Soul Hunter

by Drew Briney

  Sometimes weaknesses make great servants.

  I blacked out.

  My grandmother used to do that, too. She once blacked out when some lady attacked her on her porch and awakened to a police officer pulling her off the other woman. She’d been pounding the victim’s head into the concrete sidewalk for long enough that the woman ought to have been dead. My grandmother had a hard time explaining to the policeman how she couldn’t remember anything that happened. She just blacked out every now and again when her temper flared. No one knew why.

  So, I came by it honestly.

  A bell jolted me into renewed consciousness. As children rushed passed me in every direction, I realized I was late for class. Regaining my composure, I looked back to where the boys had trampled me. I couldn’t see much because a tall Samoan boy lazily trudged along, oblivious to any worry in the world and too carefree to bother wondering why everyone else was in a hurry. I envied his carefree attitude.

  Two other boys briskly brushed by, promising retribution, one wiping a bloody nose and the other holding onto the side of his head, a small hematoma already swelling.

  Maybe most kids wouldn’t care much about that. I did. I felt uber guilty for what I’d done, self-defense and blackout notwithstanding.

  Looking back, I laugh at that now. If the same thing happened to me today, those boys would be laying in a mindless heap, babbling one to another meaningless words and sucking their thumbs all the way to the infirmary and I wouldn’t feel the slightest pinprick of guilt. To be honest, I’d probably revel in it, relive it a time or two before the end of the day passed by, chuckling as I did and munching on vanilla ice cream dressed in some fruity cocktail.

  That was my first important memory. I learned several lessons from that experience. First, mercy isn’t effective with bullies. Brutality wins the day. That’s how you beat bullies. It’s an age-old truism that never seems to fade despite popular trends suggesting the contrary. Second, a well-timed right cross is more effective than patience - or maybe the two work hand-in-hand. Third, weaknesses can decimate your challenges if you channel them properly.

  That last one was probably the most important lesson for me. Maybe not everyone gains super-fighting skills when they blackout but when I’m in a tight pickle, it always seems to bring out my best.

  DAD’S COMPUTER

  I’m Not Exactly a Quick Study When it Comes to Risk Analysis.

  There are few defining moments in our lives, times when our decisions guide us toward a totally different destiny than we’ve been expecting. My second memory, or series of memories, is one of those rarities. I review it in every body because it defines me, both who I am and why I’m so different from everyone else.

  My body’s reclining on a sofa but my mind is wandering another world, another time. I barely notice Vaya Sage walking to the kitchen area outside my bedroom. My reality isn’t a castle in Switzerland. It’s Wilson Junior High, caddy-corner from Eisenhower High in Yakima, Washington - several lifetimes ago. I’m probably fourteen but I’m not really sure.

  Rounding the corner, I heard a muffled cry for help. The sound was an unholy mongrel, the morbid mixture of some kid yelling in a tunnel and someone grunting beneath a smothering hand. Curiosity always gets the best of you in situations like that so of course, I scan the area to figure out what’s going on.

  Back then, we had burn barrels for garbage cans. Tied to poles with thick chains and padlocks, you couldn’t dump them over, which I’m sure was the point given this was a schoolyard. Two stumpy legs protruded from the top of the barrel, wiggling like the tortured droid in the old school Star Wars movies (not the holo-format remake, the original 2D version). It didn’t take long for me to recognize my friend.

  Chad was short for his age and, to put it mildly, lacked confidence. Back then, he had a good heart and good intentions. That was before his growth spurt, his stint as an MP in the military, and his short-lived rampage exacting revenge on every school bully responsible for memories like this one. They didn’t recognize him when he came back to beat them bloody years later but he remembered them quite vividly. Like they say, what the axe forgets, the tree remembers. Still, the tree doesn’t have to sulk forever. Chad took great joy retelling his vengeful escapades later in life.

  None of that was foreseeable at this time. Chad was nothing more than a scrawny beanpole with a talent for attracting bullies. Undoubtedly, all he saw at that moment was banana peels, rotten food, and perhaps some few scraps of jettisoned homework.

  As I walked toward him to help him out, I heard a few ominous voices, each threatening me in turn if I helped him escape his makeshift prison. By then, I’d learned that confidence goes a long way to deter violence so I arrested my brisk pace, toured the small crowd with my eyes, and said “bring it on.” No volunteers forthcoming, I clumsily tugged Chad’s legs until he slinked out of the barrel and offered gracious and voluminous thank-yous. Ignoring equally voluminous scowls, I walked away and went about my day.

  It wasn’t the first time I’d helped Chad out of trouble and it probably wasn’t the last so I didn’t spend much mental energy thinking about the situation afterward. I was calculating something else, planning something, so there was no time to waste on trivial, passing events like that one.

  I don’t remember what it was that I was so preoccupied with - it’s not like that was a unique thing for me to do - even now, as I’m reviewing memories, I’m plotting something. Several somethings, really. That particular memory only matters because later, it blossomed into something much more monumental than I would have expected.

  Whatever it was that I’d been thinking about, it seems I decided my dad was my most promising resource so as soon as I arrived home after school, I went straight to his office and knocked on the door. Looking back, I understand he didn’t answer me (because he wasn’t there) but being as anxious as I was, I would have sworn that I’d heard his welcoming voice mumbling that I could come inside - so I did.

  The room was dark and uncharacteristically disheveled. I turned the light on, wondering what my dad was doing in the dark before I finally realized he wasn’t there at all. Perhaps, I probably should have been more shaken by my mistaken, enthusiastic imaginings but my attention immediately riveted upon his computer. A strange cross between a helmet and wire cage appeared to grow out of some makeshift tubing. Even then, tubes and computers equated to old school technology and the sight immediately struck me as both odd and curious, embarrassingly quaint and inspirationally creative.

  With thoughtless enthusiasm ubiquitous among teen boys, I sat down at the computer, donned the odd hat, and moved the mouse to stop the screensaver. Dad never locked his computer so there was no password protection, no five hoops to jump through before discovering what he was up to. Immediately, the pop-up offered some indecipherable techie jargon my bright mind wasn’t yet equipped to understand and that pithy statement you’re always supposed to respond to by clicking the “yes” button:

  Are you sure you want to proceed?

  I clicked yes. After all, if dad was doing it, I wanted to do it too. I wanted to be just like him in every way and that’s ignoring the fact that his left arm was perfectly normal and didn’t get him called “flipper” or “penguin” by his peers. Even as a Batman fan, I never appreciated the latter nickname and even though swimming with dolphins was on my bucket list for many decades, the first nickname didn’t claim a fond spot in my heart either.

  What happened next is rather hard to describe. Some sort of electrical pulse froze my body or, perhaps it would be more accurate to say, the electrical pulse cut off my nervous system to disallow any movement much below C2 or C3. I maintained eye movement and involuntary bodily functions seemed to work just fine but I felt lucky that I wasn’t falling off the chair given my complete lack of bodily control. It wasn’t exhilarating and it wasn’t fun. I fleetingly wondered why my dad would design such a strange contraption.

  That’s when I started seeing liquid movin
g through the tubes. Despite the fact that none of the tubes were connected to my body, it completely freaked me out and induced a panic streak unlike anything I’ve felt since. Somehow I knew it was futile but I tried to tear off the helmet anyway. I gave it everything I had but the only thing I accomplished was to stop breathing for several seconds so that when I gave up, my body heaved as it sucked in a deep breath.

  Perhaps I should have tried shaking my head hard. I doubt that would have worked but theoretically, nerves between the skull and C3 could have allowed some movement of the neck that may have been sufficient to knock off dad’s odd contraption. In hindsight, that seems unlikely but I sometimes regret not trying. True, it could have entirely changed my life from that moment on but my curiosity can be insatiable and I’d really like to know if it would have worked.

  I probably would have put the helmet-thing back on anyway and the results would have been the same. I’m not exactly a quick study when it comes to risk analysis.

  Soon, I felt the liquid touching my skin. Instead of dripping or oozing down the sides of my head, it clung to my skin and sort of stung like stepping on stinging nettles - only, with my head. I would have cringed but my senses were dulling all of this time and my consciousness was methodically draining as well. Slow like an unclogging sink, the effect was efficient nonetheless and I eventually lost consciousness. That must have come soon after the liquid began pulling itself into my brain.

  I’d describe the effect as a sort of searing pain but that wouldn’t quite offer the correct impression. The liquid sent a thrilling feeling of power and energy that seemed to numb whatever pain it caused. At the same time, that numbing electrical pulse in my brain countered the invigorating sensation of whatever goo was in those tubes so I vacillated in between a debilitating stupor and some zesty stimulant-like drug effect until I passed out.

  I know, the experience doesn’t sound glamorous and believe me, I didn’t feel glamorous when I came to. Worse, at the time, I didn’t know if I’d been out for a few minutes or for hours but I didn’t want to get in trouble for whatever I’d done so I quickly cleaned up the goo mess with some computer wipes I found in the drawer, placed the helmet-cage-goo-contraption-thing where I’d found it on the desk, turned off the light, closed the door, and headed straight to my room.

  The next thing I remember was waking up to mom’s call for dinner - and recognizing the budding presence of AI in my brain, coding, something I couldn’t understand at the time. Because memories like this are sketchy after a few body transfers, I really can’t guess what happened later that day.

  Either the next morning or a few mornings later, I was eating breakfast at school. Poor kids got free breakfasts back then so I remember feeling ashamed about that but mostly what I remember is feeling ridiculously revitalized mentally. I didn’t just feel like I could memorize or problem solve better than before, I felt like something primeval had changed in my body, my sense of being. It’s hard to describe but I felt as if I understood how to communicate with everything around me, as if I could somehow control things if I really wanted to. Of course, I couldn’t, but as a barely-fourteen-year-old, that’s what it seemed like.

  As I pondered these feelings, I found myself exiting the cafeteria doors and noticing the pitter patter of hurried feet running toward the school rooms. Classes were about to start so that wasn’t any surprise but I should have been paying better attention because the next thing I knew, I had two hands grabbing each of my arms and legs and another couple picking me up as we hit the few stairs heading to a short landing below. I struggled but predictably, that was a waste of effort. I should have been conserving my energy for something more useful. If anything, struggling left me feeling more pathetic than normal.

  The kids were saying things I didn’t really understand. Not only were they talking over one another, they were all yelling so all I really understood was that they were telling me they’d warned me not to help Chad and this was my punishment. A few seconds later, I heard the dumpster lid open and the kids effectively threw me down from the landing and into the dumpster.

  Predictably, the lid closed and the pitter patter of punk kids running slowly dissipated as they found their way to their classrooms. Meanwhile, one kid I immediately guessed was as fat as a marshmallow, sat on top of the lid so I couldn’t get out.

  I fumed. I yelled at him to get off. Apparently, he wasn’t going to leave until everyone else was far away because even though the sound of footsteps dimmed, I knew the bullies were still within viewing distance from the dumpster. I know that because I have the kind of memory that can map out that school yard even though it’s been many decades ago since I saw it. Some of the kids hadn’t turned the final corner yet.

  That’s when it happened for the first time.

  I threw a hard palm thrust into the side of the dumpster. I didn’t expect anything to happen. I was just venting, giving in to my boiling-over temper, allowing my self-control a long needed reprieve. I was failing to emulate my father, to copy every virtue I imagined he had, but for the moment, I didn’t care. I had my limits and no one would ever know. Besides, I couldn’t possibly harm anything, right?

  I heard a loud popping sound as my hand smacked the inside of the dumpster. Surprised, I pulled my hand back and away from the offending noise and yelped. The boy standing on the lid called out in surprise as well. Still angry and out of control, I smacked the dumpster lid above me and yelled something I don’t remember at the fat kid. I probably shouted something stupid given the fact that my temper had gotten the best of me but I remember feeling like what I said was of vast, profound importance. Of course, that’s despite my hindsight hunch telling me otherwise.

  Initially, I thought he must have been jumping off of the lid when I hit it because it flew open and daylight flooded in. Hoping to discover who my attackers were and who the fat boy was, I scrambled out of the dumpster and braced myself for the possibility that someone else was waiting to beat me up. True, I had a strong right cross but to be fair, a tough handicapped kid is still easy pickings for most bullies.

  I wasn’t too surprised no one was there to attack me since I’d heard so many footsteps running away from the dumpster but I was surprised to see the fat boy moaning on the ground, holding an arm I later learned was broken. I immediately recognized the boy: Josh Boulder. Yup, that was his real name. I’ll never forget it. He didn’t look like a boulder, though, unless perhaps, the boulder was melting, sagging, and jiggling when it moved.

  When Josh saw me standing a few feet away, right fist tightened and ready to fly, his eyes widened. “How’d you do that?”

  His incredulous tone was enough for me to put the pieces together but even though I was suffering from disbelief just as much as he was, I’ve always been a quick thinker so I had my rejoinder ready faster than he could say “um.” And as I recall, he used that term voluminously so he had plenty of practice to whip it out like a whirlwind.

  “Magic,” I answered, forcing a smirk on my lips and squinting my eyes menacingly. “Cross me again and I’ll dent you and your buddies like that old dumpster.” I pointed to the offending metal beast as if I’d made the huge bulge protruding out the front side where I’d hit it. Truth be known, I was every bit as disbelieving as he was when I looked at the evidence of my temper tantrum. The protrusion must have been a good six inches beyond its normal shape.

  The Chinese teach about chi, I considered. I must have tapped into mine. I didn’t really have the slightest inclination to believe it was magic, not for real, anyway. I was just talking trash, looking for a way to protect myself from future beatings.

  Josh popped up as fast as lead popcorn and scurried toward the nurse’s office. At the time, I thought he was a pansy for going to see a nurse after falling a mere seven feet. I gained a stitch of compassion when I learned he’d broken his arm quite badly. I guess that happens when you never exercise and you weigh twice as much as your bones were meant to carry.

  Lessons learn
ed? Thinking fast is my greatest asset. None of those boys bothered me again. Some of them were downright terrified of me after that. I saw two of them chattering by the dumpster that day after school and looking inside for proof of a gun or heavy mallet or something that would explain what had happened better than magic. Whatever they decided, the result was the same. They left me alone.

  I also learned that being naughty has great benefits. I can do magic now. Don’t believe me? Most people don’t. That’s okay. It gives me the advantage ofttimes. I thank my dad for both brains and psionics. They weren’t the only gifts he gave me but they were the best ones. If I hadn’t had that brief naughty streak getting into things I shouldn’t, I wouldn’t be who I am today. True, I was acting contrary to principles of respecting other people’s stewardships when I got onto his computer and sure, I believed I shouldn’t have been doing such a thing at the time but because of that experience, I later adopted a new code of conduct I still adhere to quite tenaciously: sometimes it’s good to be bad.

  4 || the Funeral & the Bar

  THE FUNERAL & THE BAR

  Who Doesn’t Wonder What Other People Secretly Think?

  From there, memories from my first body get boring for a while. We moved again. Bullies discovered what a delightfully easy target I was as soon as we moved and I wasn’t willing to use my newfound powers to hurt people so I remained pretty easy to beat up.

  Despite hoping my dad would be proud of my self control, I never told him about anything because that would require confessing about that time with his computer and all of that. I thought he was on to me for a while but he never said anything so I didn’t say anything either. That angle was unacceptable, unapproachable. What would he think of me? I couldn’t bear the disappointment of even thinking about that so I kept it my secret (well, my I-hoped-it-was-secret secret). I found the helmet thing in the garbage later that same week I used it. I stared at it until my stomach churned with stress, frustration, and heartache. I hated feeling guilty and ashamed.