Excerpt from BRAINSTORM by Gordon A. Kessler

"He left you behind to die, like he did several thousand other folks. You don't have anything to fear from me. You probably passed my little group in the stairwell. We just want to get out of here, just like you."

Again they eyed each other. This time one of them said, "I told you. I told you they were going to blow this place."

"Shut up," said one of the guards in the middle. I figured he must be in charge.

"Come on, Top," the first guy said. "We don't have much time."

"All right," the leader said. "But we're going to kill this ass, first." He raised his gun, and I felt like I'd run out of options. They all wore the copper-lined helmets—my psychic gift would be useless.

I yelled out to my zombies in a bottom-of-the-barrel attempt, "Get them."

The few of my night-shirted morons that I could see standing on the other side of the stairwell doorway window stood motionless, but it bought me a second as "Top" glanced back toward my group of blanks.

His head cocked and he grinned. He turned back to me, his rifle barrel aimed at my chest.

* * *

Fast forward, Harvey says.

And I go into future mode.

The world is in slow motion. Although my thoughts shift to high gear, I cannot move faster than my adversaries. But I see their movements in advance and know when they will make them.

As the gunman squeezes the trigger, I lurch to one side. Two bullets exit the muzzle of his gun, spinning out with smoke and nitrate debris. My body edges to the side, feeling as cumbersome as a huge aircraft carrier, and the tiny missiles, like torpedoes in the water, come at me. The first will clearly miss. The second bullet becomes a tremendous concern, for I see its green tip and know that the leader's weapon is loaded with armor-piercing rounds. Guessing what I now wore was likely the latest generation of armor, it still wouldn't guarantee against penetration from a zippy little 5.56 X 45 mm round at close range, let alone armor piercing. Ten feet away, I twist my torso, a fast jerk in real time, a snail's crawl in my fast-forward vision. And the projectile zips to me, my side twisting back mere centimeters to avoid it, and it strikes me. The bullet enters the body armor, and although the blood is yet to flow, the blazing pain yet to be felt, I know that it has found flesh.

Hoping it has not ruptured a vital organ, I continue the twisting into a spin, getting out of my assailant's aim, then leaping toward the initial gunman.

The entire group begins to bring their guns to bear on me.



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