by Jackson Ford
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.
Africa is quicker on the uptake than I am. “Are you from the museum?”
“Yeah, I was a volunteer, why?”
“We’re looking for a boy. We think he came through the museum before the quake. We are trying to talk to anybody who might have seen him.”
“Oh.” The woman gets to her feet, which takes a lot longer than it should. “Um, I mean, we get a lot of visitors, but…”
“But you might have seen him?” I step out from behind Africa, my heart beating a little faster.
“Maybe, yeah. What did he look like?”
I describe the kid. “He was wearing one of your shirts,” I say. And I can see from the way her eyes light up that she knows who I’m talking about. I exchange a quick glance with Africa – finally, a little luck. This may go nowhere, but it’s a start.
“The earthquake boy,” the volunteer says. “Sure, he was here. He came by this morning, before… well, before it all happened.”
“The… earthquake boy?” That cuts a little too close to the bone.
“Yeah, he was really smart, actually. Asked some amazing questions about quakes, and…” She trails off, her bright expression changing to a frown, taking in our sodden uniforms. “Wait a second. Why do you want to find him?”
“It’s a long story. Look, what did you guys talk about? Specifically?”
She bites her l
ip. “I’m… I’m sorry, I just have to ask… what agency are you guys with? Because those look like TSA uniforms, so I’m…”
“He’s my little brother,” I say.
“Your brother?”
“Yeah. He would have been here with our mom. I really want to find him.”
But I’ve said the wrong thing. The woman’s frown deepens. “There’s no way she was your mom. She couldn’t have been much older than you. I’m sorry, but who are you guys? Why are you interested in this kid?” Looking past us now, as if trying to catch the eye of someone more senior. Shit.
“Hey,” I say. “Hold on. Just hold on a second.”
“I don’t think I can help y—”
“OK, look.” I step closer, dropping my voice. “We work for the government. I’m Teagan, this is Africa. What’s your name?”
“Hey, Shonda!” She tries to push past me. “Can I see you for a sec?”
“No! No. Two minutes. Just give us two minutes of your time. If you don’t like what we have to say, we’ll get out of here, and you’ll never see us again.”
She comes to a stop, looking me up and down. Shonda, whoever she is, doesn’t seem to have heard her yet.
“Let’s just go over here.” Slowly, I guide her around the boxes, out of sight of the rest of the tent. “If we do something you don’t like, you can… you can kick me in the ovaries and run.”
It gets her attention. I crouch down, making sure no one else can see us. Behind the woman, Africa hovers, looking nervous.
“What is this about?” she says. Now she sounds really annoyed. Maybe even a little scared.
“What’s your name?”
“Mia Wong.”
“Mia. OK. Hi.” I lick my lips, trying to figure out what to say next.
And then I get an idea.
It’s almost certainly a very bad one. It goes against everything Tanner told me. But right now, this is our only lead. I have to convince this person. Every second that goes by is another second closer to a third quake. To more people getting hurt. Tanner would understand. Definitely. Probably.
Fuck it. Sometimes, you just need to do what your gut tells you.
I dig in my pocket for my phone, checking around me to make sure no one else is watching. We’re good. “I’m going to show you something. You have to promise that no matter what happens, you won’t scream.”
“Scream? What—?”
“Teggan,” says Africa, suddenly worried. “Maybe this is not clever. Reggie did not—”
“I know, dude. But I don’t think we have a choice right now.” If this woman saw our kid, talked to him, then we need to get her on-side. Fast.
“It’s nothing bad,” I tell Mia. “It’s not going to hurt you, and I swear to God I’m not about to get naked or anything. I just… Please promise me that you’ll keep quiet. At least until I can explain.”
“I don’t get it. Is it on your phone?”
“Mia!”
“All right, Jesus, OK, I promise I won’t scream, now what—Ohshitwhatthehellisthat?”
That is my phone, currently floating a few inches above my hand. The sticker on the back, the unicorn smoking a joint, catches the gleam from a nearby floodlight.
“I literally just told you not to scream,” I hiss. “Keep it down.”
She sucks in another gulp of air, as if about to really start yelling… then clamps a hand over her mouth. Her eyes haven’t left the floating phone.
I sigh. “You get exactly five seconds to absorb what you’re seeing, and then I’m going to need you to focus, OK?”
In response, Mia whips her hand through the space between my fingers and the phone, as if checking for hidden wires. I roll my eyes, and make the phone circle my head. Then I turn it so the side is facing her, and flick the little silencer switch up and down. She squeaks. She actually squeaks. Her eyes are the size of baseballs.
“Five seconds are up.” I drop the phone, pocketing it.
“How did – you – what is – I don’t—”
“Mia, breathe. Under normal circumstances, we’d spend a long time talking about how it isn’t physically possible and it’s an optical illusion and how exactly I came by this amazing power and blah-de-blah, but I’m going to need you to stay with us, because the fate of the world is at stake.”
“No. No way. Is this a fucking joke? Am I on camera right now?” She looks aghast, like I really am trying to prank her in the aftermath of an earthquake.
“It’s true,” Africa says solemnly.
Mia makes a very strange noise: a kind of whining hiss. Her hand is up to her face again, covering her mouth and nose. “I’m sorry,” she says eventually. “No. I don’t know who you are, or what you want, but I’m gonna go now.”
I have to work very hard not to start yelling. “In your pockets right now, there’s…” I concentrate. “Well, not much, because womens’ pants pockets are always too fucking small, but there’s… OK, a couple of coins, right pocket. Phone jammed into your left.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“Yeah, but this does.” And I twitch the two coins. Make them clink together.
Mia jumps. Her feet literally leave the ground, her hand flying to her pocket – then snatching it away, like she’s been burned. “What the fuck?”
“Yes, it is crazy,” Africa says. “When I first see her do it, I think she is David Blaine, yaaw?”
And still Mia doesn’t believe. I can see it in her eyes.
I look around. “See that?” I point to one of the flower beds. It’s ringed by a line of low metal fencing, the kind where each section is bent into a cute arch.
Mia follows my finger. “So what?” she says, almost like she’s annoyed with me. “You gonna mess with that too?”
“Got it in one.” I make sure nobody else is watching, again, then flip two fence segments out of the dirt. I zip them over, ignoring Mia’s still-somehow-stunned intake of breath. Then I origami them, twisting the metal into a new shape that looks like… well, actually, I don’t know what it looks like. Not as if I could make an origami swan out of it or anything.
When I’m done, I use my PK to toss it to Mia. She steps backwards, nearly falling on her ass. The impromptu sculpture slaps into the mud.
I close my eyes. Jesus, how much more of this am I going to have to—
“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.
Matt
hew. 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.”
THIRTY-SEVEN