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

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