Random Sh*t Flying Through the Air (The Frost Files)

by Jackson Ford

“Babe, we don’t even know where he is,” Annie tells him.

  “But we do need to find him. And that means we need a strategy for when we do. My instinct is to approach, and carefully – he might not understand his powers yet. Perhaps he even triggered the quakes by accident.”

  My eyes are gritty, and I have to blink a few times to clear them. “Didn’t look like an accident.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. But he seems young on the video. If we can talk to him, then perhaps we can neutralise this situation.”

  “Babe…”

  “No, listen. Out of everyone here, who has kids? I’ll tell you. Me. I’m the only one with a son.”

  Africa makes an mmm sound, as if this hadn’t occurred to him.

  “There are things you learn as a parent,” Paul says. “Certain truths about how children act. This young man’s probably scared. He probably doesn’t understand what he’s done, and even if he does, he might not know how to control it. And by the way, do I have to remind everybody that he’s a child? We can’t go in hard and fast here.”

  He’s obviously expecting us to nod in agreement. But what the follows the speech is an uncomfortable silence. Africa and I share a glance, both of us clearly thinking the same thing.

  “He’s not Cole, man,” Annie says gently.

  God, I’m so glad she said his son’s name before I had to. I really didn’t feel like calling Paul on this. He’s not just my annoying coworker right now – he’s a dad, and he must be worried out of his mind. His little boy and his ex-wife might be in Arizona, but not being able to contact them has to be the worst kind of torture.

  Paul closes his eyes. “I’m not saying he is.”

  “Really?” Annie folds her arms, but the look she gives him isn’t unkind.

  “Of course not. I’m just saying that I’m the only one here who actually knows what it’s like to raise a boy. OK?”

  “Then you know what kids can do sometimes,” Annie says. “You’re acting like he just… shit, man, isn’t it just possible he did this on purpose? That he threw a tantrum or something?”

  “Of course it’s possible, but—”

  “I mean, Jesus, I don’t have a kid yet, but I seen plenty of ’em lose their damn minds over the smallest things. Moms not buying them ice cream. Their favourite show getting taken off Netflix.”

  “Right,” I say. “Maybe he just lost his temper? Or his mom doesn’t spank him enough? Or something?”

  Annie side-eyes me. “Spank him?”

  “You know what I mean. Paul, dude—”

  “No.” He shakes his head, firmly, like that puts it to bed. “That is not what’s happening here. What he have is a little boy. You can’t just assume things. And by the way, just because I have a son does not mean I’m getting confused here. It gives me more insight, not less. I’m actually a little insulted that—”

  “We’re getting sidetracked,” Reggie says. “We shouldn’t make judgements until we find the boy ourselves.”

  “But where is he?” Africa rumbles. “We do not even know—”

  “What about the epicentre?” Annie says.

  Paul takes a deep breath, as if drawing a line under the awkward conversation we just had. “Makes sense. Problem is how we get there. From what I hear, it’s all the way up north, in the Angeles forest.”

  Which is only reachable on miles and miles of broken freeways and shredded roads. That’s one hell of a bike ride. Plus, the streets are almost certainly bristling with people like the ones who tried to shake us down en route to the Boutique. Or, we could try stealing an Army helicopter – we’d have about the same chance of success, and it would be a more life-affirming experience. Well, up until we all got shot.

  Paul points out into the cavernous stadium. “We can’t discount the possibility that he might be here.”

  Africa’s eyebrows shoot up. “Here?”

  “Why not? FEMA are using this as a central camp. They’re already flying people in. We should check here first – with five of us, we could—”

  Right then, Reggie dissolves in a fit of wheezing, hacking coughs. Her diaphragm is weak on a good day, and today is a long distance from that. Annie immediately steps over to her, helps shift her position on the seat.

  Paul’s face creases in a frown. “Reggie, are you—?”

  “Fine.” She can hardly get the word out.

  “Fine, my ass,” says Annie. “You need a doctor.”

  “Like hell I do.”

  “Actually, I’m with Annie on this one.” I say. I don’t exactly love the idea of going back into the rain, but I still want someone with an actual medical degree to give her a once-over. “You had a building fall on your head. That’ll fuck up anyone’s day.”

  Paul gets to his feet. “You’re right. Of course you’re right. Priority one—”

  I look over my shoulder. “Dude, you really need a new system.”

  “Priority one is getting us food and water, and Reggie a sit-down with a doctor. We can’t do anything if we’re out of juice. And there are five of us, so we can cover a little more ground. Teagan – can you go find us some water? I saw them giving out bottles over there.” He points towards where home plate would be. “Food too, if you can get it. Africa, you get Reggie to the medical tent. Annie – go with him. You can talk to the medics.”

  “I can talk to them myself,” Reggie says.

  Paul shakes his head, a not-unkind look on his face. “You’re in bad shape. I want Annie there – she’s used to working with you on a daily basis. She can step in if needed.”

  “What are you gonna do?” Annie asks.

  “I’m going to see if I can open up a line of communication to Washington. Or at least find out where they keep the satellite phones.”

  He looks around at all of us. “Well, come on. Time’s a-wasting. Unless anybody’s got anything else to say?”

  Nobody does. But as we make our way back down to ground level, the strangest thought comes into my head. The whole time Paul was talking, Reggie hardly said a word. Even before she started coughing. She just let him take the lead.

  I think Moira’s going to fire me.

  She wants the right people in the right positions.

  And I know exactly who she’d put there.

  You want to know the craziest thing? Paul would be a really great choice. Even I will admit that. He might annoy the shit out of me, but he knows every part of our operation inside and out – every moment of every op, every disguise and tool and vehicle, every nook and cranny of the Boutique. Reggie’s always been our boss… but I’d be lying to myself if I didn’t admit that Paul would be just as good. Maybe better.

  He’s not perfect. He’s projecting his feelings for his son onto our little earthquake boy, for one thing, which is super-double-plus unhelpful. But the uncomfortable truth is: however much I like Reggie, however much I want her to stay, Paul Marino may be a better leader.

  I take those thoughts and push them to the back of my mind. Priority one: save the world. Then we can worry about saving China Shop.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Teagan

  It takes me a while to make my way to home plate. It’s still raining, naturally, so I have to walk through ankle-deep, sucking mud – if the Dodger Stadium grounds crew are here, they must be losing their shit right now. All their hard work trampled under a million feet. And it does feel like a million; there’s almost no space between the tents, as if the entirety of LA has been crammed into the stadium. For all I know, that’s exactly what’s happened.

  I keep wondering if they’ll ever play baseball here again – if the field can even be saved after all this. Let alone the stadium itself. Maybe they’ll just tear it down and build a new one. Then again, will there even be a baseball team in Los Angeles any more? A quake like this is going to knock the state’s economy off a cliff…

  Thinking of the wider consequences makes my head spin. What about the restaurants I love? Not just the small mom-and-pop spots, the little Viet
namese noodle shops and taco trucks and bistros. I’m thinking about the big ones, the ones that spend their time angling for Michelin stars – spots like N/Naka, where I still haven’t eaten, and probably never will. Burgers Never Say Die. Atrium. Dialogue. Shit, Howlin’ Rays! The best fried chicken I’ve ever eaten! All these mind-blowing restaurants that are just… gone. And – oh man, the service staff. Waiters and dishwashers and cooks and night porters. Thousands upon thousands of people, out of work.

  And there’s more. Everybody thinks Los Angeles is all about the movie industry and nothing else. It definitely isn’t true, but a shit-ton of people still work on movies here. After today, the global hub of film production will probably move somewhere cold and boring. Like Vancouver.

  Amoeba Music? The greatest record store that ever was or ever will be? Gone. Not to mention other ones that are just as cool, like Fat Beats. And I can forget about seeing Jay Rock at the Coliseum, because the Coliseum probably doesn’t exist anymore. Ditto for the Novo, the Echo, the Roxy. And all the little incidental spots that populate my life, like Ziggy’s on La Tijera, where I get my hair done. The bodega on the corner of Roxton Avenue in Leimert Park, which I can never remember the name of even though I chat with Mo, the owner, all the time.

  This kid’s killed us. He’s put a bullet through my city’s brain. And he’s taken up residence in my own.

  Mostly, I’m pretty comfortable with who I am. I don’t spend a lot of time obsessing over self-improvement, and if you don’t count the four years I spent in the custody of the US government, I’ve never been in therapy. Who needs it? I’m not some comic-book character with a dark past and a hidden history; I know exactly where I come from, and why I have my ability, and I came to terms with it a long time ago. It made it easier to just chill the fuck out and enjoy life, and fill my brain with important things, like how not to burn paella.

  But after Carlos, and Jake, that little core of certainty took a knock. With this kid – this child who appears to be a lot stronger than I could ever imagine – it’s been sucker-punched. He didn’t appear out of nowhere. Someone gave him his ability. But why? And who?

  Where the hell did he come from?

  I lower my head, and push on through the muck.

  If anything, the situation inside the baseball diamond is even worse. There are fewer wounded here, but all that means is they’re louder, and more likely to push you out the way as they move past. My PK gets a feel of watches, chains, wallets filled with coins, belt buckles – not to mention the world around me, plastic buckets and metal tent poles and M-16s. After someone shoves me aside for the third time, it’s very tempting to just grab the nearest object and start swinging.

  Paul’s voice suddenly pops into my earpiece. “Testing, testing, one, two, thr—”

  Static. Silence. Then Annie: “Copy th—short-range transmi—is still—”

  “Yeah, think—some problems with the link. Teagan, do you—?”

  “I’m here,” I say, not sure whether they’re going to catch it or not. It doesn’t feel like it matters much.

  Home plate. Near as I’ll to get, anyway. Ahead of me, a soldier on an empty flatbed tries to ignore the people bustling around it. “Where’s our water?” someone yells.

  “For the millionth time, we’ve given out all we have.” The soldier’s distracted words are greeted with groans, angry mutters. My heart sinks. “There’s more coming in, but you need to be patient.”

  Balls. I send out a wave of PK, looking for the familiar shape of plastic water bottles, hoping that maybe he’s just stalling for time. But there aren’t any in the immediate vicinity. Guess he’s telling the truth.

  I turn to go – and smack right into someone, face-planting their chest.

  “OK, seriously,” I say. “Watch where the fuck you’re—”

  Nic stares back at me, blinking in surprise.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Teagan

  He looks like shit. And that’s being nice.

  There are dark circles under his eyes, and a huge streak of dirt down the side of his face. He’s wearing an old UCLA hoodie and jeans, both of which are torn in a dozen spots. His sneakers are caked with mud.

  There’s a second where we just goggle at each other, then we both start speaking at once, both of us demanding to know if the other is OK, where she/he came from, if they’re hurt, how long they’ve been here. I only stop when Nic grabs me, pulls me into a bear hug.

  We’re both freezing cold, soaking wet. But Nic has always given really good hugs – and right now, having him wrap his arms around me is like sitting courtside at Game Seven of the Hugging World Championships.

  “This is fucked,” he says.

  “Yep.”

  After a long moment, we pull apart. “Are the guys here? China Shop?”

  “Yeah. They’re fine. Well, Reggie might be hurt, and Paul broke his arm.”

  Nic winces at that.

  “But otherwise we’re OK. What about you?”

  “I’m good,” he says. “My mom and dad, too – they’re back there.” He waves towards second base. “I came to get some water. Did they have—?”

  “All out, apparently. I’m here with the guys though – you can always come back with me if we can’t find any. Maybe they got lucky.”

  He nods, then leads me away from the angry crowd. There’s a relatively clear spot by the wall, and we slump against it. It’s not sheltered from the rain, but we’re so wet that it hardly seems to matter.

  Paul and Annie are still chatting in my ear, talking about the ride down from Van Nuys, which feels like a lifetime ago. I pop the earpiece out, dropping it in my pocket. I don’t want to be interrupted right now.

  “This is fucked,” Nic says again. “They’re saying it was bigger than the one in 1857. That was only a 7.9.”

  “Yeah, I know. I was actually in the air when the quake started. I saw it all happen.”

  “In the air?”

  “Long story.”

  He falls silent, staring at nothing. Looking at him, all I want to do is rewind the clock. Back to the night of the paella, before any of this shit occurred.

  “How’d you get here?” I ask.

  “How’d you get here?”

  “You first.”

  “Not surprising.” He scratches at the dirt on his cheek. “They’re bringing in as many people as they can – this is like a central emergency camp for FEMA. Makes sense, if they want a place people can easily get to. I’m still not sure it’s a great idea, because they did the same thing in New Orleans during Katrina, with the Superdome. That went bad fast.”

  “Looks like it might go bad here too,” I say, watching the unruly crowd. What is it with government agencies? They never fucking learn.

  “Man, I was worried about you,” he says. “When the second quake hit, I tried to message you, but I guess this one was big enough to take out the cell towers for good.” He wipes his face. “I was at work – well, kind of; my mom and dad had come down to meet me for lunch, and I was showing them my new office—”

  “Wait, you were worried about me?”

  He gives me a strange look. “Uh… yeah. Anyway, we got out OK, the building was up to code – more or less. So we just took the stairs down to the—”

  “If you were worried about me, why didn’t you text?”

  “I just said I did. The cell towers are down, remember?”

  “No, I mean after the first quake.” I probably should have led with that – my brain is all over the place, overworked and overtired. “I sent you like fifty messages, and you didn’t reply to any of them.”

  “Um, yes, I did. I told you I was out in San Bernardino. Remember that?”

  “OK, fine. One message. You didn’t respond to any of the others.”

  “What does it matter?”

  “What does it—? Of course it matters. I wanted to know if you were OK.”

  “I’m fine. Obviously.” Nic does this thing when he’s frustrated. He’ll ru
b his leg with his right thumb, running it down the fabric of his jeans. He’s doing it now. Not looking at me. “I was busy. You know, helping out with the quake.”

  “So what, you couldn’t message me during a break? A little thumbs-up emoji or something? Even you have to eat sometimes, Mr Super Laywer.”

  I want it to come out like a joke. It just sounds bitter.

  He meets my eyes. “Fine. I was pissed at you, OK?”

  “What, because I wouldn’t—?” I stumble over the words. “Because I didn’t know how to help?” It sounds lame, even to me.

  “I mean…”

  “I don’t care how pissed you were, you can’t just… ignore me like that. You went off to San Bernardino, and—”

  “The first quake was done. Nothing was going to happen.”

  “Says you!”

  “You know what? I’m sorry.” He doesn’t sound even close to sorry. “I didn’t understand why you wouldn’t help out. I should’ve texted you a thumbs-up afterwards. Would that have made you feel better?”

  “Just FYI, I have been helping. I messed up before, but I’ve figured it out. I just gotta careful when I use my PK.”

  “OK. How’ve you been using it?”

  “Well, we… I mean, I got Reggie out after the office collapsed on top of her. And even before that – these dudes tried to jump me and Annie and Africa, so I—”

  “Oh, so when it’s your friends, it’s all good, but you won’t actually help out anyone else?

  “OK, that is not fair—”

  “That’s exactly how it is. Look around you,” He spreads his arms. “You’ve got these amazing powers, and you haven’t done shit to help. That’s embarrassing, man.”

  “You know exactly why I have to be careful with my ability. Tanner would—”

  “Would what? You think it matters any more? We got people dying out there, we got fires, we got burst gas mains, collapsed buildings, and you’re in here talking about what some FBI chick would think.”

  “She’s not FBI.”

  “Then what is she? Huh? Tell me that.”

  “It’s—” I falter. Tanner’s agency or organisation or whatever it is doesn’t have a name – or at least not one known to those outside the corridors of Washington. “It doesn’t matter, dude. Just—”