by Jackson Ford
Hell of a good kid. Amber had found herself guiltily pleased. Even at the Facility, she’d never gotten that kind of praise. They, of course, knew better too. Even Ajay, as they lay in bed together while Matthew had been off on one of his tests or in one of the classes, had never told her she was a good parent. He’d talked excitedly about Matthew’s potential, about the Director’s hopes for him and the other children. But he’d never said she’d been doing a good job as a mom. Hearing it from this stranger, someone who’d only had the barest impression of her, gave her a queer pride.
It isn’t what you have or who you are or where you are or what you are doing that makes you happy or unhappy. It is what you think about it. She remembered that one from How to Win Friends & Influence People. So she’d let herself be happy. Let herself be proud.
Matthew had finally said his goodbyes to the museum staff, and he’d told her, “I know where to go next.”
They’d loaded up on burritos and bottled water, Matthew poring over Google Maps while she ordered, then headed north. Matthew hasn’t said a word since they left La Cañada Flintridge. He’d said to head for Big Pines, a town at the north-eastern edge of the park, but Amber has a sense that that’s a direction, not a final destination. Someone at the museum had found him a California Earthquake Exhibit T-shirt, which he’s now wearing. Big red letters on white fabric, slightly too big for him.
The light on the highway is cold, all colour driven off by the low-hanging clouds. If not for the dashboard clock telling her it’s almost 11:30, Amber wouldn’t know what time of day it was. She keeps a steady speed, both hands on the wheel, not daring to look at her son. Trying to think of a way to stop him.
Nothing comes. And so they drive.
There’s hardly any traffic, but as they climb a short hill, they pass a green Prius stopped on the shoulder, the driver tapping away at her phone behind the wheel. The colour makes Amber shiver. It was a green car that hit her on her last Flop attempt, the one she should have known better than to try. You didn’t do that shit when you had a baby – but nothing else had been working, and she’d already had to run from the cops once, and she was desperate. And that’s all there was to it.
When she woke up, she wasn’t in the hospital. She was at the School.
She was angry. Confused. But they’d told her they could save her baby, bring him to term. And they had.
The moment her son was born had been the most shining, most glorious moment of her life. As she held him in her arms, as the heat and life and sheer presence of him washed over her, she experienced – for the first time in for ever – true bliss.
She’d rocked him softly, and knew she’d die for him. He’d saved her. And they’d told her she could stay at the School, that she’d be taken care of. They would be taken care of.
The setup didn’t make sense to her, at first. The School – that was what everyone called it – was a well-built complex in a nondescript building on the outskirts of Albuequerque, on the very edge of the desert. It wasn’t like any school she’d ever come across. There weren’t any students for one thing – or at least, none that weren’t babies, no more than a few months old.
And the Director… she was young. Amber’s age. Far too young to justify the title. And yet, she was clearly in charge: a focused, calm, determined presence, familiar with every inch of the building, commanding total respect from Ajay and the other doctors.
She tried to see their angle, tried to figure out if the Director and Ajay and all the others were playing their own con. Then again: what exactly did she have to gain by heading back to the streets? What was she going to do, go back to running the Flop?
That was before… everything else. Before they realised how smart Matthew was.
By age two, he was speaking – full words and sentences. By three, he was reading. He would get utterly absorbed in it, blocking out everything around him. He’d slept like – well, like a baby when he was very young, but as soon as he started talking, he hardly slept at all. Two or three hours a night wasn’t unusual.
She still remembers when he started moving the earth with his mind. She remembers standing in the doorway of their little room, gaping as he made chunks of dirt from the window box dance. She’d leaned against the door frame, shaking, trying to process what she was seeing.
She’d confronted the Director, of course. The Director had listened, and then fixed her with a level gaze. “He would have died if we hadn’t taken you in. If you’ve got a problem with his new abilities, you’re free to leave him with us.”
Amber could read between the lines on that one. She didn’t think the Director would have her killed – at least, she hoped not – but she also knew there was no paper trail. If she left, she’d lose her son.
She’d raged. Screamed. Threatened. Wept. None of it made a difference. And in the end, it wasn’t the Director’s calm expression that had convinced her. It was Ajay, and the other doctors. When they saw what her son could do, they’d congratulated her. Congratulated her.
The ground was shifting under her feet. The Director and Ajay and the Facility were the only stable thing for miles. So she held on.
Gifted – that was the word Ajay had used to describe Matthew. Others, too: prodigy, precocious, unusual. Her son had a kind of terrifying intelligence that made her wonder, briefly, if there’d been a mistake – if they’d handed her the wrong baby. People like her were not supposed to have bright kids. Dirt-poor con-artist trailer trash from Barelas weren’t supposed to give birth to geniuses.
But he wasn’t just a genius, like the Director explained. It wasn’t just his powers.
He read endlessly, was curious about everything he saw. But he never laughed. Almost never smiled. He wouldn’t respond to jokes – and he got angry when he was teased, even a little bit. He had to be kept apart from the other children – he’d try use his ability to hurt them, and no amount of persuasion or threats would stop him.
Once, she had come into the Facility’s courtyard, where the children played under the blazing New Mexico sun, and found him packing one of the other children in dirt. Holding it in place with his mind, ripping it from the planters around the edge, smiling as the other child writhed and pleaded and cried.
She had grabbed him, shaken him, genuinely angry and – for the first time – not bothering to hide it. She’d screamed at him to stop, and he had, but the strange smile had never left his face.
That was the first time he’d hurt her, too. The first time he’d turned his powers on her. In the end, they had to inject him with a sedative.
She digs the heel of her hand into her forehead. She can’t think about the Facility now. The government’s taken it over – it was a miracle Ajay got them out when he did. Ajay. God, what she wouldn’t give to have him here. If only he had been the father.
A short while later, they reach an intersection – hardly worthy of the name, really, a wide dirt track bordering the highway on two sides.
Matthew stirs, straightening. “Stop here.”
Amber pulls the pickup onto the right shoulder, dirt crunching, little whirlwinds of dust swirling around them. When she cuts the engine, the whole world holds its breath.
Her son pops the door, climbs out. “Bring the water. And my burrito.”
He leads them to the dirt track, heading south from the road, marching with purpose down the middle of it. Amber follows in his wake. It’s a struggle to breathe, as if the clouds are a heavy blanket, smothering her. A few times, her son crouches down, head bent, as if listening intently. No sooner does she reach him than he jumps to his feet, striding away.
It’s going to happen again. Another earthquake.
Something inside Amber hardens, a core of steel she didn’t know she had and she clings to it. This time, she knows what’s coming. If she can find the angle, control the situation, she can stop it.
A few minutes later, Matthew abruptly turns left, leading her off the track and into the scrubland. The trees are a little t
hicker here, and the air smells of dust and dry leaves. There are several burnt stumps, and before long, Amber’s legs and shoes are smudged with soot. “Matthew?” she says. “Honey?”
He ignores her.
Distract him. “Do you want some water? Or food? I brought a bag of chips, too, and there’s your… the rest of your burrito. In fact, you know what? Why don’t we go get burgers in Big Pines? I read yesterday there’s a great cheeseburger place in—”
“Be quiet.” He’s stopped at the base of a thick pine tree, down on one knee, patting the earth. He nods to himself once, straightens up. “This is the place. This is where the most energy is stored.”
He turns to her. The smile he wears is completely genuine: self-satisfied, delighted, ecstatic.
The man at the museum was right. She is a good parent. And good parents don’t let their children walk all over them. If she can’t distract him, she’ll show him who’s boss.
“That’s enough,” she says, startled at how harsh her voice is.
He blinks at her, his smile faltering.
“We’re going back to the car now.” Her fists aren’t clenched. Her voice isn’t strained. She’s working very hard to make sure neither of those things happen. She needs to be firm, quiet, calm. “We’re going back to the car, and we’re going to go to Big Pines and get cheeseburgers. That’s what’s going to happen.” She holds a hand out to him. “Come on.”
He doesn’t move. His smile has curdled.
“Did you hear me, Matthew? I said—”
The clod of dirt hits her in the face.
It’s dry, crumbly, spewing red dust. But it’s the size of a closed fist, hardened by the sun, and it sends her stumbling. She almost falls, catches herself, startled at the numb, swollen feeling in her cheek.
“No,” she says. “Stop.”
It’s not a plea. It’s a firm command. She is his mother, and he is her son, and he’s going to listen to—
More clods fly at her face. She bats away the first, but the second smacks into her mouth. Blood and dust mingle on her tongue, and this time, she does fall.
Matthew watches, not moving. Usually, when she doesn’t do what he says, he throws a tantrum. Yells. Cries fat, ugly tears. Not this time. He’s done this before, and there’s a not a damn thing Amber can do about it.
Except, she has to. He’s going to kill hundreds of people. Thousands maybe. And there is no one coming, no police, no Facility staff with sedatives and first aid kits. No Ajay. Just her. He is her responsibility.
“Matthew, that’s enough.” Her words are fat, clumsy. “If you don’t stop right now, I’m gonna—”
He throws more dirt at her. This time, it’s a hailstorm, a tornado, soil spattering her skin, jagged rock slicing it. She covers her face, rolls away, but the dirt comes from everywhere. Every time she tries to suck in a breath, she inhales more of it. It coats her mouth, burns her throat. Blood runs down her arms and neck from a dozen wounds, mixing with the dirt, turning black.
This is worse than it’s ever been, worse than anything he’s done to her. He’s going to kill me.
All the courage she’d dredged up leaks away, leaving a roaring emptiness in its wake. She’s sorry, she’s sorry, she’s so goddamn sorry and right now all she needs to do is let him know, tell him, but she can’t, her mouth is numb and bleeding and she can’t see and he’s going to kill her kill her kill
But he doesn’t.
By the time she realises the dirt storm has stopped, Amber is curled in on herself, sobbing. Matthew stands over her, the dark clouds appearing to swirl around his head. He looks satisfied.
“You shouldn’t try to stop me. Are you going to do it again?”
She shakes her head.
“Are you?”
“No.” Barely a whisper. Blood on her lips.
“Are you?”
“No.”
“Good.” He turns, heads back towards the base of the pine. “Stay still, Amber. I can shield us more easily if you just stay there.”
“Why? Matthew, why?”
He looks back at her, shrugs. Still smiling. Inside Amber, a tiny light winks to life – a mother’s instinctual brightening at seeing her child smile. Then it’s gone. Snuffed out by a cold so sharp and biting that she almost gasps.
“Why not?” he says.
He drops to his knees. Puts both hands on the ground. His shoulders rise and fall, rise and fall.
FIFTEEN
Teagan
I’m a little surprised Jonas Schmidt doesn’t break out the cuffs. He probably has a few lying around.
Instead, his goons march me out into the body of the plane, push me down onto a leather chair. It’s more comfortable than the spot under his floorboards, but at least there, I didn’t have guns pointed at me. The weapons in question are twin Heckler & Koch handguns, good German steel. One is held by a rat-faced little twerp in a Men in Black suit, standing next to me; the other by a dude with shoulders like ham hocks, straining at his suit jacket. Schmidt addresses rat-face as Mikhail, ham hock as Gerhard. And that’s not counting the beefy flight attendant, minding his own business at the back of the plane.
Guns aren’t a problem for me. I can jam them into holsters and lock the safety shut and take them away from their owners. There are a million ways I could use my PK in this situation – hell, I could take the guns, hijack the plane, force it to turn back. Of course, doing so would involve revealing my PK to everyone. Not exactly the best option.
Schmidt sits opposite me, in an identical chair. His electric-blue eyes search mine, his hands folded neatly in his lap. There’s a very slight smile on his face. He says nothing. And keeps saying nothing for a good two minutes.
The silence gets to me. I lean forward, causing Mikhail to stand a little straighter. “I think this is where you say, ‘We have ways of making you talk’?”
He actually laughs. It’s deep and genuine, and his eyes crinkle when he does. “Well, you are definitely not BND.”
“And they are?”
“Bundesnachrichtendienst. The Federal Intelligence Service of Germany. They are not known for their joking. Although, if I am fair, I knew you were not them when I found you in my bedroom. They would never have been so clumsy.”
“Hey, man, you didn’t even know I was on board until you walked in on me.”
“Ja, I am curious about that.” He nods to the window. “The Homeland Security agents who were bothering my men. Yours, yes? I imagine that is when you snuck aboard the plane.”
I don’t say a damn thing.
“If you are indeed American, then you will be CIA. No? Perhaps the Department of Military Sciences? Are you one of Church’s people?”
“I literally don’t know who that is.”
“One of your SEAL teams, then?” he says, sounding faintly bored. “They have been known to carry out missions such as this…”
“Yeah, well, my people know I’m on this plane. Any second now, you’re gonna have F-16s off your port bow.” Shit, is that a plane thing, or a ship thing?
“I think not.” He settles back in his chair. “We still have communications. All I must do is let my intelligence contacts in Germany know that we have had hostile action from an American agent, and there will be an international incident. Your government does not want that. I think your F-16s are not coming. Drink?”
“… What?”
“You do drink, yes? We have a good selection on board.” The flight attendant appears at his elbow, smiling. “Beer, Rodrigo, thank you. And for you, miss…?”
Fuck it. “I’ll take a beer too.”
It arrives quickly, tall and frosty. I suddenly realise how parched I am, and I’m about to take a chug when I stop, eyeing the glass.
Schmidt raises an eyebrow. “You cannot be serious.”
“Hold on—”
He throws up his hands. “Fine. You caught me. I have dosed your beer with a deadly serum that was concocted by the Illuminati at a Bilderberg Group meeting at
Sacred Oaks. All true billionaires know these secrets – it is the way we run the world. Now that I have told you, you must die.”
He reaches across and takes my beer from me, sipping from it. The slick bastard keeps eye contact the entire time. A crust of foam has settled on his top lip, and he wipes it off with his hand, not bothering to reach for the serviette on the armrest. “There. See? No poison. Unless, of course, I am immune, thanks to my daily infusions of infant blood.”
A smile creeps across my face before I can stop it.
“So. She is human after all,” he says. Schmidt passes my beer back, takes a sip of his own. Good thing too, because he doesn’t notice my slight shiver. If only you knew, dude.
“Now.” He leans forward elbows on his knees. “Perhaps you will tell me your name. Or a name. Something I must call you.”
“Jay.” It’s the first thing that comes to my mind, mostly because Jay Rock – one of the best LA rappers ever – has been doing rotations in my brain for the past three days. Plus, Jay can be a guy or a girl.
“And I am Jonas. A pleasure, truly. You are here for the list, yes?”
He doesn’t wait for my response, just nods to where the safe is. “It is not there. You would have done better to intercept my limousine on my way to the airport.”
“What are you talking about?”
He reaches inside his jacket, pulls out a neatly folded slip of paper. To my right, Mikhail tenses.
It doesn’t make sense. If Schmidt was going to sell the list, then having it on him while he negotiates with a buyer is about the dumbest thing I can think of. I’ve only known him for five minutes, and I can tell he’s smarter than that.
“You know what the most ironic thing is about technology?” It’s the first mispronunciation he’s made, twisting the first syllable of ironic, so it sounds like the vowel in hit. “Those of us who make our money from it do not trust it. It is not so easy to control. You see this everywhere. The CEO of a large social media company will not let his children join it. A programmer for a piece of software that handles Amazon payments will suddenly leave her position, talking to the media about data and privacy. But a piece of paper… it cannot be hacked, and it is hard to steal.”
