Jackson Ford - Random Sh*t Flying Through the Air

Standing there, on the tarmac of the burning airport, I have never felt so small.

I lift a shaking hand to my earpiece. “Paul? Annie? Anybody?” I swallow. “This is Teagan. You there?”

Not even static. Just dead air.

I start walking, not really caring about the direction, just knowing that I have to move or I’m going to collapse. Was Nic at work when it happened? Did he get out OK? What about Reggie? “This is Teagan, please come in. Over.”

Is it my imagination, or was there the very faintest hint of something other than static? I freeze, speak the words again, like they’re a magic spell.

Nothing. No response. I keep moving, making my way across the uneven ground. I’m starting to see people now: customs agents and runway workers and fire fighters, swarming like ants. A fire engine shoots past me, siren blaring, loud enough to make me stick my hands over my ears. I don’t know where it’s going – it’s heading for the runway in the opposite direction to the fires. Maybe it’s trying to get away .

I almost collide with a man as he weaves onto the tarmac. He’s wearing a high-vis jacket that used to be yellow. It’s a dark brown now, covered in drying blood from the horrific gash on his forehead. I gape at him, not sure if I should yell for assistance, help him myself or just run.

“There’s a fire,” he says, clear and calm. “Someone should call 911.”

Then he collapses. Like he’s been shot.

That same horrible indecision. Do I help him? Find someone?

My body moves for me. In seconds, I’m kneeling beside him, scrabbling for his wrist. I can’t find a pulse, no matter where I put my fingers. But I’ve always been bad at finding pulses, so I stick a finger under his chin, and that’s when I see he’s gone. I don’t need a pulse to know that. His eyes stare at nothing, glazed and empty.

Oh, shit .

My earpiece crackles. “—over where the—”

“Paul?” I hit the earpiece so hard I almost wedge it into my ear canal. We must be back in range – there’s interference, but I can hear him. I can hear him! “ Paul? Are you there?”

“—gan, we’re—”

“Paul, I’m OK. Tell me where you are.” My legs start moving on their own, taking me away from the dead man. Who was he? Did he have a family? A girlfriend? Did he—?

Nope. Stop that right now. There’s nothing you can do .

I keep walking towards the terminal building, pausing every so often to cough, the smoke burning my throat. My uniform pants are covered in dirt – I don’t even know how that happened.

“—peat, we are by the tower. If you can—will be waiting for y—”

The tower . It’s almost impossible to pick out in the billowing smoke, but I find it. Or what’s left of it. It looks like a tree that’s been felled by a lightning strike, a jagged lance jutting into the sky. It’s maybe a third of a mile away.

I’m halfway there when the aftershock hits. It’s a jolt, rocketing up through the soles of my feet. Then a shaking that sends me stumbling onto all fours. I flatten myself on the ground, hands stinging from where I fell, thinking: Stop. Please stop. You have to stop .

And it does. After a few more seconds, the rumbling fades. I stagger to my feet, keep walking.

It’s the van I see first. It’s on its side, wheels still spinning. Smoke gushes from the hood. Annie, Paul and Africa are huddled behind it. When he spots me, Africa gives a yell, exploding to his feet and sweeping me up in his arms. He squeezes tight enough to make the muscles in my shoulders creak.

“What happen to you, Teggan?” he says. “You were up on the plane, yaaw ?”

“They turned around,” I say, when he lets me go.

“How the hell you pull that off?” Annie’s dark skin has gone ash-grey. She’s dirty, but outside of a scrape on her forehead, she looks unharmed. Paul, on the other hand—

“Fuck.” I drop to my knees in front of him. “What happened to your arm?”

He’s holding it tight to his chest. Midway down his right forearm, there’s an angle where there shouldn’t be one.

“Hit the door frame when we crashed,” he says through gritted teeth. “I’ll be fine.”

“You do not look fine.”

“He hit his head too,” Africa says. “I think maybe he has concussion.”

“Teagan,” Annie says, insistent. “How’d you get back?”

“Like I said, they turned the plane around.”

“What? Why?”

“Long story.”

“And the list?”

“He didn’t have it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Look, forget the list, we need to get out of here.”

Africa straightens up. “I must go to Redondo. Jeannette is there.”

Paul swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I already told you what Reggie said. We have to go back to Venice, right now.”

I frown. “Why? What did Reggie say?”

Africa ignores him. “It’s nonsense. We don’t know what she said.”

“I need to get to Inglewood,” I say, sidestepping whatever this conversation is. “Nic’s there, so—”

Another fire engine roars past us, siren deafening – and then there’s a huge, dull thud. At first, I think it’s another aftershock, but it doesn’t sound the same. We all turn to see a gout of fire blooming at the end of the runway – a big one, belching smoke.

“That was a plane.” Annie’s voice is almost inaudible.

“Two,” says Paul. “I saw it. They hit each other.”

“ Yaaw .” Africa sounds like he’s just shrunk two feet.

“Shit, Teagan, you came in that same way?” Annie says. “Same runway?”

That does it. I turn, and retch up my breakfast. It’s been threatening for a while, and I can’t hold it off any longer. Coffee and digested energy bar and very expensive champagne spatter my uniform boots. I’m suddenly embarrassed, for no good reason, and stumble away. That only makes it worse – now I’m walking and vomiting, gruel painting my shins. I can’t stop shaking.

Africa is crouched down, hands dug in underneath the overturned van.

“The fuck are you doing?” Annie mutters.

Africa sees me looking. “Come help.”

“…What?”

“The van. You can use your dëma powers, huh? Get it up.”

“The engine’s fried,” Paul says.

“Teggan – flip the van. Flip the fuck van .”

I don’t think I’ve ever heard Africa swear. The way he speaks doesn’t permit it – he has too many other words to draw on, three languages of amazing slang. And he’s not the kind of person who gets angry. Hearing him say fuck gives the word its power back. He lumbers over to me, grabbing me by the shoulder, as if he can make me do what he says.

I whack his hand away. “Don’t touch me.”

He steps back, a look of shock on his face. But he backs up.

I don’t normally mind him touching me. God knows, he hugs me enough. Then again, this wasn’t a relieved hug – this was him ordering me to do something, treating me like a tool. We don’t have that kind of relationship. We never will.

Carlos would know what do. Carlos could fix the engine. He could —

I don’t have Carlos. All I have is Africa, and he’s no Carlos. And now is not the fucking time, Teagan, by the way.

Not that Carlos deserves any of my time. Not one goddamn second.

“Come,” Africa says, pleading. “You got these powers. You must use them. Flip the fuck van. Then we find the man who make the earthquake.”

I blink at him. “I’m sorry, the what now?”

“ Hey .” The shout takes all the strength Paul has. He collapses back against the side of the van. “Let’s just all… just all think for a second.”