As he flowed along the directionless currents, he grew aware of a coolness on his face, in his face, in his eyes. It wasn’t exactly unpleasant, but he grew steadily more conscious of it. A sort of numb sensation, spanning from the surface of his pupils back into his head. And every once in a while, the darkness was penetrated by a quick flash — he wasn’t quite sure whether it came from outside, in the pitch fluid, or from behind his own unfeeling eyes ...
Not much to go on, really, just a sharp flash of illumination, not unlike a bolt of lightning ...
A bolt of lightning ...
Lightning!
PCA
Steve awoke and sat sluggishly upright. He felt a flimsy gown covering his body and heard distant speaker voices and pings that he immediately associated with a hospital — the sterile, disinfectant odor and the pinch of an IV in the back of his left hand affirmed the feeling.
But he couldn’t see any of this.
Anxiety seizing his heart in an icy grip, Steve raised his hand to the bandage wrapped around his head. He felt no pain there, but he experienced uncomfortable deja vu at the cool sensation encompassing his eyes, and he did have a top-of-the-line headache. His fingers drifted to the still prominent lump over his temple ...
Good God, he had been attacked! And by what? He’d never heard of a weapon that could— Was it a paranormal? Why in the world—?!
Dad! It must have something to do with Dad!
His breath burned his dry throat and his pulse rushed in his ears so loudly that he almost missed the low buzzing that drifted in from outside the room. He heard a swish, and the hospital sounds grew momentarily louder. Someone had opened a door.
"You’re awake, Mister Davison," a female voice stated the obvious. "How are you—"
"The police!" Steve interrupted. "I need to talk to the police right away!"
"Mister Davison, first things first—"
"Bullshit ‘first things first,’ " Steve snapped, again probing the bandage around his head, over his eyes. The woman — a nurse? — reached out to gently pull his hand away, but Steve batted her fingers fiercely the moment they made contact.
"Mister Davi—"
"I’m not kidding around here, lady," Steve growled, throwing the sheets back and moving to get off the bed. The facts that he was effectively blindfolded, had no idea where he was or where he was going, and would have to drag his IV-tethered hand in order to get there, never crossed his mind. "My dad’s an important guy, and ..."
Steve fell silent as the door hissed open a second time. "Hello, Steve," a man said.
The part of Steve that wasn’t getting caught up in blind panic tried to place the voice. He’d definitely heard it before, many times, but in his present state he couldn’t be sure ...
"It’s Alan, Steve," the man said.
Of course! Alan Russell, his father’s ... well, he was the Vice-President of Davison Electronics for years. Steve didn’t know exactly what his new position was after the business conversion.
"Alan," Steve gasped. He relaxed a little — but only a little. "Can you tell me where I am? I mean, I know I’m in a hospital, but I need to talk to the police, or the PCA. I think I was attacked by—"
"A paranormal," Alan finished for him.
Steve paused. The direction of Alan’s voice had changed; he sounded closer and lower — probably sitting next to the bed now. And Alan’s flat tone made him even more uneasy, if that were possible.
"Right," he pressed on. "I have to report it. Where are my parents? I’m surprised Mom didn’t rush in the moment I—"
Alan shuffled in his seat, and a sound not unlike a grunt escaped him. "Doctor, would you excuse us?"
"Mister Russell," the doctor said ...
all right, so nurse was a sexist guess
"... my patient has just regained consciousness after two days..."
two days?!
"... and we need to determine whether—"
"I understand," Alan cut in. "But ... Steve and I need a few minutes. Alone, please."
I don’t like that, I don’t like that haunted tone in his voice
After a moment, the doctor agreed, "Fine, but I’m not going far. Try not to ..." But her voice trailed off, and she left the room without finishing the thought.
"Alan, what is going on? Why are you here? Where are my parents?!"
"Steve ..." Alan began. A pause, then another almost-grunt. "Steve ... Steve, I, uh, have some bad news. I wish I didn’t have to spring it on you ..."
Steve began to lose it — he could feel the last strings of his self-control snapping like torn ligaments. The numbness beneath the bandage was no longer a cool sensation, but a white-hot void behind his closed eyelids. Sweat stuck the hospital gown to his body, and when he spoke again, his voice cracked in a way that might have embarrassed him under other circumstances. "Where are my parents?!"
"Steve," Alan answered in a hushed whisper that pierced Steve’s soul in a way he would remember for as long as he lived, "your family has been murdered."
it’s a joke, it’s a sick joke
are you sure about that, Stevey boy, are you really sure?
"Is this supposed to be funny?" Steve demanded in a strangled voice about as commanding as a frightened kindergartner. "Where’s Dad?!"
"Steve—"
"Where the hell is Dad?! He’ll fire you for this, you son of a bitch!"
"Steve—!"
he’s not lying, Stevey boy, you know he’s not
"GO TO HELL!!!"
Steve shoved himself off the bed — he didn’t even feel the IV rip loose — and threw himself at the older man. Alan had no time to move or otherwise react, and it was only Steve’s lack of eyesight that kept the athletic young man’s fist from breaking his jaw. As it was, Steve struck his shoulder so hard his arm went numb.
"Steve, for God’s sake!"
"He’ll fire you fire you you’ll be sorry when my parents get here Mom will hurt you so bad ...!"
Then other hands, several hands, were pulling Steve off Alan, and he felt a needle stab into his arm. As they pinned him down, his bandage slowly soaking with tears and blood, Steve sensed the watery darkness returning, and he reached out for it with all of his heart and soul. And, strangely enough, the last things he thought about as he passed into that sweet oblivion were of when he was seven and his parents bought his brother John and him snowcones at the State Fair, and the first time they took him to see the Olympic gymnasts perform...
PCA
... his first victory at a junior level judo tournament, his father ran right out onto the mats and lifted his arm high into the air. "Wonderful, Steve!" he cheered, as close to tears as Joseph Davison ever got ...
It was the morning after his outburst, and no one else had come to talk to him. The occasional nurse, doctor, whatever, had come in to ask him a few questions concerning his condition, but they had yet to try actually talking to him. Oh, he was sure that it was only a matter of time before the first therapist ("Let’s talk about how you feel, Steve. May I call you ‘Steve?’ ") came through the door, but for now they were leaving him in peace. His headache was better, but the lack of sensation in his eyes had given way to an itchy throb ... he just didn’t feel motivated enough to complain about it. What difference did it really make? He had a new chill to keep him company now — the cold, empty pit that had opened up within him, consuming the anguish and denial and all the other emotions he would have expected to be feeling at this point.
... "Straight ‘A’s again, Joseph." "Our boys are so smart, aren’t they?" "They sure are!" "We’re so proud of you both!" ...
Reaching out — no, fumbling out — he found the fork and poked at his morning eggs again. The attendant who brought it had asked if he wanted help eating, but his silence had sent the stranger away without a second offer. After a scrape or two, he dropped the utensil again. He would have thought that after three days he’d be a little hungrier, but he cared to eat about as much as he cared about the pain in
his eyes.
The door opened again, but there was a long pause before the visitor stepped into the room. By the time Alan finally spoke, Steve had already figured out who it probably was.
Without preamble, he said in a low voice, "I’m very sorry, Steve."
"I know you are," Steve returned. "I’m sorry about ... you know, yesterday."
"No, Steve, please, don’t worry about that. I understand. I brought you some terrible, horrible news, and you were just—"
"Did I hurt you?"
"... a little. Not bad. That’s one hell of a punch you’ve got there. I’d forgotten that you were so strong."
Alan’s voice sounded as though he might be smiling at that last bit, but Steve didn’t bother to return the gesture.
... his mother spent so long fixing the birthday cake into the shape of a kick-boxer launching his foot in a masterful strike. It took three attempts for her to get it right — Katherine Davison had never been much of a baker...
(Don’t worry, Stevey, you’ll never have to eat one of her overly-dry cakes again)
(SHUT UP!!!)
After a pause, Alan spoke again. "I, um, thought you might want to know a little more about what, uh, happened, now that you’re ... but I can just come back later if you want."
Steve sighed. "No. Might as well get it over with. I don’t want my curiosity to finally rear its ugly head at three in the morning with no one around."
Steve heard Alan sit down next to the bed again. Since Steve was partially strapped to his bed at this point, that probably felt like a safe enough move for him.
"Three days ago," he began, "several of your neighbors reported a large disturbance at your home. The police arrived to find the ... remains of your parents, your aunt and uncle, and your cousin. Officially, your brother is ‘missing,’ but ... we’re presuming the worst. You were found shortly thereafter and brought to the hospital. Judging from the damage caused, we surmised that paranormals were involved. You verified our assumptions yesterday."
Steve nodded, but most of his attention was lingering elsewhere. "If you found me, then you saw the motorcycle?"
"Yes. You were attacked while riding it?"
"Yeah."
"You’re lucky they didn’t hit you. The front tire looked like it’d been struck by lightning."
lightning
"Not unless lightning strikes sideways," Steve muttered.
"Steve," Alan said, and now there was another pause, "when we found you, shards of broken glass were protruding from your eyes. I’m ... afraid that your natural vision was permanently ruined. You, uh..." More silence — Steve could hear him shifting uneasily in his seat.
"I’m blind," he finished for the older man. "Don’t worry, Alan, I’m a bright guy. I’d already figured that much out on my own." And he had — he’d simply been trying not to think about it.
... the basketball game against John and Dan the day before had gone so—
"You don’t have to be, Steve," Alan whispered.
Those words snapped Steve back to the moment. "What?"
"You don’t have to be blind."
"I got that. What do you mean?"
Alan kept his voice low, as though he were afraid of being overheard, even though the door was closed. "What I’m about to tell you is extremely confidential, Steve. Do you understand?"
Steve nodded. Despite his depression, he found himself listening attentively.
"There’s been a lot of deliberation on what should be done. The PCA is screaming for our latest developments at the company, and the general public is always screaming for action ... and we have our suspicions as to who might be responsible for the murders—"
Steve latched onto that like a striking snake. "Who?!" he demanded.
"Did you ever meet Richard McLane?"
The emptiness, the pit inside was no longer cold now — like his wounded eyes the day before, it was starting to fill with heat. "Twice."
"Joseph fired McLane the day before the murders. There was an outburst and a lot of threats thrown by the man, and now the police can’t find him. If he did it, he must be brought to justice, of course, but there are certain considerations that go beyond that, and they seriously complicate matters."
I’m not interested in any "complications," Alan. "Such as?"
"If McLane is consorting with paranormal rogues, it could severely jeopardize national, perhaps global security. McLane led the company in weapons development, and our company leads all the others. If McLane discloses his knowledge to rogues, or even begins working for or with them, the ramifications would be disastrous. To be honest, the PCA might not have the raw power to deal with a threat of this magnitude ..."
The door opened, and Alan practically leaped to his feet to meet the intruder before they could enter the room. Steve heard someone whisper something, and Alan replied with a request for a "few more minutes." A second later, the older man returned to his seat, but now his words were filled with a lot more emotion, and Steve realized that he was not the only person in this world affected by his family’s deaths.
"That was your doctor. I don’t have much time, so I’ll get right to the point. We need someone to take McLane out, someone who can deal with his associates ... and who wants the murdering bastard in the worst way."
Steve certainly qualified for that last condition; a fiery passion filled him now that demanded he avenge his family. But how could he — a suddenly alone young man — deal with paranormals? And...
"Alan, what does any of this have to do with my ‘not having to be blind?’ Spit it out, for God’s sake!"
"Regardless of whether or not you accept this full ... proposal, I will not let Joseph’s son go blind, not when we can do something about it. We can use a project that McLane, thank God, had nothing to do with. We can replace your eyes with mechanical implants, Steve."
" ‘Mechanical implants,’ " Steve repeated. Was this the time for dawning hope or severe skepticism?
"Yes. Artificial eyes, one of the side-projects the government’s allowed us to pursue. Your dad wanted to work on something besides anti-rogue weaponry, and he took full advantage of the company’s new resources. I believe he had your great-aunt in mind at the time—"
"Dad was going to fix Aunt Jane’s eyes?"
"Yes. The implants are amazing technology — they’ll function just like your natural eyes did. With a few final touches, you’ll hardly know the difference."
"Uh-huh. So what’s the catch?"
"There is no catch," Alan quickly insisted, "at least, not the type that you’re implying. We could leave your new eyes as just that: Mechanical eyes. We’ve discovered, however, that the nature of their basic design makes them capable of much, much more." Alan’s voice came closer as he leaned forward again. "Did your dad ever mention the vortex wave?"
"No."
Alan’s speech flowed out like a bursting dam, a rush of excitement and pride and urgency and nervousness. "The vortex wave harnesses more power than any other conventional weapon in the world. It generates enough kinetic energy to crush an armored tank or punch a hole through a mountain. No known paranormal has the invulnerability or the strength to resist this much force. Steve, the focal lense of the prototype is virtually identical to the artificial retinas in the mechanical eyes — we literally borrowed the design from the weapon to solve some problems with the implants. With modification, I believe you could emit the vortex directly from your new eyes."
"No shit," Steve whispered.
"And there’s more," Alan continued as though he hadn’t heard. "Between their intrinsic construction and the adapted vortex lense, I think they could also be customized for a wide variety of other uses — lasers of varied intensity, infrared or ultraviolet scanning, glare protection ... but the vortex would be by far your primary weapon ..."
Alan finally stopped to catch his breath. "Sorry. I didn’t mean to get carried away. All of this is very, very new, Steve. I hadn’t even fully considered the possibilities
until after your ... your outburst yesterday. It broke my heart ... and it pissed me off. I watched you and John grow up, and Joseph was like the brother I never had. McLane must not get away with this ..." His voice choked, and his words trailed off.
If Steve’s mind had been a whirlwind before, it was a veritable hurricane now. The things Alan was describing ... five years ago, Steve would have thought he was joking, or crazy.
But that was before the White Flash, the Seven Stars, and the Paranormal Effect. Was anything truly "impossible" anymore?
Paranormals (Book 1) Page 7
