Paranormals (Book 1) (10 page)

The jackhammer crashed down, and its handle struck Lincoln right above his toes. Even through his workman boots, Lincoln gasped at the sharp pain that ...

That did not come. As with the burner on the stove, he found that he was, somehow, mistaken. There was
no pain
. Impossibly, the jackhammer must have actually
missed
...

But that wasn’t right, either. He’d
felt
the impact, it simply had not hurt.

Lincoln stood there in a daze, his confused mind racing to catch up with current events, but unable to do so. He squatted and looked at the machine, as if there might suddenly be a label that read:
Now weighs less when not in use!

Yeah, sure. He’d operated it a hundred times — he knew how heavy the damn thing was. Even with his impressive build, it took a little heft just to upright the thing if it fell on its side. Not a back-breaking effort, but a lot more than moving a paperweight, and that’s about the equivalent to what his foot had consented to register.

Gingerly, Lincoln reached out with a single hand. A slight upward pull revealed the poundage he had expected. He lifted a little harder, about as much as he could with one arm from this poor angle...

A heavy feeling began to form like a rock in his gut — he didn’t consciously recognize this rock as
fear
just yet, but nevertheless, there it was. With an intuition experienced by one-tenth of one percent of the world’s population, Lincoln suddenly
felt
that he wasn’t actually lifting the jackhammer as hard as he could. Sure, he was exerting about as much strength as he was normally capable of, but now he felt like he could give more, a
lot
more. He didn’t feel a rippling of power course through his body, or rolling thunder pour through his muscles. He did not grow in size and rip out of his clothes like The Incredible Hulk ... he simply
knew
that he wasn’t giving it his all.

This entire realization/discovery took less than a second. A heartbeat later, Lincoln’s mouth hung on a loose jaw as he held the jackhammer, one-handed and with
terrible
leverage, straight out in front of him, parallel to the ground and with no undue difficulty. He lowered the machine swiftly, and — his conscious mind a numb slave to some other part of him — he turned to the cement bags. The rock in his stomach grew, and it was slowly occurring to him that it was, in fact, not just fear, but
horror.
Stooping at the waist, totally disregarding the technique prescribed by all foreman to lift with your legs and not your back, Lincoln bent and wedged his hands underneath the fourth or fifth bag down. He applied his normal strength, then tapped the reservoir
beyond
that, and all four or five bags rose from the stack. His back did not so much as make a peep from the effort.

Dropping the bags, Lincoln just stood there, mystified and trembling. Confusion — total, encompassing
bewilderment —
maintained dominance over his mind for a full minute before the only possible explanation crawled like a hideous worm out of the rock in his stomach, up through his chest where his heart went pitter-patter, and out of his mouth as, not a scream, but a hushed whisper.

"The Paranormal Effect ..."

Then Lincoln did something he had not done in years.

He began to cry ...

VORTEX

He was floating through warm water, yet he found that he could breathe normally. Darkness surrounded him, but he wasn’t afraid. He looped and swam and drifted freely, content to relax and enjoy himself...

As he flowed along the directionless currents, he grew aware of a coolness on his face,
in
his face, in his
eyes
. It wasn’t exactly unpleasant, but he grew steadily more conscious of it. A sort of numb sensation, spanning from the surface of his pupils back into his head. And every once in a while, the darkness was penetrated by a quick flash — he wasn’t quite sure whether it came from outside, in the pitch fluid, or from behind his own unfeeling eyes ...

Not much to go on, really, just a sharp flash of illumination, not unlike a bolt of lightning ...

A bolt of lightning ...

Lightning!

PCA

Steve awoke and sat sluggishly upright. He felt a flimsy gown covering his body and heard distant speaker voices and pings that he immediately associated with a hospital — the sterile, disinfectant odor and the pinch of an IV in the back of his left hand affirmed the feeling.

But he couldn’t
see
any of this.

Anxiety seizing his heart in an icy grip, Steve raised his hand to the bandage wrapped around his head. He felt no pain there, but he experienced uncomfortable
deja vu
at the cool sensation encompassing his eyes, and he
did
have a top-of-the-line headache. His fingers drifted to the still prominent lump over his temple ...

Good God, he had been
attacked
! And by
what
? He’d never heard of a weapon that could— Was it a
paranormal
? Why in the world—?!

Dad! It must have something to do with
Dad
!

His breath burned his dry throat and his pulse rushed in his ears so loudly that he almost missed the low buzzing that drifted in from outside the room. He heard a
swish
, and the hospital sounds grew momentarily louder. Someone had opened a door.

"You’re awake, Mister Davison," a female voice stated the obvious. "How are you—"

"The police!" Steve interrupted. "I need to talk to the police right away!"

"Mister Davison, first things first—"

"Bull
shit
‘first things first,’ " Steve snapped, again probing the bandage around his head, over his eyes. The woman — a nurse? — reached out to gently pull his hand away, but Steve batted her fingers fiercely the moment they made contact.

"Mister Davi—"

"I’m not kidding around here, lady," Steve growled, throwing the sheets back and moving to get off the bed. The facts that he was effectively
blindfolded
, had no idea where he was or where he was going, and would have to drag his IV-tethered hand in order to get there, never crossed his mind. "My dad’s an important guy, and ..."

Steve fell silent as the door hissed open a second time. "Hello, Steve," a man said.

The part of Steve that wasn’t getting caught up in blind panic tried to place the voice. He’d definitely heard it before, many times, but in his present state he couldn’t be sure ...

"It’s Alan, Steve," the man said.

Of course! Alan Russell, his father’s ... well, he
was
the Vice-President of
Davison
Electronics
for years. Steve didn’t know exactly what his new position was after the business conversion.

"Alan," Steve gasped. He relaxed a little — but
only
a
little. "Can you tell me where I am? I mean, I know I’m in a hospital, but I need to talk to the police, or the
PCA
. I think I was attacked by—"

"A paranormal," Alan finished for him.

Steve paused. The direction of Alan’s voice had changed; he sounded closer and lower — probably sitting next to the bed now. And Alan’s flat tone made him even more uneasy, if that were possible.

"Right," he pressed on. "I have to report it. Where are my parents? I’m surprised
Mom
didn’t rush in the moment I—"

Alan shuffled in his seat, and a sound not unlike a grunt escaped him. "Doctor, would you excuse us?"

"Mister Russell," the doctor said ...

all right, so
nurse
was a sexist guess

"... my patient has just regained consciousness after two days..."

two days?!

"... and we need to determine whether—"

"I understand," Alan cut in. "But ... Steve and I need a few minutes. Alone, please."

I don’t like that, I don’t like that haunted tone in his voice

After a moment, the doctor agreed, "Fine, but I’m not going far. Try not to ..." But her voice trailed off, and she left the room without finishing the thought.

"Alan,
what
is going on? Why are
you
here? Where
are
my
parents
?!"

"Steve ..." Alan began. A pause, then another almost-grunt. "Steve ... Steve, I, uh, have some bad news. I wish I didn’t have to spring it on you ..."

Steve began to lose it — he could feel the last strings of his self-control snapping like torn ligaments. The numbness beneath the bandage was no longer a
cool
sensation, but a white-hot void behind his closed eyelids. Sweat stuck the hospital gown to his body, and when he spoke again, his voice cracked in a way that might have embarrassed him under other circumstances. "
Where are my parents?!
"

"Steve," Alan answered in a hushed whisper that pierced Steve’s soul in a way he would remember for as long as he lived, "your family has been murdered."

it’s a joke, it’s a sick joke

are you sure about that, Stevey boy, are you really
sure
?

"Is this supposed to be
funny
?" Steve demanded in a strangled voice about as commanding as a frightened kindergartner. "Where’s Dad?!"

"Steve—"

"
Where the hell is Dad?! He’ll fire you for this, you son of a bitch!
"

"Steve—!"

he’s not lying, Stevey boy, you
know
he’s not

"
GO TO HELL!!!
"

Steve shoved himself off the bed — he didn’t even feel the IV rip loose — and threw himself at the older man. Alan had no time to move or otherwise react, and it was only Steve’s lack of eyesight that kept the athletic young man’s fist from breaking his jaw. As it was, Steve struck his shoulder so hard his arm went numb.

"Steve, for God’s sake!"

"
He’ll fire you fire you you’ll be sorry when my parents get here Mom will hurt you so bad
...
!
"

Then other hands,
several
hands, were pulling Steve off Alan, and he felt a needle stab into his arm. As they pinned him down, his bandage slowly soaking with tears and blood, Steve sensed the watery darkness returning, and he reached out for it with all of his heart and soul. And, strangely enough, the last things he thought about as he passed into that sweet oblivion were of when he was seven and his parents bought his brother John and him snowcones at the State Fair, and the first time they took him to see the Olympic gymnasts perform...

PCA

... his first victory at a junior level judo tournament, his father ran right out onto the mats and lifted his arm high into the air. "Wonderful, Steve!" he cheered, as close to tears as Joseph Davison ever got ...

It was the morning after his outburst, and no one else had come to talk to him. The occasional nurse, doctor,
whatever
, had come in to ask him a few questions concerning his condition, but they had yet to try actually
talking
to him. Oh, he was sure that it was only a matter of time before the first therapist ("Let’s talk about how you
feel
, Steve. May I call you ‘Steve?’ ") came through the door, but for now they were leaving him in peace. His headache was better, but the lack of sensation in his eyes had given way to an itchy throb ... he just didn’t feel motivated enough to complain about it. What difference did it really make? He had a
new
chill to keep him company now — the cold, empty
pit
that had opened up within him, consuming the anguish and denial and all the other emotions he would have expected to
be feeling at this point.