by Dima Zales
“Is that true?” she asks Eugene, giving me an odd look.
“Yes. I didn’t get a chance to tell you.” Eugene looks uncomfortable.
“I see,” she says slowly. “Okay, Darren. Maybe I won’t shoot you anytime soon. And I’m not a rat, so your secret is safe with me. Even if we don’t really even know what that secret is. Are you happy now?”
“Yes. Thank you,” I say, relieved. I’m okay with her attitude for now. It beats being shot or revealed as a potential Pusher.
“Great. Now that it’s settled, can we get some breakfast?” Eugene gives us a big smile. “I’m starving.”
Mira rolls her eyes. “How are you not much, much fatter?” she asks rhetorically before saying, “Sure. Let’s go get something. I have some more questions for Darren, and we might as well kill two birds with one stone.”
“I’m in,” I say, though I’m not sure I want to answer any questions Mira is thinking of asking me. The green smoothie I had earlier was more of a snack, so a real breakfast sounds like a wonderful idea.
It takes them a few moments to put on shoes. One elevator ride and a flight of stairs later, we’re walking through the lobby.
We approach the door. I feel chivalrous for some reason, so I hold open the glass door that leads outside the building. I’m doing it for Mira, of course, but Eugene benefits too.
“Thank you,” Mira says, exiting after Eugene. “Where are we going to eat?”
“The diner?” Eugene suggests hopefully.
As I follow them, I have a sense of déjà vu. She’s about to bring up the food poisoning story again. They’ll fight. Then she’ll get her way and choose the breakfast place she wants. I guess it’s a thing with siblings; they have the same fights over and over, with the same results. Must be kind of nice.
Suddenly, there is a loud noise—a strange sound that scrapes at the inside of my ears.
I’m caught off-guard. Instinctively, I phase into the Quiet.
The argument between Mira and Eugene stops, their faces frozen. The sound also stops.
I turn around.
It’s the glass door. It’s shattering in a strange pattern. From a spot in the middle, the glass is flying out in small fragments. Farther out, the glass is falling in larger chunks.
Something struck that glass at high speed and with high force.
I feel cold as I rush into the building, fearing what I’ll find there. It takes me less than a minute to discover the culprit.
It’s a bullet.
A bullet is lying on the floor in the hallway.
I run outside and cross the street, frantically looking around. I see nothing, so I go through the park, straining my eyes as I scan the area. Finally, I spot something in the distance. I run toward it. As I get closer, I hope against all hope that it’s just a large fly.
When I’m standing next to it, though, I know my hope is futile. The thing frozen in mid-air is what I feared it would be.
It’s another bullet—flying at one of us.
Chapter 8
I swivel my head from side to side, frantically trying to figure out where the shooter might be.
My brain almost subconsciously provides the solution for me as my legs take me where I need to go.
I run through the little park, almost tripping over frozen parents watching their frozen kids on the silent playground.
The shooter is sitting in a large van, holding a long rifle pointed in our direction.
The anger that I now feel is difficult to describe. I’ve never felt this enraged before.
This fucker just shot at me and my friends—and he’s shooting at us through a park where little kids are playing.
Before this moment, I thought I would never consider Pushing anyone again. The reality of what I inadvertently did to that guy yesterday still horrifies me.
But now I feel ready to Push again—intentionally this time. It’s the only option.
I approach the guy and grab him by the neck with all my strength. For a second, I forget why I’m here. I just relish choking him.
Then I give myself a mental shake. I don’t know if Pushing works with corpses, so it’s best if I don’t continue with this. I loosen my grip and try to start the session.
I find it extremely difficult to get into the right state of mind while overcome with so many turbulent emotions. I must, however, so I concentrate.
I do synchronized breathing for a few moments, and begin to feel the necessary state of Coherence coming on. Suddenly, I’m in the shooter’s vile head . . .
* * *
We’re shooting at the target the second time and mentally cursing the boss in Russian. Why the fuck did he give this order on such a short notice?
The first miss is his fault. He didn’t give us a chance to get our favorite rifle. The one with the scope that has been perfectly calibrated. Instead, we got this piece of shit.
We’re not used to working like this. To not being a hundred-percent sure we’re going to hit the target. It’s unprofessional. The only silver lining is that, due to the urgency, we came here alone, so no one witnessed that embarrassing miss. Our marksman’s reputation is unblemished.
I, Darren, disassociate from the Reading. This is yet another Russian mobster. He has been ordered to kill, and it’s clear that he won’t stop until that grim task is complete. But he doesn’t know anything useful to me.
I begin my unsavory task. I try to repeat Pushing—the thing I did the other day.
I’m still unsure how I did what I did, so I rely on instinct and intuition.
I picture this fucker packing his rifle, closing the van door, and getting behind the wheel. I try to imagine hearing the van door close and feeling the ignition keys under my fingers. There is a huge urgency to get out of here. To be away. I visualize the switching of gears and the frantic clutching of the wheel, knuckles white, followed by the flooring of the gas pedal. I put my fear of that bullet into my vessel—his mind. I become fear. I channel it. There is only one escape from this fear, and that is to leave instantly and to go fast. As fast as humanly possible. No stopping, no slowing down, just a mad rush to safely, safety that’s many miles away from here . . .
I do this thing for what feels like a half hour, battling a growing feeling of mental exhaustion mingled with disgust. When I finally can’t take it for another second, I exit the guy’s mind.
* * *
I run back through the park, shuddering when I pass by the bullet again.
I want to grab it, throw it on the ground, and stomp on it, but I resist the urge. It would be futile—nothing I can do to the bullet in the Quiet will change the fact that it will resume its potentially deadly path when I phase out.
Random thoughts enter my head. Should I have done the Pushing? Am I becoming the monster the Reader community is afraid of? The monster I’m afraid of?
Yes, I should’ve done it, I try to convince myself. It was necessary. If I didn’t do something, the bullet that’s still in the air would’ve been followed by more, until the shooter’s job was done. Until he killed his target—one of us. Pushing was the only way I could think of to stop him. I didn’t have a choice.
Besides, it’s not like I’m going to cause his death, like the other time. Not that it was, strictly speaking, my fault yesterday—the second guard had been the one to actually pull the trigger. In this case, I think I merely caused the shooter to drive away. Admittedly, he will go fast, which has risks associated with it, but I didn’t commit him to a definite fatal outcome.
I stop worrying about my actions when I find myself next to our frozen bodies again.
I look us over.
My frozen self’s face looks scared, but knowing what I know now, the expression on his/my face is not scared enough.
Eugene just looks confused, not scared yet.
Mira is the only one of us who looks like she has it together. She looks focused and alert, ready to pounce into action, and her head is beginning to turn toward me.
The plan is ridiculously simple. I will fall, and by doing so, I will try to get Mira to fall as well. She’ll fall into Eugene. We should all go down like a stack of dominos—in theory, at least. And quickly, which is vital.
My hope is that the bullet will miss all of us if I do it right. This sort of tackling maneuver works for the Secret Service in the movies, so I figure it should work in real life. It has to work.
Not letting my brain come up with counterarguments for this plan, I focus on just going for it.
I reach out and touch my face. At the same time, before I’m even in my body, I put every ounce of my energy into willing my leg muscles to begin the movement that will cause me to spring in the right direction.
My whole world becomes the command I’m sending to my brain—the command for my leg muscles to act so I can fall.
My body seems to move before I even become aware that I’ve phased out of the Quiet. I feel my arms spread around Mira before they actually do so.
I only fully realize I’m out of the Quiet when I hear Mira’s surprised yelp at the impact of my body falling on her.
I know I’m out because the street noises have returned. And then I feel the most unpleasant scraping sensation in my head. It’s like a dental drill, but multiplied a hundredfold. It’s quickly followed by intense pain. It’s as though I just got hit on the head with a baseball bat—a baseball bat made of hot iron.
Everything is happening as though in slow motion. I feel like I’m going to phase back into the Quiet, but I manage to fight off the sensation.
In the next instant, I’m on top of Mira, who’s on top of Eugene.
That part of my plan has worked.
They’re both cursing, which means they’re alive. Then I feel an explosion of pain in my head as I roll off the pile of bodies we formed.
I’m unable to get up. My head is pulsing with pain. It burns. It stings. It’s horrible.
I bring my hand to the epicenter of the torment, and I feel warm liquid there.
In a moment of lucidity, I realize I’ve been shot. In the head.
“Darren, what the fuck—” Mira begins, but stops mid-sentence. “Oh, Darren, I am so sorry. Why are you bleeding? Did you hit your head when you fell? What happened?”
I feel her hands on my shoulder. She’s turning me over.
“Eugene, please call 911,” I try to say. “I think I’ve been shot.”
“Zhenya, zvoni 911, bistrey!” she yells in Eugene’s direction, and I don’t know if she spoke in Russian, or if I’m losing my ability to comprehend English.
“Darren, look at me,” she says to me gently. “You’re going to be okay. I’m going to try to stop the bleeding.”
I was right; that liquid I felt means I’m bleeding. This thought comes to me as though from a distance.
I hear the sound of ripping cloth, and in the next moment, I feel the pain intensify. She must’ve pressed the makeshift bandage to the wound. Some part of me realizes this must be an attempt to stop the bleeding.
I begin to reach for my head again, but she puts her hand on mine, preventing me from doing so. Her hand feels good, reassuring, so I just leave it there.
“Take deep breaths,” Mira’s voice says softly. “Yes, like that, slow and steady, this should help with the shock. How much does it hurt?”
I try to tell her it isn’t so bad, but the words come out all jumbled.
“It doesn’t matter, Darren, just talk to me,” she says in a desperate, hushed tone. “Open your eyes, now.”
I obey her command and open my eyes. At the same time, I lift my hand, the one that touched my head earlier, and take a look. My hand is covered in blood, and I can feel it streaming down my neck.
The world begins to spin, and then everything goes black.
Chapter 9
I wake up.
How much did I drink last night?
My head hurts like hell.
I try to remember what happened. I’m not in my own bed, but lying down in some kind of bed in a moving vehicle. Ambulance?
I try to open my eyes, but the light strikes a hammer-blow of pain, so I close them again.
“Darren, I’m here,” says a familiar soothing voice.
It’s Mira’s voice—and the reason I’m here comes back to me.
I was shot.
In the head.
That would explain this excruciating pain. I try to open my eyes, squinting cautiously.
“He’s conscious,” I hear Eugene say.
“That’s good news,” says an unfamiliar male voice.
“You’re not a doctor to be saying what constitutes good or bad news.” Mira’s tone is sharp. “I want a doctor to see him right away.”
“We’re on the way to the hospital,” the unfamiliar voice says defensively. He must be a paramedic, and the moving object I find myself in must be an ambulance, I realize.
“My head really hurts,” I decide to complain. Talking makes the pain intensify, though, and the feeling I now have is like being carsick, only ten times worse.
“You got shot,” Mira says gently. “Is there anyone I should call for you? Friends or family?”
There is care and concern in her voice. She sounds like she’s actually worried about me and wants to help. She doesn’t sound like the girl who was just about to shoot me herself not so long ago. The headache intensifies further when I try to think about this, so I stop. The idea of calling someone makes some sense, though.
“In my phone. Sara and Lucy are my family. Bert is my friend,” I say, trying to reach for my pocket. Moving sends waves of nausea through my body. Am I dying? I wonder if that would end the pain.
“I got it,” she says, putting one of her hands on mine and reaching into my pocket with her other hand.
Usually, I would have dirty thoughts in a situation like this—having Mira dig through my jeans this way—but I guess getting shot takes its toll. I feel like I might actually puke if the ambulance keeps on shaking the way it does, and I want Mira as far away from me as possible if that happens.
I take a few deep breaths and decide that maybe I woke up too soon. I think I need to rest for a few more minutes.
“What hospital are we going to?” Mira asks the paramedic as my thoughts grow progressively cloudier.
“Coney Island,” I hear him respond as though in a dream, and then my mind goes blank again.
* * *
I wake up again. This time I know that I’m not in my own bed. I remember being shot. I also remember feeling sick in the ambulance, and I’m relieved that I’m feeling somewhat better. I even recall talking to someone. The reason for my feeling better is on the tip of my tongue, but it escapes me.
“When is the doctor going to see him again?” It’s Mira’s voice. “All he did was give him something for the pain.”
Ah, that explains it. I recall telling someone I was in terrible pain. Or did I say something else? It’s still a bit blurry, and the weightless feeling running through my body is not conducive to recall.
There’s a trick I learned at the dentist’s office. When a dentist asks me if I feel something during a procedure, I say that I do until I can’t feel my face from all the Novocain. I must’ve automatically used this same technique when I spoke to the doctor in my woozy state, and he must’ve believed me and given me something pretty strong for the pain.
“The doctor will see him again after he gets the X-ray,” says a different female voice. A nurse, I’m guessing.
“Okay, then when is he going for that X-ray?” Mira’s voice rises. “Why is this taking so long?”
“Please calm down, miss. We’re doing the best we can,” says the nurse in a rehearsed monotone. “We have a lot of patients today and are very understaffed.”
They have a back and forth, but I ignore it. Instead, I try to examine this feeling I’m experiencing fr
om whatever is making me feel better. It’s like a warm flow through my whole body. Like I’m hovering and floating in a warm bath at the same time.
Whatever they gave me for the pain must be really beginning to kick in.
“That bullet was meant for me,” Eugene says after the person Mira was bugging about my care is gone.
“Yes. I hate to say it, but I told you so.” Mira sounds angry. “When will you develop a sense of self-preservation?”
“You’re right, of course,” Eugene says morosely. “We should’ve slept at a hotel. I didn’t think they would come after me again. Not this soon. I didn’t even think the ones involved in your kidnapping bothered to share our address with anyone else—”
“Oh, spare me all the bullshit.” Mira’s tone is scathing. “I heard it yesterday, and now Darren is hurt because I listened to you. You just wanted to be near your precious equipment, as usual. That’s all you think about.”
With the nice feelings spreading though my body, I have a hard time following the conversation. But one thing I do get from it: Mira seems to care about me. At least she’s upset that Eugene’s lack of regard for her earlier concerns resulted in my injury. As I think this, the feelings of warmth in my body intensify. What drug did they give me? Maybe I should get a prescription.
“I really am sorry, Mirochka.” Eugene sounds genuinely remorseful. “In the future, I will do what you say when it comes to paranoia.”
She gets pissy about the word paranoia, and they argue some more, with occasional lapses into Russian. I feel myself slowly floating down from whatever cloud the pain medication had taken me to. Their sibling squabble is totally ruining my buzz.
“I can’t believe Darren took the bullet for me,” Eugene says at some point, and the comment catches my attention.
Truthfully, I can’t believe it either. Well, strictly speaking, that was not my intent. I’d hoped to save everyone. But still. His remark makes me feel good, though some of that might still be the drug.
