Jackson Ford - Random Sh*t Flying Through the Air

“I – yes. Yes, we did.”

“Miguel!” Molly Zuckerman bangs on the side of the chopper, making the cameraman start. Some hair has come loose from her ponytail, and she brushes it back, still looking at Matthew and Amber, as if they’ll run the moment she blinks. “Sorry about before. It’s been a little crazy down here. You know how it is.”

“So can you help us or not?” Matthew says. Amber has an urge to snap at him – he might be smart, but he’s being way too demanding. If this is going to work, he needs to trust her…

Zuckerman’s smile falters slightly. Without looking away from them, she gestures at her cameraman. He’s already got the camera hoisted to his shoulder, red light on. Amber’s instinct is to flinch away – but then again, what does it matter? The government already knows where they are, already sent people after them.

All the same, she finds herself stepping in front of Matthew, shielding him from the camera’s eye.

“OK…” Zuckerman closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, moving her hands down to her waist as she exhales, thumbs and index fingers touching. She glances at the cameraman. “We rolling?”

He nods, and Zuckerman turns her thousand-watt smile back on Amber. “Ma’am, can you tell us exactly what you saw in Dodger—?”

“We’ll talk to you if you give us a ride out of here.” Amber straightens up, ignoring the stab of pain in her ankle.

“The hell you say,” mutters the pilot.

A shadow crosses Zuckerman’s face. “I’m just asking a few simple questions, that’s all. About the stadium. Can you—?”

“I said . You fly us north, we’ll give you your interview.”

“I say we do it,” says the cameraman. “We’re not getting anywhere here.”

“Not your call, Miguel.” Zuckerman sounds annoyed now, but her eyes tell a different story. There’s a hunger in them, an eagerness.

Beside Amber, Matthew has fallen silent, as if sensing what she’s trying to do.

There’s a risk. An insane risk. If the government really is on the hunt, then she’s about to do something that will let them know exactly where she and her son are headed. Then again, she’s lived through risk like this before. She lived through it every time she picked a mark, every time she pretended to be hurt, every time she threw herself in front of a car. Risk is in her blood.

The government won’t shoot down the chopper – not one from a TV station. They might try and divert it, change the flight path… but they’d have to do that without letting Molly Zuckerman know. And of course, even if that did happen, and the reporter agreed to it, the government couldn’t just take them the moment they stepped out of the helicopter. Not while cameras are right there.

By the time the footage gets back to the station, she and Matthew will be long gone. And really, what’s more dangerous? Going on foot? Through a city where the government could swoop down on them at any time? Or risking this chopper ride?

Zuckerman bites her lip. “Why north?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Matthew says. “We just need somewhere where the roads are still working.”

The reporter blinks at him in surprise.

“Bakersfield might do,” says the cameraman. “Town got hit pretty bad, but the roads are still good, s’far as I know.”

A map pops into Amber’s head. Bakersfield… almost a hundred miles away, but if they could get there…

“What’s your name?” Zuckerman asks.

For a long moment, Amber doesn’t know what to say.

Does she tell her they’re Amber and Matthew? Does she give their real names? No – it’s way too risky.

“Denise,” she says, pulling the name of another doctor at the Facility. “This is… this is Mike. Mikey.”

Zuckerman’s smile is back. “Pleased to meet you, Denise and Mikey. Bakersfield it is. But only if you answer all my questions.”

“Mol, We’re not a goddamn taxi service,” the pilot says.

The reporter ignores him. “OK – Denise. What did you see? Tell me everything.”

“No.” Amber points. “We need to get out of here. We’ll talk in the chopper.”

Zuckerman almost growls in frustration, but glances at the cameraman. “Is that going to be OK? For sound?”

Miguel puffs out his cheeks. “Should be. Only got the one aviation adaptor, but I can lav up a headset. It’ll be distorted but—”

“Good enough.” Zuckerman points to the chopper. “Let’s go.”

A medical tent in a disaster relief camp is a shitty place to grieve. And it’s definitely a shitty place to plan your next move.

It’s noisy. Crowded. Stinks to high heaven: mud and sweat and, weirdly, the citrusy tang of orange juice. Like someone hung up a cheap air freshener. We have to crowd in close around Reggie’s hospital bed, which is shoved up against a corner of the tent, the bed frame pushing against the thick, off-white fabric.

Africa is crouched down next to Annie, who has her back against the wall of the medical tent. She hasn’t said a word yet – she’s just sitting there, head on her arms, like she’s sleeping. Africa’s been trying to talk to her, but clearly it isn’t going too well. The tent is loud, the air filled with shouts and groans and barked commands, which is making the argument I’m having with Reggie even more difficult than it is already.

“We can’t,” I tell her.

“We don’t have a choice.”

“Of course we have a fucking choice.”

“What do you think is going to happen if you go after him right now?” Reggie’s brown skin is almost grey, and the crow’s feet around her eyes are even deeper than usual. “That’s not smart, Teagan.”

“Yeah, because what’s smart is all of us staying here and trying to convince these people –” I wave behind me at the chaotic mess of patients, soldiers and doctors “– to let us get on the horn to Washington. Hey, hi, we’re a secret government agency – no for real – and we need to jump on one of your satellite phones and call up our commander in the Pentagon so she can tell us what to do about the kid who can cause earthquakes .”

“Will you keep your voice down?” I’ve never seen Reggie look this frustrated, this angry that she can’t just climb out of her bed.

“I don’t even see why we’re talking about this. I’m going back out there, I’m gonna find that boy and I’m gonna—”

“What, Teagan? What are you going to d—?” Reggie coughs, her weakened lungs protesting.

“I’m gonna stop him. Obviously. Africa, back me up here.”

At my question, he slowly turns his head to look at me. His face is gaunt.

“Back me up,” I say. But it’s getting harder and harder to put any energy into my words. Like trying to sing a high note when your vocal chords are shredded.

Africa gives a helpless shrug. “I suppose.”

“Come on, dude. You can do better than that.”

He says nothing. Just turns back to Annie.

“You aren’t—” Reggie coughs again. “You aren’t thinking strai—” The coughing intensifies, her shoulders hitching as she hacks. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

I have never heard Reggie swear, and I have definitely never heard her take God’s name in vain. Not that I’m about to bring her up on it. He hasn’t exactly been doing a bang-up job lately.

It’s starting to dawn on me that Paul is really gone. It feels like a hangover – like that horrible period where you’re still half-asleep but you know something isn’t right and you can feel it building, pushing up against your closed eyelids and clogging your sinuses and sucking all the moisture from your mouth.