Zero Sight

by B. Justin Shier

  “When the mechanism ignited the gas, there was an explosion. It blew apart the wall you and Mr. Nelson where hiding behind. You both were caught in the blast. The debris hit with terrible force, Dieter. You were badly banged up. You suffered a collapsed lung along with a number of broken ribs. Some of the debris struck your head, and you suffered some brain swelling. We nearly lost you. Mr. Nelson was badly injured as well.” She shook her head sadly. “We tried everything we could, but his injuries were just too severe. I’m sorry, Dieter, but Mr. Nelson didn’t make it.”

  I pondered what exactly it was that they “tried” on the headless corpse of Tyrone Nelson. I nearly laughed.

  Dr. Montgomery must have misread the expression on my face. She said, “I’m sorry, Dieter, so very sorry. He must have been a friend of yours.”

  I sat still and stared at the ceiling.

  Dr. Montgomery patted my hand, and then took it into her own. She gave me a sad smile. “It wasn’t your fault, Dieter,” she said quietly. “I need you to remember that. The story has been running in the papers. Everyone knows you didn’t do anything wrong. If you don’t know that something is explosive, you can’t be held accountable if it explodes, now can you?”

  Dr. Montgomery patted my hand again. Was she trying to imply something?

  “Just try to rest for now. I’ll get the nurse to bring some water for you.”

  I lay in bed and waited. The situation I had woken up to was not the one I expected. No one was holding me responsible for Tyrone’s death, and I wasn’t going to jail. They didn’t even think it was murder…but maybe that made the most sense. I considered how it must look to an outside observer. There wasn’t a murder weapon. No bomb or hand grenade. Just a big explosion right next to a chemistry lab threaded with gas lines. It was the sensible conclusion, the only one that seemed remotely likely. That brought me to the next question: What the heck had I done? How had I managed to kill Tyrone?

  Drug-addled as I was, I was loath to trust my own memory. That I somehow absorbed energy and discharged it made no sense. Physics didn’t work like that.

  I frowned. This was one helluva puzzle.

  I thought back to what it felt like—it was about all I had to go on. I remembered that as the rock came down, my reaction was automatic, more like a muscle reflex than a conscious act. All I had felt at the time was utter desperation. And what brought on that desperation? It was that horrible dark sensation: that silver thing that had wrapped its arms around me. As those silvery blades crawled across my skin, my instincts told me I was about to die. It was hardcoded knowledge, like the fear associated with dangling off a cliff. You don’t need to have fallen off one to know that it isn’t a good idea. But what had that strange icy scraping been? It arrived right around the time Tyrone committed to killing me. I remembered seeing a hazy red aura around him, and then suddenly that icy silver thing burst out of him and screamed death. Some martial artists claimed they could read an opponents aura and sense their intent before a fight even started. They claimed they knew whether their opponent had the resolve to kill. Had I somehow tapped into that information? Had I sensed someone else’s killing intent? I frowned. This line of reasoning was a dead end. There was no way to test that theory unless I convinced someone else to try and kill me—and that experiment wasn’t gonna happen.

  “Okay,” I said to myself. “You have an unconsciously triggered act brought on by a feeling of utter despair. But what the hell kind of reflex was that anyway?”

  It felt like some sort of imprinted response to a clear threat on my life, and it was one hell of a fail-safe too. As best as I could tell, I had taken the kinetic energy of the rock plummeting at my head, collected it, converted it, and expelled it. Whatever I produced had obliterated Tyrone’s head and half the chemistry lab with it. The problem was I didn’t need a textbook to tell me that the energy put into the system wasn’t even close to the energy required for that amount of damage. The response was totally disproportionate. Since there was no conceivable way the energy absorbed was greater than or equal to the power needed to cause the explosion, I had two viable explanations to choose from: 1) The laws of physics broke down that Thursday afternoon behind Ted Binion High School, or 2) That rock I took to the back of my head had done more than just knock me off my feet.

  I swallowed. It felt like chugging a bowling ball. I felt my bandaged head. It was starting to throb. The pain medication was probably wearing off, and all this thinking was tiring me out. The nurse came back in and gave me some water to sip. I choked down bit before waving her off. Just trying to stay conscious was exhausting. It wasn’t long before I dozed off.

  +

  I danced with vivid dreams throughout that miserable night.

  Victor Newmar standing at the plate.

  The wet thwap of the impact.

  His crumpled body hitting the dirt.

  The paramedics pushing Mrs. Newmar away.

  And now I’m running through a hallway. Tyrone is chasing me with a bat. I try to get away, but my legs won’t move fast enough. He catches me, and we tussle on the ground. I end up on top. We struggle. I punch him again and again. I punch, and I punch, and I punch. Wet thwaps greet my blows. Rage throbs through me. The hate is so strong, so strong I can taste it. Every punch releases it. Exhausted, I look down. Tyrone’s face is gone, a bloody mess in its place. I take my red hands and wipe them across my face. My enemy has fallen. I can taste his blood on my lips. His body goes cool between my legs. Victorious, I arch backwards, stare into a burning sky, and cry out in ecstasy.

  And now I’m in a stranger’s bed, tremors of that vacant thrill shooting through my body. Whispers in the corner. People talking. Groggy and confused, I strain to focus. Mustn’t make a sound. Mustn’t alert the voices. Slowly, carefully, I tilt my head. Three people stand in the darkness. I squint. Dr. Montgomery in her bright white coat. Two men in dark wool suits. The three are deep in conversation. I strain my ears to listen.

  “As I told you, Agent Collins, he’s a perfect candidate for eye-cam,” Dr. Montgomery whispers.

  The man named Collins crosses his arms. “Medic, we really appreciate your efforts on behalf of the boy, but he’s simply not salvageable. He’s over sixteen and has zero control. The incident at that school was a near catastrophe. By the time we got there, the fire department was already puzzling over why the debris had blown into the building. We had to bring in Cerberus WIP teams to cover all the loose ends. By the gods, they were just a few hours away from a press conference.”

  “Ralph, normally I would agree with you, but can we really afford to squander talent right now?” asks the second man. “Talmax is on the move. We need—”

  “Masterson,” interrupts the man called Collins, “from what I can tell, the boy hasn’t even exhibited until now.”

  “Little surprise there, Ralph. He lives in this dust bowl. Water isn’t the only thing that doesn’t flow around here.”

  Dr. Montgomery presses. “All I’m saying is you should give the kid a shot. He’s a bright one. I checked his grades—straight A’s. He even won the state science fair last year. He managed to enhance a yeast strain and harness it for energy. He can catch up, Agent Collins. I’m sure of it.”

  Collins grunts and puts his hands in the air. “I guess I’m outnumbered. Very well, I’ll give him a shot—but Masterson, if he duds, I’m taking the cleanup out of your pay.”

  Chuckling, Masterson says, “Yes, sir. But, Ralph, you can’t drain a stone.”

  “Complain to the Department, not me,” he grumbles.

  The two men leave the room together, and Dr. Montgomery does a little fist pump.

  I clamp my eyes shut as the she paces about, checking my lines and making adjustments. I can feel the breeze of her body as she moves. A faint eucalyptus scent trails her motions. Her warm hand touches my forehead. My whole body tingles.

  “Now it’s up to you, my little gem,” she whispers. “But do not fret, Kit will recognize your talents.” />
  Dr. Montgomery continues to stroke my forehead. I stay as still as I possibly can. Being touched is such a rare thing. I dread it might stop—but it hurts all the same. Her hand reminds of tired memories. She begins to hum a slow, mournful melody, beautiful but forlorn. The humming transitions to words, and she sings a lonely verse in a tongue I do not know:

  Bayu-bayushki-bayu.

  Ne lozhisya na krayu.

  Pridyot serenkiy volchok,

  On ukhvatit za bochok

  I utashchit volesok

  Pod rakitovy kustok.

  A lullaby, perhaps? The sounds are as warm as the touch of her hand, like the last embers of a dying fire. My mind becomes hazy. I drift off again.

  +

  I spent the next few days in the same medical haze. The nurses came in. The nurses came out. I ate bland food and grew restless in bed. The Newmars dropped in to see how I was doing. Mr. and Mrs. Newmar didn’t seem so broken up over Tyrone’s death. After what he had done to their son, I couldn’t blame them. Victor didn’t share that sentiment. He felt awful about Tyrone. He said there was a memorial service for Tyrone three days after the blast—while I was still sedated—and that he had gone to pay his respects. Victor brought a copy of an article in the paper. It covered both the incident and the memorial service for Tyrone. The story gave the same explanation as Dr. Montgomery: Gas left on. Sparks started explosion. Ace pitcher killed. Other student seriously wounded. According to Victor, everyone in Vegas was talking about the blast. The news media was playing up the "life of promising young athlete cut tragically short” angle, and Tyrone’s service was heavily attended by the community. In a press conference, the baseball team’s coach announced that the team would wear black armbands in Tyrone’s memory…and in the very next sentence requested donations. It was good to see that Coach Casey was still keeping it classy.

  Victor kept saying, “I can’t believe Tyrone died.”

  I kept thinking, “I can’t believe I killed him.”

  Despite that minor inconvenience, getting to see the Newmars was great. The past few days had been flat out bizarre. Spending time with them was grounding. It made my world feel less upside down. But the visit was a temporary respite. Once they left, I fell back into the same mix of guilt and doubt that had been plaguing me since I had first woken up. When I thought about Tyrone, I just felt numb.

  I was thankful that the media was so fixated on Tyrone. It was good that no one was interested in talking to me…but it did seem a bit odd. Even if I weren’t the focus of the coverage, why wouldn’t the media want to get details of the story from me, the lone survivor of the blast? I shook my head at it. Reporters were even lazier than I thought.

  +

  My father stopped by the day before I was discharged. I heard his heavy footsteps as he strode down the hall. He was half-smiling and half-frowning. My dad was a big man. Thick knees. Thick chest. Shoulders as broad as a chest of drawers. He’s an imposing figure. A passerby would probably never notice the toll the drinking was having on him, but as the son of a drunk, it was easy to recognize the signs. The slight hunch in his shoulders. The yellow jaundice creeping into his burlap brown eyes. The drink is like that. It eats its way through you from the inside out.

  “Hey son,” he said, descending into the chair next to me.

  I sat up. He didn’t approve of bad posture.

  “Good to see you, sir.”

  Kurtz Resnick looked me up and down and nodded.

  “The day it happened, the lady doctor told me you might die, but I told her, ‘listen here, doc, Resnicks are made of sterner stuff than that. He’ll pull through. Just wait and see.’”

  I raised an eyebrow. My old man wasn’t into personal displays of affection. That was as close to a “thank goodness, you’re still alive” as I was ever gonna get.

  “Sir, the doctor said I could be up-and-about tomorrow—and the school’s going to be paying for the medical expenses.”

  “Good,” he rumbled. “We shouldn’t have to pay for their screw-up. God damn public schools.” He shook his head. “They’re nothing but cesspools. Might-as-well take our tax dollars and pour sterno on ‘em, instead.”

  He shuffled in his chair. My dad couldn’t sit still when he got irritated, and his opinion of our fine system of education was mighty low. Why go to college when you can start earning? He would ask. It was all a giant scam to him. He had worked with his hands his entire life. Using book knowledge to get ahead was beyond him.

  I bit my lip. I was too tired to get into another old argument with him. “Sir, I talked to Mr. Newmar. He says that as soon as I’m able I can have my job back.“

  “That’s good of Newmar. You should be thankful. Times are as hard as I’ve seen ‘em in a long time. Men like Newmar are rare birds. Most would just fire you straight off no matter the reason you got hurt. You give him the respect he deserves, son, you hear?”

  “Yes, sir,” I replied. This was a practiced conversation on a topic we both agreed on. A conversation we knew wouldn’t instantly descend into an argument.

  “Heard about that Nelson boy. A shame. A good pitcher, was he?”

  “Yea.” Hearing Tyrone’s name made me queasy.

  My father nodded to himself.

  “Son, the world just ain’t right. A boy can have all that promise in the world and get knocked off just like that. There ain’t no justice.” His face turned a mottled red. It seemed to me the only way he felt alive anymore was by getting fired up like this. It was so tiresome. “These days, a boy can’t even trust his own mother will stand by him.”

  I flinched. Why did dad always have to poke that open sore? It was a wound I did my best to ignore. Why couldn’t he do the same? “Stars above, dad,” I said in exasperation. “Mom’s got nothing to do with this. Can we please leave her out of it?”

  He raised his finger. “All I’m trying to say is that she never—”

  “Oh! Mr. Resnick,” interrupted Dr. Montgomery. “So good of you to drop in! Could I borrow you for a moment? I have a few forms for you to sign.”

  “Forms?” my father boomed. For a moment my father wavered between losing his temper and regaining his composure, but Dr. Montgomery’s pleasant grin seemed to be winning out. I watched his shoulders and waited for them to settle back down. It was a forced habit of mine.

  “Uh, sure thing, ma’am—I mean, doctor.” He scratched his head. “I’d be happy to. Uh…forms, right?”

  I raised an eyebrow. I’d rarely heard my father use the term ‘happy’ lest it followed shortly after ‘trigger’.

  As my dad stood, he turned to me. “Right. Son, I have to head to work soon. Just give me a call whenever you need to get picked up.”

  “Um…okay,” I said, still trying to process the chain of events. My father made his way out into the hallway where a nurse led him over to the office. If Dr. Montgomery wrote a book on conflict resolution, I’d be first in line to buy a copy.

  I lay there staring at Dr. Montgomery. What was the deal with this lady? That conversation she had with those two men had been plain bizarre, but I also spent part of last week thinking there was a pink bunny hopping around the room. There was no bunny. (I asked.) But still…I got such a weird vibe from the doc. It wasn’t like she felt dangerous or anything, just…different. I tilted my head. If I stared at her in just the right way, I could see a fuzzy halo around her, some strange trick of light, like when a sunbeam strikes a pane of glass in just the right way. I scrunched my nose. The effort made my head hurt worse than when I tried to stare at those darn hidden image posters at the mall.

  Dr. Montgomery noticed me squinting and smiled. I liked it when she did that. It made me feel better. My worries just sorta washed away. She opened her mouth as if to speak but closed it. “No, it’s best to wait,” she muttered. “I’ll stop in later, Dieter. Try and get some rest, okay?”

  I watched her turn to go. “Wait…what is it?”

  Pausing, Dr. Montgomery looked down at her hands
and twiddled her fingers. “Well, I don’t know if you remember, but I was one of the judges at the science fair last year. Your project on yeast metabolism…it was wonderful work.”

  “Thanks,” I stammered. (I didn’t have many fans. “Hey baby, wanna check out my cell cultures?” didn’t work so well on the ladies.)

  “Dieter, you’re a senior this year, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, I took the liberty of recommending you to my alma mater. It’s called Elliot College. It’s a very small school back East, but I think you might like it a great deal.”

  “Wow, Dr. Montgomery. Thank you so much!” I was shocked. An actual doctor? I’d never even thought to ask for help. I didn’t think that a person like her would ever consider helping a high school kid worth her time. Dr. Montgomery had really gone out of her way for me. “I’m gonna need all the help I can get. I really appreciate it.”

  Dr. Montgomery ran a hand through her bright red hair. “Of course, Dieter. I don’t want to see your talents wasted.” Her smile weakened. “There are so few of us left.”

  I looked at her in confusion. Sure, the state of American academics was pretty dire, but it wasn’t like medical doctors were going extinct or anything…

  “Oh, listen to me and my blabbering.” She shook out her curly hair and rubbed her face. “Things have been so busy around here that I haven’t been getting enough sleep.” She checked her watch. “Speaking of which, I better finish my rounds. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

  I nodded. Yep, Dr. M. had a strange vibe all right. Nice—but definitely strange. I rubbed my tender face. My facial wounds had all closed up, but the bruises were still in full bloom. I glanced at myself in the mirror. My mussed up hair had built itself into a veritable tower of bed-head. A scraggly brown beard partially hid my sallow cheeks. Basically, I looked as bad as I felt. I needed to get out of this hospital and clear my head. This week had been seriously fucked up. I was starting to get loopy.