For I Could Lift My Finger and Black Out the Sun (29 page)

And that’s when I fell to my knees, a pain like hot metal stabbing into my brain.

Taking the wide-open opportunity I’d given him, Petrus was trying to kill me.

14

I kept falling. Not just to my knees, but all the way down to the ground, sprawled flat on my back.

Near the base of Widow Falls, with the beauty of the morning sun glinting off a hundred thousand water droplets spraying through the air, I writhed in pain. Everything faded to white. Nothing but blinding white. The bone-shivering bass sound of the crashing waterfall disappeared into nothing but a single high-pitched note, a whine like ears ringing.

I was dying.

The white light, the white noise. The searing pain that felt like it would cut my mind in two.

I never even made it to Sol. I’m sorry, Mom. I’m sorry, Holly.
My last conscious thoughts.

I gulped at the air, a fish on dry land. Twisting into a ball on the ground, I made myself as small as I could.

Involuntarily, I did the same in my mind, curling my thoughts, my awareness into a ball. Tighter, ever tighter. A solid ball. Tension was the only thing there was, other than pain. The twisting tension of the ball getting smaller, smaller.

Still the white light, the white noise, the searing pain continued. In moments, I would break and everything would be still. The thought of the coming release eased the tension somewhat. I was letting go. I think I was letting go of life.

Then, the tension inside me resumed, and amplified, like it wouldn’t permit the release. Like it would transform me into a ball of iron despite my desire to give up. It was my power, and its bone-deep instinct for self-preservation. I curled, inside and out, more and more.

Finally, the ball was solid. I was iron, of body and mind.

An iron ball with a blade of sheer fire piercing the center, the source of all pain.

Then the blade pushed deeper.

And the iron refused.

The blade pushed deeper still.

And the iron refused.

The blade burned stronger, hotter, a fire like the sun burrowing inside the ball of iron, pushing beyond all resistance.

And the iron refused.

The blade’s fire dimmed, unable to maintain its fury. Unsure, the blade pulled back.

And the iron refused.

The blade became frantic. Now it was trapped, unable to pull away. It thrashed left and right, pushing in again, pulling back again.

And, against all attempts, the iron refused.

The iron tensed once more, and twisted inward one final time. And, as the iron wound into the tightest, most impossibly compressed ball, the blade inside it snapped.

Seething and boiling in the remains of the blade’s fire, the iron turned to liquid metal and raged upward along the length of the broken weapon, following its path back. Unraveling and untwisting, the tension released into a molten bolt.

I uncurled on the ground and slowly stood. I was the liquid metal. Petrus, the broken blade. My anger, my heat, my
power
, followed the line of his blade to the very core of his mind.

“Oh my” was the last thing Petrus ever said.

We faced each other, and the deadly thrust of my attack exploded within him, not just breaking his mind but cauterizing it, leaving it a burned, useless husk.

The man, the being, the body named Petrus lived on, still standing right in front of me. But the mind, the mathematician, the object of power died in that instant, burned away for all eternity. The body took a step forward, stumbled, and fell onto its face, a drooling shell.

“No!” came a woman’s shriek from somewhere behind me. A form rushed past as I teetered on my wobbly legs, exhausted from the burning power.

I was no longer iron, no longer liquid metal.

I was John Black. Still a 14-year-old boy. And I was tired. So tired.

Like peering through a distant lens, I saw the tall blond woman rush to Petrus, reaching for him, wailing, cradling him with her arms, lifting his limp body. “No!” she cried again.

I know this woman
, I thought.
Margrethe
. It came as no surprise that she was real, the woman I had seen in my dream. After all, Petrus was real.

The flash of her golden hair reminded me of my last meeting with Bobby. Being trapped, being knocked out. Overhearing the conversation in the dark between Bobby and two other people. A man and woman. Petrus and Margrethe. I was sure of it. Sol’s army had come to life. But there must be some conflict among them, some descent into factions.

Why did Petrus try to kill me?
I thought, in the milliseconds that passed as I watched Margrethe rock his mindless body.
Was he just doing what Sol told him to?
That didn’t seem right. I thought of Petrus talking about power just before he attacked me. And it hit me.
This is his closed system. Just him and Margrethe.
Seeing how she cradled him, I realized.
They… they were partners.
I imagined they had become close, become a couple, during their days training with Sol.

And if Petrus and Margrethe were a closed system, that meant…

That meant they wanted to get rid of any competition. Including Sol. And Bobby.

And me.

I had allowed myself to be led to the slaughter.

And, although I had defeated one enemy, another one sat right before me. I thought about my dream, what I knew about Margrethe.
She was amazing with physical skills.
A karate chop that could cut down a tree.

I was tired. No, exhausted. If she attacked, I wouldn’t even be able to defend myself, not after what I’d done to Petrus.

Adjusting my backpack, I stumbled headlong into the woods. Anywhere to get away from her.

Behind me, there was a horrible scream of anger, despair, and vengeance. I expected to be struck down at any moment, so I dodged left and right as I ran, ducking behind trees, making my way on an irregular path.

I thought of the network, the way our minds might find each other, and I thought of the iron ball I’d just become. Not the liquid metal of attack, but the iron of defense. I imagined thick metal forming a wall to block the signal, to block those little lights I’d seen in my mind — or, an even worse possibility, my own beacon. The idea that I had a beacon now terrified me. I needed radio silence.

My body buckled countless times as I ran, and I nearly fell. I dropped to a knee once, but fought to regain my feet. Slowly I rounded a large outcropping of rock and began to make my way up, up, away from the waterfall’s basin.

Somewhere behind me, I heard a voice. A male voice. “He’s gone this way!” the voice shouted. “Come on!”
That sounds like Bobby. Son of a bitch, he’s helping her, too!

Another voice, female. Margrethe. Some kind of argument. I couldn’t make it out. Thankfully, it sounded distant.

I ran harder, with all my remaining energy, still following a zigzag path, trying to give no sense of a pattern, no indication of where I was going as long as I got farther away.

But I was so tired. Each step was agony, and my mind was spent trying to keep up the wall of silence. I pushed myself to the absolute brink, getting as far away as I could.

Finally, I spied a large tree that had fallen, pulling up a huge circle of roots. Where the tree once stood, a deep and dark opening now beckoned. I tumbled in with my last bit of strength, putting my back against the upturned roots and dirt. At least I’d be facing them when they found me. I was covered in sweat and mud, embedded in the wet clay of the hole in the ground. I sat tensed, waiting to be discovered, knowing I couldn’t do anything when it happened.

Almost instantly, I fell asleep.

* * *

When I awoke, the sunlight still dappled the branches. Had no time passed? No, that wasn’t right. Hours had gone by. It must have been near sunset.

Blinking, I looked around. A small red fox stood just a few yards away, staring at me like I was an alien dropped from space. I looked back into its eyes, unsure what to do. Was it a threat? Despite all that had happened, I laughed out loud. “Shoo,” I said, waving a hand, and the fox bounded off into the underbrush.
A threat? Hardly.

I thought about Petrus with a mix of difficult emotions. I had no love for him, that was sure, and I knew he had brought everything on himself. But I had emptied him. Destroyed the life of another human being. And now I had to live with that. I was still just a boy, in so many ways. I sat with tears stinging in my eyes for a while.

Finally, the tears were spent. I’d done what I had to do. And there was more to do. Sol was still out there, somewhere, with Holly.

I leaned forward and pulled off my backpack, then fumbled through it, pulling something from the bottom.

The flip phone Bobby had left me.

Sitting on the damp ground, I dialed the number Sol had used to contact me before.

He answered on the first ring. “John, is it you?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“To what do I owe this pleasure, John? I had begun to think you weren’t coming, after all.”

“Where’s Holly?” I asked.

“She is still here with me, still quite safe, I assure you.”

“She better be,” I said. “And where are you?”

“Oh, I think you know, John. You and I have always been going in the same general direction. Think about it.”

I grimaced, having no idea what he meant. “Fine. But listen. I don’t think it’s all peace and happiness with your little army.”

“Oh? And what do you mean by that, John?”

“Petrus. And Margrethe. They tried to kill me.”

Sol chuckled. That damned chuckle. “Ah, so you all have met. That’s wonderful. And you are still alive, so despite their disregard for my orders, all is well, it seems. I can deal with Petrus and Margrethe in time. We’ll all come together. You’ll see.”

“Well, maybe not all of us, Sol.”

“You’re still holding out. I know, John.”

“Yes, but not just that. Petrus.”

“What of Petrus?”

“He’s done.”

“What does that mean, John?”

“It means that he tried to kill me, but instead, he got what he deserved. He isn’t dead, but he isn’t going to be any use to you anymore. His mind is gone.” I felt both elation and deep sorrow describing what I’d done.

There was a long pause on the other end of the line.

“Good, John,” Sol finally said. “Very, very good.”

PART FIVE

DUSK

1

I stole again, something I hadn’t done since my trip to the capital. I’m not proud of it. But I had to. I was darn near starving.

I walked into a roadside convenience store, gathered a basket full of the most nutritious food I could find, avoiding too much salty-snack crap and opting for things with at least a smidgeon of protein. And three bags of chips. Hey, I’m not perfect.

The place was deserted except for the cashier, so I just walked out without a word, stuffing everything into my backpack as I left. Of course, I had to do a little mind push. That was the stealing part.

I was alone in whatever strange place Petrus had driven me, and there was no beacon to follow. The only thing I had to go on was Sol’s insistence that I should know where to go. Only… I didn’t.

Now that Petrus’s northbound train had derailed, I was back to traveling west. Wandering down a two-lane street for a while, I wasn’t even terribly concerned that I might get picked up by the police. I was sure the manhunt continued, but Petrus had driven me many, many hours north. I’d have to stay cautious, but I suspected the majority of those looking for me would be centered around the police station where I’d last been seen — the one where a bunch of cops had been left unconscious on the floor, possibly dead — and then spreading in an ever-growing circle from there. And I was still exhausted, and scared that Margrethe would appear at any moment. By this time, she was cemented in my mind as a Norse god of vengeance come to life.

I devoured a bag of chips, then tore into a granola bar, washing them down with a bottle of blissfully non-garden-hose water. The bottle said it was pure spring water from France. Hell, maybe that was the sign I was looking for. Maybe Sol was in France. I laughed bitterly to myself as a car drove by, the driver ignoring me. I was just some kid walking home, a little dirtier than most, but so what?

The pack was heavy on my back, but despite how it weighed me down, that felt good. It meant I wouldn’t starve, at least. I might have superhuman abilities, but starving was starving.

Cresting a hill, I looked down the nearly straight line of the road, seeing it enter a small town.
I’ll have to go around
, I thought. Staying just inside the tree line that surrounded the town’s outlying buildings, I skirted the congested areas until I came to something that stopped me cold.

A self-storage building.

Pods, for heaven’s sake. Wow. It wasn’t eight stories high, like the one Bobby and I used to call Mount Trashmore, but still. The memories flooded back.

More than anything, I thought it might be a safe place to hide and get some rest. Wondering if this place had the same level of lax security I’d come to know from Mr. Gerald, I tried a side entrance. It didn’t pop right open, but it didn’t take all that long for me to power through it, either. I was inside.

The building was only one story. In a corner there was a ladder next to a sign reading ROOF ACCESS. I didn’t see an elevator. Without one, I suspected the roof had few visitors, since it would be near impossible to get pods up there. The occasional maintenance man was likely to be the only person to ever use the ladder, which meant a pretty high percentage chance I’d have the place to myself. So I climbed up, popped open a little hatch, and crawled out onto the roof.

It was late afternoon, the sun drawing long shadows on the flat roof. I made sure to close the hatch, so I wasn’t advertising my presence. Then I sat on the rough tar surface, still warm from the day, and had a little picnic of pre-packaged food, just a bit more, rationing. Afterward, I propped my back against a short wall and watched the sun go down. I was asleep before the light was gone.

* * *

“You’re predictable,” came the voice that woke me.

Bobby?

I opened my eyes. It was him. I tensed, rolling back against the wall, raising my hands in front of me defensively. “Stay back!” I said, too strong, sounding too afraid. I felt defenseless, caught in yet another trap.

Bobby raised his own hands, and I braced for an attack. But he held his open palms out toward me, a gesture of peace. “Hold on, hold on,” he said. “I’m not here to do anything except say what I’ve gotta say.”

I sat up and pushed into the wall, levering my body into a standing position. “And what the hell exactly is that?” I said. “Sol told me all about your
ideas
, Bobby. That you were the one to suggest kidnapping my sister.”

At the sound of my words, Bobby sagged and fell, like his bones had turned to soup. He dropped onto the roof with a thud, crossing his legs and sitting in one fluid motion. His hands came up to his head and his body shook.

For a long moment, I stood tensed, waiting for… something other than what I was seeing. I didn’t know what sort of ploy or tactic Bobby was trying, but I was ready.

Then, finally, I realized: He was crying.

All of a sudden, I felt like a regular 14-year-old kid. I had no idea what to do. The weight of everything, the conflict, the power, the confrontation awaiting me, disappeared for a moment, and I went to my friend. My best friend.

“Bobby?” It was all I could think to say.

He looked up with wet eyes. “I’m
sorry
, Johnny.
Really, really
sorry. It
was
my idea, and I hate myself for thinking of it. I’ll hate myself forever about it. Sol is just so…” Trying to think of his next word, Bobby gave up, throwing his hands in the air, exasperated.

“Did he force you?”

“No. And that’s the thing. He
didn’t
force me. It’s all my fault. I… I just fell under his spell, sort of, you know? He’s, I don’t know, so…”

“Charismatic,” I said.

“Huh, what’s that?” Bobby wasn’t the best student, if you recall.

“It means he’s extremely charming, makes you feel good being around him. You want to do things for him, and you want to do what he says.”

Slowly, Bobby nodded. “Yeah, all that, for sure. And maybe he has a way to push our minds a little, too. But it’s my fault. The idea came to me and I just said it. I never thought through how
real
it would be. Especially for Holly.”

At that, I lunged forward, grabbing Bobby by the collar. “Is she okay? She’d better be okay. Is she scared? Hurt?”

“Yeah, yeah, I mean, no. Both. Yes, she’s okay. I don’t know if she’s scared or not, but she isn’t hurt. Most of the time, Sol keeps her calm with TV, makes sure she has whatever she likes to eat. She likes cereal a lot. And sometimes mac ’n’ cheese. She definitely doesn’t like orange juice, though. Sol gave that to her one time and she spit it all over him.”

I stepped back, looking Bobby in the eye. And, despite the tears, he cracked a smile. I couldn’t help it, so did I. “She spit OJ in Sol’s face?”

“Like a freakin’ citrus fountain,” Bobby said.

I fell onto my butt, suddenly cackling. Bobby’s smile erupted into full-on laughter, too, and then we couldn’t stop. Two kids, laughing our asses off, crying from laughing so hard. When it started to die down, a single chuckle would escape from one of us and we’d be back at it.

Of course, the joke wasn’t all that funny. It was what it
meant
. Even in the middle, when I could barely breathe, I knew one thing.

I was glad to have my friend back.