Jackson Ford - Random Sh*t Flying Through the Air

She’d told herself no matter what happened, it was on her to find a way to make him better. She couldn’t rely on anybody else to do it – she was his mom, and it was her responsibility. Nobody was going to do it for her – she had to step up, take the weight. Every book she’d ever read had said the same thing: nobody can help you, only you can help you.

As she watches her son rage, tears trickling down her cheeks, huddled on her knees amid clouds of drifting dust, Amber finally understands.

It’s like the discovery of the fault lines woke up something inside him, something more malicious than before. The state trooper he buried was one thing. Even the people killed in the earthquake, and that government agent at the stadium. But the trucker was trying to help them . And Matthew… he just…

She can’t control him. She never could. Maybe she might have been able to, once, but that was a long time ago. It’s just like every con she’s ever run. They might work, for a while, keep the money flowing in… but it’s not enough, and it’ll never be enough.

The strangest thing: with the branch broken, with the last part of her stripped away, she feels no guilt. As her son destroys the world around them, all she feels is relief. Through her tears, Amber finds herself smiling.

Matthew drops to his knees again, hands flat on the ground. The look on his face reminds Amber of what she’s seen on other children when they play: furious concentration, totally absorbed in drawing a picture or building a Lego castle. He’s breathing hard through his nose, forcing air in and out in quick, harsh gusts. Abruptly, he sits, cross-legged. Streaks of dirt cover his face, his fingers black with it.

“There’s not enough trapped energy here,” he says. His anger has vanished, snuffed out like a candle. Now his tone is thoughtful, considered. “I got ahead of myself.” In his young voice, the phrase sounds oddly formal. “And it makes sense. The closer I am, the better chance there is of letting it release. I shoulda thought about it first. That was barely a magnitude 7 quake.”

He nods to himself. “Cos with San Andreas, I was right over the fault. But Cascadia’s all the way out at sea, so I can only trigger it with an ETS zone. And I’ll have to be right in the middle. Or as close as I can get anyway. Amber, I don’t think you can drive that truck – it looks complicated. Go find us another car.”

Amber doesn’t move. She isn’t sure if she can.

Matthew says her name again, which means he’ll start hurting her soon. She doesn’t know what to do about that, and isn’t sure she cares. He was going to anyway, no matter what – she’d told Jocelyn to run, tried to save her. She’ll be paying for that, so why not just stay huddled here? Why not enjoy a few moments of calm, blissful nothing before the pain starts?

And then the oddest thing happens. Her son climbs into her lap, nuzzling in close. Stunned, Amber finds herself wrapping her arms around him.

“Do you love me?” he asks.

Her mouth falls open. It’s a question he’s never asked, not once. She’s not even sure he’s said the word love before.

“Do you?”

“Of course I do.” It’s automatic – but then, what kind of mother doesn’t love her son?

“I love you too.” He nuzzles closer.

A few minutes later, he says, “Just one more, and then I’m done,” he says. “I promise. I don’t even think there’s any more I could do, unless you take me to, like, South America.” He giggles. “And then… and then we can go live somewhere. We can have a house and a car and I’ll even go to school and I won’t hurt anybody, ever.”

“It won’t be the last,” she tells him through her sobs. “You’ll—”

“It will.” He looks up at her, his eyes wide, the same blue as hers. “I swear. Just one more, and I’ll never use my power again. I’ll be normal.”

Incredibly, he smiles. It’s the smile of a four-year-old boy, innocent and carefree and friendly. The smile of a boy in the arms of his mother.

It’s all a lie. Of course it is. He wants her there to buy food and get them rides and smooth the way. But Amber is no more in control of her response than she is of… anything. She hugs him even tighter, lets herself fall into the feeling.

So it’s a lie. So what? There’s no point in fighting. No point in trying to control who he is. If she really wants to be a mom, a good mom, she’ll have to take him as far as he needs to go.

Amber kisses her son on the forehead, helps him to his feet. It feels like she’s given over control of her body to someone else, and she doesn’t mind at all.

“OK,” she says. “Tell me where we’re going.”

It’s mid-morning by the time we reach the Olympic National Park. The sky is overcast, and it’s still raining a little, but at least the sun is up behind the clouds.

All we need to do is identify Matthew. We don’t have to go near him – he shouldn’t even know we’re there. Burr and company haven’t actually explained the details of the plan to us yet, but it doesn’t really matter. I know how this ends.

My stomach lifts – we’re descending, the chopper banking low over the trees. The pilot puts us down in a dirt parking lot – there are big metal trash cans, a picnic table or two, the distant glint of a lake through the trees. We land with a thump, the soldier with the goatee reaching over to pop the door. The chopper interior goes from calm and still to full action in under five seconds, the soldiers hefting packs and weapons, scrambling out the door. We run, hunched over, heading for the picnic tables.

As soon as we’re clear, the chopper lifts off, the pilot flashing a quick salute before vanishing over the trees.

“He’s not sticking around?” I ask Burr.

“Negative. Don’t want to tip our boy off when he arrives.”

If he arrives. I shiver. Tanner can talk about logic and intelligence all she wants, but we are still gambling here. Trying to outsmart someone who doesn’t think like we do.

The parking lot is adjacent to a campground office. What is, in fact, a campground office: a log cabin with the words WELCOME TO VANCE CREEK CAMPGROUND on a big sign above the door. The building has a huge porch, empty of chairs and tables, and a vacant carport next to it. A thick stack of metal sheets sits propped against the side of the building – I can already feel them with my PK. They’re the kind of sheets you’d use for roofing on an outbuilding. Maybe the owners were planning on building a storage locker, and never got around to it.

There’s a firewood shelter, like we used to have on our farm in Wyoming, but there’s not a lot of wood in it. Hardly surprising – the camping season is long since done, so whoever owns this camp has probably shut up shop and gone somewhere warmer. When we’re finished here, I might do the same. I’m thinking an island – one very, very far from any fault lines. An island with a cocktail bar and a hot bartender.

Trees crowd in on all sides, big Douglas Firs. A slim road slopes down from the parking lot, cutting through them. Two hundred yards away, it dog-legs right, vanishing in the shadowy forest.

“OK,” Burr shouts. “Let’s get to it. Santos, on the perimeter, make sure the neighbours aren’t gonna complain. Grayson, De Robillard – pick your nest. Garcia, Okoro – get inside. Start setting up.”

“What you gonna do?” says one of the soldiers – the woman with the scar.

He grins. “Catch up on my podcasts, Okoro. Hustle up.”

She rolls her eyes again, heading for the building. When she gets there, she crouches, pulling a pick set from her pocket and going to work on the lock. I want to shout to her that I could save her the trouble, but I don’t quite know how to phrase it. The other soldiers head for the forest, carrying bags of gear.