Patricia was chastising Cookie for another wrap-Mom-up-with-the-leash job when the Seven Stars burst into sight. The pulse of light from above confused her enough that by the time she looked straight up, the White Flash had almost reached the horizon. Brutus barked, while Cookie remained oblivious. Winston merely stared up with her.
"What in the world was that, Winston ...?"
Anthony Deutsche, the man lurking in the bushes and shadows a few yards ahead of Patricia, glanced up with little interest. He had seen the pulse of light wash over the land, but his skyward view was blocked almost entirely by the lush foliage of a tree, so his curiosity died quickly and his attention returned to his intended victim. He was perturbed that Patricia wasn’t carrying a purse, but she was wearing a fanny-pack, so he figured there might be hope yet.
Patricia stared after the wave of the White Flash, but there was no encore performance of this phenomenon. The Seven Stars shone brightly above, but Patricia had never been much of a stargazer and so did not notice. In the distance, she heard a siren wail, and Brutus felt the urge to join in.
"Come on, kids," she said, "let’s head home."
Winston stood ready to go, but Brutus continued to howl at the alarm, and Cookie searched for fresh territory to mark.
"Come on, fellas, okay? Mom wants to go home now. Brutus, knock that off!"
Suddenly, Cookie stopped sniffing at the ground and instead stared ahead, straight into the shadows where Anthony Deutsche stood in silence. An unimpressive growl rumbled through the Boston Terrier’s little throat.
bad man
Patricia looked around, startled. She could have sworn that she heard someone speak, but she appeared to be alone.
bad man
The voice, or the echo of a voice, floated to her again from some unknown source. "What?" she said aloud. "Who’s there?"
Anthony stiffened. Had he given himself away somehow?
bad man Winston over here bad man Brutus over here
Patricia was confused and frightened now. The words weren’t really words — except for the echoes of the Lab and Pug’s names, which came through clear as a bell. They were more like impressions. Less than words, more than feelings.
Brutus stopped howling and glanced in the same direction as Cookie. Winston stepped forward, his attention following the Boston’s as well.
where?
bushes
sure he’s bad?
bad man bad man
Cookie right Winston smell him too man bad man
Patricia’s educated mind struggled to reject what she thought she was hearing. She was so caught up in the wonder and impossibility of it all that she didn’t really pay attention to what her dogs appeared to be saying to one another.
"Winston?"
The Lab looked up at her. Bad man Mom bad man ... Then the words/thoughts paused, and Winston assumed the most human-looking expression of bafflement Patricia had ever seen. If her mind had not been such a whirlwind, she would have laughed. Mom you hear Winston Mom?
"Yes," Patricia blurted through a strained chuckle, seriously entertaining the distinct possibility that only a crazy woman would answer a question she thought was directly posed by her pet. "Yes, I hear you, Winston, and I think that Mom needs a drink."
no time for fuzzy stuff, Winston scolded her, bad man in the bushes Mom bad man you need to go
Winston!
Winston!
When Patricia appeared to start talking to her big dog — actually carrying on a conversation with the damned mutt! — Anthony decided that enough was enough. What was she, the "Daughter of Sam?" It didn’t matter — a retard would be that much easier to handle, anyway. He stepped from the shadows, waving his knife back and forth so that the blade would glisten in the scattered park lights.
"Gimme your pack," he threatened curtly, stepping close.
Patricia stared at him numbly. The startling events were making it difficult for her to shift gears — at first, she even thought he was referring to her dogs. "Wha—?" was all she managed to say.
Brutus and Cookie barked at Anthony. Winston growled.
"Don’t push me, bitch," he snapped. "Hand over the pack or I’ll cut you. And your little dog Toto, too." When Patricia still failed to move, Anthony reached down with impressive speed and plucked Cookie up by her collar. She yelped, both in the real world and in Patricia’s mind. "I’m not fooling around, bitch. Hand it over." He held the blade deliberately against the Boston’s throat.
The man could have intimidated Patricia all night, and in her current state of mind, she probably would have just stood there like an idiot. But when he made the mistake of threatening one of her kids, her disposition turned icy cold.
"Fine," she said. Dropping the leashes and reaching back to unclasp the pack, she said, "Put her down first."
"You’re not in the position, lady," Anthony leered. He flicked the blade and Cookie yelped as he cut her. Not too deep, not yet, but enough to draw blood. Brutus and Winston growled in unison. "Better keep the Lab back, too. Now hand it over."
bad man hurt Cookie get him Winston get him
can’t he has shiny sharp metal might hurt Mom
"How do I know you won’t hurt her anyway?" Patricia demanded.
"Oh, for Christ’s sake, that’s it!" Anthony threw the Boston down hard and kicked the Pug harder as he moved on her. The blade came at Patricia’s throat now ...
... but not before Winston’s jaws locked onto the man’s wrist.
Giving the devil his due credit, Anthony did not cry out or panic as others might have. He merely grunted and, without missing a beat, started pounding the Lab in the face with his free hand.
ow ow ow ow
Patricia could sense Winston’s discomfort, but the husky dog refused to let go. Patricia leaped at the man, too, clawing at his face.
"Shit!"
Anthony shoved her away, knocking her to the ground. He hit Winston again, and a squeak of pain made its way from behind the man’s trapped arm.
And that was enough of that!
Cookie, Brutus, she called in the same fashion she had heard, and with the same instincts employed by Emmett, Sarah, and the Would-Be-Tran, his feet! Get his feet!
The smaller dogs rushed to obey their mom. They each went for an ankle.
Cookie, your mouth’s too small. Get his shoe laces, his shoe laces!
Cookie was familiar enough with chewing on Patricia’s shoes to know exactly what she meant.
Bite him hard, Brutus. Hard!
Anthony had stopped beating Winston now, and was trying desperately not to lose his balance.
Winston, hold on!
yes Mom
Scrambling to her feet and charging forward, Patricia slammed into Anthony as hard as she could — and while she was nowhere near Sarah Baxter’s size, Patricia was far from a petite lady herself. Anthony went down on his back, the breath exploding from his lungs as a rock broke one of his hind ribs. Winston lost his grip on the man’s wrist in the tumble, but his teeth raked deep valleys in the bad man’s flesh, and the knife dropped away.
Cookie, Brutus, get his hands. Bite down on his fingers, bite hard. Winston, get his throat, but don’t bite down. Not yet.
yes Mom yes Mom yes
The dogs did as told, and Anthony was shortly helpless, trying to do nothing but draw a breath as Patricia knelt over him, her knees in his gut. His eyes bugged and gawked at the Black Lab perched at his throat, his mind incapable of grasping or accepting what was happening here.
"All right, mister," Patricia did not bother to hide her satisfaction, "let’s see what you’ve got. Winston, if he moves, kill him." She reached under him and felt his back pockets. Sure enough, she came back with the mugger’s own wallet. "Gosh, aren’t we cocky? You stupid asshole."
Patricia opened the wallet, going straight for the driver’s license.
"Well, Anthony Deutsche, looks like you’re up shit creek without a paddle now."
She climbed o
ff of him, making sure to really grind her knees while doing so. She stepped back.
"All right, kids, back off," she ordered as she stooped and delicately picked up the man’s knife. But growl at him, she added mentally, growl at him loud. Really give him a good show. Especially you, Winston.
The dogs retreated a few feet and inundated Anthony with the noise of their fierceness.
Anthony slowly rose to his feet, dividing his attention between fearful glances at the militant dogs and dagger looks aimed at Patricia.
"I’m not prepared to escort you halfway across town, mister, but you’ll be hearing from the police soon enough." She waved the knife and wallet at him. "Now turn and walk away. Stick to the path so that I can see you in the lights all the way out of the park. And if you try anything clever, I’ll have Winston here rip your balls off and share them with Brutus and Cookie as a snack. Comprende?"
Anthony nodded glumly and limped away, keeping to the path as instructed.
"Good work, kids."
Bad man we bit the bad man and helped Mom we get treats when we get home?
Patricia laughed and answered Brutus and Cookie, "Sure, kids, you get treats. Double helping."
Even though she was now speaking with her mouth instead of her mind, it was evident that they understood her better than ever before. Brutus and Cookie jumped up and down in excitement, Cookie throwing a bark or two after the bad man.
Winston looked up at Patricia with eyes that now seemed uncannily wise to her.
how Mom? he asked. how can you hear us?
I don’t know, Winston, she answered, but I do know one thing ... I’m about to become the best damn veterinarian this world has ever seen.
She smiled and, removing their unnecessary leashes, led the kids home.
PHILIP
Doctor Philip Seymour was in an Emergency Room on the Night of the White Flash.
Some men and women pursue the study of medicine because they sincerely want to heal their fellow mankind. Others choose the field because it is their family tradition; said person’s parents and grandparents before them are esteemed professionals in the medical field, leaving the child with a sense of obligation toward upholding the family reputation. Still others are pushed towards the profession by parents with strictly vicarious motives; if they could never amount to anything, then, by God, their child would.
And then some, like Philip Seymour, choose to be doctors for one reason and one reason only: Money.
Raised by a single father, who slaved away for the city as a sanitation worker, Philip grew up with the notion that all doctors were rich — indeed, this stereotype was probably closer to the truth when he was a child. Philip attacked his education aggressively, achieving top marks not so much through raw intelligence as through fierce determination. He managed to get enough financial aid to make it into college, and by the time he was ready for his Masters degree and then medical school, he had gained enough momentum that there was no stopping him.
Finally, Doctor Philip Seymour graduated ... and was stunned when an affluent, private practice did not fall right into his lap.
The problem, put quite bluntly, was that Philip Seymour was something of an asshole.
Philip did not make friends through any of his schooling. He kissed up to Deans and top Professors, but rudely snubbed all of his peers. The occasional instructor might have enjoyed his offerings as a Yes-Man, but a majority frowned upon what, at the very least, amounted to a shitty bedside manner. They gave him high marks because his test scores demanded it, but their support ended there. Their letters of recommendation were hardly that — more than once, a follow-up phone call to the potential retirees looking for a replacement killed what little shine the letters had to offer in the first place.
Philip Seymour was left with a covertly unsupportive list of pedagogues, and an openly disparaging class of associates who wanted to do anything but associate with him. And both groups were more than happy to spread the word as far as it would go.
So Philip found himself, not as a lone, illustrious, rich doctor, worshiped by all, but as one of many, working with a stream-lined staff and subject to budget cuts as the hospital board of directors saw fit. He was not surrounded by patients ready and willing to spend top dollar for his coveted services, but by medical interns and drunk vagrants and insurance forms up to his ass, with no escape in sight.
No escape, that is, until the Night of the White Flash.
Philip was taking a coffee break — alone, of course — when the Seven Stars appeared and the White Flash washed over the world. Its effect on him was as immediate as with Emmett, Sarah, the would-be-Tran, and Patricia. However, unlike those individuals, Philip did not realize his change right away.
Within the hour, the victims began to flow into the ER. The White Flash caused more than paranormal abilities in a small number of people that night — it caused an unprecedented number of accidents, automobile and otherwise. As millions of eyes turned skyward, seeking the source of the pulse of light and occasionally noticing the new seven-star constellation in the heavens, cars crashed into one another, pedestrians, and other objects usually avoided with ease. People dropped things, ran into things, fell off of things. The effects of the White Flash would soon be observed in all parts of the world, but it was night in the Western Hemisphere, and that’s where the immediate action took place.
Philip sighed at the inflow of people, at the sound of returning ambulances. Half of these people would fill out the forms incorrectly, some out of ignorance, some intentionally. The directors would bitch and complain, and the shit would roll downhill. Sometimes Philip thought of his deceased father, and wondered if being a trash man had really been all that bad.
A patient was escorted into a private cubicle with its wrap-around curtain, and the nurse commented that Doctor Seymour would be with him shortly. Philip sighed again, adding a curse under his breath for good measure, as he perused the chart. Blow to the head, lacerated scalp, nurse added a note giving her opinion that some x-rays might be called for. Like she knew what the hell she was talking about — he, after all, was the one with the "Dr." in front of his name.
"Okay, Mr. Wright," he said as he stepped through the curtain, offering only the faintest effort at a smile, "let’s see what we have here—"
"It hurts!" the idiot cried, holding his hand to the cut. Someone had already made a respectable attempt to clean the wound and staunch its blood flow, but the man seemed determined to get it going again.
"I understand it hurts, Mr. Wright," Philip said, mentally adding you whiny shitbag. "Let me take a look at that."
"I need stitches and I have a concussion," the man proclaimed as he withdrew his hand and blood-soaked cloth.
"A strictly medical opinion, I’m sure," Philip grumbled.
"It’s my head," the man spat. "I know my own body, Mister High-And-Mighty M.D., so don’t talk down to me again or I’ll sue you and this whole damn—"
Philip had already been reaching for the man’s head before the onslaught. Biting back his anger to the minimum degree that his profession regrettably demanded, he seized the man’s scalp as forcefully as he could later justify if the man actually tried legal action.
He wanted to cause the man discomfort, that much was certain. But the end result stunned him as much as it did his patient.
As soon as Philip’s hand made contact with the man’s forehead, a connection formed that went beyond the mere flesh-to-flesh. It was as if some part, some new part, of Philip reached into the man’s soul and seized it fiercely. Mr. Wright’s breath caught short, his threats drying up like leaves in a drought, and his eyes bulged out. The connection held for a moment, then it began to flow back into Philip ... and it brought part of Mr. Wright with it.
Philip experienced a rush of energy, of potency, that was nearly orgasmic in its intensity. In proportionate riposte, Mr. Wright sagged out of his hands, falling back against the thinly cushioned bed as though he had just finished a maratho
n — indeed, his heart raced and he panted like a sprinter against the tape.
"Wha— wh— wha ..." was all the crass man had to offer.
Paranormals (Book 1) Page 3