by Jackson Ford
Friends.
It’s impossible not to see Carlos. See him sitting at the bar, knocking back whiskey, cackling as he described the sexual peculiarities of his latest ex. See him in the passenger seat of the China Shop van, offering me jerky to recharge my energy levels after a tough mission.
See him impaled on a steel pole, with a fire raging closer, begging me to help him.
Death never used to scare me. I didn’t want to die, because why the fuck would I, but I wasn’t scared of it. I figured I’d been through so much bad shit, death couldn’t possibly be any worse. But what if when I die, I have to face Carlos? We didn’t find his body after the fire, but that doesn’t mean anything. He could have burned to ash. What if the first thing I see in the afterlife is him, and he asks me why I didn’t save him?
The plane banks again. The ground is closer than ever before.
Fuck this. I’m not going to die. I don’t care if I have to reveal my abilities: this is not the end of me. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to lift a plane with my mind, but I’d say now would be an excellent time to find out. I send out my PK, wrapping it around the body…
Only, what the hell am I supposed to do? Am I really going to be able to land this thing better than Schmidt’s pilot? I’ll just get in the way, end up fighting with him. If the plane is damaged by the landing, I can try hold it together… but how will I know which pieces to use my PK on?
“Macht euch bereit!” the pilot says, clipped and urgent. Schmidt immediately bends at the waist, hands on the back of his head. No translation needed here.
Brace for impact.
EIGHTEEN
Teagan
I always thought airplane seatbelts were next to useless. Because if I ever was in a plane crash, there was no way a piddly little strip of fabric was going to save my ass.
Either I was wrong, or private jet seatbelts are made of titanium.
When we touch down, it’s with a bang that shudders through the cabin, my seat bucking underneath me. If it wasn’t for the belt, I’d have been thrown right out. The plane hits something – a jagged chunk of raised ground, maybe. It kicks back up into the air, listing crazily. The TV reporter is drowned out by the hideous whine of jet engines. Gerhard bellows, his belt straining. Schmidt’s knuckles have gone white.
We slam back to earth. This time, we tilt far enough for the right wing tip to just touch the ground. The belt isn’t helping any more; I have to use every muscle I have to stay in my seat, bracing my arms against the armrests. My teeth are clenched so hard my jaw creaks. I don’t care what kind of shock absorbers are built into the landing gear – they can’t take much more of this. It’s like the plane is trying to twist itself in half.
There’s muted beeping from the cockpit, the world outside rushing past, fire and smoke and ruined buildings. What might be another plane, burning, turned on its side.
The shaking should have stopped by now. We should have come to a halt. Instead, I swear we start to move faster, the engines roaring. What does that mean? Is the pilot trying to outrace something? Another plane? Not knowing is killing me, but I don’t dare get out of my seat. Even if I did, I wouldn’t be able to keep my balance for more than half a second.
And then, just like that, the engines start to slow.
The plane is still shaking, but not quite as badly. Outside the window, the runway is torn to pieces, cracked and jagged. Smoke drifts on the breeze, the clouds hanging low.
Schmidt laughs. Softly at first, but then he breaks out in huge, loud, gusting laughter. It makes him look like a teenager, shaving years off his face.
I stare at him. The words Have you lost your fucking mind? are right there, but I don’t have the energy to get them out.
There’s a crackle, and the pilot’s voice comes over the intercom. I don’t catch what he’s saying, which is still in German, but the reaction in the cabin is immediate. Schmidt reaches across the aisle, high-fiving Gerhard. Rodrigo clambers up from his seat, envelops Mikhail in a shaking hug.
Schmidt unbuckles, staggers over to the cockpit, delivering shaky instructions in rapid German. Moving very slowly, I unbuckle my seatbelt. It takes more than one try to stand up. My eyes feel curiously gritty, like I’ve just woken up after a long sleep.
“We will taxi off the runway,” Schmidt says, reappearing from the cockpit. “I do not think that the air traffic control will mind. The tower…” He runs a hand through his hair. “It’s not there any more.”
Fuck me.
The plane is still moving, trundling down the runway. Hopefully trying to get off of it as fast as possible. I have to find China Shop – like, right now. My phone still has zero signal – not exactly surprising. What about my earpiece? It wasn’t working before, but now that we’re on the ground…
I tap it. There’s a very faint burst of static, then nothing. “Paul? You reading me, dude?”
“Paul? This is your handler?”
It’s Schmidt. He has two glasses in his hand – plastic flutes, filled with pale yellow liquid.
“Something like that,” I say.
“I see.” He hands one of the glasses to me. “Champagne?”
“Uh… what?”
He looks faintly embarrassed. “One of the bottles survived our landing. Champagne is not useful in a disaster zone, and since we are all still alive, I thought…”
I don’t listen to the rest. I down the glass, the bubbles sharp on my tongue. The drink wakes me up, gives me the kick I need. I have to get the fuck out of here.
“That was Krug Private Cuvée,” he says, staring at me. “Seventeen hundred euro a bottle.”
“And it was delicious.” I point at the door. “Pull over. I gotta go find my friends.”
“Friends?” He takes a sip of his champagne, smacks his lips. “I have met spies before, and they do not describe their colleagues as friends. It is a strange agency you work for.”
“We’re more like a moving company.”
“I am not understanding?”
“Never mind. You gonna let me off, or not?”
“Shortly. We are taxiing to a safe space, where another plane will not hit us.”
Gerhard overhears. He jabs a finger at me, looming over Schmidt, speaking rapidly. Too fast for me to follow – not that I understand German anyway, most of the time – but I get the gist. Hey, boss, do you not remember this lady trying to steal your shit? You should totally not let her go because she’ll, like, completely ruin your day.
Schmidt listens to his bodyguard, expressionless. Mikhail joins in, and it’s not hard to see he feels the same way as Gerhard. Great. Just what I need right now – to be imprisoned on a private plane in the aftermath of a deadly quake.
If that happens, then I’m totally drinking the rest of the seventeen-hundred-euro champagne.
The plane bumps and jerks as it trundles over what is presumably pretty fucked-up tarmac. Schmidt and his goons go back and forth for a minute before he shuts it all down, turning away from the glowering bodyguards with a muttered snatch of German. He sips his champagne, removes his jacket. He has a pretty nifty tattoo, sneaking out from under his T-shirt sleeve: a pattern of geometric dots, swirling around his bicep. “I must ask a favour of you, Jay.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
He leans on the back of his seat. “I cannot detain you. No – excuse my English. I am able to, but I cannot. Gerhard and Mikhail wish me to do so, but I do not think they understand our situation. Soon, we will have people coming to this plane who need help. They will need food, or medical supplies, or communications. We cannot have a prisoner that we must watch.”
His eyes find mine. “We will be vulnerable when this is happening. It would be easy for you or your agency to come on board and take my list.” He pats his breast pocket.
I say nothing.
“I must ask you, as someone who helped get you back on the ground safely. Let us work. Leave us in peace.”
For a second, I have a real urge
to just grab the list and run. Disable him, get it from his pocket, take out his goons, and get the hell out. It’ll be tricky, maybe even almost impossible, but…
Fuck it. Who cares about the stupid list? If he’s telling the truth, he doesn’t plan to release it anyway, and I’d say there are bigger things to worry about.
“It’s cool,” I say. “I’ll tell them… you didn’t have it. That our intel was wrong.”
Another ghost of a smile. It only lasts for a second, and surprisingly, I find that I miss it when it’s gone. “Thank you.”
We come to a shuddering halt, the floor tilting slightly. As the engines power down, Schmidt directs Gerhard to pop the exit door for me. The bodyguard gives me a scowl that could freeze Niagara Falls, but does as his boss asks.
The door opens, and there’s a hiss as the evacuation slide inflates, a ballooning expanse of orange rubber. Spitting rain gusts in, carried on air that is hot and angry, stinking of smoke.
Schmidt gives me a nod of thanks, already turning away, firing instructions at Mikhail.
“Hey,” I say.
He looks over his shoulder.
“That was pretty awesome. Coming back to help. You didn’t have to do that.”
This time, the smile stays. “You are kind to say so.”
As I’m halfway out the door, he speaks again. “What is your real name?”
“Huh?”
“You are not named Jay, are you?”
I stare at him, not sure what I want to say. If there’s even any point in lying about it.
“Never mind,” he says, looking ever so slightly disappointed. “Maybe you will tell me another time. If we meet in better circumstances, perhaps.”
Then he’s gone, heading to the back of the plane. Gerhard taps me on the shoulder, jerks his head at the slide and I’m gone.
Straight into hell.
NINETEEN
Matthew
The first time Matthew caused an earthquake, he’d had to react fast. He had an idea of what would happen, but he wasn’t prepared for how sudden it all was. He’d only just managed to shield himself and Amber in a cocoon of dirt. It kept them safe from the worst of it.
Today is different.
It’s even better.
The earth beneath him drops a full foot in under a second, spilling him onto his backside. Amber does better – she’s prone already, bloody and shaking from when he had to throw stuff at her. He scrabbles towards her on all fours, falls, gets to his knees. He starts laughing, goofy with joy.
The giant pine tree above him snaps in two, the top half falling towards them with a hissing, crunching roar. Amber gets a hand up, as if she can stop the tree herself. Matthew yelps, thrusting his hands into the soil. There’s an explosion of dirt, a giant pillar of it rocketing upwards, leaving a gash in the ground. The dirt slams into the falling tree, knocks it sideways. It lands a few feet away, boughs snapping, just as Matthew hurls himself onto his mom. Despite how he hurt her, what he had to do when she wouldn’t listen, she holds him. Tight.
Another blast of dirt, dropping them into the earth. Matthew cocoons them in a sphere of it. The world goes dark, the smell of damp and rot invading his nostrils.
In the cramped space, under the insane noise from outside, the sound is a dead, muffled thing. He laughs, delighted, horrified, his breathing hot and heavy as he tries to hold their prison together. They are tossed about like a beachball in stormy seas. Amber sobs, her body shaking against his. The terror and excitement he feels is cut with annoyance. Just like her to start crying now.
He doesn’t know how long the shaking lasts. A while. Either way, when he finally lets the light in, the world is still. No sound but the wind.
He clambers out of Amber’s grip, crawling under the last wisps of floating dirt. He lets them drop, dust and rocks and roots raining down on them. Amber lies there, hitching in cold, agonising breaths, as her son gets to his feet.
“That was awesome,” he breathes. He turns to her, his eyes shining. “That was awesome.”
He punches the air, his feet actually leaving the ground. “I found a ton of stored energy down there,” he says, his words coming so fast he fumbles some of them. “They were right. At the museum? There was all this pressure that hadn’t gone anywhere. And I just… it just let go, the second I touched it.”
Nobody could stop him. Not even Amber. She tried, and he did it anyway, and it was the best thing ever. He giggles, wanting to look everywhere at once.
One of his teeth is loose. He jabs it with his tongue – aren’t they supposed to start dropping out soon? The thought is a distraction, unwelcome, and he shoves it away. Maybe he just hit his face somewhere. And who cares, anyway?
“The whole Pacific Plate… boom!” He claps his hands together, delight glowing on his dirt-streaked face. “That was two whole plates sliding past one another. All that pressure went all at once, the second I touched it!” He spins in a circle. “We gotta go see. That must have hit the whole of LA! Maybe even San Francisco!”
He rushes over, pulls her to her feet. Her blonde hair is crusted with dirt, blood drying on her face. Cuts and scratches mark her cheeks.
The landscape around them has changed. Most of the trees have been toppled like dominos, roots moving in the wind. The dirt track is gone. There are new hills everywhere, new rocks, still crusted with the dirt that held them deep in the earth. Fissures zig-zag across the ground, some pencil-thin, others a foot wide, more, their interiors black as night.
Matthew hardly registers the choked sob that bursts out of his mother. He turns in another circle, slower this time, taking in the details. The heights at which the tree trunks snapped – most lower to the ground, but some halfway up, as if they were better able to withstand the energy release. Perhaps because of their roots, spread wider through the soil. The sky above them is filled with great flocks of honking birds, whirling in confused, terrified circles. Matthew beams up at them.
OK. Enough little stuff. He leads them back to the pickup, dancing across the cracked dirt.
The quake tore the road in half. When they reach the tarmac, the pickup is lying half-inside a huge fissure. Its engine compartment is crushed, the air stinking of oil. A tyre spins on a bent axle, creaking gently.
For the first time, Matthew slows down, considering the pickup. He forgot about it entirely – he should have figured out how to shield it during the quake. For some reason, he doesn’t feel like admitting this – not to Amber, that’s for sure.
“I tried to shield it, like I did for us,” he says, the lie slipping out of him with no trouble at all. “I must not have aimed right.”
Out of nowhere, he yawns, his mouth gaping. He’s tired – like, really tired. Not surprising, given what he just did. He squeezes his eyes shut, opens them again, trying to clear his head. “You need to get us a new car,” he tells Amber. “And I bet it was more than an 8.3! That’s supposed to be the max for San Andreas, but I bet I pushed it even further!”
The interior of the truck is a wreck, their possessions and supplies thrown around the cabin. A few bottles of water have split open, but the rest looks OK. The blood on Amber’s cheeks has dried to a thin crust.
He’s glad she isn’t badly hurt. It would be a real pain in the ass if he had to walk to Big Pines alone, carrying all their stuff. He has a momentary image of himself teetering down the road with a pack twice his size, and giggles again. The giggle changes to another yawn, one which brings irritation in its wake. Ugh, why does this stuff make him so tired?
Maybe it won’t be that way when he gets older. When I get my big teeth, he thinks, suddenly bitter. He wishes he was bigger. He wouldn’t even need Amber then. He wouldn’t need anyone.
Amber is staring at him. Dull horror on her face.
“What?” he says.
She doesn’t reply, turning to gather the water, the last of their food. Packing clothes in a backpack. Matthew sits down against the side of the pickup. He’ll just rest. Just for a
second.
He wakes briefly when Amber snuggles in beside him, wrapping her arms around his chest. In that moment, he’s angry with himself for falling asleep – what if she’d tried to run? She could’ve just left him here, and he wouldn’t have been able to stop her.
Then again, she didn’t. She knows he’d find her.
Matthew smiles, and gives a long, contented sigh.
TWENTY
Teagan
The world outside Schmidt’s plane isn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be.
It’s worse.
Much worse.
I get to my feet at the bottom of the slide, gaping. A little, involuntary sound sneaks out of my throat, half-moan, half-whimper.
We’re off to one side of the runway. From here, I can see clear across to the terminal building. Every plane that was on the ground during the quake has been tossed and tumbled around like childrens’ toys. They lie on their sides, sunken into the earth, crashed, burning. Wrecked airport vehicles are everywhere – trucks and tugs and luggage carts.
The ground itself is… It looks like the ocean in rough weather, frozen in time. The tarmac is cracked and bruised, thrust up in some places, fallen away in others. The runway we came in on is a nightmare. How in the hell did we manage to land on that?
The terminal building – what’s left of it – is on fire. Everything is on fire. It’s raining, but not nearly hard enough to make a difference. The chill drizzle soaks my shoulders through the thin Homeland uniform.
The 7.1 from two nights ago was a glancing jab; this is a haymaker, a knockout punch, one that sends teeth flying and blood spattering the canvas. I put my hand to my mouth, a horrible, sick nausea filling up my gut.
There’s nothing I can do.
Not against this. Not against something this huge and violent. I can lift things and throw them around, maybe help clear some rubble – if I can actually convince myself to reveal my ability. But there will be thousands of other people to help, thousands of buildings and cars and trucks and houses and offices. I won’t be able to do more than make the smallest dent.
