Нил Шустерман - Scorpion Shards

Their skin felt on fire, their bones felt like ice. They could not move.

Then an image exploded through their minds with such power and intensity, it seemed to burn the world around them away. It was a vision before sight, a tale before words. It was a memory—for it was so terrifyingly familiar to all of them it could only be a memory—not of something seen or heard but of something felt:

Bright Light! Sharp Pain! One screaming voice becoming six screaming voices. Six! There are six of us!

As the vision filled them, the clouds above began to boil and separate, as a powerful wind blew through the ghostly steel rainbow and the wet earth was finally drenched by blinding rays of sun.

At that same moment, about four hundred miles away, Dillon Cole doubled over in a pain even more intense than the wrecking-hunger. He burst into a men’s room in the small bus depot in Big Springs, Nebraska, stumbled into a stall, and collapsed to the tile floor. At first he thought this must have been God striking him down for the sheer magnitude of his sins—but then as the world around him seemed to burn away, he knew it was some­thing else. The vision—the memory then burst upon his mind. It was both glorious and awful at once, and so in­tense that he thought it would kill him.

Awful

Awful

Awful

Blinding f ire

Tearing

Shattering

Unbearable pain

Shard of light

Piercing

Screaming through the void

Then silence . . .

And a beat.

And silence . . .

A heartbeat.

And warmth

And comfort

And the soft safety

Of flesh and blood. . .

It was the vision of a cataclysmic death . . . followed by life. His own life. Something died . . . and he was born . . . but not just him. Others. The Others.

The convulsions that racked his body subsided as the vision faded, and he felt the grip of reality once more. He picked himself up and staggered back into the waiting area.

“Deanna?” He found her still doubled over on a bench. Her head was in her hands and she was quietly crying. She had shared this earth-shattering vision as well.

“You okay?” asked Dillon, still shaking from the expe­rience.

“What was it?” Deanna got her tears under control. “I was so scared . . . what’s happening to us?”

“The Others are together,” said Dillon, just realizing it himself. The fact struck him in the face, leaving him stunned—and unsure of how to feel about it.

It was all beginning to make sense to him now. There were six of them in the vision, all screaming discordant notes.

They were all here, together, for fifteen years. Maybe thousands of miles apart by human standards, but from the perspective of an immense universe, they were right beside one another . . . and moving closer. The thought of it began to make Dillon get angry, and he didn’t know why . . . and then he realized why. It was the wrecking-hunger, suddenly brought to a full boil, as if the vision triggered it to attack.

“I think we somehow know each other—even though we’ve never met,” said Deanna. “There are six of us, aren’t there?”

“Four of them,” said Dillon. “And two of us.”

Dillon could see Deanna struggling to understand—but she couldn’t grasp the entire truth yet. She couldn’t see the pattern the way he did.

“We need to find them,” insisted Deanna. “We have to join them. ...”

“We don’t have to do anything.”

“Yes we do! We have to meet The Others and find out who we really are!”

“I know who I am! I’m Dillon Cole, and that’s all I need to know!”

“What’s wrong with you?” she shouted. “Isn’t that why we’ve been moving east? To find them?”

Dillon knew she was right. The thought of finding The Others had been like a carrot dangling before them. But now that carrot was quickly growing rotten in Dillon’s mind. What would joining the others prove? What would it do beyond making Dillon just one of six? Yes, the wrecking-hunger was awful—but it was something famil­iar. Joining The Others, however, was a great dark un­known.

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 important, 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.

Dillon Cole’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 layups. 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 would 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.