Eye of the Sh*t Storm by Jackson Ford

Author:Jackson Ford [Ford, Jackson]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Orbit
Published: 2021-04-27T00:00:00+00:00

THIRTY-ONE

Teagan

Pop staggers backwards, clawing at her face. She makes a strangled, gagging sound like a trapped animal. The top corner of the phone smashed a couple of her teeth in, and as she gasps for air, one of her shattered canines falls to the floor. Blood smears her chin.

She tries to pull the phone out, gripping it in both hands, fighting it even as it worms its way deeper. To be fair, I don’t actually want to kill her, so I give her an assist. I rip the phone away from her mouth, and before she can react, I snap it at her face. Her nose explodes, spraying blood. I step back neatly, eyes never leaving her.

Pop staggers, clutching at her ruined face, finally looking up at me. “You—”

I pull the phone towards me, then send it flying at Pop’s forehead. She puts a hand up, trying to stop it, doesn’t get there in time. It hits dead centre, snapping her head back. She crumples like she’s been shot.

The phone is wrecked, its screen destroyed. I let it drop, bouncing off Pop’s chest. Her eyes have the same unfocused look that I saw in Nic’s. I don’t even think she knows where she is right now.

Hmm. Maybe I hit her a little too hard.

Fuck it. Slap me? I slap back. And I slap a lot harder.

I rip the door open with my PK. Robert’s there, along with a balding, heavyset gentleman with a huge beer gut and terrible tattoos. They both spin around, gawping at me.

The dude with beer gut reacts first, bursting into the room. He gets brained by the chair I was sitting on, and collapses on top of Pop, who lets out a heavy whuf as he crushes her.

Robert, to his credit, is a little smarter. He whips the phone up to his ear, turning, trying to run so he can make the call. I take the phone away from, snapping it against the wall. In response, he swings around and sprints headlong into the room, like a running back going for a tackle, hurdling Pop and coming right at me. I whip the chair up, holding it between us, intending to have him smack right into it. He comes to a stuttering halt, fury on his face, and grabs at the chair legs. For a second, he’s engaged in an awkward wrestling match with the thing, his eyes flicking back and forth between me and it, like he can’t believe his life has come to this.

Pop has a knife in her jacket pocket. It’s not a killing-people-knife – or at least, I hope it isn’t. It’s a regular Swiss Army penknife. I have it out of her clothes and in the air in seconds, the blade flicked open and just touching the soft spot under Robert’s chin. He freezes, still holding onto the chair.

The room goes woozy for a moment. I have to focus very hard to pull reality back. If I’m not careful, I’ll lose control.

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