The dogs did as told, and Anthony was shortly helpless, trying to do nothing but draw a breath as Patricia knelt over him, her knees in his gut. His eyes bugged and gawked at the Black Lab perched at his throat, his mind incapable of grasping or accepting what was happening here.
"All right, mister," Patricia did not bother to hide her satisfaction, "let’s see what you’ve got. Winston, if he moves, kill him." She reached under him and felt his back pockets. Sure enough, she came back with the mugger’s own wallet. "Gosh, aren’t we cocky? You stupid asshole."
Patricia opened the wallet, going straight for the driver’s license.
"Well,
Anthony Deutsche
, looks like you’re up shit creek without a paddle now."
She climbed off of him, making sure to really grind her knees while doing so. She stepped back.
"All right, kids, back off," she ordered as she stooped and delicately picked up the man’s knife.
But growl at him,
she added mentally,
growl at him
loud
. Really give him a good show. Especially you, Winston.
The dogs retreated a few feet and inundated Anthony with the noise of their fierceness.
Anthony slowly rose to his feet, dividing his attention between fearful glances at the militant dogs and dagger looks aimed at Patricia.
"I’m not prepared to escort you halfway across town, mister, but you’ll be hearing from the police soon enough." She waved the knife and wallet at him. "Now turn and walk away. Stick to the path so that I can see you in the lights all the way out of the park. And if you try anything clever, I’ll have Winston here rip your
balls
off and share them with Brutus and Cookie as a snack. Comprende?"
Anthony nodded glumly and limped away, keeping to the path as instructed.
"Good work, kids."
Bad man we bit the bad man and helped Mom we get treats when we get home?
Patricia laughed and answered Brutus and Cookie, "Sure, kids, you get treats. Double helping."
Even though she was now speaking with her mouth instead of her mind, it was evident that they understood her better than ever before. Brutus and Cookie jumped up and down in excitement, Cookie throwing a bark or two after the bad man.
Winston looked up at Patricia with eyes that now seemed uncannily wise to her.
how Mom?
he asked.
how can you hear us?
I don’t know, Winston,
she answered,
but I
do
know one thing ... I’m about to become the best damn veterinarian this world has ever seen
.
She smiled and, removing their unnecessary leashes, led the kids home.
PHILIP
Doctor Philip Seymour was in an Emergency Room on the Night of the White Flash.
Some men and women pursue the study of medicine because they sincerely want to heal their fellow mankind. Others choose the field because it is their family tradition; said person’s parents and grandparents before them are esteemed professionals in the medical field, leaving the child with a sense of obligation toward upholding the family reputation. Still others are pushed towards the profession by parents with strictly vicarious motives; if
they
could never amount to anything, then, by God, their
child
would.
And then some, like Philip Seymour, choose to be doctors for one reason and one reason only:
Money
.
Raised by a single father, who slaved away for the city as a sanitation worker, Philip grew up with the notion that all doctors were rich — indeed, this stereotype was probably closer to the truth when he was a child. Philip attacked his education aggressively, achieving top marks not so much through raw intelligence as through fierce determination. He managed to get enough financial aid to make it into college, and by the time he was ready for his Masters degree and then medical school, he had gained enough momentum that there was no stopping him.
Finally, Doctor Philip Seymour graduated ... and was stunned when an affluent, private practice did not fall right into his lap.
The problem, put quite bluntly, was that Philip Seymour was something of an
asshole
.
Philip did not make friends through any of his schooling. He kissed up to Deans and top Professors, but rudely snubbed all of his peers. The occasional instructor might have enjoyed his offerings as a Yes-Man, but a majority frowned upon what, at the very least, amounted to a shitty bedside manner. They gave him high marks because his test scores demanded it, but their support ended there. Their letters of recommendation were hardly that — more than once, a follow-up phone call to the potential retirees looking for a replacement killed what little shine the letters had to offer in the first place.
Philip Seymour was left with a covertly unsupportive list of pedagogues, and an openly disparaging class of associates who wanted to do
anything
but
associate
with him. And both groups were more than happy to spread the word as far as it would go.
So Philip found himself, not as a lone, illustrious, rich doctor, worshiped by all, but as one of many, working with a stream-lined staff and subject to budget cuts as the hospital board of directors saw fit. He was not surrounded by patients ready and willing to spend top dollar for his coveted services, but by medical interns and drunk vagrants and insurance forms up to his ass, with no escape in sight.
No escape, that is, until the Night of the White Flash.
Philip was taking a coffee break — alone, of course — when the Seven Stars appeared and the White Flash washed over the world. Its effect on him was as immediate as with Emmett, Sarah, the would-be-Tran, and Patricia. However, unlike those individuals, Philip did not realize his change right away.
Within the hour, the victims began to flow into the ER. The White Flash caused more than paranormal abilities in a small number of people that night — it caused an unprecedented number of
accidents
, automobile and otherwise. As millions of eyes turned skyward, seeking the source of the pulse of light and occasionally noticing the new seven-star constellation in the heavens, cars crashed into one another, pedestrians, and other objects usually avoided with ease. People dropped things, ran into things, fell off of things. The effects of the White Flash would soon be observed in all parts of the world, but it was night in the Western Hemisphere, and that’s where the immediate action took place.
Philip sighed at the inflow of people, at the sound of returning ambulances. Half of these people would fill out the forms incorrectly, some out of ignorance, some intentionally. The directors would bitch and complain, and the shit would roll downhill. Sometimes Philip thought of his deceased father, and wondered if being a trash man had really been all that bad.
A patient was escorted into a private cubicle with its wrap-around curtain, and the nurse commented that Doctor Seymour would be with him shortly. Philip sighed again, adding a curse under his breath for good measure, as he perused the chart. Blow to the head, lacerated scalp, nurse added a note giving her opinion that some x-rays might be called for. Like she knew what the hell
she
was talking about —
he
, after all, was the one with the "Dr." in front of his name.
"Okay, Mr. Wright," he said as he stepped through the curtain, offering only the faintest effort at a smile, "let’s see what we have here—"
"It hurts!" the idiot cried, holding his hand to the cut. Someone had already made a respectable attempt to clean the wound and staunch its blood flow, but the man seemed determined to get it going again.
"I understand it hurts, Mr. Wright," Philip said, mentally adding
you whiny shitbag
. "Let me take a look at that."
"I need stitches and I have a concussion," the man proclaimed as he withdrew his hand and blood-soaked cloth.
"A strictly medical opinion, I’m sure," Philip grumbled.
"It’s
my head
," the man spat. "I know my own body, Mister High-And-Mighty M.D., so don’t talk down to me again or I’ll sue you and this whole damn—"
Philip had already been reaching for the man’s head before the onslaught. Biting back his anger to the minimum degree that his profession regrettably demanded, he seized the man’s scalp as forcefully as he could later justify if the man actually tried legal action.
He wanted to cause the man discomfort, that much was certain. But the end result stunned him as much as it did his patient.
As soon as Philip’s hand made contact with the man’s forehead, a connection formed that went beyond the mere flesh-to-flesh. It was as if some part, some
new
part, of Philip reached into the man’s
soul
and seized it fiercely. Mr. Wright’s breath caught short, his threats drying up like leaves in a drought, and his eyes bulged out. The connection held for a moment, then it began to flow back into Philip ... and it brought part of Mr. Wright
with
it.
Philip experienced a rush of energy, of potency, that was nearly orgasmic in its intensity. In proportionate riposte, Mr. Wright sagged out of his hands, falling back against the thinly cushioned bed as though he had just finished a marathon — indeed, his heart raced and he panted like a sprinter against the tape.
"Wha— wh— wha ..." was all the crass man had to offer.
Philip looked down at his hands, then clenched them tight. By God, he felt as though he could pick up the man before him and toss him about like a rag doll ... or maybe the whole
bed
, with Mr. Wright right there on it.
Smiling like a vampire over his victim, Philip considered the patient only briefly before diving back in for seconds.
A few minutes later, Mr. Wright was dead. Philip struggled to contain himself. Only a close examination of the fit of his clothes convinced him that he hadn’t physically grown in size. How could this feeling of strength, of
power
, possibly be contained within the confines of his fragile body? He looked at Mr. Wright — no telltale sign there of what had really happened. Philip stepped out of the curtain.
"Nurse!" he called to the woman who had first seen the man.
"Yes, Doctor Seymour?" she said with barely hidden distaste.
She’d better watch the way she speaks to me
, he thought.
They had
all
better watch it from now on
. "This man was injured far worse than it first appeared," he told her. "He just died right in front of me."
"Code Blue—!" the nurse started to call out.
Philip seized her shoulder harshly. "It’s too late for that."
"But Doctor—"
"There are people here who need our attention," he rumbled, "and we can’t waste our time with a lost cause like this one — it’s called ‘triage.’ Are you questioning my medical judgement,
nurse
?"
For a moment, he thought she might. Then she said, "No, Doctor Seymour, of course not."
Something in her voice told him that she would be reporting this. He considered moving his hand from her shoulder to the exposed flesh of her neck, then thought better of it. He would deal with all else later — tonight, he needed to make sure that he was by the side of every seriously injured patient who came through the door.
"Good," he said at last. "Take care of him, would you? I have other patients."
It never occurred to Philip Seymour to question
how
he had suddenly gained this amazing ability. Instead, he decided that, if he could not have money, then maybe there were
other
kinds of power to be had in this world. And, not caring what the nurse might think, he allowed himself a heartfelt laugh.