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

in the dark. More than once, I catch movement at the corners of my vision – flickering dark shapes, like before. I’m almost certain that I’m seeing things, but I might not be. As you can imagine, that only adds to the paranoia.

I hit the top floor. There’s another explosive pop – distant this time, something else in the building giving up the ghost. It doesn’t make me jump, fortunately, but it sharpens the edge on my nerves. My stomach is hitching again. If I—

There’s a noise. One I definitely haven’t heard before.

At first, I think it’s metal creaking – you know that high-pitched sound it sometimes makes if it’s under pressure? Only, it’s not that. It’s…

Sobbing?

Sobbing.

Someone down here is crying. It sounds like a woman, high-pitched. Soft and distant… but there, all right.

Got you.

Only: I might be wrong. It could be someone else, another employee who somehow found a way to stay safe from the electricity. I can’t assume anything.

Slowly, oh so slowly, I float towards the source of the sound. Several times, I have to stop and listen hard – the tight corridors twist and multiply the sobbing, disguising its direction.

But my ears are good, despite the loud rap music I pour into them on an almost daily basis. I keep moving, doubling back when I have to, getting closer and closer. I don’t know which direction I’m heading in, but I have a feeling I’m getting close to the edge of the storage unit.

More light, flaring in my goggles. I pull them up, blinking away sweat, expecting to see something else on fire. What I see, instead, is actual light. Like, electric light. Coming from around the corner of the corridor.

I hover in place, suddenly more scared than I’ve been in a long time. The sobbing is very loud, and it’s definitely coming from right around the corner.

Now that I’m here, I realise I don’t actually have a plan. Because of course I fucking don’t. Although in my defence, I’ve been a little preoccupied with not dying, not freaking out and not throwing up.

The person behind the corner may or may not be causing this. They may be a frightened civilian who has somehow kept themselves safe. Either way, this is one situation where the element of surprise may not be in my favour. When you have someone who can wield this much power, the last thing you want to do is startle them. It would be like a party where the birthday girl kills everyone after they turn on the lights and yell “Surprise!”

I’m pretty sure I couldn’t stop a bolt of electricity, not even if I smoked all the meth on Planet Earth. Which leaves me with… what, exactly?

Easy. I identify myself. I let them know I’m here.

If I surprise them, I’ll get electrocuted. If I tell them I’m here and they’re bad news, like Matthew Schenke, I may still get electrocuted… but there’s a chance I won’t.

There’s another option of course. Leave. Get the hell out of here. Tell Tanner where this person is, and let her handle it. She can send in a special forces team. Nuke the site from orbit. Anything.

Instead, I clear my throat, and say, “Hello?”

The sobbing stops immediately. Somehow, the silence is even worse.

I lick my dry, cracked lips. “I’m… Listen, I’m going to come round the corner, OK? Please don’t zap me. I just wanna talk.”

Nothing.

I wait for a real superhero to burst in and save the day.

Still nothing.

So I grip the edges of the hovering car door, and float around the corner.

ELEVENTeagan

It’s not a secret lair. It’s not even a room. It’s just another corridor. Same roller doors. Same grimy floor.

Except in the middle of that floor, sitting with his arms around his knees, is a boy.

Blinking up at me in astonishment.

He’s four or five, with black hair that hangs down his forehead in a spiky fringe. Vietnamese heritage, with dark skin and a round face. The skin around his eyes is puffy, the cheeks shiny with tears.

A single fluorescent light buzzes on the ceiling, flickering and grimy, but alive. I have no idea how it’s still working when the entire building is a live wire.

The boy wears an oversized black T-shirt, pipe-cleaner arms poking out the sleeves. He’s wearing tiny sneakers which used to be white, and neat blue jeans with a big rip just below the right knee.

For a few seconds, we just look at each other. Me, floating on my car door two feet off the electrified floor. Him, sitting on that exact same floor.

“Are you with my dad?” the kid says.

To say I’m not expecting the question is the understatement of the century. But on its heels comes a wave of relief – he’s not going to zap me, or at least he’s not going to zap me right away.

“Um,” I say. “Um. I… yeah. Ah. No. No, I’m not. I’m… sorry.”

He looks down at the floor. He doesn’t start sobbing again, but his shoulders are trembling.

“I’m Teagan,” I say.

“My name is Leo,” he mumbles.

“Hi, Le—”

“My name is Leo Nguyen and I am four and my dad’s name is Clarence and his number is 505-222-8870 and we live in Albkeekee.”

My brain scrambles, until I realise he’s trying to say Albuquerque.

“Wow,” I say. “OK. Let’s just—”

“Why are you flying?”

I open my mouth to tell him about my ability, but the words won’t come. In an ideal world, I’d be in a dark room on a soft bed, with lots of water, maybe watching a nature documentary narrated by Morgan Freeman. Instead, I’m here. And if I don’t get it together, this is going to go very badly.

Fortunately, he doesn’t seem to mind that I don’t answer. “I’m hiding from the, from the Zigzag Man,” he says.

“Who…?” I clear my throat. “Who is that?”

Leo doesn’t answer. He buries his head in the space made by his arms, which are still wrapped around his knees.

What kind of dad just leaves his kid