Mind Trap Read online

  Mind Trap

  By J.R. Brule

  JACK’S CLOSET BOOKS, LLC

  Thriller & Horror Publishers

  www.jacksclosetbooks.com

  To my prospective fans, for their future support.

  To my family, for their endless support.

  To me, for the faithful venture into the publishing world.

  This story hatched one lazy summer afternoon while docked at Put-in-Bay.

  “Every man must do two things alone; he must do his own believing and his own dying.”

  Martin Luther King

  1:

  A MAN WITH A GOLDEN ponytail taught Rudy the most important lesson he ever learned: being a good salesman is all about making the customer feel special, like it’s all about them, when really, it’s all about you.

  ---

  Rudy had some serious trouble: chunks of data invaded his mind like hundreds of rats entwining a nest. He’d heard puberty was the great time of change—maybe this was the beginning.

  Mrs. Anderson stood at the front of the class, reviewing multiplication tables, but all he heard

  (pizza at lun)

  (emily’s got herpes)

  (wonder if anyone noti)

  were meaningless words and phrases. And how loud it all was—like a broken radio flipped between stations in his head. He constantly plunged his ears with both palms, like a swimmer emptying trapped water, hoping to suck the voices free. But aside from some confused glances, his plunging did nothing—the

  (hi, kid)

  (wish she’d ask m)

  (how much longer how mu)

  words came as they pleased and wouldn’t go away.

  At lunch, sitting with his best friend Brian, Rudy was too preoccupied to notice his classmates watching him. They played a game where they’d call his name and ask some foul question, usually involving genitals.

  And Rudy’s stomach hurt, like he’d eaten a bad egg. It threatened to retch. Brian thought something might be wrong, so he put a comforting hand on Rudy’s shoulder. Asked if everything was okay.

  What happened next wasn’t Rudy’s fault—he didn’t even know it was Brian’s hand. Brian’s touch galvanized Rudy’s senses, aroused each individual nerve, and demolished what little protection Rudy had from the voices. A flood of

  (just you)

  (like sandpaper)

  haunting shadows from Rudy’s future penetrated his own mind. Rudy saw a man breathing hot air into his ear, saw a woman spinning a knife on the tip of her finger.

  (can’t let thi)

  And that’s when Rudy’s survival instincts awakened his Gift. Caused all his power to surge to Brian’s hand.

  (won’t let thi)

  Brian screamed. His hand, still adhered to Rudy’s unknowing shoulder, was ripping at the wrist.

  Chairs scooted away as classmates got up to flee. Other students panicked. Lunch monitors hurried to diffuse the situation.

  The injury began like a simple fishing-line accident, slicing through flesh. But Rudy’s power did not stop until bone became visible. And with the snapping sound of a breaking tree, Brian’s hand disconnected from his wrist. The hand dropped to the floor, and Rudy’s power finally cooled, like an overheated car engine. Brian tumbled back, tripped over himself, and wailed.

  A lunch monitor tore the sleeve from her shirt and worked to fashion a tourniquet. “Call an ambulance!” she yelled, while another lunch monitor held Brian down.

  The school nurse entered the cafeteria carrying a white medical box. She maneuvered through the children until she reached Brian, and sat on her knees. Working to disinfect the wound, she wondered why his wrist didn’t bleed.

  Rudy didn’t even see Brian fall over. All he saw were the students collectively abandoning the table, right before the passing gym teacher picked him up and threw him over his shoulder. And dangling against the gym teacher’s back, Rudy saw Brian for the first time, reeling in pain. The nurse held the severed hand.

  The sight halted all the intrusive voices, emphasizing a singular thought Rudy had on his own:

  I could sell that hand.

  After the incident, Rudy was suspended from school, but not expelled, much to Brian’s father’s fury. No weapons were found at the scene, the principal explained, so there was no conclusive evidence Rudy had done anything. But the other students needed peace of mind. Rudy could return in a few weeks.

  But something more happened inside the school that day—something no one saw, not even Rudy. The fear that would normally change the students’ lives was calmed. At home, students kept quiet. The Middleburg Times never heard about a severed hand. In fact, over the course of a few days, some students couldn’t differentiate that day from the rest. The woman who tied the tourniquet had trouble remembering why her favorite shirt had only one sleeve. Brian himself found new inventive reasons for his missing hand.

  Word of Rudy’s power never left the school.

  Still, the students distanced themselves from Rudy, vaguely aware of why they chose to do so. No one talked to him. He became so lonely those strange voices were actually starting to sound kind of friendly. In fact, he talked back to them, out loud. What did it matter? No one was ever around to hear.

  There was one word that intrigued him. He heard it more than once and had no idea what it meant. Whenever it came, without fail, it always sent a shiver down his spine. The word was

  (KLOOM)

  fleeting, escaping the tendrils of his mind before being snared into memory. The word was gone before he had any idea what had caused the sudden shiver, leaving a footprint of something great looming in his future, like the silhouette of a man standing

  (over a dumpst)

  on a distant hill, promising him the world.

  2:

  BILLY GREY AND NORMAN Thomas were playing cards against some suckers at a poker table. The two gamblers played in a basement, and no one knew they were partners—they came in separately and acted like total strangers.

  When you have the Gift, maintaining a quiet head is paramount.

  Keeping up their scam was all about letting the other players taste the fleeting flavor of victory, as if they were in control.

  “Trip aces,” Billy said, laying down his cards.

  The others watched with indignant huffs. With stakes so high, no one batted an eye at the losers’ departure.

  Guy on my right with a two of spades and six of hearts, Norman said to Billy, without speaking or moving his eyes. Nice hand, by the way.

  Billy smiled privately—his hand was nice. After trip aces, he managed to get two pocket kings. Twenty minutes later, he took first place and Norman took second, just as planned. Their winnings amounted to $7,500, which they split right down the middle.

  They didn’t have each other’s phone number or email. Their homes were ten miles apart, and they never met for drinks. They kept in touch without speaking out loud, or even being within earshot. And now, driving in different cars, they conversed as if connected via Bluetooth.

  Don’t Tommy got a tournament next w—say, you feel that?

  Billy just about waved it off until he felt it, too.

  It was a sharp penetration to his temple, like an acute migraine. For just a second, he actually believed someone had found them out, and had put a bullet in his head. That’s how much it hurt.

  The pain caused him to lose control of his car. His hands violently ripped the steering wheel both ways as he attempted to straighten it. His car careened madly through traffic, met with blaring horns and screeching brakes. He hit a guy on a motorcycle, and Billy felt the impact travel through his seat. The guy’s body flew past his windshield and Billy heard the man’s brief yell, like the caw of a swooping crow. Billy’s car dragged the bike with it, jittering his steering wheel an
d carving sparks from the asphalt. He crushed his brake pedal and his car veered sideways, intersecting the yellow paint in the center of the road. Another car smashed into his, shattering his windshield and all the glass on the passenger side. His airbag whoofed out as fast as that searing pain in his temple, and he smacked into it face-first. The cartilage in his nose ripped open and blood spattered over the white cushion.

  While all that happened, Norm’s voice screamed in his head:

  Feel that? Did ya feel that? Shit shit shit!

  Car alarms whined. People yelled, probably at him. An ambulance sounded somewhere. The suitcase of his winnings had popped open in the passenger seat, and dollar bills fluttered in his car. To the onlookers, he probably looked like a drug dealer.

  Billy! Norm shouted into his head. Did you feel that?

  Course I fuckin did! We’ve got some driving to do. That ping was almost fifty miles east. Come pick me up. Now.

  They’d miss the next tournament, but who cared? Billy had never felt a ping so close. Usually, the ping was too far away, and others would get there first. It was hard to win when that happened—almost impossible, really. Most of the game was about luck.

  But this time, they were the lucky ones. This time, they’d get a taste of the Growth.

  When Norman arrived, Billy hurried to repack what money he could. No one seemed to care that the perpetrator was getting away, or seem to notice his abandoned vehicle. Strangely, as a reporter later wrote, no one involved remembered how the accident happened. It was all chalked up to a shit happens sort of moment. Insurance claims were paid, but no arrests were made, and no charges were filed. In fact, no one could say where all those dollar bills had come from.

  To them, Billy Grey and Norman Thomas didn’t exist.

  ---

  Julia Frond was in the middle of a business meeting when she felt it—that hot-knife pain in her right temple. She yelped, jumped from her chair, and strode to the panoramic window looking out over Houston. The other partners watched her in the abrupt silence.

  “Julia!” Brock said, his chair rolling back as he stood.

  He was the oldest little shit in the room, nearing that age where he’d wear diapers instead of underwear. Of course she knew he didn’t just yet . . . he wouldn’t switch for another six months. That was the thing about being her—she knew those kinds of things.

  “I’m all right,” she said. The whole room was standing now, appraising her. She wished they’d all sit down. Not strangely at all, they did sit down. That was another thing about being her—people generally listened. “I’m afraid I’ll have to cut this short, gentlemen. I’ll send in my assistant.”

  “You’re leaving?” Brock said, his eyes magnified hugely in his glasses. “Now? We haven’t even started negotiating!”

  Julia stepped forward, and he sat back in his chair, like he was afraid to be too close. She bit her tongue. If she could get there first and claim the new kid, she could own half of Texas before the year’s end. She could make them sign, and none of this would matter. The Growth was a rare opportunity to join the elite—the guys like Chad Stevenson.

  Now that was a man she could respect.

  She felt those two other goons already on their way. One was named Billy, the other was Norman. They felt like amateurs, ones she could deal with. But if they got there first, she’d lose her advantage.

  So she took the company plane.

  ---

  Moments before Julia Frond felt the ping of the newly awakened Gift, Chad Stevenson stood stark naked against the morning sun. His body felt stronger, his mind sharper, his powers greater. He knew this feeling well: the heightening of potential that accompanied the Growth—the claim of another Gifted.

  The grass had a fresh coat of dew. It was only forty degrees out, but he wasn’t cold. How could he be? The claim filled his blood with hot vigor. The teenage girl he’d taken lay dead beside a tree, her body nude, her throat cut, her legs wide open.

  He’d won yet again.

  As he reveled in his increased abilities, his body stiffened as he felt that familiar ping from the east. That feeling—the awakening of a new Gifted—used to hurt so much. It was how he imagined sex was for women: painful at first, the penetration of some virginal tissue, but after enough times, it felt good, maybe the best feeling in existence.

  He dressed slowly. There was no rush. The younger Gifted always felt pressed for time, following some silly notion that being first was paramount. If they claimed the kid, he’d claim them, taking a two-for-one. Not unlike sales, being Gifted came down to bargains and revenue. It was simple, really: expend less than you take, take more than you expend.

  And don’t ever, ever get caught with your pants down.

  The only time he slipped up was when he wrote that book about the Gift. He never intended the book to be seen—it essentially educated the other Gifted: it was like teaching your prey how to chew through the snare.

  But someone had stolen it. Someone was making copies and handing them out, taunting him. No matter how many he found, there were always more in circulation. Worse, that person never showed up on his mental radar, suggesting invisibility through extreme cleverness.

  And how do you find an invisible man?

  More Growths meant more power, more power meant a farther reach, and a farther reach meant more information. More information meant less places to hide.

  It was just a matter of time.

  3:

  SOMEONE KNOCKED ON THE front door while Rudy was on the couch, eating cereal. His parents wouldn’t be home from work for another hour, so he put down his food and walked to the door.

  “Hi,” a man said, when Rudy opened the door. His head was a wild arrangement of curls, his face unshaven. He wore a bathrobe and fuzzy pink slippers. “I’m Greg. I’m your new neighbor.”

  “Oh, hi,” Rudy said. What he thought was, What the hell does this guy want?

  “Sorry to bother you, but I’ve just run out of coffee. My wife’s got the car and I’ve got my deadline and . . . well, could I have some of yours?”

  “Sure,” Rudy said, and let the man inside. Rudy went to the kitchen while Greg remained in the hall, and prepared a sandwich bag full of grounds.

  “This is a fine home,” the man said, taking the bag when Rudy returned. “Parents around?”

  “No. They work for another hour or so.” Rudy thought the man should leave now, but he didn’t—he stayed inside, examining the pictures on the walls. “I’ve got some homework to do, so if you—”

  “Oh, sure, sure. But hey, your name’s Rudy, right?”

  “Yes, but I’ve—”

  The man stepped toward him, grinning now. He dropped the baggie full of grounds, and it came open, spilling on the wooden floor. “How old are you, Rudy?”

  “E-e-eleven,” Rudy said, backing into the kitchen.

  “Mmm, a bit younger than normal, aren’t you?” The man looked drunk, maybe loony. “Chad Stevenson says the Gift doesn’t come alive until thirteen. But I don’t think that’s true. I think you’re different.”

  The closest thing was the fridge.

  (for tenderlo)

  “What do you w-want?”

  “Just you,” the man said, and smiled.

  Then the man shot forward with outstretched arms and snatched Rudy into a bear hug, subduing his attempt to escape. “I want you,” he said, his breath hot, his face

  From lunch!

  like sandpaper.

  The man spun Rudy around and wrapped a hairy forearm around his neck. Disoriented, Rudy fought against the squeeze. He was deadlocked, and he could feel something poking into the small of his back, something like a thumb. He couldn’t breathe and could feel his face turning blue. He whirled helplessly, spinning the man with him, looking for anything to help. His hand slid down the counter, knocking dirty silverware onto the floor. He flung himself onto the kitchen table, hoping to flip his assailant off his back. Instead, the man’s hold loosened, and in that mome
nt Rudy was able to breathe.

  That breath entered his body like a shot of adrenaline—his eyes bulged, his muscles tensed, and his heart raced. Something inside him exploded into life. The kitchen expanded, elongating like he was about to make the jump into hyper speed. Even his fingers blurred, looking like greasy measuring tapes.

  He thought this was how Alice felt after swigging that shrinking elixir.

  Suddenly all the familiar chaotic data flooded his mind, drowning out his own thoughts:

  (invisible man)

  (two gamblers)

  (company plane)

  Heaps more crashed into his mind, none his own.

  But the one that really stuck was a voice he knew belonged to the man choking him.

  (others are coming)

  Only, the man hadn’t said it aloud.

  He positioned Rudy over the kitchen table, pressing his face into the hard wood. Rudy’s entire body felt tight with suffocation, as if on the brink of bursting.

  Kick his groin, Rudy’s mind told him, though it didn’t sound like his own voice.

  Regardless, Rudy threw back his foot and slammed it against something soft, and the man gasped before letting go. Rudy’s next few breaths were huge, and he lunged for the phone, planning to dial the police. Receiver in hand, he stared blankly at the keypad, feeling desperate, because he just couldn’t remember the number for emergencies. It was as if that information had been purposely hidden from him.

  (fifty miles off)

  (always felt pressed)

  (will hate you)

  “Stay away!” Rudy shouted. He couldn’t hear his own voice with all the thoughts filling up his mind—it was like screaming next to a concert speaker. That, and the room continued to expand. The man, now doubled over with his hair hanging over his face, looked distorted, as if reflected in a broken funhouse mirror. He looked up at Rudy with bloodshot eyes and inched forward, his fuzzy pink slippers pointing in toward one another.

  “I’m warning you!” Rudy shouted, again not hearing himself.