by J. R. Brule
Billy was, too. That same technique he used to deter Rudy’s mother could be used on him as well. Hiding from the Gifted you knew of was one thing, but the ones you didn’t know about . . . well, let’s just say people like Billy and Norm weren’t out of the food chain.
---
Ah, finally here, thought Julia Frond.
She stood halfway down the plane’s steps and looked out at the surrounding airport. Total emptiness. No other runway in use, no human congestion. The air was warm, the sun was out, and she felt good. The only other Gifted around were the kid’s parents and those two boneheads, Billy and Norm. She wasn’t afraid of either party—they were amateurs. Later today, she’d know everything they knew, all about Rudy. She just hoped no one clued him in. His Gift was alive, that was sure enough. If everything went to plan, Rudy would never see her coming, and all those little postcards and newspapers would report another little kid gone missing.
Her plane ride proved enjoyable—except for that one little bump as she entered Michigan. The moment had briefly startled her. And during the landing, she’d gotten the strangest feeling that something was wrong . . . that she wasn’t in the right place. The feeling fled as quick as it’d come. That was all it was—a feeling. Nothing for concern. Her Gift assured her the coast was clear.
The prospect of the claim excited her, aroused her senses, and kept her honed on all the prizes to be had: namely, the boy’s Gift compounding to her own.
It could be a week before another Gifted arrived on scene. Some might not even come, despite the ping, and that wasn’t uncommon. They found safety by refusing to participate in the game.
But oh, how little they knew. Hiding wasn’t a way out.
A black limo drove in on the horizon, its edges blurred with heat. Smiling, Julia descended the remaining steps, took off her suit jacket, and undid another button on her blouse. Being a woman had some perks—her body was a part of her Gift, and she could use it how she pleased.
---
After claiming that teenage girl, Chad Stevenson boarded a train and was currently in Montana.
He liked traveling by train. It slowed time down, and allowed higher observation. With the years he’d spent racing around the world, chasing those pings, he appreciated savoring the moment.
He felt that woman, Julia Frond, and those two men, Billy Grey and Norman Thomas. They came, they saw, they’d conquer.
But a final part went unknown to them—getting conquered. He’d consume their Gifts, take their lives, and get back to looking for his invisible man.
Rudy’s parents were weak, a consequence of passing on their genes. Having a child diluted their powers. They’d been clever for a while, obscuring their existence, but they forgot the most important part of being Gifted. They let their pants fall flat around their feet—Rudy’s awakening was a public broadcast.
Luckily for Rudy, parents acted as a maze to the cheese. The average Gifted preyed on the slowest in the herd, in this case being the boy. But the more experienced Gifted were privy to that sort of hunting—they wanted someone more matured—someone with more “bang for their buck.” So while the less seasoned searched for Rudy, the veterans would observe from the sidelines, just waiting for someone’s guard to drop.
And then Chad would reap the Growth the other Gifted worked so hard for.
The world isn’t fair—someone has to lose. It just wasn’t ever him.
A girl slid open his compartment door and offered tea. He happily accepted, and thought she would look good on top of him, thought how much he’d enjoy some company. So he used his Gift to bring her back without the tea. She hiked up her skirt, straddled his legs, twisted both her arms high in the air and grabbed onto a joist in the ceiling. The windows fogged and the cushions squeaked. She was defenseless to his power—she had none of her own. When he finished, he wiped her memory and sent her away. Sipped his green tea.
The others would take their time, too unsure to move quickly, too amateur to know any better. If they knew he was coming, they’d already be gone. But they didn’t know, and never would. He made sure of that.
Blocking out his power would be like trying to cork a waterfall with your thumb. Julia’s abilities were strong enough to sense him when he was close, but Billy and Norm wouldn’t feel him if their noses pressed together. Claiming them wasn’t a prize—not like his invisible man.
9:
RUDY DIDN’T REMEMBER WAKING up that morning, or even how he got to school, let alone how many days it’d been since being in that car with Mr. Kloom. He instinctively touched his neck and ran his fingers down his collarbone, half-expecting to find the plain sterling necklace dangling there. But it wasn’t.
And when Rudy’s dad came home, his mother sprang to her feet like an Olympic athlete, spilling her wine all over the floor.
“STAY AWAY FROM ME!” she shouted.
To Rudy, her attitude seemed
(interference)
to come from nowhere.
His dad’s hands went up in surrender. “Honey, I—”
She grabbed a kitchen knife and waved it in front of her, its tip pointed at him in warning. Rudy’s heart revved into gear, made him afraid for his father. His mother yanked Rudy back, and wrapped her arm around his neck, but he knew she wouldn’t hurt him. She would never hurt him.
“Glenda, put the knife down,” his dad protested.
“NO! I WON’T! I know what you’re going to do to him, you sick bastard!”
“Please, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Please, put the knife down.”
“I WON’T!” she screamed. “Not so long as YOU’RE here!”
She swung the knife in the air and the blade got so close to Rudy’s ear it whispered a metallic song. His dad rushed forward to smack it away. There was a lot of yelling and Rudy got thrown back toward the door, away from his mother, without knowing who did it. He saw blood shoot through the air and couldn’t be sure whose it was because everyone was screaming, including himself.
(try and listen)
It was a movie—yes, just a movie. All of this was only pretend.
His dad pinned her against the wall and she tried kicking that tender spot between his legs. She wouldn’t listen and wouldn’t stop, swiping and clawing his face.
Rudy stood in horror, frozen to the floor, his mouth agape and his throat clenched.
What’s wrong with her? Why is she acting like this?
Please be a vision, please be a vision, please be a vision.
His mother managed to twist free from his father’s hold, and with one final clawing arch of her hand, she injured him enough to momentarily end the dispute. She pulled Rudy to leave. But he couldn’t go . . . couldn’t just leave his dad. She tugged him again, this time harder.
“Rudy? Come on!”
“You hurt Dad.”
“Please. Sometimes I just know things. For your own sake . . . please come with me.”
She extended her hand and Rudy considered taking it. His dad straightened. Blood ran down his arms and clothing; his shirt was torn at the chest. He said something Rudy never forgot.
“You BITCH!”
His mother yanked open the front door and told Rudy she loved him, right before abandoning him.
Twirling blue and red lights filled the room, filtering in through the windows as a cordon of police cars screeched and whined into the neighborhood. Rudy went to the window and watched his mom get handcuffed. She didn’t even look back.
From behind, his dad said, “Don’t you worry, Rudy. You and I, we’re better off without her.”
What Rudy didn’t see was Billy Grey and Norman Thomas high-fiving in their car.
10:
HIS MOTHER’S ARREST MADE it into the paper, and word
(don’t let him)
got around school. As if he wasn’t already shunned enough, that little bit of news really pushed him off a social cliff. No one would talk to him and no one would listen, so he was on his own. He filled all hi
s notebooks with doodles, completed all homework correctly and on time, and soon he was getting bored at home. Having no friends meant he had only himself for entertainment.
He had the lamp on in his room, at his desk, thinking what to do. And almost like a firework, the
(is he up there)
idea ignited.
He went downstairs, into the kitchen, and found the brown grocery bags used mostly for recycling. He brought five to his room, placed four behind his desk, and straightened out the fifth. With his best mechanical pencil, he drew the preliminary art, sketching out the basics, erasing the extraneous. When he started, the clock read 6:56 p.m. By the time he finished, it was 9:14 p.m. It was amazing the time that passed . . . and he didn’t even want to stop. He took out a thin Sharpie and traced over the pencil, bolding the picture, bringing it to popping life. Twice he went off track, and those parts ended up smearing together. It was frustrating, but okay—this was his first time doing it. When completed, he inspected the custom book cover, satisfied, and checked the clock.
It was 11:45 p.m.
He turned out his lamp and jumped into bed, not even getting undressed. But his mind wouldn’t sleep—it was very much alive, crawling with ideas, with . . .
BAM!
An epiphany!
He shot up and the covers slid off. Those invasive thoughts—they hadn’t come since starting the cover, since he began to concentrate.
He went back to his desk and switched on the lamp. To test his theory, he got out another bag and worked diligently on creating an alternate cover, waiting for a thought not his own to penetrate his brain. None came. He worked for another hour, and still nothing.
It was magic, superb, the best news he’d gotten all year. With everything that’d happened, marking a tally in the Good column felt rejuvenating.
Life was cruel, no doubt. But sometimes . . . just sometimes . . . maybe it could also be kind.
---
But mostly cruel.
Rudy was back in the car, with Mr. Kloom driving, and felt—in a word—disoriented. They were on a highway with hardly any cars at all, almost like they owned the road.
“Confused?” Mr. Kloom asked.
Rudy nodded. “Extremely.”
“Good. Not understanding something can lead to two outcomes: one, motivation to understand it, or two, an impassable wall. The trick is to always choose the former. Otherwise you’ll end up dead.”
“Dead?”
“Dead.”
“Why dead?”
“What’d I say about the questions? Listen. You’re with me now and it’s important we focus on sales.”
“But why sales?”
Again, Mr. Kloom glowered at him.
“Sorry. I’m listening.”
Mr. Kloom had one hand on the steering wheel, driving with his wrist, while the other fixed up a cigarette. He pinched dried tobacco from a pouch and onto a thin white rolling paper, his hand tremulous, like he had Parkinson’s.
“Think I’ve got Parkinson’s?” Mr. Kloom asked.
“No.”
“You’re lying and I know it. You can know too. Try it out.”
Rudy only stared.
“That’s okay,” Mr. Kloom said. “You’re still a rookie, so I want you to listen close. These gummies we’re meeting are my ticket to an early retirement. Maybe not my ticket, but you understand what I’m saying? If you can’t listen, I’ll never make it at all.”
Rudy nodded as Mr. Kloom brought the unrolled spliff to his lips. His slippery tongue licked the length of the paper. He rolled the paper into a cigarette while leaning comically forward against the steering wheel, his gaze flicking from road to hands, road to hands.
“Answer me now, boy,” Mr. Kloom said, poking the finished product in his lips. He spoke with half his mouth now. “If we’re to work together, I need to know all about your life.” He stretched his neck out like a turtle, toward a lighter he kept on the dashboard. He lit up and took two short puffs before leaning back comfortably. “Even those shit-stained pictures you call memories; none may be spared. Not to Mr. Kloom. Understand?”
“Of course.”
My mind feels so much more . . . mature.
“Your mind will feel more mature while we’re learning.”
Did he hear me think that?
The tip of Mr. Kloom’s cigarette went orange. “Tell you what. I’ll keep at pretending like you’re not lying to me so long as you keep pretending like you don’t want to go snooping inside my things.”
“I never thought to—”
“Everyone I’ve ever worked with has wanted to see the contents of my cherry wood box.”
Rudy didn’t know about a box or remember seeing one.
Mr. Kloom lifted the compartment between their elbows with his steering hand. He brought up a rattling bottle of pills, thumbed up the top and dumped numerous capsules into his mouth. He swallowed them dry and looked at Rudy with bloodshot eyes. His eyes looked focused, yet somehow also dreamy and faraway, like he wasn’t looking at Rudy, but at something behind him.
“How’s that deal for you?”
“Fine, Mr. Kloom.”
“That’s good. Listen to any music, do you?”
“Yes, Mr. Kloom.”
“What kind?”
“Mostly rock, sir, but I like everything.”
“Do you like European accordion?”
“No, sir.”
What the hell is European accordion?
“You said you liked everything. European accordion is encompassed in everything, don’t you think? I mean, I’m not going FUCKING crazy here, am I? If you say you like everything then you better damned well mean everything!”
“You’re right, Mr. Kloom. I didn’t think what I was saying.”
I want to get out of here. How do I leave?
“You leave when I let you leave,” he said, and Rudy froze. “That’s better. Now, being a salesman is all about saying the right things. You may think I’m made up halfway of unused assholes, but really I just want to help you thrive.” His cigarette glowed in the engulfing grey smoke, a beacon in the fog, and Rudy had so many questions he wanted to ask. “This is a business, after all, and what’s the first point made in any business?”
“I don’t know.”
“You would know if you only listened. You’ve got to make the customer feel special, like it’s all about them, when really, it’s all about you. If you pull that same SHIT you pulled back at the cafeteria, that whole hand-severing business, then you’re not living by the words, are you? And if you’re not living by the words, then you’re not fit to be my student. Is that fair? Am I not fair?”
How does he know about that hand? No one else remembers.
“You’re fair,” Rudy said, though he had no idea what this man was saying.
“Relax. Listen to the music you been missin out on.” Mr. Kloom turned the volume knob a generous amount to the right, and accordions became the world of the car.
Rudy cracked his window, wanting fresh air. But Mr. Kloom motioned for him to ROLL IT THE HELL UP, gesturing like a wild man, like they were in a submarine and Rudy had sprung a leak.
(listen)
Listen to what?
(just listen)
Rudy’s eyes bulged. Those were . . . words . . . coming from Mr. Kloom, yet his lips weren’t moving.
Rudy stared intently at the strange man who had taken an even stranger interest in him. As they held each other’s gaze, Rudy briefly wondered if Mr. Kloom truly meant to help him understand.
“Rudy!” Mr. Kloom shouted suddenly, lowering the volume in the car.
“Yes, sir?”
“What did I say about thinking too much?”
(poison to the mind)
“It’s poison to the mind,” Rudy said, and cocked his head, realizing Mr. Kloom never said it.
Get me out of here, Rudy thought.
“Right-o. I suggest books.”
“What?”
“Boo
ks. They have covers, pages, and words inside, and I suggest them to you.”
“Why?”
“Here,” Mr. Kloom said, and reached over Rudy’s lap in a most inconsiderate manner to open the glove box, which click . . .
11:
. . . ED OPEN.
The library fair came to Rudy’s school once every two years, and today was that day. The place was usually soundless, home only to fourth graders learning about the Dewey Decimal System. But this week the library was different—it was transformed into a colorful convention. An assortment of tables offered whacky pens, fuzzy bookmarks, wormy book lights, foot-long pencils, tiny cartoon flipbooks, and key chains with phrases like “I ♥ Books.”
Books. Mr. Kloom suggested books.
Rudy had about six bucks and knew just what book to buy, because it had planted itself into the heart of the school. He found it at a rack shaped like half a van, painted with blue and yellow spirals, with a foldout window serving as a countertop.
He took the book—Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone—up to the librarian’s desk. She had fiery red hair and wore a pink turtleneck. A nametag on her left breast read Julia. She smiled as she scanned the book. “You know, you’re about the hundredth this week to buy this book. It’ll be $5.50, dear.”
Rudy paid and left without noticing Julia adjusting her wig.
He took the book to the science room, skipping lunch to stay right where he was.
Three words: Peace. Of. Mind.
He was in the middle of the page when something caught his eye.
He looked up quickly at the windows. He barely registered a forehead and pair of eyes before someone ducked away. It wasn’t a kid’s face—it was too big. A mix of muffled playground laughter and screaming seeped into the room, reminding him how alone he was, how far away others were, shattering his feeling of peace. No one would know if he got dragged away . . .
And another vision came.
The sounds of the playground tapered away; the white walls started to fill up like paint buckets, becoming a spackled grey. The vivid Expo markers on the silver tray of the whiteboard lost their liveliness akin to a draining thermometer. Outside, the greens and blues were now a uniform black and white, and the noise from passing cars was gone.