The Thought Pushers (Mind Dimensions #2)(19)

My hope is that the bullet will miss all of us if I do it right. This sort of tackling maneuver works for the Secret Service in the movies, so I figure it should work in real life. It has to work.

Not letting my brain come up with counterarguments for this plan, I focus on just going for it.

I reach out and touch my face. At the same time, before I’m even in my body, I put every ounce of my energy into willing my leg muscles to begin the movement that will cause me to spring in the right direction.

My whole world becomes the command I’m sending to my brain—the command for my leg muscles to act so I can fall.

My body seems to move before I even become aware that I’ve phased out of the Quiet. I feel my arms spread around Mira before they actually do so.

I only fully realize I’m out of the Quiet when I hear Mira’s surprised yelp at the impact of my body falling on her.

I know I’m out because the street noises have returned. And then I feel the most unpleasant scraping sensation in my head. It’s like a dental drill, but multiplied a hundredfold. It’s quickly followed by intense pain. It’s as though I just got hit on the head with a baseball bat—a baseball bat made of hot iron.

Everything is happening as though in slow motion. I feel like I’m going to phase back into the Quiet, but I manage to fight off the sensation.

In the next instant, I’m on top of Mira, who’s on top of Eugene.

That part of my plan has worked.

They’re both cursing, which means they’re alive. Then I feel an explosion of pain in my head as I roll off the pile of bodies we formed.

I’m unable to get up. My head is pulsing with pain. It burns. It stings. It’s horrible.

I bring my hand to the epicenter of the torment, and I feel warm liquid there.

In a moment of lucidity, I realize I’ve been shot. In the head.

“Darren, what the f*ck—” Mira begins, but stops mid-sentence. “Oh, Darren, I am so sorry. Why are you bleeding? Did you hit your head when you fell? What happened?”

I feel her hands on my shoulder. She’s turning me over.

“Eugene, please call 911,” I try to say. “I think I’ve been shot.”

“Zhenya, zvoni 911, bistrey!” she yells in Eugene’s direction, and I don’t know if she spoke in Russian, or if I’m losing my ability to comprehend English.

“Darren, look at me,” she says to me gently. “You’re going to be okay. I’m going to try to stop the bleeding.”

I was right; that liquid I felt means I’m bleeding. This thought comes to me as though from a distance.

I hear the sound of ripping cloth, and in the next moment, I feel the pain intensify. She must’ve pressed the makeshift bandage to the wound. Some part of me realizes this must be an attempt to stop the bleeding.

I begin to reach for my head again, but she puts her hand on mine, preventing me from doing so. Her hand feels good, reassuring, so I just leave it there.

“Take deep breaths,” Mira’s voice says softly. “Yes, like that, slow and steady, this should help with the shock. How much does it hurt?”

I try to tell her it isn’t so bad, but the words come out all jumbled.

“It doesn’t matter, Darren, just talk to me,” she says in a desperate, hushed tone. “Open your eyes, now.”

I obey her command and open my eyes. At the same time, I lift my hand, the one that touched my head earlier, and take a look. My hand is covered in blood, and I can feel it streaming down my neck.

The world begins to spin, and then everything goes black.





Chapter 9


I wake up.

How much did I drink last night?

My head hurts like hell.

I try to remember what happened. I’m not in my own bed, but lying down in some kind of bed in a moving vehicle. Ambulance?

I try to open my eyes, but the light strikes a hammer-blow of pain, so I close them again.

“Darren, I’m here,” says a familiar soothing voice.

It’s Mira’s voice—and the reason I’m here comes back to me.

I was shot.

In the head.

That would explain this excruciating pain. I try to open my eyes, squinting cautiously.

“He’s conscious,” I hear Eugene say.

“That’s good news,” says an unfamiliar male voice.

“You’re not a doctor to be saying what constitutes good or bad news.” Mira’s tone is sharp. “I want a doctor to see him right away.”

“We’re on the way to the hospital,” the unfamiliar voice says defensively. He must be a paramedic, and the moving object I find myself in must be an ambulance, I realize.

“My head really hurts,” I decide to complain. Talking makes the pain intensify, though, and the feeling I now have is like being carsick, only ten times worse.

“You got shot,” Mira says gently. “Is there anyone I should call for you? Friends or family?”

There is care and concern in her voice. She sounds like she’s actually worried about me and wants to help. She doesn’t sound like the girl who was just about to shoot me herself not so long ago. The headache intensifies further when I try to think about this, so I stop. The idea of calling someone makes some sense, though.

“In my phone. Sara and Lucy are my family. Bert is my friend,” I say, trying to reach for my pocket. Moving sends waves of nausea through my body. Am I dying? I wonder if that would end the pain.