The Elders

by Dima Zales

  “Have they made a breakthrough in their research?”

  “Bert was cagey on that,” she says. “So not likely.”

  “Then I doubt I’ll need them. Guess you’ll be seeing ‘Bertie’ very soon.”

  “What should I tell Lucy and Sara when they wake up?” she asks.

  I shrug. “Use your judgment. Just don’t make them believe anything too crazy.”

  “Of course,” she says. “You better go. Kate and her crew look anxious.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “I’m losing track of how much I owe you.”

  She smiles and (I’m guessing) Guides the driver cop to start the car. As they drive away, I follow them with my gaze, relieved that my moms are safe.

  Two saved, two to go.

  I walk over to the little gathering by the sheriff’s car, where Kate is coordinating the effort to locate the Temple.

  George suggests that each Guide gets an escort of five or six officers. He also explains how we can work together by spreading out once we’re in the forest.

  I’m paired with Sheriff Wilkin and the deputies from his office. If these folks are anything to go by, then the cops in Florida are a hundred times friendlier than their New York counterparts. Then again, given how a civilian on the streets of New York is at least fifty times meaner than a random Floridian, the New York cops’ frostiness is forgivable.

  “If the plan is clear, please spread out, everyone,” George says, and one by one, the groups enter the forest.

  * * *

  We’ve been walking through the stupid forest for about an hour. That’s an hour too long.

  I’m a city person to the core, a fact that becomes abundantly clear to me every time I wander through nature.

  The last time I was in these woods, the mosquitoes, ants, and giant spiders were frozen in the Quiet, making the trips to and from the Temple more bearable, but the critters aren’t frozen now. Also, the branches weren’t hitting me in the face as often, though that might’ve been the result of having a competent guide—my grandpa.

  If only I could recall where we came from . . .

  When I reach a small clearing, I hear footsteps. Must be time for our search party to gather around me again to compare notes.

  “How can a drug lord’s mansion not show up on satellite imagery?” one of the deputies asks after our status reports are done.

  I chuckle at the explanation George gave them about our target and earn a puzzled look from the deputy.

  “Like the chief said, they’re very connected people,” says the sheriff, his southern accent a lot stronger than the deputy’s. He’s struggling not to pant as he wipes the sweat from his forehead. He’s one of those larger people who seem too active for their bulk.

  “It sure happens,” another deputy says. “Military bases don’t show up, same with Area 51.”

  “I’ve gone ahead and had my house removed from Google Earth,” another deputy echoes. “You can report your privacy concerns to the good people at Google maps, and they’ll blur your house, just like that.”

  “That’s just darn stupid,” the sheriff says, and everyone snickers at the privacy-concerned deputy’s expense.

  “Let’s spread out again,” I say and turn away from my entourage, ready to head deeper into the forest.

  The sheriff’s walkie-talkie blares to life behind me.

  “We found it,” a voice says, the static masking the person’s identity.

  In the distance, southwest from us, a flare arcs into the sky.

  This development is so incongruent with our stealth-oriented plan that I instantly phase into the Quiet to make sense of it.

  The stupid Teleportation is still causing me to show up in the Quiet at random locations. This time, I end up on the other side of the sheriff, who was, just a moment ago, a few feet behind me.

  I look at the frozen-in-time flare uncomprehendingly. The plan was to surreptitiously circulate the Temple’s GPS coordinates. We made a point of instructing everyone that they were not to alarm the monks. On top of that, the extraction operation was supposed to start at nightfall (without any flares or even a hint of our presence), but it’s still daytime.

  What the hell is happening? Did the monks send up the flare as some kind of alarm? I have a hard time picturing that.

  Realizing I’m just blankly staring at the sky, I stop and walk toward my frozen body. The best way to figure out what’s going on is to approach the flare and see for myself who shot it.

  Then something catches my eye.

  The sheriff’s hand.

  Maybe the events at Kyle’s funeral have made me paranoid, but I don’t like the way the frozen sheriff’s hand is positioned. In fact, walking up to the nearest deputy, I note the same disconcerting pattern. It’s almost as though they’re reaching for their side arms.

  I walk up to the sheriff and initiate a Read.

  * * *

  We’re trying to listen, but find it hard to concentrate. The black-latex-and-leather-clad woman in charge is too stunning to allow a red-blooded male to function. She gives us our instructions. The plan isn’t too different from what we’d do if we were looking for a lost child in the woods, which is the only reason we can follow what she’s saying.

  “You’re not to enter the clearing that surrounds the place, let alone the large mansion that’s in the middle of it,” the woman says. “Upon finding it, get in touch with your group, then notify the rest of us.”

  I, Darren, disassociate because at that very moment, a presence enters the sheriff’s mind.

  If you find the mansion, kill Darren, the young official accompanying you.

  If you get a radio transmission that states, ‘We found it,’ that is also your signal to kill him.

  He’s an extremely dangerous fugitive trying to escape custody. Wait until your group has gathered and his back is to you, then shoot him. Don’t ask questions, don’t read him his Miranda rights, and don’t do anything that would give him a chance to react. He is extremely dangerous, and if he knows your intentions, you will die. He is your enemy. You are at war . . .

  The sinister instructions continue, but I’ve heard enough to get the general idea. Plus, I recognize this ‘voice.’ It belongs to the same person who was controlling the police officers at Kyle’s funeral.

  The person I’ve been calling the Super Pusher is the one Pushing the sheriff.

  But that makes no sense. How could he be here?

  The likeliest explanation is that one of the dudes on Kate’s team is the Super Pusher. However, Kate mentioned they hadn’t left the Island in months. That means they couldn’t have been at Kyle’s funeral—unless the Super Pusher Guided Kate to say that to provide her team with an alibi.

  Alternatively, maybe my assumption that the Super Pusher isn’t a man was right. I thought I was wrong after the masked attacker—who was clearly male—had attacked me in the library, but what if Kate is the Super Pusher? What if she Guided some random guy on the Island to attack me to throw me off her scent? That possibility isn’t so different from the way these cops were triggered to attack me. Maybe the condition for the masked guy was putting on the mask? She could’ve Guided him long before we got pulled into Frederick’s Mind Dimension to avoid the limitation of not being able to reach Level 2 from someone else’s Session. Come to think of it, she was just returning from a walk when George and I were having breakfast. Had she left to put her plan into motion? Using similar logic, Eleanor could also be the one behind all this.

  In any case, it seems the Super Pusher is close to revealing him or herself. The most important clue is that he or she turned the surrounding cops into sleeper agents that have been triggered to kill me.

  As I ponder why the Super Pusher delayed killing me and consider the mystery of the flare signal, the only probable answer dawns on me.

  I was kept alive to make sure the Temple was found first, because I’m the only person who’s been there.

  Which means the Temple is the Super
Pusher’s target for some reason.

  Shit. My insides grow cold, but I decide to worry about the consequences of this realization later. Right now, I need to make sure the cops don’t shoot me once I phase out.

  To that end, I make my Guiding instruction succinct and direct, branding the words, ‘You will not gun down Darren,’ into the sheriff’s brain.

  With that, I exit his head.

  I sear the same ‘You will not gun down Darren’ instructions into the minds of the rest of the team. I find a few men in the distance and do the same to them—no point in taking chances.

  Then I phase out to check how well my instructions worked.

  When the sounds of the world return, I turn around. The sheriff isn’t reaching for his gun anymore. I breathe a sigh of relief.

  And that’s when I feel a terrible pain in my chest.

  As impossible as it seems, there’s only one way I can interpret the situation.

  I’ve been shot.

  Chapter 17

  Time seems to slow.

  I can’t think, aside from something along the lines of I’m so fucked, which repeats over and over in my mind.

  I lose control of every muscle, including the ones that help keep my body upright, and start falling toward the ground. The fall also happens in that strange, slow-motion way.

  And then I’m standing a few feet away from my body, behind the sheriff. My frozen self is suspended mid-fall. The shock of getting shot must’ve caused me to phase into the Quiet, possibly for the last time.

  I run toward my statue-like self to assess the severity of the damage.

  To my surprise and relief, I don’t see any blood gushing from a wound on his/my body. However, there are wires attached to my chest. These wires lead back to the youngest deputy, who’s standing to my right. He’s holding something that looks like a Nerf gun, into which the filaments disappear.

  I follow the wires back to my body, and finally, it dawns on me.

  The deputy shot me with a Taser—a non-lethal weapon cops carry.

  Confused, I enter the deputy’s head to figure out what happened.

  It doesn’t take me long to understand the mix-up. Apparently, I got shot as a result of my imprecise Guiding. Both the Super Pusher and I contributed to this situation.

  The Super Pusher Guided the deputy to support his senior colleagues in the event of a scuffle. The Pusher must’ve been in a hurry and didn’t bother giving him the detailed instruction of killing me because I was uber-dangerous. So the deputy interpreted this situation in a more reasonable way than the Pusher had anticipated. Being a good man, he decided against using deadly force, opting instead to incapacitate me with the Taser and then cuff me.

  On my part, I wasn’t specific enough when I Guided this deputy, or for that manner, everyone else. I merely forbade him from gunning me down. Since a Taser is not a gun in the strictest sense, ‘You will not gun down Darren’ did not stop him from tasing me.

  I’m more specific with the new set of instructions I etch into the deputy’s mind and, for good measure, into the minds of the other cops as well.

  I’m your master and commander. You will not harm me in any physical or emotional way. You will listen and obey my orders without question. You will protect me with your life. If there is danger, you will believe you’re with the Secret Service and I’m the President.

  Some of my guiding is perhaps overkill, but I’d rather not repeat the same mistake.

  I instruct a couple of the stronger-looking deputies to help me up. The Taser deputy is instructed to remove his finger from the device out of fear for his life.

  Satisfied with my Guiding, I gingerly walk back to my poor body.

  Without thinking too much, I phase out by touching his/my wrinkled forehead.

  I’m on the ground before I can understand what’s what. The tall grass dampens my fall.

  Aside from my complaining coccyx bone, the pain where the Taser penetrated my skin is the worst of it. The rest of the experience is as confusing as it is painful. The two electrodes, or whatever they’re called, are still attached to me, but the shock is gone, and I’m beginning to regain control of my muscles again.

  Strong hands help me up and tear out the electrodes.

  Once I’ve recovered enough to move again, I tell the cops, “We’re heading in the direction of that flare. If anyone radios in and asks if it’s done, you say ‘confirm.’”

  “Yes, sir,” the sheriff says. The others echo the ‘yes, sir’ in such perfect unison that they would’ve made a drill sergeant proud.

  I make them repeat my command to make sure they understood, and they do.

  With my now-loyal squad behind me, I run through the forest. Running is maybe overstating it a bit, but I move as fast as I can without losing an eye to a low-hanging branch or breaking a leg on a treacherous rock.

  My feeling of foreboding intensifies with every step, as does my suspicion that I might be responsible for a disaster.

  A shot echoes through the forest.

  I look behind me. My little squad looks as surprised as I feel.

  Another shot rings out, and I know for sure they’re coming from the direction of the flare.

  I start running in earnest.

  Another shot.

  I speed up.

  Then I hear a chain of gunfire that could only be coming from an automatic weapon.

  Blood wells up from cuts where branches bit into my flesh, but I ignore the sting and increase my pace. My heart feels as if it’s sending me an SOS in Morse code through my ribcage.

  Then, with the sound of an explosion, the world is muted.

  In the Quiet, running is easier due to the lack of any wind. I’m also emboldened by the fact that whatever damage the branches inflict on me here will be undone when I phase out.

  It takes me a few minutes at this pace to reach the clearing surrounding the Temple. I’ve acquired half a dozen scrapes and splinters, but I forget about these minor injuries as soon as I look out toward the Temple.

  People—lots of people—are doing something they shouldn’t be doing.

  I have to get closer before I can let myself believe what’s happening. In my frenzied state, I don’t even register my sprint across the clearing.

  The closer I get, the more my fears turn into stark reality.

  A full-fledged battle is underway, with violence and death permeating the most serene of places.

  At first, I don’t even recognize the area. Gorgeous arbors and intricate giant shrubs used to mark the entrance to the Temple’s grounds. Most of them are now in shambles, and one gazebo has been blown to smithereens—possibly in the explosion I heard earlier. Bits of what’s left of the gazebo crunch under my feet as I look around.

  To my left, five cops are frozen in the process of shooting at the orange-clad monks. Some monks have serene, determined expressions on their faces, though most look uncharacteristically frightened. One monk looks absolutely terrified, as anyone in his situation would. A bullet is frozen in the process of entering his forehead.

  To my right, an older monk is choking a deputy in a strange, kung-fu-inspired grip. Another monk is holding another deputy’s arm in an unnatural position, leading me to believe that the limb has been broken.

  I check the guns on the ground. As I thought, the monks took advantage of the moment when the cops ran out of bullets.

  Farther in, a young monk is fighting an older one. Not ready to think about it, I file this away as a mystery. This monk-on-monk violence and the shootouts aren’t what give my surroundings a particularly hellish feel.

  That honor belongs to Kate.

  She’s standing there with blood covering her black outfit and soaking into the ground around her. Her sword is embedded in a monk’s chest. Heads and limbs of other monks surround Kate in a gory mess, like a scene from a slasher movie.

  I look away. Though I’ve never thrown up in the Quiet, right now, while looking at the disemboweled and dismembered bodi
es of the monks, I feel like I just might. As a kid, after watching The Three Musketeers and Star Wars, I had a glamorized view of sword fighting. I thought it was cool. Now, and for the rest of my life, I will think of getting killed by a sword as one of the most barbaric and gruesome ways to die.

  Unfortunately, looking away doesn’t make the horrors go away—not when my gaze falls on George, who’s frozen in the process of reloading a shotgun. In front of him are piles of shot-up monks. Their wounds have turned their orange robes crimson.

  I run again, for no other reason than to get away from the carnage.

  But the carnage follows me. Slightly farther in, near the incongruently peaceful rock garden, I find Eleanor holding a bloodied monk above her head, and I do mean above her head, with her arms almost straight. She looks like a wrestler who’s about to break someone’s back.

  I can’t take any more of this, but short of closing my eyes, I can’t escape it.

  When I do close my eyes and find a second to think, a terrible anxiety hits me. Somewhere in this Temple are Thomas and Mira. After seeing so much death, it’s all too easy to picture the worst.

  I open my eyes, my heart beating frantically.

  I have to get to the Temple.

  As I run toward the building, I see more cops and monks locked in deadly embraces near the bonsai trees.

  Passing them, I see frozen James raining death on the monks with an automatic rifle, right next to the serene cherry blossom trees. He looks like a grizzly bear standing in a river during salmon mating season.

  The fighting gets sparser as I get closer to the giant Temple doors. I see a bunch of bullet-riddled cops on the ground, as well as some cops with knife wounds, and the reason quickly becomes clear.

  Two large men are frozen in the midst of an epic fight. Or more accurately, at this point in the fight, one is murdering the other.

  It only takes me a moment to recognize the victim as John, the ‘sick lion’ part of Kate’s deadly circus troop. His features are twisted in fury and fear, and I know all too well the person doing the killing. He’s probably the cause behind the shot-up and cut-up cops as well. That he’s fighting against John and not under the Super Pusher’s influence is actually surprising, but not something I’m ready to think about.