“Damn it!” Johnny cursed under his breath because it wasn’t working.

He could hear them, skater punk boys running wild in the old vacant building that used to be a grocery store, skinny girls with frizzy hair and too much makeup chewing gum, gossiping together. He could hear the wild pumping music; he could hear the cursing and the posturing; he could feel their youth and their energy, but they weren’t responding.

He wouldn’t even be here if Monica had kept up her end of the bargain: she was always letting him down. He had waited for over an hour and she had never shown.

Now he was here, parked on the cracked and  pock-marked street and he had been calling to them for over half an hour, but nothing. Not a damned thing.

Even before he had any training, Jonny had been a strong broadcast psychic, but now with the meds still in his system, nothing was  happening: no one had come.

This was wrong!

Usually all it took was a just few minutes before he could touch one that would respond. But this time nothing.

The meds! Why wasn’t Monica there? She was supposed to meet him. She had promised.

He looked up at the bright moon and then at the graffiti covered walls and broken sidewalks with grass growing up in the cracks. He took off his hat and rubbed his bald head. The stubble scratched against the palm of his hand and fingers. He needed to shave again. He inhaled deeply and then exhaled, focused his will and aimed it at the building with boarded up windows one last time.

I gotta get out of here! I need some air. I miss my family.

He held the thought in his mind and then thought of his ex girlfriend Charis and he let the feelings of loneliness and loss build up in his mind, build up till he thought they would overwhelm him as his eyes filled with tears, then he sent the feelings and the thoughts arrowing towards the building.

He continued to send as the dull ache started in his jaw like a sore muscle. He continued to send when it spread up his right cheek and then into his right eye. He continued to send till the soreness became a throbbing that matched the beating of his heart and he felt as if his head was going to split open like an overripe melon.

Jonny cried out as he grew dizzy, his vision blurred and he released the thought.

This is it, he thought.

I can’t do this again tonight. I’m gonna fry my brain. He closed and opened his eyes again and again, willing his eyesight to clear. I must be crazy—

He stopped when he heard the door to the store open and then slam shut.

A boy of 15 with long straggly hair and a bandana tied over it stepped out onto the sidewalk wearing an old concert T-shirt and shorts that were 10 sizes too big for him. He walked around to the side of the building and leaned against the wall.

That was Jonny’s cue!

He could already imagine the choke-hold he would use.

He opened his car door and started to scramble out and then realized he was still wearing his seat belt as it pulled him back.

He  unbuckled and—

“HONK!!!” He had accidentally hit the horn with his elbow in his rush to get out of the car.

“Damn it,” he cursed again as the boy, startled out of his loneliness, took a look at Jonny and ran back into the building.

Jonny turned and quickly got back to his car. As he fumbled for his keys, they fell from his fingers and clinked as they bounced off his leg, and to the floorboard with a clunk. He bent down to retrieve them and when he looked over, boys were pouring from the building with knives, pipes and baseball bats.

“Son of a bitch!” Yelled Jonny as his fingers closed on the keys and then on the big plastic grip of his car key. He raised it to the ignition with trembling fingers and—

Crash!

His window shattered. He turned the key and a horrible screeching sound came from the car and he realized he had already started it and the car was already running. He slammed his foot on the accelerator, but the car was still in park.

The pipe that broke his window was swung again. Light seared across his vision as the pipe connected with Jonny’s temple and crushed in that side of his skull, shattering his eye socket. All went black.

*          *          *

He was being dragged across the ground. He knew because he felt a rock catch on his shirt. A chill ran through him as it scraped all the way up his back, but he didn’t know why. Then it gouged into his neck and cut into the skin of the back of his head, he forgot to wonder why any longer.

They knew who he was. What he was. They had seen their friends leave with him and then found them dead the next day. Or at least they’d found parts of their friends.

“I said answer me, you sick freak!”

“What?” Jonny was surprised that his voice sounded so normal. He tried to open his eyes, but only his right one responded. What was left of his left eye was swollen shut.

“You thought you could just come back here again and find another one of my friends to cut to pieces! You dirty freak! Well now it’s your turn! We’re gonna kill you good and slow…just a little at a time. You’re gonna learn what it feels like. You’re gonna—

“What the hell you laughing at!?”

Jonny was just as surprised to hear it and hadn’t realized it was coming from his own mouth. He tried to shut his mouth, to clamp his teeth down on it, but like a goldfish flopping around on the floor, the control eluded him.

The boy clenched his teeth, leaned back and then kicked Jonny across the face like he was kicking the winning field goal.

With his jaw now broken and unhinged, Jonny could hear the laughter dribbling out of his useless mouth and it reminded him a little of the sound of someone gargling. He couldn’t stop laughing, and he couldn’t speak. He didn’t think he would ever speak again.

“Hold him,” yelled his attacker, and two other boys jumped forward. They looked grim, but on the verge of running.

“Stretch his arms out!”

When they hesitated, he yelled again.

“Now!”

They jumped a little, startled, and then each grabbed one of Jonny’s arms and pulled them out to each side.

The leader and kicker smiled wickedly and pulled the saw blade from his pocket. It was rusty. It was dull.

He winked. “I took this from the machine in the meat market. I bet they used this to cut up lots of steaks back there.”

“Hey Billy!”

The leader looked towards the voice.

“You know what I’m hungry for?”

“What bro?”

“Steak fingers! I love me some steak fingers dipped in gravy.”

“Well shit, Billy. I just happen to have some. It may take me a while, but I can get you about ten of them. Can you eat that many?”

The boys started laughing. They laughed and jeered, but when they saw that Jonny was laughing with them. Laughing with his broken mouth and face, their laughter died.

Jonny heard another voice, “Damn! This freak is too sick to even be scared. Just kill him Billy. This ain’t no fun!”

Billy looked uncertain for a moment, then seemed to decide something before he spoke.

“We’ll see! We’ll see how scared he really his. Joey! Stretch out his fingers! Yeah. Good. Bobby, you got the pliers? Right, now hold on to that one. There! Now, freak, let’s see if you get scared or not.

Time froze. Jonny could feel the rocks digging into his back, could smell the rancid sweat that coated the filthy teens, could taste salty blood running out of his mouth. The pain in his hand was excruciating, but he was no stranger to pain. He could almost remember….

He tried not to. He really tried. But he couldn’t help it. First like a dry heave when there’s nothing left to vomit, then like a stuttering engine trying to start in cold weather it fell out of him wet with blood and mucus, then it grew into a ragged slobbering string of guffaws: Jonny laughed.

The pain in his hand grew. He could feel the dull teeth grind against his bone. Idiots, he thought. If they’d cut at the joint, it would come off much quicker.

“Ha!” yelled Billy. “Check it out!” he said through the wicked smirk on his face. “That’s your finger, bitch!”

He held up Jonny’s right index finger and waved it in Jonny’s face. It looked small to Jonny. Smaller than it should be.

“What should we cut off now?” he asked and looked around.

Another voice spoke up. “How ‘bout his whole hand?”

Billy’s eyes twinkled as looked towards the speaker who was out of Jonny’s sight, then he nodded to Jonny. “You want that? You’re not gonna need that hand anymore. Not where you’re going.”

Jonny felt dizzy. He knew with all the blood he was losing, he couldn’t stay awake much longer. It was time to let go. It was time to say good bye. If Monica had come like she was supposed to, none of this would have happened. She had let him down before.

The rusty saw blade looked almost black now, the blood having wet the rusty metal.

Billy knelt down by Jonny’s shoulder and whispered in his ear just before he started sawing. He was so close, Jonny could feel Billy’s hot breath on his ear. “We’re gonna learn you real good,”

Jonny froze.

“Daddy,” was the word his mind thought, but it came out of his mouth like a muffled sob.

And he was there again, in the apartment, screaming while grandma sat in her bedroom with the door closed, singing about Jesus to drown out Jonny’s screams. Mom was at work. She was always at work because Daddy couldn’t keep a job.

Jonny’s father held him down, running the steak knife down his back again and again in a line till it cut through his skin, till it grated against his ribs.

“I’m gonna learn ya real good,” he’d whisper, his breath smelling like old cheese and beer.

And finally, Jonny was afraid, and he was crying, but they couldn’t hear his words, even as they sawed through the bones in his wrist, even as they twisted it to tear it loose, Jonny felt the fear building in him like a freight train heading towards him and he’s tied to the tracks.

“Daddy.” Jonny mouthed the word again.

He’d never stopped until Jonny learned to take it like a man, until Jonny quit crying, until Jonny’s psychic powers awoke for the first time and then Daddy was gone.

The fear blasted out of Jonny like a shock wave, knocking the boys from their feet. Those who were far enough away to still be alive curled up into fetal balls and shook, blood oozing from their ears, tears streaming from their eyes.

For the rest, because their bodies still lay there twitching, it was not readily apparent that they were already dead; their brains, overloaded by the psychic blast, had caused their hearts and their breathing to stop. In moments they would be still and would never move again.

Jonny could feel his lifeblood draining out of him from his mangled wrist.

“I’m sorry Daddy,” he thought. “I’ll do better, Daddy, I promise.”

*          *          *

A red minivan pulled up next to Jonny’s car.

“Damn it!” said Monica as she got out and walked towards the bodies lying in front of the condemned grocery store. She pulled her long gray hair away from her face and put her glasses on. Following standard protocol, she pulled out a can of medical foam and sprayed it on Jonny’s torn wrist and mangled hand and then around his face, being careful not to spray any into his ruined mouth. It was an anesthetic, an antisceptic, and a coagulant. The loss of blood stopped almost immediately and Jonny began to breath easier.  She pulled out her phone and called her boss.

“Jenkins?

“Right, it’s me, Monica.

“No, I just got here.

“I know. I know, but the flight was delayed and there was no way to get him a message,” she said and as her voice rose in volume, it also rose in pitch.

“It’s bad, real bad: Jonny just went nova.

“Yes, I KNOW! I guess within the past hour…. I think so too. I could have gotten through to him if I had just been able to get here a little sooner,” she said into the phone as she walked around, shaking her head at all the bodies lying around.

“Yes…. I will.

“First, we need a clean up crew. We need this all scrubbed.

“No, no guns, but some broken windows, knives, pipes.

“No, this is in an old commercial district. Any stores still in business around here lower their steel roll-down doors over their store-fronts as soon as it gets dark.

“No, I don’t think anyone around here wants to know much.

“I’m not sure. I think maybe 15 or so. Bring in some snoops.

We can alter anyone who knows anything, but this needs to be yesterday.

“Well..yes, but I don’t think it’s a good idea. He’s—

“….What do you mean too valuable?

“CHRIST JENKINS, HE WENT FUCKING NOVA!”

She held the phone away from her and stared at it as if it had taken on a life of it’s own, then put it back to  her ear.

“There’s gotta be at least ten kids dead here and 20 more that need an ambulance, and he still has his meds in his system! We were just a few hours late on the dose. He—yes, just a few hours—he shouldn’t have been able to do that. It was still in his system. He’s a risk: a huge risk. What if he had been somewhere with cops around. What then?” and although she remained silent while her supervisor explained his rationale, her face was a mask of suspicion and disbelief.

“Oh, don’t give me that! I’ve known him longer than you: a lot longer! We can’t think about that, he’s too unstable, he’s too dangerous….

Monica pushed her hair away from her round face again. Her lips were pursed and her jaw was clenched, but she remained silent as her superior continued on.

Finally, she interrupted. “Alright, but—

“Alright. I know but—

“Yes. Okay, if you say so. Have them bring a doc and a stasis field. I think Jonny’ll pull through, but you better step on it.”

She went back to her minivan and sat down in the driver’s seat. She took out a cigarette and lit it up, sucking the smoke into her lungs and blowing it out through her nose. Jonny boy had killed again.

The agency will come up with something clever, she thought as she took another drag. A gas leak in an underground pipe. Gang warfare, drug deal gone sour.

Monica knew the news would tell the lie to a jaded population, who would, at most, perhaps utter a few words. “Wow, what a shame!” “Kids these days: always in trouble.” And then would go back to eating dinner.

She wanted this all to be over. She didn’t want to have to go through this again. She didn’t want to have to clean up after Jonny anymore. She felt like she had been doing it her whole life.

All these thoughts bounced in and out of her mind, but she sat still, inhaling the smoke and praying for the nicotine to relax her, to still her shaking hands and trembling conscience that was telling her to go back there and bash the rest of his brains out with the pipe lying next to his car, to run his head over with her minivan, to put him out of his misery and save everyone else.

Everyone else.

It was that thought that finally had her push open the door, step out onto the pavement and ignore the warning bell that told her the keys were still in the ignition. She took a deep breath and started walking back towards him.

If I let him live…

She stepped over the curb.

I will be responsible…

She picked up the pipe; the metal felt like ice in her hand as tears burned lines down her face.

For everyone hereafter that he kills…

She stepped around the bodies of the teens in their baggy clothes, who looked like so much discarded, windblown newspaper lying on the ground.

I don’t hate you…

Feeling as if she were walking under water, she came up to Jonny’s ruined body and face and forced herself to look at him.

I love you…

She raised the pipe over her head and she looked like she was trying to drive off a rabid dog.

You will always be my Jonny boy…

She swung as hard as she could.

You will always be my son.

*          *          *

She sat down beside his body, and sang in a whisper: sang to her Jonny, as her vision blurred and sparkled with tears.

Rock a bye Jonny, in the tree top

When the wind blows

The cradle will rock

Her voice broke as she wept.

If the bow breaks

The cradle will fall

Just as she it did when she used to come home from work and find out what her husband had done.

And down will come Jonny

Cradle and all….

“I’m sorry baby…. Mommy is so sorry….”  She whispered as the black agency vans pulled up to curb.

October 5th, 1879

I’m home again and everything is fine. The doctors have pronounced me fit as a fiddle, and we’re ready to get on with our lives. Martha has been so kind and patient through my long and arduous recovery. I am so glad that we are together again and I can run my fingers through her golden hair. I am feeling better than I have in years.

-Lord Byron Whitmore

October 8th, 1879

Martha’s mother doesn’t trust me. I see her looking at me when she thinks I’m not paying attention. She has tried to drive a wedge between us for years and I suppose it would be foolish of me to think things could be different now. Nevertheless, Martha and I are blissfully happy. Her mother was always very cruel to her and Martha calls me her knight in shining armor who came to rescue her from her wicked step-mother. Although the old witch is truly her mother by birth, Martha likes to call her that nonetheless. Stepmother. I ask Martha why she hates her mother so, but she smiles and speaks of other things.

-Lord Byron Whitmore

October 12th, 1879

She’s laughing at us. I know she is, I can hear her through the window in the dead of night. She comes to visit unannounced several times a week and I can hear her snickering under her breath, watching me to see when I’ll get sick again, but she is wrong, and cruel and I know why Martha has nightmares about her. I know why Martha is so fragile and weak: So much abuse my darling has been exposed to. Too much for one heart to bear. But we will get through this together.

-Lord Byron Whitmore

October 17th, 1879

Cruel wicked stepmother! Her evil knows no bounds and Martha cannot take the strain. She is such a gentle soul. But as she weakens, my resolve grows. I am having the dreams again. I was sure that they were gone for good, but I was mistaken. They are, however, different this time. I can see her plotting against us. I can see her evil rising from her like the stench of rotting flesh rising up to cloud the air. I see her all night as I sleep and when I wake I am tired and wan. While I am awake I catch glimpses of her peaking into our windows. I know her black and shriveled heart plots against us.

-Lord Byron Whitmore

October 23rd, 1879

My sweet Martha cannot go on. Her mother still comes to visit her almost daily now, ranting at her, asking her what’s wrong with her, what’s wrong with me, as if she doesn’t know, and Martha just shakes her head no and cries. She can’t sleep, and she eats little and looks as if she will just waste away. Her beautiful golden hair grows thin and loses its luster. My Martha shouldn’t have to cry while I, her knight, her hero, sits and watches and remains silent. Shame on me! Shame!

-Lord Byron Whitmore

October 28th, 1879

All is ready. I’ve done it all in the storage room in back with no windows. I sat there in silence, working in the dark through the night while Martha finally, mercifully slept. I kept my mind purposely blank so the old crow of a woman couldn’t hear me thinking

-Lord Byron Whitmore

October 29th, 1879

It was so easy. I knew if I remained calm and rational I could defeat her. I just imagined her as the animal of which she most reminds me: an old turkey hen. Yes, you see, it was easy to wring her wrinkled turkey neck while her weak wings flapped against me ineffectually. So easy to pluck her feathers, cut her up as the butchers do down at the market. How pitifully easy to dispatch such feeble prey and scatter her flesh through the fields for the crows to feast on, and then bury her bones in the field next to the old scarecrow. Now Martha and I can get on with our lives. Now we can finally be happy.

-Lord Byron Whitmore

October 31st, 1879

She’s back! I don’t know how but she’s back! I hear her all the time. I hear her cackling and raking her nails down the inside of my mind. I hear her. I hear…No! No! Noooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!

London Times November 1st, 1879

Mrs. Martha Whitmore was found running through the streets near her home wearing the clothes of her deceased husband, Lord Byron Whitmore. She was Screaming “NO, get out, NO!” Her hands and clothes were caked in dried dirt and blood as she rolled on the ground, tearing her short hair out by the roots. Lord Whitmore died three years ago of consumption and Mrs Whitmore was left unstable and placed in the protective custody of the London Sanitarium by her mother who has not been reached for comment. In fact her home was found in severe disorder and police believe foul play may have be connected with her absence.
Mrs. Whitmore had just been released from the sanitarium less than a month ago. According to the doctors in residence at the sanitarium, to whose care she has been returned, Mrs. Whitmore is locked in a delusional state of denial. After leaving the sanitarium previously, she cut off her hair and assumed the person of Lord Whitmore. She kept a porcelain doll with flowing golden hair with her at all times that she has given her own name of Martha and speaks to it constantly when when she is not shreiking over the voices she hears in her head.

Look for updates in future issues as more information becomes available.