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

by Jackson Ford

  Annie glowers, her shoulders tight. But she doesn’t shake me off.

  “How the hell did you get out?” Burr says to me. His voice is even lower than before.

  Oh yeah. Shit. Jeez. I can move soil with my mind now. Organic molecules.

  It’s hard to process. Even as it was happening, I didn’t believe it. It’s been one of the big limits of my ability my entire life, and I just proved it can be done. It takes adrenaline and terror and a major panic response… but it’s possible.

  My ability is changing. Growing. I can lift more than I used to. I can reach further. And apparently, the old limits no longer apply.

  No response from the soil now, of course. I can’t feel it. I can’t feel anything. I am, as Burr put it, out of gas.

  “He didn’t drop me in too deep,” I lie. “I dug myself out.”

  He shakes his head. “That’s insane.”

  “Nope. That’s telekinesis, Kyle.”

  I’ve always called it psychokinesis, not telekinesis. But what the hell: when life gives you a shot at a Tenacious D joke, you take it. Even if it means compromising your standards.

  Fuck me, what a day.

  Burr gives me a final, guarded nod. Then he gets to his feet, gesturing to the others, pointing at the forest.

  As the soldiers fan out, the helicopter appears above the treeline, a dark shape against the grey sky. I reach out for Annie, putting my arm around her shoulders. After a moment, she lifts me up.

  SIXTY-TWO

  Matthew

  Tree trunks loom in his path. Branches try to snag him. The ground slopes and undulates, threatening to trip him. But even as he runs, Matthew’s thoughts are clear.

  Amber almost shot him.

  If he hadn’t forgotten about the little slope at the edge of the clearing and fallen over, she would have.

  He should’ve gone back, made sure she was dead, maybe even hit her in the head with one of the rocks. But he’d fallen right off the edge of the clearing, almost in the same instant that the gunshort rang out. He’d panicked. The bullet passed by this close to him, and it was only the fall that made it miss. He’d landed hard, but was up and running in the same instant, his feet flying. His face and hands were scratched to hell, but he barely noticed.

  This whole time, Amber was planning to shoot him. He taught her a lesson though. A big one. He’s surprised to find that he’s not angry any more – more annoyed than anything else, mostly because it’ll be harder to get adults to do what he wants now. After he sets off Cascadia, he’ll have to find someone else. Another Amber. No problem – there’ll be more than enough opportunity later.

  And with that, he dismisses Amber from his thoughts.

  Those soldiers, and the lady with the powers. They’re still alive, probably, and they’ll catch him eventually – at least, if all he does is run.

  And the solution is obvious, isn’t it? He can try and fight them off, but there’s a better way. If they can’t see him, they can’t catch him. If they can’t follow his path, they can’t find him.

  As Matthew runs, he sends his power out in a wide arc behind him. He doesn’t have all that much range, really – not unless he’s on top of a fault line, which amplifies what he can do, lets him reach a lot further than normal. But he’s still able to use the soil up to about fifty feet out, and he uses it. He swings it in all directions, spreading it as far as he can. It’ll leave a trail, sure… but it’ll be a big one, wide and dispersed, and if he’s clever – if he zigzags and goes in unexpected directions – they won’t be able to track him nearly as accurately.

  Behind him, he continues destroying the forest, uprooting trees and detonating clods of earth, left and right, irregular patterns designed to confuse any pursuers. As he reaches the other side of the ridge, he cuts a hard left, using his hands to help him balance on the steep slope, wincing as a jagged rock grazes his palm. He reaches back with his mind as far it will go, and rips open a great hole in the earth.

  Voices. Just on the other side of the ridge, shockingly close. “Delta Commander, do you copy? Over.”

  A burst of static from a radio, followed by an angry voice, spitting words Matthew can’t make out. His trick didn’t work. Somehow, they’ve found him. They weren’t supposed to do that. He stills, clenching small fists by his sides. He’ll bury them. He’ll bury them all.

  “Copy that. We’re maybe two klicks into the woods. Heading north by north-east. We’ll keep you posted. Out.”

  He’s about to send out a tidal wave of dirt, perhaps rip the ground out from underneath them and bury them deep, when he stops. He’s vulnerable here, and these men have guns. They’ve seen what he can do, and at this close range, there’s a chance they could fire off a few shots before he kills them. He has no desire to die – especially not when Cascadia is so close.

  And there’s another way. A smarter one.

  Quickly and quietly, he moves the dirt under his feet. He slips beneath the soil as if dropping into water, the granules of soil and rock and clumps of root simply sliding past him. At the very last instant, he closes his eyes, tilting his head back so just the tip of his nose shows above the surface. With a soft, rolling hiss, the dirt hides his face from the world.

  Other kids would be scared about being buried this way. But they aren’t as smart as him. Why should he be scared? He can tell the earth what to do. Other people might freak out if you put them in the ground, but not him.

  He reaches out, sending up a few bombs of dirt further away, deep in the trees. Let them follow his trail. He won’t be able to send the bombs any further, and they’ll wonder why he stopped… but at least then, they won’t be in his immediate area.

  Muffled sounds reach him. Crunching footsteps, hushed commands, the soft clanking of equipment as it shifts across hips and backs. Matthew waits. It’s possible they might find him – notice the one tiny slip of flesh he has to keep above the ground to stay breathing. If that happens, he’ll bury them, and accept the risk that they might try shoot him. There’s only so much he can do.

  But the footsteps are already moving away. Matthew waits, very still. Breathing, in and out through his nose, ever so softly.

  And before long, the forest is quiet again.

  Dead still, under the earth. One hour, two. It takes everything Matthew has to control his annoyance, his desire to hunt down the men chasing him.

  He occupies himself by imagining what will happen to them when he triggers Cascadia. They’ll be crushed to pieces. Drowned in a tidal wave. Maybe they’ll be in a building when it happens, and die from a gas explosion. He pictures their torn bodies, which makes him forget for a while that he has to be still.

  Eventually, when he’s absolutely sure he’s alone, he lifts himself out of the dirt. Slowly, carefully, listening hard. Waiting for a shout of alarm. Nothing. The forest is darker now, more shadowy, and the only sound is the wind in the trees.

  He did it.

  They can’t hurt him. They can’t do a thing to him. If he hears them first, he’ll just hide himself away. If they surprise him, he’ll kill them. For real this time.

  There’s the fluttering of wings above him as some bird takes flight. He shivers, suddenly cold. It was surprisingly warm under the ground, but the open air of the forest has a chill to it. His sweater – he’ll need it if he’s going to—

  The sweater is still in the car, back at the campground. Amber was supposed to bring it with them.

  Matthew pouts, hugging himself. His breath forms a very light cloud in front of him.

  Whatever. It’s not like he’s going to be out here long, anyway. Just long enough to trigger Cascadia, and then he can make his way back. He’ll find a new Amber. And there are plenty of other fault lines – none as big as Cascadia, sure, but they’ll still be fun to set off. And what about volcanoes? He hasn’t even started thinking about volcanoes! The thought sends an electric bolt up his spine, makes him grin momentarily. He’ll have to find out. Even if it’s a no, there’s other
, smaller stuff he could do: messing with building foundations, bursting dams…

  His thoughts land on the woman with the powers. The one he thought he’d killed. If she existed, others will too. Maybe they could work together.

  First things first. Cascadia.

  Only: where is it?

  The ETS zone was a little way into the park. He’ll have to get pretty far in to trigger it, but it shouldn’t take him all that long to get to a point where he has a strong enough connection. The zone was to the north-west from the campground, maybe a three hour hike.

  But where is the campground? And which way is north-west?

  Matthew turns in a small circle, heart beating a little faster. His annoyance grows. This is dumb. He knows which direction the ETS zone is in. It’s just over there, past that grove of shrubs.

  He sets off, picking his way across the uneven ground. He’s thirsty, his throat a little dry. He clears the grove, the branches scratching at his bare arms. It’s actually gotten colder, and the tops of the trees are darker now, less distinct. A bird calls out in the dusk, startling him.

  The ground is getting hard to see now. His foot tangles in a clutch of roots, and he almost falls. Suddenly, he’s breathing hard, clutching at himself as he fights for balance. He puts a tiny hand against one of the big tree trunks, and his skin comes away wet.

  OK. So he doesn’t know where the ETS zone is, or which direction he should go. It’s cool. All he has to do is concentrate, and he’ll be able to feel it calling out to him, even if he isn’t close enough to release the pressure. That’s how it’s supposed to work, right? The very first fault – that little one when they were driving into LA – called to him. Didn’t it?

  You were close. You were right next to it when that happened.

  He kneels, placing his palms flat on the damp earth. For a moment, he thinks he feels it… but it’s just the regular ground, the dirt, the usual stuff. Boring. Stupid.

  Amber had the maps, the sweaters. The food and water. She was supposed to bring it all.

  With a growl, he tears a chunk out of the ground, a boulder the size of a motorbike. He hurls it into the trees, listens to it break apart with a giant crunch. More birds take flight, cawing in alarm. Matthew jerks, as if shocked, then abruptly starts walking again. He’ll just keep heading in the same direction, and everything will be fine. He’s bound to come across the ETS eventually, and then—

  Wait. The direction he’s walking in now… is that the same as before? He’d tripped, or almost tripped, and he’d gotten turned around He needs to turn right a little. That’s definitely north-west.

  Stumbling. Hands out in front of him. He can hardly see them now, let alone the ground. More than once, he’s certain he hears voices in the trees, and whirls, ready to defend himself. But there’s nobody there. He just ends up losing his direction again.

  “They don’t understand,” he mutters, not realising how hard he’s shivering. “I have to do this. I want to.”

  He takes another step – and his shoe fills with water. Icy, shocking. He yelps, yanking his foot out of the unseen puddle, and sits down hard on the cold forest floor. Then he lashes out, shredding the earth in a fifty-foot radius, ripping and tearing, hurling up clouds of dirt. A tree topples over with a crunching bang, loud enough to make him whimper.

  He needs to see where he’s going. That’s it. He’ll just… get higher.

  In moments, he’s rising on a column of earth, half-crouched on it, wobbling for balance. It’s hard – much harder than anything he’s ever done. The column snakes up past the canopy, bearing him on it, his teeth gritted. Despite the cold, sweat slicks his forehead.

  He turns in a small circle, fists clenched at his sides. The tree canopy stretches away in all directions, a dark, undulating sea of leaves and branches. He can’t see the campground, of course. He can’t see anything. Even the stars are hidden behind low clouds.

  Dizzy. Really dizzy, all of a sudden. As carefully as he can, Matthew lowers himself back to ground level. In his mind, he’s taking it slow. In reality, the column of earth drops in big, lurching increments, nearly throwing him off. He sits on the ground, panting, then scrambles to his feet and starts to run. He’s very cold now – running will keep his heat up. He read that somewhere, didn’t he? But where?

  A tree rears in front of him, its trunk death-black against the dark backdrop of the forest. He swerves around it, ripping it up by the roots almost as an afterthought. He reaches out, hunting, desperate for contact with the ETS zone. He’s only just aware that he’s started crying, tears dribbling down his cheeks. He can’t even remember which direction he’s supposed to head in now. All he knows is that he has to keep going.

  Somewhere, very distant, a bird calls.

  SIXTY-THREE

  Teagan

  The funeral for Paul is held at the United States Naval Academy Cemetery in Annapolis, Maryland. There’s a small memorial service held later in the Naval Academy Chapel, too.

  We hold one of our own.

  At our place.

  Well, kind of our place. Paul’s Boutique is gone, of course. We talk about having the get-together up at his ex-wife’s place in San Diego, but that idea doesn’t last long. Annie saw her at the funeral, and she was… not good. Neither was his son, Cole. Mostly because the way he died is next-level top secret. They don’t know what China Shop Movers really was (is, dammit, is), and they think he was killed when the office collapsed.

  Of course, Annie’s not doing so well herself.

  We decided to hold the memorial at the last place we all hung out together – Sandra-May Cruz’s house. Watts got hit just as hard as everywhere else, but her home is still mostly intact, although part of the back kitchen wall has collapsed, and there are cracks snaking through the rest of the house. There’s no power, either. Plenty of places in the city haven’t had it restored yet, and spots like Watts and Compton are definitely low on the list. Some things never change.

  Not that Sandra-May gives a shit. She’s found a generator, had one of her neighbours hook it up, filled the house with food – God knows where she got it all from. As far as I can tell, she invited damn near every single person in Watts. She’s zooming around the house now, making sure everyone has enough to eat and drink, her dog Rocko trailing at her heels. She drags her wheeled oxygen cart, her emphysema barely slowing her down. I get the feeling she’s a little scared to stop moving. I catch her at odd moments, looking out one of the broken windows, gazing at nothing.

  I’m in the packed living room, squashed up against one of the house’s few unbroken windows, drinking a warm beer. People keep giving them to me – Bud Lites and Coors, pressed into my hands whenever I get halfway down a bottle. I’m drunk – getting there, anyway. God, I wish Africa was here – he’s the kind of person who is really good at parties.

  Nobody knows where he is. Shortly after the chopper lifted off from Van Nuys with Annie and me onboard, he stole one of the ATVs and took off. I assume he went to look for Jeannette – probably figured there was nothing more for him to do. I’ve thought about heading to Skid Row, or to his apartment, trying to find him. I haven’t gotten up the energy to do it yet.

  I hope he’s OK.

  It’s loud in here. Voices raised to the damn roof. People with paper plates of pizza and nachos and sandwiches, waving beers in the air; somebody passing around a bottle of whiskey. It’s still cool outside, but there’s no rain – and inside the house, it’s hot enough to slick my skin with sweat.

  When I was growing up in Wyoming, I used to fantasise about going to parties like this. Teenage parties, kids packed in tight, drunk and sweating and making out. This isn’t exactly how I saw it go down.

  There’s a big photo of Paul propped in one corner, in full Navy uniform. Taken maybe ten years ago, when he was just starting to lose his hair, grinning at the photographer like an idiot. Sandra-May has placed lit candles around it, and I smile to myself when I imagine him telling us that it’s probably a
major fire hazard. Earlier, somebody asked Sandra-May why we were celebrating some old white Army dude; the earful she gave him would have charred concrete.

  The booze suddenly gets me, flooding my skull and turning the room woozy. I push off the window, start to wind my way through the crowd. I get a few curious glances – little white girl, hanging around a party in Watts – but nobody hassles me.

  Even if I wasn’t welcome here, I don’t really feel like going back to the place I’m staying – a miraculously still-functioning two-star hotel in Pomona. It’s crazy far out of LA – almost forty miles from my own place. But it’s packed out, so I can only imagine the strings Tanner had to pull to get rooms for me and Reggie. Hard bed. Antiseptic bathroom. No kitchen. Not that I’m complaining, really: my apartment in Leimert Park is a no-go. It’s… not destroyed, exactly, but it’s in real bad shape. Huge cracks in the walls and ceiling, windows broken. And I swear to God it’s actually tilting a little to one side. I gathered as much of my stuff as I could, as many clothes and cookbooks and records as the Batmobile would take, and got the fuck out.

  It sucks. I liked that apartment.

  At least I still have my car. The Batmobile lives. I found it back where I left it, outside the remains of the Boutique. Took me a while to get back there, but seeing that damn Jeep was the fucking best.

  It’s been about two weeks since our little adventure in Washington. Cascadia has not gone off.

  I have no idea how… but I think we saved the world.

  They never found the kid. Tanner pulled in every favour she could: satellite imagery, infrared scanning, dedicated tracker teams. Drones and choppers, like Burr said. They scoured that forest for two weeks, and found nada.

  And that probably sounds weird, doesn’t it? All those resources, all those eyes, and the kid still never pops up? Yeah, I thought it was strange too. Strange, and scary.