Jackson Ford - Random Sh*t Flying Through the Air

“She will have her tent. Even if an earthquake knock it down, she just put it right back up. You think an earthquake is worst thing for homeless people? What can it destroy for us? Our tents are knocked down by police all the time. We rebuild every day.”

“Right. Of course.” Strangely, his little speech cheers me up, despite me being a dumbass. Harry – the homeless guy from my neighbourhood – will probably be OK too. I’ll have to remember to say hi to him when I get back, maybe strike up an actual conversation with him. You know, assuming we don’t die.

“Now come on.” He strides past me. “We still have long way.”

We’re not done talking. Not even close. But even after all the shit I pulled, he’s not leaving me alone.

That’s good enough for now.

Once we’re actually past the hell of Downtown, we make surprisingly good time. It’s around 11 p.m. when we finally hit the intersection of Figueroa and Exposition. The museum should be dead ahead.

There’s a weird glow coming from deep inside the area. Not because of fires – it reminds me of how Dodger Stadium lit up the rainclouds, only not quite as bright.

We are… Exhausted isn’t the right word. I am fucking wiped . It is taking everything I have not to just lie down and fall asleep. Right in the rainy street, I don’t care. It’s not like I can be wetter or colder than I already am.

“Is that it?” Africa says.

“Think so.”

There’s no point saying anything else. We resume our march towards where the museum is supposed to be, in the middle of the park. Above us, a very a distant peel of thunder echoes out across the city.

As it turns out, the museum is… gone.

We don’t even have to get close to it to figure that out. Every building in the park is a collapsed ruin, and what remains of their interiors are dark. I have a rough idea of where the museum is; I’m pretty sure it’s the big building at our two o’clock, the one that looks like a birthday cake that someone got really angry with.

“Shit,” I murmur. Then again, we knew this might happen, I told Reggie as much. If she’d just let us head out in the same direction as the kid went, maybe we would have found something…

Africa, however, hasn’t given up. He looks around, a little more alert than before.

“What’s there?” he says, pointing to the white glow. It’s off to our right now, on the other side of the road from the Science Centre. There’s a noise, too: generators, people shouting, the clatter of vehicle engines.

The white glow turns out to be three large, open tents, hastily erected in the middle of a huge garden. The tents are packed with tables and equipment, enormous flower beds between them. In the middle, there’s a circular marble fountain.

Huge floodlights illuminate the tents, attached to big generators. There are dozens of people milling around – no, a hundred, easy. Soldiers, some of them – National Guard – but most of the occupants of the tents are civilians. They look harassed, rushing between banks of computers, kneeling under tables and messing with tangled knots of power cords, shouting instructions and scribbling on whiteboards.

ATVs – All Terrain Vehicles – zip back and forth. Big four-wheeled bikes with huge cargo trailers, hauling boxes and water tanks. Smart. Probably the quickest way of getting around right now, as long as you don’t mind the godawful noise. Maybe we can steal one, to get us back to the stadium.

We stop at the edge of the park, in the darkness beyond the nearest floodlight. “What do you think, Teggan?” Africa says. It’s an oddly formal question – we haven’t spoken much since our little blowup.

“I think I’d like a hot shower. Also a steak. A big-ass rib-eye, with waffle fries.”

I squint into the rain. “It’s not like a shelter, or a field hospital or anything.”

“People from the museum, maybe?”

“Only one way to find out.”

Nobody stops us as we make our way over to the nearest tent, tramping through a sad-looking bed of mangled flowers on the way. There’s too much going on for anyone to notice. The few soldiers there don’t even glance at us.

Being under cover is the fucking best. I don’t care if these people can’t help us; I’m going to figure out a way to stay here for as long as possible.

There’s a metal table to our left, covered with laptops and power bricks, surrounded by people in folding chairs who are bent intently over the keyboards. I can’t even begin to decipher the data on the screens; it’s total gibberish, graphs and pie charts and reams of scrolling text.

I clear my throat. “So what should we—?”

“Excuse me,” Africa says loudly. He’s stopped someone: an older man with a mop of thinning hair, dark circles under his eyes. He’s wearing muddy jeans and a knit sweater, one half of his shirt collar over the neck of the sweater. “Are you from the museum?”

“USGS?” the man says. “Thank Christ. I think we’ve got the link-up working – go see Gregson, she’s been mapping the aftershocks. She’ll help you get online.”

“No no,” Africa says. “We are not USGS. We are looking for—”

“You’re not?” The man suddenly seems to realise that the person talking to him is seven feet tall, and very clearly not American. He flicks his eyes over at me, which is when I realise we’re still wearing the goddamn airport security uniforms from this morning. Added to my shower/rib-eye/waffle fries wish list: a change of clothes. Preferably a onesie with a hood, and really thick, furry Ugg booties.

“If you aren’t USGS, you can’t be here.” He sweeps past us. “You need to leave.”

“Wait.” Africa reaches out for him, but he’s already gone. He doesn’t even stick around to check if we really do leave.

The same thing happens with the next three people we approach. Well, not the exact same thing – only one of them wants to know if we’re USGS, whoever they might be. But they haven’t seen a boy anywhere, can’t help us, sorry. Nobody appears to be in charge, not even the older dude we stopped first. Everybody’s off on their own mission, bouncing between the laptops and the racks of equipment. Crazy eyes everywhere.

It’s clearly some kind of field monitoring station – one that was set up in a hurry to find out as much about the quake as possible. It’s not even a cool one, like you’d see in the movies, where groups of special forces dudes are protecting Thor’s hammer or something. We strolled in here way too easily for that. It’s just a group of scientists, trying to be as helpful as possible, with a little bit of assistance from the National Guard.

“Let’s go,” I mutter to Africa, after yet another scientist utterly fails to help us. “Waste of time, just like I said. Let’s hope Reggie’s had better luck.”

Africa ignores me, grabbing hold of a passing woman, this one in a khaki shirt with the sleeves rolled up. “Excuse me. Sorry to bother you—”

“Busy,” the woman snaps.

“I know, but please.” Africa jogs to keep up with her, and I follow, getting more annoyed by the second. “We are trying to find a boy, he was at the museum today. Maybe yesterday. We—”

“Go talk to Marybeth. She worked reception. Probably over by the food station now. Daniela! I need those isoseismal estimates now !”

Africa lets her go, his head dropping.

“We’re not getting anywhere,” I say, biting down on my annoyance. “Let’s get back to the stadium, talk to Reggie and—”

“Who are you looking for?”

The voice comes from our left. It belongs to a young Asian woman, leaning up against a stack of plastic bins filled with thick cables. She’s got a freckly face, and straggly brown hair pulled back in an unkempt ponytail. She wears a grey windbreaker over a blue polo shirt, both of which are spattered with mud.