Psychic

by F. P. Dorchak

  “‘Delphi’ just popped into my mind.”

  “Delphi?”

  “Yes. It mean anything to you?”

  “No.”

  “Do you pick up on anything else from him — Black — now?”

  Lizzie paused. “No.” She again cleared her throat, “I don’t seem to…” Her response was flat. Frightened. “No… I’m not getting anything. I don’t know what that means. But it’s just not right. I always pick up on something. Don’t know… not liking this trend.”

  “How about me?”

  Lizzie again paused. “Okay, this is unnerving — same thing. I don’t know… maybe all the stress has finally caught up to me. It was pretty intense, watching my husband—”

  Lizzie again broke off.

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay… give me a moment… it was pretty intense, and it is harder for me to pick up on things when I’m stressed. When Joe died… it was hard for me to work — nearly impossible — and I had to take some time off until I could get it together. Maybe that’s all this is.”

  “I’m sure that’s all it is.”

  “Well, Mel, hate to do this to ya, but I still have to work, so I’m going to have to go.”

  “Okay.”

  “You can call me again, though, if you’d like.”

  “Really?”

  Lizzie’s tone then changed into one of total seriousness.

  “And Mel… please, please, be careful out there — I mean it. Black is dangerous. Stay clear of him. I’m sure he’s far more dangerous than either of us realize.”

  “I will. You too.”

  “I will. Take care, Mel.”

  Mel hung up and lay back in the recliner, eyes closed.

  What a neat lady. He always felt better after talking with her. It’s funny how talking with someone could ease a mind. Sometimes living in your head wasn’t as good an idea as it sounded. You had to get out. Interact. It was amazing what wonders talking did — what cheap therapy it was.

  But there was something about that Black guy.

  He was pretty sure he’d met him, though he wasn’t sure if it was an actual memory, or something he’d made up.

  Mel got out of the recliner and headed upstairs to the kitchen. At first he drifted about, not sure what he was looking for. He knew he’d know when he found it… a card, piece of scrap paper — a letter. But nothing caught his eye. He still had Lizzie’s Madame Nostradameus card with him and took it out, placing it up before him like a target sighting as he surveyed the room. He scanned the room in this way, aiming over the stove, the countertops… the refrigerator…

  … and stopped.

  The refrigerator.

  Mel stood before the fridge’s door and lowered the card. Another card was stuck to the door, under a Pizza Hut magnet, along with a picture — a sketch, really, a police sketch, he guessed — of a guy he didn’t know.

  His blood ran cold.

  There, on the card… Black’s name.

  His first reaction was to immediately call Lizzie back, but he couldn’t. That would have been too namby-pamby, and she’d most likely be on another call.

  Behind the card on the fridge was that sketch, which he pulled from the fridge. He left the business card under the Pizza Hut magnet. He really didn’t want to touch it. The police sketch was of this guy Black said he’d been looking for — it all came back to him. He had come by the house, given him his card — and this sketch.

  Some kind of kidnapping investigation?

  But this guy… he didn’t look like a kidnapper, not that Mel knew what a kidnapper was supposed to look like, but Mel definitely didn’t get the feeling that this guy could do anything like that, in fact—

  The doorbell rang.

  The calm, monotonous tone, normally a pleasant one, was anything but, this time.

  Who could possibly be stopping by at this hour?

  Mel took the sketch with him as he went for the door. Through the vertical slice of glass in the front door, he saw a silhouette of a person lit up by the front porch’s light. There was a screen door between him and whoever was outside, so, he unlocked and opened the door.

  No sooner had he done that, than the door was forced inward and he was met with a well-placed and rock-hard haymaker that swung on down from above, like a ton of

  (steel)

  bricks.

  Mel was unconscious before he hit the floor.

  “Protected, indeed,” Black said, as he casually stepped over Mel’s unconscious body and entered the house.

  4

  Kennedy sat in his study, a book on the Battle of Gettysburg open in his lap. He stared blankly at its pages.

  How old was he? Just how the hell old was he?

  And how had it happened so goddamned fast?

  Just yesterday he’d been a young, tough Navy Lieutenant, and not long following that, President of the most powerful nation on Earth… how had he ended up here, sitting in the dark of what was supposed to be his study, at who-knew-what-hour — in the body of an old man?

  And where was he?

  He’d been reading… unable to sleep, yes, that was it… but he’d also felt he’d been somewhere else…

  Had it been a dream?

  Was he really in bed, at home on leave from the Navy, and dreaming of a future him?

  Kennedy shut the book with a solid thwap, and got to his feet. He paced the room, hand to his head in concentration… why was he asking himself all these damned questions?

  Shouldn’t he be in bed?

  Kennedy stopped and looked to his attire. He was in sweats and slippers.

  Good Lord, was this senility? Was this how it felt to lose your mind? To go off the deep end?

  No, he’d just had a tough day, and was tired, was all.

  What had he done to be so tired?

  He’d been to Boston… had a meeting with the GFP… had lunch with Paul and Carol afterward. Visited his great-grandkids—

  There’d been something else, though, hadn’t there? Something… odd… what had happened at that board meeting?

  Kennedy stood before his bay windows and opened them. He inhaled the sweet late-night breezes, as he stared out over the ocean, a section of which he’d privately decreed as his own.

  What was going on out there, right this moment — what secrets lie beneath those darkened waters? What life-and-death struggles… what creatures enjoying the night?

  And what secrets lie beneath his own darkened waters?

  The Center’s boardroom.

  The boardroom?

  What had that to do with anything?

  He searched his memory. The boardroom… felt curiously familiar in a proximity sort of way… like he’d just been there…

  And how was Sorensen these days? Hadn’t talked with him in…

  Damn, he was antsy! There was no way he was going back to bed.

  Kennedy again inhaled deeply of the nocturnal salty breezes and thought — what the hell — why not? It was quiet and dark, and the calming effect of the ocean and breezes might relax him enough to get him back to bed…

  Kennedy closed the window and retreated back into the bedroom, where he changed clothes and made his way out into the night, wondering, of all things (he was surprised to realize), what Black was up to…

  Chapter Eighteen

  1

  Travis was in deep, focused on his target tasking, but something kept vying for his attention. He was picking up on another line of thought that seemed sandwiched in-between — through — the tasking. Whatever it was, there was a subtle “intent” nibbling at away at him…

  Travis allowed himself to be whisked away in an extremely slight, tangential vector that took off like a bat outta hell, once he dedicated the slightest attention to it. He felt a portion — another “him,” a probable self? — still performing his original, directed targeting… but also felt this “other him” heading off in this new direction…

  Travis stood in an unfamiliar room, but
one in which he felt was at The Center.

  He stood before a barely illuminated desk, at which sat a man intent on something Travis couldn’t make out. The man wasn’t bothered by nor aware of his otherworldly presence. Travis moved around behind him.

  The man was Victor Black.

  Travis leaned over Black’s shoulder. Black wrote on a piece of paper. It said:

  Find Nightmare Man

  Nightmare Man?

  Black carefully folded the white sheet of paper in half and slid it into an envelope. He inscribed their remote-viewer coordinate protocol on it, then sealed it within another, larger envelope, also inscribing similar numbers on that envelope. Black then paused and looked up, narrowing his gaze. His right hand slowly found its grip around the SIG 226 nine mil in his lap. Black cocked his head slightly, eyes alert, studying the room.

  Stood up—

  Both Travis and Black now stood in a different room. There were no lights on in this one, except for the tiny flashlight Black used as he made his way toward the five-drawer steel safe along the rear wall. In a choppy time jump, Black was now inside an unlocked and opened safe drawer, rapidly fingering through hundreds of similarly stored envelopes, like the one he carried. Finding the one he needed, Black removed it and inserted his new “Nightmare Man” one in its place…

  Travis now stood on the dark plains of eastern Colorado, beneath a full moon. Off in the distance Bravo Force operators silently descended from the night sky.

  They’d be here soon.

  Ring around the rosie…

  Travis spun around.

  … a pocketful of posies…

  Ashes! Ashes!

  We all fall down.

  Travis peered out into the eerie silvery shadows of the plains. No one. It was dark and empty — except for a ranch several hundred yards off to his right. But that children’s tune continued to play in his head. It wasn’t the high-pitched, lyrical tone normally associated with the rhyme, but a sullen, hollow timbre.

  Sadness.

  Boots.

  Travis heard boots hurriedly rushing through Buffalo grass and Socorro cacti. The kill team rushed past him toward the ranch house…

  Travis stood before the ranch house. It was surrounded, two Bravo Force operators inside.

  The family—

  Travis was inside the home.

  On the floor lay the bodies of the husband, wife, and teenaged son. Each had single shots to their heads, small-caliber rounds, .22s. Travis spotted the framed picture of Kennedy on the cupboard mantle, its glass shattered. Beside it, Travis saw the book, Prophecies of Nostradamus, lying open. He read the exposed passage:

  And the Maker shall dance

  Until the Great Darkness Descends

  Taking Everybody with it

  Travis turned and was

  Outside the house.

  He stood on the porch, facing the door. Alone, he examined the door’s wood grains. How many blizzards and thunderstorms had it weathered? How long ago had it been built, and whose hands had worked it? Answers to all he had gotten, but none of which mattered. It would all soon be

  (oot)

  (aboot)

  moot.

  “Do you understand what you’re seeing?” came the tiny, childlike whisper from behind.

  In the silvery darkness and extending way back to the shadowy horizon, stood hundreds of thousands of children.

  Do you? they mentally whispered.

  “I’m not sure. I see… terrible events that seem to extend beyond… through?… time, but—”

  Ashes, ashes… they all mentally whispered as one.

  “Why do you keep singing that? What does it mean?”

  We all fall down.

  Travis was suddenly struck by an image of Black dancing around the house, his face ashen. Pockets full of posies. He skipped and danced about the place, pulling the posies from his pockets. Casually flung them about. When the flowers hit the dirt, they became bodies. Everywhere. And they, in turn, disintegrated into dust.

  Travis looked back to the children. Gone. In their place stood men and women, equally as confused as he was. Among them… Buddy LaRouque.

  “Buddy?” Travis asked, coming forward.

  “Don’t you get it, pal?” Buddy said, disgusted, but not at Travis. “Don’t you see?”

  Travis looked back to the house, which had begun to crumple inward.

  “To tell you the truth, maybe I’m just thickheaded, but—”

  “Black has to be stopped. He’s gotten to some of us, but not everyone. Not you. But he ain’t far off. He knows.”

  “Knows what?”

  The house choppily crumpled into a hole that opened up beneath it.

  “You, buddy. He knows about you.”

  Travis came to.

  Stood in the RV lab. Beside the RoboChair.

  Apparently the session was over. He didn’t remember ending it. His monitor was just closing the door behind him on his way out, just having said something to him.

  Travis winced.

  He didn’t remember a thing, not a damned thing.

  Returning to his desk, more or less still in a haze, Travis made his way past other remote viewers at their desks, shuffling about paperwork. As soon as he sat down, he began to mindlessly shuffle about his own paperwork.

  We all fall down…

  We all fall down…

  Ring around the rosie… a pocketful of…

  Travis looked up. Squinted. That damned nursery rhyme was still in his head—

  Still? As opposed to what?

  Where had it come from? What’d it mean?

  We all fall down.

  We all fall down…

  “Hey, Trav, you ok?” asked Don Rankin, the unit’s ops director.

  “I’m fine — why?”

  “Well… you’ve been staring straight ahead for almost five minutes, now. No expression — nothing. Just a blank stare.”

  Travis looked at his desk. To the others, who were all looking at him.

  Had it been that long? It’d only felt like a second or…

  “Sorry… lost in thought, I guess. Today’s been a weird-shit day.”

  “No problem,” Rankin said and walked off. But at that point Travis looked to each of the other remote viewers. Was it just him, or were they all a little… preoccupied.

  Travis watched Rankin walk down the center of the office, eyeing everyone on his way out. No, he didn’t think it was just him. Down to the person, everyone seemed lethargic, elsewhere. Highly off. And there were no jokes flying about… no office banter. Whatever it was affected everyone. On a hunch, Travis passworded into his computer, brought up his e-mail, and typed:

  Yo, all. Had a burst of inspiration — let’s get together for a drink at Mel’s — we hain’t done that in a spell…

  Then he entered the names of all those in the office — except Rankin’s — and sent it. As he hit “Send” he eyed everyone. In no time various grunts and groans, a couple quick, furtive glances, and even one wadded-up ball of paper hit him in the shoulder.

  What, you too lazy to talk to anyone in person?

  You payin?

  Pass; bad day.

  Mel’s? I’m in…

  Travis assumed the flying wad of paper came from Mr. “Bad Day,” Lee Everhart. But he curiously noticed no one responded back out loud — not even Ryan, who’d sent back the first reply. He also noticed how they seemed to look over their shoulders as they typed; glance out the corners of their eyes.

  It wasn’t just him.

  Something was going on, and it affected every one of them.

  Travis quickly sent: It’s on me.

  There was a louder collective grunt as the mails flooded back:

  You’re on, cowboy!

  Now, we’re talkin!

  Rock and roll!

  If you’re paying, what the hell…

  Another balled-up wad of paper beaned him dead center in the forehead.

  He grinned back to its p
itcher.

  Travis typed in a time and sat back. Everyone, he noticed, glanced his way… and it was their looks that unnerved him. He could almost swear they were all silently pleading with him.

  We need to get on this.

  We need help.

  Wasn’t that the truth.

  2

  Five off-duty remote viewers all sat around two tables in Mel’s Tavern, quietly picking at beer nuts and sipping colas and beer. No one spoke.

  “How’s everyone doin?” Travis asked.

  “How d’you think?” Mr. Bad Day e-mailer, Lee, grunted.

  “Well, if everyone’s feeling like me,” Travis offered, in as hushed a tone as he could muster in a packed and noisy bar, “then I pity ya… had a rough one, today — from what I remember, anyway. Don’t even remember my last

  (Nostradamus)

  “task.”

  Travis stared down at the nuts — but noticed that everyone gave him that same thousand-yard stare.

  “This happen to anyone else?” he asked.

  Lee remained silent. Gina looked ready to say something, but didn’t. Ryan looked to the others, saw the unrest, and said, “It ain’t just you, bro.”

  Cory said, “Thought it was,” then took another sip of beer.

  “There ya go, thinking again,” Lee said. “Apparently, it’s all of us. Ain’t that just fuckin hilarious.”

  “Don’t really know,” Travis said. “All I do know is that today’s been the weirdest day of my life; I can’t remember my sessions, or if I even had lunch.”

  “Yup,” Ryan said.

  “Me, neither,” Gina said.

  “And me,” Cory said.

  “And I feel as if I’m forgetting something… something really big,” Gina added.

  Lee nodded.

  “Well, I guess it’s unanimous, then…,” Ryan said.

  “And I’d had this really weird dream, too,” Travis continued, “I could have sworn…” he said, lowering his voice even more, causing everyone to immediately lean in, “he’d been in my house. My bedroom,” he whispered.

  They all looked to each other and leaned back in their chairs.

  “Okaaaay… can this get any weirder?” Ryan said.

  “Keep talking,” Lee said. “You ain’t tellin us anything new.”

  Several others silently nodded, casting glances over their shoulders.