Read Online The Thought Pushers (Mind Dimensions Book 2) by Anna Zaires, Dima Zales - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anna Zaires, Dima Zales
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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 fucker 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.
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
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 fucker 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.
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
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