Eye of the Sh*t Storm

by Jackson Ford

  I take a bite to confirm my information. “We’ll be back with more after these messages,” I say, through a full mouth.

  As if in response, the public address system in the hall bleeps, paging a doctor to head to the ER. Someone yells something in response, and there’s distant laughter.

  “I did stop the flash flood, by the way,” I say. “Stopped that shit cold. Although I…”

  Fuck it. “I had to take another hit of meth to get it done. I’m still pretty blasted right now actually. If blasted is actually the way to describe it. Stoned, maybe? I dunno. Let’s stick with blasted. Either way, you didn’t have to keep my ass out of trouble like you said. I got into and out of it all by myself, like a big girl. Well, OK, Africa helped. He showed up, by the way. So did the Legends. I… well, it’s a long story.”

  A car honks on the street outside, the driver revving the engine, cutting through the quiet night. Raindrops beat a tattoo on the windowpane, and somewhere in the distance, there’s a peal of soft thunder.

  “You’re a total bitch, by the way,” I say.

  I mean it to sound light-hearted. A cute little joke. It doesn’t come out like that.

  “You were pissed at me because, what, I kept putting myself in danger? I was going to get myself killed and leave you alone, and I was a bad friend? You know how crazy that is, right? Not to mention unfair, and irrational, and… Annie, you can’t just do that to someone. You can’t put that on them. How the hell did you think that was OK?”

  I rub my face, standing up out of the chair. Start to pace, moving mindlessly back and forth. I have no idea if she can hear any of this, but it’s not like it matters. It’s all coming out, boiling out of me like water from an overflowing pot.

  “Let me tell you something. Ninety-nine per cent of the time, I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m making all of it up as I go along. Every part of my life. But here’s something I do know. Here’s something you can take right to the fucking bank. Back at the homeless camp, you told me – you literally told me, right to my face – that I’m the only friend you’ve got. Well, friends don’t treat each other this way. They don’t get angry and shut each other out and act like one of them is a little child, you asshole.”

  The crazy thing is, even as I say this, I realise who does treat people this way. Siblings. Brothers and sisters. My sister Chloe could be amazing, the best big sister anyone could have. Someone I could talk to for hours and go on long horseback rides with and pull pranks on our brother. But she could also be cold. Hurtful. It was like the flick of a switch. She’d turn into this… this robot. Looking at me and sizing me up like an insect, especially if I didn’t do what she wanted me to. She could freeze me out for days sometimes. It hurt like hell, but what was I supposed to do? You can’t choose your family.

  So what, is Annie my sister now? A replacement for Chloe? Fuck that. I had a sister, and I’ll never have another, and I’m not gonna sit here and pretend that Annie and I have that kind of relationship. We never have. She is not my sister.

  It’s wrong to have her be so silent. To have this conversation be one-sided. What would I have said to her if she wasn’t unconscious? Would I have had the guts? I have no idea.

  “You lost Paul,” I continue, my voice thick with unshed tears. “I get it. You were hurting, and somehow, you got it into your head that this was the correct response. That it would make you feel better to push me away. Well you know what, Annie? It isn’t, and it won’t.

  “I’ve lost people too. My whole freaking family. Mom, Dad, my sister and brother. All gone. I’m not perfect. Believe me, I know. But what happened happened, and I would never take it out on someone else the way you did to me. Especially not someone I considered a…”

  A friend.

  I grip the edge of the bed so hard that my knuckles turn white. “Fuck you. How fucking dare you? You say to me I’ll never see you again? If I stayed to help the people in the camp? OK. Got it. Message received. You get your wish. I’m out.”

  That’s it.

  I’m going to stand up. I’m going to walk out of here.

  The anger is gone. What’s left behind is a bitter resentment, one I can’t help but luxuriate in. In the time I’ve know her, I’ve gotten snatches of what Annie would be like as a friend. Little moments here and there where we weren’t fighting, where we really connected.

  Talking on the roof of Paul’s Boutique, the old office in Venice Beach, after the whole Jake thing blew over.

  Inviting me for dinner at her mom’s house, which happened before the big quake. When Paul was still alive. She tried to pretend like her mom was making her do it, but you could tell she was kind of excited.

  Singing the goddamn A-Team theme song in the van with me as we drove to one of our missions.

  The links she’d send me on WhatsApp a couple of times a week. Cool songs and videos from hip-hop artists. Never any commentary, never a Hey, saw this and thought of u… but a steady stream of links nonetheless. Like the one time I talked about how awesome Benny the Butcher was, and she somehow found this old, super-rare pre-Griselda freestyle from like 2005. Sent it to me out of the blue. Shrugged when I thanked her, like it was no big thing.

  Her surprised smile when I made the team chocolate brownies. Her sincere nod of thanks, mouth full, as she worked her way through two or three of the things, one after the other.

  No. I am not doing this to myself. Those little moments are like brief snatches of sun behind dark clouds. They don’t make up for the unrelenting, endless wave of shit she’s sent my way. The anger, the contempt, the disgust. Maybe we could have been closer, but she pissed it all away. And for what?

  So yeah. I’m going to leave. Right now.

  But I don’t.

  For a long minute, I just stand there, looking down at her.

  Then I take her still hand in both of mine.

  “I don’t want you to go,” I whisper, soft as a prayer. “Please. Stay with me.”

  If the powers behind the universe had any sense of justice, this is where Annie would open her eyes. Say my name. This is where she’d squeeze my fingers in hers.

  Instead, there’s only silence. Her hand, unmoving, under my own.

  After a minute, I let it go. I sit back down in the worn chair in the corner, put my elbows on my knees, drop my head between them.

  The door to the suite opens. One of the nurses maybe, or a doctor – and they’re probably going to give me shit again for being here. Well, that’s fine. Maybe it really is time to go.

  I lift my head, and the Zigzag Man is right in front of me.

  Standing in the doorway. Silhouetted by the bright lights in the corridor.

  I blink. It can’t be him. There’s no way. He’d never just walk in here. It would be Jonas stepping through the door, or Carlos, or…

  But there’s none of the same dreamlike feeling from before. No sense of unreality. Just this man, standing before me. Same leather jacket. Same heavy black boots. Same wild beard and insane, staring eyes.

  Turns out, I do have a little PK left.

  There’s a tray of surgical instruments against the wall. Scalpels. Scissors. Forceps. I snap them into the air in front of me, business ends pointed right at the Zigzag Man.

  “Where’s Leo?” I say, through gritted teeth.

  He smiles at me. He’s not wearing his bandanna any more—for the first time, I can see his whole face. And a little radar pings in the back of my mind starts to send a signal.

  I ignore it. “I’m gonna count to three. Then all of this –” I gesture at the very sharp pieces of metal in the air between us “– is going right in your fucking eyeballs. One. Two.”

  But I’m doing more than counting.

  I’m seeing.

  This whole time, I never really got a good look at the Zigzag Man. It was always in the heat of the action, masked by the insane visions he planted in my head. This is the first time I’m actually getting to look at him properly. And as I do so, my mind is ma
king connections, putting together pieces of the puzzle.

  I know this person as Harry. A scruffy, silent homeless guy who used to hang around my old apartment in Leimert Park. He never said a word to me, always kept his distance. He was a fixture on the street, a local figure, but one I didn’t pay much attention to.

  But I’m looking past that now. And it’s not Harry I’m seeing.

  My ability has evolved over time. I’ve gotten stronger. I’ve gained the ability to manipulate organic objects, not just inorganic ones. If my ability has evolved, then it makes sense that others’ abilities would work the same way.

  The Zigzag Man has the ability to make you see things. He has the ability to make you… dream. The kind of ability that might have evolved from… from…

  From someone whose ability was to never require sleep.

  I’m fighting it, even as my lips form the word Three. I’m reaching. It doesn’t make sense. It’s a logical leap too far, my exhausted brain jumping to conclusions and—

  —and I’m looking into the eyes of the Zigzag Man, and I’m seeing Adam.

  My brother.

  Harry. The Zigzag Man. My brother. They’re the same person. This whole time, all these years, and he was right in front of me.

  My words fade. Choked off. I can’t speak.

  A woman steps out from behind the Zigzag Man. She’s older, with a look in her eyes that speaks of hard miles and tough journeys, but there’s no question. It’s a face that looked back at me from atop her horse as we rode through the Wyoming wilderness. A face that I’d see when we hung out in her room, listening to music and reading magazines. A face that could turn cold and dark in a nanosecond if its owner was unhappy with me. A face that I thought I’d never see again.

  The face of someone who should be dead.

  My sister.

  My real sister.

  The surgical instruments clatter to the ground. I take a step back, and when my legs bump the chair behind me, I sit down hard.

  My brother and my sister step into the room, and stand side by side before me.

  “It’s good to see you, Emily,” Chloe says. “We need to talk.”

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Hey. Teagan here.

  Jackson Ford is currently passed out drunk on the couch behind me after only his second pineapple daiquiri. I’ve drawn a dick on his face. He had it coming.

  Unfortunately, we are on deadline, and he hasn’t done his acknowledgements for the third book in a row. So once again, it’s up to me. I’m kind of hungry right now, so I may or may not end up comparing everyone in these acknowledgements to food. Sorry not sorry.

  Ed Wilson, Jackson’s agent, is a grilled cheese sandwich. There isn’t a single situation that a grilled cheese sandwich can’t fix, and the same could be said for Ed. However, he’s English, so he’d probably serve the sandwich with Branston pickle or something. I think we’d all agree that’s a crime against nature. Don’t do it, Ed.

  Anna Jackson and Nadia Saward are peanut butter and jelly. The perfect combo, the ultimate editorial tag team. Together, they made this book thousand times better, and they even managed to remove the time-travelling unicorn samurai from eighteenth-century Japan that showed up halfway through. Oh, and since the last book, Anna Jackson has actually transcended the editorial world and become the literal head publisher of Orbit Books. And she hasn’t even reached her final form yet. Go, Anna, go.

  Bradley Englert, editor at Orbit US, also had a hand in this. He’s a New Yorker, so clearly he is pastrami on rye. If there’s one thing that New York can do better than Los Angeles – and there aren’t many – it’s deli.

  Joanna Kramer, managing editor at Orbit, is Maldon sea salt. A super-crunchy, delicious garnish that brings a dish together, finishing everything up nicely.

  Nazia Khatun and Ellen Wright, publicity, are another great combo. I’m going to go with salt and vinegar, the greatest potato chip flavour known to man. On their own, they are both great. But put them together, and you’ve really got a party.

  Madeleine Hall, marketing, is one of those really yummy garnishes you get on plates at five-star restaurants. Deep fried garlic chips, maybe. Or glazed carrots. Something that helps sell the whole meal.

  Sophie Harris did the cover. Which makes her an onion. Don’t knock onions, man. Without them, the whole kit and caboodle falls apart.

  Saxon Bullock is a clove of garlic. Garlic is an annoying ingredient. It’s irritating to peel, and a pain in the ass to chop. It makes your fingers all sticky. And yet, without it, things just wouldn’t work. You can never have enough garlic, and Jackson can never have enough of Saxon’s copy-editing. He might swear and rage and threaten to sue, but ultimately, he does what Saxon tells him to. Because Saxon is brilliant. A pain in the ass, but brilliant.

  All right, you know what? Now I’m starving, and I just realised that I have a whole lot more people to thank. My world has gotten a lot bigger over the past couple of years, which means more people had a hand in making it awesome. So I’m going to go grab a snackie and pick this up later, without the awkward food metaphors.

  OK, back. Made myself a grilled cheese sandwich in the end. Never mess with the classics.

  A big fist bump to the Hachette Audio Division, for making my audiobooks so incredible. Louise Harvey, Pavel Rivera, Lauren Patten and Jesse Vilinsky. If you haven’t heard them yet, you are missing out on some of the best audiobook reads ever recorded. I’m a totally unbiased observer obviously.

  While he was writing this book, Jackson relied on several experts to help him get things right. Chances are he screwed it up anyway. It’s his fault, not theirs. Wyatt Turney helped out with the science of electricity, and Michael Atkins talked at length with him about the LA River. Ross Howard helped with Spanish translation. Dr Vee Wilson used her experience as a spinal rehab specialist to help Jackson get the details right for Reggie’s disability, and used her experience as Jackson’s mom to repeatedly remind him that she brought him into this world, and by God and sunny Jesus she can take him out of it.

  Also, a big thank you to Danielle Kozak. She knows why.

  Nia Howard attempted to stop Jackson from making a complete fool of himself when it came to writing about the black American experience. Chances are he’s still made a complete fool of himself, but that isn’t Nia’s fault. Thanks also to Starr Waddell at Quiet House.

  Alisha Grauso usually performs a fact check for Jackson, helping make sure that his details of Los Angeles are correct. Recently, however, she adopted two cats, Boo and Keats. It turns out they were much better at the job than she ever was, so we fired her and hired them. It was the best decision we’ve ever made. Thanks, Boo and Keats. The cheque is in the mail. Be nice to your human.

  As always, Jackson sent early versions of this book to a few select people, because he secretly hates them. A big thank you to George Kelly and Werner Schutz for their comments, and to Jackson’s wife, Nicole Simpson. I think we can all agree that she’s the real hero here. She also happens to be the designer of the maps at the front of my books. That’s her handwriting. Jackson’s, predictably, is drunk-spider-chicken-scratch.

  To every blogger, bookstagrammer, YouTuber and podcaster who has talked about this series, and anybody who has spread the word to their friends: I love you. I really and truly love you. I’m going to name a salad after you.

  Oh hey! Almost forgot. They’re making this series into a TV show. By the time you read this, I might be on screen, played by Bradley Cooper. Or Idris Elba, I’m not picky. A huge round of applause to Emily Hayward-Whitlock and Fern McCauley for whacking the contract into shape, and to Heather Kadin and Alex Kurtzman at CBS/Secret Hideout for picking up the option, and for getting Idris to sign on (you guys did handle that, right?).

  I think that’s it. I’m gonna go stick Jackson’s hand in a bowl of warm water and film the results. Adios.

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  extras

  meet the author

  JACKSON FORD has never been to Los Angeles. The closest he’s come is visiting Las Vegas for a Celine Dion concert, where he also got drunk and lost his advance money for this book at the Bellagio. That’s what happens when you try play roulette at the craps table. He is the creator of the Frost Files, and the character of Teagan Frost—who, by the way, absolutely did not write this bio, and anybody who says she did is a liar.

  Find out more about Jackson Ford and other Orbit authors by registering for the free monthly newsletter at orbitbooks.net.

  if you enjoyed

  EYE OF THE SH*T STORM

  look out for

  THE LAST SMILE IN SUNDER CITY

  Book One of the Fetch Phillips Archives

  by

  Luke Arnold

  A former soldier turned PI tries to help the fantasy creatures whose lives he ruined in a world that’s lost its magic, in a compelling debut fantasy by Black Sails actor Luke Arnold.

  Welcome to Sunder City. The magic is gone, but the monsters remain.

  I’m Fetch Phillips, just like it says on the window. There are a few things you should know before you hire me:

  1. Sobriety costs extra.

  2. My services are confidential.

  3. I don’t work for humans.

  It’s nothing personal—I’m human myself. But after what happened to the magic, it’s not the humans who need my help.

  1

  “Do some good,” she’d said.

  Well, I’d tried, hadn’t I? Every case of my career had been tiresome and ultimately pointless. Like when Mrs Habbot hired me to find her missing dog. Two weeks of work, three broken bones, then the old bat died before I could collect my pay, leaving a blind and incontinent poodle in my care for two months. Just long enough for me to fall in love with the damned mutt before he also kicked the big one.