The Elders (Mind Dimensions #4)(83)

Then I wonder how many people have had this exact, final thought.

Another long millisecond of my life follows. I realize that being in danger while Inert has another disadvantage: you can’t Guide someone to save you. Were I callous enough, I could have—

In a blur of motion, the sheriff’s body lands on top of the grenade. It’s as though he knew what I was thinking. A deputy falls on top of the sheriff; then another cop jumps on top of them both. The rest of the cops fall on top of me. I can only imagine what Thomas felt like at the cemetery, though his cop pile was worse than mine. My kindergarten experience is definitely dated; being at the bottom of a human pile really sucks.

But what the hell is going on?

Then it clicks. I Guided them to protect me with their lives. I explicitly stated they were the Secret Service to my President.

Though that command will save me, it will cost them their lives.

Guilt doesn’t have the chance to hit me because the grenade finally explodes.

The boom sounds just like the cherry bombs Bert and I set off in the Harvard cafeteria during our freshman year, only multiplied by a factor of ten.

Through a small opening between the tangles of limbs in front of me, I see that George is already on his feet.

“Get off me,” I order, but I’m not sure my defenders heard me. “Don’t just lie there.”

The smell of burned flesh enters my nostrils, and I instantly feel like throwing up. I can’t—the one perk of not having eaten in the last twenty hours—but I do dry-heave.

Another bang makes me think that another grenade went off, but it’s actually George firing his shotgun. I think he just shot at what was left of the three men piled on top of the grenade, but now he’s aiming the barrel right at my pile of people.

I try to roll to my side, but the weight of the bodies keeps me pinned.

I cover my face as George fires another shot. I smell gunpowder and the metallic scent of blood.

Another shotgun blast follows.

I feel a trickle of blood run down the back of my neck, but since I feel no pain, I assume it isn’t my blood.

I feel under me for the tranquilizer gun. No luck.

This next bang sounds louder.

Giving up on the gun idea, I frantically grab for anything from the cop on top of me. His gun is under someone else’s body, but I can reach his Taser and his set of handcuffs.

I try to push myself off the ground by essentially executing a push up. I pray to my surge of adrenaline and years of bench-pressing at the gym for strength. I only manage to straighten my arms halfway, but it’s enough for me to get my knees to my chest.

After the fifth bang, I move to get up.

In the gym, my record for squats is four forty-five-pound plates on each side of a forty-five-pound bar. That’s a total of 405 pounds, unless my math is off. What I’m doing now is in many ways harder, since I never squat this close to the ground, not to mention that my left knee has been bugging me on rainy days ever since I set that personal record. I’m not sure what the combined weight of the cops on top of me is, but it feels much heavier than those 405 pounds. As the bodies fall aside, my legs and knees scream for mercy.

I ignore everything, making George the center of my universe. He’s reloading his damn shotgun.

Purely on instinct, I aim the Taser and pull the trigger. The tiny cables stretch the twenty feet between us and embed into George’s chest, but the man is still standing. Then he freezes and begins convulsing, right before he falls backwards onto the grass.

The problem with the way he falls is that the little cables get pulled from his chest.

Having no idea how long he’ll be out for, I make a split-second decision and run.

I didn’t run after pressing those 405 pounds, and now I see the wisdom in that decision.

Despite the pain and the strain, I cover half the distance between George and me in a second. I probably could’ve done it faster, had the bodies of my unmoving protectors not slowed me down by a critical half-second.

George stirs.

I pick up my pace, knowing if there’s a tree root in my way, I’ll be splattered across the ground.

George jackknifes to a standing position.

To my surprise, my legs have enough stamina left for a move I believe is derived from tae kwon do.

I use my momentum to execute a jump kick—a maneuver designed to topple people off a galloping horse.

My foot slams into George’s forehead with a satisfying smack. He falls backwards, and unfortunately, I follow his example.

As I fall, I wonder how I’m able to think so much in such a short time. I always have more thoughts than I expect in these about-to-get-hurt situations. Yesterday, I would’ve said it was a side effect of the Quiet, but now, falling while Inert, I realize it’s just some kind of brain mechanism that everyone must have. This is what allows people to relive events while in life or death situations.

I hit the ground. My tailbone violently objects, but the real pain comes from my ankle. I must’ve twisted it when I landed, or when I executed the kick.

Ignoring the agony, I grab the handcuffs off the ground and create makeshift brass knuckles by holding them through the two loops. I try to jump up into a sitting position but end up performing more of a clumsy seesaw motion. Fighting against my wounds for every inch of movement, I eventually push myself into a sitting stance. From here, it’s an easy struggle to my feet.