Jackson Ford - Random Sh*t Flying Through the Air

“Help me understand, Teags.”

“If Tanner sees me, on the news or whatever, then who knows what she’ll do? Even if I just use my abilities a little…”

“So you could help save a bunch of people, but you’re not going to do it because your boss might be watching?”

“That’s not fair. You know that’s not fair.”

“You don’t have to throw shit around – just put a little of your… your PK or whatever it is into the heavy stuff. She won’t even know.”

“She will.”

He mutters something.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He won’t look at me.

I just stare at him. When he does meet my eyes, the careful blankness in them is like a physical thing. Diamond-hard, edges sharp enough to draw blood.

“Come on,” I say. “Don’t be like that.”

He pushes himself off the car. “You’ve got a couple hundred dead, who knows how many injured and a situation where you might actually be able to do some good. Then you’ve got your job, your life and your fucking boss. It’s… it’s amazing to me that you haven’t figured out what’s more important.”

“You think I don’t want to help those people? I do. It’s just…”

“What? Just what, Teagan?” He digs the heel of one hand into his right eye. “Fuck it. They need people out in SB, and I don’t have time to stand here arguing with you about this. You change your mind, you come find us.”

“Nic, wait.”

But he’s gone.

I sit there, in the rain, listening to distant sirens. Thinking of a million things I could have said. I should have made him apologise, say he was wrong, get him to admit that it’s more complicated than he thinks it is.

But Nic’s a lawyer. He lives complicated. If it was this simple for him, then what does it mean for me?

If I went out to San Bernardino, and Tanner saw me, everything would be over. Any good I’d be able to do in the future, any bad guys I could take down through China Shop… all that would vanish.

Two hundred dead .

I hang my head, knuckles white on the edge of the car hood. Maybe I might be able to help somewhere, lift the guilt that has settled on me like a heavy blanket. But there’s nothing for me to do here. There are no more people trapped under rubble. The fires are out – at least from what I can see. Maybe I should hop into the Batmobile – my black Jeep, still parked up the street from my house – and cruise around. But where would I go? What would I look for? And what if I accidentally do reveal my ability? The thoughts paralyse me, lock my feet to the ground, just like before.

“Did you know the San Andreas fault maxes out at 8.3?”

I didn’t see the earthquake preacher come up behind me, but he’s in full flow. “It doesn’t have the capacity to store more energy than that. Not like Cascadia – hoo boy, if that ever goes, we are really in trouble. Well, I say we , but it’s more like everybody in Oregon and Washington. We probably don’t have to worry too much. And people think quakes like these relieve pressure on the fault lines, but actually—”

“Dude.”

“—it’s only a ten-thousandth of the total—”

“Dude.”

“…Yes?”

My mouth can’t decide between Go fuck yourself and Stick your dick in a blender , so what comes out is, “Go fuck your dick in a blender.”

Not my strongest comeback, I know. He gawps at me as I trudge back to my house.

The power’s still out. The ambient light from outside my windows just barely makes things visible. I sit in the dark, eating direct from the tub of salted caramel ice cream. It was on its side on the floor when I came in, but in a rare moment of clarity, I’d put the lid back on after I’d finished serving us. It’s mostly melted by now, but fuck it. Maybe this is how the night was always going to end: sitting in the dark, alone, eating a tub of ice cream.

It’s not the quake. Nic just used that as an excuse. He doesn’t want to be with you .

It’s a nasty thought. Poisonous. And utter bullshit – because really, how self-absorbed do I have to be to put my own hang-ups over a goddamn earthquake? But that’s the thing about poisonous thoughts. Sometimes, you can’t stop yourself taking another bite. I follow this one all the way to its conclusion, relishing the bitter taste. I don’t know why I thought I could pull off tonight. Did I really think I was going to win him back using… what, some stupid fucking Spanish rice?

My phone buzzes – a text from Reggie. Glad all safe. Most roads and freeways unaffected AFAIK. Would like to see everybody at office tomorrow 9 sharp. Biz as usual!!!

“Biz as usual,” I murmur.

I sit in the dark for a long time.

Amber tries to light her second cigarette. Can’t do it. Her hands are shaking too hard.

She takes a deep breath, tries to steady them. She’s already dropped the first smoke, which spiralled away into the dark motel parking lot below the balcony, vanishing from sight. They’re not hard up for cash – Ajay took care of them – but it wouldn’t be a good idea to waste what they have. That would bring nothing but trouble.

It’s full dark. In the room behind Amber, Matthew is asleep. Finally. Passed out on the mussed-up covers, the iPad still propped on his chest.

A fault line. That’s what it was called. He’d looked it up afterwards, when they were back in the car, feverishly scanning the internet to find out more about what he just did. In the stunned moments following the earthquake, Amber had wondered why it had never happened before – why Matthew had never come across another fault line. None in New Mexico, she supposed. Until a few days ago, neither of them had ever left the state, a state where they were still known as Diamond and Lucas Taylor, instead of Amber-Leigh and Matthew Schenke. The new names are more of a mouthful, harder to remember, which was probably Ajay’s intention when he made up their new IDs.

Still, the new names had stuck. Then again, who is she kidding? Lucas ( Matthew , she reminds herself) had insisted on sticking to them. Amber had called him by his birth name just the once, a few hours after they’d left Albuquerque, and he… he’d… been angry with her.

Distracted, she lets the lit cigarette fall from her lips. It tumbles off the balcony, the wind catching it, blowing it out of sight. She doesn’t move to light another one, has already forgotten it. She can’t stop thinking about the moments after the quake.

When the shaking started, he’d cocooned them in a sphere of earth – sealed them in a protective barrier. The terror Amber had felt was unbelievable, holding her in a vice-like grip. Trapped in the dark, the thick air choking her, Matthew cackling with glee as the world roared outside. And afterwards, when he opened the cocoon…

The gas station building was gone. Collapsed in on itself. One wall remained standing, steel bars sticking up like flagpoles. The awning above the pumps had wrenched loose off its supports, tilted to one side like a ramp, the big Chevron sign hanging by no more than a few shreds of metal. A puddle was spreading out from the pumps, the air above it shimmering. Propane containers rolled loose, their cage torn open. The man who had been filling them was dead. Crushed. The sky above was dark and thunderous, and chill wind had picked up, raising the hairs on Amber’s arms.

The ground was different. Not torn or broken up; it was if it had been rearranged while her back was turned. There were mounds and bumps where there were none before, small depressions, the earth caving in on itself. The gas station’s concrete apron was cracked and pitted.