Chapter 2: Mindbender

Chapter 2: Mindbender 

Grafton, North Dakota

Walsh County

Abel Gant sat in his second class of the day, his pencil moving furiously across the notebook paper in front of him. His teacher had decided that today was a good day for a test, which translated into a good day to die if you refused to study. Abel was the kind of teenager that had no friends and lost himself in bookwork, so he had thought himself reasonably prepared for the examination. However, Mr. Taney, their high school teacher, had written the most challenging test of his career as a rebuke to his lackadaisical English class. He had been especially disappointed with their reading of Sophocles’ Antigone, as they had failed to even grasp the basics of Greek drama. Aside from his inherent bookishness, Abel also suffered from severe test anxiety, which exacerbated his poor performance. Currently, he was working through the short answer section on the test, honestly wishing that he had dedicated less time to his biology studying and a little more to English. The question was as follows:

Name and describe the special device employed by classic Greek playwrights to accentuate a mood or express an idea. Then, name several examples of this in Antigone. 

Abel felt his heart drop into his feet. He had absolutely no idea how to answer this. Was it the choir or…then he heard it. A voice, clear and loud, as though someone were speaking to him. Greek playwrights often employed the chorus to accentuate a mood or express an idea. The chorus was a group of singers that would follow the action from one end of the stage to another, and essentially sing out what the characters were feeling. Abel blinked. That voice…he thought. It was familiar, but he could not quite place it. Shrugging, he put the answer down, repeating it over and over in his mind lest he forget it. Examples, though…suddenly, images flashed though his mind, and a voice accompanying them. To his surprise, he realized it was his teacher reading the book. He looked up and, sure enough, at the front of the classroom, Mr. Taney was indeed reading Antigone. The teacher was not, however, reading aloud. Still, Abel heard the character’s voices in Taney’s own pitch and cadence, as though he were. 

Did I imagine that? Abel wondered. Then, he read the section that Abel remembered so well from the king’s discussion with the oracle of the city.

“I’m reluctant to be uncivil to a seer,” the king told the elder, hesitating as if he had something more to verbalize.

“You’re that already,” countered the older man. “You have said I lie.” The rest that he heard, he wrote as it came. Some scenes had parts with the chorus, and some did not, but he listened carefully as the voice continued. Once he had finished the test, he put it on Taney’s desk and walked out of the classroom. His head was buzzing, and he could hear a cacophony of voices ringing in his ears. They all were his classmates, some worried about their next class, some dwelling on others, some cursing Taney for his treatment of them. All, though, seemed perturbed by the current state of affairs. His next class was biology, and they were dissecting a frog. 

The laboratory was exactly the way one would have expected it to look. Sanitary and angular, with eye-washing stations and strategically placed sinks, with metal trays at each table, one per student. The teacher, Mrs. Finney, had yet to give any of the students a scalpel, as she preferred they wait for the dissection until after they had heard her mini-lecture. True to form, she gave a brief and rather trite speech on the similarities between the amphibian and tis anatomy and that of the human, and then their differences. Then, she handed the lab groups their frogs, and then he handed out the dead animals, along with latex gloves and scalpels. All except for Abel, who, by some oversight, did not get one. The teacher turned imperiously to her class.

“Well?” She asked. “What are you all waiting for? Start in. We still have studying for next week’s test to do. Get to it!” The students hurriedly started dissecting their frogs, all except Abel, who could do nothing without a scalpel. He looked down at the animal, wondering what to do. He closed his eyes and imagined his hands with a scalpel, slicing through the frog. As he did, he felt overwhelming nausea, followed by a sharp pain in his forehead. When he opened his eyes, he saw, to his shock, that a small incision had formed at the frog’s throat, where none had been before. As he further envisioned it, the cut lengthened to first one inch, then two, then the frog was all but eviscerated. Hands trembling, he reached forward and forced the animal’s cold skin apart. 

What on earth was that? Was that…me?  He wondered. In a test of exactly what was going on, he focused on one of the organs and imagined himself pulling it out, but did not actually do so. Again, he felt the pain in the front of his head, followed by the organ lifting out of the amphibian’s bloody interior like some malevolent snake.

I…the piece of organ dropped back into the dead animal’s stomach. A strangely cold feeling washed over him, all the way down to his toes. These powers should have excited him, but all he felt was nausea and a splitting headache. I can move things with my mind, he realized. What’s that called? Telepathy? No, that’s the reading thing…Funny. I can do that, too…he shook his head. Best to think about that later. Furtively, he looked around to see if anyone else was watching him. No, all their eyes were riveted on Mrs. Finney, and he decided it would be best if his were, too.

“The intestines are here,” the teacher was saying. “If you look over here,” she pointed to another spot on the frog’s stomach, “you’ll find its stomach.” Abel continued with the dissection process mechanically, doing exactly what the teacher said, even though his mind was no longer on it. The pressing headache grew even more intense, and he felt like his head might split. Whatever was going on, he wanted it stopped as soon as possible. 

Lunch was a sore trial, and not the least bit because of the people around him. True, he disliked many of the other students. A few he could stand, but several in particular reciprocated his antipathy. In fact, you could just as easily say they initiated it. They were members of the high school football team, and they had done some very annoying things to him. Swirlies were not the worst of it, either. Today, they chose to be behind him in line at the lunch counter, which annoyed hum to no end. The cooks served him the meal of the day, fortified with essential minerals, one of which Abel suspected might be uranium-235, and he went to sit down. One of the jocks gave him a less-than-gentle nudge to the back as he turned away, almost knocking him over. Abel turned, his eyes blazing. As he looked behind him, he had an idea. He set his eyes on the bowl of soup in the boy’s hands, and he imagined himself throwing the matter in the bowl into his face. With any luck, since the soup was still boiling, this would be mistaken for an air bubble. Then, as if on cue, the soup sprayed up and splattered the football player in the face. He gave a surprised yell and dropped the plastic container, spraying himself with the scalding liquid. Abel smiled to himself as he walked away. Score one for the weird kid. Suddenly, he felt a sharp blow in the small of his back, and he staggered, thankfully catching himself before he either dropped his lunch tray or fell on his face. 

“You think that’s funny?” The horrible breath and scratchy voice told him that is was Carl Danvers, the group’s self-proclaimed leader. He had probably been chosen for the size of his biceps, but little else. Certainly not for his brains, Abel thought. Although, looking at his enraged face, perhaps a caustic wit was not the best choice in this scenario…Danvers grabbed him by the collar of his nondescript grey shirt and, dragging him to a nearby table, pinned him down. “Maybe you won’t laugh so hard after a good punch or two to the face.”

“I probably would,” Abel replied, managing to choke out the words. “Though more at my face than you.” The first hit was not that hard, compared to what Abel expected; it did hurt, true, but he had expected a shattering punch to knock him halfway to oblivion, or something similar. The hit did bounce his head painfully off the table with a resounding crack, and it set his ears ringing to boot. All around him, he heard the conversations slowly die away, as everyone’s eyes focused on the strange kid getting hammered. Yet again. Then he had a thought. Maybe…he focused on the fist now arcing toward his head and gave a mental tug to the left. The telekinetic pull was just enough, and the extremity smashed into the table rather than his head. Carl gave a roar of pain and swung again. Again, Abel yanked the fist off course, further frustrating him. A third swing proved similarly ineffectual, and then a fourth. Finally, he yanked Abel to his feet and simply punched him in the gut. That snapped something in the other boy.

What happened next Abel never quite understood. All he remembered was a ringing in his ears and a splitting headache. Carl suddenly reached up and clutched his head, yelling in pain. As he let go of Abel and began to stagger, Abel felt the pain dissipate, and Carl seemed to be in a little less pain. Only a little though. 

“What’s this?” The voice came from behind them. “Break it up, boys!” Abel did not even have to turn. His new telepathic powers told him exactly who was standing behind him. The principal and two of the more menacing teachers. The bullies backed away. 

“What’s going on here?” One of the teachers demanded. “You beating up this kid?” Abel turned now, and saw that they were looking at the bullies and not him. Good. Dodged a bullet there.

The boys lowered their eyes, but said absolutely nothing. “Well?” He pressed. “What’s the trouble?”

“It…was…Carl, sir,” one of the braver, or perhaps less intelligent, boys said. “He got splashed with his lunch….and Abel laughed…so…”

“So you hit him?” The principal asked. “That seems a severe punishment for merely appreciating a good joke.” The boys lowered their eyes and murmured assent, stepping away. Sternly, the principal turned to look at Abel. 

“And you,” he said. “Laugh quieter next time.” And with that, they turned and walked out of the cafeteria. 

They waited until his trip home to spring the trap, and it was a good one. Abel had no siblings his own age, and the foster family he was currently staying with lived close enough for him to actually walk home. And it was that very action, so often performed, that betrayed him now. This time, Carl took no chances, bringing seven boys with him. Big ones, too. Abel was only partially aware of them before they appeared; after all, this whole telepathy was essentially uncharted water to him. The first he truly knew was an impact in the back, followed by being slammed against the chain link fence to his left. It was Carl staring at him, and he looked far from happy. Looking around, Abel’s heard sank. Not a soul in sight, save Carl’s thugs.

Well, there’s a few more bruises I’m going to have to explain, he thought resignedly. 

“Don’t appreciate your mouth, Gant,” Carl growled. “You’ve been smart one too many times.”

“First time I’ve heard of someone getting hammered for being smart,” Abel quipped. A gut punch. Typical Carl. Then, one to the face for good measure. “Really? The face again? What, you think-” A third punch, gut again. Did this guy ever have an original thought? 

“Shut up and listen, runt. You ever tick me off again, I’ll leave you bloody.” Abel felt like his insides were on fire, as though those same flames were eating through his every cell. 

“Then do it,” he snapped. “Drop the thugs and the high-horse attitude, and let’s go already. If it’s a fight you want, I won’t disappoint.” Carl stared at him for a moment, and then broke into a grin. 

“All right, he said. “Time to pound the kid. Let’s have at it.” He let go of Abel, who took several steps away from the fence, breathing hard. He felt blood inside his mouth, but that only increased his drive to visit similar pain on Danvers. The other boy came fast, swinging with a haymaker to the right. Abel closed his eyes and envisioned guiding it over his head. True to form, the fist went wide, and Abel then swung forward this time, envisioning himself connecting with Carl’s jaw and hurling him back against the fence. Again, as he hoped, the blow performed admirably, knocking his enemy back and down. The football player got up, but Abel hit him again. This time it was a telekinetically-powered uppercut, adding a little extra force to the blow and sending the bully off his feet and onto the hard turf in front of the fence. He got up, his eyes blazing.

“That’s it, runt,” he growled. “I’m…” what he was, Abel never found out, because at that moment, he heard a sharp whizz, and Carl dropped. Several more such noises, followed by a series of corporeal whumps, told him that a similar fate had befallen his posse. Abel turned to go, but then heard the whizz again. He barely had time to roll his eyes before he felt a sharp sting at the back of his neck, followed by a sensation of weightlessness. He watched, detached, as his knees folded like cheap Chinese chairs. His head hit the pavement, and he heard a sharp crack. Vaguely, in his peripheral vision, he saw something red just above his eye, and realized he had injured his head. That’s going to hurt eventually, he mused, just before the black fog enveloped him.