by Dima Zales
He stands a few feet to the right of the car and points at something in the air. When I take a closer look, my heartbeat spikes. It’s a bullet. A bullet frozen in its path. A bullet that just missed the car. The sibling of the one that must have shattered that mirror.
“Someone’s shooting at us,” I say stupidly.
Eugene mumbles something incomprehensible in response.
Coming out of our shock, we frantically search the cars behind us. It doesn’t take long to find the source of the bullets. Not surprisingly, it’s our new friends.
How did they manage to get this close? How could I be so stupid—why hadn’t I phased into the Quiet to check on them for so long? Why was I so convinced we’d lost them?
“Eugene, we need to get to wherever it is we’re going. And we need to do it fast,” I say.
“It’s very close. If we turn now, we’ll almost be there. Just a few more blocks.”
“It might as well be miles if they shoot us.”
I’ve never been shot at before, and I hate the feeling. I’m not ready to get shot. I haven’t seen enough, done enough. I have my whole life ahead of me—plus all that extra time in the Quiet.
“Darren, snap out of it.” I hear Eugene’s voice. “Let’s see if we can make this left turn.”
Assessing the situation, we quickly realize that our chances of making this turn unscathed are very small. A Jaguar is coming toward us on the opposite side, driving at thirty-five miles per hour—and we’ll likely crash into it if we take a sharp left turn. Still, we don’t overthink it. A car crash with a seatbelt and an airbag beats getting shot. I think.
I walk to the car, take a calming breath, and phase out. As I’m pulling the wheel all the way to the left, I try my best not to phase into the Quiet out of fear.
With a loud screeching noise, my side of the car touches the Jaguar’s bumper. The impact knocks the wind out of me, but the seatbelt holds me, and the airbag doesn’t activate. Happy to have made it this far, I slam the gas pedal harder. The car makes all sorts of unhappy sounds, but at least we made it through that deadly looking turn relatively unscathed.
When we’re midway through the block, I phase in and get Eugene to join me.
We look at our handiwork back at the beginning of the street. As a result of our crazy turn, the Jaguar hit the Camry in front of it. Its bumper is gone, and the once-beautiful car is pretty much totaled. I think the guy inside will have to be hospitalized—which I feel terrible about. Furthermore, the entire intersection is jammed with cars. Unless they plan to go through them, our trigger-happy friends can’t pass.
Still, Eugene walks over to Read Sergey’s mind, just in case.
“Darren, I’m such a fucking idiot,” he says, slapping his hand to his forehead.
“What is it?”
“They know where we’re going. Their boss texted them the address. That’s how they caught up with us. I should’ve realized that if they’re working with a Pusher, he or she would know the location of the Readers’ community. That they would know we’re likely to head that way.”
“It’s too late to blame yourself now,” I tell him. “Let’s just get there.”
“I’m not sure we’ll make it. Sergey plans to ram this car.” He points at the tiny Smart Car that happens to be the smallest of those involved in the jam, and I realize that we have a problem. Our pursuers can go through the blocked intersection after all.
“We already have a little bit of a head start,” I say, trying to summon optimism I don’t feel. “We’ll just have to make it.”
“Okay,” Eugene says. “From here, we can actually walk to our destination on foot before we get back into the real world. This way, you’ll know the exact way there.”
We take the walk. I realize we’ll make it when we see the wall of the gated community that is our destination. Whether Sergey rams that car successfully or not, we can do this.
We’re a mere three blocks from where we need to be.
When we get back to the car, I phase back out.
I push the little rental to its limits. I’m going eighty, the tires screeching as I make the next turn. I hear the loud bang behind us and know that Sergey followed through with his plan; the Smart Car is probably toast by now.
It’s too late for our pursuers, though. We’ve reached the gate that separates us from our destination. I stop the car in the middle of the street and am about to phase into the Quiet when I’m pulled in instead by someone else.
“Eugene, you beat me to it,” I say when everything goes still. Only when I look to my right, I don’t see Eugene.
I see someone else—someone I’ve never met before.
18
The guy is holding a huge military knife. Threateningly. I don’t know what to make of it, since we’re in the Quiet. I’m not sure what will happen to me if he uses the knife on me. Not that I care to find out. He doesn’t look like someone who makes idle threats. I make a mental note to find out the risk of death in the Quiet. I know injuries don’t stick. And yes, I cut myself to find out. Wouldn’t anyone? My shrink thought it was ‘interesting’ that I cut myself in my delusional world—I recall her talking some nonsense about the physical pain helping me deal with some fictitious emotional one.
“I’ve seen that one before,” the guy says, pointing the knife at frozen Eugene. “But who the fuck are you?”
I gape at him. I don’t know what to make of his muscular build, short haircut, and military clothing. Is he some kind of Reader security guard?
“I’m only going to ask one more time,” he says, and I realize I didn’t respond to his question.
“My name is Darren,” I say quickly. “I guess I’m a Reader.”
“You guess?”
“Well, it’s new information to me, so I’m not used to announcing it. Eugene and Mira are the first Readers I’ve ever met.”
The guy’s eyebrows lift, and he unexpectedly chuckles. “I’ve got news for you. If what you say is true, then today—right now—is the first time you’ve met a real Reader. Few of the people inside consider the Tsiolkovsky orphans that.”
“You sound like you consider them Readers, though,” I say on a hunch.
“No one gives a rat’s ass what I think; I’m just a soldier. But I say if you can spend more than a second in the Mind Dimension and can Read a single thought, you’re a Reader. I’m a simple person with simple definitions, I guess. Who cares how you got to be that way?”
“That makes sense,” I say. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“You didn’t catch it because I didn’t give it,” the guy says, all traces of amusement gone. “It’s Caleb. And knowing my name isn’t going to help you, unless you have an explanation for what you and Eugene are doing here. This is private property.”
“His sister Mira was just kidnapped. Eugene barely escaped getting killed. There are men coming after us as we speak,” I try to explain. “Or at least they’ll be here once we leave the Mind Dimension.”
“How many?” he asks, coming to attention. The bit about Mira seems to have made an impression.
“There are five of them. They’re driving a Mercedes; they could be here any second.”
“What else should I know about them?” Caleb asks, his hand tightening on the knife.
“They’re some kind of a Russian gang or something. Sergey, two Borises—”
“I don’t give a shit what their names are,” Caleb interrupts me. “If they’re armed and heading this way, we won’t be bonding on that level.”
“Okay,” I say. I have a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach.
“Stay here and don’t move. Sam and I have sniper rifles pointed at your heads. If you so much as sneeze, we’ll blow your brains out.”
I don’t have a clue who Sam is, but it doesn’t look like Caleb’s interested in answering questions right now. As I’m trying to come to grips with his threat, he leaves the car, and in a minute I’m forcefully phased out of the Quie
t.
“Eugene, don’t move,” I say hurriedly. There’s a red laser dot on his chest, as though someone has a gun pointed at him—which is apparently the case.
“Why?” he asks, confused.
I phase back into the Quiet instead of answering. I’m afraid of even talking while someone is pointing a sniper rifle at me. What if Caleb thinks my lips moving qualifies as movement and shoots? When I find myself in the backseat again with the world silent, I pull Eugene in.
“I just spoke to some scary-looking dude who’s guarding this place. He pulled me in,” I explain.
“Did whoever it was say they’ll help?”
“Not exactly. He said not to move and that they have guns pointed at us.” I swallow. “I saw a laser pointer on you.”
“I see,” Eugene says, surprisingly calmly. “We’ll probably be okay. They’ll most likely go Read our pursuers to verify you told them the truth.”
“And on the off chance they don’t?” I ask, though I can guess the answer.
“In that case, they’ll let us resolve our differences with the people following us.”
“Great. And we’re supposed to just sit and wait?”
“I know I will. The Readers don’t usually issue empty threats. If you were told not to move, don’t move.”
Annoyed with Eugene’s ironclad logic, I phase out.
I sit without moving for about five seconds, until I realize that waiting next to Eugene’s building earlier was child’s play compared to this. I count twenty Mississippis before I phase in. The Mercedes is halfway between the corner where Sergey rammed that car and our current location. The fancy car is barely dented, but Reading Sergey’s mind, it seems he doesn’t agree with my assessment. He’s furious about the damage to his car and determined to make us regret this chase, if he gets the chance. Reading the mind of his friend Big Boris, I get the feeling they’ll have to get in line when it comes to doing evil things to us.
I walk back and phase out. I’m now back in the car, waiting for whatever it is that’s about to happen.
After what seems like a couple of hours, I think I hear a car motor. As soon as I do, I also hear a gunshot.
I automatically phase in this time. My brain must’ve thought that shot was directed at me, and this is a near-death experience.
I get out of the car and look at my frozen self. No gunshot wounds. That’s good. The only abnormalities about my frozen self are the humongous size of my pupils and the overly white shade of my face. The whole thing makes my frozen self look ghoulish. Eugene is even paler and is holding his head defensively. Like his hands can somehow protect him from a bullet.
I look around. The front end of the Mercedes is visible at the head of the street. I walk closer and realize its tires are in the process of blowing out. They must have been shot.
In a daze, I walk back and phase out.
The sound from the tires exploding reaches my ears now, followed by the screech of steel on pavement as the car continues to careen forward on the exposed rims. Another burst of shots are fired, and I phase into the Quiet again.
This time, just like the last, I didn’t intend to phase in. It just happened under stress.
I get out of the car. My frozen self doesn’t seem to have any blue in his eyes anymore, his irises swallowed up by the black of his pupils.
I walk to the Mercedes. When I look inside, I wish I hadn’t.
I’ve never seen anything like this before. I mean, I’ve seen dead bodies in the Quiet, but not of people who were actually dead—or about to be dead—outside the Quiet. This is very different. Very real. These five people have bloody wounds in their chests, and their brains are blown out all over the car.
I feel my gag reflex kick in like I’m about to throw up, but nothing comes out. I’m not sure if it’s even possible to puke in the Quiet; it’s never happened to me before.
I feel bad about these men getting killed, which is a paradox, given that they were just shooting at me a few minutes ago. I think it has something to do with having Read their minds, like it bound us in some way. There’s nothing I can do about it, though; they’re gone now.
“Rest in peace,” I mutter, walking back to my car. I morbidly wonder what I would experience if I Read one of them right now. Or more specifically, I wonder what I would feel if I catch someone at the right—or wrong—moment, and end up experiencing death firsthand?
I shake my head. I’m not doing that. Besides, I might experience that for myself when I get out of the Quiet; Eugene and I might be the next two targets Caleb shoots.
On the plus side, the Mercedes has no more tires at all. The added resistance should counteract inertia to prevent them from ramming into us—in theory. I’m no expert on blown-out tires.
I walk back to the car and phase out.
A few more shots fire in a blur, and the Mercedes moves a few more feet before it screeches to a stop on its rims. It didn’t reach us by at least a hundred feet, but I still feel the need to swallow my heart back into my chest.
Things get suspiciously quiet for a few nerve-wracking seconds, and then the gate shutting us out of the community starts to open.
The guy I met before, Caleb, steps out, with a couple of other dudes who look pretty badass. One of them is toting a sniper rifle. I’m guessing that means he’s Sam. He and this Caleb guy look like twins, with their stony, square-jawed faces and hard eyes. Sam is a bit taller, which makes him just short of enormous.
“Darren, Eugene, come with me,” Caleb says curtly, and I see Sam shoot Eugene an unfriendly look.
“What about that?” Eugene says, gesturing at the car riddled with bullet holes. He’s pointedly avoiding looking at Sam, which I find interesting.
“Both it and your ride will be taken care of. No one will ever find them, or those bodies, again,” Caleb assures us.
I manage to feel grateful for having the foresight to say yes to the optional rental car insurance, which seems a bit shallow under the circumstances, even for me.
“Wait,” I say, remembering the rental receipt. “I need to get the address where Mira’s being kept. It’s in the glove compartment.”
Caleb walks to the rental and gets the paper I need.
“Here,” he says, handing it over to me. “Now, no more delays. We need to have a chat.”
And with that, under gunpoint, we enter the private Reader community of Sheepshead Bay.
19
We’re taken to some kind of ritzy clubhouse. It’s in the middle of an impressive-looking housing community. A house here must cost millions. I didn’t even know a place like this existed in Brooklyn—it’s more like something you’d expect to see in Miami. Such a lavish compound sort of makes sense, though; Readers should be able to find a bunch of creative ways to make money given their abilities. Or, more accurately, our abilities. I need to get used to the idea that I’m a Reader, I remind myself, remembering the snafu with Caleb earlier.
Inside the clubhouse are an indoor pool, a large fancy restaurant, and a bar. Caleb takes us further in, into what looks like some kind of meeting room.
A dozen people of different ages are here, looking at us intently.
“That really is Eugene,” says a hot blond woman who looks to be a few years older than Mira. “I can vouch for that.”
“I knew that much,” Caleb says, but finally lowers his weapon. “And this guy?”
“Never seen him before,” she says, looking at me. I do my best to keep my eyes trained on her face, rather than her prominent cleavage. Being polite can be a chore sometimes.
“He learned about being a Reader yesterday,” Eugene explains. Then he gives the blond woman a warm smile. “Hi Julia.”
The woman smiles back at him, but her expression changes back to one of concern quickly. “Are you sure he’s a Reader?” she says, sizing me up.
“Positive,” Eugene says. “You know my family history with Pushers. It was the first thing I checked.”
“You have to for
give me, but I must verify for myself,” Julia says. “You can be too trusting, Eugene.”
So these two somehow know each other. This must be what Eugene was talking about when he said things are less strict in modern New York than they were in Russia during his father’s time. Despite being ‘exiled,’ Eugene and Mira are not completely cut off from other Readers.
“Bring in our bartender,” Julia says to a short young guy to her left. He leaves and comes back with a young, extremely pretty woman a few moments later.
“Stacy, I just wanted to tell you about my new guest,” Julia says, gesturing toward Eugene. “Put his drinks on my tab.”
“Sure thing, Jules,” the woman says. She probably expected something more meaningful, being summoned as she was. Stacy begins to walk away when I’m suddenly in the Quiet again, and the woman who knows Eugene—Julia—is standing next to me.
“Now, Darren, I want you to Read Stacy,” she says. “Tell me something about her that no one else can know, and I’ll know you’re not a Pusher.”
This reaffirms what I surmised earlier: Pushers can’t Read at all. Otherwise, this test—and the test Eugene did when we first met—wouldn’t make sense.
Without much ado, I walk up to Stacy and touch her temple.
We’re walking into the room with Julia. Oh shit, he’s here, we realize, looking at Caleb. Of all the times we’ve made a fool out of ourselves, the time we got drunk with Caleb is hardest to forget for some reason. Probably because he’s a real man, unlike the rest of the guys here. It’s mostly a bunch of rich mama’s boys in this community. Well, except for Sam and the other guards.
I, Darren, try distancing myself from Stacy, the way I did in the now-dead Sergey’s mind earlier. I latch on to her memory of something involving Caleb, and try to remember what happened. I also notice that the feeling of lightness coming over me is overwhelming this time. If I feel any lighter, I might actually start floating.
“Caleb, you can’t drink that as shots. It’s sacrilege,” we say, watching our favorite customer down a shot of uber-expensive Louis the XIII Cognac like it’s cheap vodka.