by Jackson Ford
Whatever. A phone is a phone. I don’t even need to unlock it to dial 911 – although it wouldn’t matter, because Minnie was a badass biker who thought passwords were for losers. My fingers punch in the number and are about to dial when I stop.
What if…?
No. I can officially say that is the dumbest idea I’ve ever had. It could blow up in my face in so many spectacular ways.
I raise my eyes to the injured man, the one with a single crutch. He’s trying yet again to get moving, and it’s not working.
And then I’m opening the phone, navigating to the contacts. It takes me no more than a few seconds to find what I’m looking for.
Phone calls and data are hit and miss in LA right now, but for once, the telecommunication gods are in a good mood. Robert’s voice comes through the connection loud and clear: “Who the hell is this?”
FORTY-EIGHT
Teagan
I can’t help but smirk. Just a little. “I’ll give you three guesses but you’re only gonna need—”
“You made a big mistake.”
“Don’t ruin my line. Dick.”
“You’re fucking dead. You hear me? When we find you—”
“I know, I know, hung, drawn, quartered, remains scattered to the four winds, whatever. Listen—”
All at once, there are those muffled scratching sounds you get when two people trying to fight over one connection. Then there’s another voice in my ear. One belonging to someone I thought was dead.
“Ma petite,” Pop says. I knocked a couple of her teeth out, back when I escaped the train depot. Broke her nose. Her voice is very slightly mushy. “You had better run very, very far.”
I recover surprisingly quickly, given the circumstances. “Howdy, Pop. Glad you made it.”
She laughs – a surprisingly innocent sound. “You think your little soldiers cause me trouble? Your little soldiers are dead.”
A nauseous little hitch of guilt grabs hold of me. If tonight had gone differently, those soldiers would still be alive.
I push past it. Guilt can come later. If there is a later.
I need to move a lot of people very quickly, and I can’t do it if I have to spend that time helping people who can’t help themselves. A squad of bikes – hell, even three or four of them – would make a massive difference. They can zip in and out of the camp, getting the injured to safety.
“What you did to me?” Pop says. “What you did to my brothers? It will follow you for ever.”
“Shut up.”
“What?”
“Fucking zip it. You need to listen, and you need to do it right now.”
As quickly as I can, I tell Pop about the camp, and the flash flood. I tell her what I need her to do. Amazingly, she doesn’t interrupt.
I haven’t looked at a map, so I don’t know for sure, but it should be a quick fifteen-minute bike ride from Chinatown. That’s more than enough time for them to get down here, and give me a hand giving people out.
Assuming I can convince them not to murder me.
“You want to do some good?” I say. “Beyond just helping out a few kids? Get your ass down to the 710 where it crosses the storm drain. You’ve got about twenty minutes.”
“Is this a joke?” Pop says.
“I wish.”
“If you think we’re just going to—”
“Come help out, or don’t,” I snap. “I don’t have time to convince you, so you make up your own mind.”
With that, I end the call.
And get to work.
There’s a man frantically looking for his dog, who refuses to leave until he finds him. I close my eyes, zero in on the plastic buckle on the dog harness. I don’t stick around to enjoy the reunion, yelling at the man to get the hell out, already looking for the next target.
I rouse two drunks sleeping in a makeshift tent – two dudes snuggled up, spooning, one of them with his arm wrapped tightly around the other. When it turns out they are still drunk, and not inclined to move, I collapse their tent on top of them. They scramble to their feet in a panicked daze, taking in the chaos around them.
I dive into the sewers. The cavernous dark is lit by a dozen waving cellphone screens, and I use my PK to create a map of the rest, ignoring the burning headache at the back of my skull. I find the people without cellphones, without any source of light. A man who has lost his wheelchair. Three kids stoned out of their mind on God knows what. Some jackass trying to find a way out through the sewers, stumbling around with his hands out in front of him like a zombie. I send them all out towards the storm drain exit, ignoring their shouted questions.
No sign of Pop and the Legends. How much time do I have left? Ten minutes? Fifteen? I scramble back out into the storm drain, suddenly terrified of being caught unaware by the flood. But it hasn’t appeared yet in the channel to the north of us. I put my head down, focus on my PK and keep going.
There’s a steady stream of people heading towards my improvised exit now, but it’s not enough. Nowhere close to enough. It takes all the self-control I have not to scream at everyone around me, the dumb motherfuckers who are still here. I come across two more kids, hunting for their parents, and it takes me way too long – a whole two minutes, maybe three – to find them, zeroing in on an engraved money clip in the dad’s pocket. I don’t give them time to enjoy the reunion, slapping the mom on the ass as I run past, making her jump. “Go,” I say. “Right now, move!”
Right then, my exhaustion goes from a bubbling five to a screaming eleven.
I come to a shuddering halt, hands on my knees, the stitch in my side so powerful that it feels like it’s going to burn my torso to ash. The headache is bad now, as bad as it’s been all day. It’s astounding that I’ve managed to keep going as long as I have.
And I can’t stop. There are still people here. A quick check with my PK shows at least two dozen wallets and cellphones and chains that just aren’t moving. Some abandoned, for sure… but how many are still attached to their owners?
Pop and the Legends still haven’t shown up. I don’t think they’re going to, either. My great plan came to nothing. I didn’t spend too much time on that call – perhaps no more than a minute. But when you only have around twenty or so to play with, a minute is a lot.
Unprompted, my PK latches onto something I can use to fly: a wooden pallet, leaning up against a scaffolding pole a few feet away. It has metal brackets, so I already know I can lift it, use it to levitate the safety. Still no sign of the flood. I make a mental note of where to find the pallet, telling myself that I’ll wait until the last possible second to use it. Then again: if I wait until the last possible second, if I’m still telling people to get the hell out of here, then it’s too late. They’re toast. Even if they head for the exit right then, they won’t be able to get there before the flood sweeps them away.
I have to survive this.
I can’t let Annie lock me out of her life. That shit is not gonna happen.
“Get it together, bitch,” I snarl at myself, pushing the thoughts away, and the headache with them. It works, a little, so I double down. “Cock womble. Asshole. Cookie Monster. Fuck.”
My motivational cursing session stops when the damnedest thing happens.
A van appears, a big white one, screaming down the storm drain towards the camp from the north.
My first thought is that the Legends have arrived, that they decided not to come on bikes. Except: I know that van. I should. I spend a lot of time in it during China Shop missions.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” I murmur.
The van screeches to a halt a few feet from where the scaffolding starts, rocking on its suspension. The cabin is turned slightly away from me, the driver flailing his limbs inside, as if fighting with the seatbelt. A moment later, the door explodes open, and Africa levers himself out onto the concrete storm drain surface.
He’s still wearing that stupid, oversized FBI windbreaker over the dark suit and red shirt. Th
e collar of the shirt has gone skew, sticking up like a flag caught in the wind. I have a sudden, half formed urge to hide, but I cannot convince my exhausted body to move.
Africa looks at me, looks away – and then his eyes snap back. He lifts a giant arm, levels a shaking finger at me.
“You!”
“Me,” I mutter.
He marches towards me, finger still pointed, like it’s a magic wand he can use to turn me into a frog. All the same, it’s a wary approach, his eyes flicking left and right. It takes me a second to realise that he is looking for Leo. Once electrocuted, twice shy, I guess.
“They’re gone, dude,” I say. “Reggie’s—”
“Where is he?” His eyes aren’t just darting, they’re practically rolling in their sockets.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Not here. Obviously.” I don’t have time for this.
He barks a laugh. “You lie. Of course he is here. You are here, so he must be.”
“Africa,” I say, with frankly a lot more patience than he deserves. “It’s just me. Reggie’s in trouble, and Annie and Nic—”
“I think you come here.” The arm sweeps to the side, gesturing at the camp. “I think, hmm, Idriss, if they are going south, what is the most direct route? And I see the river, and then I know. And of course, you would come here sooner or later. To the camp under the freeway.”
It’s then that he appears to notice just how chaotic the scene is, pick up on the dozens of people gathering their shit and getting the hell out.
His eyes swivel back to me, as if deciding that he has to stay on track. “Teggan, we must talk.” The outstretched arm falls to his side, sliding into the pocket of the windbreaker. I didn’t really pay attention to it before, but he’s exhausted, same as I am. Run ragged. A man at the end of a very long tether. “This boy is dangerous. He kill those people at the stadium. I know you want to help him, but please, you must listen to me.”
I’ve had enough of this. I take two strides towards him, and get right in his face.
“Here’s what’s happening,” I snarl. “Remember our little crash at the bridge? Well, turns out, if you put a lot of debris in a storm drain, there’ll be a flood. It’s gonna be here any minute, and if we can’t get these people out –” I jerk a thumb over my shoulder behind me “– they’re all going to die.”
“Teggan—”
“And Leo isn’t here. The kid. Neither is Nic, or Annie. You know where they are? They’re going to help Reggie, who has been kidnapped by… I don’t know who he is, but he has abilities too. There’s a lot of shit going on, and I do not have time to deal with you right now.”
He stares at me, horror falling on his face. “Reggie is in trouble?”
“Yes. But listen – there’s nothing we can do for her right now. If you want to help, then you need to get these people out.”
He’s shaking his head, as if he doesn’t believe me. And is that a distant hiss of rushing water I hear? I’m pretty sure it’s just my imagination, but…
“You wanna know what makes Moira Tanner’s dick hard?” I say. “The one thing that gets her up in the morning? Saving lives. If people die, all she wants to know is how many people actually made it out OK.”
I jab him in the chest. “The best job you can do right now is to help me. Get in that van, wait until I’ve filled it up with people, then drive like hell. I think we can squeeze ten people in, and it probably won’t take that long either. Injured people only. There are exits up the sides of the storm drain now, but there’ll be too many people for you to get through. You’ll need to drive like hell downriver, away from the flood. Find an exit with enough space for the van.”
He doesn’t want to believe me. He’s spent this entire day thinking I’m the enemy, and I’ll say this for Africa – he always finishes what he starts. But at the same time, he can’t deny what’s happening right in front of him – the panic, the hordes of people, the distinct lack of Leo, or Nic, or Annie.
Seconds tick by. Seconds we don’t have. I’ve already wasted way too much time talking to him.
Eventually, he gives a single, grave nod, his eyes never leaving me.
“I park the van over there,” he says, pointing to the nearest piece of scaffolding. “We open the doors, and then I help you find people. Then we both get in, and we both go, and then we go and help Reggie.”
I don’t have the energy to tell him that I’m going to stick around for as long as possible. I just nod back, my eyes never leaving his.
At some point, we are going to have to figure out how we ended up on opposite sides of this. Africa and I haven’t always seen things the same way, but I get the feeling today would have been a lot easier with him on my side.
I thought I was good at making and keeping friends. I don’t know if that’s true any more. And I don’t know how much of it is down to me, and how much of it is the fault of others.
I was friends with Carlos. He betrayed me. Sold me out.
I was friends with Africa. But I kept pushing him away.
I was friends with Annie, and—
No. We weren’t friends. Not with the way she treated me. The way she got angry with me, for the smallest things. The way she forced me to choose between her, and saving lives. You don’t do that to people you call friend. Fuck her.
So why do I keep seeing her face? Why can’t I get rid of the horrible, sick pang in my stomach that I felt when she walked away?
Africa drives the van right into the middle of the camp, navigating his way through the scaffolding. It’s tough going, and takes way longer than I would have liked, but it looks like there’s going to be just enough room for him to drive out of the camp as well.
I keep moving, forcing my exhausted legs to walk, then run, as I hunt down the injured. The van is a stopgap at best – we won’t be able to make more than one or two trips before the flood reaches us. But it’s better than nothing.
And all the while I’m waiting for the distant sound of rushing water. The feeling of the ground rumbling under my feet.
Africa collars people to help gut the van’s interior. Tool kits, duffel bags, boxes of old electronics. Everything Paul installed in the van is taken out, set aside. It’s a strange thing to watch. The van was an extension of Paul’s mind, ordered in a way that made sense to him and him alone. It’s where he’d be during our ops, running comms. Where he’d meticulously store and label everything we needed.
All of it. Tossed onto the surface of the storm drain. Not even looted – just left there. Ready for the flood to sweep it away.
In the end, we get way more than ten people into the van. Closer to twenty. The vehicle is so overloaded that the tyres almost touch the wheel arches. I have to turn people away, telling them to get the hell out through the exit I made. My voice is hoarse now, my throat burning, the meth comedown back in full force at the worst possible time.
I stop for a second by the side of the van, under the China Shop bull logo. If nothing else, at least we get some good PR out of this. The thought is so out-of-place that I actually laugh at it, an exhausted snort-chuckle that makes my throat ache.
Africa claps me on the shoulder. “I think we can get one more. Climb on board.”
“No.”
“Of course we can.” He gestures to the van, annoyed. His own voice has started to suffer, the boom robbed of its bass. “Even if you have to hang out the door—”
“I’m not done here.”
I don’t even know how it’s possible, but there are still people in the camp – I can feel the objects they’re carrying, moving around. Almost everybody has gone, the two thousand people here reduced to a couple dozen. But those couple dozen aren’t moving, for whatever goddamn reason, which means it’s on me to get them out of here. The Legends aren’t going to show.
The van’s sliding door is still open. The guy with the crutches – well, crutch – and the fucked-up leg is inside, looking like he barely knows who he is, let alone where. There are dudes
holding their folded wheelchairs to their bodies, a woman with what looks like a nasty head injury, her hair matted with blood. A teen girl catches my eye. “Are we going or what?” she shouts, her voice edged in terror.
Africa hovers, his jaw working, glancing between me and the van.
“Dude, I’ll be fine,” I say.
“Teggan, you must not stay.”
“Just go. Please.”
And still he doesn’t move.
I raise my eyes to his. “I did not just run my ass ragged so you could hang around and not drive these people out of here.” I nod downriver. “Go.”
With a lingering look back at me – a look filled with doubt and worry and desperation – Africa climbs behind the wheel. The van roars to life, the engine straining as Africa accelerates. I catch his eyes in the side mirror one last time, and then the van lurches forward, wheels screeching. It almost collides with one of the scaffolding poles, just misses, nearly hits a second. Africa gets it under control, and the van rumbles away, heading out into the open air beyond the camp. I have a sudden, desperate urge to run after it, climb on the back somehow, leave this mess behind.
Instead, I straighten up, ignoring my aching muscles and the pounding throb at the base of my skull and the bone-weary, leaden exhaustion. Almost there. Two dozen people left, maybe even less. Ten minutes should do it. Ten minutes, and I can get the hell out myself.
Which is when I hear it.
An almost inaudible hiss. The sound of a radio in another room, tuned to a dead station. The sound of someone exhaling directly on a microphone, the soft breath distorting and crackling ever so slightly.
Very slowly, I turn around, and look upriver.
I don’t have ten minutes. I may not even have five.
The flood has found us.
FORTY-NINE
Reggie
Reggie spots Annie first, crossing the field at the bottom of the slope. There’s a man walking next to her – with a start, Reggie realises it’s Nic Delacourt, Teagan’s old… crush? Friend? She still isn’t sure, and she’s even more confused about what Nic is doing here. Teagan must have called him, or…