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

of thick you get when you’re walking through a pea-soup fog. It may not be carrying electricity itself, but it is not happy about being here. There’s a very low sound in the background that reminds me of a generator, or an AC vent. A low hum. I can’t shake the feeling that the deeper I go, the more electricity there is coursing through the walls and floor.

I’m breathing way too hard, and it has nothing to do with the meth comedown. Whoever’s doing this is powerful. Really freaking powerful.

Why is it that every time I encounter someone else with abilities, I feel like I’m playing catch-up? Just once, I’d like to be the person with the biggest dick.

Underneath me, the door wobbles. Normally, levitating myself like this would be easy. Not today, though. Today, it’s taking a lot out of me.

Holy shit – movement. At the far end of the corridor. A dark shape, flickering in the corner of my eye. I whip my head round, but the shape isn’t there any more. It’s gone. Except it’s not – it’s right behind me, about to fall on me, and I can feel it, I—

I snap my head back. There’s nothing there. Of course there’s nothing there. I’m seeing things now. Because if there really was something there, the night vision goggles would paint it green… right?

Fan-fucking-tastic. Bad enough that the comedown makes me feel like ass, it has to make me hallucinate too?

Something nearby explodes. Pow. Like a balloon popping. There’s no flash of light, but it still makes me jump. The shift in my centre of gravity rocks the door underneath me. I start to drift, heading right for one of the roller doors.

“Oh,” I say. “Oh shit. Ooooh shit. Shit shit sh—”

With an effort of will, I pull my platform from the roller door, drifting to a wobbly stop in the middle of the passage. Another second, and I’d have been bacon.

I slap myself. Then I do it again, despite the fact that it hurts a lot more than it should. “Get it together, bitch, come on.”

Which is when I see the body.

The passage dog-legs off to my right, more roller doors and concrete and padlocks. Lying in the middle of the passage is the smoking body of a man. His right arm is splayed out in front of him, like he died trying to crawl to safety.

My gorge rises, subsides, then rises again. I crouch down on my floating door, hugging my knees to my chest. There are little pinpricks of light going off behind my closed eyelids, and my skin feels like an evil witch is raking her pointed nails across it, very slowly. The headache has subsided, a little, but it’s still there, a burning knot at the base of my skull.

Somehow, I manage to keep my stomach under control – throwing up on an electrified floor would cook the puke. I think if I have to smell that right now, I’ll just implode.

“There’s a body here,” I say, keying my earpiece.

No answer. The static doesn’t even change.

I’ve got to check it out, even though I really don’t want to. Odds are it’s not the source of whatever is causing this… but I can’t just breeze past it.

I float over, trying to look everywhere at once, listening for the slightest noise. It would be just perfect if someone with electricity powers got the drop on me right now. That would really cap off this whole day.

The man is lying face down. He’s wearing a cheap green windbreaker over torn blue jeans. Bright red New Balance kicks. His hair is dark, cut short, and there’s a wedding ring on his left hand, which rests to one side of his body. His jacket is smoking, very gently.

There’s no one around. Not a sound.

I let out a breath. Whoever the source of the electricity is, it’s not this guy. He’s just some poor schlub who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Sorry, buddy.

Guess I was right. The electricity is more powerful the deeper you go. Good news for the receptionist. Very bad news for yours truly.

Anger wakes me up, a nice sharp bolt of it, like an icicle sprouting in my chest. It clears my head a little more. God, I am going to kick the ass of whoever is doing this.

But where the hell do I find them?

I slowly spin my platform, my muddled brain puzzling it out. The power source – I’m just going to call them that from now on – is still here. Still in the building. They have to be. So if I was them, where would I hide?

Nobody’s going to sit back and just be like, Wow, guess the electrified storage unit of death is off limits for ever, oh well, have a good day everybody! They’d investigate. If I’m the power source, I’d know that, so I’d put myself at the furthest possible point from any entrance. I’d go to the top floor, as close to the middle of the building as I could get.

Yes, I admit, the logic is a little fuzzy. But I’m just saying. If could generate a million volts with my fingertips, that’s where I would go.

The elevator is obviously a non-starter, even if it was still working, which I doubt. It takes me a while to find the stairs – I hit a couple of dead ends first, and more than once I’m turned back by an actual fire. One of the lockers is ablaze, bright and hot enough that I have to pull up my goggles. It doesn’t look like the fire has spread yet – say what you like about concrete and metal, they don’t burn easily.

The stairs, when I eventually do get there, are a surprising pain in the ass to navigate. They’re tight, which makes not touching the walls and ceiling a challenge. Still nothing but static on my earpiece, and the hot, harsh sound of my breath