The Edger Collection

by David Beem

  “Tell me about it. Try being me for five hundred years.”

  “No thanks. I’m on my second life already. So far, it’s not going how I’d hoped.”

  Nostradamus holds his palm up again as Prime Minister Watson takes the stage. The shot changes. Mary from my dream, peering through the rifle scope, the Gigantic Rock on her finger glinting in the balcony lights as she cups the hand guard.

  “Mary, no! What’re you doing?” I look at Nostradamus. “Can she hear us?”

  He nods.

  “Mary—that’s your dad!”

  She looks up from her scope to face the camera, lifts a finger, and presses it against her lips. Shh. Her diamond wedding ring sparkles. She squints and again presses her eye against the scope.

  “Our date!” I yell. “What about our date?”

  Mary lines up her shot. Nostradamus taps his palm, and a line forms down the middle. Now Mary’s on the left, the prime minister’s on the right. He’s at the podium. My hands still tied behind my back, my fingers wrap around my left thumb and squeeze. There’s nothing to do but watch. My stomach is roiling. My right foot twists behind the wheel on my chair. Nostradamus squeezes my shoulder to steady me with his free hand. Acid flares up in the center of my chest.

  Nostradamus nudges me with his elbow. “You might not want to watch this part. If you’ve never seen a guy’s brains get blown out, it’s pretty gross.”

  I turn my head. There’s the shot. Screams of terror issue through the speaker in his glove. The telltale commotion of a cell phone being jostled around—the call goes dead. Nostradamus lowers his hand and stands. I squirm against the ropes binding me, not to break out, but to rail against my lying eyes. I can’t—no, I won’t believe Mary shot her dad.

  “Loyal to the end,” says Nostradamus, again reading my mind.

  “You don’t care who lives or dies,” I reply. “You don’t care how many people you kill.”

  “No, I care. But I’m willing to pay the price. Maybe if you were five-hundred-and-some change, you would be too.”

  A loud thud issues from the office upstairs, like Fred collapsing out cold.

  “That’s exactly what it sounds like,” says Nostradamus, peering up at the skylight. A knock on the door turns him around. His gaze tracks from the door to me to the skylight and returns to the door.

  Silence.

  Another knock. Nostradamus’s helmet cocks to the side.

  “Hello?” a voice calls from outside.

  “Hello?” yells Nostradamus.

  “Hello,” the person returns.

  “Who is it?” asks Nostradamus.

  “It’s Charles. Edger’s dad? May I come in?”

  Nostradamus stands up straighter, clasps his hands in front. “Door’s open.”

  The ropes binding me fall inexplicably to the floor. Finally! I rotate my hands and feet to get the blood flowing again. Nostradamus shrugs.

  “That’s your dad, always showing off.”

  I shift in my seat to face the door. Dad—in his full-on steroidal War Machine armor—enters.

  “Chuck!” Nostradamus exclaims. “You were supposed to drop down through the window.”

  “Yeah,” says Dad, leaning forward and pushing his palm into his lower back. “Back’s been kinda janky since the hotel.”

  “Was it the piano?” asks Nostradamus. “I bet it was the piano.”

  “No,” says Dad. “Don’t laugh but…I think I just turned to the right. You know, us mortals. Getting old and turning to the right. Next thing you know—ow. Janky back.”

  Ducking my shoulder low, I spring forward, aiming at Nostradamus’s stomach—

  I jerk right in midair. Broken-out windows streak past. My shoulder cracks against wood; I belly-flop onto the concrete floor, splitting my chin and knocking my wind out.

  “Stay,” says Nostradamus, now some twenty yards away. His fingers flick in my direction, and my limbs straighten like iron rods. Panic courses through me. I can’t move them. I can’t feel my arms or legs! The telltale crack of splitting lumber pulls my attention upward. Sawdust rains into my eyes and open mouth. I spit and gag, throw up almost. A low rumbling vibrates through my tailbone and up my spine. My watering eyes flutter. The rumbling builds like a too-loud subwoofer.

  “Edge! Get out of here! Run!”

  My heart sticks in my throat to hear the fear in Dad’s voice as my arms and legs come free.

  CHAPTER Thirty-seven

  I scramble to my feet.

  The warehouse vibrates like it’s lassoed by fifty monster trucks gunning to rubble the place. The ground bucks me left, right. My arms splay on either side. A crack reverberates from the ceiling. Splintered wood and shingles rain down. I shield my face, lurch forward, then leap aside as a giant beam crashes on top of the wheelchair I’d been sitting in only seconds ago.

  Another rafter swooshes by. Its wake blasts sawdust into my eyes. I tumble backward. Earsplitting shattering wood. A ray of light cuts through the dark air. The roof of my mouth is like paste. My tongue slices a track down the center and flicks out, but the air is just as dirty. I turn and spit—and there, beyond the crushed wheelchair, is a hole in the wall.

  I clamber over the top of the rafter. Splinters pierce my hands.

  More coughing—spitting—

  —I’m outside.

  The roof cracks, the intensity of it like a spike to the base of my skull, it’s so loud. Shaking, I run, trip, and tumble pell-mell down a small embankment. I somersault, finishing on my butt. I’m at the perimeter of the fleet of Peterbilts and another earthquake rattles my skull. Cracking lumber, shattering glass, and a final thundering boom as solid tons of warehouse building materials come crashing down. I crab backward on all fours, into the maze of trucks, plop down on my butt, and gape at the wreckage. A ripped-up sheet of felt paper floats by. A two-by-four falls over. I pant and rest against a giant tire.

  The paste on my tongue is unbearable. I scrub it with the inside of the bottom of my shirt and break off as a glob of sawdust ejects in a hacking cough. I pant some more and slump against the tire.

  Edge, you have to move!

  Dad!

  I push off against the tire and stagger farther into another row of trucks. The fleet is huge. Fifty? A hundred? I have no idea how many trucks there are. Enough to get lost in. I hunker down behind another tire to strategize, when the whoosh of an exploding gas tank freezes me to the spot. Metal clanging end over end. A rolling hubcap. Peeking around the grill of a Peterbilt, I spot the corpse of a truck lying on its back. Where the fuel tank had been, only charred twisted metal remains. I flatten my body against a trailer. My stomach tries to climb out of my throat.

  “Dad?” I whisper. “Dad?”

  Tink-tink…

  I whirl around, my gaze drawn to the sound. There—the Z-ring! I snatch it.

  Thank you, Dad!

  I don’t know if he can hear me, and I don’t know how he did it, but this time, I am not going to leave him to face this lunatic alone. I am not going to drop it. And once I get this thing on my finger, I swear to god, I am never taking it off, even if I have to pee inside my—

  From the palm of my hand, the ring begins to collapse inward.

  “What?”

  It twists into a figure eight—and keeps twisting until it finishes in something resembling a Möbius Strip.

  “Sorry, Edge.”

  My gaze snaps up. Nostradamus. He slashes at the air. The ring whips out of my hand, flies sideways, and pings off a trailer before bouncing end over end beneath the maze of trucks.

  “No superheroing for you.” He raises his arms overhead. The truck on my right lifts into the air, the metal groaning in protest.

  “Wait-wait-wait!”

  His arms swing down, and the incoming shock force bowls me over. I cross my arms—

  The crash doesn’t come.

  I crack an eye open. The underside of a rig is hovering some ten yards above me. Dad’s between me and Nostradamus. I lower
my arms.

  “Enough!” yells Dad, waving leftward, and the truck rockets off. Seconds later, the telltale metal-on-metal sound of a spectacular car crash triggers the muscles in my arms. My fists squeeze tight; my biceps flex.

  “You’re weak, Chuck,” says Nostradamus. “Face it. You suck. You’re not cut out for this.”

  “I know. I should’ve stayed in the car. But seeing how that wasn’t an option, you involving my boy and all, here we are.”

  Nostradamus’s arms go still at his sides. He peers straight ahead, and the ground begins to rumble.

  “Edge!” yells Dad. “Edge—run! Get out of here! Go!”

  My chest rises and falls. Dad’s arms waving for me to flee is like a slow-motion movie, untethered from the real world. I can’t move. I’m frozen to the spot. Not because anyone’s freezing me telepathically. But because I’m normal doo-dah, scared-as-shit-I-can’t-move-my-feet frozen. The trucks behind Dad lift into the air. The world becomes exponentially brighter. Groaning, shrieking metal. The trailers rise higher and the trucks’ fronts tip forward. Booms like struck kettledrums ring out as their contents shift and slam into metal walls. My gaze pans up. The sky is rubber, metal, and axels.

  All the trucks are in the air.

  “Run!” Dad yells, peering upward, one leg bent, hands raised toward the airborne fleet rocketing toward space.

  My knees buckle, and the action serves to reboot my body mechanics. I hobble off as fast as I can manage, making it three steps before the shock force of an explosion slams me from behind. My ears pop. My feet leave the ground. Shoulder raking across concrete, I skid to stop. More explosions ring out behind me. I cover my head.

  Something wet drops from my brow. I prop myself up on one elbow, wince, collapse onto my side. My arm is a mass of gravel and scrapes. I touch my finger to the inside of my cheek—blood. A spikelike blast erupts, so loud it glows in my ears, a pure white sound. The movie reel of life sputters and jams. The air is incinerator hot. Someone’s moaning. It takes me a second before I realize it’s me. I’m on my side.

  The air shimmers. Another explosion erupts from the far side of the parking lot, the flash briefly outlining Dad and Nostradamus. Dad falls backward. Nostradamus faces me, his head cocked sideways. His arm makes another throwing motion. High above, a tiny Peterbilt is bearing down on me like a meteorite. I struggle to get to my feet, twist my ankle, fall. The rising trill of the incoming missile hollows my throat. This is it. I’m going to die. I roll onto my back.

  The Peterbilt is silhouetted against the sun.

  Hard metal grazes my fingertip; a ring slides over my finger—

  The sky darkens.

  Cold goo slimes up my arm, over my shoulder—

  I clench my teeth as the HUD pops up—

  The Peterbilt’s grill glows red. I cross my arms—

  The target lock zeroes in on the incoming Peterbilt. Red letters flash.

  ACCESSING BATTLE PLAN. RECOMMEND: DEPLOY COUNTERMEASURES.

  “Do that!”

  My arms uncross with a mind of their own. Two rockets fire from forearm launchers. The truck shatters into a million pieces. The shock wave blasts me back. Glowing metal shards fall like coins from a slot machine.

  DEPLOYING COOLANT SYSTEMS.

  DETECTING MULTIPLE CONTUSIONS.

  INITIATING MEDICAL ASSISTANCE.

  I’m on my side. Flames all around. I’ve got to get up. My arms lift instinctively to shield my face. But this isn’t the space ninja armor—this is the War Machine armor. I’m in Dad’s suit!

  I stagger to my feet, lose my balance, and tumble forward through flames. I tense—expecting to be burned alive—but the heat doesn’t touch me.

  INCOMING ALERT: PRERECORDED MESSAGE:

  Edge, for the next ten minutes, Nostradamus can’t read your mind. Use it. The technology you need is a psychic cloaking device to tune him out permanently. It is hidden in a storage locker at an address encrypted in this suit. You’ll know the device when you see it. It is imperative you get there ASAP. Once you have the cloaking device, you’ll have unfettered access to the Collective Unconscious, and Nostradamus will no longer be able to read your mind. Good luck. Now, go!

  END TRANSMISSION.

  For a second, I don’t do anything. I stand hunched over, hands on my knees, panting. Everywhere I look is utter annihilation: twisted metal, fire, the warehouse wreckage. A tire rolls past. I follow its progress as its path arcs around, and there, some hundred yards off—Dad is on his knees, without his suit, with Nostradamus standing behind him.

  “Dad! Look out!”

  Nostradamus grabs his head and twists violently to the side. Dad topples over.

  “No!”

  Nostradamus’s head jerks up at the sound of my voice. He steps over Dad and advances on me, marching through the flames and wreckage.

  Run, Edge! Run!

  Dad is unmoving inside a shimmering circle of fire.

  Run, Edge!

  Dad?

  Yes! Run!

  The heads-up display is watery. My tears have nowhere to fall. I have to fix Dad—the hospital! Have to—

  It’s too late. I’m sorry, Edge.

  His body. I can’t leave him there. I have to get him and take him back to Gran.

  Leave my body! Run!

  I wrench my gaze away. At first, my feet drag like a zombie’s. Knee throbbing. Elbows and shoulders stinging. The suit rubbing against cuts and bruises. I don’t dare look back. I pick up speed. Soon, I’m sprinting toward the road, sobbing and racked with shame.

  Dad—I’ll come back. I’ll come back as soon as it’s safe.

  But not now. Now, you—must—run.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-eight

  At the side of the road is a ditch. I nearly fall in, running blindly and gasping for air. My teeth clack with each step as I clomp downward, then clench as I run up the other side.

  DEPLOYING OXYGEN.

  Cool air hits my face, drying my tears and making it easier to breathe in this thing.

  Dad’s psychic sense is overwhelming. All sadness and regret. I fall onto one knee under the weight of it. Too much. I can’t move.

  You’ve got to get up.

  Dad—I’m sorry. Notre Dame. I’m sorry I got kicked out of Notre Dame. I’m sorry I wrecked my life. I wanted to be better for you. I wanted you to be proud of me. I—

  Stop it. I am proud of you. And you didn’t wreck your life. We don’t have time for this. I need you to listen to me: this is your greatest fear. Which is why I need you to face it before you face him. But now you need to get up.

  I don’t understand. I don’t…

  The pain metastasizes in my chest. And then something strange begins to build in my back, between my shoulder blades. I shudder as it goes up my neck. My shoulders square, and my breathing becomes more even—and then, inexplicably, the heartache and pain are washed clean. My heart and mind are…clear.

  Did you do that?

  Yes. I can keep you in this state while we’re together, but the clock is ticking. Nostradamus is coming.

  I take in my surroundings to get my bearings. Across the street are more crumbling buildings, one of them with vines growing over it. Jeez. We’re really in the middle of nowhere. Red letters scroll across my heads-up display.

  DO YOU NEED A MAP?

  Yes!

  An overlay of a satellite map materializes.

  Wow. This suit is so much better than my suit.

  No, it isn’t, says Dad. I’m just helping you. You never really learned your suit. But don’t worry. You’ve got me now. Hey, do you mind if I drive?

  It takes me a second to realize he wants to take control of my body. I give it over without hesitating. It’s my dad. Of course he can drive.

  Dad makes my eyes operate the retinal controls of the HUD. Lights pop up like Christmas on the map and inch along the grids.

  Cars?

  Yes, there’s one coming from that way.

  I’m running again. Or, ra
ther, Dad’s got me running.

  We crest the hill and, sure enough, an SUV is coming straight for us. It swerves, goes up on two wheels, and—something in the base of my brain triggers—my hands spring up in front of me and the car freezes in midair. The wheels are still spinning. Through the Collective Unconscious, I can sense the driver’s terror, the terror of his wife and two children in the back. This is too weird. I can use the Collective Unconscious again, and Dad is using the Force through me!

  The car alights onto the highway. Inside, four minds are guided into a relaxed state. They fall asleep. A minute later, I’m buckled up and only dimly registering the peril we’ve put this family in as we speed down the highway with them asleep in back. Am I too numb after Dad’s trick with my pain and grief? Or maybe I’m becoming more like Nostradamus, willing to pay any price to get to the storage unit first. Either way, there’s no telling if we’re ahead, or if Nostradamus has foreseen the whole thing.

  CHAPTER thirty-nine

  So this is what it’s like to be inside the Collective Unconscious, says Dad, his psychic sense broadcasting a mixture of awe and revulsion.

  It wasn’t like this for you? When you were… I clench my jaw, unable to even think it.

  No, he replies. Tim and I developed a few shortcuts. Before he was killed, five years ago.

  Shortcuts. This is when I find out how you were accessing the Collective Unconscious the time I was at Dr. Cozen’s office?

  Yes. Think of the Collective Unconscious as a psychic social media account.

  Okay.

  Now imagine you want to keep your circle small, okay? Friends and family.

  I nod, appreciating the simplicity of the analogy.

  So you, what? Hacked a couple of brain servers or something?

  Kind of, he replies. It’s more like we hacked into strategic psychic internet backbones, where high concentrations of minds link up in principal data routes. It took me quite a while to figure out how to use it the way Nostradamus is using it—

  You mean the Force.

  Yes, good. It’s like the Force.

  Dad. What’s that all about? That’s insane!