Vision

by N. D. Hansen-Hill

  Dustin didn't realise he wasn't alone—that Jamie's hand on the shoulder, combined with the intensity of Dusty's reaction, had flashed some of Dustin's gut-gagging visions into Jamie's head.

  Jesus Christ! Jamie wondered, in that split second of sunglint on glass, whether he could somehow effect a change—to influence the scene, if Dusty couldn't. He even tried it, concentrating fiercely on the would-be murderer. But the effort was too much for Dustin, and Jamie saw it in the widening of his eyes, the sweat running down his face. There was no way he could maintain them both. Jamie lifted his hand off Dusty's shoulder, then sat there helplessly, wondering what the hell to do next.

  Whatever Dusty was going to try, there wouldn't be much time. His strength was failing fast. There might only be one shot at this, and Jamie found himself mumbling prayers. Wherever Dusty's backwards motion movie stopped, he'd have to put it on play.

  The thought made Jamie feel more nauseous than he did already. No one should have to live through this twice...

  * * * *

  He was on the slope. Long before Ren and Josh had left their aeroplane, the man had left his. He'd returned to his plane by parachute, floating serenely down onto the hill.

  No—not serenely. Limply. He'd had some trouble during bailout. Dustin could see it now: the torn chute, the uneven flight. He'd landed hard, atop the hill. The pilot had watched and waited, until he could manoeuvre enough to make his way down, to destroy his plane and its questionable cargo. Only, Ren and Josh had gotten there first...

  Dustin's replay was running in “Forward” now, and he saw the distant specks on the horizon. He doubted that the pilot, even then, could have been any more tense than Dusty was now.

  Maybe if I can warn them, about the pilot...

  They'd want to help him. Ren would blame any of the man's harsher emanations on pain and angst, and go to render first aid. She and Josh would be just as dead as if they'd stayed by the plane.

  If the pilot had been anywhere else but on the hill—some place away from the plane, where he wouldn't have to be in defensive mode. Where they could have rendered him first aid without dying for their efforts...

  Ren's telepathy was one of the reasons she'd be valuable in this kind of setting: someone to locate a lost pilot, when all technology had failed. They must have suspected he'd still be alive—otherwise, they would have sent in Merrie instead.

  Once focussed, Ren would have followed her internal compass. She'd have the heading down, but the sight of the plane would fool her. Direction yes, altitude, no. As a kid, she'd always been killer at hide ‘n seek—until they'd discovered she could be fooled. Elevation, whether high in a closet, or at the top of a hill, fooled her every time. Because Ren just wasn't sly enough. Despite any insights she might have into the human soul, she'd always remained selective. She preferred not to acknowledge the devious or dark, and largely tuned it out. She refused to relinquish her naive conviction that whatever bad she sensed could be offset by the good. The last thing she'd expect would be someone lying in wait, atop a hill, to take her life.

  Josh? Josh wasn't much better. Easy-going, he frequently took his clairvoyance for granted. To Josh, there wasn't anything better in the world than a well-preserved dinosaur bone—especially if he'd been able to find it first. No, the last thing Josh would expect was death to be lurking at his back.

  Only, it wasn't at his back—yet. Death was finding his way down, off the hill.

  Ren would assume any errors in her “reading” were induced by the metal sheathing on the fuselage. Something to upset the signals. Despite the “esoteric” nature of their gifts, all of them realised there was some basis in physics; in electrochemical signals and biological receptors. Something that could be confused by an overdose of static or an electrical conductor. That's what Ren was thinking now. It was obvious, from the way she and Josh were acting, that they thought the victim was trapped inside the plane.

  Was there someone there?

  Could that be why the pilot was staying so close?

  Dustin had to know. In his rapid replay he recalled a flash of the doorway as a gaping black hole. Ren and Josh had opened the door and died. But Dustin wasn't certain, even now, where the gunfire had come from. He'd been too focussed on the bloodied bodies of his friends, to get more than a glimpse of gleaming metal. He had to know whether the gunshots had come from without, or within.

  I have to get inside the plane.

  He'd always followed the spatial limitations of his retro visions. This duality was confusing enough, without trying to remember where lay a door, or a curb, or a wall in the future. Now, he sat there, clinging to these fragments of the past, while trying to recall the way it looked in his present.

  In his own time, there was no door to the cabin. It had been demolished; forcibly mangled in the blast. There's nothing to stop me going in. It was one thing rationalising it, though, and another doing it. Part of him was working so hard at clinging to this vision that his eyes throbbed and his nose bled. Now, he had to force himself to acknowledge that the door wasn't really here. It wasn't solid enough to bar his entry.

  He closed his eyes so they wouldn't sabotage his intent, and crawled forward, into the cabin.

  Rice. Sacks of it. Was this it? Was this what the murderer was trying so hard to protect? An illicit cargo of rotten rice? Dustin's head throbbed at the pointlessness of it all.

  How am I going to stop it? He was gripped with despair. Someone willing to kill over something so meaningless bordered on the psychopathic. He wouldn't be swayed by pleas or arguments.

  I'll take away his gun.

  It was the answer for almost thirty seconds, until Dustin saw the weapons cached in the back. Guns, explosives. Materialising enough to take away his gun might work once, but it wouldn't stop him. It'd only make the man more eager to defend himself.

  He'd just dig out another gun, and finish what he started...

  The pressure in Dustin's head was building; an ache so intense he couldn't think. I should have stopped them, way back when. Stopped them before they reached the plane; convinced them before they were in range.

  Too late—too stupid. Now that he was here, he could see a dozen ways he could have intercepted them at a distance—gone back and ended this before it had even begun.

  He crawled to the back of the plane, to look at the weapons. There were explosives. It didn't take much to recognise “plastique". It had been the explosive of choice for years on TV. There were also several handguns, plus a rifle with some kind of magnifying scope. Was this the one he'd seen the man holding? Or did he have another?

  Outside, he could hear Ren and Josh arguing.

  “We can't just ‘leave him to it'!” Ren was saying. “He's a human being—despite his warped personality.”

  Dusty's took a shuddery breath. Was this the last time he'd hear her voice?

  “He's an armed human being,” Josh retorted. “Armed and alarmed do not a good combination make.”

  Josh had picked up on the weapons cache.

  He knows the man's armed—no, he thinks I am.

  Am I? Dusty put his head in his hands and tried to think.

  He'd never fired a gun before. There was one way to learn—he could follow this through, move to the other slope, and watch the killer fire his. But the idea of it filled Dusty with revulsion—and fear. What if I can't go back again? To stop it?

  Physically, he knew he couldn't tolerate much more. The pressure was building in his head, and he didn't know whether the nausea was more from the migraine, or from the horrific things he'd had to witness.

  The argument was still going on in the background. All Dusty could think was that he might have only one shot at this—and he might have to take it.

  “You're nuts!” Josh told her. “You can't stop a bullet with good intentions!”

  “At least I have ‘good intentions'! ‘So gather your fungus and let them come get him',” she mimicked. “What kind of compassion is that?”

&
nbsp; Dusty reached for the rifle—the one with the sniper's site. He concentrated on grabbing it—on solidifying his fingers enough to pick it up...

  In his determination, Dustin's fingers gripped and squeezed.

  “I don't need to show compassion for someone trying to kill—”

  The words pounded in Dustin's brain, and for a moment, he felt as guilty as the man on prowl without. It was followed by a blast of anger that these two should be so damned naive, and too blind to spot a killer at their backs.

  His anger squeezed the trigger—literally. The stupid gun jerked in his hands. Dustin jolted at the boom, jarring his aching head.

  He took his anger out on the two outside the plane—the two who were being so damned difficult to save.

  "Will you shut up?!" he shouted. “Or the next one's through my head—so this ‘creep’ can put his ‘warped personality’ out of its misery!”

  He never expected them to hear him.

  * * * *

  The bickering had halted at the shot, but then it picked up again. Josh was yelling now, “Where's the best place to get in?”

  Dusty froze, and his eyes widened. Josh was talking to him. Yelling at him, as though he expected a response.

  He heard me. That means I can warn them, about the sniper.

  Except the sniper's already on his way down. It might be more of a challenge, but he'll just shoot them sooner, rather than later.

  What would a warped personality reply?

  That's easy, Dusty. What would you say to Josh at this point?

  What you're feeling. “Why did they send stupid people?”

  “I think that means he wants us to use the door,” he heard his Kitten comment.

  It was a lifetime waiting. Dusty hung on, afraid to let go—afraid to fast forward for fear of missing his chance. Get them in the plane and keep them in. Keep them safe.

  Save them.

  It was hot as Hades in the plane, and Dustin didn't know whether it was his time, or their time, or both. He felt like he was dying, but he couldn't die yet. Lure them in and warn them. Slam the door and lock the killer out.

  What about Jamie? He'll get Jamie...

  No. Jamie isn't here.

  The pain, the heat, the confusion were tearing him apart.

  And then Jamie was there, and Dustin panicked, thinking he'd blown it. But no—he was still in the plane. It was only Jamie's hand on his shoulder again. No mistakes. Jamie didn't want any mistakes, because then he'd be alone. Nobody left.

  Because the killer would leave here, and head back along Ren's and Josh's trail. Until he happened on the two trucks, that had no business heading toward his cremated plane. So, he'd take them out, too. Just in case. No witnesses. No survivors.

  No mistakes.

  Only, he and James had made a big one. They'd left the bodies and the gear back at the truck. The phones, the radios. The lone killer might not be alone for long...

  Get out. James had to get out. That way, if this failed, Jamie wouldn't die, too.

  He didn't realise he was muttering it aloud until Jamie's voice repeated it. Dustin also realised he was no longer sitting; but lying on his back. For a flicker of time Jamie was there, and he looked—there was no other way to describe it—bereft.

  * * * *

  All James wanted to ask him was if there was a chance—if there was any way things might somehow be put “right". But when he saw the bleak look in Dustin's eyes, he didn't have the nerve. Dusty's eyes were bloodshot, and there were dark circles beneath. The man looked white, sick as a dog, and absolutely gutted.

  “I saw it,” James told him. “And I'm staying.”

  It was enough. Jamie was smart. He would have figured it out. Dusty's eyes met his in understanding.

  There were no more words to say.

  This was one of those times when “I'm sorry” would never be enough.

  Then, Jamie was gone. And Dusty was, once again, alone in the plane.

  * * * *

  He had to know. Did I drift? Am I still “on time"? Experimentally, he griped, in his best bad-guy voice, “What's taking so long? It's like an oven in here.”

  “You're lucky there's a door left to clear,” Josh retorted. “And as for that ‘stupid people’ comment? We weren't the ones flying the plane.”

  “Good one, Josh,” Ren said.

  “I have my moments,” Josh replied.

  Dusty gave a sigh of relief. Still here.

  No mistakes.

  * * * *

  “You still alive in there?” Josh. Josh was yelling at him.

  Dustin groaned. “You're taking so long I was gonna ask you the same thing!”

  “Don't give me that look! If we had the truck, we could have been out of here an hour ago! And we wouldn't have to walk back across the goddamn desert!”

  At first, Dusty thought Ren was yelling at him, too. But, no—it must be at Josh. She's yelling at Josh...

  Because Josh was bellowing back. “They said ‘sneak'. How the hell can you sneak with a goddamn truck?”

  Now, there was another sound besides the repetitious clanging Dusty associated with their digging efforts. This was a metallic scrape and screech. They'd cleared the door. Now they were prying it open.

  Get them inside...

  No. Something was trying to break through the pounding in his head. Abstractedly, he pinched his nose to stop a spurt of bleeding. He was vaguely aware that in that other time, Jamie's hand was on his head.

  Holding me together...

  Whatever Jamie did, helped Dusty's mind clear. In a gag-wrenching flash of memory, he suddenly recalled the sequence.

  There won't be time. Because, as soon as the door opens, Josh will get a bullet in the back.

  Dusty shook off Jamie's hand, reached over, and picked up the gun.

  Chapter Eight

  The first shot shattered the windscreen. Valterzar swerved the truck, then did a quick one eighty and headed back the way he'd come. “Anybody hit?” he asked tensely.

  “You—”

  He looked at his Merrie Girl in surprise and saw her pointing to the blood that was pouring down his arm. He hadn't even felt it. Stunned, he started to slam on the brakes, but Erik yelled at him, “Don't stop here!”

  “I'll drive,” Merrie said. She grabbed the wheel, leaned forward against the dashboard, and plunged her foot down on the accelerator.

  “It doesn't even hurt,” Zar argued.

  “Have some sensitivity," Merrie told him. It lost something in the jarring up and down of her high-speed driving. “I'm worried, and I don't want to be worried about you.”

  “No kidding!” Erik interrupted. “Enough trouble worrying about the killers on our tail—”

  They went up on two wheels, then slammed back onto the ground, the wheels digging in again with a splaying of sand.

  “—and the killer behind the wheel,” he hissed close to Valterzar's ear. Aloud, he said, “She wants her studmuffin intact.”

  “Especially the stud part,” she said, with a smile in Zar's direction.

  “Watch the road!” Erik yelled.

  “What road?!” Merrie yelled back.

  Valterzar frowned. “Let me drive—” he began, but he lost it, because just then they hit another big rut. They jarred and bounced and wobbled, as Merrie rammed her foot back down on the gas.

  That last jounce had done it. Zar whitened as his upper arm gave a toothache-type pang. Once it started hurting, it didn't seem inclined to stop.

  “First time on this end of things, eh?” Erik asked, watching his face. He'd reached over the seat and was trying to control the bleeding with compression.

  “Don't make conversation with him, Rik,” Merrie ordered. “Just fix him.”

  “Drive like a sane person and I might be able to—” Erik retorted. He wrapped his bandanna around Valterzar's upper arm. “How's that feel, Doc?”

  Merrie glanced quickly at Erik's bandaging job and then back to the wheel. “Erik! Aren't you goi
ng to do something?!”

  Another bullet shattered the glass in the back. Erik did a rapid clamber over the seat, so all three of them were in the front. “It's a little hard to concentrate!” he complained. To Valterzar, he muttered, “She doesn't want me to be taken out until I fix you first. What part do you want me to start with, Mer?” he asked.

  “Only the parts that are broken,” she said.

  “You know, they probably wouldn't have spotted us if it hadn't been for that shirt—” Erik told her.

  “I don't know,” Zar said, looking at the bright peachy bit of fluff Merrie was wearing. He couldn't help but envision what she had underneath it. “If she'd gone without it, they might have spotted us even faster.”

  * * * *

  James thought the sound of the other truck returning would be a welcome relief. In the distance, though, over the roar, pop and whine of the straining engine, there were a number of distant “cracks", that sounded remarkably like gunshots. “What the hell?” he mumbled.

  He wanted to shake Dusty—to bring him back from wherever he'd gone. But, something held him back.

  Maybe it was the way Dustin looked. Jamie had the impression the man was falling apart, right before his eyes. His nose was bleeding heavily, and there was a trickle of blood just starting to drip out his ear. Jamie laid a hand on his head, much as he had before Erik had arrived the last time. Jamie was afraid to move; afraid Dusty would die if he didn't get back soon from wherever his mind had gone. He was tempted to interrupt, but Dusty had issued that warning. There was no way Dusty could be unaware of the bleeding; he must be in pain. He'd nearly died after the airport—he must know what he was risking. Obviously, whatever this was, he considered it worth the risk.