Like a Surge

by Olivette Devaux

  Paul had never seen a water-whisperer use donated power to cool electrical burns and speed up the healing process – but water countered fire, and Cooper began to heal much faster than Dr. Cook had predicted.

  Since the most efficient power-raising always occurred through sex, Ellen was now throwing up in the morning, and Paul kept wondering when he would need to leave the house so his room could be turned into a nursery.

  “Paul.” Dr. Yantar was bent over him now, looking concerned. “Are you okay? You went pale all of a sudden.”

  “Sorry,” Paul croaked. “I just spaced out.” He cast his eyes down. This guy would be the death of him. He was just too nice, and too concerned, and too... too knowledgeable and perfect, and Paul would move mountains to earn his approving smile.

  “Would you like to tell us how it happened? Was he, what... golfing? Fishing?”

  Paul shook his head and glanced away.

  The storm outside intensified, mirroring Paul’s tortured internal state. He felt the tickle of his own electric potential, which was increasing along with the weather’s intensity.

  Along with Dr. Yantar’s enticing proximity.

  The charge began to buzz under his skin, his stress adding to the effects of the storm. He recognized the signs immediately.

  He needed to leave.

  “I’m sorry,” Paul mumbled, and stood up very carefully. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Water fountain, right?” Dr.Yantar’s academic excitement softened to a sympathetic look that promised to lave Paul with its softness and wash his troubles away. “Do you want someone to go with you?”

  “No. Thanks.” The curt words barely ripped out of his throat when Paul’s foot got caught in his neighbor’s backpack shoulder strap.

  He stumbled.

  Dr. Yantar caught his shoulders.

  Paul slumped as his charge drained so fast, it was like being sucked dry.

  “Oh!” Dr. Yantar yelped, and it wasn’t because helping Paul keep his balance was too much work. “Oh. Well.” He cleared his throat and removed his hands from Paul’s arms very carefully while the class watched on with casual interest.

  Just someone feeling sick. Big deal.

  Except it was, because his professor sucked his charge away so hard, his black hair now stood up from his head, and his eyes narrowed with a speculative look.

  Dr. Yantar stepped aside, giving Paul ample space to pass him without touching. “Go get some water. I hope you feel better.”

  Paul was almost to the door, when he heard the parting shot. “And come see me after class – just to make sure you have all your assignments.”

  RUSS DID NOT expect Paul to return to class that day. He didn’t have it together enough to answer his student’s questions in his distracted state. Thinking fast, he skipped two classes ahead, and put on an instructional video. Not all material had to be introduced in a linear fashion, he thought as he distributed handouts, on which the students could take extra notes.

  What he had seen – and the incredible power surge he had absorbed as he’d prevented Paul’s fall – shook him to the core. Judging from Paul’s expression, the event had been hard on him as well. He wouldn’t have been surprised to see him drop out altogether. Not after having discharged as though he was an electric eel.

  A human, walking electric eel – unless the whole event was just a product of his own overactive imagination. Unless he had been channeling his immense physical attraction to an unavailable student into his... mirages. The imaginings of things that were not really there.

  He shook his head as he surveyed the quiet, attentive class. The video droned on, competing with the hiss of the rain outside as it illuminated the whole class.

  The surge had not harmed Russ – yet another proof that Paul had not, in fact, generated a bioelectric field. Likewise, the glow of electromagnetic fields he saw shimmer around wires and devices in shades of blue, purple, and white did not exist.

  He likened the mirages, as he called them, to a peculiarity of his imperfect mind, a defect of sorts. A hallucination, which was a result of both of his early LSD experiments, and his obsessive preoccupation with anything electrical. Russ knew the field was there, but for some reason, his mind always supplied a visual effect of its very own.

  This was why nobody else was able to see it. Or that’s what his old psychiatrist had told him, back when Russ had tried to make it all stop so he could be “normal.”

  That had been years ago.

  Presently, his mission was to study electricity and teach safer live-line techniques to the poor sods, who risked their lives for less than thirty bucks an hour while they worked hard to keep civilization alive.

  He had never discussed his problem with anyone else, because mental illness was an intensely private matter. A shameful deficit, one he had to make up for, a series of phenomena which occurred only in his mind and made distinguishing hallucination from reality particularly difficult on stormy days.

  On days like this one.

  Except today, Paul Sorensen seemed to have done something utterly unprecedented.

  Unless this all was just one of Russ’s delayed acid trips, Paul had built up an electric charge strong enough to kill a grown man, making the air around him shimmer with a peculiar pink glow. The not-feeling-well part must’ve been tied to it all.

  The classroom darkened as the storm outside intensified. Hard, driving rain now drowned out the instructional audio’s soundtrack as it beat against the firmly shut window panes.

  A bright flash of lightning lit up the classroom with an eerie glow, closely followed by thunder.

  The projection screen dimmed, the power cut out, and for a short while, the only sound that filled the classroom were the sheets of rain thrown against the building by the howling wind.

  “Oh, man!” Ricardo, who sat to the left as usual, groaned, and fluffed up his dreads. “And we were almost done! Getting to the car’s gonna be a bitch.”

  His comment set off a series of murmurs and complaints.

  “Are the next classes gonna be cancelled?”

  “Can we go home?”

  “My phone shows this is just the beginning, Dr. Yantar!”

  Russ unplugged the projector and his laptop and scanned the room for any instrumentation, which might be harmed by the power cycling on and off as the crews struggled to restore service.

  “I can’t tell you yet, but...” he peeked out the glass window in the door to the hallway. “The emergency generators just kicked in, and we have emergency lighting. Which also means, the vending machines down in the lobby will be working.” He was torn. Normally, he’d talk about the event and use it to illustrate what happens during a storm. Restoring service by fixing downed power lines and replacing blown transformers was the career path for at least half of this class.

  But Paul Sorensen had shocked his usual enthusiasm right out of him.

  “Don’t go outside just yet,” he warned them. “No sense getting wet and risking bad driving conditions. Wait it out until it’s just ordinary rain, okay? Go downstairs and have a snack. If you hear anything about closed roads, or flooding, or downed trees, please let me know. I have to go check on your sick classmate.”

  They filed out with their book bags slung over their shoulders. Only Paul’s bag was still on the floor by the awkward, antiquated chair-desk he had occupied only fifteen minutes ago.

  Russ hesitated to gather Paul things, as though the items themselves were going to attack him. He didn’t see any colors, not anywhere with the power out, but his mind played tricks on him as the storm raged outside. The clouds had that glow, luminous and purple and crackling with white marbling, as though the static charge generated by the particles in the clouds emitted light.

  Which it didn’t. Conventional physics didn’t support it, and northern lights had different colors anyway.

  “I’m sick,” he whispered, reminding himself not to pay any heed to the artifacts of his damaged mind.

&n
bsp; He heard the door shut and spun in place. Last thing he needed was an eaves-dropper, a busy-body who would get him fired.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Paul said. He looked around. “Where did everybody go?”

  “People are down in the lobby, getting snacks and waiting out the storm,” Russ said in a voice so level, he was pleasantly surprised with himself. “How’re you feeling?”

  He riveted his gaze to his peculiar student. He looked normal just now. Just like any other guy who was learning how to handle a hot-stick –

  Paul stood just few feet away from him, with his eyebrows drawn into a concerned frown. He kept staring right back at him, as though he was studying a particularly lavish birthday cake destined for his worst enemy.

  Interesting. He seemed to be wrestling with an internal struggle. Russ cocked his eyebrow at this and shot an encouraging smile. “Well?”

  Paul’s eyes widened, pupils ink-black in the darkened room. “I’m good,” he croaked. “It’s just... just...” He wavered.

  ‘That head injury from before. Did you even have it checked out?”

  Paul nodded. All seemed well – except no head injury would make Paul Sorensen glow with an aura of electric pink.

  CHAPTER 8

  His professor leaned forward. His eyes widened with shock, reminding him of his mother whenever she tried to get a closer look and see whether or not Paul had dripped ketchup onto a formerly clean T-shirt. Then Dr. Yantar leaned back in a gesture of embarrassed avoidance. “What?” Paul said, looking down automatically.

  Not that he could see much in a room without lights, and with the steel-gray cloud cover bringing dusk an hour too soon, the classroom was immersed in eerie twilight. He could discern the individual chair-desks the students sat in, and the massive teacher’s counter, which was covered in slate to protect it from chemicals. The white dry-wipe board gleamed in contrast to the uniform grayness of the classroom as it reflected what light it could.

  “You’re glowing,” Dr. Yantar blurted out.

  Under ordinary circumstances, and with any other person outside his little clan, Paul would have denied any such outlandish allegation right away. Hiding their talents, their powers and their curses was second nature by the time people in his group were school-aged.

  Except Dr. Russ Yantar was not as ordinary as he seemed. For weeks now, Paul had been looking for an opportunity to touch him while wearing his rubber-coated glove. The rubber was for Dr. Yantar’s protection. The touch was there for Paul, so he could better discern whether his previous, fleeting impression of a power-signature in an otherwise ordinary teacher had any depth behind it.

  After Dr. Yantar had steadied him and had accepted his potentially harmful electrical surge with merely a yelp of surprise, it was time to have a little talk.

  “I know I’m glowing,” Paul said, keeping his voice low and as casual as he could muster.

  Dr. Yantar wobbled as though he had been struck by a gust of wind.

  Paul sat in one of the seats. “Sit down,” he beckoned at a chair near him. “Let’s talk about this thing. Not everyone can see me glow. In fact, most people think I’m just another guy.”

  After a brief hesitation, Dr. Yantar sat so heavily, the chair gave a creak of protest. “Never mind. I’m just... going crazy.”

  “No. You are totally not going crazy. My cousin sees things, and he used to think he was certifiably nuts. He went to a doctor and took meds, and everything.” Paul frowned as he imagined Cooper as an eighteen-year-old. Alone, scared, and several states away during college, it was a wonder that Cooper was now a high-functioning professional. “The meds didn’t work, so he ditched ‘em,” Paul said, leaning forward as he tried to convey his passionate conviction that seeing auras was perfectly natural. “And now he’s an architect, and he sees things other people can’t. It even helps him in his work.”

  Dr. Yantar straightened up some, as though the information was of special interest.

  “So... what do you see?” Paul kept making conversation as though the topic was ordinary. Traffic, perhaps. Or the weather. “Talents are different for everyone, y’know.”

  “You’ll think I’m crazy.”

  “No, I really won’t. Look, have you ever seen me touch one of the classroom computers?”

  A head-shake.

  “That’s right,” Paul continued. “Because I’d fry ‘em. I can’t even have a cell phone. Hell, I can’t even turn the lights on without blowing the fuses! I use rubber gloves or push-sticks, and my motorcycle is a vintage machine because I can’t drive anything with electronics in it.”

  The room was filled only with the sounds of rain and wind against the window for some time. Then, slowly, Dr. Yantar tilted his head and blinked his eyes. “How do I know this is real? How do I know you’re real? If I’m crazy, I could be imagining you right this second.”

  Paul had expected this line of questioning. “Give me something I can charge up without ruining it.”

  After a bit of rummaging, and with what seemed to be due consideration, Dr. Yantar handed him a fluorescent light bulb. “Will this do?”

  “I think so,” Paul said, and cradled it’s ends in his hands. Gently, trying hard not to send any power into it on purpose, he touched his fingers to the electrical contacts at each end.

  The darkness of the storm and of the encroaching night escaped before the light that now spilled from Paul’s two-foot light bulb.

  He heard Dr. Yantar gasp.

  He saw him shield his eyes.

  The tube grew brighter and brighter.

  “Paul! That’s enough!”

  Too late, Paul tried to pull back and set the fragile object down.

  It blew into shards with a pop, plunging the room into darkness. Four feet away, he heard Dr. Yantar curse under his breath and bite back little hisses of pain.

  The flying glass. Of course.

  “You got cut? I’m so sorry. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

  THE SORROW IN Paul’s voice was as unmistakable as it was well-practiced, Russ reflected as he pulled a second shard of glass from his chest by the light of his cell phone. Paul must have gone through his life apologizing for his never-ending string of disasters. The exploding fire-hydrant must have been one of those as well, but how?

  His heart went out to Paul as he imagined how he must be feeling, not just now, but all the time.

  “Is it bad?” Paul’s voice quivered.

  “Not so bad,” Russ said stoically. The glass had not gone deep, but even so his dress shirt was now cut, and stained with dark splotches of seeping blood.

  “I’m so sorry,” Paul kept saying over and over. “I’m such a disaster, I know.” He handed him a roll of the cheap, brown paper towels that used to hang over the sink. “I’d offer to hold the light for you, but...”

  “No, please don’t,” Russ said before Paul could finish. “I like my phone in one piece!” He giggled at the thought of his smart-phone singed and melted down to a shapeless mass. How would he explain that to the nice people at the store, who had sold him phone insurance for his device?

  “Dr. Yantar, I –”

  “No, please don’t apologize.” His voice was brimming with cheer even to himself. “This is great, don’t you see? These little cuts will heal, and they are totally worth it! Hand me the duct tape in my drawer, if you will?”

  He saw Paul scurry in the dark to fulfill his wish mostly because Paul had that pink glow surrounding him from all directions. It was quite lovely, in fact. Amazing and graceful and luminous.

  Graceful, he thought again. Graceful like the line of his shoulders, the arch of his back, the way his nose upturned the slightest bit. Luminous like his smile when something as going well – a rare event for a guy whose life was, it appeared, a series of unmitigated disasters.

  Paul appeared before him with a small duct tape remnant in his hand. “That’s all I could find.” Again, that apologetic tone.

  “Thank you, Paul.” He took it with his
other hand. “Now the trick is to keep the pressure on the cut, and to tape the wad of towel to it. Except...”

  “Except you need an extra hand. Here, let me help.” Paul reached for the buttons of his shirt, then paused. “Maybe I better put my rubber gloves on. Are you wearing your rubber-soled shoes? You better stand up.” Concern permeated every word.

  “I have never minded getting shocked,” Russ said, knowing it wasn’t the answer most people would give. “It comes with the territory.” He remained leaning against his slate-top counter.

  Hesitantly, slowly, Paul touched his shirt. As he undid his buttons, one after another, Russ experienced a tingle of sorts, as though Paul was brimming with power, but holding back.

  Then his fingers brushed his skin, warm and dry and tickly, and an involuntary gasp escaped him.

  “Did I zap you?” Paul’s voice was just a whisper.

  “No.” A lump had lodged itself in Russ’ throat. He could barely speak. This sensation, so sensuous and amazing, sent blood below his waist so fast, he thought he might faint.

  “You okay? Are you all right with seeing blood? Maybe you’ve lost more than we realized.” Paul’s words were all business, but his words floated on a cushion of soft concern, and his fingers around the cuts on the skin on Russ’ chest and abs soothed and aroused at the same time.

  A rip of tape, then that sticky feeling, and then... nothing.

  Russ opened his eyes, only now realizing that he had closed them as he had been savoring every bit of sensation.

  Paul’s hands fell to his sides, as though to check that everything else was in order. “That’s it, then. You’re patched up, at least for now.”

  He glowed. He cared, and he was funny, and he had caused a most fortunate mishap. The accident was probably the only thing which could convince Russ that the glow was a real thing, that all those images of auras around electrical appliances had always been a genuine phenomenon. “If my cuts are real, and if the blood here is real, then this all must be real, too,” he said quickly. “And that means you’re real, and you’ve been holding back, trying not to zap me. Which is nice of you – except I never really minded getting zapped.”