Random Sh*t Flying Through the Air (The Frost Files)

by Jackson Ford

  The front porch is crowded with people. Ditto for the yard. They’re all cheering and laughing at… something out front. I’ve lost track of Annie somewhere between kitchen and porch, but I push my way through the crowd. I can’t see a damn thing, and it doesn’t help that I’m about half a foot shorter than anybody here. It’s only when I get to the front fence that I finally see what’s causing the ruckus.

  Africa.

  Fucking Africa.

  He’s standing on the ATV he stole, arms spread like he’s conducting an orchestra, a smile on his face the size of California. He’s guffawing with laughter, calling out people in the crowd, pointing. There’s a woman by the ATV, looking around, standing awkwardly while Africa soaks in the applause. She’s stick-thin, with scraggly red hair and a pinched, nervous face.

  Jeannette. The stupid son of a bitch found her.

  He catches sight of me, and the smile gets so big it threatens to crack his face in two. “Teggan!” He roars. “You dëma! You made it, huh?”

  I can’t help smiling back.

  How in the blue hell did he know that Paul’s memorial was today? How did he know where to come? And how in the name of all that is good does he already know everyone here?

  Actually, you know what? It doesn’t matter. I’m sure he’ll tell me the story before long.

  Some of it might even be true.

  SIXTY-FIVE

  Teagan

  Later.

  I’m sitting on the front porch, not really thinking about anything. I’m drunk, but not nearly as badly as I should be. It’s like the beers and Jäger and – tequila? Yes, tequila – just went right through me.

  There are still voices in the house, but they’re quieter now. Slowly, the crowds drifted away, people leaving in twos or threes. I went to the bathroom at one point, and came back to find just about everybody engaged in a massive clean-up operation, black trash bags appearing from nowhere, people stacking plates and sweeping up the odd broken glass. Rocko, Sandra-May’s enormous dog, ran around barking and pretending he was being useful. About the only person not helping was Annie, who was passed out on a couch, snoring like a beast. Sandra-May was in the middle of it all, saying she hoped it wasn’t too much of a bother, she and Reggie directing operations, Reggie immediately calling me over to gather empty beer bottles. It made me think of the day after the first quake, when Paul asked for help cleaning up the Boutique, and I had to excuse myself for a few minutes to get my shit together.

  I yawn suddenly, huge and wide. I have no idea how I’m getting back to the hotel. I left my Jeep parked there – somehow, I knew driving myself would be a bad idea today. One of Sandra-May’s neighbours picked us up, a huge man in a white T-shirt who bumped trap music all the way over, but I haven’t seen him in hours. Christ, what time is it? I dig in pocket for my phone.

  Onscreen is that text message. The one I ignored.

  The one from Nic.

  I let out a long, slow breath. Stare at the notification. Hey just checking in. Are you doing OK?? I still feel like…

  Without really wanting to, I flick open the message, read the rest… We left things on a bad note… would love to chat if you around…

  He knows I’m still in LA. I didn’t just leave him hanging. When cell service came back a few days ago, the first thing to arrive was a deluge of texts from him. I let him know where I was, and what was happening, although for obvious reasons I didn’t tell him about Washington. He knows about Paul, too… although I haven’t told him how he died.

  My texts were brief, to the point. I didn’t trust myself to write anything longer.

  He’s still in LA. He’s had no word about when the District Attorney’s office will reopen, but he says it’s a when, not an if. He’s been helping out with quake clean-up, because of course he has. Amazingly, his apartment made it through. The place has spotty power, but is apparently liveable.

  Without wanting to, I scroll up past the chain of messages.

  Hey do you want to meet up? There’s a cafe in Sawtelle that’s open…

  Just checking in to see how you doing :)…

  It’d be really good to see you sometime…

  I wasn’t really thinking straight at Dodger, just wanted to let you know where my head is at…

  It’s been a while since I messaged him. A couple days, at least. I should probably check in with him – I might not know where we stand, exactly, but I don’t want to just ghost him.

  I’m probably too drunk to be messaging him, but I start tapping anyway. I’m OK. Just at Annie’s place for Paul’s party

  I send the message, still staring at the screen. Should I say more? Not that it matters – he’s probably asleep by now, so I’ll only get the reply in the—

  Nope. There are those three little dots. Then: Oh shit forgot that was tonight :( sorry

  No worries, we good

  You still there? How you getting home tonight?

  Ha. Interesting question. Before I can write a response, he sends another message: You welcome to stay at my place if you want lmk

  Oh, Nic.

  You know what surprised me the most, after I got back from Washington? When I finally had time to think about Nic, I discovered I wasn’t mad. I thought I would be. What he said after the first quake, and then again at Dodger Stadium, cut deep.

  But I found myself thinking about how he must have seen it. In the past few months, he’d discovered that superpowers exist – and that someone he was close to, a person he wanted to be with, had a piece of it. Finding out shit like that will do a number on you, and the mind has a way of forcing the world to reorder itself so it all makes sense.

  Nic’s generous. He helps people. And I guess on some level, he couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t just use my ability after the quakes hit. I thought he was being an asshole… but it’s not quite that simple. Took me more than a few sleepless nights staring at the ceiling of my hotel room to figure it out, but I got there. And it’s pretty clear that he doesn’t feel so good about how he acted, either, hence the attempts to try and patch things up.

  A month ago, I would have jumped at the chance to stay at his place. It was everything I wanted. Now…

  There’s a chunk of soil a few feet away – maybe one Rocko kicked up from stampeding around the yard. I focus in on it, pushing past the drunken haze, sending out my PK. There’s the very faintest hint of contact, like soft lips brushing a shoulder…

  Then nothing.

  I’m changing. In more ways than one. I’m not just stronger. I’m better. I’m… evolving, I guess is the word. And doing it in ways that no one – not Tanner, not Reggie, not my parents or anybody else – could have predicted.

  I’m OK for tonight :) I type. Thx though

  The three dots of his reply stay on my screen for a good two minutes.

  No worries… get home safe OK? Maybe chat tomorrow?

  Sure. Will msg.

  I rest my chin in my palm, staring at nothing. My eyes flicker shut, and for a second, sleep nearly gets its hooks into me. Not quite yet, though. I straighten up, roll my shoulders, wincing as my neck bones creak.

  My thumb moves before I can stop it, calling up Instagram on my phone. Data in LA is still kind of glitchy, but it’s been getting better, and the app boots up fine. I started a burner account recently – @PaellaBitch. I’ve made sure it has every appearance of a fake. No posts, no profile pic, and a random list of follows, everything from porn accounts to motivational speakers to anime memes. There’s only one other account I’m interested in though, and I don’t think he’ll notice I’ve followed him. When you have 1.2 million followers, you don’t tend to pay much attention to them.

  @JonasSchmidtCEO spent quite a bit of time in LA. Not a lot of shots of him specifically – just his crew, doling out food and bottles of water, plus plenty of Stories showing videos of his plane, sharing its location at Van Nuys Airport. Eventually, though, FEMA took over. I don’t know how he got back to Germany, but there was a gap o
f a few days, and then normal service resumed. Gym videos. Photos taken at conferences. Shots of his staff, the description always talking about what they do, and why they’re awesome at it.

  My finger hovers over the latest one – a selfie of him with one of his employees. His CFO, the description reads. A thirty-something woman rocking spiky red hair and a huge grin, her arm around Jonas. He’s wearing aviator shades, a tight black T-shirt.

  I pause, then double-tap to like. A little red heart appears below the pic.

  It already has 1,871 of them, so there’s no danger of him noticing one more.

  I kill the app before I do something stupid. Like start scrolling. Again.

  I don’t need another person in my life to be complete. I have my friends, and my job, and my ability. My city. Food I haven’t tried yet, music I haven’t listened to, awful Reddit threads I still need to read. I don’t need Jonas.

  But just because you don’t need something, doesn’t mean you don’t still want it.

  The door behind me opens, and the familiar sound of Sandra-May’s laboured breath reaches me. “Well, hey,” she says. “Didn’t realise you were still with us.” Under the porch light, she looks small and tired.

  “Yeah.” It takes me a second to clear my head. “No, I think I’m gonna run in a minute. It was a great party though.“

  “Run?” She cocks an eye at me. “You ain’t going anywhere. You’re bunking right here. Couch is pretty comfy.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. Dell can drive you home in the morning.”

  I’m on the verge of protesting, but then I think how sweet it would be to collapse on a couch. Close my eyes. Drift off.

  “Is there anything else to clean up inside?” I say.

  “I think we’re good.”

  “You got it. And thanks, then. For letting me crash. I’ll cook breakfast, OK?”

  She starts to protest, but this time, it’s me who cuts her off. “Nope. That’s my condition. Otherwise I’ll walk back to Pomona.”

  “Deal.”

  The silence that follows starts comfortable, but goes on a little bit too long.

  I start to rise. “Well, good n—”

  “Paul didn’t die in the quake, did he?”

  She’s stooped, breathing hard. But her eyes are bright. Alert.

  I open my mouth to tell her that of course he did… but I don’t have it in me. Not after everything that’s happened.

  “I knew, from the way my Annie was tonight. This wasn’t nature. He was killed by something… preventable, I guess is the word. He was a good man. An honest one. Fair few of those around, I don’t mind telling you. And you know how good he was to my Annie.” She breathes a shaky sigh, and under the porch light, her cheeks glisten with tears. “God, I wish he was here.”

  “Mrs Cr—Sandra-May…”

  “I need to ask you something.” Her voice is suddenly hard. “And you’d better answer straight. Was it drugs? Were y’all involved in some drug thing?”

  “What? No…”

  “Guns? Gang nonsense, anything like that?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Is my Annie involved in something that hurts people? In any way at all?”

  I hold up my hands, just to give myself time to get my thoughts in order.

  “Paul would never hurt anybody,” I tell her, forgetting to use the past tense. “Neither would Annie. Or me. We’re not criminals.”

  There’s a long pause where she just stares at me. And I know what’s going to happen next: she’s going to push. She’ll make me tell her, and I don’t know if I can lie. But I can’t tell her the truth, either – not without bringing the wrath of Tanner down on my head.

  But then she nods. “I get it. You don’t think you should be the one to spill it. I suppose Annie will, when she’s ready. Just promise me one thing.”

  “Of… of course.”

  “You keep her safe. You don’t let her get hurt. She’s already been through enough, and she’s going to need a lot more help after this. So you watch out for her. Understand?”

  Slowly, I nod. Not wanting to admit how relieved I am.

  Sandra-May gives me a slow smile, then starts to move back into the house. I push myself up, thinking I should get while the getting’s good.

  And then I spot something… a little weird.

  Actually, a lot weird.

  Across the street from Sandra-May’s front yard are the Watts Towers. The big, alien-spaceship-looking sculptures, rising out of the cul-de-sac. The houses around them are in bad shape, some even knocked over completely. But the towers… they’re undamaged. Ditto for the wall around them. Those tall, fragile, airy constructions of rebar and concrete are still there. I didn’t even notice before – our arrival at Sandra-May’s was a blur of people and trays of food and boxes of beer. But they’re still there. Undamaged.

  “What?” Sandra-May says. She follows my gaze. “The towers?”

  “Yeah. I thought they’d be…”

  She huffs a laugh. “Let me tell you a little something about the Watts Towers. See, they were built over a period of thirty years by one man. One single man, bit by bit. Simon Rodia, his name was – although back in Italy they called him Sabato Rodia.” She sees my expression. “Don’t worry. It’s not a long history lesson.”

  “OK?”

  “Anyway, Rodia used nothing more than seashells and bits of glass, held together with mortar. And in the fifties, the city decided that the towers were a hazard – if a quake happened, they’d fall over and kill people. Personally, I don’t think they gave a tin shit about the folks in Watts – they just didn’t want any of ’em having a nice piece of art nearby. We didn’t hold with that, made them do a test. They brought in a crane, tied steel cables to the towers. Ten thousand pounds of force. And they couldn’t budge them – not one inch.”

  “Why? That doesn’t make sense.”

  “No idea. Only person who could tell you is dear old Simon Rodia, and he’s long gone.”

  She spots the disbelief on my face, and laughs. “You can look it up on your phone. It’s all documented – photos and everything. Takes more than a couple little earthquakes to knock down the towers.”

  “Kind of an obvious lesson, isn’t it?”

  She shrugs. “Gets me through the day. I’ll leave a comforter on the couch for you, and there’s extra blankets in the hall closet if you get cold. I’ll see you in the morning, and I do believe I’ll hold you to that breakfast.”

  She goes inside, shutting the door quietly behind her.

  The neighbourhood around me is quiet… but not silent. A few doors down, there’s a barbecue going on – a group talking in low voices, the sizzle of meat on a grill, a charred scent in the air. On the far side of the towers, on Santa Ana, a car drives past. Moving slow, negotiating the cracked road. Its lights illuminate a group of kids, out way past their bedtimes, chasing each other in some game. On the corner of the triangular park the towers stand in, two women talk over the glowing light of a cigarette, laughing at some unheard joke. In the distance, a dog barks – and underneath the sound, very faint, the soft hum of Los Angeles traffic. Nothing like it was before the quake – but still there, all the same.

  Yeah. Definitely an obvious lesson.

  Which doesn’t stop it being true.

  I put my phone back in my pocket. Then I lift my tired body up off the porch, and step inside, closing the door behind me.

  SIXTY-SIX

  The Director

  Seven days earlier. Olympic National Park, Washington.

  A pickup truck pulls into an empty parking lot on the shore of Lake Cushman, not too far from the Vance Campground.

  The truck is a big Ford F150, double-cab, with huge tyres for negotiating uneven roads. It comes to a stop, the driver parking it neatly between the lines. In the silence that follows, the trees crowding the lake seem to bend a little closer.

  The Director is in her mid-twenties, with a willowy figure and an
oval face dotted with acne scars. Her blonde hair is tied back in a neat ponytail. She wears a polo-neck sweater under a North Face vest, with hiking pants and thick, chunky boots.

  “Listen, you go ahead,” says the man in the passenger seat. He’s a little older than she is, with thick black hair going very slightly grey at the temples. “I’ll watch the little monster.”

  The girl in the backseat giggles. “I’m not a monster.”

  That earns a smile from the Director – but suddenly, a worry line crinkles her forehead. “Olivia, you’re sure about this?” she says.

  The girl blinks at her from behind owlish glasses. She’s a plump five-year-old, slightly stubby fingers clutching an iPad. Her feet, clad in comfy child-size Crocs, dangle off the big backseat.

  “Positive,” she says. She spins the iPad to face the Director, fingers dancing effortlessly to bring up a satellite map. “Here. Just take the trail in for… hmmm… for three miles. It’ll work, I swear.”

  The Director pats her knee. “Thanks, sweetie. I’ll see you in a little bit, OK? Ajay’s got some snacks if you want.”

  “Are they Pringles?”

  The man named Ajay rolls his eyes. “Olivia. You know we don’t eat those.”

  “Why?”

  Ajay gets a kiss on the cheek from the Director. She hops out the car, grabbing her daypack from the cargo well. It’s a bright, cold day, overcast but not dull. There isn’t another soul around.

  The Director hefts her pack, heading for the far side of the parking lot, the painted white blaze marking the start of the trail. The trees close in on her, swallowing her from view.

  Olivia has almost never been wrong before. She could look at two other kids playing baseball, study them for a moment, and tell you that the pitch after next would break a window – and which one it would be. You’d put her in front of an office building, tell her about the companies that occupied it, and she’d say whether the next person who came out the front doors would be a man or a woman. And the one after that. And the one after that.

  The child was a wonder. She was easily the most successful test subject at the Facility, and she delighted in using her powers. She was capable of things that seemed, to the casual observer, like predicting the future. What it actually was, was probability. Given enough information, Olivia could parse the likely outcomes of any situation. She was most precise when the information was purely mathematical – even this young, the girl had a grasp of numbers that was just unbelievable. But she could look at any real-world situation, and make a very educated guess at the outcome.