Jackson Ford - Random Sh*t Flying Through the Air

“OK, let’s say…” Mia licks her lips. “Let’s say you really can do… all this.”

I meet her eyes. “Yes. Let’s say that.”

“What do you want ?”

“Were… were you not listening before? The kid. Earthquake boy. We work for the government, and we really need to find him.”

“But why?”

“So this next part is super important. Like, next-level, life-or-death important. You saw what I just did? This kid can do something similar. Only, it’s like…”

I swallow, trying not to think about Paul. It doesn’t work. I get that same feeling, like I’ve been punched in the gut. All I can see is Paul’s blank, staring eyes.

I make myself speak. “He can control the ground. Dirt and soil and stuff. Mia – it was him who caused the quake. Both of them.”

She’s already shaking her head. “No. No, that’s… I’m sorry but no.”

“Are you serious? What else do you want me to move? Seriously. Name it.”

“It’s OK.” Africa flashes me a warning look, puts a hand on Mia’s shoulder. “It’s too much to take in, you know?”

“Uh-huh.” Her voice is about three octaves higher than before.

“But I promise you, we are the good ones. We’re not out to hurt the boy.”

Annie’s words lance through my mind. We’re gonna take his fucking life .

“He maybe does not know what he’s doing,” Africa says. “He maybe not in control.” Another lie, but I let it go. “We must find him before he hurts anyone else. If you can tell us anything about him…”

“His name’s Matthew,” she says.

Matthew . Such an ordinary name. I feel like this kid should be called Jericho. Or Cane.

“S’good.” Africa says to Mia, forcing a smile. “What did you talk about, when he was here?”

“Nothing! I mean… he was just a really smart kid. For his age, I mean. He asked a lot about quakes.”

“What did he want to know?”

She runs a trembling hand through her hair. “Pretty much everything. He was asking about fault lines, and the San Andreas, and aftershocks, and seismic data.”

“A four-year-old asked about this stuff?” I say.

“He’s gifted. One of those kids with a super-high IQ.”

Oh, excellent .

“OK, think,” I say. “Did the kid… Did Matthew say where he was going next? Maybe like another fault line? Are there even any others around here? Because I get the feeling he’s not just going to stop at two quakes.”

Mia gives her head a shake, a quick one, like a horse trying to shoo a fly. “I don’t know , OK? Most of it was just the San Andreas, although there was a bunch of other—”

She stops. Her baseball eyes go even wider. Her still-trembling hand makes its way back to cover her mouth.

“Um. Mia?” I say.

“Cascadia,” she breathes. “Oh my God.”

Africa and I exchange a confused glance. “What is Cascadia?” Africa says.

“No,” she says, giving a little shake of her head. “He couldn’t… I don’t see how he could do it. And there’s no evidence. But if he did…”

I do not like the expression on Mia’s face. I do not like it one little bit. “Yo, Mia. Cascadia. What is it?”

“The implications alone… because… Even if you have these powers or whatever, I don’t see how he could…”

“ Mia .”

Mia looks between us. At that moment, it’s as if she removes herself from the conversation. Checks out entirely, just for a second. Like she has to have a little conversation with herself. Then she draws in a weak, shaky breath.

“The Cascadia fault line. He’s going to destroy the entire western seaboard.”

It’s almost midnight when the helicopter drops them on a vacant patch of land next to the Interstate, a few miles from Bakersfield. The cameraman turned out to be right. The town itself got hit, but not quite as badly as Los Angeles, a hundred miles south. The freeway is still mostly intact, despite being clogged with hissing, honking lines of trucks.

She barely remembers the questions Molly Zuckerman asked her. She got real vague about the soldiers not letting them enter the stadium, confused about what she saw, unsure. The reporter, Zuckerman, got more and more exasperated – especially when Matthew flat-out refused to answer any of her questions.

The whole time, Amber had been alert for a change in the chopper’s direction – any sign that the government had figured out where they were. It hadn’t come. Which either meant they had agents waiting for them in Bakersfield… or they’d gotten away clean.

The chopper touches down a hundred yards from the 5, dry grass waving in the rotor backwash. “Are you going to be OK?” Zuckerman says, as she leans across to pop the chopper door. “I hate leaving you like this.”

She doesn’t sound like she hates leaving them. But there’s no trace of betrayal in the woman’s voice, no sense that she’s waiting for a dozen government agents to spring their trap.

“We’re good,” Amber replies. “We’re gonna try our luck with the trucks.”

Zuckerman nods, distracted, and slides the door back. The roar of the rotor blades fills the cabin. The pilot doesn’t even look at them, and Miguel the cameraman is playing with his phone. If there are agents ready to spring a trap, this little news crew is doing a good job of hiding it.

With a final, weak smile for Zuckerman, Amber climbs out. Matthew is right behind her. They run bent over instinctively, only straightening up once they’re clear of the chopper. It lifts off with a dull roar, turns back towards LA.

Amber comes to a halt, scanning every patch of ground she can. Beside her, Matthew has picked up on her anxiety. But there are no shouts for them to stop, no phalanx of black-clad agents. Nothing but the wind, and the resigned honking from the convoy of trucks on the Interstate.

Matthew takes her hand. “That was smart.”

“…What?”

“The interview thing. It was smart.”

She gapes at him, trying to remember the last time he praised her. Can’t do it. She gets that same burst of ridiculous pride, the same as when the professor at the museum told her she’d raised a hell of a kid.

He’s calm, and she’s in control. All she has to do is keep him this way. And she can do that, no sweat.

The ground is less torn up here than it was in Los Angeles, as if the quake’s effects petered off the further north they got. It starts to slope before it reaches the freeway. Matthew and Amber have to scramble up the last part, hands digging into the dusty soil. Of course, Matthew could probably create a set of steps if he wanted , Amber thinks. She yawns suddenly, then runs a dry tongue over her lips. There was some water in the chopper, plus a bag of opened potato chips, but it wasn’t close to enough.

The line of cars and trucks extends into the distance in both directions, the highway clogged, everyone trying to get out of California. The traffic is hardly moving, and the air is thick with the stench of exhaust fumes.

“Go ask them if they’ll take us north,” Matthew says, gesturing to the trucks.

Amber does so, buoyed by her sudden good mood. She and Matthew aren’t the only ones out on the blacktop. The gaps between the massive trucks are filled with people – mostly other families, it looks like, dragging their possessions in wheeled cases or pushing them in shopping carts.

She tries the cars first, the SUVs and Priuses jammed between the trucks. But they’re all full, heaving with families and belongings. No room. The few that Amber does find with space shake their heads, giving furtive glances at their door locks.