Jackson Ford - Random Sh*t Flying Through the Air

All the same, they were substantial. Her dream, of a new world for her and her kind, was closer than it had ever been – and who knew where the next few months would take them?

The thought of her sister gives the Director pause. Teagan thinks she’s dead, of course. Along with their brother, Adam.

The Director isn’t sure how she feels about that. It’s a necessity of course. There’s no way they could pull this off if Emily (Teagan, as she calls herself now) knew about it. But it doesn’t stop the little pang in the heart, the pang of one sister missing another. The pang of lost years.

Off the trail, the woods are hard going. It takes the Director a little while to get close to her target. And it’s no animal, that’s for sure. It senses her coming, tries to hide, but it can’t move very fast and it’s far too weak.

The boy is hidden in the hollow of a dead tree, curled against one of the roots. He’s smeared with dirt, shivering, scrawny, pale as snow. His hair is a wild mess, and he gazes up at the Director through haunted, half-mad eyes.

The Director crouches down, keeping her distance. “Hi, Lucas. Do you remember me?”

It takes him a few seconds to answer. “The l-lady from the School.”

“That’s right. I’m Chloe. I’ve come to take you home.”

A few moments later, he’s gathered in her arms, his freezing face pressed to her warm neck. She rocks him, soothing him, as he starts to cry. Around them, the forest breathes, slow and sure.

When he’s calmed down a little, she hefts him, and begins her walk back out the woods. A couple of hours later, some signal bars appear on her phone, and she dials Ajay. He picks up on the first ring.

“I’ve got him,” she says. “Tell the monster she was spot on. No, I’m coming back. Keep it warm for us. Oh – and do me a favour? Call Adam. Tell him he can drop the homeless act. We don’t need to watch Teagan any more.”

She hangs up, kisses her charge gently on the head.

“Almost home,” she whispers.

Hey. Teagan here.

Jackson Ford is a lazy asshole, and forgot to do his acknowledgements. It’s cool though, I’ll write the thank yous, it’s not like I’ve got anything else going on right now.

However! Since Jackson left it to me to finish what he started, I get to do it my own way. And since all my amazing, hysterical hip-hop-related in-jokes were forcibly removed during editing, I’m getting my own back here. This isn’t part of the story, and no one actually reads book thank yous anyway, so nobody can stop me.

I thought long and hard about this, and decided the best way to do it would be to give everybody a Wu Tang Clan nickname. Shut up, it’s a great idea. And you fuckers are lucky I’m in a good mood, or at least one of you would have ended up as Blue Raspberry. Google her.

First up: Ed “The RZA” Wilson. Jackson’s agent, the man with the plan, the guy who makes sure things actually get done around here. Without Ed, none of this happens. Also, the world would have a lot more negronis and dog-patterned trousers to go around.

Equally important: Emily “The GZA” Byron. Her editing mind is as sharp as a liquid sword. We couldn’t have done it without her. She also got rid of the ninja unicorn assassin from another dimension that showed up for the final battle, so yeah: she’s good at her job.

Emily got an assist from Bradley “Method Man” Englert. New York’s finest. Thanks, homie.

Joanna “Inspectah Deck” Kramer brought this book from error-filled manuscript through to the thing you hold today. She bombs atomically.

Steve “U-God” Panton, for once again putting together a cover that makes the ladies melt and the fellas get jealous. Seriously: my covers look fucking great.

Saxon “Cappadonna” Bullock, who helped fix all of Jackson’s continuity errors, spelling mistakes and shitty writing. He did a great job, too. Even if he thinks it’s preferable to write Tupac, instead of 2Pac. Don’t ever fight with me on rap trivia, man. You’ll get your ass kicked.

Nazia “Ghostface Killah” Khatun and Ellen “Raekwon” Wright: the dynamic duo who promoted the hell out of this book. Also to Madeleine “Masta Killa” Hall, with the mad marketing moves.

Finally… oh. Shit.

OK, so, here’s the thing. The other main person I have to thank is Tim Holman, who runs Orbit Books, and is Jackson’s publisher. There is only one core Wu Tang member left, and as much as I crack jokes, I’m not sure I can get away with calling the actual boss of this whole operation Ol’ Dirty Bastard. Tim: you’re fantastic, we love you and please don’t fire us.

A few more people. One of the most overlooked parts of this operation is the Hachette Audio division. They do a time-intensive, difficult job creating audiobooks, and I want to thank them here. You really, really need to hear the audiobook of The Girl Who Could Move Sh*t With Her Mind (the book before this one, in case you’re keeping score). They crushed it. Go listen. I’m hoping most of them come back for another go. A big thank you to Lauren Patten, Graham Halstead, Michelle Figueroa, Pavel Rivera and Louise Newton.

Jackson Ford talked to two highly qualified academics for this book, and then did his usual trick of messing up every bit of useful info they gave him. They are not to blame for any of it. A big thank you to Kit Miyamoto, for breaking down Jackson’s misconceptions about earthquakes, and Nick Wogan, for helping him figure out the ETS zones.

As we all know, Jackson couldn’t find his ass with both hands and a map, let alone accurately depict Los Angeles. So thank you to Alisha Grauso. Jackson’s LA connect, his fact-checker extraordinaire, the one person standing between him and God knows how many lawsuits.

George Kelly and Werner Schutz read this book when it was still just a pile of dog-eared pages covered in mayonnaise and earwax. That they actually sent it back with some helpful comments blows me away. Or, hell, maybe they just really like mayo and earwax. Whatever turns you on, guys.

And let me get serious for a second, OK? While this book was being written, we lost two incredible musicians here in Los Angeles. Darrell Fields, aka Mr Guitar, of Skid Row, a huge advocate for the city’s homeless as well as a peerless player. And Ermias Ashgedom, aka Nipsey Hussle, one of the greatest rappers ever, entrepreneur, activist, LA ambassador and a true marathon OG. You will both be missed, and my city is a little darker without you.

JACKSON FORD has never been to Los Angeles. The closest he’s come is visiting Las Vegas for a Celine Dion concert, where he also got drunk and lost his advance money for this book at the Bellagio. That’s what happens when you try to play roulette at the craps table. He is the creator of the Frost Files, and the character of Teagan Frost—who, by the way, absolutely did not write this bio, and anybody who says she did is a liar.

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