Zero Sight

by B. Justin Shier

  I was thinking that living in the woods wasn’t going to be so bad when I felt the slightest prick on the side of my neck. Instinctually I swatted. I caught the little bloodsucker in the act. The insect’s wrecked body stuck to my hand. Judging by the blood, the fella must have gotten caught mid-slurp. I shook my head. A mosquito. A mosquito had bit me—yet another first for the day. I was in the middle of wiping the mess off on my jeans when my Sight hiccupped to life.

  “Not again,” I grumbled, “You’re supposed to be reliable, Mr. Sight.” It was another nonsensical sensation: a cold tingle on the back of my neck, nothing threatening, and certainly nothing like I felt with Tyrone. I was busy wishing it would go away when the memory hit me full-force. Tyrone…I’d been sloppy and forgotten to distract myself. A bout of nausea roiled my stomach. Dizziness challenged my balance. The food I’d just eaten tried to come back up. That damn name…I had been trying hard to avoid it. Once my mind started down that road it was already too late. A cold sweat broke out on my brow. I grabbed the side of the bus for support.

  “Steady breathing,” I told myself. “Stop looking back there.” I was familiar with the attacks now. I could even stop from passing out now. The trick was to focus on the present. That broke the cycle. I stared at the bus’ giant tire and forced myself to count the lug nuts. I calculated the square of their sum, found the closest prime to the square, squared the prime…and my heart rate started to return to normal. My balance steadied.

  With my body back under control, I returned my attention to my Sight. Something wasn’t right here. Before my fight with Tyrone, my Sight had only functioned as a sort of early warning system for things like flying objects. Once an object was committed to a trajectory, I could predict its direction based on the waves of color that preceded it. But in those last moments with Tyrone, my Sight had shown me something different. Whatever that thing was, it wasn’t a kinetic force. No matter how much I thought about it, the only explanation I could think of was that the blanket of blades was a manifestation of his intent to kill.

  So, I wondered, was this new sensation a form of intent too?

  If my theory was right, then there was a way to find out. Intent required a source—a source that I might be able to find if I concentrated. Since the incident, concentrating on my Sight had had the nasty habit of bringing me back to that day behind Ted Binion High, so up until this point I had avoided it, but I was feeling bold. I’d just beaten back one of those panic attacks, and my Sight seemed to be working without the need for adrenalin. Now was as good of a time as ever. I was willing to give it a shot.

  I ignored my other senses, shutting them down one-by-one. I steadied my breathing and held my hands to my sides. As my focus increased, it was like my Sight reached out. It was the sixth-sense equivalent of switching from a wide-angle lens to a telephoto. The rest was simple. I just let it guide me where it wanted. I focused in on the tingling, reaching out towards the origin…but the sensation began to fade. Soon, only a delicate tickle remained.

  I was puzzled. Nothing had ever responded to my Sight before.

  “What’s going on?” I muttered. I had always considered my Sight to be a passive organ, a sense like hearing or vision that received data but never projected it, but that strange tingling had vanished when I focused my Sight. Could that mean my extra sense was more like sonar, a sense that broadcasted a steady stream of noise and relied on the rebound to gather up the data?

  I went cold.

  If so…I had just given myself away.

  I opened my eyes and swept the area. The lot was mostly empty. In front of me a group of men from my bus stood chatting while they smoking their cigarettes. Across the lot, a driver was fueling his bus. A few bugs buzzed around me, nothing else. Where could it be coming from? Was I just overanalyzing it? Was my Sight just misfiring as I had thought at first?

  As I scrambled for clues, the gentle tickle returned. It crawled up and down my neck. I strummed my thigh in agitation.

  “Fuck,” I muttered. It was like I was being played with. “Why the back of my neck?” Like a dog chasing his own tail, I spun around to look behind me. Big Blue sat there idling, indifferent to my quandary. I frowned and swatted at the air in front of me. Now that the sun was down, the bugs were going nuts. I’d never had to deal with bugs before. It kinda sucked.

  Swatting bugs himself, the bus driver hopped aboard and turned on the running lights. Fluorescent rays poured down from the windows above. I glanced up into the light—and right into the eyes of the girl in the black hoodie. She looked down at me groggily, the flush of her red lips in sharp contrast to her pale complexion.

  I stood motionless in the brash light. Sights and sounds melted away away. A fine nose that buttoned lazily at the end. Skin smooth as marble. A thin and graceful neck. None of it held my interest. My attention was reserved for her eyes. Blue-grey orbs as cold as the worst winter night, they were as deep as the ocean and as dead as the moon.

  Still matching my stare, one of the girl’s eyebrows raised slightly.

  With a surge of embarrassment, I remembered staring was actually considered rather rude. I turned away, pretending something else had caught my attention. It was only then I noticed that the pace of my breathing had shifted into overdrive, my heart was beating fiercely, and the lights around me were too bright. I squinted my eyes against the glare, unclenched my fists, and massaged out my forearms. I looked down at my hands. If I hadn’t just cut my fingernails, I would have drawn blood from my palms.

  Sweat running down my brow, I stood there shaking. Why was I re-experiencing the same sensations I had while fighting Tyrone? There’d been no danger, just a sleepy chick amused at my goofy exercise routine. Since the fight with Tyrone, I’d first had the nightmares and then the panic attacks. They weren’t fun, but I could manage them. But now my Sight was misfiring and triggering flashbacks. If there was one thing I thought I could trust, it was my Sight. My Sight was my security blanket—and now it was just shooting off at random? I knew I was developing a case of PTSD, but I had never imagined my Sight could be affected. My Sight was an honest broker, something I could totally rely on. How was I going to filter out what was bogus? Was I going to be jumping at shadows?

  Could I…hurt someone by accident?

  I kicked the asphalt in frustration. I felt naked. Exposed.

  As I was mulling over options, the LCN Line’s departure announcement sounded. I sagged. I would have to deal with this mess later, the stragglers where already putting out their cigarettes and queuing to get on board. I walked over and got in the line. Once onboard, I couldn’t bear to make eye contact with the girl next to me. She had given me the Raised Eyebrow. That was the girl-sign for excommunication. I pretended to show interest in the television show in front of me. It was a documentary about a man trying to etch his name into the side of a mountain with dynamite.

  I clenched my teeth. Tonight was going to be a challenge.

  +

  The bus kicked into gear and lumbered off down the road.

  Only a few minutes passed before the TV screen gave me a splitting headache.

  How can they do it? I wondered. How can they keep watching this thing?

  Maybe I needed TV specific glasses or something.

  I glanced over to find my seatmate rooting through her backpack. She pulled out two large silver juice pouches and frowned.

  I swallowed. Even her frown was cute. The proximity of the attractive female was making me nervous. I wasn’t accustomed to encountering mysterious members of the opposite sex, especially ones with lips…I shook my head. Like a repenting priest, I retreated to ritual. Grabbed my thermos, I poured out some piping hot coffee and stared into its manly darkness. The smell alone made me feel better.

  Meanwhile, my new neighbor found the Chapstick she was searching for and tossed the rest of her stuff back into her bag. I raised an eyebrow. What is it with girls and Chapstick, anyway? They’d slaughter the whole world for one cylinder of lip balm
.

  I fought the mighty urge to watch her put it on. My libido had just burst out of the closet and was tripping over the furniture yelling, “Who? What? Where?” (Please excuse him. He doesn’t get out much.) I was just getting my loins back under control when she upped the ante. With a yawn, she stretched her arms above her head. Despite the baggy clothing’s best efforts, the maneuver revealed enough to wreck me. I spilled my cup of coffee straight onto my crotch. Superior heat retention has its drawbacks. I grimaced as the scalding liquid reached ground zero, but as I did my best to angle my jeans away from the Resnick family’s last hope, my seatmate decided to dispose of her hoodie.

  I juggled two pressing needs:

  1) Protect the nethers.

  2) Leer.

  I had to commend my libido’s rampant disregard for its own survival. Like a kamikaze pilot, it was dead set on going out in a blaze of glory. And what a blaze it was: the hoodie caught on the girl’s head, and she struggled to pull it off. Underneath, she was only wearing a simple black tank top. Her flat belly contrasted sharply with two very strong arguments for the superiority of the B-cup.

  No bra, either…

  My mouth gaped. Riding the bus was amazing.

  While I was engaged in less than gentlemanly thoughts, the battle of head vs. hoodie entering its final, desperate stage. With a grunt, my seatmate popped her head free—and delivered a well-deserved elbow to my forehead.

  An ocean of stars filled my vision as my head cracked back. The chick had packed a wallop. I would have landed in the aisle if my spine didn’t catch the armrest first. Regaining my balance, I held onto my wobbly head with my hands. I was afraid it my fall off. “Wow,” I slurred. “You’ve got skills.”

  The girl was staring at me wide-eyed with her sweater still balled in her hands. “Oh, splint—I mean, apologies, did I strike your head?” Her voice was a dulcet purr.

  Pretty. I smiled back stupidly.

  “Can you hear me?” She waved her hands in front of my eyes. “Are you broken?”

  “Huh?” I asked, wobbling back and forth. “Yea. Fine. Groovy. Don’t worry about it.” (At least that’s what I think I said. I wasn’t sure my mouth was cooperating with my brain just yet.)

  The girl frowned. I don’t think she believed me.

  “Really,” I sputtered, catching some drool on its way to my chin, “don’t worry about it. I’ve had worse.” This was getting embarrassing. I had enough sense to hear myself now, but no matter how hard I tried, my voice kept slurring. I was having trouble forming the words, and what I’d said wasn’t exactly true. Sure, I’d taken a number of beatings, sure, I’d even been knocked out cold a few times, but in all my fights, I had never taken a hit like that before. And it wasn’t a temple shot either; she’d hit me dead on the forehead. If Phil Collins had connected with that pipe, it couldn’t have done much worse. But at the moment I wasn’t concerned about brain damage; I was too busy staring at her damn hair. It flowed in silken waves down over her shoulders, a black background that framed her face perfectly. Hiding it under that cap may have been a breach of the Geneva Conventions.

  Perturbed, she waved her hand in front of me.

  My attention drifted back to her eyes. They had a way of pulling you in. Right now they were fixed on my temple.

  “Traveler, your durability is admirable, but from my perspective, you do not look fine at all.”

  “Really, it’s alright. I’ve—I’ve had worse.”

  Through another wave of neato sparkles, I noticed that my seatmate was busy removing her gloves. They were thin forearm-length ones that reminded me of that movie, Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Her motions were methodical, and all the while, her eyes stayed trained on my forehead.

  “Very well,” she replied amiably. “I will accept your contention that you have received more severe bludgeonings in the past—however, at present you are bleeding and need tending to.”

  At her words, I noticed the warm trickle making its way down my forehead. I went to reach into my snack pack for a napkin when her hand met my brow.

  “Hold still,” she ordered. “Let me treat the wound.”

  The inflections in her voice had vanished, and only the soothing monotone remained. I felt dizzy, and I wanted nothing more than to do as she asked, nothing more than sit still and be cared for. It was nice. It was soothing. She was touching my brow lightly with two fingers. They were cold, and as her fingers tracked toward the source of the bleeding, goose bumps rose on the back of my neck. With her other hand, she drew out a black handkerchief from her pants pocket and applied pressure to my forehead. Head wounds are notoriously bloody. Steady pressure would keep the cut from bleeding all over the place. It seemed she knew what she was doing.

  “Good,” she said. “Now lean back and relax.”

  She guided my head back to the seat rest all the while holding steady pressure.

  “Sorry about the handkerchief…” I blubbered. “You seem to like black.”

  She nodded, not seeming to get the joke. “I do. Black is my second favorite color. It never stands out nor can it be stained.” She spoke of the color with the same professional pride chefs use when describing their knives.

  “I guess that’s true,” I said. “You wear it well, by-the-way. It suits you.”

  “Indeed,” she said absently. Her arm was blocking most of my vision, but I could smell the faint scent of lavender. The gentle touch, the care and concern, it made me feel fuzzy. I didn’t want it to stop. It reminded me of when Dr. Montgomery had taken care of me in the hospital.

  “Just rest here for a while longer.” She suppressed a cough and cleared her throat. “The wound is not a deep one. The dermis remains intact. You will not require stitching.”

  I raised an eyebrow. She looked my age—maybe younger—but few if any of my classmates knew that the word ‘dermis’ had anything to do with the skin, let alone how the condition of its connective tissue layer determined whether or not you needed stitches.

  Hot and smart? They made those?

  The girl had my head pressed firmly against the chair with her left hand. Her bloodied right rested on her lap. I couldn’t see her face, but she didn’t seem bothered by the blood. Not many people can tolerate being covered in someone else’s. I wondered if she was like a medical student or something, but before I could offer to go get a napkin, she raised her right hand out of my view and wiped it clean.

  Gross.

  I’ll admit to rubbing food off on my shirt once-and-a-while, but wasn’t that taking it a bit far? I was considering whether that was a deal breaker when she stood up.

  “Keep this amount of pressure on the wound,” she ordered. “I need to use the lavatory.”

  “Sure,” I said, taking hold of the handkerchief. I started to say thank you when she basically hopped straight into the air. I sat wide-eyed as her hair brushed lightly against me. In one clean leap, she cleared my legs and landed in the aisle with a feather’s touch. She grabbed her backpack and hustled down the aisle to the back of the bus.

  I scratched my head. That was odd.

  In the past five minutes, I had managed to tease my libido, scald my crotch, and catch a world-class elbow with my forehead. I needed things to stop moving-burning-throbbing for a moment. I was grateful that my seatmate’s bladder had obliged. Once I thought it was safe, I checked the hanky. The bleeding had stopped. My head was still a bit wobbly—and I knew I was going to have a funny looking bump in a few hours—but that was easy enough to deal with. I wiped up the remaining blood and leaned back in the chair. On the TV, the dynamite guy had just finished the D and the A of DAN. He was jumping up and down with joy.

  I was staring off into space, when the girl cleared her throat beside me.

  Maintaining my confident, debonair style I jumped in shock.

  She’d snuck up on me again. How the heck did she keep doing that?

  She did that half eyebrow raise thing again and gestured to her chair.

  “Sorry,�
� I said. “I didn’t notice you standing there.”

  I hopped out of the seat to let her by, but instead of sitting down, she grabbed my head in her still chilly hands and squinted at the wound. I looked around awkwardly. There were people staring. I guess it wasn’t common to see a runway model dressed in black fatigues conducting a first-aid seminar in the middle of an aisle on a moving bus.

  The little girl sitting across from us pointed at my forehead and announced, “Booboo, daddy. Snow White is fixing the big booboo.”

  I smiled sheepishly. Big booboo was right.

  My seatmate was indifferent. She finished her exam and nodded. “It has clotted. Go back and clean the skin gently. I will take care of everything when you return.” She spoke in that same commanding monotone. I tried to pay attention, but a painful sensation was building behind my eyes. I just knew that a headache was coming. My seatmate was trying to give instructions about how I should treat the wound, but the surging pain was too distracting. I was trying to push back against it when she handed me the big black Band-Aid.

  I blinked at the Band-Aid. “They make black ones?” I grinned. Sure, she was a bit bossy, but at least she had a sense of humor. Maybe she was military…I mock saluted her. “Orders received, ma’am. I’ll get on it right way.” I extended my hand. “My name’s Dieter Resnick, by the way.”

  Her mouth gaped in response. I had just enough time to marvel at the whiteness of her teeth before she clamped her mouth shut. They had to be the whitest teeth I’d ever seen.

  I scratched my head. “What’s yours?” This girl was kinda dense. Maybe she was a model.

  “You know not my name?” She frowned, and then her eyes widened as if she were remembered something. “Oh, yes! My apologies. My name is Rei Acerba Bathory. It is nice to meet you…Dieter, was it?”

  I nodded.

  “An interesting name. Dieter is of German origin, correct?”

  I shrugged. “My mother picked it.”