Zero Sight
Authors: B. Justin Shier
(Zero Sight Series, Book 1)
by
B. Justin Shier
Kindle Edition v.2
Zero Sight (Zero Sight Series, Book 1)
Copyright © 2011 by Brian Justin Shier
Kindle Edition v.2
ISBN 978-0-9835000-0-1
Editing by Jon Steller
Cover design by Jordan Kimura
Cover photography by Sarah Pedersen
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This
is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental. All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.
To Deborah Lim,
For reminding me how to move a castle across the desert.
HOW TO MAKE TOAST
BEHIND THE SCHOOLHOUSE
I read it in a book once. Time doesn’t slow during a fight. What you perceive as a slowdown is actually your poor noggin’ overloading with data. It’s working extra hard to create a detailed record of events—the mental equivalent of running a highlighter through a book—and you’re misinterpreting the added detail for added time. There’s a good reason for your brain’s sudden attention to detail. If you manage to survive the fight, there’s a serious advantage to remembering every last dodge and strike. You’ll have a chance to learn, a chance to maybe not repeat any of the stupid shit that got you there in the first place.
Professional fighters hear this explanation and shake their heads. They’ve all been there. They remember the sensations. They say that when the punches start flying, time slows down to help them focus. All they see is their opponent. All they hear is their heartbeat. Distractions like the shouts of the crowd fade away. Fighters become totally consumed with winning. Victory is their one and only drive. And the pros believe that if they wait long enough, all their intense focus will pay off. They call that moment the fight’s tipping point. They argue that spotting it is the difference between winning and losing. And trained fighters are patient beasts. They’re willing to take tremendous damage waiting for that perfect moment. But when that moment comes, they don’t hesitate for an instant. They deliver all the savage precision they can muster. It’s the essence of their craft. They gamble everything on it. No wonder they get so hot under the collar when some know-nothing scientists start arguing otherwise.
The scientists or the fighters…to be honest, I have no idea who’s right. I’ve been in dozens of fights: nasty ones with broken bones and missing teeth, fast finishes that ended before the second swing, slow grinds that were ended by the cops, but through them all, I never once experienced time slow down. Maybe that’s because I see things differently.
Perhaps “see” is the wrong word, but frankly, there isn’t anything else to call it. I’ve looked in hundreds of books, searched the Internet for hours, but there is nothing like my Sight logged anywhere. All I can do is describe it for you:
Close your eyes.
Rub them for a minute or two.
You see bursts of countless colors bound off in different directions, right? Some of them even have forms you can recognize—circles, squares, squiggles, and waves. Picture all those shapes overlaid onto your normal visual field. Now, imagine that every sparkle, every blur, every little motion has a meaning, that every last one is telling you something important about the world around you, that they’re feeding you information about energy on the move. When my adrenalin starts pumping, and my mind is overrun by fear and pain, my world doesn’t slow down—it fills with stars. And right now, in the dirt lot behind my high school, I’m about to take advantage of this strange little talent. A few seconds before the next punch is thrown, I’m already going to know it’s coming.
My feet kicked up dust as I skidded just out of his range. The dust irritated my eyes and mixed with the sweat on my skin. I tried to ignore it. I tried to focus on my footwork. I reminded myself of the need to breathe. I needed to be patient. Needed to lure him into a strike. I took a quarter step forward and leaned in on my toes.
Tyrone took the bait. As soon as I planted, he lunged in too close, and then I saw it: Light surged ahead of Tyrone Nelson’s left hand—beautiful waves telegraphing the punch’s power and direction. The waves were clean. The waves were vibrant. The more powerful the source, the brighter the bands of light. The more directed the source, the easier it is for me to read a blow’s path. I could See this one as clear as day. Tyrone got high marks for power and accuracy. If I let it hit, the punch would rattle my brain. I would stumble backwards with my chin high in the air. He would be able to follow-up with whatever he wanted. I would be on the ground in seconds, blow after blow caving in my face—so it was truly unfortunate for Tyrone Nelson that I Saw his left hook coming before he even released it. It gave me the half-second lead I needed to quarter-step right, set my feet, and deliver my own fist to his incoming nose. I felt the rush of air as his fist missed wide, the satisfying crunch as my own punch landed clean, and the warm spray of blood as his nose collapsed. That was the true value of my Sight. It made me nearly unbeatable.
I lowered my fists and smiled. This fight was over. I was going to need a new shirt.
As my heartbeat settled, so did my Sight. The crowd noise came rushing back. Life’s normal dull hues returned. I sagged from the strain. My Sight was a strange gift. I had no idea why, but I could only manage to focus it when I was in danger. Once a brawl was over, it faded away with the adrenalin.
I looked down at Tyrone sputtering in the dirt. It was all he could manage through the rush of blood and tears. I glanced up. The bright afternoon sun shone down hot and heavy. A circle of our peers stood around us. They looked thoroughly disappointed. I rubbed the dust and sweat out of my eyes and sighed. The return to reality was always like this. No more laser light show. No more rush. Just another bleached-out day in the valley of the sun. Except this one sucked more than usual, and I wasn’t out of the woods just yet. I returned my eyes to the dirt. It was best to not make eye contact with the crowd.
I listened to Tyrone’s blood patter to the ground and watched as it beaded up on the earth. The dirt repelled the uninvited moisture and held it up as an offering to the sun. In less than an hour, the only hint that someone bled all over the desert would be a faint streak of red in the dust. The city of Las Vegas doesn’t do soil. Soil implies some hope of life. The dirt here doesn’t do life. Hell, it doesn’t even do moisture.
I tightened my fists. The response had to be coming soon.
With a quick glance, I checked the distance between the crowd and myself. They hadn’t gathered to watch Tyrone Nelson get dropped, and they sure as hell weren’t scared of me. Las Vegas was still in America, and Americans demand happy endings, no matter how contrived. The muscles in my legs were locking up, so I shifted my feet. I needed to be ready to move. I needed to be ready to dodge. My mental calculus was simple: It was way better to get the beating over with now rather than later, but I didn’t want them breaking anything.
I could hear sirens in the distance. The school police must have spotted the fight. They wouldn’t intervene just yet. Not before they had backup. The riot two months ago had been a bad one. It had taught the cops just how much the gangs respected their badges. Live where I do and you get to know sirens real well. I listened carefully to the whines. I guessed three minutes tops. Five minutes would be pushing it, but I thought I could survive three minutes. They would get some hits in for sure, but I would be able to walk away. Running was a no go. Even if I got away clean I would still have to face them eventually. Then the fight would be at a time and place of their choosing. I shuddered at the thought. If that happened, there sure as hell wouldn’t be a three-minute time limit.
The decision was an easy one. I’d take my lumps now.
With a smirk, I looked up to meet their eyes.
Fifteen or so young human males and females wearing our mandated white button-down shirts and thick navy slacks surrounded me. (On a side note, whoever picked blue as our school color was one twisted fuck. Here’s a good idea: Take a bunch of impoverished, hormonally imbalanced teenagers, wrap them in heavy sheets of cotton, and make them march around in the middle of the desert. Yeah, that’s gonna work out well.) Despite the mandated uniforms, the Splotches stood out from the crowd. Legend had it that one of the founding Splotches had thrown their school slacks in the washer with a gallon of bleach. Twenty-five minutes later, the Splotches were born. You would think that the school administration would have banned the newly developed gang colors on the spot, but the Splotches were one step ahead of them. They pointed to a bureaucratic loophole which stipulated that no student could be required to buy more than two uniforms a year. They bleached every pair of slacks they owned and pleaded poverty.
Two pairs of slacks a year—it was sorta like the gang’s membership fee.
And so it was that the Splotches (who couldn’t pass a single class if you summed their scores together) circumvented the will of the entire educational establishment of Las Vegas, Nevada.
Three cheers for the ingenuity of youth.
Right now, I needed as little of said youthful ingenuity as possible. I wanted to orchestrate a controlled beating; I couldn’t afford any sparks of genius. What I needed was pure unadulterated rage. What I needed was a mob. I considered the possibilities, flipped through my Rolodex of pre-pubescent insults, and selected one of my finest bovine references:
“
So,” I asked. “Which one of you fucking bluebells is next?”
Thirty eyes glared back at me.
Someone actually snarled.
My shoulders sank. I was committed now. The inevitability of the beating added to the suckitude. My heart began to pound. My gut churned. I considered just how badly this was going to hurt, and my confidence plummeted faster than a fat man in dunk tank. Nauseating anxiety rose to replace it. Then came the fear. Wave after wave of knee-knocking fear. The fear was perfect. The fear was exactly what I needed. My Sight returned just as a stream of color warned that the first attack was already coming—and from behind no less.
I focused on the shape of the source.
A pipe. A pipe was coming down on my head.
I looked a very bloody Tyrone Nelson straight in the eyes. I watched the smile growing on his face vanish. Tyrone knew I knew the pipe was coming, and Tyrone knew that was bad.
I shifted downward and threw a blind kick straight into Phil Collins’ incoming kneecap. Phil had already committed to the swing; he couldn’t dodge. The charging weasel yelped as I repositioned his bones. My blow flattened his angle of attack, redirecting the pipe forward. Tyrone was smart enough to protect his head. Instead of cracking open his skull, the pipe came down on his forearm. I heard his radius snap clean. (Or was it his ulna? I could never keep those two straight.)
Tyrone screamed in pain as his wrist jiggled like well-done pasta.
Phil was too busy cradling his busted knee to apologize.