Eye of the Sh*t Storm by Jackson Ford (most romantic novels .txt) 📕

“Annie,” I whisper. “Don’t.”

She steps back, like I slapped her.

Then she turns, and runs.

FORTY-SEVENTeagan

There is nothing I can do.

Not a damn thing.

All I can do is watch her go. Running through the conversation in my head, trying out a million different imagined responses, a million ways that it could have gone differently.

The urge to chase after her is almost overpowering. Chase her, stop her, demand that she explain herself. You don’t treat friends like this. You don’t give them ultimatums.

And what would you say if someone you cared about kept putting themselves in harm’s way? What would you do?

She never told me. She never told me how she felt about me.

But is that true? Or did I just… miss it?

I don’t know.

What I do know is this. I have to survive. I have to stop the flash flood. Because there is no way I’m letting that be the end of it.

So I push everything that just happened to the back of my mind.

In twenty-five minutes, this place is going to be underwater. Unless I figure this out pretty fucking fast, everyone here is going to be in the middle of it.

First things first. Let’s make an exit.

I move as fast as I can, winding my way through the scaffolding. I keep having to dodge around people, yelling at them to move.

I pop out the southern end of the camp, scanning the side of the channel to my right. It’s wall-to-wall flood barrier at the top, but I think I can change that. I hope.

I’m already breathing hard, my chest burning. The second I get in range, a little way up the slope, I wrap my PK around the supports of one of the barriers – the big metal brackets holding it in place. I grit my teeth as I pull them upwards, tearing the bolts out of the concrete.

The barrier gives a screeching, groaning sound, starting to tip forward. There are panicked yells and shouts below me, but they are focused on the tipping barrier, not on me, which is good. The problem is, the barrier isn’t going down easy. It resists me, forcing me to push more energy into my PK.

Use the meth.

My hand is on my jacket pocket, over the little baggie inside. Being supercharged would make this easy.

I jerk my hand away. I don’t need the meth to do this. I don’t. I took that little bag so I could experiment later. That’s all. I definitely didn’t bring it with me so I could snort from it whenever I needed to use my PK.

As if validating this, the barrier suddenly comes loose. It tips forward, slamming onto the slope, turning sideways as it slides down the concrete. I have to skip out of the way, and it crashes onto the flat part of the storm drain.

Now there’s a gap. A big empty spot at the top of the slope, like a missing tooth.

It doesn’t look like anyone knows that it was me who created it, and more importantly, it doesn’t look like they care how it happened. They are already scrambling up the slope to my left and right, yelling at others to follow.

That’s a good start. But there’s no guarantee that the people under the freeways will even know there is an exit, especially if they were at the far end. The camp is a big, confused, buzzing mess.

The problem isn’t the people currently on their feet, moving around, trying to track down lost family members or friends. They know what’s coming, and they know they probably don’t have much time. The problem is the people who aren’t moving. The ones who are passed out, drugged out of their minds, disabled, injured. There’s nobody coming for them, nobody to hustle them along. This place might have had some loose organisation, once upon a time, but it’s gone to shit now.

The people leaving or getting ready to leave don’t know about the ones who are still here. They probably aren’t even aware they exist. But I am. Because I can feel the objects they carry with them. I can pick up their cell phones and watches and chains, their backpacks and wallets and money clips. All I have to do is look for the objects that aren’t moving.

And as I sprint back into the chaos of the camp, that’s exactly what I do.

I don’t let myself think. I don’t let myself consider anything else, especially not Nic and Leo, especially not Annie, not my friend, not my—

Fuck you. Focus.

There’s the man with the injured leg, the one with the crutches. Or should I say crutch – somehow, in the chaos of the last few minutes, he’s managed to lose one of them. I don’t even know how that’s possible. Did someone steal it? Who the hell would do such a thing?

As I watch, he wobbles to a halt, then sits down with a thud, his chest heaving.

The sight of him blows a fuse in my mind. Because even if I can get people moving, what about the ones here who can’t move? I could pick them up and carry them with my PK – somehow – but I have no clue how to do it without revealing my ability and causing a panic.

I shouldn’t have sent Nic and Annie away. I should have asked them to help. Doing this on my own is insanity.

Except: if they didn’t leave, then Reggie dies.

I’m breathing too fast, the sheer weight of what I’m trying to do settling on me like a heavy blanket. I claw in my pocket for my phone, thinking that maybe I can call someone, anyone. I’m pretty sure the cops or the fire department won’t respond in time, but it might be worth a shot.

It takes me a second to realise that the phone isn’t mine. I stare down at it, completely blanking, until I remember. It’s the phone I took from Minnie,