Zero Sight Part 4

As much as I wanted to disagree with him, my father's argument wasn't baseless. In the past two years, a ton of kids had left college overburdened by their ballooning student loans. They had entered a job market with barely any openings. A great many of them had defaulted, and the banks had gone after their parents' a.s.sets. Some families had been thrown out on the streets. There were newspaper articles about it every week. I had to face facts. Washington University was out of my reach. Dejected, I clicked on the second email: Mr. Resnick, Your aid package has been approved. It should arrive via post within the next few days. I apologize for the delay; our computer is on the fritz.

Warmest Regards, Dean Joseph Albright, III The proctor crossed herself as I ran screaming into the hall. Two minutes later, I had already sprinted halfway to my house. Arriving at the mailboxes I resisted the urge to knock old Ms. Williams out of the way.

"Oh, h.e.l.lo Dieter," Ms. Williams said shakily. "You're home from school early."

I nodded, gasping for air.

"The mail just came," she pointed out helpfully.

I stood there panting as her k.n.o.bby old hand struggled to get key to keyhole. Would they give me a full-ride? Super-rigorous be d.a.m.ned. Giant forest bears be d.a.m.ned. If Elliot would cover my tuition, I was officially a future woodsman. As Ms. Williams hobbled away, I nearly tore the mailbox from its hinges. Who the h.e.l.l sent stuff by post these days? And "our computer"? As in singular? I peered into our box. Hidden behind two weeks worth of overdue bills and one trillion coupons was a thick manila envelope. Extracting it, I sat on the curb stared.

Gently, like an archeologist unearthing a tomb, I peeled open the seal and pulled out the contents one-by-one: instructions to campus, meal plans, an order form for linens. I handled each page like it was made of gla.s.s. My heart beating against my chest, I found the one I was looking for. A simple letter printed on that fantastically expensive paper. "Letter of Admission to the Elliot College," it read. I forced down the excitement and flipped to the next page. An acceptance didn't mean anything if I couldn't afford to go. The second page contained a chart of expenses. Huge, mind-blowing numbers built up like boulders as my eyes ran down the column. The yearly tuition alone could serve as a down payment on a small country. Each semester cost double my father's salary. I leap-frogged past the horrors t.i.tled "student health insurance" and "student activity-fee" until I finally reached the scholarship section below.

My heart skipped a beat. There they were, the two magic words, the words that meant I could leave this dust bowl, the words that said my time in front of the deep fryer was over. I read them thrice over and then collapsed into a heap on the neighbor's front lawn-that a field of sharp, pointy rocks had replaced said lawn was only a minor annoyance. This summer Dieter Resnick was going to college.

Part II.

ON THE ROAD.

Chapter 4.

BIG BLUE.

"Go west, young man, and grow up with the country." That was the start of so many great American stories. Ah, those were the days. Back when rich rewards were promised to those who dared strike out for new lands and new opportunities. And seek them we did...till the water ran out, the oil dried up, and all that endless bounty became someone else's property. Now the West was owned, occupied, and dying of jaundice. So instead I headed east on a mighty blue steed.

I threw on my work boots, midnight-blue jeans, and a ridiculous red plaid western. My uniform wearing days were over. I even sprung for a brand new pair of dark Ray-Bans (because even though he couldn't sing, Dylan was awesome). My entire life stuffed into a military surplus duffle, I headed forth into the asphalt wilderness to seek my fortune. I tried swinging the overloaded green ma.s.s over my right shoulder, but my elbow started throbbing. I ended up dragging it by my side, trying to cover the artificial limp with the neutral expression of the Seasoned Traveler. I noted that other people's luggage came with wheels and bit my lip. I had hoped that my ensemble screamed road warrior only to be undone by my baggage. I felt like a Cro-Magnon man stumbling out of a cave. Now the veterans would see me for the travel virgin I was. I imagined them descending on me like a pack of wolves, stripping me bare of the travel-sized toiletries I had just purchased at the drug store.

A little voice told me I should be more focused on not missing my bus.

Riding the bus was the new national pastime. To cross our grand country, I was in for two days of it. To be fair, bus travel has improved a great deal since when I was a kiddo. You get your own TV mounted into the seat in front of you and a decent amount of leg s.p.a.ce. The cross-country lines are even nicer than the regionals (they have cup-holders). It wasn't all that bad if you didn't mind sitting still for two days straight.

I was riding the LCN Line. The bus started in Los Angeles and traveled to New York City via Chicago. Once I got to New York City, I needed to transfer to a regional line for the last leg of the trip up to New Haven. I was so afraid of being late that I arrived an hour before departure. I made my way onto the bus-banging into seat-after-seat with my duffel-only to be told that you could put your luggage under the bus before you get on. Red faced, I took out what I needed and stowed my duffle down below.

Only a few folks had boarded in Los Angeles, so the bus was still relatively empty. I noticed that about two thirds of the way back there was a window seat with a busted TV. I smiled. Very few Americans would be willing to give up TV for a two-day trip. I grabbed the aisle seat next to it and patted myself on the back for my cunning.

I never understood how people could watch hours of TV. The images were always a bit out of focus, and watching it gave me headaches. I came prepared with a copy of Ulysses instead. The bookstore by my house had always displayed Joyce's book like some sort of thermonuclear device. Even the paperback version was given a wide berth on each side. I had pa.s.sed by it countless times but never built up the nerve to read it. And it was a beast. I flipped through all 818 pages of it. The binding was tenuous at best. I was concerned it might hit critical ma.s.s and explode all over the floor if I dared to break the spine. On the bright side, I could use it as a blunt weapon if the need arose.

I bought Ulysses for a specific reason-it felt collegy. I was feeling a tad intimidated about starting school, especially at a college that was advertised as the academic equivalent of ancient Sparta. I half-expected to die naked on a mountainside, term paper in one hand and an empty vial of whiteout in the other. I decided I needed to psyche myself up. I told myself that if I could get through a monster like this, I was surely ready to tackle college courses. (I know, it was totally stupid, but I'm p.r.o.ne to performing ridiculous rituals, and it's better than biting my nails.) Getting locked on a bus with a bunch of people I didn't dare make eye contact with was the perfect time to attempt the challenge.

The bus filled with a gradual stream of people, but my seat remained safe. Then, a few minutes before departure, a moment of tension-a huge woman attempted to breach my defenses and claim the adjacent seat. I cringed as her enormous thighs enveloped my knees. The sweaty heat was palatable. She was just settling in when she finally discovered that her next two days would be soap opera free, and with a huff, she beat a hasty retreat further down the aisle.

My ward had worked perfectly. I was grinning broadly, when at 10 A.M. sharp, the big blue bus rumbled to life. As we turned out onto the street it struck me like a bag of potatoes to the chest: My childhood was over. I was on my own.

My father was my only family, and despite our inability to co-exist, saying goodbye had been hard. He didn't approve of me heading out on my own. He argued it was too risky, said I didn't understand the dangers. (I hoped that was dad-code for: "Don't go. I'll miss you if you're far away.") But in the end, he couldn't argue with the full-ride scholarship. Our finances were in the toilet. We were in danger of losing our house. I told him they would be paying both of us, and he just sat there real quiet. He didn't know what a stipend was nor that it was really for my living expenses, but for the life of him, he couldn't understand why the school would be paying us both. I said it was complicated-part of some government program-and I joked that we would finally be getting some taxes back from the Feds.

The next day, he had nodded stiffly when I told him I was accepting the offer. He said, "Dieter, You're a man now, and I won't try and stop you. If there's one thing that's true, it's that all men have to make their own mistakes. You got some learning to do, and I guess it's learning I can't teach you." I had hoped at least part of him was proud of me, but if he was, he didn't show it. Then again, he never could express feelings like that with me. You may wonder how I could love a man that would just as soon strike me in the face. I can't tell you that. I don't know myself. But you would understand better if you saw the look on his face when I walked away. It felt like it was for the last time...My lip trembled as I turned away. It felt like I was leaving him behind.

I took a deep breath. It felt real now. Everything I knew was in this valley: the pizza place I liked, the friends I hung out with, all the roads I knew the names of. Where I was headed, I didn't know a single soul. In fact, I only knew a single name, Dean Joseph Albright, III, the lone correspondent from my future home in Connecticut. My stomach churned with a mixture of anxiety and excitement. I hadn't even considered Elliot College before they sent me the offer of a full-ride, didn't even remember Dr. Montgomery telling me she planned to recommend me. I was grateful, sure. She had given me the chance to get out of the black hole that was Las Vegas. She had granted the wish I had held for countless years. I had even tried to track her down at the hospital and thank her. Unfortunately, I had missed my chance by then. The staff told me Dr. Montgomery was float-a doctor who swings into town to cover for others when they are on vacation and the like-and that she was already onto her next a.s.signment. I thought that was strange. I could have sworn Dr. Montgomery said she had been at the Nevada State Science Fair the year before. I decided to try and track down her email address when I got to Elliot. I was in her debt. Without her help, I would have been still flipping burgers. Still, I had to admit that the whole application process had left me bitter. I had busted my a.s.s, delivered the best GPA and SAT scores possible, taken all the AP cla.s.ses I could afford, and still, still it hadn't been enough. That pseudo-acceptance from Washington University had been the most galling. To have only been offered a partial scholarship-a scholarship they knew wasn't enough to allow me to attend-it had felt like they were laughing in my face.

As the bus sped onto the freeway, I shook my head.

"Snap out of it a.s.shole," I said out loud. "You have a chance. Be thankful for it."

Judging by the other pa.s.sengers' looks, I had spoken a bit too loud.

Turning red, I sank down in my chair.

I wanted to go home.

The bus made rapid progress through Mohave Desert. We were bound for Utah where I-15 linked to I-70 for the crawl up into the Rockies. Then it was on to Denver, where we would meet I-80 for the descent into the plains of the American Midwest. Transcontinental drivers switched off every eight hours at the way stations placed along the route. (The system made sense. Labor was cheap; buses careening off mountains were not.) Our first stop was in Grand Junction, Colorado. It wasn't much of a town, but the way station sure was impressive.

The transcontinental carriers had built these oversized fuel depots after long-distance buses came back into vogue. They separated the paying travelers from the b.u.ms and ensured no third party restaurants got a piece of the action. Once off the bus, signs for men and women guided the pa.s.sengers to Potty Land (a new American marvel). Row after row of gleaming white porcelain awaited us. Arrows etched into the tile floor pointed the way. After making your deposit, it was a straight walk down a corridor to sinks and the self-cleaning shower stalls. I listened to the music as I walked. It had a steady percussive beat. I stomped in time. It was fun music to march to-and a subtle prod to keep on moving.

The Champions of Industry had thought of everything. I trekked past the hand dryers, shoeshine machines, and toiletry dispensers and out into the din of the ma.s.sive food court. Feeling a bit like livestock, I tried to re-establish my status as a top line predator. I ordered a hamburger. Said food product was un-bagged and microwaved bun and all. I stood next to the sleepy-eyed "cook" and watched the burger rotate.

Pathetic.

Finding a seat, I sniffed at the micro-burger. It was unworthy of the same t.i.tle as the king of foods, but everyone else seemed happy with them. "Know your place, peon," I mumbled, and bit into the soggy bun. There was a moment there where I almost spit it out. Then I remember I only had about a hundred in my wallet and swallowed it as fast as I could.

A few minutes later, a calm but a.s.sertive voice announced that the LCN Line was departing, and my compatriots and I shuffled outside and back onto our big blue bus. They didn't even need to break out the prods. I shook my head. Our grandparents had been speculators, cattlemen, and farmers; but somewhere along the line, things had got flipped on their heads. The evil designers of the micro-burger must have antic.i.p.ated my impudence and slipped in a roofie. Once we were on the road, I pa.s.sed out in seconds flat. I didn't wake up until we stopped in Denver. A few folks got on and off, but the defective TV next to me continued to ward off any prospective seatmates.

To pa.s.s the time, I made valiant strides in my effort to read Ulysses, but feared I was losing the war. A hundred pages in, I was getting the sneaking suspicion that James Joyce might have been an a.s.shole, and by Nebraska I was in a foul mood. I had clawed my way into "Episode 8," where the main character (I think) purchases two delicious cakes (I think) only to throw them into a river (perhaps).

My stomach grumbled in protest.

"The b.a.s.t.a.r.d," I mumbled. "How could Bloom toss out a dessert like that?"

One or two droopy eyelids turned toward me in confusion. However, I had an ally. The enormous lady nodded in agreement.

"Ulysses, right?" she asked.

"Yeah," I said with a grim nod.

"Don't take it too seriously. Bloom is a madman."

I was grateful when we arrived at our next stop in Lincoln, Nebraska. The book had descended into a languid discussion of the merits of advertising tactics and STDs. Fear of having to read more inspired me to purchase another micro-burger and-for good measure-one of their tiny apple pies.

"In-the-eye, Joyce," I mumbled, sinking my teeth into the apple-esk product. I gagged. Maybe I should have thrown it into a river instead.

Before I even reached the bus, I felt the micro-burger kicking in. I nodded off before we even left the station.

Acres of dead gra.s.s stretched out before me. Alone on a darkened plain, an icy breeze caressed my flesh.

Lightning cracked, and the clouds belched fire.

Distant thunder rumbled a protest.

My lips were chapped. My mouth, parched. The air was bone dry and grating. My body ached with fatigue. So thirsty...how long had it been?

Thunder shook the air once again. The hairs on my neck stood in response.

The winds were shifting; I could feel the pressure change.

The bolts of lightning and thunder chased one another off into the distance.

The clouds above me opened.

I raised my hands in relief as the rain poured down. Heavy sheets of it coated my exhausted frame. The drops soothed my lips. Warm and heavy, the rain was more metallic than well water-yet oddly sweet.

Another flash of light lit the crimson clouds.

I was jarred awake by a pa.s.senger's laughter.

He was watching The Simpsons. How many decades old was the show now?

A real storm had opened up outside. Wave after wave of rain pummeled the bus.

I touched the gla.s.s. These drops were icy cold. I could feel the engine humming away, indifferent to the weather. The big blue bus churned onwards, and I faded back to sleep.

Chapter 5.

ENTER THE DRAGON.

When I woke, warm sunlight was streaming through the windows. A new guy across the aisle was snoring loudly. The brim of his White Sox cap pointed straight into the air. I scratched my stubble and yawned. It was midday by my watch. I was impressed. That micro-burger had taken me out of circulation for quite some time. Looking past my neighbor's gaping mouth, I noticed the countryside looked different. The land was still flat as a board, but lush green crops spread out as far as the eyes could see...so that's what they meant by "breadbasket." The air's texture had changed as well. Even in the air-conditioned bus, I could feel the humidity pressing in.

I was making a mental note to get a haircut when I sensed something was...off. At first, I thought it was just a slight bout of nausea, simply my empty stomach demanding immediate attention, but as I focused, I realized the strange sensation was coming from my Sight. The feeling reminded me of leaning out over the edge of a very tall building, that vague sense of unease. And the sensation was faint. It didn't feel like I was in that great of danger. That confused me. It wasn't normal for this sixth sense of mine to fire up unprovoked. There were rules to my Sight. The adrenalin had to be flowing. I had to be scared out of my mind. Stranger still, there were none of the focused waves I'd come to expect. Heck, I couldn't even see anything at all. This was more of a tactile sensation, like a cat brushing up against my thigh. The feeling wasn't nice, but it wasn't a blanket of blades either.

I scratched my head. I was on a bus cruising steadily down the highway with not a single schoolhouse bully in sight. The little girl sitting next to the snoring guy giggled as Sponge Bob jumped around on the TV in front of her. Diagonal to me, a couple talked casually. I frowned. All was well in the Dieterverse. Why was my Sight firing off?

And then-as quickly as it appeared-the sensation vanished.

Weird...I sat quietly and tried focusing on my Sight-but nothing was there anymore. My Sight had gone back to sleep.

After a minute or two of waiting, I gave up.

Well, I reasoned, nothing's reliable 100% of the time. Maybe all this traveling is whacking me out. I resolved to solve my problems with the usual remedy-I reached into the overhead and retrieved my thermos. At times of like this, there was only one thing to do: acquire coffee immediately. My j.a.panese designed, vacuum-sealed thermos was one of my most prized possessions. I had filled it up before I went to sleep so there were no worries. This baby laughed in the face of entropy. The coffee inside would probably stay warm for another day or so. I poured out a steaming hot cup and drew it to my nose. And what an aroma! I wasn't a morning person. Coffee was the only reason I could tolerate them. Even before the first sip, the black goodness set to work kicking my neurons out of bed.

Rejuvenated, I stretched my bones. The bus had filled up quite a bit while I slept. The cabin was crowded. I grinned. This seat rocked. I must have been the only person with a row to himself, but with the added people, it was sure getting hot. Last night, I had thrown on a sweater because of the cold jet of air the AC had been throwing out, but now the combination of extra people and midday rays were winning out.

I took off the sweater and turned to toss it-right onto the girl sitting next to me.

I froze, coffee in one hand, sweater in the other.

Keen senses. I had them in spades. Growing up, I always got accused of cheating in Marco-Polo, and I never once lost at hide-and-seek. I was the go-to-guy when you needed a lookout. I wasn't sure it had anything to do with my Sight, but I was certainly more cognizant of my surroundings than the other kids. You didn't sneak up on me, you didn't enter a room without me noticing, it just didn't happen. Besides, people are easy to sense. Even when we aren't talking, they're still making plenty of noises. We do our breathing loudly, our walking loudly, and even our fidgeting loudly. We ain't mountain lions; those cats can sneak. You might be lucky enough to spot a mountain lion, or you might be lucky enough to hear one, but never both at once. They have PhDs in stealth. They make their living off quiet. I could track a mountain lion if I put my mind to it, so it came as quite a shock that I'd been awake for over ten minutes and hadn't even noticed the standard-issue person sitting twelve inches away from me. That sort of thing just didn't happen.

I looked down at my legs. They were still stretching down under the seat in front of me. How the heck did she get around me without waking me up? I shook my head. It must have been that stupid burger. I swore I'd never eat another.

My curiosity piqued, I decided to investigate my new sneaky seatmate. I opted for the "I'm-just-looking-out-the-window" approach because it's time-tested and stalker-approved. More importantly, it would help me avoid any and all conversation.

At first glance, the interloper appeared to be young and female-but that was a rough guess. An oversized black hooded sweatshirt covered most of her body. The hood was monstrous. It reached well past the brim of her baseball cap. She sat, her long legs tucked up in front of her, sleeping in a ball. Her head hung between her knees, with her arms holding the whole package together. Below her hoodie, the girl wore a loose pair of black cargo pants tucked into a pristine set of laced leather boots. I had just been forced to ditch my sweater, so I was impressed Ms. Sneak.u.ms could tolerate all that clothing with the sun beating on her through the window. It must have been pushing 90 degrees outside, but even her hands were covered by a pair of thin black gloves.

I scrunched my face in thought. This was not my area of expertise, but in my limited experience with females, I was aware there existed a subset of the gender that-regardless the ambient temperature-remained cold at all times. They were known to utter a variant of "ohmygosh, it's freezing in here" when entering any room. They displayed an intense fear of movie theaters and lecture halls. They considered fleece and down the pillars of modern civilization. And were known to query, "That sure is a nice looking car...does it have seat heaters?" when evaluating boyfriend prospects.

I nodded sagely. This particular specimen must have been a member of their inner circle.

It also occurred to me that I should stop staring.

I grabbed Ulysses and began another torture session. I read the first paragraph three times over before giving into the urge to glance over at her again.

She hadn't budged.

I tried it myself. I lifted up my knees, wrapped my arms around my legs, and bundled up into a man-ball. I could barely fit my feet on the seat and could only last thirty-seconds before everything below my waist went numb. Untangling myself, I shrugged. To each her own, I guess. Sure, it was strange, but what did I expect? I was traveling across the U.S. on a long-haul bus. There was bound to be plenty of weirdoes. I should have been counting my blessings that I hadn't run into a band of cannibals yet...I frowned. Yet.

I turned back to Ulysses. It was time for Dieter Resnick to get back to doing what a Dieter Resnick did best: mind his own business. After all, this foray was just another attempt to dodge my summer reading a.s.signment. With new determination (and coffee) I marathoned into the early evening. It was a tough push. If it weren't for my self-imposed personal challenge, I would have set the thing on fire. I wasn't even sure who was who anymore, and I was almost certain that the main character died two chapters ago. (This was confusing, because there were still a few hundred pages to go.) When we arrived in Cleveland, the sun was finishing up its shift in the sky. I got off the bus, made a deposit, and grabbed some dinner. Twenty-four hours on the bus had done a number on my b.u.t.t. In fact, my whole body was tight, so after I grabbed some snacks I went back outside to stretch out a bit. Paranoid it would sneak off without me, I stayed right next to the bus. (My puny bank account couldn't take many more hits before it was out for the count.) The sun was setting, and the heat was beginning to back off. It was the perfect time for Dieter Resnick's Keister Resuscitating Callisthenic Routine-patent pending. I swung into motion, pumping my arms and stretching my legs. It was good to move again, and I really liked the smell of the air around here. If you ignored the diesel fumes, the vague septic stench, and the giant dumpster behind me, there where all sorts of cool scents to sample: gra.s.ses, flowers, and trees-the smells of life. It was like standing in the supermarket fridge with all those bouquets.

I was thinking that living in the woods wasn't going to be so bad when I felt the slightest p.r.i.c.k on the side of my neck. Instinctually I swatted. I caught the little bloodsucker in the act. The insect's wrecked body stuck to my hand. Judging by the blood, the fella must have gotten caught mid-slurp. I shook my head. A mosquito. A mosquito had bit me-yet another first for the day. I was in the middle of wiping the mess off on my jeans when my Sight hiccupped to life.

"Not again," I grumbled, "You're supposed to be reliable, Mr. Sight." It was another nonsensical sensation: a cold tingle on the back of my neck, nothing threatening, and certainly nothing like I felt with Tyrone. I was busy wishing it would go away when the memory hit me full-force. Tyrone...I'd been sloppy and forgotten to distract myself. A bout of nausea roiled my stomach. Dizziness challenged my balance. The food I'd just eaten tried to come back up. That d.a.m.n name...I had been trying hard to avoid it. Once my mind started down that road it was already too late. A cold sweat broke out on my brow. I grabbed the side of the bus for support.

"Steady breathing," I told myself. "Stop looking back there." I was familiar with the attacks now. I could even stop from pa.s.sing out now. The trick was to focus on the present. That broke the cycle. I stared at the bus' giant tire and forced myself to count the lug nuts. I calculated the square of their sum, found the closest prime to the square, squared the prime...and my heart rate started to return to normal. My balance steadied.

With my body back under control, I returned my attention to my Sight. Something wasn't right here. Before my fight with Tyrone, my Sight had only functioned as a sort of early warning system for things like flying objects. Once an object was committed to a trajectory, I could predict its direction based on the waves of color that preceded it. But in those last moments with Tyrone, my Sight had shown me something different. Whatever that thing was, it wasn't a kinetic force. No matter how much I thought about it, the only explanation I could think of was that the blanket of blades was a manifestation of his intent to kill.

So, I wondered, was this new sensation a form of intent too?

If my theory was right, then there was a way to find out. Intent required a source-a source that I might be able to find if I concentrated. Since the incident, concentrating on my Sight had had the nasty habit of bringing me back to that day behind Ted Binion High, so up until this point I had avoided it, but I was feeling bold. I'd just beaten back one of those panic attacks, and my Sight seemed to be working without the need for adrenalin. Now was as good of a time as ever. I was willing to give it a shot.

I ignored my other senses, shutting them down one-by-one. I steadied my breathing and held my hands to my sides. As my focus increased, it was like my Sight reached out. It was the sixth-sense equivalent of switching from a wide-angle lens to a telephoto. The rest was simple. I just let it guide me where it wanted. I focused in on the tingling, reaching out towards the origin...but the sensation began to fade. Soon, only a delicate tickle remained.

I was puzzled. Nothing had ever responded to my Sight before.

"What's going on?" I muttered. I had always considered my Sight to be a pa.s.sive organ, a sense like hearing or vision that received data but never projected it, but that strange tingling had vanished when I focused my Sight. Could that mean my extra sense was more like sonar, a sense that broadcasted a steady stream of noise and relied on the rebound to gather up the data?