start moving on their own, taking me away from the dead man. Who was he? Did he have a family? A girlfriend? Did he—?
Nope. Stop that right now. There’s nothing you can do.
I keep walking towards the terminal building, pausing every so often to cough, the smoke burning my throat. My uniform pants are covered in dirt – I don’t even know how that happened.
“—peat, we are by the tower. If you can—will be waiting for y—”
The tower. It’s almost impossible to pick out in the billowing smoke, but I find it. Or what’s left of it. It looks like a tree that’s been felled by a lightning strike, a jagged lance jutting into the sky. It’s maybe a third of a mile away.
I’m halfway there when the aftershock hits. It’s a jolt, rocketing up through the soles of my feet. Then a shaking that sends me stumbling onto all fours. I flatten myself on the ground, hands stinging from where I fell, thinking: Stop. Please stop. You have to stop.
And it does. After a few more seconds, the rumbling fades. I stagger to my feet, keep walking.
It’s the van I see first. It’s on its side, wheels still spinning. Smoke gushes from the hood. Annie, Paul and Africa are huddled behind it. When he spots me, Africa gives a yell, exploding to his feet and sweeping me up in his arms. He squeezes tight enough to make the muscles in my shoulders creak.
“What happen to you, Teggan?” he says. “You were up on the plane, yaaw?”
“They turned around,” I say, when he lets me go.
“How the hell you pull that off?” Annie’s dark skin has gone ash-grey. She’s dirty, but outside of a scrape on her forehead, she looks unharmed. Paul, on the other hand—
“Fuck.” I drop to my knees in front of him. “What happened to your arm?”
He’s holding it tight to his chest. Midway down his right forearm, there’s an angle where there shouldn’t be one.
“Hit the door frame when we crashed,” he says through gritted teeth. “I’ll be fine.”
“You do not look fine.”
“He hit his head too,” Africa says. “I think maybe he has concussion.”
“Teagan,” Annie says, insistent. “How’d you get back?”
“Like I said, they turned the plane around.”
“What? Why?”
“Long story.”
“And the list?”
“He didn’t have it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. Look, forget the list, we need to get out of here.”
Africa straightens up. “I must go to Redondo. Jeannette is there.”
Paul swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I already told you what Reggie said. We have to go back to Venice, right now.”
I frown. “Why? What did Reggie say?”
Africa ignores him. “It’s nonsense. We don’t know what she said.”
“I need to get to Inglewood,” I say, sidestepping whatever this conversation is. “Nic’s there, so—”
Another fire engine roars past us, siren deafening – and then there’s a huge, dull thud. At first, I think it’s another aftershock, but it doesn’t sound the same. We all turn to see a gout of fire blooming at the end of the runway – a big one, belching smoke.
“That was a plane.” Annie’s voice is almost inaudible.
“Two,” says Paul. “I saw it. They hit each other.”
“Yaaw.” Africa sounds like he’s just shrunk two feet.
“Shit, Teagan, you came in that same way?” Annie says. “Same runway?”
That does it. I turn, and retch up my breakfast. It’s been threatening for a while, and I can’t hold it off any longer. Coffee and digested energy bar and very expensive champagne spatter my uniform boots. I’m suddenly embarrassed, for no good reason, and stumble away. That only makes it worse – now I’m walking and vomiting, gruel painting my shins. I can’t stop shaking.
Africa is crouched down, hands dug in underneath the overturned van.
“The fuck are you doing?” Annie mutters.
Africa sees me looking. “Come help.”
“… What?”
“The van. You can use your dëma powers, huh? Get it up.”
“The engine’s fried,” Paul says.
“Teggan – flip the van. Flip the fuck van.”
I don’t think I’ve ever heard Africa swear. The way he speaks doesn’t permit it – he has too many other words to draw on, three languages of amazing slang. And he’s not the kind of person who gets angry. Hearing him say fuck gives the word its power back. He lumbers over to me, grabbing me by the shoulder, as if he can make me do what he says.
I whack his hand away. “Don’t touch me.”
He steps back, a look of shock on his face. But he backs up.
I don’t normally mind him touching me. God knows, he hugs me enough. Then again, this wasn’t a relieved hug – this was him ordering me to do something, treating me like a tool. We don’t have that kind of relationship. We never will.
Carlos would know what do. Carlos could fix the engine. He could—
I don’t have Carlos. All I have is Africa, and he’s no Carlos. And now is not the fucking time, Teagan, by the way.
Not that Carlos deserves any of my time. Not one goddamn second.
“Come,” Africa says, pleading. “You got these powers. You must use them. Flip the fuck van. Then we find the man who make the earthquake.”
I blink at him. “I’m sorry, the what now?”
“Hey.” The shout takes all the strength Paul has. He collapses back against the side of the van. “Let’s just all… just all think for a second.”
“Don’t move, baby.” Annie crouches by him. “Stay still. I’ll go get help.”
“No, listen,” Paul says. “Listen to me. We have to go back to Venice, OK?”
> “Baby, I heard what Reggie said too, but that doesn’t mean—”
“What the hell are you two talking about?” I wipe my mouth, flicking away a speck of vomit. I’m a little light-headed, and it has nothing to do with the quake.
Paul gazes at Annie, an unsettling look passing between them, which doesn’t help my state of mind.
“What does Africa mean?” I say. “The man who made the earthquake?”
Paul’s eyes meet mine. “Just before it all went crazy, Reggie called in. She said she knew who had caused the San Bernardino quake.”
“Wait, Paul, I’m sorry, hold on a second.” I close my eyes. “I’m pretty sure I just heard you say the word who there. Not what.”
He grimaces in pain. “Correct. She said the earthquake was caused by someone with abilities like yours. Then the comms went dead. I can’t raise her.”
Silence.
“Bullshit,” I say.
“I’m just telling you what Reggie—”
“Nope. Bullshit. I call bullshit. Bull. Shit. Your comms were faulty.”
“I heard it too,” Annie says quietly.
“Well, you fucking heard wrong. OK?”
“I don’t get it – what’s so impossible about this for you?”
“Because… because it just can’t happen. There’s no way.”
Annie looks over at Paul and Africa, as if asking them to back her up. “You can move shit with your mind. And six months ago, you met a guy who was even stronger than you. Is someone who can cause earthquakes really that much of a stretch?”
“OK, I’m pretty strong. And Jake was stronger. But neither of us could break an entire fucking city. So yeah: you heard wrong.”
I try not to talk about things being impossible, or far-fetched. I can move shit with my mind, after all. But this… no. It’s so far beyond what even I have experienced that I just can’t see it.
But, what if that’s not true? If the guys heard Reggie right, there’s someone else with abilities, and he just destroyed a city in a single morning. How am I supposed to fight that?
“Teagan, you’re not…” Paul’s been trying to get to his feet, and collapses backwards mid-sentence. I don’t know a whole hell of a lot about concussions, but I do know that not being able to stand is a pretty sure sign you have one.
Africa spits a torrent of angry, rapid-fire French, before slipping into English. “I must go to Jeannette.” He sounds desperate. “She cannot take care of herself.”
“Be cool,” Annie says.
“Ah, you tell me I must be cool, yaaw?” His voice rises again, his eyes bugging out of his head. “What about your mother, huh? Where she, now? You not gonna go find her?”
“She can handle herself,” Annie snarls back. But she sounds unsure.
Africa’s in shock. Worse than the rest of us. But all the same, I can’t help thinking of Nic. He’d be in Inglewood, at the courthouse… maybe even still helping out in San Bernardino, because he’s the kind of person who would totally still be there two days after a quake. I pull out my phone to text him, then angrily jam it back in my pocket. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this helpless.
“Why is the guy with the concussion the only one thinking straight?” Paul is sweating, despite the chill, his shoulders set very tight. “We have to go back to Venice. Or the rest of you do, anyway.”
“Why you need me?” Africa says. “I’m the driver, yaaw? What am I gonna drive now?”
Paul’s face is white. “Idr—Africa. Listen to me. I know you want to find your girlfriend. If my son was in town, I’d probably do the same.”
“They’re not?” I say.
“No, they’re in Arizona this week, at his grandparents. But Africa: what if you get down to Redondo, and she isn’t there?”
Redondo? Don’t they live in Venice? I push the thought aside, irritated.
Africa says nothing. Just stares, stony-faced.
“Why wouldn’t Jeannette be there?” Annie says.
“She’s not just going to stay and wait for us,” Paul says. “There’ll be emergency relief coming in – and if she got out OK, she won’t hang around waiting for us. She’ll go to wherever there’s shelter, medical attention.”
“She would wait for me!” Africa bellows.
“Christ, Africa. Right now, we have no idea where anybody is. What if she wasn’t in Redondo today? What if she went somewhere? Or Annie – what if Sandra-May went to the store? Or had Marshawn from next door take her down to the clinic? We don’t know. They might be anywhere.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“The office is quake-proof. Tanner and I fixed it up – we didn’t want Reggie in a situation where she couldn’t get out. It’s up to code. Her power might be down – you can fix that, get a generator up and running. There’ll be food and water, and you’ll be able to use her systems.”
“Up to code?” I point at the runway. “That was an 8.3. That just set the code on fire and pissed on the ashes.”
I work very hard not to look in the direction of the crashed planes. There’s a rumble, and behind us, part of the control tower collapses, sending up another cloud of dust. The sirens are everywhere now.
“Are we just not gonna talk about the fact that you’re hurt?” Annie says.
“I’m fine,” Paul mutters. He tries to push himself up with his good arm, can’t do it. When he thumps back down, a horrible, pained noise hisses out of him.
“I can help with that,” I say, pointing back towards Schmidt’s plane. “He’s got some supplies.”
“He?” Annie narrows her eyes. “Who’s he?”
“Schmidt. On his plane.”
“The target?”
“Yeah. He can help.”
“You out of your damn mind?”
“What the fuck difference does it make?” I gesture at the destroyed airport, the cracked tarmac. My muscles feel loose and hot, almost liquid. Another shockwave of nausea slams into me, one I have to force back down. “I’d say mission is officially aborted.”
“Oh, so we’re just gonna go ahead and reveal ourselves to the—”
“The van.” Paul sounds like he’s trying to swallow glass. “First aid kit. There’s a sling. And there’s painkillers.”
“The plane will have better—”
“No, it won’t.” He doesn’t quite smile, but his lips twitch upwards at the corners. “They didn’t have me… packing their kit.”
“They’ll have doctors on board. Schmidt said he was going to—”
“Not for… a while yet. Chaos right now. The break will need to be set, eventually… but we have a kit here. In the van.”
“You are such a nerd,” I say. It’s meant to be an attempt at humour. On any other day, it might have actually succeeded.
“How are we even supposed to get to Venice, anyway?” Africa says, sullen.
Paul grunts. “Freeway. The 405. We get a truck—”
“The 405.” Annie puts a hand on her hip. “The most congested road in America. That’s how you wanna get to Venice?”
“Dude,” I say. “It’s bad enough at like 3 a.m. on a Tuesday morning. After a quake? We won’t make it ten feet.”
“Just listen to me. You get a truck, head out west of the airport. There’s a store we passed on the way over here.”
Annie blinks at him. “What kind of store?”
“Bikes.”
We fall silent, digesting what Paul said. I can see it – just. It would mean traffic wasn’t an issue… and once we got going, it wouldn’t take much longer to get to Venice than it would by car.
“You know it makes sense.” Paul shifts position against the van, grimacing. “You can all ride down to Venice. It’s…” He turns his wrist to look at his watch, a wave of pain rolling across his face. “… Christ. OK. It’s almost half-twelve, I’d say. You can make it to Venice in three hours – four at the most. Then—”
“What about you?” Annie says.
His eyes find hers. For
a second, it looks like he’s about to tell her he’s fine, he’ll come. Then his shoulders slump. “Last thing you need is me losing consciousness. And I won’t be able to keep my balance on a bike. I’d just slow you down.”
“The fuck you will. I’m not leaving you here.”
“Annie. You have to. There’ll be doctors soon, or they’ll take us to an emergency shelter. You can patch my arm for now, and they can treat my concussion – or at least find me a dark room to rest in.” He winces again.
She wipes her mouth.
“If I fall off a bike,” Paul continues, “I’m no good to anybody. You need to get to Reggie… but you don’t need me there. That’s the quickest way to find out what’s going on. Maybe to find your families too. If anybody can track them, Reggie can.”
Annie’s face contorts, her expression going from worried to scared to angry, and back to worried again. “Baby, no…”
“I’ll be fine. I promise.”
She trails off, staring into the distance.
Oh boy. I want to tell myself Paul heard Reggie wrong – that she said what, not who, that the idea that a person caused all this is bugshit crazy. But the problem is, if he heard right, then we can’t afford to do nothing.
“Teagan,” Paul says, bringing me back. “Find us a vehicle. Preferably an SUV or a pickup. Annie: you and Africa crack the van. Get the first aid kit.”
TWENTY-ONE
Teagan
It’s surprisingly easy to find a car during an earthquake. People just leave them standing there, doors open, keys in the ignition. Sometimes they’ve even left the engine on. If you run a chop shop, an earthquake is a serious growth opportunity.
I probably shouldn’t be making jokes right now. Sorry not sorry. It’s either that, or throw up again.
It takes me a while to find the kind of car Paul asked for, though. It’s a Ford F150, just inside the boom of a staff parking lot, on the other side of the terminal building. The engine is on, the truck beeping softly to let everyone know a door is open.
My legs are jelly, but I somehow manage to climb in. The windshield is cracked on the driver’s side, spiderwebbing out from the bottom-left corner. A smear of blood on the wheel, too. No sign of the driver, but there’s an airport laminate badge on the passenger seat, the photo showing a smiling, bald man in his fifties, with a scruffy beard. Ralph Lorencz. Crew Schedule Coordinator. “Thanks, Ralph,” I mutter, shifting the truck into drive. “Hope you got out OK, bud.”
