by Jackson Ford
Movement. A flicker at the edge of my vision. I turn just in time to see something hurtling out of the darkness.
It hits me so hard that my lungs lock up. Just stop working. Unbelievable, incredible pain rolls up from my diaphragm as I’m sent crashing to the ground. Fireworks explode across my vision. I’m aware of putting out a hand to stop myself falling, aware of it skidding across tarmac, skin ripping from the palm.
FORTY-SIX
Jake
He hadn’t meant to hit her. It had been instinct—a decision driven by flat panic, by the sheer, stunned confusion of seeing her do what he can do.
She stopped him. She stopped him. His entire life he thought he was the only one who could make things move. As a child he’d had fantasies of hunting for others, finding them, joining forces. But it’s been a long, long time since he’s thought that way. He’d resigned himself to being alone, putting every atom of energy he had into finding out where he came from.
And then, right at the moment he was about to finish off Salinas…she arrives. Salinas was escaping, and this woman was standing in front of him and she could do what he could and—
—he’d panicked.
The car was already out of range and she was standing there looking at him, and she could do what he could and he had to do something. He’d reached out, grabbed a nearby mailbox, ripped it off its post and sent it right into her solar plexus, just as he’d done with Bryan Hayden.
She lies on the tarmac, clawing at it, gasping for breath. As he watches her, he has a single clear thought: Get her inside.
He jogs over to her, heaves her to her feet. She doesn’t fight. She’s drawn every bit of energy she has into herself, focusing on nothing more than getting the next breath into her lungs. She only keeps her feet because he’s holding her up. Several times he has to drag her, her sneakers dragging on the street surface. It occurs to him that he could use his ability—get something underneath her, float her into the house. But when he tries to work out how he could do this, he can’t. His thoughts are mush.
The orange glow in the sky has got brighter. The crunching, crackling sound of the fire is no longer background noise. Jake barely notices. They reach the driveway of the house, and he kicks open the front door, stepping over the body of Alan the neighbour. Getting her the last few steps into the living room takes almost everything he has. Her breaths come in huge, croaking gasps.
Another sound reaches him. Screaming from the pantry. Sandy, her voice turned ragged, hammering at the door and yelling to be let out.
“Shut up,” he mutters.
He lowers the woman to the ground by the remains of the flatscreen TV. She’s dressed in jeans and a grey hoodie, with a shock of black spiky hair. His thoughts, which were just beginning to come together in some sort of order, desert him again.
He’s furious at himself for lashing out, furious for not knowing that there was another like him—not just in the same country, but the same city. What else has he missed?
Her gasps dissolve into a hideous coughing fit. With what feels like an almost physical effort, he brings himself back. He can’t afford to have her attack him, which is almost certainly what she’ll do when she can breathe again.
An idea comes to him, fighting through the muck in his mind. He darts back into the hall, rips the rebar out of the door frame and floats it back into the lounge. He aims it like a gun in front of him, pointing it right at her head.
One way or another, he’ll get answers.
FORTY-SEVEN
Teagan
I have never been hit that hard before. Not even when the car ploughed into me when we were running from Burr and his team. That was a love tap compared to what this jerk-off did.
After what feels like thirty years I’m finally able to get some air into my lungs. It’s a trickle, no more, but even a trickle can be enough after thirty years without water. I raise myself up on my elbows, thoughts starting to clear. OK, fucker. Let’s see if you can take hits as hard as you give them out.
There’s a smashed TV behind me with lots of loose shards of glass and metal in its frame. I reach, grab hold of it, very slowly start to lift—
“Don’t.”
He’s got one of his rebars less than two feet from my face, twitching in mid-air. No way I’ll be able to do anything with the TV before he skewers me.
The air is actually hazy with smoke now. I control the fear, lock it down, make my eyes meet his as I drop the TV. It lands with a muffled thump.
“Yeah.” I groan the word, finally sitting up. My voice is a wreck. “I’ve seen what you can do with that.”
“How did you get your Gift?” he says. And yes, from the way he says it, the capital letter is obvious.
“My… what?”
“Your Gift. You can do what I do.”
My side throbs, sending rolling waves of pain through my torso. I take a closer look at him. There’s a weird look in his eyes. A hunger. No, a longing.
Someone is screaming. Screaming and hammering. It’s coming from behind me. “What is that?”
“Don’t worry about it.” But his eyes don’t change.
Over my shoulder there’s a door leading off the open-plan kitchen, shut tight, vibrating as someone pounds on it. A woman. She’s yelling, and underneath that sound there’s sobbing. A kid. Oh shit.
I almost tell him to let them go—they aren’t a part of this. But that never works in movies, and it isn’t going to work here. Whoever they are, they’re safe—for now. Better in there than out here.
Until the fire hits the house.
“Did you know your parents?” he says.
It’s a few seconds before I answer. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”
“Who were they? Tell me.”
I don’t even know where to begin. He has to be the child of one of the women my parents used. But was he still in the womb when they decided the experiment was a failure?
“They were scientists,” I say, slowly moving a knee underneath me. “Geneticists.”
“Like Watson and Crick?” he says.
“I don’t—”
“They discovered DNA. It was a turning point in the history of genetics.”
“OK?”
He reaches up with a trembling hand, scratches at his stubble. The hungry look hasn’t left his eyes. “Your parents, were they the only ones doing it?”
“I… I think so.”
“Then they must have given me my Gift. Just like they gave it to you.” He looks at me. Really looks. “So they experimented on both of us. What did they do? Tell me everything.”
I’m really not sure I want to tell this guy his mom was a hooker.
“I don’t know the details. I’m not—”
“How can you not know?” Now he’s angry, the rebar twitching. “Don’t you care?”
“Buddy,” I say, my temper slipping, “I care more than you know.”
“Then do you remember me? When we were little?”
“No.”
“You’re lying,” he says through gritted teeth. “You have to be.”
“Just take it easy.”
“How can you not remember?” Behind me the TV is launched into the air, flipping and spinning, crashing into one of the wrecked cabinets, making me jump.
“Hey!” I shout, more scared than angry. “It was just me, and my brother and sister, OK?”
“Were they like me?”
“No. They had different abili—Gifts.” I lick my lips, trying to ignore my scorched throat. “How long have you known what you can do?”
“Since I was a kid. I kept it a secret.”
“I kind of had to do that too.”
“Doesn’t sound like it.” He grins suddenly—an awful grin, one that flares across his face like fire licking through gasoline. “Sounds like you had it all figured out.”
A shard of glass floats between us, distorting his features, elongating them. I’m not the one floating it, and it’s not the only object in the air ri
ght now. I don’t even think he realises he’s doing it.
This isn’t working. I can’t talk to him. We’re not even on the same planet.
“It wasn’t like that,” I say as I reach out for the heaviest object I can find: a microwave lying against the wall behind him, its door shattered in a spiderweb of cracks.
He looks down as if thinking. I grab hold of the microwave, but I don’t lift it. Not yet. If he’s like me, he’ll be able to sense the objects in the room around him, even now. There’s a chance he might realise what I’m doing, stop the microwave in mid-air. He’s strong enough. I have to fire it at him, slam it into him when his attention is focused on me.
“We couldn’t tell anybody,” I say. “And there was no one else like… no one who could do what I could. You’re the first, dude.”
“No,” he says, wagging a finger at me as if I’ve been naughty. “You’re lying. There’s no way someone like me lands up in the exact same city at the same time. You knew me. You knew me, and you don’t want to say it.”
More and more objects are starting to lift into the air. Chunk of shattered plastic and torn metal. Kitchen implements. More glass shards. If I don’t do this soon, he might grab the microwave.
OK. If reasoned argument won’t work, maybe getting pissy will.
“Hey,” I say, bringing his attention back. “Let me tell you something, asshole. I’ve had one hell of a day. I’ve been framed for murder, tasered, been chased by the cops, wrecked the apartment of someone who wants to date me, and then you bumble along and smash me in the side hard enough to knock me out. I have had precisely two hours sleep in the last forty-eight, and I am very close to completely losing my shit. So how about you stop calling me a liar and listen to me.”
On the last word, I launch the microwave at his back.
His eyes go wide. The microwave comes to a jarring, shuddering halt three feet from him. It’s like I’ve slammed it into a wall.
And at the same instant the floating rebar rockets towards me. I have just enough time to scream before it wraps itself around my throat.
I can’t believe how fast it happens. It’s like the rebar is alive. The metal groans, almost squeals, as it twists in on itself. I claw at it, panicking, trying to push it back with my PK. But he’s too strong. Way too strong.
I’m jerked into the air. My feet kick and dance, a foot off the ground, fingernails breaking on the steel. Can’t breathe. The words flash in my mind like a neon sign. Can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t—
“I thought you could help me,” he says. “But you can’t. You’re just like everyone else.”
Which is when the best and worst thing in the world happens.
Carlos.
He’s in the doorway behind the killer. Neither of us heard him come in. He’s standing there, mouth open, staring at me.
He can’t be here. He can’t. I have to tell him to run. I have to.
But my face must give it away, because at that instant the killer spins round. I gasp a warning, and nothing comes out.
No!
He’s going to kill him. Right in front of me. He’s going to take one of those pieces of glass and bury it in—
With something like wonder, the man says, “Chuy. What are you doing here?”
FORTY-EIGHT
Jake
The Chuy standing in the doorway of the living room is not the Chuy Jake knows.
That Chuy had a look to him: like he was expecting the entire world to come at him and knew he could take it on. This Chuy looks like he’s run a marathon. His flannel shirt is streaked with soot.
All the same, there is no one he’s happier to see. Yes, Javier Salinas got away—if he’s even still alive—but that doesn’t matter. They’ll find him. And if they can convince this Teagan, the girl who has what he has, who can do what he can do, then…
We gonna set this whole city right.
His whole body is vibrating with an electric energy. Another him. Another him. Chuy is going to go fucking insane.
The girl—Teagan—tries to say something. She can’t quite do it. Jake realises he pulled the rebar too tight, and a little jolt of guilt shoots through him. Now that Chuy’s here, they can convince her. He lets her go, keeping the rebar around her throat but letting her crumple to the carpet.
Chuy looks over Jake’s shoulder. “Just stay down, Teagan, OK?”
“Chuy,” Jake says. “Oh my God, you have no idea…” But even as he speaks, his mind is catching up. Chuy just called her Teagan… but neither she nor Jake have said her name yet.
“Jake.” Chuy coughs so hard it nearly doubles him over. “Homie, we gotta get the fuck outta here.”
“I did it. I got Chase and Bryan Hayden. Javier got away, but I hit him pretty hard.” No, she didn’t tell him her name, and neither did I, so how…
“That’s fine.” Chuy raises his eyes to Jake. “That’s all good. We’ll get him. But we gotta go.”
Teagan manages to choke out a word: “Carlos.”
Chuy points to the door. “I got a car. Help me with her.”
Slowly Jake says, “Why is she calling you Carlos?”
“Doesn’t matter. I’ll explain it all later, OK? For now, we gotta—”
“You know her?”
It doesn’t make sense. How could Chuy possibly know this girl? He’s got to be mistaken.
“Carlos,” Teagan says. Her voice is a wreck. “Fucking help me.”
Jake points, feeling as if he’s in a lucid dream. “She can do what I do. She can move things.”
“Yeah.” Chuy pulls something out his pocket. A taser, black and yellow. “Look, she ain’t just gonna come quietly, no matter how hard you choke her.” He turns toward her, aims the taser. Jake can feel Teagan’s power scrabbling at the bar at her throat even as she stares up at Carlos in disbelief.
Jake tries to marshal his thoughts, force them into some kind of order. “If you knew about her, then why would you—”
Chuy—or Carlos, or whatever his name is—spins round, and this time there’s no mistaking his anger. “Shut up. Shut the fuck up right now.”
He sticks a finger in Jake’s face. “You couldn’t finish it. You were supposed to do it all in one night, and now I gotta come in and save your ass.” The finger swings towards Teagan. “I’m gonna hit her.” He lifts the taser. “You’re gonna grab her, I don’t care how, and then I’ma drive all of us outta here.”
“Why didn’t you tell—”
“Because you didn’t need to know! Quit hanging around like a fucking pussy.”
He turns to Teagan, aims the taser again. He doesn’t see Jake’s face contort, the anger on it much, much worse than his own.
What Chuy is saying is logical. They can incapacitate Teagan, make their exit, track down Salinas. Finish the job. Chuy kept this from him… but he might have been planning to share it later on, as part of the info he’d promised. These thoughts are rational, calm, logical—and utterly powerless in the face of the furious, betrayed anger coursing through him.
This whole time Chuy knew about Teagan.
And he said nothing.
Before he realises what he’s doing, Jake has reached back with his mind. He finds another one of his rebars without looking, its shape as familiar as the saddle of his motorcycle. As familiar as the gnawing hunger he took to sleep with him on the many nights he spent under overpasses and on park benches. Thinking he was alone.
In the instant before he launches the rebar the part of his mind that’s still thinking straight cries out. But it’s too late, much too late.
Chuy lied.
He puts so much energy into throwing the rebar that he feels it actually bend. It doesn’t matter. The leading point punctures Chuy’s chest, yanks him back off his feet.
FORTY-NINE
Teagan
Carlos knows the killer.
More than that. He wanted to have me take the blame for the murders. He wanted to taser me. Kidnap me.
And r
ight now I can’t think about any of that. It’s too much, too complicated, way too batshit crazy. All I can focus on is how Jake just hurt someone I care about, and I am going to make him pay. No more talk. No more two-of-us-against-the-world bullshit. This fucker is going down.
As the rebar strikes Carlos, slamming him against the wall, my PK goes nuts. It’s a marathon runner breaking through the wall, a deadlifter busting through her max weight. It is my body and my mind working as one, channelling every ounce of energy I have into a huge, focused, raging flood.
I grab everything I can. Every piece of glass and metal and plastic in the room. Every object. Chunks of plaster tear themselves from the walls. The light fixtures rip from their sockets, trailing sparking comet-tails of wire. The rebar around my neck doesn’t bend. It snaps, the pieces whirling away, then coming back like boomerangs. All of it—metal, wire, glass—aimed right at the killer.
It almost works too.
This time he really is distracted, focused completely on Carlos. A whickering blade of glass slices across his shoulder. A lamp, its shade missing, strikes him in the shin, dropping him to one knee. But then he reacts, meeting my energy with his own, stopping the barrage of objects coming his way. Our opposing energies don’t hold them; they ricochet outwards, hurled away, smashing into the walls and ceiling. Somewhere Javier Salinas’s wife is screaming.
The killer—Jake, Carlos called him Jake—adds his own ammo into the mix, grabbing the flying objects and bringing them back, launching them towards me. I duck behind a table, digging deeper, pushing out more and more energy. The noise is unbelievable. It’s a volcano, an earthquake, a hurricane, all of them squashed into a tiny space and raging to get out.
I sweep my energy across the wall behind him, digging through the plaster into the supporting beams. A choked howl bursts out between gritted teeth as I drag at them. This is beyond anything I’ve done before. I don’t have time to pay attention to whether I can actually do it or not; I have to get those beams out. One is buried too deep, but the other two bend and then snap with a sound like bombs going off, crunching through the plaster as they tear out of the wall.