The Elders (Mind Dimensions #4)(57)

Shit. My insides grow cold, but I decide to worry about the consequences of this realization later. Right now, I need to make sure the cops don’t shoot me once I phase out.

To that end, I make my Guiding instruction succinct and direct, branding the words, ‘You will not gun down Darren,’ into the sheriff’s brain.

With that, I exit his head.

I sear the same ‘You will not gun down Darren’ instructions into the minds of the rest of the team. I find a few men in the distance and do the same to them—no point in taking chances.

Then I phase out to check how well my instructions worked.

When the sounds of the world return, I turn around. The sheriff isn’t reaching for his gun anymore. I breathe a sigh of relief.

And that’s when I feel a terrible pain in my chest.

As impossible as it seems, there’s only one way I can interpret the situation.

I’ve been shot.





Chapter 17





Time seems to slow.

I can’t think, aside from something along the lines of I’m so f*cked, which repeats over and over in my mind.

I lose control of every muscle, including the ones that help keep my body upright, and start falling toward the ground. The fall also happens in that strange, slow-motion way.

And then I’m standing a few feet away from my body, behind the sheriff. My frozen self is suspended mid-fall. The shock of getting shot must’ve caused me to phase into the Quiet, possibly for the last time.

I run toward my statue-like self to assess the severity of the damage.

To my surprise and relief, I don’t see any blood gushing from a wound on his/my body. However, there are wires attached to my chest. These wires lead back to the youngest deputy, who’s standing to my right. He’s holding something that looks like a Nerf gun, into which the filaments disappear.

I follow the wires back to my body, and finally, it dawns on me.

The deputy shot me with a Taser—a non-lethal weapon cops carry.

Confused, I enter the deputy’s head to figure out what happened.

It doesn’t take me long to understand the mix-up. Apparently, I got shot as a result of my imprecise Guiding. Both the Super Pusher and I contributed to this situation.

The Super Pusher Guided the deputy to support his senior colleagues in the event of a scuffle. The Pusher must’ve been in a hurry and didn’t bother giving him the detailed instruction of killing me because I was uber-dangerous. So the deputy interpreted this situation in a more reasonable way than the Pusher had anticipated. Being a good man, he decided against using deadly force, opting instead to incapacitate me with the Taser and then cuff me.

On my part, I wasn’t specific enough when I Guided this deputy, or for that manner, everyone else. I merely forbade him from gunning me down. Since a Taser is not a gun in the strictest sense, ‘You will not gun down Darren’ did not stop him from tasing me.

I’m more specific with the new set of instructions I etch into the deputy’s mind and, for good measure, into the minds of the other cops as well.

I’m your master and commander. You will not harm me in any physical or emotional way. You will listen and obey my orders without question. You will protect me with your life. If there is danger, you will believe you’re with the Secret Service and I’m the President.

Some of my guiding is perhaps overkill, but I’d rather not repeat the same mistake.

I instruct a couple of the stronger-looking deputies to help me up. The Taser deputy is instructed to remove his finger from the device out of fear for his life.

Satisfied with my Guiding, I gingerly walk back to my poor body.

Without thinking too much, I phase out by touching his/my wrinkled forehead.

I’m on the ground before I can understand what’s what. The tall grass dampens my fall.

Aside from my complaining coccyx bone, the pain where the Taser penetrated my skin is the worst of it. The rest of the experience is as confusing as it is painful. The two electrodes, or whatever they’re called, are still attached to me, but the shock is gone, and I’m beginning to regain control of my muscles again.

Strong hands help me up and tear out the electrodes.

Once I’ve recovered enough to move again, I tell the cops, “We’re heading in the direction of that flare. If anyone radios in and asks if it’s done, you say ‘confirm.’”

“Yes, sir,” the sheriff says. The others echo the ‘yes, sir’ in such perfect unison that they would’ve made a drill sergeant proud.

I make them repeat my command to make sure they understood, and they do.

With my now-loyal squad behind me, I run through the forest. Running is maybe overstating it a bit, but I move as fast as I can without losing an eye to a low-hanging branch or breaking a leg on a treacherous rock.

My feeling of foreboding intensifies with every step, as does my suspicion that I might be responsible for a disaster.

A shot echoes through the forest.

I look behind me. My little squad looks as surprised as I feel.

Another shot rings out, and I know for sure they’re coming from the direction of the flare.

I start running in earnest.

Another shot.

I speed up.

Then I hear a chain of gunfire that could only be coming from an automatic weapon.

Blood wells up from cuts where branches bit into my flesh, but I ignore the sting and increase my pace. My heart feels as if it’s sending me an SOS in Morse code through my ribcage.