“I don’t see how some New Age foolishness can help.”
“You don’t risk anything by trying.”
I swallow my pride, which is no easy matter. It feels like a grapefruit going down my throat. “I guess not.”
“Good.” James removes his shoes, sits on a padded mat and crosses his legs yogi-style. “Take off your shoes and sit there.” He points at the mat in front of his.
Cursing inwardly, I do as I’m told. James’s eyes lock on mine, serious, way too serious. I feel ridiculous and terrified.
“All right, before we begin, tell me something, Marci. What works for you? What helps keep the fog away?”
“Um …” The question makes me squirm. I should feel comfortable talking about it with James, but, for so many years, it has been the most private and terrifying secret I’ve kept. Spilling it all out now doesn’t come easy. “I … uh …” I sound like an idiot.
“It’s okay. You can tell me.” James’s voice is gentle, almost dreamy.
“I keep my thoughts fluid,” I say in a quick stream of words.
“Thought-jumping. That’s what we call it,” he says, nodding. “Okay, what else do you do?”
Thought-jumping? Good name, I suppose. “Um, I don’t know. Martial arts, I guess. Punching, kicking, they’re a release. They relax me.”
“Good. Anything else?” James asks.
I shake my head and shrug. “That ring trick you showed me worked. I didn’t care much for it, but it worked when nothing else would. So pain too, I guess.”
“Thought-jumping is common among everyone here. Pain isn’t as widely used, but fairly so. Focus on physical abilities, like martial arts, is another. All Symbiots use one of these or a combination of them,” he explains.
“Symbiots?”
“Yeah, that’s what we like to call ourselves. Although, I have a feeling you won’t like that name. In any case, it’s what we are. The agent gets a place to live in. And we’ve learned to reap the benefits.”
I roll my eyes. Whatever. I don’t buy that I’m smarter and more agile because of this parasite. I don’t care what James says.
He chuckles. “As I said before, you’ll change your mind soon enough.”
I hate his amused expression. I don’t see how something like that can make him happy in the least. “O-key doke. If you say so.”
“So tell me, thought-jumping, how do you do it?” James asks.
“Huh?”
“How do you keep your—what did you call it?—oh yeah, how do you keep your thoughts fluid?”
“Um, I just do.”
“Give me an example,” he says.
“Well …” It’s hard putting it into words.
“When Aydan hacked into your computer, that must have been a pretty stressful time for you. Maybe shadowing became a threat. How did you keep it at bay?”
“Shadowing?”
“I forget you’re not used to our terms. We like to give everything a name.”
“No kidding.”
“It makes talking about it easier, if we all give things the same name. Anyway, shadowing is what we call that moment when you sense the darkness coming over your mind, ready to steal your thoughts. The moment when you feel you might lose yourself. It’s like a shroud descending over you.” James’s voice is low and ominous, like that of a child trying to describe the boogeyman.
“Oh,” I say in a quick breath of realization. The description is somehow perfect. I clear my throat, try to answer his question in hopes of dispelling the gloomy atmosphere. “All right, so I guess the best way to describe how I deal with the shadowing is to say that I … weave random thoughts with my normal ones. I’ve found it works best when I think about off-the-wall stuff. Like old memories, song titles, favorite foods, odd words, street signs, cartoon characters, anything.”
“Good,” he says. “Notice anything interesting about that?”
“Sure,” I say. “It’s nuts. Not trying to be sarcastic or anything. I really believe it’s completely messed up. I used to think I was crazy,” I admit.
“We all did at some point,” he says in a matter-of-fact tone, before continuing. “What’s interesting about thought-jumping is what happens in your brain when you do it. Memory storage is complex. There’s been research showing the hippocampus and prefrontal cortex are involved, as well as other parts of the brain. No one really understands the whole process.”
I wonder where this is going and how long it will take because it already feels like a million ants are crawling on my butt. Yogi-style isn’t the most comfortable position. I shift, trying to relieve the numbness.
James inclines his head. “Do you follow?”
“Sure.”
He narrows his eyes, looking skeptical.
“Keep going,” I say. The sooner we finish this, the sooner I can stretch my legs.
“When you think of your favorite cartoon character …”
Wile E. Coyote.
“… You’re essentially recalling an image that has been imprinted in your memory. Same with song titles, street signs, etcetera. Those memories are strewn about, tucked away in different corners of your brain. Thought-jumping forces you to exercise different brain cells. If we were to do an MRI while someone is doing it, we would see different areas of the brain come to life. Does that make sense?”
“One hundred percent,” I say. “So how does that prevent the agent from taking over?” And how does meditation, which is supposed to leave my brain as empty as my bank account, work better than thought-jumping? Besides, I can hardly drop into yogi pose in the middle of a stressful situation, which is when the shadowing kicks into full gear.
“Our best guess is that agents need a train of thought to latch on to, A to B to C and so forth. Due to the nature of these connected thoughts, they can predict what will come next. They would know that D will follow C, and E will follow D.”
Um, I know the freakin’ alphabet, James.
“When a person is first infected, no matter by which method, the agent—”
My ears perk up. “You mentioned a different method of infection before, what is it?” The idea of finding out still makes me queasy, but I need to know. I have to resolve the question of how I came to be possessed by another life form. Right now, my best guess is Mrs. Contreras, but I should know all the possibilities in case I’m wrong. If it turns out to be that soap-toting woman, though, I’ll make sure she never infects anyone again.
“We’ll go over those another time.”
“But—”
“We don’t have time today. Let’s see, what was I saying? Oh yeah, when somebody is first infected, they don’t realize it. Eklyptors make sure of that by drugging their victims, as you well saw in the party. After a few days, the host may notice its effects, but by then—for ninety-nine point nine percent of the population—it is too late. The agent has already figured out the host’s thought pattern, and it’s ready to take over. Then one morning, the poor bastard wakes up, punches the alarm clock, brushes his teeth, takes a shower and by the time he’s eating breakfast he’s been shadowed. What is worse, from our own experiences we know the host is aware of it.”
James twists his neck from side to side, visibly angry. He takes a deep breath and his eyelids flutter for an instant. Then he continues. “Thought-jumping breaks the pattern the agent expects. It makes it difficult for it to guess what your next thought will be; in other words, it makes it difficult for them to supplant you. After each attempt, you probably notice a fairly quiet period. It’s possible the agent gets tired or maybe it’s just biding its time for when your guard is down. We don’t know.”
For all I know, there are holes in James’s theories, but they ring of truth and I find myself nodding.
James rests his hands on his knees. “This finally brings us back to meditation and how you can use it to control your agent.”
“You really mean that? I’ll be able to control it?” It seems impossible.
“Yes, Mar
ci.” Then he adds with contempt, “I’ll teach you to control the bastard. It’s a promise.”
Chapter 25
The gym pod is cool and quiet. James gets comfortable on the exercise mat.
“Let’s give it a try and then I can explain. It may be easier for you to understand what I mean after you’ve done it. I warn you though, it won’t be easy. You need to be strong. You’ll come under attack.”
No kidding.
Funny guy.
My eye twitches.
James squints at me. “I’d understand if you don’t think you can do it.”
I want him to believe I’m strong. Hell, I need to believe I’m strong. “I can do it,” I say.
“Okay, put your hands on your legs,” James instructs. “Good, now let your shoulders relax. Take a deep breath.”
I fill my lungs, slowly. One, two, three times until I feel an unnerving calm falling over me. My eyes spring open. James’s eyes are patient. I try again.
“Your arms are tense, Marci.”
I realize my fingers are curved, fingernails biting into my knees through the holes in my jeans. With difficulty, I let my arms wilt, till my hands slide limply to my thighs.
“Better.” James’s voice is calm, soothing and encouraging. “Now think only about your breathing. Inhale. Visualize the way your lungs fill with oxygen.”
I feel the air traveling from my nostrils, through my windpipe and into my lungs. They expand, pushing my ribs outward. I hold my breath for a couple of beats, imagine little oxygen particles traveling to my heart and exploding into my bloodstream to find homes in inaccessible corners of my body.
“Excellent. Now picture the way your lungs expel carbon dioxide as you exhale.”
My eyelids flutter with an intense feeling of relaxation and wellbeing. I let my lungs contract, squeezing out the spent air. My shoulders fall an inch or two, as my chest empties. Goose bumps roll down my back and sides. I feel like I could fly. Maybe I can do this.
“Good job. Keep breathing the same way.”
James lets me breathe for a few minutes. My imagination runs wild, picturing friendly oxygen particles floating in and winged CO2 flying out, ready to find homes in the depths of some faerie-haunted forest.
“Keep breathing, but now when a thought enters your mind, acknowledge it, then dismiss it.”
Immediately, my body turns into a taut bundle of nerves. This is where things went south last time. I wait for James to snap at me. Instead, his voice grows softer, sweet even.
“It’s okay,” he soothes. “Get your rhythm back and try it. Don’t be afraid. I’m right here. I won’t let it hurt you.”
Yeah, right! What is he going to do to stop it? Perform a lobotomy?
I try again until I’m flying once more. Then, when my heart steadies, I bravely go for it.
I hope I don’t end up …
A cup of coffee would …
A shadow rises like a dark ghost in a dusty corner of my brain. My breathing changes. James’s voice pierces through the thickening veil of panic that’s beginning to envelop me.
“Relax. Re-lax.”
Quiet inhale.
You won’t break me, I’ll …
Exhale.
The reason you …
More air.
I’m not …
Suddenly, a dark swarm of hungry locusts seizes my mind. Every single one of my neurons shrieks like terrified sheep pierced by hungry wolves’ teeth. Off in the distance, I sense a flailing body, tingling skin. I think it’s me. Shock and survival instincts jumpstart me into my usual defense mechanism. Thought-jumping.
Bugs Bunny.
Hazy smoke multiplies inside my mind, spreading, obscuring everything it touches. I feel as if a belt of heavy fabric has been strapped around my head, covering my eyes and ears.
No! No! Purple laven …
The shadows take solid shapes. They’re strong. I sense their mocking, satisfied pleasure and, for the first time, I hear their thoughts.
– Fighting is futile.
Tart jelly bea …
– Hush, weakling.
Xa …
– You are ours.
I’m screaming, writhing and kicking. My breaths are shallow, quick, painful. What should have been a scream leaves my throat in a hoarse moan. There’s a coppery taste in my mouth. The right side of my face feels wet. My body’s compressed by a three-ton rhinoceros, my mouth blocked by something hard.
“You’re okay. You’re okay,” a voice says. “Shhhh.” The gentle air stream of a shushing sound brushes my ear. “Don’t cry. You’re safe.”
A warm hand rests on my forehead. My stiff limbs release, turning into limp wastelands. Slowly, I curl my body, caving in, wrapping weak arms around worthless legs.
When I realize I’m keening, I try to stop, but it goes on for a few minutes before I manage. Meanwhile, the tender words continue, the reassuring touch grounds me, makes me feel a bit safe. No one’s ever talked to me with such tenderness. No one except Dad. It’s been so long, so long, so long ago. I had forgotten.
Tears tiptoe past my lashes in silence, sliding from my left eye onto my right eye, and from there past my temple and into my ear. I feel so lonely, so unloved. I never knew I craved this warmth. I never knew I needed it.
“You’re all right, sweetie.” A female voice. Kristen’s. “You’re safe. Do you think you can stand?”
I swallow. It sounds like a frog got stuck in my throat.
“Here,” she says, removing the obstruction from my mouth. She hands it to someone else. It’s a brown leather wallet. James’s.
They hoist me to my feet and deposit me on a workout bench. There are two other people nearby. White spots dance across my eyes. I blink, try to clear my vision. Kristen’s face comes into focus. She’s kneeling next to me, holding my hand, searching my gaze with concern. James stands to my left, a deep scowl on his face. Rheema stands next to Aydan who holds a red cup with a straw.
“Would you like some water?” Kristen asks.
I nod. The taste of metal is on my tongue. I want to get rid of it. Suddenly, I realize my lower lip is throbbing. I must have bitten it before they stuffed the wallet in my mouth.
Aydan hands Kristen the cup. She holds it in my direction, steadying the straw as I lean into it. The water is ice-cold. It feels good on my lip. I sip and every time I stop the metallic taste returns. My lip’s still bleeding. It feels like I bit right through it.
“I’m sorry.” I hang my head and stare at the rubber mat.
“Don’t be silly,” Kristen says, as she hands the cup back to Aydan. “We all went through the same thing. What you’re trying to do isn’t easy. You were very brave.” She gives me a small, sincere smile.
“Rheema, would you mind finding something for Marci to eat?” Kristen says.
“No problem.” The oil stains on her coveralls jump up and down as Rheema jogs away.
“I don’t want anything to eat,” I say. My stomach feels like it’s the size of a pea. If I try to eat, I’ll throw up.
“You’ll feel much better if you do,” James says. “Trust me.”
I’m too tired to protest.
A moment later, Rheema comes back with a little basket. Inside, there’s a banana, an apple, a few cheese sticks, and several chocolate bars.
“I didn’t know what you liked, so I brought a bit of everything,” Rheema says with a friendly smile. “I also brought an ice pack for your lip and this rag to clean the blood.” She hands the rag and ice pack to Kristen, then holds out the basket and urges me to grab something.
I settle for a small chocolate bar. Rheema takes it out, unwraps it and feeds me a bite. I feel like a baby. As I chew at sloth speed, Kristen cleans my face. The rag comes away bloody. She folds it in half and dabs once more. She keeps folding and repeating the process until it comes away clean.
“Hold this to your mouth.” Kristen’s green eyes shine under a worried scowl. She presses the ice pack into my hand. As t
he icy surface touches my skin, I flinch.
Rheema feeds me the chocolate until it’s all gone. As soon as a bit of my energy returns, everyone’s concerned gaze registers, turning my stomach into a pit of embarrassment.
A tangy sweetness lingers in my mouth. “What kind of chocolate is that? It’s good,” I say, trying to drive attention away from me.
“Oh,” Rheema says as she looks inside the basket and pushes the banana out of the way. “It’s Belgian. My favorite. It has a hint of orange in it. Here’s another one.” She hands me a perfect, thin square wrapped in fancy silver paper, stamped with a simple logo and no words at all. I peel it, pop it in my mouth and decide the luscious, rich taste is almost worth the embarrassment.
“Wow,” I say after a forced laugh, “I think that could cure just about anything.”
Kristen and Rheema smile. Aydan stares with his trademark scowl.
James pats me on the back. “The first time is always hard. You were brave and proved your strength.”
“Um, I guess I should be going.” I wobble to my feet.
“Not smart. You shouldn’t get on that bike till you rest for a while,” Aydan says, sounding like someone’s father.
I take a deep breath ready to argue, but Kristen cuts in.
“This isn’t an easy trick to learn, Marci. We all struggled with it and found it is best to rest afterward,” she explains in an understanding tone.
I look at her perfect red hair with her perfect high-end haircut, avoiding eye contact to conceal my displeasure. I don’t need her to tell me it’s okay to flail on the floor like a dying fish. It’s not. I’ve been able to keep this from happening since I was nine, since the day my mother filled the last prescription for a pill I pretended to swallow, since I stopped carrying an extra pair of underwear and pants everywhere I went. I’m not going through that again. Never.
“Meditation kicked all our butts,” Rheema says.
Ignite the Shadows Page 15