Jackson Ford - Random Sh*t Flying Through the Air

I keep wondering if they’ll ever play baseball here again – if the field can even be saved after all this. Let alone the stadium itself. Maybe they’ll just tear it down and build a new one. Then again, will there even be a baseball team in Los Angeles any more? A quake like this is going to knock the state’s economy off a cliff…

Thinking of the wider consequences makes my head spin. What about the restaurants I love? Not just the small mom-and-pop spots, the little Vietnamese noodle shops and taco trucks and bistros. I’m thinking about the big ones, the ones that spend their time angling for Michelin stars – spots like N/Naka, where I still haven’t eaten, and probably never will. Burgers Never Say Die. Atrium. Dialogue. Shit, Howlin’ Rays! The best fried chicken I’ve ever eaten! All these mind-blowing restaurants that are just… gone. And – oh man, the service staff. Waiters and dishwashers and cooks and night porters. Thousands upon thousands of people, out of work.

And there’s more. Everybody thinks Los Angeles is all about the movie industry and nothing else. It definitely isn’t true, but a shit-ton of people still work on movies here. After today, the global hub of film production will probably move somewhere cold and boring. Like Vancouver.

Amoeba Music? The greatest record store that ever was or ever will be? Gone. Not to mention other ones that are just as cool, like Fat Beats. And I can forget about seeing Jay Rock at the Coliseum, because the Coliseum probably doesn’t exist anymore. Ditto for the Novo, the Echo, the Roxy. And all the little incidental spots that populate my life, like Ziggy’s on La Tijera, where I get my hair done. The bodega on the corner of Roxton Avenue in Leimert Park, which I can never remember the name of even though I chat with Mo, the owner, all the time.

This kid’s killed us. He’s put a bullet through my city’s brain. And he’s taken up residence in my own.

Mostly, I’m pretty comfortable with who I am. I don’t spend a lot of time obsessing over self-improvement, and if you don’t count the four years I spent in the custody of the US government, I’ve never been in therapy. Who needs it? I’m not some comic-book character with a dark past and a hidden history; I know exactly where I come from, and why I have my ability, and I came to terms with it a long time ago. It made it easier to just chill the fuck out and enjoy life, and fill my brain with important things, like how not to burn paella.

But after Carlos, and Jake, that little core of certainty took a knock. With this kid – this child who appears to be a lot stronger than I could ever imagine – it’s been sucker-punched. He didn’t appear out of nowhere. Someone gave him his ability. But why? And who?

Where the hell did he come from?

I lower my head, and push on through the muck.

If anything, the situation inside the baseball diamond is even worse. There are fewer wounded here, but all that means is they’re louder, and more likely to push you out the way as they move past. My PK gets a feel of watches, chains, wallets filled with coins, belt buckles – not to mention the world around me, plastic buckets and metal tent poles and M-16s. After someone shoves me aside for the third time, it’s very tempting to just grab the nearest object and start swinging.

Paul’s voice suddenly pops into my earpiece. “Testing, testing, one, two, thr—”

Static. Silence. Then Annie: “Copy th—short-range transmi—is still—”

“Yeah, think—some problems with the link. Teagan, do you—?”

“I’m here,” I say, not sure whether they’re going to catch it or not. It doesn’t feel like it matters much.

Home plate. Near as I’ll to get, anyway. Ahead of me, a soldier on an empty flatbed tries to ignore the people bustling around it. “Where’s our water?” someone yells.

“For the millionth time, we’ve given out all we have.” The soldier’s distracted words are greeted with groans, angry mutters. My heart sinks. “There’s more coming in, but you need to be patient.”

Balls. I send out a wave of PK, looking for the familiar shape of plastic water bottles, hoping that maybe he’s just stalling for time. But there aren’t any in the immediate vicinity. Guess he’s telling the truth.

I turn to go – and smack right into someone, face-planting their chest.

“OK, seriously,” I say. “Watch where the fuck you’re—”

Nic stares back at me, blinking in surprise.

He looks like shit. And that’s being nice.

There are dark circles under his eyes, and a huge streak of dirt down the side of his face. He’s wearing an old UCLA hoodie and jeans, both of which are torn in a dozen spots. His sneakers are caked with mud.

There’s a second where we just goggle at each other, then we both start speaking at once, both of us demanding to know if the other is OK, where she/he came from, if they’re hurt, how long they’ve been here. I only stop when Nic grabs me, pulls me into a bear hug.

We’re both freezing cold, soaking wet. But Nic has always given really good hugs – and right now, having him wrap his arms around me is like sitting courtside at Game Seven of the Hugging World Championships.

“This is fucked,” he says.

“Yep.”

After a long moment, we pull apart. “Are the guys here? China Shop?”

“Yeah. They’re fine. Well, Reggie might be hurt, and Paul broke his arm.”

Nic winces at that.

“But otherwise we’re OK. What about you?”

“I’m good,” he says. “My mom and dad, too – they’re back there.” He waves towards second base. “I came to get some water. Did they have—?”

“All out, apparently. I’m here with the guys though – you can always come back with me if we can’t find any. Maybe they got lucky.”

He nods, then leads me away from the angry crowd. There’s a relatively clear spot by the wall, and we slump against it. It’s not sheltered from the rain, but we’re so wet that it hardly seems to matter.

Paul and Annie are still chatting in my ear, talking about the ride down from Van Nuys, which feels like a lifetime ago. I pop the earpiece out, dropping it in my pocket. I don’t want to be interrupted right now.

“This is fucked,” Nic says again. “They’re saying it was bigger than the one in 1857. That was only a 7.9.”

“Yeah, I know. I was actually in the air when the quake started. I saw it all happen.”

“In the air ?”

“Long story.”

He falls silent, staring at nothing. Looking at him, all I want to do is rewind the clock. Back to the night of the paella, before any of this shit occurred.

“How’d you get here?” I ask.

“How’d you get here?”

“You first.”

“Not surprising.” He scratches at the dirt on his cheek. “They’re bringing in as many people as they can – this is like a central emergency camp for FEMA. Makes sense, if they want a place people can easily get to. I’m still not sure it’s a great idea, because they did the same thing in New Orleans during Katrina, with the Superdome. That went bad fast.”

“Looks like it might go bad here too,” I say, watching the unruly crowd. What is it with government agencies? They never fucking learn .

“Man, I was worried about you,” he says. “When the second quake hit, I tried to message you, but I guess this one was big enough to take out the cell towers for good.” He wipes his face. “I was at work – well, kind of; my mom and dad had come down to meet me for lunch, and I was showing them my new office—”

“Wait, you were worried about me?”

He gives me a strange look. “Uh… yeah . Anyway, we got out OK, the building was up to code – more or less. So we just took the stairs down to the—”