Нил Шустерман - Scorpion Shards

As complicated as it was, Dillon could read the pattern of its past. This being had begun as something small and insignificant—a maggot that he had invited into his soul in a moment of weakness. And once there, it had grown, evolved into something larger, then something larger still. Even now it seemed on the verge of a new metamorpho­sis. Through its translucent skin, Dillon could see a new form taking shape, ready to emerge . . . as soon as it was fed.

Dillon pulled the revolver from his shirt. This time the first three chambers were all full.

A smile appeared on the creature’s face. It was a twisted, evil version of Dillon’s own smile.

I can destroy you with a single thought. You’ll be gone long before the hammer hits the chamber.

Still Dillon tightened his grip on the trigger.

So the creature pushed a single thought into Dillon’s mind.

Suffer the weight, it said to him. Come out and SUFFER THE WEIGHT!

Dillon’s finger froze on the trigger, and from some­where deep inside he felt all his feelings all return to him at once. His crippled soul was called out of hiding, and with it came an eruption from the pit of his stomach that came screaming out of his mouth. All his emotionless memories finally locked in with their meanings, and they surged like bile through his brain.

Remorse!

Sorrow!

Shame, blame and guilt echoed through his brain like a sonic boom, rattling his mind until he felt himself about to fall into the same chaos that he had created around him. He tried to deny all the things he had done—tried to deny that he had chosen this path, but even among shades of gray, the truth was there in black and white: it had been his choice to destroy. It had been his choice to feed the beast.

The sheer weight of his crimes weighed upon him now with such a pressure that he wished that fourth chamber had been full when Winston had pulled the trigger.

But he could right that mistake, couldn’t he? The first three chambers were full. He could rid himself of the pain—the horrible guilt.

Suddenly the creature standing before him didn’t seem to matter. All that mattered was ending the pain, so he turned the gun around and touched the cold barrel against the bridge of his own nose.

And then, in front of him, he saw the creature flex its fingers and take a deep breath, waiting to be fed.

To be fed.

Dillon gritted his teeth and with all his might kept his finger from pressing that trigger. Destroying himself would be feeding the creature. It suddenly became clear to Dillon that the only way to deny this creature satisfac­tion was to bear the pain. And so Dillon did. He accepted the responsibility for all the people’s lives he had de­stroyed. He accepted the blame for the death and for the insanity. He felt the awful weight on his shoulders . . . and that weight, pressing like a thousand stones, almost killed him right there.

But it didn’t.

And instead he was left with just enough strength to turn the gun around again and pull the trigger.

The bullet caught the creature in the shoulder. It wailed in pain and surprise, then grabbed Dillon and hurled him across the room.

Dillon came crashing down on the throne, shattering what was left of its former occupant. Bone fragments splintered into the air and a cloud of dust rose from where Dillon sat.

The creature, bleeding a viscous, dark blood, leapt to­wards him, and Dillon fired again.

The second blast caught the creature in the stomach.

It doubled over in pain.

Dillon rose from the throne and the creature backed away toward an open veranda, pulling itself along, limp­ing, leaving a path of its slippery blood.

Dillon stalked after it. Then, at the threshold of the bal­cony, it turned its eyes to him once more.

Finish it, the beast said, taunting. Shoot now!

Something inside Dillon told him to look at the pat­terns—to check the series of outcomes that firing that bul­let could create. But he didn’t listen; instead he just lev­eled the gun and let his anger fly uncontrolled with the firing of the final bullet.

The beast moved its head at the last moment, the bullet barely grazed its ear, and when the beast stepped away Dillon realized how fully and completely he had been tricked . . . and how much heavier the weight on his soul had suddenly become.

Behind the creature, on the veranda, Deanna was coiled in a death grip with her serpent of fear, when sud­denly her arms went limp from the bullet that had grazed the ear of Dillon’s beast. . . and then hit her in the chest.

“No!!!!!!!!” Dillon ran to her.

The serpent squealed, uncoiled and retreated to the corner, quivering, and Dillon caught Deanna’s collapsing body.

The dark spirit laughed a healthy, hearty laugh. It flexed its muscles and absorbed this act of destruction. It fed on Deanna’s dying breaths.

Deanna gasped for breath in Dillon’s arms.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” But his words felt impotent and useless. She tried to speak but couldn’t. He felt the wound in her chest, which was pouring blood, and saw the life slipping from her eyes.

Deanna gazed at him weakly. “I’m not afraid,” she said. “I’m not afraid . . . .”

Dillon could see the pattern of death. He could see her mind imploding—feel death beginning to break down her body. He felt her disappearing down that long tunnel.

And then he realized he could stop it.

He concentrated on her wound. He concentrated all his attention. His talent was not only to see patterns but to change them. Could he close the pattern of a wound the way he could instantly solve a Rubik’s Cube? Could he reverse the patterns of chaos and death the same way he could create them?

He put his hand on Deanna’s wound, which had stopped pumping blood. He felt the wound ever so slowly beginning to close—

—But then he felt the pattern of her mind collapsing, so he focused on that, keeping her mind from giving in to death—

—But then he felt the pattern of her cells begin to slowly decay, so he turned his attention on keeping her flesh from giving over to the silence of death—

—But her wound had begun to bleed again . . . so he turned his attention to that.

A screaming, tear-filled rage overcame Dillon. This was a task he could not accomplish, no matter how pow­erful his talent. He did not yet have the skill to prevent Deanna’s death. In the end all he could do was hold her in his trembling arms and watch her great light disappear into eternity.

Standing just a few feet away, Dillon’s creature fed on Deanna’s death and completed its metamorphosis. Its outer skin broke away to reveal a lattice of veins and fine bones that pulled away from its body spreading wide, casting a shadow of a pair of wings, blacker than black, over Dillon and Deanna.

The creature still bled—wounded, but still alive.

Suffer the weight, Dillon, it said to him again. And every mo­ment you suffer is a moment I grow strong.

Then it turned from him and leapt off the balcony, soaring high on its great black wings and leaving a veil of darkness that trailed behind it, followed by Deanna’s ser­pent, which slithered down the rocky slope.

Dillon leaned over Deanna’s body and cried, but his tears did no good, and when he had no more tears, he lifted her up and brought her to the throne. He brushed off the dust and fragments of ancient bone, and he gently set her down, wrapping her in the moldering royal robe . . . and as he held the robe, he could see its pattern com­ing back together in his hands. It was a simple pattern, just a weave of fabric. In a few moments what had been tattered, disintegrating cloth became a rich royal-blue robe of silk.