Jackson Ford - Random Sh*t Flying Through the Air

“You know it makes sense.” Paul shifts position against the van, grimacing. “You can all ride down to Venice. It’s…” He turns his wrist to look at his watch, a wave of pain rolling across his face. “…Christ. OK. It’s almost half-twelve, I’d say. You can make it to Venice in three hours – four at the most. Then—”

“What about you?” Annie says.

His eyes find hers. For a second, it looks like he’s about to tell her he’s fine, he’ll come. Then his shoulders slump. “Last thing you need is me losing consciousness. And I won’t be able to keep my balance on a bike. I’d just slow you down.”

“The fuck you will. I’m not leaving you here.”

“ Annie . You have to. There’ll be doctors soon, or they’ll take us to an emergency shelter. You can patch my arm for now, and they can treat my concussion – or at least find me a dark room to rest in.” He winces again.

She wipes her mouth.

“If I fall off a bike,” Paul continues, “I’m no good to anybody. You need to get to Reggie… but you don’t need me there. That’s the quickest way to find out what’s going on. Maybe to find your families too. If anybody can track them, Reggie can.”

Annie’s face contorts, her expression going from worried to scared to angry, and back to worried again. “Baby, no…”

“ I’ll be fine . I promise.”

She trails off, staring into the distance.

Oh boy. I want to tell myself Paul heard Reggie wrong – that she said what , not who , that the idea that a person caused all this is bugshit crazy. But the problem is, if he heard right, then we can’t afford to do nothing.

“Teagan,” Paul says, bringing me back. “Find us a vehicle. Preferably an SUV or a pickup. Annie: you and Africa crack the van. Get the first aid kit.”

It’s surprisingly easy to find a car during an earthquake. People just leave them standing there, doors open, keys in the ignition. Sometimes they’ve even left the engine on. If you run a chop shop, an earthquake is a serious growth opportunity.

I probably shouldn’t be making jokes right now. Sorry not sorry. It’s either that, or throw up again.

It takes me a while to find the kind of car Paul asked for, though. It’s a Ford F150, just inside the boom of a staff parking lot, on the other side of the terminal building. The engine is on, the truck beeping softly to let everyone know a door is open.

My legs are jelly, but I somehow manage to climb in. The windshield is cracked on the driver’s side, spiderwebbing out from the bottom-left corner. A smear of blood on the wheel, too. No sign of the driver, but there’s an airport laminate badge on the passenger seat, the photo showing a smiling, bald man in his fifties, with a scruffy beard. Ralph Lorencz. Crew Schedule Coordinator . “Thanks, Ralph,” I mutter, shifting the truck into drive. “Hope you got out OK, bud.”

I wish I could believe that.

It’s less than five hundred yards back to the van, but it takes me a good ten minutes to get there. It’s not just the cracked, chopped-up ground. It’s the smoke, drifting on the breeze and obscuring my view out the windshield, forcing me to drive slow. It’s the other cars, abandoned, many upside down. More than one has a dead body inside, with blood-spattered windows and wrecked bodywork. I do my best not to look, feeling absurdly guilty. Like I should climb out and apologise to them.

When I reach the guys, Paul’s arm is in a makeshift sling. He’s on his feet, unsteady but OK. Africa and Annie are fussing over a backpack, loading it up with a couple of water bottles we had in the van. Snacks too: there are some bags of beef jerky on the runway next to them. I know exactly where they were, in the van’s glove box. Right where Carlos used to keep them, so I could eat after missions.

Fuck you. Not now .

Africa eyes the truck’s broken windshield, looking queasy, but says nothing. The tarmac is slick from the drizzle.

“OK,” Annie says to Paul. “We’re gonna drop you off at the terminal, and—”

“No.” He shakes his head, then winces, his eyes squeezed shut. His hand strays to his neck, rubs it. “You can’t… can’t risk someone commandeering the truck. I’ll be fine. I can’t ride a bike, but I can still walk.”

Africa and I load everything up, leaving Annie with Paul. As I sling my backpack into the passenger footwell, Annie is still arguing with him, gesticulating.

“Teagan,” Africa says. “Please. I must find Jeannette.”

“Dude, Paul was right. By the time you get to Redondo—”

His expression hardens. “I will take one bike. You cannot stop me.”

I bite back what I really want to tell him, which is that he sounds like a little kid having a tantrum. “True. But you know Paul’s right.”

Africa holds my gaze for second. Then his shoulders sag, his huge hands at his sides. “And no list, huh?”

“What?”

“On the plane. You say Mister Germany not have the list.”

“Yeah. Well.”

“I think I might be in trouble,” he mumbles. “With Paul, you know? He and Reggie wanted me to stay with the van, but when things went bad for you on the plane, I just think, maybe I can help.”

“Don’t even worry about it.”

He continues like I hadn’t spoken. “You back me up, huh? If I get in trouble?”

“What?” I’m barely listening. “Oh. Sure. Whatever.”

“Thanks. I really don’t want—”

“Annie!”

Paul’s shout is ignored. Annie walks away from him, not looking back, face set as she climbs into the truck.

I waver, not sure what to do. After a moment, Paul’s shoulders sag. His bald head gleams in the wet.

He walks up to us, moving gingerly, like he’s walking on broken glass. When he leans in the window, his face is very pale.

“Nuclear Bikes, on Valerio Street,” he says, addressing me. “Just head west out the airport – you’ll find it. I’ve given Annie my ex-wife’s number – make sure she calls it from the office, OK? Let her know I’m fine.”

Annie, in the backseat, doesn’t look at him.

I chew on my bottom lip, not wanting to leave him there. “Can I not at least give you a ride to—?”

“ No . We can’t risk a first responder taking the truck. I’ll be fine – just go.”

This sucks .

But it doesn’t stop me from giving him a wave, clambering into the truck and heading to the western edge of the airport. In the rear-view mirror, Paul stands alone, a dwindling silhouette in the rain.

Whoever Crew Schedule Coordinator Ralph Lorencz is – or was – he had good taste in trucks.

The F150 is clunky but powerful, and we manage to cross the tarmac without too much trouble. The truck mounts the torn-up sections easily, although I have to steer it around several of the larger cracks. I’m worried about getting past the airport fence, unable to stop thinking of armed guards, alarms, landmines, whatever hell else the TSA protects airports with.

It turns out not to be a problem. Because the fence isn’t there any more.

It’s worse outside the airport. There, things were spread out – the broken planes and broken buildings were far enough apart that it felt like I could ignore them. Here? It’s zombie apocalypse. Nuclear winter. Day of the dead. Broken buildings, sirens, burst water pipes, downed power lines spitting like firecrackers. The few people we see look barely alive: covered in dust and blood, with dazed looks, as if they’ve just woken from a long sleep.

That same feeling again: total helplessness. There is no way – at all, ever – that a single human being caused this. No freaking way. I don’t believe it.