by Jackson Ford
The Zigzag Man looks at her, and she stumbles. The rifle clatters to the concrete, Pop swatting at the air, like she’s being attacked by a swarm of flies. She twists her face away, cowering… and screams.
In one move, Annie reaches down, scooping me up and dropping me onto the back of the bike. I didn’t even see her get off the ground.
“Hold on!” she barks at me.
Somehow, my hands find her waist, hold tight.
Then she guns the throttle, and shoots right towards the Zigzag Man. For the second time, he tries to get out the way, but the edge of the handlebar just catches him across the waist. He grunts, knocked sideways. Pop is still firing, and I swear one of the bullets passes an inch from my face.
Nic’s got hold of his bike again, lifting it up, hoisting a screaming Leo onto it and desperately twisting the key. The Zigzag Man reaches for him, fingers hooked into claws, but then the throttle catches. The bike kicks into life, and then all of us – me and Annie, Nic and Leo – thunder across the parking lot.
The Zigzag Man’s eyes meet mine. The fury in them is almost beyond words. There’s a horrible, fleeting moment where he’s Carlos again, burning, blistering before my eyes—
Then we’re gone.
THIRTY-SIX
Reggie
The cab driver won’t load Reggie’s chair.
It’s a problem she’s had before, many times. On a normal day, it would be exasperating, another insult to be endured. Today, it makes her want to spit lava.
She’s on the curb outside the China Shop offices. It’s full dark now, about 9 p.m., drizzle falling from a leaden sky. She’s wearing a rain jacket, a thick one with decent padding. Putting on her own clothes is hell – most days, she needs Annie’s help to do it. But if she has to, she can get her arms into a jacket, even if it does take her ten minutes.
“It won’t fit,” the driver protests. He has the build of a linebacker gone to seed, with messy red hair and a pencil-thin moustache.
“You think this is my first rodeo?” Reggie snaps. “Pick me up, put me in the back, then put the chair in the trunk. Why do you think I ordered a bigger ride?”
The driver sniffs. “It’s too heavy to lift anyway.”
“So it will fit. You just don’t want to put your back out.”
“I don’t have insurance. I don’t wanna get sued if something happens. And besides, if I pick you up… I mean, you’re a woman and all…”
None of this is new to Reggie. Anybody with a disability has gone through it – hell, it was a running joke in her theatre troupe, that they’d miss their performances because they couldn’t get cabs or ride-sharing. If only her regular cab company was still around. It would have saved her having to deal with this fool, and his problematic beliefs.
God, she loathes the word problematic. It’s an academic’s word, one trotted out by the speaker to show how erudite they are. A look-at-me word, never deployed to correct a wrong, just to extract attention. Or, more often, simply to indicate something the speaker doesn’t like, and doesn’t think anybody else should like either.
It’s not that it was wrong to use, in terms of the strict definition, but it carried so much baggage. And it was absolutely useless in getting other people to change their ways. Telling someone what they said was problematic was like throwing a tennis ball at a wall. You’d entertain yourself, for a while, but you were never busting through.
In Reggie’s experience, most people aren’t deliberately evil. They just don’t always think about their words. In most cases, she’s happy to set them straight. Not tonight. Tonight, she does not have time to put up with whatever nonsense this ignorant asshole is sending her way, or to wait an hour for another cab to show up
She fixes him with a sweet smile. “Honey, let me tell you something. You know what I do for a living?”
“I don’t really—”
“I’m a hacker.”
He scoffs. “OK.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I mean…” He’s looking around him, as if trying to find an excuse to get out of this conversation. “I don’t mean no disrespect or nothing. But I mess around with computers a little bit too.”
“Mess around with computers. That’s adorable.”
“It’s not that hard, like… Anyway, what are you gonna do? Steal my identity or whatever? Empty my bank account? Come on.”
Reggie tilts her head back, rolls her tongue around her mouth. “Stealing your identity never causes as much trouble as you think. Places like banks and government agencies know about it, so they take precautions. No, I’m not after your money. If you drive away without me and my chair in your cab, I’m going to do things to you that will take months to entangle. And there won’t be a fraud department or case officer in the world who can help you.
“For starters, I’m going to dig up your details, sign you up to every free trial on every bogus health cure website and multi-level marketing scam I can find – and I’ll tell your inbox to mark them all as priority. I could probably write a program to do it automatically, while I have a cup of tea.”
“Hey—”
“After I get done destroying your inbox, I’m going to use my corporate credit card to order as many large appliances as I can, and get them sent to your house. And not just kitchen appliances, either. I hope you like industrial water pumps, because you’re going to build up quite a collection of them. From multiple companies. All of them with different returns policies.”
He stares at her, his mouth open.
“Then, I’m going to gain access to your cab company’s system. I’m going to start sending false pickup information to your dashboard screen. Not very often – just often enough that you’ll never be quite sure if it’s a real pickup or not. Of course, you could call your dispatch to check, but how long do you think they’ll put up with that? And then—”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Oh yes. Very much so. Because understand this: I do not have time for your petty hang-ups today. I don’t care what you think about people in wheelchairs. I am not interested in your opinions on women. In the grand scheme of things, little man, your opinions mean zip. What I have to do is far more important. So let me be absolutely clear on this. Let me put it in words of one syllable, so you can get it through your head. On this night, right now, do not fuck with me.”
The curse word is a jolt, like a zap of static to a finger, a not-quite-unpleasant sensation. Overdramatic? Perhaps. But what the hell – Reggie always did enjoy chewing up the scenery a little.
It’s the same dramatic streak that led her to bring a knife.
Reggie has a set of modified cutlery – forks and knives and spoons with rings on the handles, so she can slip them over her fingers and eat without having to grip them. She even has a serrated steak knife, because there’s nothing quite like a medium rare rib-eye – she doesn’t eat it often, it’s heavy on her stomach, but when she does she likes a sharp knife.
It’s this she has in her pocket. No point kidding herself – if she’s in a situation where she has to use it, she’ll probably be dead before she can get it out. But it makes her feel better having it, a little more secure.
The cab driver bites his lip, looking sullen. But he doesn’t move.
“Fine.” Reggie spins her chair around. “I’ll get started on those emails, while I wait for another cab.” But she can barely muster enough venom to get the words out. Damnit, she needed this ride. By the time another one bumbles its way to her, Teagan might be—
“Wait.”
She stops, doesn’t turn around.
“I’m sorry. I’ll… We can try load the chair in the back. I just meant… It wasn’t like I was saying…”
“Well then.” Reggie can’t stop herself beaming. “Let’s go.”
Five minutes later, she is in the back of the cab with her chair in the rear trunk space. The driver had to wrestle with it to get it in there – it is, Reggie will admit, pretty damn heavy. S
he even felt a little bad for him. Only a little though – his feelings probably hurt worse than his back does. And in the scheme of things, she has much bigger things to worry about. Like what she’s going to say to Teagan if (when) she finds her. How she’s going to defuse Africa. And what on earth they’re going to do about the boy.
All the same, as they head up South Wilmington Avenue, Reggie can’t help but feel a lightness. For the first time in an age, she’s away from the China Shop offices. She’s out in the field. Sure, it’s not under the best of circumstances, but she’ll take it.
And she can pull this off. She can be the peacemaker, get everybody – Teagan, Africa, Moira Tanner – on the same side. She can bring China Shop – the organisation she’s devoted years to – back together.
And wouldn’t that be sweet? To pull off a win at the last second? To not have what might be her final China Shop job end in disaster? To show Moira and Teagan and everybody else why they need her, and to do it in the field, not parked behind a desk.
And when – if – she decides to leave, it’ll be on her own terms. If she actually does decide to pull the ripcord, then she’ll go out under blue skies, floating free. She can move onto the next phase of her life, knowing she gave this everything she had.
Or are you just looking for an excuse to stay? For Moira to fall at your feet and tell you how much she needs you?
Reggie forces herself away from the thought, watching LA slip by out the window.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Teagan
So it turns out, you can totally fall asleep while escaping from a gunfight on the back of a really loud motorcycle.
We’re not talking deep, restorative sleep here. What I get are microsleeps, pulling me into unconsciousness for a second or two at a time even as Annie guns the engine and we zip through the deserted streets.
You want to know the really weird part? I dream. I didn’t think you could dream with this kind of sleep, but it turns out that’s not true. All you have to do is take copious amounts of meth, get into fights with a motorcycle gang, have a mysterious enemy plant horrific visions in your head – something I’m probably going to have to go back into therapy to process, by the way – all while transporting a superpowered child through LA.
In my dream, I’m back in Wyoming, on my family’s ranch. It’s one of those rare days when my mom and dad aren’t testing our abilities – I don’t know how I know this, but I do. No endless hours in the barn behind the house, where I attempt to precisely move metal rings with my PK while Chloe uses her infrared vision to identify objects behind a screen. She and I are out in the woods, on horseback, riding through rivers and winding our way through dense groves of lodgepole pines.
Keep up, Chloe says. She turns to look at me, but I can’t see her face.
Strangely, this doesn’t bother me. I’m happier than I can ever remember being. Every sensation – the wind in my face, the rough leather reins in my hands, the piercing blue of the cloudless sky beyond the pines – is crystal clear.
Where’s Adam? I ask. All of a sudden, it’s important to know where my brother is, although I can’t for the life of me explain why.
Chloe smiles. I know this, even though I still can’t see her face. She can be cold sometimes, going into her own head and freezing me out for days if I do something she doesn’t like. But not today. Today, she loves me, and she’s my sister and we—
Right then, I snap awake, jerking up into the real world so fast that I nearly topple off the back of the bike. My arms are still wrapped around Annie’s waist – God knows how I even managed to hold on while I slept. I reflexively squeeze harder, causing her to grunt in alarm.
We’re somewhere in Chinatown. The roads are clear of cars and debris, but the actual surfaces are cracked and pitted, uneven. The damage slows us to a crawl. The bike headlights cast the streets in an eerie glow. Every so often, I’ll spot a face peering out at us from an alley or broken window, gaunt and suspicious. But nobody stops us.
If my haywire sense of direction is to be trusted, we’re heading back to the river. As we turn onto Spring Street, the road drops sharply. It’s become a huge sinkhole, with a massive puddle of water at the bottom, maybe fifteen feet across. Yellow plastic barriers cordon it off on either side, as if approaching cars would somehow miss the gigantic gap. Then again, this is America. You can’t trust people to see what’s right in front of their faces.
The edges of the hole, where the sidewalks are, look OK. They dip sharply, but then rise again to the level of the street, narrow but driveable. Or rideable, I guess. The surfaces look damaged, but stable.
Annie takes it slowly, expertly tweaking the throttle, keeping us dead straight as we head down the steep slope, then up the far side. She pops us up on the far side of the sinkhole, turning us sideways so she can check on Nic. Turns out, he’s not doing as well as we were.
Nic’s into extreme sports. Rock climbing, surfing, snowboarding. He’s pretty good at them too. Apparently, that doesn’t translate to riding a motorcycle. He got to the bottom of the dip OK, but looks like he’s having trouble getting back up the slope. He’s taking it a snail’s pace, the engine revving in uneven bursts.
“Lean forward!” Annie shouts, hands cupped to her mouth. “Use your legs to grip the tank!”
Nic doesn’t appear to hear her. His gaze stays locked on the front wheel, his knuckles white on the handlebars. All at once, his bike accelerates, roaring up the slope. Leo yelps, squirming as he tries to hold on tighter.
“Brake. Brake. Brake!” Annie jumps backwards, swinging her long arm into my path, like I’m about to step into traffic. All I can do is watch, blinking stupidly.
There’s a moment where Nic almost makes it – where he seems to get things under control, stabilising the bike. The moment vanishes almost as quick as it arrived. He crests the top of the dip, front wheel up in the air. Then he comes back down with a bang, and dumps the bike.
Nic’s howl of pain even louder than the impact. Leo goes tumbling, bouncing across the cracked concrete.
Annie and I sprint across to them. Visions of shattered bones and concussions flicker in my mind, but as we get to the bike, Nic shoves it off him, then springs to his feet like a boxer jumping up off the mat. He has the wild-eyed, jittery look of someone who still isn’t quite sure if he’s OK or not.
Leo is on his feet too. His hands are scraped up something bad, but otherwise he looks unhurt. He totters across to us, his eyes almost as wide as Nic’s.
I don’t know who to go to first. So I choose the third option, which is to stand there gawping like an idiot.
Nic’s right elbow is messy with road rash, bits of grit and dirt embedded in it. He taps at it, winces, then flexes his legs. “That was fun,” he says, his voice way too high-pitched. Amazingly, he holds out a high-five for Leo. Even more amazingly, given his shredded hands, Leo grins and returns it.
“What the hell?” Annie growls. “I told you to lean forward.”
“I was leaning forward,” Nic says, absently patting his legs.
“So you’re OK?” I say, my voice just as high as his.
“I think so. Yeah. It hurt but… yeah. How ’bout you, little man?”
“I’m fine,” Leo says. He holds up his hands, blinking at them, then holds them out to us. Like he wants them graded. “Ow.”
“Damn,” Nic says, leaning down to lift the bike. “I was finally getting the hang of gears, and then the slope just… damn.”
Annie bends down, helping Nic right the bike. “Yeah, well, it’s flat from here on out.” She glances back at the sinkhole, as if expecting Pop to reappear like the damn Terminator. “Let’s go.”
Nic and Leo might be fine, but their bike isn’t. Twenty minutes later, as we rumble down Alameda, it gives a sputtering, gurgling noise, and dies. Nic and Leo coast to a stop, and Annie has to pull back, driving in a wide circle. I’m microsleeping again, this time without any weird dreams, and wake up with a snort.
�
��I think it broke,” Leo says.
Nic dismounts. “Can we fix it?”
“We’d better.” Annie jogs over. Halfway there, she turns back. Studying me. “You’re OK, right?”
Her sudden concern knocks me off balance a little. “Um. Yeah. I’m fine.”
She looks me up and down once more, then heads over to Nic. “Keep an eye out. Watch our backs.”
I don’t have the heart to tell her my PK energy is pretty much at zero right now.
Nic and Annie fuss with the bike for a few minutes – well, Annie fusses with it, Nic just tries not to get in the way. I wander over to Leo, still not a hundred per cent sure this isn’t a dream. I’m awake now, at least, my brain given a nice little jolt of energy.
“No go.” Annie gets to her feet, wiping oil-stained hands on her jeans. “Dead.”
“Sorry, man,” Nic says. “It must have happened when I dumped the bike.”
“So what do we do now?” I ask.
“Guess we walk,” Annie says.
“Um, Annie?” I point to Leo. “Maybe walking isn’t the best—”
“I’m OK,” Leo says, rocking from foot to foot. “It feels weird and stuff but, but the wiggles are gone”
“We still got one bike,” Nic points out. “You could go ahead with Leo, and—”
“No.” Annie’s voice is harsh. Harsher than she intended, because almost immediately, she draws into herself, as if telling herself to chill the fuck out. She glances at Leo, tries again. “I’m not splitting us up again. That didn’t work out so well last time.”
We’re in DTLA now, west of the river. Compton is to the south – the far south. A whole lot of walking. After everything that’s happened today, I feel like I’ve walked for years. Decades.
Looking around, I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one who feels this way. Leo’s wiggles might be gone, but he’s exhausted. Nic and Annie too. The bruises and cuts are still fresh, and their bodies are probably screaming for rest.
“Can we just stop for a few minutes?” I say. I’d prefer a few hours. Ideally, a whole month. But even sitting down for a little while will help.