Vision

by N. D. Hansen-Hill

  Portal to hell...

  "'Arbeit Macht Frei'," he muttered.

  “'Work Makes Free',” Erik translated. Zar looked at him in surprise.

  All Dusty said was, “Only if freedom means death.”

  The gate was locked, but there were no guards with machine guns watching the walls now; no electricity strong enough to kill flowing through the fences. Valterzar was concerned at one point they may have tripped a security system, so he touched one of the wires and willed it to “stop", just in case.

  Amazing how easy it was to use his “gift", he thought, now that he'd admitted he had one.

  Dusty was in a daze. Despite the contact with Valterzar, the impressions were too intense—and his compulsion to save some of his fellow inmates too strong. “I'm losing him,” Zar whispered to Erik. “Stay close.” He realised it was swiftly coming down to his stopping power versus Dustin's willpower. Zar wasn't all that sure he could win this one.

  We shouldn't have come—

  “Where did you find me?” Dusty was asking. He was staring at the building when it broke through again—in the form of a scream. It was a man's cry of agony, a high-pitched warble of pitched pain.

  “In there—” Erik looked scared. Zar's words had done nothing to reassure him. If Dusty went down on this he didn't know what they'd do. It wasn't like before, when they could get an ambulance in. "Yes, we broke into your Memorial Site, to visit some of the former inmates. Seems like we've had a bit of an accident..." Any concerns Dusty and Zar had had about being locked up might well be verified after this. “I don't think—” he began.

  He never got the chance to finish. Dusty couldn't take it any more. He broke from Valterzar's grasp and out of the night—

  —into the harsh light of day.

  * * * *

  Dusty's eyes narrowed. He dove in through the doorway, and saw the room he'd been in only moments before—no, the day before. The screams he'd heard? It was the guard: the one whose toes were now a smattering of flesh and bone littering the inside of his boot.

  The “doctor” heard his step, and twisted to look at him, the sneer still on his face. In that moment, as they locked eyes, the man recognised him. His eyes flicked to the floor, where Dusty should have been lying in a puddle of vomit and blood. The blond bastard with the chilling eyes raised his gun, and Dusty glimpsed reddish glints along the muzzle.

  My blood...

  A sharp pain gouged through his head and he gasped, "Zar!"

  But wherever Zar was, he couldn't help him. Dusty looked up at the doctor through squinted eyes, and in that moment, the shock nearly killed him. The wavery man in his eyesight wasn't Erik—not Erik at all—

  But, nevertheless, Dusty knew him.

  "Goeritz!" came sharply from the next room. Goeritz’ eyes flicked impatiently, then he smiled. It fuelled Dusty's temper, and he remembered why he'd come. When Dusty took a determined step in his direction, the man didn't hesitate—he levelled the gun, and shot Dusty right in the chest.

  "Erik!" Dusty whispered, and he knew Zar and Erik were there, but he couldn't see him. His eyes were still focussed on Goeritz, who was swiftly taking samples of his blood.

  Before the pump runs dry...

  The last thing Dusty remembered was a scalpel, slicing into his arm.

  * * * *

  “Why are we doing this?” Erik was saying, in high-pitched complaint. The note of near-hysteria was back in his voice. “Sado-masochism? Is this some test, to see whether I pass?” He interrupted himself to ask, “Did you get the bullet?”

  “Here it is. A rifle or—”

  “Machine gun,” Dusty whispered. “Goeritz—” he started to say, but his throat was so dry. “A drink,” he pleaded.

  “Blood loss. I swear to God this is the last time I'm going to do this!” Erik said angrily. He was really upset. “What the hell does Garris have to do with this, anyway? He's back where he shouldn't be, running around in Ren's body, while we're here committing suicide.”

  “'Goeritz'?” Valterzar asked Dusty. “That's his name?” He frowned. “And he looked like Erik?”

  “At first. And then...” His voice tapered off as his eyes flicked from Valterzar to Erik, and settled there. Gooseflesh danced across his skin. “I know why Smythe lied.” He swallowed hard, his eyes worried as he stared at Erik.

  Erik, sensing something, stopped complaining and asked, “What's up?”

  No comparison. The eyes are so different. Dusty knew what he was about say would crush Erik. I should have talked to Valterzar alone first.

  “'Goeritz’ is ‘Garris'.”

  “Dr. Drewsome?” Erik said incredulously. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” Dusty admitted. His mouth opened, but he couldn't say any more. No matter what it cost, he couldn't do that to Erik.

  Erik was thinking about Ren, and the way Garris was tormenting her. “Then you were right,” he admitted seriously. “You've got to take the bastard out.”

  "No." Dusty shook his head.

  “But what about Ren?” Erik said angrily. “Everyone wants to take down Symtech. Without Garris, we wouldn't be in this mess.”

  “We might not even be alive,” Zar reminded him.

  Dusty looked at him sharply. Zar may have been referring to the “treatment” they'd each received, but he wondered if Zar knew more about Erik's origins than he was saying.

  If Zar was covering, so could he. “Here's the clincher,” Dusty told them. “If I hadn't turned up like this, then we wouldn't be in this mess, either.”

  Zar stared at him curiously.

  “Call it a vicious cycle, or a twist of fate, but the first thing Goeritz did after he shot me, was to take some samples of my blood and skin.”

  “In other words—” Erik began, still looking slightly confused.

  “If Dusty hadn't come here tonight,” Zar told him, “Goeritz may never have experimented with ‘gene therapy’ at all.”

  * * * *

  Erik was silent as he and Zar helped Dusty to his feet. Then he told Dusty, “I still say you should take the bastard out. The so-called treatment he gave us may not have been necessary. We're better off taking our chances.” His eyes met Dustin's. “I mean, think about it. If he could shoot you like that, then he must have tortured the inmates, too. What he did to us wrecked our families. If you eliminate him, it might do some damage, but it could also put a lot of things right.”

  “If you wanted to put things right for us,” Dusty told him, “you could always shove me back on the train and shoot me. No contact with Goeritz, no therapy.”

  Erik grinned. “Wouldn't think of it—but don't tempt me. This is one of those things that must fit some kind of ‘Eternal Plan', but actually comes across as an ‘Infernal Joke'.”

  “That's why I wouldn't consider taking out Goeritz, either.” Dusty looked at Valterzar, who nodded. Erik had to know some time. “Because no matter what the risk is to the rest of us, I know what it would do to a friend of mine.”

  “Ren?” Erik asked.

  “No.” Dusty sighed, then gripped Erik's shoulder. “You.” Dusty saw Erik blanche, and he had a feeling he'd figured it out. He whispered, “Remember when I punched you in the nose?”

  “How could I forget?” Erik said, but it sounded flat.

  “It was because I thought you were Goeritz.”

  “Garris,” Erik whispered, his eyes dark with horror. “Son of Frankenstein.” He turned away with a hurried “Excuse me,” and promptly lost his dinner all over the former Infirmary floor.

  * * * *

  “Who else knows?” Erik asked, but he didn't give them a chance to answer. “I can't believe my mother would sleep with a bastard like that! He must have been an old bastard by that time, too.”

  “Had a face that would give a roach nightmares, too,” Dusty commented, with a twitch of his lips. “No accounting for tastes.”

  “Probably a handsome devil in his time,” Erik tried to play on it, but he was still too upset. �
�How could she leave me with him, knowing what he'd done?” He knew he was a grown man, and didn't need either parent, but it still made him feel like an orphan. It was bad enough to have had his mom die at an early age, but to know that she'd lied to him for years beforehand was almost more than he could take.

  “Maybe she didn't know, any more than the rest of them.”

  “She must have known what he was into. His ‘specialty'. Christ, do I feel useless.” He looked first at Dusty, and then at Zar. “Guilty by blood. As though I'm somehow responsible for this.”

  Dusty put an arm across his shoulders. “If anyone should feel guilty now, it's me.” He looked back at the Infirmary. “I'm still halfway thinking I should go back, to just before he shot me. Maybe I can clear out, before he takes the samples.”

  “You couldn't even clear out after you'd been shot,” Zar said drily. “I only agreed to come here because I thought I could control things. It's pretty obvious I blew my end of it nearly as much as you blew yours. I think we've messed up enough this trip, don't you?”

  Erik surprised them both by chuckling. “I can just see their faces as they try to explain how things went wrong at their end—”

  “Yeah,” Dusty admitted sheepishly. “They've got nothing on us.”

  * * * *

  Josh was holding the same piece of melted plastic pen he'd used to locate Ren the first time. “Nothing,” he admitted, worried. “I already tried that lipstick, too.” He looked at lavender-pink tones dubiously. “You sure she uses that?” he asked Merrie. “I think I would've remembered.” His tone suggested he would have remembered anyone looking that weird.

  “It's part of her new look, and she used it yesterday,” Merrie told him impatiently. “Nice, fresh clues even you should be able to follow,” she added, annoyed by his expression. “She's not dead, Josh.”

  “Stop reading my mind,” he grumbled. “That's Ren's job. I prefer to yell at her.”

  They were back at Garris’ house now, and Jamie turned on a flashlight.

  “Don't you think that's a bad idea?” Merrie asked.

  “Who's going to see it? It was noise I was worried about. All the neighbours built post-Drewsome, and they aimed their houses the other way.”

  “Who could blame ‘em?” Josh said sourly.

  “Besides, it can't be any worse than some of the other ideas we've come up with lately.” James shone the flashlight on Merrie and looked at the bandages on her arms. “How many stitches?”

  “Twenty-five,” Josh announced. “Spread around, though. I warned the guy to make them small and delicate, ‘cause I didn't want one of my girls looking bad.”

  “You let him think you were her pimp?” James thought it was hilarious.

  “Couldn't help myself. It was that frothy pink underwear she was wearing—”

  “Josh!” She sounded slightly shocked.

  “I don't know what you have on! I don't do that any more—or, if I do, I'm smart enough not to tell you.” He rolled the melted pen around in his fingers then said, “Maybe I can't read it because Garris is interfering.”

  James looked enthusiastic. “I think we're about to have a breakthrough. Try this, Josh—” The key sailed across the room and landed in Josh's palm.

  Josh concentrated for a moment. “Almost.” This time, he put the key and the lipstick together.

  “Well?” James and Merrie asked together.

  Josh smiled. “We have a match,” he said.

  * * * *

  Even now, hours after the fact, she was caught by the odd disparity between the way she usually looked out her eyes, and the sensation she was experiencing now, of looking out from some point far behind. It narrowed her vision, and reminded her who was in charge. For the moment at least, she knew it wasn't her.

  At first, she'd been terrified over what she'd done, until her practical side reasserted itself. You could only spend so many hours in angst without wearing yourself out. That was one thing she couldn't afford. She needed her energy to maintain the barriers. She and Drewsome might be sharing eyesight and hearing, but she'd be damned before she'd share any of her thoughts. The rotten bastard had jumped at the opportunity she'd offered, which should have warned her, but she'd failed to think it through. At the time it had been all action and reaction, with her fear for Merrie prevailing over her common sense. Gruesome Drewsome had been running amok and things had been totally out of control.

  Not much better now. Drewsome was in control, but it was her body that was doing the running.

  She wondered if Drewsome would have the sense to stay away from Symtech. It would have been more like him to force a confrontation, to see whether he could get some power back. With this much proximity, it would have been easy to determine his intentions, but Ren couldn't afford the risk. Reading him would give him the chance to read her.

  She told herself when the time was right she would let her guard down long enough to take control. It sounded good, but she sure as heck wasn't going to try it until she had some help close at hand. Someone who cared enough to stop her from doing herself damage. If last night was any example, it was going to be a struggle.

  For the moment, though, she had no say in anything. He was taking her body for a walk and he hadn't even brushed her hair or teeth. She was in the wrinkled clothing she'd slept in, and scuzzy socks. She would have been willing to bet there was make-up under her eyes from the way people were staring. It was the only thing that made her glad she didn't have any peripheral vision.

  Oh, God! He was taking her through a supermarket, and he'd just farted loudly. No shame. Ren was mortified. No wonder people were staring.

  I never could eat dried fruit. The stupid man had stuffed himself-herself full of it last night. At the time she'd almost felt a vague sense of pity. After all, you couldn't get much of that kind of thing if you were dead.

  He farted again.

  Ren wished she were dead.

  She must have accidentally let down some of the barriers then, because a voice echoed inside her head, "It can be arranged..."

  He probably meant to scare her, but Ren was too mad. "Shut up!" she tossed back with daggers of feeling. She sensed, rather than heard, his "ow!", and it gave her no end of pleasure.

  Merrie had made a mistake. A soul was a powerful but lightweight commodity, in physics terms. Merrie had given old Drewsome a little more “weight” than was customary. He outweighed Ren within her own body, damn him. It wasn't that he was any more powerful than she; he was just a heavyweight. If she could maintain the barriers until Dusty, Zar, and Erik got back, all seven of them could get together, to figure out how to oust him. Merrie, Josh, and Jamie would be working on it already, and would no doubt be taking action soon. Then, Drewsome would be back where he belonged.

  It was just a matter of time.

  * * * *

  It had been daylight for nearly two hours. They were trailing Ren at a distance, but it was time for action.

  “So, what do we need to buy? In order to do this exorcism or whatever you call it?” Josh asked. “Holy water, a Bible—what? I need a grocery list.”

  “That's a little difficult,” James stalled. He pulled over and parked.

  “You did the research,” Josh complained. “How long do you think I can hold onto this?” He was still clinging to the lipstick and key, and was trying to keep track of Ren's movements for them.

  “Jamie doesn't know what kind of ghost it was,” Merrie explained. “I mean, we know who it was, but he isn't a demon.”

  Josh snorted.

  “The possession thing happened—obviously," Merrie commented, “but it seems a little strange.”

  “Don't talk ‘strange’ to me, Mer—please. It worries me,” James said. He cleared his throat.

  Five minutes on the Internet and here comes the university lecture, Josh thought. Almost automatically, he glanced around for Ren. She would have caught that, then tried to pretend she hadn't, but she would have been smiling, nevertheless. His cl
airvoyance had always made him more susceptible to her telepathy, and he'd learned to play upon it. He and Ren were always at each others’ throats, in the way of siblings. No blood tie, but some links that were in many ways closer.

  Like the ability to catch a joke that no one else would hear. Josh squeezed the tube of lipstick a little harder.

  I miss her.

  He tuned in to what James was saying.

  “It does, however, bring up some possibilities. If this were a simple case of demon versus human, we'd perform a straightforward exorcism, using the—” he glanced down at his printout, “—twenty-seven-part plan practised by the Roman Catholics, the four-step plan of a ‘classic’ exorcism, or one of the Protestant or Shaman rituals. There's also a group overseas that runs out on paranormal cases—”

  “It's a wonder they haven't run into us,” Josh muttered.

  “—and do exorcisms with a combination of staunchness, some hypnosis or magic if needed, a little bit of ritual, a lot of talking, and some joint telepathy to drive the bugger out. The article made it sound as though joint telepathy was really the crux of the thing. That might be our best approach, since Ren's telepathy is probably what allowed him entry.”

  “That might work—all of us focussing on him. If not, Zar might know some hypnosis,” Merrie said.

  “I think you should zero in on the ‘lots of talking’ bit. We know how you love to talk,” Josh said.

  “If we leave Drewsome alone with Merrie long enough,” James agreed, “he'll willingly revisit his grave.” He flashed her a smile. “Seriously, if we're doing staunch, it's gotta be Zar—or Dusty. Dusty's been so staunch lately he's lucky he's alive. If Ren's in trouble, just get out of his way. Can't stand between the Kitten and her Cream.”

  “That's disgusting, James,” Merrie told him.

  “I didn't mean it that way. Shows where your mind is.” James grinned. He glanced at his notes again. “Now, it could be Ren pulled a Shaman trick, and doesn't even know it.”