Twenty-two
Apocalypse Now
For the rest of the trip to Hill House, I tried to not look down. The destruction was impossible to ignore completely. Streets were flooded, roofs had collapsed, people wandered in the streets, shouting at one another. We passed over more fires than I imagined possible, and even if Dahlia had been in top form, she couldn’t have helped all of them. The task was too great for one woman. Even after Los Angeles had been pounded by battle after battle during the Meta War, it hadn’t looked like the disaster it was today.
We finally entered our neighborhood, which was a patchwork of fallen trees and broken homes—most of them empty, thank God. We had very few neighbors in the sprawling estates and once expensive homes of Beverly Hills, which was one of the reasons we’d settled there. The seclusion also gave the area an air of abandonment and horror as we flew over it.
Denny was pacing the backyard when we flew in. Dozens of windows had blown out. One of the giant old trees had fallen on top of the house and collapsed the roof from the third floor down to ground level. My bedroom was gone, and below it the tree had struck the kitchen and dining areas.
I put us down next to Denny. “Where did you see them last?” I asked before anyone else could speak.
Denny gulped, his pale face marked by a single bruise on his forehead. “Dr. Kinsey asked if I wanted anything to eat. They were going into the kitchen.”
Dahlia bolted, probably propelled by Noah’s need to find and protect his family, and he took over before he reached the house. I followed him to the broken, gaping hole where the back door had been. The tree lay at an angle about forty-five degrees from the ground, its top caught on something to keep it from falling flat. Sheetrock and wooden beams lay in piles, some jagged and exposed from the second floor above. Sunshine showed dust and rubble, and what had once been our kitchen island. Nothing was burning, but I smelled gas. I pushed a strong breeze into the space, hoping to give them some fresh air until we could get them out.
“Dad!” Noah shouted. “Dad, Aaron!”
“What the hell?” Denny said from behind me.
“We’ll explain later,” I said. The Changelings coming out like this wasn’t ideal, but panic did funny things to people.
“Who’s Aaron?”
“Scott.” Like that explained anything.
“Shut up,” Noah said. “Listen.”
I did, straining to hear over the trickle of water running and weakening wood creaking. A persistent tap-tap-tap that changed in pitch every three beats. Morse code. SOS. “I hear it,” I said.
The wreckage had a crawl space large enough for one person to slither through, and as I moved for it, Noah grabbed my arm. “I’ll go in,” he said.
“No, I’ll do it. If that tree moves or if there’s an aftershock, I’ll need you to keep things from falling on me.”
“What if you need to move something inside the house to get to them? My powers will be more useful from there.”
Good point. “Okay, fine.” More than Noah’s going in, Dahlia’s going inside that house terrified me. We weren’t as close as we used to be, but I still loved her to pieces. “Be careful.”
Noah’s green eyes flashed momentarily blue. “We will.”
He knelt down and crawled inside. Wood snapped and shifted as he moved on top of it. His legs disappeared into the dusty dimness. I sent air with him, hoping to keep the gas thin and the grit out of his eyes and lungs.
My com buzzed. <Tempest, it’s Trance. Report.>
“We’re at the house. Denny’s okay, but Dr. Kinsey and Aaron are trapped inside. A tree collapsed part of the roof.”
She swore. <Are they alive?>
I thought of the SOS tapping and my heart twisted. “At least one of them is.” I’d tell her about our fire saving stop on Wilshire later. She didn’t need that extra bit of drama, especially with Gage badly wounded. “How’s Cipher?”
<On his way to Cedars-Sinai, probably with a broken collarbone. The roads are bad, though, so I’m thankful it’s not life-threatening.>
“Any sign of the anti-Rangers?”
<No. Marco did pick up an unfamiliar scent, though, so it’s possible Andrew was there. Probably helping them in order to protect his father.>
“Probably.”
<Listen, we’re going to see what we can do to help with the aftermath. Keep me informed.>
“I will.”
As soon as I finished talking to Teresa, Noah’s voice came over my com. <I see them, but I can’t get to them through here.>
“How are they?”
<Dad’s awake. Can’t tell if Aaron—wait, he’s moving. They’re stuck under some debris, near the wall by the dining room.>
A fast and easy plan formed in my head. “How close to the door into the dining room?”
<Best guess is five or six feet. I can’t really see it.>
“Okay, stay put for a minute.”
<What are you going to do?>
“Get closer.”
By get closer, I meant indoors. Despite my aching bones and exhausted limbs, I ran full steam to the front of the house. Dodged a pile of shattered glass that had once been our foyer light fixture. The display cases that had once proudly held old uniforms and remnants of our Ranger history lay on their sides, broken. Huge cracks ran up and down the hallway walls. Pictures lay on the floor. The stink of gas was strong and I spun it outside on a gust of wind.
The power was out, making the interior hall a dim obstacle course that I navigated with reckless speed, until I reached the dining room. A painting had slid to the floor, all of the windows were broken, and a large crack raced across the ceiling from the direction of the kitchen. The door that usually opened into it was broken off, partially blocking the entrance—the rest was blocked by my goddamn mattress and headboard.
“Noah, tell Dr. Kinsey to tap the wall on his side,” I said.
<Okay, hold on.>
Nothing.
“Harder.”
I heard the tapping that time, about seven feet from the kitchen door. I tapped back.
“Okay, Noah, tell them to cover their heads and stay flat on the ground. And I need you to hold everything up that’s around them. Everything except the wall.”
<I can try. What are you up to?>
“Drilling.”
I’d done this a few times—concentrated a thin cyclone of air into a wind drill that could cut through solid materials. My very first try had been a four-foot-wide tunnel through dozens of feet of concrete and debris. One sheetrock wall should be child’s play. The open front door and the broken windows would give me the airflow I needed to make this work.
I shoved the dining table out of the way and stood in the center of the room. Wind swirled and danced, answering my silent call. I zeroed in on my spot about three feet above the ground. Visualized the width of my air drill. Brought it together. My skin buzzed with energy.
“Ready?” I yelled over the roar.
<Go!>
With a directional push from my hands, I sent the concentration of spinning air at the wall. It broke through with ease, blasting a three-foot-wide hole into the plaster and wood supports. The house groaned but held. I swirled the dust right out of the hole and through the windows, then dashed to the wall.
Dr. Kinsey blinked up at me, his face and clothes coated in gray dust. Then Aaron’s head popped up. He had a cut on his right cheek, but his relieved smile unknotted the cold fear I’d been carrying in my stomach since the quake started.
“Come on,” I said.
They didn’t have much room to work with, so getting them through the hole was a lesson in gymnastics I’d have laughed over if our lives weren’t still in danger. Dr. Kinsey basically landed on his head as he slid through. I helped him out of the way while Aaron came through a little more gracefully. They didn’t say anything, just followed me outside to the front lawn.
“We’re out, Noah,” I said over the com.
Behind the house, something creaked and groaned. Then crashed.
<We’re fine,> Noah said, and I relayed that before his father and brother panicked.
In the sunlight, I got a better look at Aaron. He was filthy, covered in dust from head to toe, but he wasn’t bleeding anywhere except his face. He met my assessing gaze with his own. I probably had a hell of a bruise on my face (yeah, another one), and I didn’t care. I also didn’t care about anything except confirming for myself he was okay when I swept him into a fierce hug. He wrapped his arms around my waist, his heart beating the same speeding rhythm as mine.
“That was scary as hell,” he whispered, his breath tickling my neck.
“Yeah.” I pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes shined with the same relieved affection I felt right back.
“You okay? You picked up some new bruises.”
“We had a bit of a run-in with the clones.”
“You win?”
My smile faded away. “No.”
From the corner of my eye, I noticed Noah and Denny had come around from the backyard. Noah and Dr. Kinsey were standing together near a cluster of fallen tree branches—which had miraculously not landed on or damaged our only remaining vehicle—trying to look disinterested in something that had to have their curiosity on overdrive. Denny, possessing a lot less tact, stared openly, mouth ajar.
Then again, Aaron wasn’t wearing Scott’s mask anymore. The poor kid had seen two strange new faces in less than five minutes. Denny had to be so confused.
I stepped fully away from Aaron, then activated my com. “Tempest to Trance.”
A few long seconds passed before she answered. <Trance. Go ahead.>
“Everyone’s safe and sound.” Something screeched loudly, like breaking metal. “What are you up to?”
<Good to hear. A bunch of cars got trapped beneath a collapsed overpass at the 110 and 10 exchange. We could really use Double Trouble’s powers out here.>
I glanced over at Noah, who had been listening and nodded. They were ready to go. “We’ll be there shortly. Out.”
Because of the damage to the streets, we couldn’t drive, so I was resigned to carrying both Noah and Aaron back across town. Dr. Kinsey and Denny were okay with staying behind. Regular power was out, but we’d had emergency generators installed six months ago. They were going to try to get our computer systems back online and help coordinate our efforts. And keep an eye on the news and any potential clones sightings. The anti-Rangers had made some sort of point today—and I had no doubt they’d somehow caused that earthquake—but they were not done with us.
Not by a long shot.
• • •
For the first time in our lives, we were coordinating our disparate abilities in order to assist in a massive rescue effort. The scene at the 110/10 exchange was one of barely controlled chaos, made worse by the dozens of bystanders who kept wanting to help. Or accuse us of causing it, as a few managed to do over and over again.
At least two dozen cars were suspected of being under the rubble—I couldn’t imagine how many it might have been if this quake had struck thirty years ago, when Los Angeles had ten times the population and fifty times the traffic problems. Marco was using his house-cat form to scout for us, slipping down into the rubble to find cars with live people trapped inside them. Noah-via-Dahlia used telekinesis to shift chunks of asphalt and stone. Teresa blasted large slabs of concrete into manageable chunks, while I drilled through solid objects and kept fresh air moving down into the mountains of debris.
With their less active powers, Renee, Kate, and Aaron-as-Scott had taken over triage duties. So far we hadn’t rescued anyone with life-threatening injuries, just lots of cuts and scrapes, and two broken bones. At least three police helicopters had flown over already, which hopefully meant evacuation of the wounded would happen soon. I couldn’t fly all of them to Cedars-Sinai by myself.
We were working on the middle level of debris, trying to get to a car where Marco had spotted a child trapped with a dead adult. Layer after layer of asphalt, steel cables, and cement peeled away. The work was both noisy and exhausting, and finally some high-pitched sobbing rose above it. Dahlia was dripping with sweat from the effort of moving so much in such a short span of time—plus, you know, it was August in California. We were all hot and miserable, but this was something we could do.
Rangers helped people.
The dusty, dented green hood of a car presented itself. Double Trouble lifted another chunk of concrete and cables away to reveal a smashed windshield. The crying got louder. Teresa and I peeled away the windshield. The driver was crumbled against the steering wheel, the top of the car crushed down on top of him, blood oozing from a split in his skull. I checked his pulse just to confirm he was dead.
From the backseat, the crying got more intense.
“Hello?” Teresa said. “Honey, can you hear me?”
A black-haired girl peeked around from behind the passenger seat. Her eyes were swollen from crying, and clear liquid ran from her nose and mouth. She took one look at us, then at the dead man (father?), and burst into fresh sobs.
“Can you climb out to us?” Teresa asked. “It isn’t safe to stay in the car right now.”
She shook her head and clung to the seat.
“What’s your name, honey?”
Through the choked tears, she said, “Becca.”
“How about if I come get you, Becca? Will you go with me if I get you?”
The little girl, maybe six years old, paused in her crying long enough to consider it. Becca nodded yes.
“Okay, good. My name’s Trance, okay? I’m coming to get you.”
We watched while Teresa climbed slowly into the front passenger seat. She crouched down, then reached out her arms. Becca leaned over the armrest between the front seats. Teresa grabbed her around the waist and pulled her forward. Metal crunched, and the entire car shuddered.
Dahlia spread her palms and blew hard through her nose. “Got it, now move,” she said in Noah’s voice.
Teresa angled them both toward the glass-free windshield. I stepped onto the warped hood. She tried to pass me Becca, who clung to her like a spider monkey and refused to let go. Switching to plan B, Teresa twisted around so her back was to me. I crouched and grabbed her around the waist, and together we levered them up and out of the car. We jumped down and Dahlia let go. Something settled harder onto the rear of the car and metal popped.
Becca buried her face into Teresa’s neck and refused to be disengaged. Becca wasn’t bleeding anywhere that I could see. She was just incredibly traumatized, the poor thing.
A few feet away, a reporter and his cameraman had just set up and were beginning to tape something with us in the background. “This is Victor Troy, Channel Seven, reporting live from the Santa Monica Freeway at the 110 exchange, where three levels of roadways have collapsed on top of each other during this morning’s historic earthquake. As you can see behind me, the members of the unnamed superhero team led by former Ranger Trance are already out and doing what they can to assist in the aftermath of the destruction.”
I stared at the back of the reporter’s head, stuck between disgust at this guy’s use of people’s deaths to tell a news story, and the intense need to use him to make a big damn point. I glanced at Teresa, who was staring at me like she knew what I was thinking. She glanced down at Becca, then over at the reporter. Her hands were (literally) full at the moment, and my collection of bruises might help drive the point home harder.
So I stalked over to the reporter, who turned after a signal from his cameraman. Troy was young, and not someone I’d seen before in the usual gaggle of press that liked to dog us. He was wearing a T-shirt and jeans, and he looked like he’d been enjoying a lazy Sunday morning before the earthquake sent him straight to work.
Troy stared at me a little goggle-eyed before remembering he was live. “Tempest, correct?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“What brought you and your teammates out here today?”
“Are you serious?”
He blinked. “I mean, um—”
“We’re here to help. Los Angeles is our home, and she’s been devastated. There are thousands of people across the city who need help this morning. We can’t be everywhere at once, but we can do our part to save as many lives as possible. But I am curious, Mr. Troy.”
“About what?” He looked terrified to hear my answer.
I gazed directly into the camera, allowing the anger and stress and exhaustion to show through in my face and my words. “Where exactly is Humankind during this crisis? I don’t see them out here moving rubble and rescuing trapped citizens. They say they want to protect the sanctity of human lives? Well, here’s their chance.”
Troy didn’t seem to know what to say to that, so I kept going. “We’re only a handful of Metas doing what we can, but there are dozens of Metas in Manhattan right now, with abilities that match or exceed our own. Metas who could help save even more lives today if our government gives them the opportunity.”
I turned and walked back to the rubble, where Marco had just pointed out our next target. He slid up next to me.
“That was brilliant,” he whispered.
“I just hope it helps,” I replied.
We got back to work.
It took us almost three hours to find all the survivors of that particular collapse. We managed to pull eighteen people out alive, including a two-year-old and her teenage mother. Troy moved on after a while to cover other areas of the city, but more reporters came and went, and then finally a few National Guardsmen showed up with medical supplies and news.
The U.S. Geological Survey announced that the earthquake had measured 9.0 on the Richter scale, the largest felt anywhere in the world in more than seventy years. The epicenter was in Santa Ana, California, and its effects were felt south into Mexico, as far north as Fresno, and all the way east to Las Vegas. A few casinos even suffered minor damage. The kicker for us, though, was the rumor—not yet confirmed by the USGS—that this wasn’t a natural earthquake.
The rumor surprised none of us. The timing of it had been too perfect. Unless the lab rats at Springwell had created a Recombinant with the ability to predict earthquakes to the second, this had to have been man-made. And that scared the hell out of me.
With the widespread power outages, fires, and gas leaks across L.A. and Orange counties, the National Guard was evacuating survivors right out of the city. Temporary refugee camps had been set up in the Mojave Desert just outside of Barstow, along with a MASH facility for treating the wounded the damaged city hospitals weren’t able to accept. Gage (with his broken shoulder and collarbone) had already been evacuated, along with a dozen other, less critical, patients. For now, the poor guy was too doped up on morphine to be of any help in our efforts.
Efforts we made for hours as the day became a blur of heat, asphalt, steel, debris, blood, and screams of pain. Occasionally a resident who hadn’t left yet would offer us bottled water or sandwiches—small gestures that made all the difference as we battled house fires, lifted collapsed roofs, and dug under multiple feet of rubble for survivors. By nightfall, we were exhausted, but we couldn’t seem to stop, as though our bodies were on autopilot. None of us had ever used our powers so extensively, and for such a long period of time. Sooner or later, we’d just shut down and pass out.
Which was okay, I guess. At least no one could accuse of us slacking off.
But for the first time in months, none of us cared about how we were being portrayed in the media. It didn’t matter. One thing mattered, and it wasn’t our image. It was the next innocent life waiting to be saved. The Springwell anti-Rangers had put millions of people in harm’s way and caused (at the very least) thousands of deaths today. Sooner or later, we’d make them f*cking pay.
Aaron, Renee, and I were getting people out of their collapsed homes near Trinity Park when a city cop came over with a radio. He looked around as though searching for someone else, then came right over to me. He waited while I helped an elderly woman sit down on the curb, away from the remains of her house, then he held out a walkie.
“They’ve been trying to reach you folks,” he said. “Someone from New York, and it’s urgent.”
Curious, I took the walkie. “This is Tempest.”
“It’s Simon.” The familiar voice crackled badly over the connection, but he’d gotten through to us somehow. “How’s everyone out there?”
“We’re all alive. Gage is the only one seriously hurt, but it wasn’t from the quake.” No one else we knew was injured—I’d gotten a message from Alicia an hour earlier, letting me know she was alive and on her way out of the city.
“I want to hear that story, but first I have some news I think you will appreciate.” By this time, Aaron and Renee had come over to listen. “Warden Hudson is releasing fourteen volunteers from Manhattan to assist in the rescue efforts in Los Angeles.”
I stared at the walkie, positive I’d heard him wrong. I looked up at Aaron, whose surprise and joy were apparent even through Scott’s mask. “Are you serious?” I asked.
“Perfectly. He received permission from the president himself. All of the volunteers will wear tracking anklets, and they have to be supervised by your people, but this is real. I think your sound bite this morning got people’s attention out here.”
“That’s what it was supposed to do.” Fourteen more superpowered volunteers were exactly what we needed. “When will they arrive?”
“Everything is in motion. I’d say about four hours, give or take. The National Guard has an incident command post set up at Hollywood Park. That’s where the volunteers will be arriving.”
“Great, we’ll make sure some of us are there when they land.”
“Good luck, Tempest.”
“Thanks.” We need it.
I gave the cop back his walkie. Renee looked cross, but Aaron’s smile canceled that out. Some of my bone-deep weariness lifted, and I couldn’t wait to find Teresa and give her the good news.