Psycho [and Psychic] Games

by Amie Gibbons

  He hung up and quickly cleaned up the mess on the floor, shoving things back into the bag haphazardly.

  “I’m going to give you a chance to rest up,” Truck said. “We’ll try some more exercises in a bit.”

  He went for the door at an angle to keep his eyes on me. He opened the door and slipped out. That stupid scraping was back. And I was left alone with my thoughts.

  He said something about a psychological test. Was the call to Grant it? And why did he want Grant?

  I thought he wanted to figure out how my powers worked and then make me help him get away.

  Wouldn’t telling Grant where to meet him be too dangerous? Maybe he really was just crazy.

  No. I’d seen inside his head. He wasn’t crazy. And he wasn’t stupid.

  I pulled the sheet off and tried to bash out the window but I couldn’t get enough force behind it.

  I guess movies made that look easier than it was too.

  I remade the bed, then tried prying the nails out of the window and got busted fingernails for my troubles.

  I lay on the bed, trying to project out to whatever could be listening in.

  My head was screaming.

  I lay in there, with the shadows slowly growing.

  I must’ve drifted off, cuz I jerked and opened my eyes at the scraping. Truck walked in holding another plastic sack as I blinked the sleep out of my eyes.

  I’d left the curtains open, so I could see if anyone was walking by and pound on the window to get their attention.

  It could’ve worked, except no one had walked by. Were all the cabins around us closed or something? It was June in a national park, where were all the people?

  It was just past twilight, meaning the vamps could come out to play.

  “Ssss... um...” I shook my head awake. “Why are you trying to bait Grant? Are you just trying to see if he’ll come? Cuz I can promise you he won’t. I mean, he’ll go wherever you tell him to try to get me back. But he’ll have a trap set, and a hundred agents in the background. And you know that. I don’t get it.”

  “There’s a lot you don’t get for being a psychic.” He smirked.

  Hey!

  Now that was just rude.

  “Do you need to use the bathroom?”

  I nodded. I hadn’t realized how much I needed to use the bathroom until he asked.

  He uncuffed me.

  Yes!

  He walked me out into the hall, with my gun pointed at me. The thick bar lying next to the door answered my question of what had been keeping me in. It was obviously wedged between the door and the opposite wall whenever he left. Maybe I could knock it loose?

  The bathroom was just across the hall so I didn’t see much more than that I was in the back of the short hallway, there was one more door to the right, then a cozy looking living room barely visible.

  The bathroom was small and clean, and besides the basic sink, toilet, and tub, it only held two towels and a bar of soap. The soap wasn’t even in a dish I could try to smuggle out.

  “We’re going to try directing your mind,” Truck said, leadin’ me back into the room once I was done with my business, keeping the gun casually pointed at me again.

  He removed five items from the plastic bag: a red sippy cup, a Yankee’s cap, a paperback copy of The Phantom of the Opera, a stuffed toy penguin, and a dark green coffee mug.

  “Touch each of these, focus, and tell me the name of the owner, and anything that you see.”

  What were the chances he didn’t kill all the people who owned the stuff?

  I wasn’t going for the sippy cup first.

  I grabbed the cap.

  Nothing.

  Then again, it’s not like I wanted to see anything.

  But what would he do to me if we didn’t keep this up?

  I closed my eyes, letting my senses zero down on the cap. On the feel of the threads under my fingertips, on the slight smell it gave off that spoke of many days on the head of a male downing hotdogs and beer out in the sun.

  Flash.

  He was a pretty good looking man; somewhere around forty, his black hair going silvery gray, strong features, and dark brown eyes. He was a pretty big guy, tall and muscled, he really filled up that small plastic chair. The cap protected his eyes from the brilliant sun as he leaned forward.

  The guy at the plate was choking, but he was the other team’s. The Yankees were pitching. The pitcher wound up and shot the ball at the batter, who swung and missed. Suddenly the crowds were on their feet, screaming. They’d won.

  Charlie Surjink was cheering with the rest of them.

  I pulled out and told Truck his name and what I’d seen.

  “How did you get the hat?” I asked.

  “You tell me.”

  I squinted down at the hat, but didn’t get anything.

  “Do you have any exercises or anything that help you get visions?” Truck said.

  “Not really.” I shook my head. “I use sandalwood incense and that seems to help, and alcohol helps fuzz my mind, which apparently makes me more open.”

  “Well, we’ll try that later.” He waved to the items still on the floor. “Continue.”

  Okay, he was enjoying this bossy thing way too much.

  I went through all the items, getting fairly boring visions of each in use. I got names, memories, but couldn’t get any visions to tell me what had happened to the people, or how Truck got the items.

  “What was that?” Truck asked after the last vision.

  “Huh?” I asked, rubbin’ my head.

  “You were staring straight forward for at least half a minute.”

  “Oh, that means it’s a present time vision,” I said. “Instead of seeing the whole scene in like a second, it’s me seeing it as it happens, so I’m in it for as long as it’s happening.”

  “That is a drawback.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “You’ve never tried just getting visions from items before?” he asked as he put the items back in the bag.

  “Yeah.” I yawned. “But those are always to find out what happened to the owners or to see where they went. I never had to get a vision just to see the item in everyday use. Ohhhhhh. I get it. Nothing happened to the owners. If something did, I would’ve seen it, definitely before I saw all that everyday stuff.”

  “I made sure to bring items with no trauma that I knew of attached to them. We’ll get to the traumatic ones later.”

  I grinned, hard and tight.

  I did not like the sound of that.

  “Now for the psychological experiment.” Truck pulled out a different phone than the one he had last time, hit a button, and held it up.

  “Hello, Agent Grant,” Truck said as soon as it clicked on.

  “Name your terms, Truck,” Grant said, the speaker makin’ his voice crackle.

  “We’re going to meet at my family’s old farm in an hour. I’ll tell you more then. If you capture me then Ariana’s left where she is and she’ll die of dehydration before you ever find her.”

  An hour? No way. That was at least two hours away. There was no way he would be there on time. Cold filled my stomach. Something was up.

  I stared hard at Truck.

  What are you up to? Show me!

  Flash.

  Grant walked up to the farm house.

  Agents littered the woods behind him, ready to jump the second Truck was spotted.

  Grant wasn’t planning on giving Truck back to our co-workers. He was going to beat my location out of him, then execute him.

  He sat down in front of the house, keeping an eye out for Truck.

  It blew in a spectacularly violent explosion, engulfing Grant and showering debris ten feet in all directions.

  I curled up, holding my stomach.

  Not Grant. I’d rather die than let him hurt Grant.

  “It’s rigged to explode, General!” I screamed.

  Truck’s jaw fell and he fumbled with the phone.

  “And we�
�re in the Smokies!” I yelled as Truck dropped the phone.

  Did Grant hear the last part before Truck hit end?

  As long as Grant knew about the explosion, I didn’t care.

  I met Truck’s eyes. Never mind. I did care if they were able to find me, and soon.

  I cared a lot.

  “Vision?” Truck asked, voice devoid of emotion, eyes flat and cold.

  I nodded slowly, not lookin’ away.

  “Fine.” He walked towards the bed and I shot off the other end at that look in his eyes.

  No more Mister Nice Psycho.

  Chapter fifteen

  “Come here.” Truck had my gun out and on me before I could take another step.

  I walked around the bed to him.

  “On your hands and knees and crawl,” Truck growled.

  I fell to my knees and crawled, blood throbbin’ in my ears and breath tight in my chest as my limbs shook and metal zinged over my tongue.

  I was too scared for my pride to even prickle. It could prickle later.

  If there was a later.

  Maybe I could scream to get the attention of people in the other cabins. They were nicely spaced, but I could get loud.

  I couldn’t try to run around him, he’d shoot me.

  There was nothing to throw at him to distract him so I could grab the gun.

  Grant’s really gonna kill me now.

  I’d finally done it, finally all out risked myself for him.

  If Truck didn’t kill me, Grant would.

  Grant thought it was his job to protect me and I just went and made his job a hell of a lot more difficult. If I got hurt or killed saving his life, he’d never forgive himself.

  I stopped about a foot in front of Truck, his eyes unreadable, shinin’ disks of dark.

  “To answer your question,” he said slowly, pointing my gun down at me, “I do enjoy the killing. I enjoy the power, and the thrill of knowing I could do whatever I wanted.”

  His arm was so quick I barely had the chance to flinch.

  The butt of my gun smashed into my cheek. My head snapped to the side and I was on the ground before the pain even reached my brain.

  It pierced through me, shockin’ in the intensity as it exploded through my face and brain.

  I sobbed, tears leakin’ out.

  My cheekbone throbbed and I had enough brainpower to wonder if he broke it.

  My arms shook as I tried to push myself up and my brain sloshed, makin’ a wave of nausea wash through me.

  I stayed down.

  The entire left side of my face ached down to the bone. My eye was about to explode out of its socket. I’d never had a broken bone, so I wasn’t sure, but it sure felt like he cracked my cheekbone wide open.

  I lifted my hand to feel it out. Blood leaked down my face, but I couldn’t get my fingers up far enough to tell where it came from exactly.

  “You’ll hurt, but I didn’t break anything. You should still be able to talk,” Truck said, some emotion I couldn’t name breaking through in his voice. “I’ll be back in a little while.”

  The door opened and closed and the scraping said I was locked in again.

  I stayed on the floor.

  This, this feeling of helplessness. I hadn’t felt this since I was kidnapped two years ago, and one of them was lookin’ at me like a piece of meat. Like I wasn’t even human.

  But I’m not helpless.

  I’d seen into the future, about an hour.

  I’d never done that. Not even close.

  The most I’d ever done was a few seconds or so, but I saw that explosion and I knew it was at least an hour away.

  And I’d seen it. Without anything to focus my mind, without touching anything, I’d seen an hour into the future.

  The pain dulled, became bearable after a bit.

  I don’t know how long I’d been on the floor. I pushed up to my hands and knees and wobbled over to the bed. I pulled myself up, exertion almost too much, and flopped onto the bed.

  I curled up on top of the covers.

  Who knew being beaten could take so much outta you?

  I’d never been hit, really hit, by a guy.

  I’d been in fights, and normal guys had nothin’ on vamp strength, and I’d sparred and such with the guys.

  But I’d never been in a situation where I’d been smacked around when I couldn’t fight back. At least not well.

  I looked out the window into the dark night.

  I let my mind wander on that darkness and imagined the guys.

  Where are you now? Did you hear me say the Smokies?

  Flash.

  “...don’t give a flying rat’s ass,” Grant was saying.

  He was driving. I couldn’t tell where.

  “Help or I shoot you. Those are your only fucking options.” He hung up the phone with a growl, throwing it into the passenger seat.

  “Oh, that’s why you said we should sit back here,” another voice muttered.

  The vision grew, showing the inside of our van in full on real life technicolor. Grant was at the wheel, and Andy and Kat rode in the back where a nice solid metal wall stood between them and Grant.

  “Yeah,” Kat said. “It’s best just to stay out of sight, sit down, and shut up when Grant’s... upset.”

  She wasn’t looking too good. Her dress was rumpled and her hair was stringy and pulled back in a sloppy ponytail. I couldn’t remember the last time she didn’t have her hair in pigtails or behind a headband.

  She gulped the coffee in her hands like it was water and she’d been in the desert forty days.

  What if I could contact them, or Grant directly?

  Andy and Grant were supernatural after all.

  Andy? Grant? Guys?

  Nothing.

  Okay. Maybe not.

  I barely started being able to really think during visions instead of just sitting back and watching.

  And that seemed to be only during the present time ones like this. What made me think I’d be able to contact them through a vision? I needed another psychic for this to work. Yeah, like that was going to stop me from trying.

  “Why wouldn’t he help?” Kat asked.

  Wait, how would he hear her, bein’ up front like that?

  Ohhhhhh, earbuds.

  “He said he’d try.” Grant’s voice froze my blood.

  At least he was alive. But he was terrified. He could imagine what was happening to me. And he felt guilty as hell about it. “He’s not going to try, he’s going to get me a fucking location. She was starting to tell me and...”

  His foot went down on the acceleration. Forget lead foot, his was a freaking uranium one.

  So he didn’t hear where I was.

  “Those vamps don’t know any more psychics?” Andy asked Kat in a whisper.

  She shook her head. “They’re rare. Like you.”

  Tears leaked down her face.

  No. I didn’t want Kat to cry. I hate making my friends cry.

  Andy pulled her into his arms and let her cry into his shirt as he leaned back against one of our supply drawers.

  I sniffed. My allergy medication was wearing off and my nose itched as it ran.

  And there were no tissues in the room. My throat and dry mouth begged for water, itching and irritated. If I didn’t get water and allergy meds soon, my asthma was going to make it hard to breathe and I’d start coughing.

  Once it got to that point, I’d need my inhaler, or it’d just spiral into a feedback loop of irritation causing me to cough, which would cause more irritation, until my breathing cut off completely.

  I eased off the bed and grabbed the sheet. I blew my nose into a corner of it. It wasn’t like I had a lot of options.

  I tried shoving the door, bashed my shoulder into it, leaving my shoulder smarting. I wrapped my arm in the sheet and bashed my elbow into the window with everything I had.

  My arm bounced off.

  I flicked the sheet open and sat by the door.

  Wh
en I heard that scraping sound again, I’d get up, throw the sheet at him as a distraction, and beat his face in before runnin’ like my life depended on it.

  Which, hey, it did.

  I waited, and waited, and waited.

  I didn’t want to focus too much on where my friends were for fear of losing myself in a present time vision just as Truck came in.

  I did try projecting some more, mentally calling for help, imagining my voice bouncing around the forest on the off chance something could receive it.

  God, what time was it? Truck could’ve been decent, left me a book or something, but nooooo.

  Psychological warfare.

  I got up from my crossed-legged sitting against the wall position and started stretching by the door.

  I didn’t need a class full of other yuppies and an instructor with a faux soothing voice to do my yoga.

  I went through a few basic stretches to get my stiff muscles to warm up before going into the different positions. There’s some easy ones, like downward dog, and there’s some near impossible ones, like that stupid lotus position.

  The breathing techniques the teacher always stressed in class helped me stay calm.

  Probably cuz I just needed something to do, something to think about besides what Truck would do when he came back.

  Where was he anyway? It was late. Maybe he was asleep.

  I half expected to get a vision of where he was, but I didn’t.

  He probably had the gris-gris with him so I wouldn’t be able to see him. That would give me too much power, and if there was one thing I knew he had to have, it was control over the situation.

  I was trapped, I was his to do with as he pleased.

  He believed that.

  He relished that.

  My yelling at Grant, saving him from the explosion, took some of that power away from Truck. He wasn’t going to let me get away with it. He wasn’t going to just let it go. I’d be punished, but how?

  Probably by being left alone for days until I went nuts wondering what he was going to do to me.

  He’d come in two days or so, when I’d be dying of thirst and starving, near mad from lack of stimulation, and he’d give me water, feed me, tell me I’d get books, maybe a TV and some movies, if I behaved myself.

  Nope.