Scorpion Shards (10 page)

They're going to hurt you,
the wrecking-hunger whispered to him.
They'll ruin everything. They'll take Deanna away.
He didn't know what to believe anymore.

The hunger was clawing at him now, tearing up his gut as it had done so many times before . . . and from outside came the drone of a bus and black smoke pouring through the open door.

“Oh no!” cried Deanna in a panic. They both raced to the door in time to see their bus—which had only stopped in Big Springs for a few minutes—drive off. Along with that bus went what few things they had: a bag with maps, a change of clothes, and most importantly, Dillon's wallet.

Fine,
thought Dillon.
Let the bus go. Who cares, anyway?
Dillon stormed out the door and headed in the other direction. The hunger kept swelling inside of him, and he knew he would have to feed it soon.

“Where are you going?” shouted Deanna.

“Looks like I'm going to Hell,” he said, then turned from her and stormed away.

D
ILLON
C
OLE'S PILGRIMAGE TO
Hell began moments later, in a schoolyard across the street, where a tall kid, maybe a year older than he, was playing basketball alone.

Dillon was consumed by the wrecking-hunger now—and his mind was set on seek and destroy. He didn't know how or what he would destroy—but this guy on the basketball court was directly in his path and was therefore a target.

The target bounced his ball without much skill, trying to weave it through his legs. When he saw Dillon coming, he stopped his dribbling antics, and the two of them began to shoot around.

The guy introduced himself as Dwight Astor, and, as they took shots, Dillon tried to hide the wrecking-hunger like a vampire hiding his fangs.

“How about a game of one-on-one?” asked Dillon.

“Okay, winners out,” said Dwight. And the game began.

Dwight played fairly well, and although Dillon knew he could beat him—for Dillon never lost any game he played—Dillon didn't try. He let Dwight drive around him for lay ups. He guarded poorly, making sure there were never any fouls—no body contact.

 . . . And while they played, Dillon did something he had never done before: he studied the patterns of his human subject.

Until now, Dillon had kept away from people, never making eye contact, thinking only of ways to avoid them. He was always much more comfortable with the simple, predictable patterns of crashing cars, shattering glass, stones, and billiard
balls. But today Dillon dared to peer into the workings of a human being, and he discovered something remarkable:

Human beings have patterns too.
Patterns of action and behavior that can trace their histories and futures.

Dillon bristled with excitement as he watched Dwight move around the court—and in about ten seconds of basketball, Dillon was able to predict every move Dwight could make on the court—but Dillon could do better than that! He could look beyond the court, right into every aspect of Dwight's life.

It amazed Dillon just how much he was able to figure out; facts impossible for the most observant of people to uncover came to Dillon with the slightest effort.

The hesitation that made Dwight miss his shots told Dillon how long and how often his parents had punished him as a child. The way Dwight's eyes darted back and forth told Dillon of friendships lost and trusts broken. The thrill in Dwight's eyes each time he drove toward the basket told Dillon exactly how high his ambitions were and how successful he was going to be in life. Every move, every word, every breath betrayed a secret about Dwight's days and nights, hopes and dreams, fears and failures.

Dillon had heard it said that every second we live bears the pattern of our entire life, the way a single cell bears the DNA pattern of our whole body. Now Dillon knew it to be true, because what might have taken years for a psychiatrist to uncover, Dillon instinctively knew in just a few minutes on a basketball court.

The blueprint of Dwight Astor's life!

And to think that all along Dillon had this talent—this
power
to peer into the human clockwork. It was the single most thrilling moment of Dillon's life.

Dwight missed a shot, and the ball went bouncing out of bounds.

“Your ball,” said Dwight. Dillon took the ball and began dribbling it around the court, thinking about the many things he discovered by watching his opponent:

Dwight Astor. He was a B-plus student. His parents fought. He had at least two brothers and at least one sister. His father was a recovering alcoholic. This was Dwight's past and present, but Dillon could also see the pattern of his future, as if the basketball were a crystal ball. If nothing changed, Dwight would go to college, would major in business, or maybe economics, and would go on to run a small company. It was all there—Dillon saw the complex tapestry of Dwight's past, present and future as if he were simply reading a road map—and in that future, Dillon could see shades of wealth, success, and some level of happiness.

Dillon now had control of the ball. At last he worked his way around Dwight as if he were standing still. Then Dillon went for the lay up and released the ball onto the rim, where it hung, perfectly balanced—not on the back of the rim, but on the front of the rim. The ball just sat there, not going into the basket, and not falling out.

“Wow!” said Dwight. “How'd you do that? That's impossible.”

As Dwight innocently stared at the balanced ball, Dillon Cole moved in for the kill.

“Listen to me, Dwight.” Dwight turned and was caught in Dillon's gaze. “Your father says he doesn't drink anymore, but he does. He keeps his bottles of booze hidden somewhere in the house. If you look hard enough, you can find them.”

Then Dillon whispered into Dwight's ear, clearly and slowly.

“Your father would never notice,”
said Dillon,
“if you drank some of it.”

The words Dillon spoke were like bullets that pierced deep into Dwight's brain. There was no blood, but the damage was the same—and the only one who could see the damage was Dillon. After all, he had done something anyone could have done . . . he had tossed Dwight a simple suggestion . . . but like the stone Dillon had tossed down the mountain in Tahoe, this was exactly the
right
suggestion to begin an avalanche in Dwight Astor's life. Dillon could already see the road map of Dwight's future changing. Dillon's simple suggestion had paved Dwight a brand-new future filled with addiction. Alcohol first, and then other things. Dwight would drop out of high school. He would run far away from home. He would make the wrong friends, make the wrong choices. He would die young and alone.

Dillon had destroyed him.

There were no crashes, no carnage, no evidence. And yet the wrecking-hunger was gone—it had been more satisfied than ever before; it dawned on Dillon that destroying a hillside, or crashing cars and breaking glass were nothing compared to destroying a human mind . . . . And it had been so easy to do. Finding the weakness in Dwight's pattern was like finding the loose thread of a sweater. All Dillon had to do was to pull on the thread to make the entire fabric unravel.

Now, with the wrecking-hunger quieted, he could only beam with satisfaction, his wonder overcoming any self-loathing he might have felt.

That vague sense of destiny that had begun with the supernova was focused by what happened today. For too long, Dillon had fled from his catastrophes, racked with guilt—begging for forgiveness. But he was stronger than that now. Much stronger.

“I . . . I have to go now,” said Dwight. “Good game.” Bewildered, Dwight turned and left, forgetting his ball.

Dillon could sense a pattern now unfolding in his own life. A destiny. A purpose—and although he wasn't quite certain what that purpose was, he knew it would soon make itself clear. He could hardly contain the excitement that came with this new reason to be. Its very power filled him with something he thought might be joy.

I could choose this destiny,
thought Dillon . . . .
Or I could fight it; I could let the wrecking-hunger make me strong . . . or I could let it kill me.

The way Dillon felt right now, the decision was as easy as it had been to whisper in Dwight Astor's ear.

As he watched Dwight shuffle off, Dillon made a pact with himself. No more fighting the hunger. He would feed it, he would live it, he would
be
the hunger . . . and if his destination was Hell, then he would learn to accept that. But he would not be alone. There would be others he'd be taking with him. Many, many others.

I
NSIDE THE DEPOT
, D
EANNA
tried to find out when the next bus came through town, but the fear of being alone overcame her, and she had to get out.

Dillon had never acted this way toward her before. He had always been thoughtful and treated her kindly. She didn't know what this change meant, but they had promised to protect each other, and she would protect him, no matter what he said or did. She drew some comfort from the strength of her own resolve.

She found Dillon playing basketball across the street, alone.

“We need to get going,” said Deanna, watching him cautiously, waiting to see how he would react.

“Yes, we do,” he answered. “But we're not going east anymore . . . . We're going west.”

Deanna studied him, thinking that it might be a joke—but then she realized that Dillon did not joke that way. “But . . . but The Others—”

“We don't need The Others.” His voice was calm, his body relaxed. Deanna could tell that he had fed the wrecking-hunger, but she saw no evidence of it . . . and something was different this time. He wasn't racked by guilt. He wasn't cursing himself. She wanted to question him, to take a step away and think about all this, before his infectious peace-of-mind drowned her panic completely.

That's when Dillon grabbed her and did something he had never done before. He kissed her. The kiss felt so perfect, so natural, that she would have agreed with anything he said. She didn't know whether to feel angry because of it, or to feel relieved.

“Listen to me, Deanna,” he told her. “Forget The Others; they're nothing compared to us—you and I are the strongest, the most powerful!”

It was true—Deanna had sensed that much in the vision. How loud they were—how
bright
they were compared to The Others as they screamed in the darkness. Her fears and Dillon's hunger for destruction were certainly far more powerful than anything the other four had to deal with.

Until now she had thought the strange gravity that had been drawing all of them together was impossible to resist. But if Dillon could resist it, then she could, too. They were the strong ones. This time she leaned forward to kiss him.

“Where will we go now?” she whispered.

Dillon struggled with his answer. “Deanna, I think I was meant to do some really big things . . . . I have to find out what those things are, and I can't be afraid to do them . . . but I'm afraid to do them alone.”

Her mind told her that this was wrong, but her heart was too close to Dillon's now. Traveling to The Others might solve her troubles, but she was terrified of making that journey alone. And the thought of losing Dillon was unbearable.

“These things that you have to do,” asked Deanna, “are they terrible things?”

Dillon bit his lip. She knew he wouldn't lie to her. “They might be,” he said.

Deanna nodded, knowing she would have given him the same answer, no matter what he said. “Then I'll go with you . . . so you don't have to face those things alone.”

As she said the words, she felt something changing around her like a great river suddenly shifting course. Perhaps this was what Dillon felt when he saw a pattern change, and she wondered how large this shift must have been if she could feel it too.

It was too huge a thing to think about, so she decided not to. She ignored it, pretending it didn't matter, and after a moment, it all felt okay. In a few minutes they were hitchhiking west on the interstate.

Meanwhile, in a house not too far away, Dwight Astor poured himself a glass of scotch, downed it, and then poured himself another.

I want to forget who I am.

I never want to leave here.

I want to stay in this tight circle of four forever.

S
OMEWHERE BETWEEN DUSK AND DAWN, BETWEEN HERE AND
there, Tory, Winston, Lourdes, and Michael lay close, touching each other in some way—hand to hand, toe to toe, head to chest, huddling like a litter of mice. This closed circuit of four felt more joyous, more peaceful than anything any of them had ever felt before. Their hearts beat in unison, their breath came and went in a single tide. It felt wonderful to finally be whole.

Almost whole.

The place was as solitary and secluded as a place could be; a corn silo on the edge of town, part of an abandoned farm. The dome of the silo had long since turned to rubble, the victim of storms and neglect, leaving a round hole high above them filled with stars, like a portal to another universe. The storm had been washed away when the four of them had come together, and now the air was so tranquil and calm it didn't even feel cold.

They were silent for a long time as they rested, and when they finally began to talk, the words that came out were things they never dared to speak out loud.

“I shared a room with my sisters until my parents fixed up the attic for me,” said Lourdes, her voice so heavy and thick that her very words seemed to sink to the ground. “They said it was to give me more room, but I knew it was to hide me away. That first night in the attic, I dreamed I was floating down Broadway in the Thanksgiving Day parade, so bloated with helium I could burst. A hundred people held me with strings, and all I could do was hang there bouncing back and forth between the skyscrapers, while thousands of people stared and laughed. When I woke up, I could feel myself growing . . . I could feel my body drawing energy right out of the air—maybe even pulling it from other people's bodies. I had stopped eating, but I still grew. That's when I knew the problem wasn't just food.”