by Dima Zales
The feeling I get just before I’m about to Read someone comes over me, and I make sure I’m sent only a few moments back into his memories.
* * *
“It’s so smoky in here; it’s like someone set off a bomb,” the girl says.
The sex bomb is talking about a real bomb, we think of replying, but decide against it. Not until we see how Victor responds. The guy’s insane, and displeasing him is as easy as it is deadly.
This is why we realize that if we go through with our plan for the girl, we’ll have to cut her throat afterwards. Had we just wanted to fuck her, then we could probably get away with leaving her alive afterwards—there are no rules against rape in this place. But we want her money, too, and that’s why she’ll have to die. Victor’s underground casinos have only this one rule: retaliations due to game losses are forbidden. We shudder when we remember what had been done to the last guy who tried to pull some shit on a poker game winner. We’ll have to ensure we’re not caught.
We think about all the things we want to do to her before we kill her off, and get a painful hard-on. We imagine how we’d fill up that oh-so-fuckable pouty mouth of hers. We visualize grabbing those perfect titties, leaving marks, prying open those long legs... Our balls tighten in anticipation.
This is going to be even better than the last time. That whore from two days ago can’t even begin to compare to this girl. Looks aside, that bitch hadn’t even fought us, just meekly took it. The fight has become half the fun for us over the years. When they fight, and we finally bend them to our will, we feel the rush of power that’s almost as fun as the sex itself. With this girl, it’ll be even better because she’s rumored to be feisty. The sarcastic remarks she’s made throughout the game confirm it. So she’ll likely fight, and fight well. We fantasize about her scratching our back with her perfectly manicured fingernails before we lock her wrists in a tight grip...
I, Mira, separate my own thinking from Shkillet’s in horrified disgust. I need a shower. I need a dozen showers. I’m still in his head, but I can reflect on what I just learned without fully getting out. Separating my thinking this way allows me to spare my brain from getting more of the vile details of what he plans to do to me. Witnessing the memories of what he did to the poor girl he raped two days ago was terrible enough. And while I’m not clear if he killed her afterwards, I’m positive he’s planning to kill me.
Given the circumstances, I dive a little deeper into his memories. I need to learn if he’s armed and if there’s anything else I need to know about.
We look at our cards. One fucking pair. Two more rounds like this, and we’ll be completely broke. But not for long, we remind ourselves, feeling the weight of the ceramic knife in the holster in our boot.
It’ll be best to do the deed swiftly. It has to happen here on the club premises before the bitch leaves and has the chance to get into her car.
Victor will be furious when they find the body. But he’d never suspect Shkillet. Getting no respect has some advantages—people underestimate us, and therefore, we can get away with anything.
I, Mira, separate again and think quickly. He managed to sneak a ceramic knife into this place. I guess the material didn’t trigger the metal detector wands the bouncers pass over everyone’s body upon entrance.
Damn it. This changes my strategy completely. I need to make sure to leave plenty of Depth to deal with this development. If one of these other men is the one I came here to find, it’s his lucky day, because I’m skipping their vile heads.
Except Victor’s. I’ve been waiting to meet him face-to-face for months because he’s always seemed the most likely candidate, given what I’ve heard about him. There’s no way I’m missing that chance now.
As I form a plan, I exit Shkillet’s mind.
* * *
Still in the Mind Dimension, I approach Victor and unceremoniously rip the shirt from his body. As I do so, I note the pair of aces in front of him on the table.
And his tattoos.
Yeah, Victor’s been in the Russian jail system—he’s a zek, as these people call it. Russian tattoos fascinate me. Probably because Dad had one. He served time with a bunch of scientists for objecting to the nuclear arms race during the Cold War. His Reading skills saved his life, enabling him to get out of the prison camp after only a couple of months, but the hellish experience made him desperate to leave the Soviet Union. He waited years until he could, and by then, the Soviet Union was simply Russia. Still, as Dad liked to say about the new regime, “Nothing’s changed—KGB still rules.”
So now I try to memorize Victor’s tattoos. I only recognize the meaning of the stars on his shoulders. Vor v zakone. Translated literally, it means ‘a thief in law,’ but the vernacular is a criminal authority of high caliber.
I examine him more. I’ve never seen this double-headed eagle tattoo before, though I think this is what the government symbol looked like back in the Czarist Russia. The Statue of Liberty super-imposed on the eagle also doesn’t ring any bells. Perhaps Victor hates the Soviet Union and is reliving the pre-revolution glory days with this ink? Coupled with a symbol of America, maybe he’s not so fond of communism, too? It’s a theory that gains more credence when I realize that a lot of his prison images are anti-authority.
I also notice that Victor is ripped. How can I not? I am, after all, human. He’s built like a swimmer, and his abs form a perfect six-pack.
Stop being a danger slut, Mira, I chide myself. How can you even think about what he looks like after what was in Shkillet’s head?
Or, more importantly, given what I’ve heard about Victor. This tendency to drool over monsters is something I truly despise about myself.
So, to that end, I decide enough’s enough. I need to give Victor a Reading and get the hell out. I’ll be only half-empty of Depth, and that will have to be enough.
I put my arm on his chiseled chest, right on the serene face of Lady Liberty. Physical contact made, I concentrate.
I’m going back far enough to see what he did before he came into this room. With any luck, he might’ve been thinking of blowing up someone’s car. If so, Shkillet won’t be the only person I’ll need to deal with...
* * *
We’re inside Vera. She moans softly. With her bent over just the way we like, we have a nice view of her naked back. It’s sinewy with muscle. In a perfect world, we like our woman to be a bit curvier, but there’s something about her that we find attractive enough to overlook that fact. Our previous squeeze had nice love handles, but she, unfortunately, didn’t appreciate our interest, instead opting to overdose while we were taking care of business. Women.
Besides the lack of curves on Vera, we also don’t approve of the tattoo on her lower back. It’s of Madonna holding the baby Jesus. When we fuck someone doggy-style, the last thing we need is a religious symbol staring us in the face, particularly since the tattoo artist made Madonna beautiful. Probably wanted to mess with the heads of everyone who’d ever fuck Vera in the future—which is a large number of people. Or, just as likely, the bitch arranged for the tattoo to have this effect herself.
As our thrusts deepen, she moans louder, and that brings us closer to the edge. In an effort to prolong the sensation, we direct our mind off the fucking and onto irrelevant things, like the dimples above her ass.
Unfortunately, they’re actually a turn-on.
So then we try focusing on the little mole on her right shoulder blade. That works for a bit until we notice the way the sweat slicks her skin. Smooth, gleaming skin. Fuck. We lift our head to stare at the blank walls of the VIP room.
I, Mira, disassociate, albeit hesitantly. This is the first time I’ve ever caught a man fucking a woman, and it’s... hot. It’s nothing like Reading them while they fuck me. Of course, I’m not here on a hedonistic vacation. Each moment I spend watching this, a double moment is subtracted from my Depth—because that’s how Reading works. Eugene explained that we share the time with the target. I guess that means
that on some level, everyone can get into the Mind Dimension when touched, but non-Readers are pulled in only enough for us to Read them.
I fast-forward Victor’s memories a few minutes into the future.
We’re approaching the table and noticing the girl. She’s the prodigy we’ve heard so much about, the only female katala we’ve ever met—though, to be fair, we met most of those card-shark shysters when doing our time in the all-male Gulag.
We look at her, this girl who’s squeezed so many people dry at our establishment. She has the cheekbones and nose of Russian nobility. Someone in this girl’s lineage must’ve survived the October Revolution back in 1917. Her features have a slight sharpness to them, along with an air of dignity. It’s a contrast to the matreshka-like round face of someone like Vera, who looks like a common Russian farmer’s daughter—and probably is.
With those big blue eyes, long eyelashes, and dark waves of hair, this girl reminds us of our daughter’s latest pictures. Only Nadia looks much more innocent than this one, we think with a mixture of longing and pride. Keeping Nadia innocent is why we made the sacrifice of not being in her life all those years ago. She probably doesn’t even know who we are, so there’s no point dwelling on it. And even if she knows, she’s in Russia, and we can’t go back there.
“It’s so smoky in here; it’s like someone set off a bomb,” the girl who reminds us of our daughter says.
That word—bomb—brings back flashbacks of that day in Chechnya when we lost two of our best comrades. Our heart rate increases, but then we calm down. The girl is just being a spoiled American princess. It happens to all the kids who arrive here. Her Majesty probably expected this illegal gambling club to enforce New York’s non-smoking laws.
I, Mira, separate my mind from Victor’s and feel a hint of disappointment. The fact that my words bring up his experience in Chechnya, which must’ve happened a long time ago, makes him unlikely to be the guy I’m looking for. Especially since he seems to have an aversion to explosions—almost a PTSD-type of reaction. It’s not a certainty that he wasn’t involved, of course, but it’s enough for me to clear him. I’d crossed people off my list based on less credible evidence.
Thus decided, I exit his head.
* * *
I’m back in the silent room. I’m not going to Read the other players’ minds. I’m going to conserve my Depth instead. I have two more things I have to do.
First, I take a look at the cards everyone else is holding. With the outcome of the next round in my head, I proceed to the second thing and run out of the room. Swiftly, I go through the dark corridor to the nearby bathroom. I check what I came here to check and confirm that it’s still there—the thing that’ll give me a chance when dealing with Shkillet. I’m a little calmer now and glad I took the time to explore this establishment in another Mind Dimension excursion; otherwise, I wouldn’t have known about things hidden in nooks and crannies.
I run back to the room and approach my body. It’s always strange seeing myself like that. Being able to examine myself from all angles used to magnify my teenage insecurities. Normal girls can drive themselves crazy with a mirror, but Readers have it much worse. I remember being depressed about the shape of the back of my ankles not long after my fifteenth birthday. Of course, since my parents’ death, I haven’t thought about shit like that ever again.
I prepare myself for exiting the Mind Dimension and reach out, placing my hand on my frozen self’s face.
And just like that, I’m back in my body.
The sounds are back, and so is the smell of smoke. Victor completes the motion of sitting down in his chair. The dealer finishes dealing. Shkillet stops staring at me, and looks furtively at Victor to see if he would reply to my weird statement.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” says a bald guy who’s smoking a cigar. “If someone brought a bomb in here, Victor would put that bomb into that yebanat’s ass.”
Chapter 3
The next few rounds of poker proceed predictably, given that I know which cards everyone is holding, as well as the top cards of the deck. So obviously, I win every round I can. And as I win, I watch Victor’s amusement grow. I’m not sure if it’s my winning that he finds amusing or the men’s reactions. They dare not give me any attitude, but when I sneak a look at Shkillet, I can tell he’s barely hiding his anger. Today, out of spite, I’ve been winning more than I usually do, and two rounds ago, I called Shkillet’s bluff—a bluff that would’ve probably worked if not for my Reading powers.
Since I don’t have a lot of Depth left, I decide that now is the time for me to get out of here. Before I wear out my welcome, so to speak.
“Gentlemen.” I stand up. “It’s been a pleasure.”
“Pleasure taking our money, you mean?” Victor, surprisingly, doesn’t sound angry. More like he’s teasing.
“Sure, that, and it’s nice to finally put a face to the name... Victor.” That might’ve come out too flirtatious, but hell, I’m too wired for finesse at the moment. As I start gathering my stuff, I see Shkillet begin to fidget. I can tell he’s about to leave, too. He’s determined to put that plan of his into motion.
I put my winnings into my purse and slowly walk out, trying not to look suspicious.
I know I should make a run for it once I’m in the hall instead of implementing my more dangerous idea of confronting him. But I don’t. That would be like playing the last rounds of poker so Shkillet would win—something else I could’ve done, but didn’t. He needs a lesson, and I’ll enjoy giving it to him. Maybe with him, I’ll finally get the chance to figure out if I’m capable of doing what must be done when the time comes. My brother doesn’t think I’d take someone’s life. He means it as a compliment, but that’s not how I take it, and tonight, I’m betting my life that my brother is wrong.
I arrive at the bathroom door. Shkillet hasn’t come out of the game room yet. I take out a pack of Marlboro Reds and a lighter from my purse. I don’t really smoke, but pretending to smoke has come in handy at times. Being a girl with a cigarette in her hand is a good icebreaker when the room is full of men with lighters. So I’m a sort of social smoker, I guess. But unlike others, I hate every inhalation. Sometimes when I smoke, I can almost feel the stuff making my lungs and teeth yellow and gross.
As I put the disgusting thing in my mouth, the game room door opens. I light up, inhale, and try not to cough while glancing at the door. Shkillet’s there, and we make fleeting eye contact before I exhale the smoke.
Bait set, I walk into the bathroom.
I close the flimsy door lock behind me, hang my purse on a little hook in an effort to free my hands, and run to the toilet as quickly as possible given the slippery floor and my high heels.
The toilet lid is opened, and I catch a glimpse of the disgusting stuff in the bowl when I throw my now-useless cigarette into it. God, would it have been that difficult to flush the shit? The sight and stench of it reminds me of a nightmare I had a few times about a dirty bathroom. And this reality might be worse than that nightmare if I don’t hurry up.
I reach for the water tank just as I hear the lock on the door being picked.
Shit. He’s faster than I thought he’d be. He must’ve run down that hall like a maniac.
I frantically lift the heavy tank cover... just as the door lock fails.
“What the hell?” Shkillet says in Russian as he steps inside and sees me standing there with the lid in my hands.
Good. Not what he was expecting. And I capitalize on that by throwing the lid at his head with all my strength.
He’s not fast enough to duck.
As he staggers backward with a grunt, I turn and grab the gun in the plastic zipped bag from the tank. I’d found this weapon in one of my earlier excursions in the Mind Dimension. I’m ripping the bag open when someone’s hands grab my left arm.
It’s Shkillet.
His fingers are like pincers digging into my flesh.
I Split into the Mind Dimensi
on to assess the situation.
The sounds of his panting are gone, and I observe us from my new vantage point.
One of his hands is on my arm, and the other is reaching into his boot for the ceramic knife he’s hiding there. His eyebrow is split open—must be where the lid hit him. The blood running from that wound makes his face look ghoulish.
I examine the bag in my hands. I’ve almost opened it, but I’m not sure if I’ll make it before he gets the knife out and uses it. But I can do something else if I aim right.
I look at my statue-like face that’s paralyzed in fear. I’ll try my best to be calmer when I get back into my head. Calmer and lethal.
Grabbing my hand, I jump out of the Mind Dimension and desperately will my muscles to act. As though in slow motion, my leg kicks backwards, aiming for his shin. My foot connects with something.
“Bitch!” He falls to his knees. I must’ve hurt his leg.
In the time I bought myself with the kick, I get the gun out. Whirling around, I see the knife already in his hand.
He swings, the knife swishing through the air an inch away from my leg.
Instinctively, I jump to the side, then slam the butt of the gun into his face. It connects with his nose with a disgusting crunch.
He looks stunned for a moment, and I do it again, swinging the heavy handle at his jaw this time.
He tries to grab me, so I hit the back of his head.
He crumples—his head landing right in that disgusting toilet.
Serves the fucker right. Now he’ll drown.
I should gloat, but for some inexplicable reason, I get the urge to kick him away, to get his face out of that toilet. Do I actually want to save his life?