Eye of the Sh*t Storm

by Jackson Ford

  We weave through more groves of thick bamboo, pick our way between piles of trash and bushes so overgrown and interlocked that they require huge detours. I’ve completely lost track of where we are – I think we’re in Elysian Valley, just south of Glendale, but for all I know we could be way past it.

  I am somewhere north of tired. Between the meth comedown, the fight with the Legends and some jerk-off planting illusions in my brain, it’s taking every ounce of effort I have just to keep walking.

  If you’d found a way to become a cook, this would never have happened. You’d be in a kitchen somewhere, probably paying your dues working in prep, debearding mussels or chopping cucumbers or cleaning grease traps or squeezing julienned potatoes to get the liquid out so the chef can make rösti which of course she’d let you taste and—

  Right then, my right foot snags something, and I trip.

  It happens in slow-motion. I actually see the ground rushing up to meet me. I have enough time to think that this is the time I go down for good – if I end up horizontal, I’m not getting up again.

  Annie catches me, grabbing my arm in an iron grip. I wobble in place, the world swimming in front of me, a nice little shot of adrenaline zipping around my system.

  Holy shit. I think I just fell asleep for a second there.

  “Nice catch,” I tell Annie.

  She lets go, giving me a dark look before striding off.

  “What?” I say, to her retreating back.

  “Just be more careful.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s been a long day.”

  I’m alongside her then, and I just catch her rolling her eyes.

  Everybody’s got their pet peeves. Mine are eye rolls. “Sorry, Annie, am I being a drag? My bad. I’ll try not to pass out on you.”

  “OK,” she says. Her even tone – like the kind you’d use on a crazy person – just stokes the fire.

  “Hey, what the hell is your problem?” I say.

  “I don’t have a problem.”

  “Then why are you angry with me?”

  “I’m not angry,” she says, stepping very carefully over what looks like the remains of a fire, a charred pile of blackened coals, long since dead. An empty can lies wedged in the middle, like a buried artefact.

  “Come on. Don’t get me wrong, I owe you for the assist back there, but I didn’t ask you to come get us.”

  “True. He did.” She gestures at Nic, who is still walking with Leo.

  “That’s what I’m saying though. I know you think I can’t handle myself—”

  “You can’t.”

  “Says you.”

  “You’ll just get your ass killed.”

  That does it. “Annie, I can turn anything into a weapon. If somebody comes at me with a knife or a gun or a… or a fucking two-by-four, I can shut that shit down. You’ve seen me do it. So stop pretending like I’m this delicate flower.”

  “Let’s get one thing straight here.” She says it loud enough that Nic and Leo turn around. “You can do whatever you want. I don’t give a fuck. Get yourself hurt, killed, whatever. That’s one thing. But here’s what you can’t seem to get through your thick skull – it won’t just be you. It’ll be me, Africa, Reggie. It’ll be him.” She points at Nic. “You think you’re invincible. But you’re not, and neither are the people around you. I don’t want to have to be your collateral damage.”

  “I didn’t ask for any of this.” I all but hiss the words. “Not a single fucking second of it. That’s what you can’t seem to get through your thick skull.”

  It’s like she doesn’t hear me. “In one day – one freaking day – you’ve got us all involved in a gunfight, kidnapped a little kid, and by the way, don’t think I can’t see that you’re still high off your tits. Look at your pupils, man.”

  The line sounds weirdly familiar, and all at once, it comes to me. Bad Boys II. Martin Lawrence, high on ecstasy, Will Smith giving him shit and saying the exact same line. Martin guffawing, asking how the hell he can look at his own pupils, crossing his eyes. I get a sudden urge to say the same thing to Annie, let her chew on that for a bit.

  This is… insane. Does she think I got high on purpose? That I wanted to keep going after our dust-up with the Legends?

  “Woah, woah, what?” Nic says.

  Annie half-laughs. “She ain’t tell you? Homegirl here took a faceful of meth a few hours ago. She’s still coming down.”

  The look on Nic’s face isn’t disbelief. It’s worse. It’s more like resignation – like he knew, but didn’t have the energy to ask.

  I turn my attention back to Annie. “I don’t believe you. If it was up to me, I’d be working in a restaurant somewhere. I wouldn’t even know you. So—”

  “Hey,” Nic bellows.

  He’s got a good bellow. He’s spent enough time in court, after all.

  I’m expecting him to say something like We don’t have time for this. He doesn’t. Just looks between us, eyes flashing.

  Next to him, Leo is staring daggers too. It’s almost funny – like he’s trying to copy Nic. Hell, maybe he is.

  Annie spits something ugly in Spanish. She strides away from me, moving past Nic, putting distance between her and us.

  I have a sudden urge to throw something at her. Even just something small. Give her a little reminder that actually, yes, I can handle myself…

  Which she would probably use as evidence that I think I’m invincible. Oh yeah, using your voodoo in public again, like nothing can happen.

  The comedown is making itself known again. The same yawning pit in my stomach, the aching pinch at the base of my skull. A couple of fun and exciting new symptoms too: the skin on my arms has started to prickle, and my tongue feels fat and dry, my mouth parched. It’s stopped coming in waves now – it’s become a constant presence, something I just have to ride out. No wonder people get addicted to meth. If living without it feels like this, then why not stay on it all the time? Where would I even get some, anyway? I might have taken down a meth lab this morning, but I don’t actually know where to buy it on the street. I’d only need a tiny bit, a few grains maybe, just enough to stop feeling so goddamn awful all the time…

  I grunt. There is no way – no way, ever – that I’m touching that shit again. I can’t. I won’t.

  At least I’m not hallucinating any more. There are no flickering movements at the edge of my vision, no feeling that someone is walking up behind me. Except for the vision of Jonas Schmidt you just had. Why settle for meth hallucinations when you can have the real thing, thanks to your friendly neighbourhood Zigzag Man?

  We’re right alongside the river now, on a narrow path, maybe six feet, made of hardpacked, uneven dirt. On our left, the rushing water. On our right, more bamboo, thick and dark. There’s a smell of rotting garbage somewhere, worming into my nostrils and squatting there.

  Leo glances over his shoulder at me. “Ugh,” I say, grinning, trying to force the bad vibes away. “Stinks right?”

  “She got mad you.” He points at Annie, a trudging figure fifty feet ahead of us. “Did you do something bad?”

  I sigh. “She thinks I did.”

  “Are you gonna say sorry?”

  “It’s… Maybe. I dunno.”

  “She shouldn’t be mad if you didn’t do anything,” Leo says, thoughtful. “Is she gonna say sorry?”

  It’s a few seconds before I answer. The anger and adrenaline has faded a little, enough to give me a bit of distance. And common sense. “She’s just… she lost someone close to… well, she lost one of her friends. She isn’t herself, so I don’t wanna like, make her say sorry.”

  “Did he die?”

  “… He did. Yeah.”

  “Oh.” He thinks for a moment. “She must be sad.”

  I don’t really know what to say to that. Nic has gone quiet, watching the two of us.

  “How did he die?” Leo asks.

  The question doesn’t so much catch me off guard as sneak up behind me and put me in a chokehol
d. “Um. Well. I. He just—”

  We almost walk smack into Annie.

  She’s come to a dead halt, just around a small bend in the river. Nic and I stop dead – he instinctively pulls Leo back, a hand on his shoulder.

  “Annie, wh—?” I start to say.

  She cuts me off, snapping up a clenched fist, not looking at me.

  There are voices. Angry voices.

  The narrow path continues alongside the river, the bamboo groves on the right. But there’s a gap just ahead, a space between two of the groves. The voices – three men, it sounds like – are coming from inside the groves. One of them is shouting, fearful, panicked, telling someone to leave him alone. The someone in question snarls back, the words turned to mush by the thick bamboo and the running water.

  Nic and I exchange a glance. Well, that can’t be good.

  Annie looks back at us. She’s still pissed, but it’s taken a backseat for now. She flicks her raised hand twice, gesturing us to move forward, past the groves. Then she puts a finger to her lips.

  I’m not wild about leaving whoever’s doing the shouting in a bind. But we don’t know what’s going on in there, and we are very much on the clock. I give Annie a nod. Nic is clearly on the same page, flashing her a thumbs-up.

  “We gotta help,” Leo hisses.

  “Not this time,” Nic whispers back.

  “But they’re in trouble!”

  “No. We don’t know who they are. We have to keep going.”

  He subsides, still casting nervous glances at the source of the sound.

  We move in single file now, Annie in front, then Nic and Leo, with me bringing up the rear. Inside the groves, the man who wanted to be left alone is angrier now, swearing at whoever’s trying to mess with him. And there’s another sound, too: the low growl of a dog.

  As I reach the gap in the bamboo, there’s a thud, and the man cries out.

  “They’re hurting him,” Leo whispers, moving like he’s ready to step off the path towards the groves. Nic darts towards him, dropping into a crouch, urgently whispering at him to leave it.

  I really wish he wasn’t right. I’m no fan of leaving people in the shit, but there are times to play hero, and now is not one of them. It sticks in my throat, but there it is.

  I come up behind Leo, hustling him along. Annie is already urging us to hurry, beckoning us from further down the path.

  There’s another thud – and a yelp, the sound of an animal in pain. A small dog skids into view, tumbling, as if thrown.

  “Doggy!” Leo yells.

  The voices stop abruptly.

  Oh, shit.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Teagan

  Leo doesn’t get to run off this time. Nic takes care of that. He jumps in front of the kid, grabbing his shoulders.

  Just in time for one of the attackers to step into the path.

  He’s built like a fire hydrant, short and stocky, and the bright red hoodie he’s wearing doesn’t help. His body might be muscular, but his face is pudgy, his head topped with a grey, flat-brimmed New Era fitted. He reminds me of a douchebag tech bro – someone marketing smart coffee cups or an app-powered juicer.

  If he’s surprised to see three people and a little kid walking down the river, he gives no sign. “Nothing going on here,” he says loudly, an annoying smirk on his face.

  The dog scrambles to its feet next to him. It’s a little Jack Russell, I think – one that looks like it’s been living in a dumpster. Mangy fur, ribs showing. Not quite feral, but on its way there.

  The dog is limping slightly, but it still manages to snarl at the man. He responds by stepping on it – not hard enough to hurt, but enough to pin the dog to the dirt.

  “Help!” It’s the voice of whoever the douchebag was hassling, and this time, he sounds terrified. “Help me!”

  Leo wrenches out of Nic’s grip.

  “Leo, no!” Nic lunges for him, just missing. Leo does stop, however, coming to a halt a few feet from the man built like a fire hydrant. His tiny shoulders tremble with rage.

  Fire Hydrant’s smirk grows wider. “Oh, you like dogs, dude? You can have this one if you want.” He lifts the foot pinning the Jack Russell. Before the dog can get up, he plants his boot on its side and shoves. It skids towards Leo in a mad scramble, yapping, trying and failing to get its feet underneath it.

  As that happens, a second man stumbles out from behind a dense cluster of bamboo stalks. He’s wearing a suit, his tie yanked down. He’s in his late fifties, with a pinched, lined face – one with a massive shiner below his right eye. He stumbles, catches himself – only to go down when a second man steps into view and gives him a good shove.

  This happy asshole is as tall and thin as his buddy is stocky. He wears a ratty white T over jeans, and in his hand, there’s the glint of a knife. Not that I need a reflection to see it; my PK picks it up just fine.

  The dog is on its feet now, barking hysterically, but too terrified to rush the two men. Leo balls his tiny hands into fists.

  “Leo, come on,” Nic says.

  “Hey, Lars,” says the guy in the white T. “What we got going on here?”

  Lars – Fire Hydrant – scratches his jaw. “Just some tourists. Move the fuck on, tourists.”

  “I’ll zap you!” Leo yells at him. He lurches forward, dropping to his knees and putting his hands on the ground, his face twisted in concentration. Problem is, he still has the wiggles – his hand is twitching like crazy. So, as you’d expect, absolutely nothing happens.

  “Uh, OK,” says Lars.

  With a strangled howl, Leo leaps up, and bolts towards them. Before we can do anything, he leapfrogs the Jack Russell, and slams into Lars, planting his hands on the man’s thigh. He must have the tiniest bit of juice now, because Lars jerks, jittering backwards and clapping his hands to the spot Leo tagged. “Ah! Shit. What the hell?”

  The thin man reaches over and give the kid a massive shove. Leo goes sprawling, thudding into the dirt.

  Welp. Guess we’re involved now.

  I step forward, a serene smile on my face. “Hi. I’m Teagan.”

  Lars grins right back. “Hey, little girl.”

  “Oh, we’re doing the little girl thing. Cool. Cool, cool, cool.”

  “Teagan,” Annie growls. She steps in front of me, getting between me and Lars. The dog is going nuts.

  Suit-and-tie makes a move. He tries to shove Lars’ partner, but the guy just bats him away, reaching down for the knife. Which I grab hold of with my PK and jerk it out of his hand.

  “The fuck?” he says, as it clatters to the ground

  Annie and Nic are both staring at me in horror.

  I twitch the knife where it lies on the ground. Little movements, nothing crazy. Just when the dude’s fingers touch the knife. He probably thinks something weird is going on – scratch that, he definitely thinks something weird is going on – but to everybody not in the Teagan Circle of Friendship and Awesomeness, it just looks like he has butterfingers.

  “Hell is wrong with you?” Lars steps backwards, reaching down for the skittering knife.

  “Problem?” I say, as I skitter the knife out of the man’s grip once again. He actually hesitates before going for it, like it’s a snake that may or may not be poisonous. His eyes are huge, the confusion and horror written on his face.

  Leo snaps that amazing smile at me. This time, I snap one right back.

  Lars spins, as if looking for an attacker. His piggy little eyes settle on me, and he charges.

  I raise an eyebrow. I can’t grab his Timbs – they’re rubber and suede, organic material, which is a little beyond me right now. What I can grab are the metal shoelace eyelets. Grab them, yank them backwards. Which means dear old Lars goes ass over tits. He whuffs, the air knocked out of his lungs, rolling over and curling into a foetal position.

  All at once, the thin man decides he’s had enough. He stops going for the knife, straightens up, bolts towards us. He leapfrogs the trembling Lars, shovi
ng past Nic, heading back down the path the way we came. The dog sends a few yaps at his retreating back, as if telling him that he’d better run.

  I give Lars a shove with my foot, just like he did the dog. He stumbles, nearly falls over as he staggers between Nic and Annie to the river. Then he turns, steadies himself.

  “We just wanted some food!” he yells, his voice an octave higher than before. “We’re hungry, man.”

  There’s a strangled howl from behind us. The man in the suit rushes into view, holding the knife. He takes two big strides, like a long jumper. Then, using his whole body, he hurls the knife at Lars.

  It misses – of course it misses; do you know how hard it is to throw a knife properly? – and splashes into the river. Lars takes off running, vanishing into the darkness.

  For a second, all is still and calm. No sound but the man in the suit’s ragged breathing, and the soft rush of the LA River.

  “Unbelievable.” Annie puts her hands over her face.

  Leo slowly gets to his feet. His hand is twitching again. “That was awesome!”

  “Hold up, sorry, what exactly just happened here?” Nic says.

  Leo points at me. “She moved stuff.”

  The dog decides it wants in on this conversation, and starts barking, bouncing around our feet.

  “Unbelievable,” Annie says again. Drawing the word out as she looks me. “You just can’t control yourself, can you?”

  “I controlled things just fine, thank you. That’s why we’re still breathing.”

  The man in the suit clears his throat. It’s a loud sound, almost a smoker’s cough, and it cuts through the conversation. Only the dog refuses to stop, yapping and barking.

  “I don’t suppose,” the man says, “that any of you folks would like a cup of coffee?”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Teagan

  The man’s name is Grant. His dog is called Bradley Cooper. While Grant makes us coffee, Bradley Cooper crawls into Leo’s lap for a cuddle.

  How does Grant make us coffee? Easy. His microwave.

  There is an actual, full-size microwave sitting on the ground in the middle of the bamboo grove, wired directly into a power line above us. The connection is such a ghetto mess of cables and resistors and transformers – or whatever the hell they’re called – that I can’t make head or tail of it. I debate whether or not to ask Leo if it’s actually safe, but just because he can control electricity doesn’t mean he’ll be able to give me an answer. Ask him what a transformer is, and he’ll probably start talking about robot cars.