by Karen Hayes
It's Emma. She's in a bad way. She can barely stand on her feet, staggering with her head drooping.
Sam rushes to support her. "You all right, baby? What's up?"
"Hey, what's going on?" Sarah demands.
Emma tilts her head up. Her eyes roll back in her head. "He's here," she mutters. "He..." she heaves a sobbing sigh, "He has a bomb."
"You mean there's someone here about to detonate a bomb?" I ask her.
She lowers her eyes but her gaze still wanders, unfocused. Her droopy face makes her resemble a rag doll. "A man with a bomb," she manages. "Here."
I slid my hand inside my jacket, feeling for the emergency button, then press it hard until the plastic protests. "Attention everyone," I say. "According to Emma, we have a suicide bomber on the square."
My earpiece explodes with voices.
"Eh?"
"What did you say?"
"Where is he?"
"QUIET!" Coleman's voice thunders. "Emma - confirm!"
"Affirmative," she utters weakly.
"You know where he is? Who is it?"
"I only noticed a flashing image in the crowd... Very bright... It feels sick. He's ready... he's about to blow himself up," she clutches at Sam's sleeve, staggering.
"Are you sure?" Trace butts in. "Can it be some psycho high on drugs?"
"No. He means it. We've got a suicide bomber in the crowd."
We look frantically around us. McAllister and his group stop within the police corridor; Coleman whispers something to McAllister who frowns and swings round, then starts back on the double.
The crowd hums its disappointment. The first whistles and catcalls rise in the air.
Sarah nods in the direction of the commotion, "The terrorist can see it too. Do you think he knows he's been foiled?"
"Where are you?" with Sam supporting her, Emma begins to turn around like a satellite dish. "Where are you?" she whispers. "Show me. Show me where you are."
Suddenly she throws her hand up, pointing, "There!"
She must be using her abilities to focus our attention on the man in the crowd. He stands out clearly as if highlighted: his short military-style tunic, black pants and high boots. He's not very tall but the seething crowd seems to flow around him without coming into contact with him. He's like a dark cliff looming over a sea of human lives.
He seems to be sensing something too. He turns his head, looking in one direction, then the other... until he finally sees us.
He stares at us. We stare back. Trace's voice in the earpiece keeps snapping orders, interrupted by Job and others we don't know. The terrorist's mouth opens: he seems to be shouting something at us but we can't hear the words in the commotion.
He flashes his coat open, showing us what's inside. I can make out cylindrical objects connected by wires and a flashing red light. What's that, a countdown? I strain my eyes to see.
"Fifty seconds till impact," Emma utters.
The terrorist swings round and hurries after McAllister surrounded by bodyguards. Emma's legs give way under her.
Sam seats her on the jardinière. "What do we do?" he keeps repeating. "All these people..."
"Greene!" Sarah interrupts him, pressing the earpiece with her hand. "Set the stage on fire! NOW!"
"Belay that!" Trace's voice snaps in my ear but I already know what she wants to do. As we hurry after the terrorist, I repeat out loud, "Greene, you need to set the north side of the stage on fire! Do it now! Yes, I know they'll panic! But at least they'll clear the epicenter!"
"No problem!" Greene exclaims.
The stage explodes into flames just as we're trying to catch up with the terrorist. I glimpse a roaring pillar of fire to our left - probably a loudspeaker.
People start screaming, trying to scramble to safety. I grab Sarah's shoulders but the crowd forces us apart. We run against its flow, elbowing our way through. Sam hurries after me.
The fire is roaring. People scream, trying to get away from the stage.
The terrorist is struggling through the crowd in front of us. He trips up and stumbles to the ground, then hurries to scramble back to his feet. Sarah has almost caught up with him.
He swings round and flashes us again, revealing the deadly contents of his coat.
"Don't move!" a voice thunders over the screams of the crowd.
The sound of this voice makes my hair stand on end. My eyes water. My legs give way under me.
I know this voice.
This is my carrier taking control.
Sarah
"Don't move!" I order the terrorist.
The air thickens. My words lash out at the guy's mind. He's a strong bastard. The guy I managed to control by the car was strong too but only on the surface, a bit like the crust of old dough. The suicide bomber's mind is hard and unyielding inside, through and through.
I need to stay close. The moment the distance between us increases, I'll lose control of him.
"Don't move," I repeat.
He freezes, half-turning toward me. Screaming people keep pushing us out of their way, the fire is roaring, a child is screaming her head off somewhere.
I barely notice any of it. I seem to be standing at one end of a long, round glass corridor with him at its other end while the world is rushing past, eerie and distorted.
Wretched demons! You serve the Devil, all of you. You're his minions amongst mankind. Black hearts, black souls. I'm gonna kill you all! I'm gonna free the world from your seed once and for all!
It takes me a moment to understand he's talking to me. He struggles to move his lips, overcoming my control. He even attempts to move, staggering and shuffling his feet toward the departing McAllister.
Breaking his will is no small feat. I almost lose him.
I lay my hand on his shoulder. Direct physical contact should amplify my influence.
He bends under its weight. He still mumbles something, trying to resist but can't. What am I supposed to do now? How much time till the bomb goes off - fifteen seconds, twenty? I need to take him somewhere secluded like a shop entrance or a lobby. This way we just might minimize the number of casualties.
"Turn around," I command, sinking my fingers into his back. "Now go. Go forward!"
"No!" Chris shouts behind me. "Not enough time! Take him to the van!"
"To the van?" I mumble.
"The van we came in! It's just round the corner! Trace just told me it's armored. That's the only place you can get him to in time!"
I glimpse a human figure rushing past the crystal corridor that envelops me. That's not Chris: that's Sam. He darts for the van which looms into view like a sliver of black soap.
Chris is right behind me now. I can feel his hand on my waist, supporting me as I grip the terrorist by the shoulder. We walk toward the car like a file of blind men: the explosives-stuffed psycho, me and my guardian.
Why did I have to tell him we didn't belong together? Because we do. It can't be any other way. Chris' power nurtures me. Without him, I would have already dropped dead. Controlling a suicide bomber is no joke: the moment my concentration slackens, he might break himself free and run off into the thick of the crowd.
I can feel it. I can see the world through his eyes. He hates duals. He's absolutely sure he's about to cleanse the planet of some untold abomination, the spawn of hell. He's quite prepared to sacrifice his own life for this purpose. To him, McAllister is just one of our human assistants who help us to usher in Satan.
What a freak.
I take another step toward the van. Then another. It's now right in front of us. Sam is the only one around, holding the door open for us and ready to slide it shut.
How long till the explosion? Not long. A few seconds, if that.
"Go," I tell Chris without turning my head, straining not to sever the thin, taut thread that connects me to the terrorist. "Go now. Run!"
Nope. Didn't work, just like it hadn't the last time. I can't control my own guardian. I can't make him do anything.
/> At least I can control the terrorist. "Get in," I tell him.
He struggles to shake off my power one last time, then obediently climbs in.
"Three seconds!" Sam shouts, glimpsing the display panel under the terrorist's open coat.
He leans all his weight against the door, sliding it shut. Chris' strong hands lift me in the air, turning me away from the van. The thin thread of contact breaks.
"No!" I scream. "Not yet! He can escape!"
A bright sun roars to life inside the van. I can see its raging light through a crack in the closing door.
Chris forces me to the ground and drops on top of me. The blast wave envelops us in its dark, silent shroud.
Just as dark and silent as the previous one, years before it.
Chapter Ten
Sarah
I WAS EIGHT years old when it happened.
My parents and I were driving along some God-forsaken Alaskan highway. I was crazy about geography in those days, begging my father to let me see the snow and the twin peaks of Mount McKinley I must have seen in some travel magazine. Or it could have been his idea, even. I can't really remember.
So one day we went on vacation in his black SUV. I loved its comfortable back seats, big enough for me to sleep on. It wasn't the first time. We'd often traveled rough: my parents didn't like staying in one place.
I remember endless roads cutting through wide open spaces; days and nights which carried us away from home along the Alaska Highway, all the way through parts of Canada until we came to even bigger spaces and narrower roads. I remember identical roadside motels; at every stop, the weather was getting colder. I remember Dad's fast, confident driving and my mother's calm, reserved style when she replaced him. He'd have a quick nap in the passenger seat which he'd move all the way back so he could stretch his long legs on the dashboard.
I'll never forget that day. I was bored out of my mind. I fidgeted in my seat, staring out the window at the snowbanks lining the road. The snow sparkling in our headlights had a faint lilacky tint like a wash on a watercolor. An ice-coated hill slope rose to one side of the road. The other was lined by a long, endless wire fence behind which lay another wide open space.
We'd passed the last town hours ago; now we seemed to be the only car on the road.
Finally, the road started a long downward slope, revealing all its bends. It was snaking in front of us for miles on end until it disappeared far ahead, swallowed up by the distant mountains.
Everything happened too quickly. The SUV skidded across the road. I blinked; Mom shrieked just once. I remember the heartrending screech of the brakes. I went flying through the air, seatbelt and all.
The engine died. The ringing in my ears stopped. I struggled out of the seatbelt and lowered my feet. The car roof was now below me. The seats hovered overhead.
My parents hung in their seatbelts like paratroopers caught in their chute straps. Mom didn't move. Father kept shuddering
"Dad!" I screamed, smearing snot all over my face.
Dad's throat made a gargling sound. He convulsed.
Something about him fascinated me. I promptly shut up. Tears rose in my chest, choking me and smothering whatever words I might have had. For another year I wouldn't say a word despite every effort of the speech therapists.
All of a sudden I was very cold. I wanted to disappear. I wanted to wake up in my bed.
For the first hour, Dad continued to groan. Every several minutes he emitted a long, stifled moan, then drifted away again. I cowered under the seat's back in the car's farthest corner, listening to the sound in some sort of numb stupor. I just couldn't bring myself to touch his mangled leg which glistened crimson. His hair clung to his pasty, puffy-lipped face.
This wasn't my Dad. This was somebody else, ugly and broken into pieces.
Still, I couldn't bring myself to climb out of the car. I just sat there and listened as his life ebbed away.
Groaning. Silence. Groaning. Silence. Groaning.
Silence.
I was alone.
The road was deserted for miles. No big towns in the area. Traffic was almost non-existent here. There was nothing around but snow, awesome and uncaring. Silence was absolute.
After some time, I forced myself to move. I managed to scramble out through the broken side window. I ambled aimlessly around the wrecked upended car, feeling the tears freeze to my skin.
When my feet had become numb with cold, I climbed back into the car's relative warmth. At least it wasn't so windy inside. Miraculously, only one window had broken; the others were badly cracked but still in one piece.
Several more hours later, I got hungry. All I found was some empty wrappers from the sandwiches we'd bought at the last gas stop. Trying not to touch the bodies, I climbed into the front of the car and began searching there until I was completely covered in blood. The only thing I unearthed was a pack of gum left in the glove compartment. It was frozen and brittle in my mouth.
I kept munching on it trying to quench the hunger as well as fear. I tried not to look at the windscreen - or rather, at the bodies between me and it.
Frost flowers gradually covered the window next to me. I kept breathing on it, thawing out a small round patch at the center.
I still remember every second of the next sunrise. Pastel yellow, it escaped the low clouds and mingled with the misty purple of the mountain. My last sunrise seemed to last forever. I was sleepy. I couldn't keep my eyes open. The cold held me fast in its clutches.
I fell through some crack in reality.
This place was different. A short boyish figure stood by the window next to me. I could clearly see the cartoon character pattern on the blue curtains.
The boy was sad. He seemed to feel what I was feeling.
I was so consumed by what I saw that I barely heard a truck screech to a halt next to our ravaged car. The driver shouted into his radio. I wasn't listening. I was somewhere else. The only thing connecting me to Alaska was blood. Blood everywhere: on the upholstery, on the car windows, blood on my face and hands, blood in the air.
Ten years later, blood envelops me again like a shiny red glove of patented leather.
I'm sitting next to Chris.
'It's all right," someone tells me. "His injuries aren't life-threatening."
Still, I'm shaking. I can't help it.
I watch as they load Chris into a black company van.
They insert needles under his skin. He's hung with IV drips.
His face behind the oxygen mask turns pale.
If it's all right as they say, why can't I feel him? Before, I could always tune into his mood. I could tell whether he was happy or sad, angry or cheerful. Now I feel empty: gutted.
I clench his weak fingers in my hand. I can't cry. I just can't.
He shielded me with his body, saving me from the scorching blast wave. It would have been worse had it not been for Greene who'd redirected the flames in the opposite direction. We were knocked out and showered with steel debris from the mangled van. One of the pieces hit Chris on the head.
I didn't see it. That's what they're telling me now. I believe them.
When I climbed out from under him, his face was covered in blood. He looked so much like Dad. I instantly felt like I was back in Alaska, stuck in our steel coffin.
The company van speeds us away, its siren wailing. Other cars pull out of our way. I'm short of breath in the claustrophobic confines of the van. Chris is lying on the floor between the seats, strapped to a stretcher. His head is bobbing at the car's every turn. His moist hair sticks together like little needles. His eyes are shut. Blood is caked on his eyelashes. He's dead to the world.
Chris, where are you? Let me in! What can you see?
I sense a flash, a vague touch that seems to alight on my shoulder. Then it's gone again. The van screeches to a halt. Someone swings the back door open, letting in a gale of cold air. They roll the stretcher out.
I hurry after him - then freeze.
We're back in Hermetis. This is their underground parking. WTF? Chris is wounded! Where's the hospital?
"What's this?" I yell over the sirens echoing between the stanchions. "We need to take him to hospital!"
"This is the hospital," a man replies, holding an IV bag in his hands. "Mr. Vector told us to take him to the company clinic."
A company clinic? What, to keep his death under wraps?
I lock the man's eye with mine and invest all my powers into the order, "Take us to hospital. Now."
He stares at me for a moment, then turns round and hurries after the stretcher toward the elevators.
What the hell? Why didn't it work? Does that mean I need Chris in order for my ability to function?
I hurry after them and dive into the elevator just as the doors begin to close. We go upstairs - twenty, thirty floors up. Finally, the doors open. I step backwards into a sterile white corridor, letting out the medical group with the stretcher.
Again I hurry along, chasing after the stretcher like a goofy dog after a cyclist. Finally they enter the operating theater and slam the doors in my face.
I rise on tiptoe and peer through the little window. They roll Chris along the corridor, then disappear round the corner.
They've taken him away from me.
I press my forehead to the cold glass. I know they don't need me but I can't just stand here. I must do something. Anything at all.
"You okay?" a deep voice asks behind my back.
I startle and turn round. It takes me some time to realize I’m staring up at Heaven's chiseled face.
Finally, her question sinks in. I nod.
Heaven doesn't say anything. She knows better than to ask questions. She probably knows all the details, anyway. She is about to leave me alone when I swallow the lump in my throat and finally speak,
"Is it true that Greene helped us? If it hadn't been for him, apparently we'd have had it much worse."
"You would," she replies.
"Thanks. I didn't know he could do those things. I thought he could only start fires."
"Oh, yes. He can localize and redirect them as well. It's hard on him though. You should see him now. He's flat out in bed, groaning and complaining."