B. Justin Shier - Zero Sight (Zero Sight Series, Book 1)

(Zero Sight Series, Book 1)

by

B. Justin Shier

Kindle Edition v.2

Zero Sight (Zero Sight Series, Book 1)

( www.zerosightseries.com )

Copyright 2011 by Brian Justin Shier

( www.bjustinshier.com )

Kindle Edition v.2

ISBN 978-0-9835000-0-1

Editing by Jon Steller

Cover design by Jordan Kimura

( www.jordankimuradesigns.com )

Cover photography by Sarah Pedersen

( www.sarahpedersen.com )

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This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writers imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental. All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

To Deborah Lim,

For reminding me how to move a castle across the desert.

I read it in a book once. Time doesnt slow during a fight. What you perceive as a slowdown is actually your poor noggin overloading with data. Its working extra hard to create a detailed record of eventsthe mental equivalent of running a highlighter through a bookand youre misinterpreting the added detail for added time. Theres a good reason for your brains sudden attention to detail. If you manage to survive the fight, theres a serious advantage to remembering every last dodge and strike. Youll have a chance to learn, a chance to maybe not repeat any of the stupid shit that got you there in the first place.

Professional fighters hear this explanation and shake their heads. Theyve all been there. They remember the sensations. They say that when the punches start flying, time slows down to help them focus. All they see is their opponent. All they hear is their heartbeat. Distractions like the shouts of the crowd fade away. Fighters become totally consumed with winning. Victory is their one and only drive. And the pros believe that if they wait long enough, all their intense focus will pay off. They call that moment the fights tipping point. They argue that spotting it is the difference between winning and losing. And trained fighters are patient beasts. Theyre willing to take tremendous damage waiting for that perfect moment. But when that moment comes, they dont hesitate for an instant. They deliver all the savage precision they can muster. Its the essence of their craft. They gamble everything on it. No wonder they get so hot under the collar when some know-nothing scientists start arguing otherwise.

The scientists or the fightersto be honest, I have no idea whos right. Ive been in dozens of fights: nasty ones with broken bones and missing teeth, fast finishes that ended before the second swing, slow grinds that were ended by the cops, but through them all, I never once experienced time slow down. Maybe thats because I see things differently.

Perhaps see is the wrong word, but frankly, there isnt anything else to call it. Ive looked in hundreds of books, searched the Internet for hours, but there is nothing like my Sight logged anywhere. All I can do is describe it for you:

Close your eyes.

Rub them for a minute or two.

You see bursts of countless colors bound off in different directions, right? Some of them even have forms you can recognizecircles, squares, squiggles, and waves. Picture all those shapes overlaid onto your normal visual field. Now, imagine that every sparkle, every blur, every little motion has a meaning, that every last one is telling you something important about the world around you, that theyre feeding you information about energy on the move. When my adrenalin starts pumping, and my mind is overrun by fear and pain, my world doesnt slow downit fills with stars. And right now, in the dirt lot behind my high school, Im about to take advantage of this strange little talent. A few seconds before the next punch is thrown, Im already going to know its coming.

My feet kicked up dust as I skidded just out of his range. The dust irritated my eyes and mixed with the sweat on my skin. I tried to ignore it. I tried to focus on my footwork. I reminded myself of the need to breathe. I needed to be patient. Needed to lure him into a strike. I took a quarter step forward and leaned in on my toes.

Tyrone took the bait. As soon as I planted, he lunged in too close, and then I saw it: Light surged ahead of Tyrone Nelsons left handbeautiful waves telegraphing the punchs power and direction. The waves were clean. The waves were vibrant. The more powerful the source, the brighter the bands of light. The more directed the source, the easier it is for me to read a blows path. I could See this one as clear as day. Tyrone got high marks for power and accuracy. If I let it hit, the punch would rattle my brain. I would stumble backwards with my chin high in the air. He would be able to follow-up with whatever he wanted. I would be on the ground in seconds, blow after blow caving in my faceso it was truly unfortunate for Tyrone Nelson that I Saw his left hook coming before he even released it. It gave me the half-second lead I needed to quarter-step right, set my feet, and deliver my own fist to his incoming nose. I felt the rush of air as his fist missed wide, the satisfying crunch as my own punch landed clean, and the warm spray of blood as his nose collapsed. That was the true value of my Sight. It made me nearly unbeatable.

I lowered my fists and smiled. This fight was over. I was going to need a new shirt.

As my heartbeat settled, so did my Sight. The crowd noise came rushing back. Lifes normal dull hues returned. I sagged from the strain. My Sight was a strange gift. I had no idea why, but I could only manage to focus it when I was in danger. Once a brawl was over, it faded away with the adrenalin.

I looked down at Tyrone sputtering in the dirt. It was all he could manage through the rush of blood and tears. I glanced up. The bright afternoon sun shone down hot and heavy. A circle of our peers stood around us. They looked thoroughly disappointed. I rubbed the dust and sweat out of my eyes and sighed. The return to reality was always like this. No more laser light show. No more rush. Just another bleached-out day in the valley of the sun. Except this one sucked more than usual, and I wasnt out of the woods just yet. I returned my eyes to the dirt. It was best to not make eye contact with the crowd.

I listened to Tyrones blood patter to the ground and watched as it beaded up on the earth. The dirt repelled the uninvited moisture and held it up as an offering to the sun. In less than an hour, the only hint that someone bled all over the desert would be a faint streak of red in the dust. The city of Las Vegas doesnt do soil. Soil implies some hope of life. The dirt here doesnt do life. Hell, it doesnt even do moisture.

I tightened my fists. The response had to be coming soon.

With a quick glance, I checked the distance between the crowd and myself. They hadnt gathered to watch Tyrone Nelson get dropped, and they sure as hell werent scared of me. Las Vegas was still in America, and Americans demand happy endings, no matter how contrived. The muscles in my legs were locking up, so I shifted my feet. I needed to be ready to move. I needed to be ready to dodge. My mental calculus was simple: It was way better to get the beating over with now rather than later, but I didnt want them breaking anything.