The Thought Pushers (Mind Dimensions #2)(18)

When I’m standing next to it, though, I know my hope is futile. The thing frozen in mid-air is what I feared it would be.

It’s another bullet—flying at one of us.





Chapter 8


I swivel my head from side to side, frantically trying to figure out where the shooter might be.

My brain almost subconsciously provides the solution for me as my legs take me where I need to go.

I run through the little park, almost tripping over frozen parents watching their frozen kids on the silent playground.

The shooter is sitting in a large van, holding a long rifle pointed in our direction.

The anger that I now feel is difficult to describe. I’ve never felt this enraged before.

This f*cker just shot at me and my friends—and he’s shooting at us through a park where little kids are playing.

Before this moment, I thought I would never consider Pushing anyone again. The reality of what I inadvertently did to that guy yesterday still horrifies me.

But now I feel ready to Push again—intentionally this time. It’s the only option.

I approach the guy and grab him by the neck with all my strength. For a second, I forget why I’m here. I just relish choking him.

Then I give myself a mental shake. I don’t know if Pushing works with corpses, so it’s best if I don’t continue with this. I loosen my grip and try to start the session.

I find it extremely difficult to get into the right state of mind while overcome with so many turbulent emotions. I must, however, so I concentrate.

I do synchronized breathing for a few moments, and begin to feel the necessary state of Coherence coming on. Suddenly, I’m in the shooter’s vile head . . .



*



We’re shooting at the target the second time and mentally cursing the boss in Russian. Why the f*ck did he give this order on such a short notice?

The first miss is his fault. He didn’t give us a chance to get our favorite rifle. The one with the scope that has been perfectly calibrated. Instead, we got this piece of shit.

We’re not used to working like this. To not being a hundred-percent sure we’re going to hit the target. It’s unprofessional. The only silver lining is that, due to the urgency, we came here alone, so no one witnessed that embarrassing miss. Our marksman’s reputation is unblemished.

I, Darren, disassociate from the Reading. This is yet another Russian mobster. He has been ordered to kill, and it’s clear that he won’t stop until that grim task is complete. But he doesn’t know anything useful to me.

I begin my unsavory task. I try to repeat Pushing—the thing I did the other day.

I’m still unsure how I did what I did, so I rely on instinct and intuition.

I picture this f*cker packing his rifle, closing the van door, and getting behind the wheel. I try to imagine hearing the van door close and feeling the ignition keys under my fingers. There is a huge urgency to get out of here. To be away. I visualize the switching of gears and the frantic clutching of the wheel, knuckles white, followed by the flooring of the gas pedal. I put my fear of that bullet into my vessel—his mind. I become fear. I channel it. There is only one escape from this fear, and that is to leave instantly and to go fast. As fast as humanly possible. No stopping, no slowing down, just a mad rush to safely, safety that’s many miles away from here . . .

I do this thing for what feels like a half hour, battling a growing feeling of mental exhaustion mingled with disgust. When I finally can’t take it for another second, I exit the guy’s mind.



*



I run back through the park, shuddering when I pass by the bullet again.

I want to grab it, throw it on the ground, and stomp on it, but I resist the urge. It would be futile—nothing I can do to the bullet in the Quiet will change the fact that it will resume its potentially deadly path when I phase out.

Random thoughts enter my head. Should I have done the Pushing? Am I becoming the monster the Reader community is afraid of? The monster I’m afraid of?

Yes, I should’ve done it, I try to convince myself. It was necessary. If I didn’t do something, the bullet that’s still in the air would’ve been followed by more, until the shooter’s job was done. Until he killed his target—one of us. Pushing was the only way I could think of to stop him. I didn’t have a choice.

Besides, it’s not like I’m going to cause his death, like the other time. Not that it was, strictly speaking, my fault yesterday—the second guard had been the one to actually pull the trigger. In this case, I think I merely caused the shooter to drive away. Admittedly, he will go fast, which has risks associated with it, but I didn’t commit him to a definite fatal outcome.

I stop worrying about my actions when I find myself next to our frozen bodies again.

I look us over.

My frozen self’s face looks scared, but knowing what I know now, the expression on his/my face is not scared enough.

Eugene just looks confused, not scared yet.

Mira is the only one of us who looks like she has it together. She looks focused and alert, ready to pounce into action, and her head is beginning to turn toward me.

No matter how much I stare at the three of us, I can’t seem to make myself feel more confident in the idea I hatched up.

The plan is ridiculously simple. I will fall, and by doing so, I will try to get Mira to fall as well. She’ll fall into Eugene. We should all go down like a stack of dominos—in theory, at least. And quickly, which is vital.