Jackson Ford - Eye of the Sh*t Storm

The dude over there, fussing with his bag, desperately trying to pack his possessions because apparently saving your prize collection of bowling trophies or whatever is super-important when a tsunami is coming. He’ll be easy. But even as I think this, a woman stumbles past, high off her motherfucking tits, screaming for somebody called Derek. I’ve hadn’t seen her before now. It’s like she’s been waiting this whole time to show herself.

And – holy shit, is that guy drawing ? Yep. This happy asshole is kneeling on the ground and muttering to himself and drawing something with a piece of chalk. He’s facing the flood, and either doesn’t know it’s there, or doesn’t give a shit.

I’m not going to be able to get them all out. Not in the three or four minutes I have left. Not even with the assistance of Africa, or the Legends. And even if I did, even if I somehow managed to clear this place in time, it wouldn’t help the poor fuckers downriver.

My hand strays to my jacket pocket, and my eyes go wide.

And immediately squeeze shut. No fucking way. I promised myself I wouldn’t. And in any case, we are not talking about a few random organic objects here. We are talking about a mass of raging water. I don’t even know for sure if I’ll be able to affect it.

I have to try .

I squeeze my eyes shut, the consequences of what I’m about to do bouncing around my mind like ricocheting bullets.

There has to be another option. There has to.

There isn’t.

I turn, and step into the storm.

Face the flood.

It’s much closer now. Huge chunks of concrete tumble end over end, carried by the sheer force of the water. The cars in the torrent spin, almost lazily. The bamboo stalks bounce and crash, moving in and out of the sick-looking foam.

Here we go .

It’s a thought that’s supposed to give me confidence, and it doesn’t work.

I wipe rain out of my eyes, blinking hard. Then I reach into my pocket, and pull out the meth.

Such a small thing. A little plastic pouch, filled with crystalline white powder.

I shouldn’t have this. I told myself I took it so I could experiment – so I could figure out if there was a way I could use it safely.

What a crock of shit. That little story I told myself was just that: a story. I got high on meth, and I wanted more, and I had a chance and I took it. That’s all.

Maybe – just maybe – I could have gotten past the addiction. Not going to happen now. I can’t microdose here, not with the flood bearing down on me. The only way I’m going to stop it, the only way I save the people still in the homeless camp, is by getting a good-size hit into my system.

As I look down at the baggie, the want swells up inside me. The need . The awful feeling that I’m holding the only key to true happiness in my hands.

I’m not an idiot. I know what happens to meth addicts. I know how bad it can get. And those thoughts make me recoil, because there is no way – no way in hell, not ever – that I’m letting myself become one of those people. I’ll cold turkey this motherfucker, check into rehab, do whatever I have to—

Except: if I don’t take this meth, right now, people are going to die.

Not me. I can fly the fuck out of here. Grab my little pallet with its handy metal bracers, and magic carpet my ass up onto the freeway. Watch the flood sweep by underneath me. Then go and find the woman who took Reggie, and beat the shit out of her.

And then never be able to look at myself in the mirror again.

I laugh. It’s a desperate, pathetic sound. My whole big speech to Nic about making adult decisions, doing the right thing, and it turns out that doing the right thing in this case involves taking a shit-ton of hard drugs.

There’s gotta be another way. Something you haven’t thought of .

There isn’t.

And I am out of time.

The baggie is your basic Ziploc. I pop the seal, letting out a tiny puff of white powder. I’ll have to snort it, properly this time. How long will it take to kick in? If the flood gets here before it does…

I cup my palm, and tip some powder into it. It looks like heaped, white sea salt.

Having this shit, this salt-looking drug, in the palm of my hand is like a mirror image of the life I wanted. As if somewhere, an alternate-universe me is in a kitchen somewhere, holding a small pile of sea salt. That version of me turned her back on China Shop, decided to be happy and live her life on her own terms. She made it work.

I wish I was her. Instead of the Teagan who acted like an adult, and is now facing down a raging flood using a bag of meth as a weapon.

I stick my face in the pile of meth, and take a quick, hard sniff .

It’s like somebody letting off a firecracker in the middle of my head. A piercing, burning, jagged pain explodes across my face. I jerk back, yelping, blinking back acid tears. The rest of the meth in my palm scatters into the air, and I almost drop the whole bag.

I make a sound that is halfway between ugh and argh . Hell, my entire face feels halfway between ugh and argh . I shake my head, snorting, like a horse shooing away a fly. God fucking dammit. Wow, I am not doing that again.

I take a deep breath, hoping that maybe I’ve been sucked into that parallel universe where I’m a famous chef and not trying to stop a flash flood in a storm drain. No such luck. The water is closer now, a boiling mess of froth and debris.

I’m still terrified, still exhausted… but the burning in my sinuses acts a little like a slap in the face to a drunk, clearing things up for a minute. I stuff the rest of the drugs back in my jacket, hating myself for doing it, but knowing I might need them.

I send out my PK in a wide arc, looking for any phones pointed in my direction. I can’t find any, and the phones that I do find get a quick crunch on the internals. When the meth kicks in, I’ll have to do a wider sweep, just like I did when I fought off the Legends. I’m under the cover of the freeway, out of sight, so I shouldn’t have to worry about being spotted – although there are probably a few people still in the camp who are going to get one hell of a shock.

I have to be ready. I flex my fingers, focusing on my PK. I think it’s stronger, but if so, it’s not by much.

“Come on,” I whisper. “Hit me.”

It doesn’t. The flood keeps coming, and my PK stays very much as it always has been. The front edge of the flood is a rolling nightmare, and the concrete underneath my feet is starting to vibrate.

“Any minute now…”

Shit, what if I didn’t take enough? I’ll have to do another dose, and even then it might not kick in before the flood gets here.

I would give anything right now to reverse time. Fuck my conscience, fuck anybody stupid enough to still be in the storm drain with the flood coming down on them. If I could turn back the clock, I’d throw that fucking bag of meth as far as I could and get the hell out of here. I wouldn’t let this poison anywhere near me. But I did, and it’s inside me now, and I put it there. This is one little doodle that can’t be undid.

I need another hit. I paw at my jacket pocket, hating that I have to do this, knowing that there’s no choice. I’ll have to hope that there’s time for—

Oh.

Oh, shiiiiiiiiiiii

I exhale.

It takes a thousand years.

My PK range doubles. Triples. Quadruples. Goes further than it’s ever been. I’m at the centre of a sphere of burning, clean, white light. A light that burns away fear, my doubt, everything. A light that leaves nothing behind but stillness.