by Asta Idonea
BY THE time we broke for lunch, dark foreboding overshadowed my earlier happiness. Despite Kane’s positive comments, it was Brad’s words that stuck with me. Had my fall yesterday really looked fake, even though I’d not been acting in that moment? Was it destined for the snip? Had I overdone it, underplayed it, pulled a stupid expression? Damn, I wished I could see the dailies, to know for sure how it had appeared to an external eye.
A memory stirred of my high school maths teacher. He towered over me—a backlit, shadowy figure—declaring that I’d never amount to anything unless I got my head around calculus, rather than burying it in the clouds. Back then, I’d been certain he was wrong, but now…? You’re hungry, I told myself. It’s been a long morning. A solid meal in your stomach will settle you.
I made my way to the catering truck, but when I perused the selections, nothing appealed. Nonetheless, I knew I should eat something, so I snagged an apricot muesli bar and a citrus-flavored energy drink. There were no free seats in sight at the plastic picnic tables set up outside, but I didn’t feel like company, anyway. Since Brad’s comments, I’d caught a few sour looks cast my way. Maybe I was only imagining it. Maybe I wasn’t. Either way, I preferred to be alone today.
I wended my way across the lot, leaving behind the worst of the hustle and bustle, until I reached a stack of planks—no doubt remnants from the set build. A few shoves ascertained that they were sufficiently stable to support my weight, and I settled upon them, ready to tuck in to my meager repast.
“Hey, if it isn’t our good friend Pig Swill.”
Brad and two others stalked toward me, and from their grim expressions, rolled-up sleeves, and clenched fists, I deduced they hadn’t sought me out for a friendly chin-wag. I tried to swallow, but my throat constricted. Meanwhile, my mind plucked forth memory after memory of schoolyard incidents. They’d all started in this same manner, and they’d all ended with me bruised and bleeding, trying to persuade the teacher that I’d tripped, in order to escape a second beating for grassing. I wasn’t a lanky, clueless kid anymore; nevertheless, I struggled to overcome the thrill of fear that held me in place as the trio advanced.
“We want a word with you, Pig Swill,” Brad said, stopping in front of me. “The guys and I don’t like your attitude, stealing the spotlight and acting like some big shot just because Teague lowered himself to speak to you.”
“I didn’t—”
“Shut it! We reckon you need a little lesson in humility, Pig Swill, and we’re gonna help you learn it.” So saying, he wound back his fist, preparing to strike.
The air around me agitated, and the humming in my head grew louder. For an instant, I sensed everything: every particle in the wood beneath me and every fiber in the clothing that brushed my skin. Then, without conscious thought, I moved.
I couldn’t say which of us was the most surprised when I blocked Brad’s punch seconds before it impacted my cheek. In the same motion, I rose and struck Brad in the chest with my palm, the blow sending him stumbling backward several paces. His stunned expression was fleeting, however. It soon morphed into a stormy glower.
“You’ll pay for that, Pig Swill.” He glanced at his companions. “Let’s get him, boys.”
The curling of my fingers to form fists was an instinctual response to the threat of attack. Nonetheless, the accompanying sensation was new and unexpected. In the past, had I made such a show of resistance, it would have been an empty gesture. Today, as I tightened my fists, strength of purpose and of body filled me, and power, the likes of which I’d never experienced, seeped into my muscles and sinews.
Brad threw a punch, but I sidestepped. The lack of contact overbalanced him, and a blow of my own toppled him completely. I could have crowed with joy at this small victory; however, my triumph was of short duration. The discovery of hitherto untapped strength was all well and good, but it didn’t grant me any combat know-how, particularly when it came to handling multiple assailants. Stage fighting and street fighting were two very different things, as I could well attest.
Seeing their leader fall, the other two rushed me. I blocked and ducked a few blows, but I couldn’t avoid them all. A well-placed left hook clipped me under the chin, and I staggered and hit the ground. I landed awkwardly, jarring my back for the second time in as many days, and before I could so much as groan, they were on me, joined by Brad, who had recovered from his own tumble.
They kicked me again and again. I huddled as tight as I could, waiting for it to end. Yet they showed no signs of stopping. Blow after blow rained down on me, each more painful than the last. In my despair, I prayed for intervention, willing someone to hear the kerfuffle and come to my aid. I reached out with my mind in silent entreaty, but it wasn’t a person my thoughts touched.
The pile of planks lay to my right, the wooden strips long, thick, and solid. I could feel the natural fibers that made up their bulk in a way impossible to replicate with physical touch. Although a voice inside my head insisted that it was unfeasible, they shifted at my command. With no other hope of rescue on the horizon, I brushed aside all commonsense and willed the top plank to rise. Then I propelled it forward.
Their attention focused on me, Brad and his friends had no inkling of what was coming; the first they knew of my counterattack was the wood slamming into them. The strike was stronger than I’d intended. It knocked all three off their feet and sent them flying over my head.
My success took me so entirely by surprise, I forgot about the hovering plank. Left to its own devices, it dropped, plummeting toward me. I raised my hands as insubstantial protection, even as I scrambled to mentally grasp the wood again. I caught it just in time and levitated it mere centimeters from my fingertips. On this second occasion, with less to distract me, I could sense a strange, pulsing energy between my hands and the plank, like a continuous burst of warmth that suspended the wood above me. I reached out with my mind and tried to waft it. The initial attempt failed, but when I tried again, I managed to guide the plank back atop the pile, where it belonged. Once I had settled it securely in place, I rolled onto my side and from there to my knees.
The aches and pains from my beating had already started to fade, much quicker than I would have anticipated given the violence of the attack. Nonetheless, I still moved carefully, wary of broken ribs and internal bruising. Sudden remembrance of my assailants made me spin on my heel. But I needn’t have worried. The two nameless thugs were out for the count and Brad had yet to rise, though he was awake, flailing his arms and groaning. Shit, had I seriously injured them? Struck by terror at the thought of assault charges and prison cells, I cautiously approached to assess the situation, but the second Brad perceived me, he cringed and shuffled back, one hand raised.
“Stay away from me, weirdo. What the fuck was that? Just, just keep back, you hear?”
“Are you hurt?”
Rather than calm him, my question appeared to infuriate him, and the uncertainty he’d evidenced a moment before fell away.
“You hit me with a fucking tree! I saw it! Wait ’til I tell everyone. You’re finished, Pig Swill.”
Anger and fear washed over me in almost equal measure until, with a confidence that was entirely put on, I closed the distance between us and peered down at him, shoulders squared and expression—I hoped—steely.
“You won’t tell anyone anything, Brad, because if you do, I’ll finish what I started. Besides, what are you going to tell them? That I lifted that plank without touching it? No one would ever believe you. We both know that.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but I turned and strode away, pausing only long enough to collect my muesli bar and drink. (It wouldn’t do to leave evidence lying around. Plus, my exertions had roused my previously slumbering appetite.) My pulse thundered in my ears, so loud it drowned out the hum. The farther I traveled, though, the more my outer layer of courage crumbled.
What if someone else had seen what happened and reported me? What if Brad, rightly, didn’t believe my threa
t and did likewise? Had it even really happened as I remembered? Surely I had to be going insane. No one lifted planks with the power of their mind—not outside the realms of speculative fiction. Had I physically raised the plank, fueled by a rush of adrenaline? Yet why would I recall the scene differently if that had been the case?
A trembling started in my arms and spread, and I slumped against the nearest solid surface, which happened to be a trailer. I waited for the sensation to subside; however, it only seemed to worsen the more I concentrated on stopping it. I couldn’t go back on set like this, but what would they say if I asked to be excused? What would I say when they demanded my reasons? I considered the day’s schedule. A single crowd scene remained for the afternoon—the Abbey Singer shot. With so many people milling around, it seemed unlikely anyone would notice my absence should I sneak out now while I had the chance.
This reflection decided me and sent me on a circuitous route across the lot, heading for the exit. I planned to return to the guesthouse and lock myself in my room until I’d pulled myself together. Then I would try to figure out what the hell was happening to me.
Chapter Four
BY THE time I made it back to the guesthouse, I’d worked myself into quite a state. Gaining my room, I locked the door and collapsed on the bed, exhausted both mentally and physically. The humming persisted, but when I closed my eyes, it lessened to a low, bearable murmur. Of greater concern was the trembling, which took over my body again the moment I lay down. Was I going into delayed shock? This was ridiculous. I was going to give myself heart failure if I didn’t get a grip. I needed to calm the fuck down. Only then could I ascertain if what had happened on the back lot was real or a figment of my imagination.
I forced several deep breaths, doing my best to concentrate on each inhale and exhale, while ignoring the disconcerting sound of my too rapid pulse in my ears. Slowly but surely, it worked. My pulse steadied, the trembling ceased, and panic transformed into a state of almost calm. Deciding that was as good as it was going to get for the present, I shuffled back until I met the headboard (which propped me in a semi-upright position) and then looked about me.
First things first, I needed to deduce if I was sane or deranged, and the best way to do that would be to try to replicate the events of earlier on a smaller scale. My gaze fell upon a pen set atop a battered notepad. I’d taken both out of my bag the other day, intending to jot down some new song lyrics. However, I’d not gotten as far as that and had neglected to return them to their rightful home—a not-unexpected occurrence considering I wasn’t the world’s most organized person. The pen was compact and light and seemed a suitable object for my first attempt.
Keeping my eyes fixed on the clear plastic casing, I focused all my thoughts upon it, willing it to rise. It remained resolutely stationary. The part of me desperate to believe I had dreamt the events of earlier urged me to accept this as proof of my mental instability. Or, at the very least, as a sign of an excess of imagination. Naturally, I couldn’t move objects with my mind, and I shouldn’t delude myself into thinking otherwise, unless I wanted to end up in the loony bin. However, another voice inside prompted me that it wasn’t working because I wasn’t doing it right. I wasn’t feeling the same way or sensing the same things as I had with the plank. The “spark” was missing.
I shook out my limbs and tried again. This time I ignored the pen itself and concentrated on the air around it. Nothing. Nothing. There! The particles in the air separated until I could perceive their composition. It wasn’t that I could see individual atoms exactly; it was more akin to a deep inner knowledge, a feel for them that existed in my mind rather than in my fingertips or sight. I sifted through them and they tickled my brain—a sensation unfamiliar and unnerving yet not wholly unpleasant once you got used to it.
Emboldened, I returned my attention to the pen. I could sense it in that special way now. The strange energy buzzed across its surface, and I reached for that, capturing the tendrils with my thoughts and manipulating them, bending them to my will.
The pen rose. The movement was slow and jerky, but it was ascending. It hovered a few centimeters above the pad, casting a gray shadow across the blank top sheet of faint-ruled paper. A giggle bubbled up my throat, the sound so loud in the otherwise silent room that I nearly lost my concentration. The pen dropped, but I caught it a split second before impact and willed it across the room.
Too fast!
In my excitement, I’d put too much force behind the thought and the pen shot, arrow-like, and slammed into the wall with a heavy thunk disproportionate to its size and weight. A blend of shock and horror made me lose the connection. When I scrambled to my feet and went to investigate, I found the pen firmly embedded in the plywood, only half of it visible to the naked eye. Gripping what little of the casing remained exposed, I gave the pen a sharp tug and freed it. However, the wall now sported a gaping hole, the 5mm-diameter black abyss winking provocatively at me, whispering of Mrs. Pearse’s condemnation, followed by lawsuits for damages.
What to do? I glanced around and spotted the ugly framed print of a cornfield that hung over my bed. For once, the property’s age and outmoded decoration worked in my favor, for the house retained period features, such as picture rails, in every room, and it was from one such fixture that the print hung, rather than from a nail or sticky-backed hook. I stood on the bed (which creaked ominously, as if trying to rat me out) and lifted it down. Then I balanced even more precariously on the room’s sole, wonky-legged chair to affix it in its new position. Returning to a more stable footing, I assessed my work.
There was a faint rectangle of darker, crisper patterning on the wallpaper where the frame had once rested. Nevertheless, the difference didn’t jump out at you at first glance, so unless Mrs. Pearse came in and really studied the spot, I doubted she’d notice the shift. Meanwhile, in the new position, the picture completely covered the hole, obligingly masking the evidence of my calamity. This brief drama concluded, at least for the time being, I settled back on the bed and took stock.
I’d moved the pen. There was no doubting that; the hole in the wall evidenced the truth, even if I elected not to believe my own eyes. Therefore, it seemed reasonable to accept that I’d also moved the plank. One vital question still required an answer: How? Was this some latent ability? Surely not. If I’d had this inside me since birth, it was hard to believe that it wouldn’t have manifested prior to this. The only other explanation was that an external factor had caused it. But what? Nothing extraordinary had happened to me. I’d suffered no concussion or other serious injuries—no near-death experiences. I’d taken no dubious pills, drunk no unwatched drinks, and eaten no suspicious food. Unless you counted the kebab I’d bought down the road a couple of nights ago, the meat in which was, I finally confessed to myself, an odd color, though I’d pretended not to notice at the time, hunger overriding commonsense. Other than that, though, there’d been nothing.
No, that wasn’t quite true. There was one other thing I’d ingested, albeit unintentionally: the slime.
I considered the dates and times. These occurrences had only commenced after I’d filmed that scene, and I had felt ill all that afternoon and evening. It was the most plausible explanation I’d conjured thus far. Yet if it were the slime, had it affected other cast members and crew? I’d heard no odd rumors circulating that would hint at such an eventuality. Either something in my genetic makeup made me more susceptible than others, or else I was the only foolish sod who’d swallowed any of the mixture.
For now, I decided to accept the slime’s culpability as fact. This did, however, lead to a second question: How long would it last? Was I going to have these strange new powers forever, or would they disappear once whatever chemicals the special effects team had used in their concoction passed through my system? Perhaps I should report it. It was, technically, a workplace injury. If I needed medical attention, would I be able to claim any kind of compensation if I hadn’t filed an official report before
hand? Maybe I ought to do so regardless, in the spirit of public safety.
I quashed that idea the second it occurred to me. I wasn’t interested in pursuing any form of compensation or making a fuss simply for the sake of it. In any case, such a report would draw attention to me, and while I wanted to be famous, I hadn’t imagined becoming so as the world’s most celebrated lab rat. Being poked and prodded and forced through test after test held no appeal. Far preferable to guard my tongue and wait to see what happened. Physically, all discomfort had passed and I felt fine again. In fact, despite the earlier trembling (which could as easily have been bog-standard shock, rather than a result of what I’d done with the plank), I was better than fine. So I seriously doubted I was in any immediate medical danger.
Chances were these side effects, or whatever they were, would only last a few days. Therefore, I might as well enjoy a little harmless fun with them while I had the opportunity. My humdrum life would return to normal all too soon, and these strange occurrences would seem no more than a distant dream.
Chapter Five
SEVERAL DAYS passed. On the whole, I’d describe them as uneventful, so I won’t launch into a tedious narrative of long waits and short lunches. I returned to work to find no one had missed me during my unsanctioned afternoon off, and since no police or security guards arrived to arrest me or cast me from the set, I assumed Brad had heeded my warning about keeping his mouth shut regarding our altercation. I admit, it niggled that not a single person had noticed my absence. However, it gave me a pleasant thrill to have bested the bullies for once. It turned out there was, indeed, a first time for everything. How I wished I’d had these powers back in high school. No one would have dared mess with me then. As for my present-day nemesis, he proved reluctant to so much as cross paths with me. He and his cronies took pains to stay away, and we exchanged not a glance, let alone a word. I couldn’t have been happier.