March Writing Challenge: 100 Stories. 1 Month

[Joshua Bernstein]

66. Summer

Josh zipped up his suitcase, pressing down upon the top in an unconscious movement to keep clothes from spilling out onto the floor. One last sweep about the room they had rented and they would be off to the airport, whisked back to Pilot Ridge and to reality.

Across the room Sean was engaged in a similar ritual, repacking and making mental inventory of everything that needed to return with them. What was and wasn’t allowed to be carried on, what might need to be shipped back home to await their arrival.

Some packages had already been shipped, souvenirs from previous countries visited as they made their way across Europe. They had admired historical buildings, taken in breathtaking architecture in the cities and pastoral tranquility in the countrysides.

And they had taken in local beer offerings everywhere.

They had seen ancient legal texts and involved themselves in debates about different healthcare systems.

And most important of all, they had given tribute to family heritage.

Germany was a vastly different country than it had been when his father had been sent to America; a vastly better place for most, even if it wasn’t perfect and was facing the same economic woes plaguing so much of the world.

While Josh was glad that it was different, a part of him mourned that he only knew this through other channels. He had very little basis for comparison in his own history, as his father had been quite reticent on the subject. He had never wanted to push, and now it was too late.

He knew that he’d had an aunt named Philippa, and a cousin Anna. He knew that his grandfather had been a lawyer and that his grandmother had auburn hair like his sister and that his great-grandmother had loved to bake and play the piano.

He knew that his father had never heard from any of them again after coming to America.

But most of this he knew from old photographs with names scrawled beside them, with the occasional (brief) note that he’d had to request translations of. Very little came directly from his father himself.

In some sense he felt that this was both pilgrimage as well as penance, a way to assuage his guilt over never asking along with a trip to pay homage to relatives who had almost certainly been cruelly murdered.

He had rather insisted on visiting some of Germany’s grimmer sites, taking in the realities his family had faced with more solemnity than was usual for him.


“Are you about ready?”

His partner’s voice cut through the mental drift, and Josh glanced up from his suitcase. “Oh, yes. Let’s just check and make sure we’re not leaving anything behind, then we can go meet Greg. You don’t think he’ll have finished breakfast without us?”

They wouldn’t leave behind any of their belongings, but he felt that he was leaving behind some piece of himself that he hadn’t known existed until now.

But even in his mourning he couldn’t regret how they had spent that summer.

[Joshua Bernstein]

37. Fall

Fall in Vermont was always a gorgeous display as summer’s green lushness gave way to a resplendent cascade of red and gold. Josh enjoyed coming up from the City for visits, admiring the woodland’s beauty while not being at all interested in moving away from his smog and concrete skylines.

Sometimes his visits meant sailing, just himself and Sean on the decks of the telepath’s boat until the sun went down. Sometimes visits meant grilling in the huge backyard that made him more envious than any natural display.

This fall visiting meant a weekend spent away even from the population of Pilot Ridge, as Sean had rented a cabin in the mountains.

It was fully furnished and equipped with all the conveniences of modern life, but isolated enough to provide some sense of solitude or commune with nature, depending on the guest.

It was two stories, with bedrooms on both floors. The bottom floor also had a game room; the top floor had the expected kitchen and living room.

And, as was only to be expected, there was a grill.

Cookouts every night, Sean had proclaimed, and as Josh wasn’t very good in kitchens either real or simulated he had offered to supply all the weekend’s alcohol.

“Would you like a beer?”

This question was directed at one Sam Neville, newly married to his best friend and helping him to set the table while better hands did the grilling.

She shook her head, a secretive smile flitting across her face. “I can’t. Didn’t Sean tell you?”

Josh was confused. She must be taking some medication, but for what? She didn’t look sick. “Oh. I’m sorry, ahh...what would you like instead?”

“I’m going to make some tea.” She told him, which made him feel irrationally vexed. He wanted to be helpful, but she clearly wasn’t going to let him.

“Very well.”

He glanced out the door where Sean was talking with Ezra. He wished that he knew what they were saying; it was so nerve wracking how well they got along.

He wasn’t sure he would be very comfortable with his best friend being friends with his boyfriend. Not when he’d nurtured a crush on said best friend since they had first met. Not that he would say as much; Sean had been with Sam for as long as Josh had known them, and she was perfect for him.

He ducked his head out the door, trying to get their attention. “What does everyone want to drink?”

“Didn’t you bring Yuengling?” Ezra asked at the same time Sean said, “I’ll just have water, thank you.”

Josh looked at his friend in dismay; he didn’t understand. Sean was always up for a beer, and he hadn’t discouraged Josh from bringing it. “But...” He objected, but the telepath cut him off.

“Sam isn’t allowed so I’m joining her. I’m sorry, we only just found out yesterday or I would have told you not to include us in your beer count.”

Josh stared uncomprehendingly. “What?”

“Sam is pregnant.”

The attorney had never seen his friend look so radiant, not even when he had announced his engagement.

Expecting.

“Oh. Congratulations. You’ll be a wonderful father.”

And he meant it, too. If anyone in the world was suited for parenthood it was Sean.

“Congratulations!” Ezra exclaimed as he flipped the burgers. “I’m jealous. I would love children.” Then he turned to Josh apologetically, “But I suppose change me to water, as well. Feels a bit cruel to drink in front of someone who can’t.”

Josh nodded wordlessly and returned to the kitchen. He looked longingly at the six-pack he had dragged out in anticipation, then went and filled up four glasses of water, and three glasses of ice in case the other men wanted any of the tea Sam was brewing.

Then he continued to set the table, occasionally stealing glances at the red and gold leaves drifting down outside the window, and the two men chatting together at the grill.

Fall was preparation for the death of the old. Perhaps that included old crushes that could never be more than wishful fantasy, as well.

Somehow, he wasn't so sure that he liked the fall anymore.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

#39 – Contagious

There was no more fitting epitaph for the human race than to chronicle the rise of its replacement.

It had been an accident; rather, the consequences had been unintended even if the initial acts had been deliberate. Nobody had predicted that this could have been the result of simple experiments in gene mapping. However, when the scientific community outlined its discoveries at the genetic conference, representatives from corporations of all types - Big Pharma, the Military Industrial Complex, technology companies, companies that preyed on the fears of families and the desire of most people to conform – took notes. Since the genes were in the Public Domain as a matter of law and scientific generosity, the companies had access to the information. From there, it was a race to see whose products could hit market first.

Exercises in gene mapping became experiments in genetic manipulation. Not every experiment had been ethical. Unfortunately, one of those unethical experiments yielded fruit, although not what had been expected. Manipulating the mutations on the gene responsible for meta-human abilities had temporarily granted the test subjects results: in the case of meta-humans, it had been increased power potential; for baseline humans, it had been access to meta-human abilities.

Unsurprisingly, the news of this development had been met with mixed reactions. Many people were concerned, albeit for different reasons: some for the implications, others for human rights reasons, and still others from passive and acute metaphobia.

Then everything had grown out of hand.

Manipulating the genes for minor enhancements became a cottage industry, a benefit of life for those who could afford it in civilian life. And, in the military, a way to ensure that American soldiers (and the soldiers of approved allies) were stronger, faster, and better equipped than those of other militaries. Then there had been the blackmarket, selling enhancements to those who could afford through less reputable channels.

The enhanced became addicts, ever fearful of losing what they had gained through chemical and technological means. Fights broke out. Renewed legislation came from both sides of the aisle to find a way to best deal with the implications. Meanwhile, problems continued.

Any meta-human over the age of eleven could explain that every power had a side effect. Some were common – headaches for mental powers - while others were less common but flowed logically from the underlying power– pyrokinetics were particularly ill-adapted to cold temperatures.

The deterioration of brain function hadn’t been expected, but sure enough, each and every person who had received the manipulation –both baseline and meta-human alike – suffered the problem. Worse yet, the enhancements, after prolonged exposure to human body conditions, mutated, so that it could be transmitted from person to person through bodily fluids, even in the early stages before the brain deteriorated set in. Blood, saliva, sexual contact, each was a path to pain and derangement, yet not death. The enhanced had peak physical health, despite their danger and lack of higher brain functions. Worse yet, remnants of their other enhancements remained behind, so a former probability manipulator would have better luck with finding others, pyrokinetics were impervious to fire...and the list went on.

It spread like wildfire.

When enough local law enforcement and government bodies contracted the illness, the President declared martial law. From there, it soon became everyone for himself.

Some were better suited for survival than others. Those who knew how to hide or who had skills that allowed them to have minimal contact with the outside world. Those who had watched one too many zombie movies. Conspiracy theorists who had expected the fall of society for the past two decades, beginning long before Y2K, and certainly before cracking the meta-human genome.

Telepaths with medical training and access to every training document of meta-human children for the past eight decades. Attorneys in romantic relationships with those telepaths who also shared a large house in a small town fairly isolated from military installments and vogue metropolises (Burlington, while the biggest city in Vermont, was still laughably small when compared to actual cities). Children who inhabited that same small town. Even though Pilot Ridge was the meta-human capital of North America, Hammel had remained suspicious of the enhancements and had prevented students from accessing them. Few of the adults in Pilot Ridge had been any more sympathetic to that particular breakthrough, which left the meta-human population of the town relatively intact.

The same couldn’t be said for each and every baseline adult in Pilot Ridge, but when the epidemic began, those adults had been dealt with swiftly in the sake of public health.

“We need to do a supply run,” Josh remarked his partner when the latter came down the stairs from his bath. They still had the staples, but certain produce was a bit scarce. They had what was in the garden, but Riley’s gardens were better due to his green thumb and skill, rather than technical competence. They could trade.

All of the survivors had skills worth trading for, even if one wouldn’t expect so at first.

“Do you feel up to going?” The former attorney asked. “If not, I can gather up some batteries and fuel from the basement...”

“There’s no need. I can go.” Sean offered the younger man a reassuring smile, leaning in to nuzzle his partner’s brow for all-too-brief a moment. “Do you want to stay here? I’ll be fine to go alone.”

“But will you be fine to come back alone?” If Sean wasn’t, then their car would be stranded at Riley’s, or Riley would be stranded here – should he drive the former psychiatrist back – until Sean felt well enough to drive again. It was an absurd game of back and forth.

“I should be.”

Josh considered that for a moment, but then shook his head. “I’ll go with you anyway.”

The telepath wouldn’t argue. “I’ll meet you in the car in five minutes; I just have to grab my kit.”

His kit which included energy bars and Excedrin, among other necessities. Because he always had a headache when renting out his skills.

Psychic fortification and extermination were intense. While he was good at it – the best, although he would never be so boastful as to say that about himself – that did nothing to counteract simple telepathic and biological facts.

They were always able to get so many supplies when he rented out this skill, because giving a half-mile radius of freedom was as close as anyone could get to security. At least until a cure was found or society returned to itself.

The throb in his temple told him that they would have to clear a path to Riley’s house. Well, he was prepared for that. If he extended himself just a bit, then the town could have their scheduled meeting at the end of the week. That would be worth any pain or fatigue.

They needed the safe zone.

[Abe Milton]

91. Ring

It took a while for Walter to talk Debra into marrying him. For one thing, whenever he brought it up, the woman would always dismiss it.

"There's plenty of time for that when we're older," she would declare with a kiss to his cheek. Debra seemed to have the impression that they would live forever and saw no rush for things like traditional institutions of love and devotion. She loved him, he loved her, so what was the rush? "I just don't like the lines about obeying," was another one of her favorites, and although his promises that he had no need for her to say any of that often got him rewards of affection, it didn't get him a yes either. Another one was that it "disregarded the principles of feminism," or that she "didn't need vows for him to prove his love and affection." or, his personal favorite "eventually you're bound to realize you don't like being with a cougar."

Although Debra was always very cheerful and playful about the thing and never got offended, mild-mannered Walter was getting a little--frustrated probably wasn't the word, but he was miserable. He wanted to propose to his lovely, colorful girlfriend, but she seemed completely uninterested in him. Not in being with him--that she'd already determined she was prepared to do for the rest of her life--but in marrying him.

He'd made them dinner one night, and Debra was reading over some of her papers from her class, when he couldn't take it anymore. She looked so pretty in her long skirts and with her long, black curly hair that he burst out, "Why won't you marry me?"

Debra blinked up at him, clearly startled. Walter would've tried to pass it off as a joke, tried to do something, but felt like he was committed to it and so kept going. "Every time I bring it up, Debra, you always laugh it off like a joke. And I don't want it to be a joke. Debra, I love you. I want to stay with you for the rest of my life and I want us to have kids together. Why does it have to be about anything else?"

Debra stared at him, then got up, tugging her skirts straight. "But--Walter. You never said anything! You never asked me."

He was laughing now, somewhat helplessly, and he shook his head. "That's because I was too afraid. I thought you'd say no. I kept hinting at it because I hoped you'd say yes! Or look at it like it was a good thing. But I can't--I don't want the uncertainty anymore, Debra. Will you--"

"--marry me?" Debra finished. She stepped forward and took his hands. "Walter, you should've said something. I mean, sure marriage is a traditional chauvinist ceremony--"

"Not helping, dear," Walter murmured.

"But not with you," she continued firmly. "Never with you. And if marriage is what you want, then let's get married, because I love you and I don't want to be without you. But." She grinned as she leaned in to kiss him. "We both get an engagement ring, okay? And I'm not wearing white for the ceremony."

She did get him a ring, and she didn't wear white. But the look on her face when she met him on the aisle pushed away any doubts in his head of her not wanting this. Nobody who didn't want this would look so happy.

[Joshua Bernstein]

92. Drive

High school had lasted an intolerably long time. Even with secretive letters sent through Danny’s friend Josh had felt nearly physical pain on a daily basis, simply from being forcibly separated from his boyfriend. He’d been so certain that he wouldn’t survive, that the pain would prove too much and he would just up and die before graduation.

Somehow that hadn’t happened.

Somehow he had not only survived, but he had graduated with the grades his parents expected. And he had (eventually and with a great deal of difficulty) convinced them that his best friend, Danny Silverman, was in no way a romantic or sexual interest.

This was the only way that he had been able to garner permission to drive halfway across the country with the other boy. A summer road trip, he had explained enthusiastically. A chance to tour America and experience different regional cultures. A chance to see his country unfiltered.

His mother had bought it, unaware this was a ploy so that her son and his best friend could meet up with their respective boyfriends in the middle of nowhere USA.

Not that his salespitch wasn’t technically true, he mused as he propped both feet up on the dashboard, map held up to his face while he attempted to navigate for Danny.

“Ummm...I think we’re supposed to turn left at uhhh.... I can’t read the name of this road. Poplar Avenue. Yeah, left at Poplar Avenue.”

Danny nodded, mouth set in an almost comically grim line of determination. Then he squeaked out a disappointed exclamation. “No! That was the turn, we just missed it.”

Josh sighed in frustration at their collective inability to navigate. They’d driven past so many turns the past week (often due to Danny’s daydreaming) and turned the wrong way down so many others (always due to the fact that Josh had a difficult time reading maps) that it was a wonder they were even in the correct state.

“Let’s see if there’s any place to turn around...” He decided, scanning his side of the road. They drove in silence for a long time, tires kicking up dust. No driveways were in sight, no gas stations or stripmalls or little lanes that could lead anywhere.

Finally he saw the entrance to a neighborhood. “There, there! Turn around there!”

Danny obliged, and the van they’d rented was turned around so that they could once again look for the road they needed to be on. “So you said left on Poplar Avenue?”

Josh nodded. “That’s right, we just need to take a left on Poplar Avenue and then....”

[Dr. Sean Neville]

#73 – Whitewash

When Sean’s powers had first manifested during the summer of his twelfth birthday, he had thought that he was losing his mind. He heard voices all of the time, he knew things, and he could never explain the source of that knowledge. He remembered what others didn’t, what others always insisted had never happened. His telepathy nearly drove him insane, and his secondary powers, his memory manipulation, hid him from detection for long enough that he became to doubt his own experiences. A little longer, and he knew – although his parents had never told him explicitly – that a psychiatric facility would have been his future.

Robert Hopkins spent six years teaching him to control his powers; the elder telepath taught him complete mastery of the mental realm, insofar as Sean could attain manipulation. While he didn’t have mind control, he had powers that had other approximations and uses.

He could find a single thought in a person’s mind. He could tune out the noise of everyone else within his range to find a single mind and have a prolonged conversation with that person without ever moving his mouth. He could project and listen to many people at once, could engage in prolonged conversations with multiple people without letting them overhear his other conversations. Or he could act as a radio signal, allowing others to use him to communicate with others mentally by projecting their thoughts back and forth.

He could suppress traumatic memories. He could enhance memories as though one was experiencing them presently for the first time. He could create false memories for those in need of cheering up or sculpt new memories to make someone believe that they were another person entirely. Or he could wipe out someone’s mind, making the mental landscape bereft of thoughts and identity and basic learned skills and turning it as empty as a barren landscape in depictions of global annihilation.

He could create mental shields to keep out the voices. Or to prevent him from projecting unconsciously, so that he no longer shared aspects of himself that he wished to keep private. He could construct mental shields to make sure that no other psychic could touch his mind in the same way that he could touch other people’s minds.

Although each of those feats took varying levels of concentration, energy, and raw power.

If he desired, he could make the person in front of him close his mouth and lose his train of thought. A little nudge is all that it would take for the person to apologize for what he had just said. Another nudge and his preferences and priorities would shift, suddenly everything that irritated him or confused him would become amusing or desired or endearing. It would take some concentration to get to the root of the problem, but he could untangle that the way he did with his mother’s ball of yarn, until all of the other person’s concerns had simply evaporated. Once that had happened, and he was open and complaint, Sean could spend his time smoothing out all pockets of resistance, filling the other person’s mind with happy connotations, making him smile. Letting the voice in his mind guide him to always make the right choices, the right decisions that brought them closer together.

A little nudge and there would be no problems at all, none that the other person would remember. Everything would be perfect, sunshine and rainbows as Sean wanted it to be, as he had thought it would be, as he had thought they both experienced simultaneously and to the same degree.

A little nudge and he could have everything he wanted. A little nudge and the world wouldn’t fall apart around him. A little nudge and he could stay himself.

But the price of those nudges, the cost of being able to stay himself, was to sacrifice the mental integrity of the person standing before him, still talking – stammering – about everything that had gone wrong.

The cost was too high. Even though Sean could do it, and with relative ease, he wouldn’t. He would never.

And so he listened to the rest of the laundry list, watched those lips he longed to kiss tell him why they could no longer live together. Watched as the younger man offered to give him space before leaving their home for the last time.

While he couldn’t nudge, he could project. I still love you.

And he could hear. I’m sorry.

And left alone, he could build his mental walls and sob.

[Bailey Summers]

#70 Stars

It wasn’t that Bailey didn’t like the night, she actually liked many aspects of it, the silence, that almost everyone was asleep who would bother her and that it was the time where she could think without getting disturbed. What she didn’t like was the darkness. In the darkness of the night, the stars were extremely comforting for Bailey. Although they were far away, they gave her a sense of not being alone in the world, they were, like brothers and sisters, distant but they were always there for her when she couldn’t sleep. Of course, there were nights when she couldn’t see them, but that was okay, knowing that they were there was enough to give Bailey some comfort.

Bailey had been lying awake in her bed for a while now, watching the moon rising and the stars through the window. Finally she decided that she wouldn’t fall asleep anytime soon and got up. She put a warm blanket around her shoulders before carefully opened the window to porch roof, trying not to make any noise that would wake someone up who would disapprove of her sitting on the porch roof. Those moments in the nights belonged to her alone and she didn’t want to get disturbed or share them with someone else. Bailey carefully climbed out of the windows into the cold air of the night. She made a few steps down the roof before she sat down and wrapped herself into her blanket.

The night was peaceful and silent as always, only from time to time, a distant car could be heard. Bailey sucked the fresh air deep into her lungs while she watched the stars above her. She could spend hours doing nothing then to watch them, sometimes she would talk to them or enjoy their silent company while thinking. Time passed, it was impossible for Bailey to tell how much, maybe only a few minutes, maybe hours had passed before she got up. Bailey said goodnight to her brothers and sisters in the sky and climbed back through the window into her room. She silently closed the window and crawled back under the warm blankets of her bed. Moments later she had fallen asleep, knowing that the stars would always be there waiting for her when she’d need them.

[Abe Milton]

29. Color

The last time Josef had colored, he'd been four, and his mother had taken away the book, informing him that it wasn't the kind of thing young boys did. When he was older, he suspected the problem had mostly been that he'd picked up a princess book. He'd colored it all somewhat masculine colors, so to speak, but his mother had been unhappy with her son coloring in flowing dresses and hair and had put him down in front of a Lego kit instead. Uncharacteristically of Josef, who liked to challenge anything set to him, he hadn't fought her on this particular topic ever again. Partially because he hadn't seen any coloring books after that. Not having any kids, he'd put coloring books out of his head.

Until, when he'd been taking the twins to the grocery store, Carol had gotten away from him and had come tottering back with a stack of coloring books, full of Rapunzel and Thor and other things he didn't even know they'd had in coloring books anymore.

"Dad," she'd said solemnly, all of three years old (three and a half, dad!) "Can we get these?"

"Please?" was Kiernan's prompt echo as he hopped down next to his sister, before Josef could get a grip on him. He started flipping through them. "Please, Dad? This one has a guy with wings!"

Josef stared at a coloring book of X-Men, feeling outnumbered and a little lost. Damien was at work and Josef had taken the day off to watch the kids. The only problem was, when he did this, he tended to give into everything they wanted. It was like he couldn't help himself. Besides, there was no reason not to get them. It bolstered creativity...right?

"All right," he sighed, and had to deal with their bouncing and cheering and bickering over who got to color what. Carol made sure her father remembered the crayons, although she pouted when he said no to the markers (he remembered all too well the incident of coloring the fridge). He managed to get them to calm down only by promising that they could color as soon as they got home, but not until then.

They burst into the door and ran around his feet, chattering happily to each other as Josef put away the groceries. At last he pulled out the coloring books and crayons and set them on the table. The twins pounced on them and began coloring solemnly. Josef had never seen Carol so still. She colored furiously, pressing hard into the paper, while Kiernan did it more thoughtfully, taking great care to get into the lines. Josef shook his head and started prepping dinner. He didn't notice anything until he felt someone tugging at his pant leg, and turned to look down at Carol, who was solemnly offering him a book full of birds and a bright pink crayon.

"Dad's turn," she said.

"Carol," he said gently, "I'm trying to cook dinner."

"Nuh uh." She tugged firmly. "Dad's turn!" He looked over at Kiernan, but the boy was still lost in his book with surprising focus for a three year old. Josef smiled, put dinner in the oven, then picked up Carol and settled at the table, holding her in his lap. He took the crayon and the book and set it down, then put the crayon on where the ocean should be and looked at her solemnly.

"Like that?"

"Noo, Dad!" she giggled. "The bird!"

When Damien returned from work, Kiernan was bored and had gone back to his block toys, but Carol and Josef were still coloring, Josef occasionally pausing for Carol to pass him another crayon. Carol beamed as she spotted Damien and promptly hopped down from Josef's lap to attach herself to Damien's leg.

"Dad and I have been coloring, Daddy!" she proclaimed. "Look!" She showed him the book, and he took it with a smile.

"That's wonderful, Carol. I guess Dad had fun, then?" He turned the smile to Josef, who's own look turned sheepish as he put his hands in his pockets.

"I guess you're never too old to color."

[Dryope *]

47. Voodoo

Presenting a case in court was perhaps one of the most stressful and unpredictable parts of being a lawyer. Clients could be obstreperous on their own, but when one added in witnesses and court staff and opposing counsel, not to mention the occasional journalist team or curious public or distressed relatives, then chaos was only to be expected. Even the strictest judge couldn’t prevent people from misbehaving; he could only deal with the aftermath in a way that discouraged further misbehavior.

Josh, fortunately, rather thrived on the chaos of the courtroom. Insecurities about his personal life melted away as he confidently expounded on elements of the law and of the details of his case, thrilled to use knowledge that seldom saw use outside of his professional life. He researched extensively before his trials, but even in the off times he enjoyed refreshing himself on the finer parts of the law and in ensuring that he stayed current and could argue his points sensibly and with a deftness he rarely replicated outside of court.

It was nice, having specific examples to use and precedent to point to, when debating.

But although he was well prepared for much of the difficulties encountered at the courthouse, there were still surprises.

For instance, the middle aged woman sprinkling what he thought was sand all round the perimeter of the courtroom.

He plopped his papers onto the table before him, looking at her quizzically. There were a few other people already there, setting up for the trial. The stenographer was pointedly refusing to look at the woman, and most everyone else didn’t seem to really notice her at all.

As the sheriff walked by Josh flagged him down, too overcome with curiosity to look over his notes before the trial began.

“That woman. What is she doing?” He whispered, gesturing towards the still muttering and circling figure.

The sheriff shook his head in bemusement. “She’s doing voodoo.”

Josh was taken aback. “Voodoo?”

The sheriff nodded. “She does this whenever her husband is on trial. He always gets off, so it must work.”

The woman finished, and calmly went to sit at the back of the room.

And the sheriff must have been right; Josh was so flustered that he performed quite poorly, and to his utter humiliation he lost a case for the first time since graduation. The woman’s husband was found not guilty.

As he made his way to the subway after the trial he spotted a Kabbalah shop with some Hamsa amulets in the display window.

Better to wear a charm under his suit than to lose cases, he decided, and in he went, feeling slightly silly.

But the next case he presented he made sure the amulet was in his pocket.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

#53 - Destination

Sean had never gone on a road trip before. He’d read On the Road and Travels with Charley; he was enamored with the idea of a prolonged journey with a person he cared about, seeing what there was to see and enjoying new experiences.

But he was the oldest Neville child, and his little sister was too young to drive. So a road trip had, for a long time, been nothing more than idle fantasy.

He certainly had never expected that he would find himself on the open road with someone who could barely tolerate his presence. And yet, his graduation present had been the blue VW-bus, and he found himself seated beside Cobalt Weaver on a journey from Pilot Ridge, Vermont to the Colorado River. Sean’s parents had allowed the trip because both Sean and Robert Hopkins had assured them that nothing was between him and the younger boy. More than that, they had seen the two of them interact, and it was barely believable that they wanted to take a prolonged road trip together. Cobalt had no parents to object, and Hammel didn’t care what he did during the first part of the summer, as long as he had returned in time for the academic session, otherwise they would send security and recruiters after him. Sean had promised to have him back in time.

The trip was disastrous from beginning to end. Cobalt’s vision was atrocious, and so he couldn’t share in any of the night driving. Sean didn’t actually mind that, since he found that he enjoyed the freedom of being behind the wheel. However, Cobalt felt the need to overcompensate and wanted to take shifts during the daytime. But he was almost a foot taller than Cobalt, and so every time they switched, they had to take several minutes to adjust seats and mirrors.

More than that, Cobalt hated music. It wasn’t just that he didn’t have the same taste in music that Sean had, but he didn’t like it at all. None of it.

Sean’s VW-bus had a cassette deck, and the telepath had spent a lot of money on buying road trip music, including new copies of his well-worn Paul Simon tapes. Somehow, every Paul Simon song seemed to irritate Cobalt more as they drove.

Which was too bad for the shadow manipulator, because it was either music or playing I, Spy, since Cobalt and he would never have a heart-to-heart chat or a friendly debate over which celebrity had the greatest career. Much like Josh, Cobalt knew nothing about movies. Except, where Josh was eager to learn, Cobalt was bitter about the existence of motion pictures as a whole. He was bitter about everything.

At one point, Cobalt had snapped at him, asking why they couldn’t just sit in silence for the rest of the drive.

“Because I don’t get to sit in silence.” Sean had moved one hand from the steering wheel long enough to tap his right temple.

“So everyone else has to be as miserable as you?”

Sean’s response had been to turn on NPR. Cobalt only managed to listen to that for twenty minutes before the Paul Simon tape went back in the deck.

Plus, Cobalt had the worst taste in food that Sean had ever seen. He knew that his own family came from money, and that the younger boy was an orphan, and so their exposure to cuisine was different, but the shadow manipulator always complained about the selection in the Hammel cafeteria. One would think that he might want to eat at a real restaurant, particularly when Sean had said for the ten thousandth time that his parents had given him money for the road trip and that he didn’t mind picking up the tab for both of them and eating at sit-down restaurants.

Cobalt still insisted on greasy hamburger joints and pizza places with the worst pizza that Sean had ever eaten. The telepath didn’t complain, but by the third day he started insisting on actually eating at restaurants, even if they were only diners. The telepath cited his need for more glucose as his excuse, and he kept chips and crackers in the car as they drove.

It didn’t matter how uncomfortable the actual journey was, however, because the destination was well worth it. Sean would go through a road trip twice as long, would drive all the way out to California himself if it meant that he got to see Josh again, free of adult supervision. He knew that Cobalt felt the same way about Danny, which was why the younger man was seated beside him.

They were so close now.

Until Sean blew past a turn.

“We were supposed to turn right back there.”

“That isn’t where they are.”

“That’s what the map says.”

Sean didn’t dispute that. “I’m sure it is. But they’re not at the meeting place.”

“How can you know that?”

“Because I can hear them.”

Cobalt had prepared a snappy reply, but it died on his tongue. If that was true, and Sean had no reason to lie to him about it, then they were closer than he thought. The shadow manipulator reached out to turn off the tape deck. “What do you need to find them?”

“Nothing.” Sean reached out to flick the tape back on. “I hear them now; I won’t lose them when we’re this close.”

Cobalt grudgingly accepted that and slumped down in his seat. Although he couldn’t hide the anticipation he felt at the thought of seeing Danny so soon.

Then, when they passed a white van on the road, the telepath leaned on the horn for a full fifteen seconds, scaring the Dickens out of both Cobalt and the car behind them. Sean didn’t care, the smile on his face was so wide, and he let out a laugh as he glanced in the rearview mirror.

That had caught the van’s attention. Sean pulled over to the side of the road in anticipation.

They’d arrived.

[Dr. James Campbell]

59. Destiny

"Have you seen my cat?"

James jumped and looked towards the door. A blond boy he didn't recognize stuck his head in his dorm room. He hadn't seen the cat. He was surprised they even allowed cats in the dorm, except for the kids who could talk to them of course. "Uh, no. I haven't."

"He's brown with a white chest. If you see him around, let me know." The blond boy grinned. "I'm Chase, by the way. I just moved in down the hall."

James stood up and nervously rubbed his sweaty palm on his jeans. No matter how many students had moved in, he always felt awkward introducing himself. "I'm James Campbell. They call me, uh, Spot."

"Why, do you turn into a dog or something?" Chase reached out and shook his hand.

"No, I notice things. It's enhanced perception and senses."

Chase grinned again. "Cool! I can use mind control. When do we get our code names?"

James had to smile at his enthusiasm, and shrugged. "It just happens. Usually if you're on a mission with the senior class. They're really good at coming up with them."


*

Even over the noise of the engine, Chase could hear the shots. It was a shotgun, though whoever had taken down all the zombies in the street had probably used something else. He had to slow to maneuver the motorcycle between the bodies, though he worried about the shots coming closer. Hopefully, whoever was shooting didn't want a bike. Just in case, he drew his pistol. Only three shots left, but there had to be more ammunition somewhere.

He was nearly out of the mess on the street when the shooter came running--if you could call hobbling on what was probably a very painful sprain, judging from the look on his face--from between two buildings, trying to reload as he went. There were only five or six zombies behind him, but the shooting and the engine would probably alert every one left in the area. He couldn't have been more than a few years older than him, and who knew if he was already bitten?

Still, when he fumbled with the gun, Chase made a snap decision. "Hey, you!"

The man looked up.

"Get on back. Hurry!" Chase slid forwards as much as he could and waited for the other man to reach him.

The man stopped trying to reload and concentrated on reaching the motorcycle. He looked so exhausted, Chase was surprised he was able to get there are all.

"You got more ammo for that?"

"Yeah. Let's get out of here."

*

"You really think a dog might help?" Already, Dr. Campbell had pulled up a new window on his computer and started searching his favorite journals database for case studies about therapy dogs.

The other doctor nodded. "In my last job, we had a few who came on on shifts. But out of all the kids I've met so far here, Eli is the one I'd trust with a living thing. He's responsible."

"Just not responsive." Dr. Campbell bookmarked a few likely titles to read later, then looked over at his colleague. "If you figured out how to get Eli to open up to us on your first session with him.... well, I'm glad you've joined us, Dr. Kilbourne. Roman will be impressed Too."

"Roman?"

"He's interning. You'll see him at lunch. He'll be the one in the Nintendo shirt."

*

"You're the tutor?" Chase barely looked up from what he'd been doing, carefully stacking binder clips into the tallest tower he could manage.

"Yeah." The older boy dropped a stack of books on the table, sending the clips crashing down. "You're Chase who wants help with Geometry?"

"Hey! I was working on that!" Chase scowled up at him. He didn't want the help. But if he didn't get it and pass all his classes, his father was going to keep him from going to the stable on weekdays. He'd worked his ass off to get that horse, and he was going to ride her as much as he could. "I just need to pass with at least a B-."

"I can help you with that." The tutor sat down and flipped open one of the math books. "Just look through the table of contents and tell me the things you're sure you know. We'll start there."

*

"My lord, you don't have to..."

"Yes I do. They defended a hamlet they had no allegiance to, and I'll see them rewarded." Lord James of the Ridge was a kind man, but his advisors often felt that they did less advising than they should be allowed to.

"They're southern mercenaries. They'll want money, and for all you know they could be spies"

The lord shrugged and took his seat at the head of his hall. "If only all mercenaries would do the noble thing before naming a price, we would live in a better world. Send them in."

The group looked haggard, though at least their wounds had been bandaged. Lord James had instructed that they'd been fed as well. And for mercenaries, they were polite. Three kneeled when they reached the end of the hall, and the fourth hesitated before doing so as well. "Welcome, my friends. I understand I have you to thank for protecting the village by the Red River."

"Yes, m'lord." One of them replied. "We were staying in the inn. The people there had been kind to us, so we took care of the bandits for them."

"You have my thanks. Tell me, what are your names?"

The one who had hesitated before kneeling rose first. "Cobalt, m'lord."

"Hart."

"Josef."

"Chase." The last man was blond and had didn't even try to keep solemn. James instantly knew he liked him.

"My advisors will have a purse for each of you, and I invite you to dine in my hall tonight and as long as it takes you to heal. You are welcome here."

*

Chase approached the bespectacled man, beer in hand. It took balls to just send a guy a drink like that unless you were in a gay bar. And Chase didn't go to gay bars with his friends.

"Hi." The man smiled at him and gestured to the seat next to him.

"Do I know you?" For a second, there was something about him that Chase thought he recognized, but he couldn't place it.

"I don't think so, though I'd like to change that. I'm James Campbell."

"Chase Kilbourne." He took the seat.