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“Maybe he has the German measles,” my dad said. “What kind of school does he have to attend?”
The cops exchanged a “we got a live one” look. Actually, quite the opposite was true.
“That would be, uh, high school,” the older gentleman answered.
“High school, sure. Well, that would be a real waste of time,” my dad said and began to laugh. I laughed along with him as he put his arm around my shoulder.
My mom came in then, wiping her hands on her apron. My mom is blond and tall and, if I do say so myself, quite the looker. In a very dignified, mom sort of way.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, officers. My husband is a jokester sometimes. And slow to get to the point. Daniel doesn’t need to go to school anymore.”
Chapter 6
“MA’AM, EVERYBODY NEEDS to go to school,” the cop said.
My mom continued. “Daniel went to high school-when he was ten. He has an IQ, oh, somewhere in the 190s. He graduated from MIT last year. Our Da
“Is that so?” the cop said, dubious. “In that case, if you would just go and get his diploma. College or high school would be fine.”
“No problem,” my dad said, crossing his arms as he stood in front of me. “Right after we see yours. That sound fair to you?”
“You’re a fu
“You’ll see his diploma when we see a warrant,” my dad said with a winky smile. “Now you and Silent Bob there can leave. Wouldn’t want you to catch the measles.”
“It’ll actually be fun hauling you, your wife, and your ‘genius’ son in when we come back with that warrant,” the cop snarled.
He and his partner turned around and left in a huffy hurry.
“I don’t think he was kidding,” my dad said to me as we stood in the doorway and watched the Portland PD car squeal away from our building.
“I know, Dad. I’ll be out of here before they get to the end of our street. I’m going after Number 6 next. Ergent Seth.”
My mom winced. “Oh Daniel, are you sure about that? Number 6 might be way too much, way too soon.”
I stared at her sadly. She looked real pretty in her apron. There was even a dab of pancake batter on her cheek. “Trust me, I’ve studied The List carefully, Mom. He’s the next one. Ergent Seth has to go. Now. He’s on a terrible rampage in California.”
Then I closed my eyes. I took a breath and let it out slowly, and when I opened my eyes again, my mom and dad were gone.
They were gone because I was the one who created them in the first place. I fashioned them into existence out of my memory-just to run interference with the cops. Like I said, a charade. And a pretty good one too.
Now you know a little more about me.
Freaky, huh?
You have no idea.
Chapter 7
HERE’S THE THING that I have to share with you.
I have these powers, and I don’t know exactly how I got them. I can create things, for example. Like my parents. Of course, technically they’re not my parents. My real parents are dead. My imagined parents are probably just mental projections that I make real.
And when I say real, I mean it. When I manifest my mom and dad, they’re as real as you or me. Right down to their DNA.
How do I do it? Good question.
I don’t know the specifics, but what I do know is that at its most microscopic, most subatomic level, everything in the universe-matter, people, the air, all the elements, and even energy-is made up of the same basic materials. And I was born with a strange ability to rearrange the material at will.
I know what you might be thinking. I can just snap my fingers and what I want is there, but it’s not really like that. Not at all.
There’s only so much I can create, for a limited period. I have to be really calm, and concentrate like you wouldn’t believe. If I’m tired or cranky, forget it-it won’t work. Plus there seems to be a mass limit. Or sometimes I seem to run up against a mental block of some kind. One time I tried to create a really cool, flaming red Ferrari, but nothing happened.
Some things are easy to create. My mom and dad, for one. I do them a lot. When I’m afraid or lonely. They’re like a recipe you’ve done over and over again until you can do it in your sleep.
I’m pretty fast too. I’m talking about movement now. One time a New Jersey state trooper tried to arrest me for hitchhiking, and as he started to close the cuff on my wrist, I reached out, grabbed his hand, and pulled it forward so fast he actually cuffed himself.
Oh, and I’ve caught birds. Not slowpokes like chickens either. I plucked a passing sparrow out of the air-gently-just to see if I could. I could.
I’m strong, especially for someone who’s five ten, 140 pounds. Not strong enough to lift a car, but I could probably flip one in a pinch. I can influence people. Sort of an instant hypnosis type of thing. And I can sometimes tell what’s going to happen before it happens. Like knowing that there were cops at the door.
But this is the most important part. Life-and-death stuff. Don’t let anybody tell you any different: there are aliens on this planet. They’ve been here millions, maybe hundreds of millions of years. They were on the earth before man, even. And most of these creepy-crawlers are seriously homicidal lunatics.
Number 19 was a horror show and a half-but Number 6, my next target, was actually plotting to change everything about life on Earth. And I don’t mean he was going to bring in universal health care and solve global warming. I’m not talking homicidal, I’m talking genocidal. Number 6 wanted to take over Earth and destroy every life-form, then recolonize with freaks from his own planet. That’s why I had to go after Number 6 now, before he got on a roll…
One more thing I need to cover. There might be some good aliens here. I’ve never met one, but hey, never say never, right? The one thing I know to be true, there are definitely bad ones. I don’t think I can stress that part enough.
But wait a second.
This is going to blow your mind. It did mine.
Actually, I have met a good alien.
In the mirror. In every mirror I look at.
I’m pretty sure I’m an alien too.
Chapter 8
I LEFT PORTLAND, heading south on a Greyhound bus. Truthfully, I prefer the train, but Amtrak clerks usually ask questions if you look like you’re a minor, which I do, which I am.
I tend to try to stay as paranoid as I can, and that’s because I’m always being followed. I don’t like the idea of my name, or even an alias, floating around in somebody’s database. In fact, right now I’m afraid I’m being followed. But I try not to think about it too much. Too depressing and disturbing.
On the positive side, the bus was only half full-believe me, few things in life are worse than a lengthy ride on a crowded bus, except maybe confronting an alien with an appetite-but even so, I only took the Greyhound as far south as Grants Pass, a town thirty miles north of the California border.
I could have gone all the way to LA, my next destination-Number 6’s home base-but fourteen hours riding the dog is my personal limit.
I laid out my Rand McNally in the back of a McDonald’s across from the bus station. I wanted to see if there was a way to Southern California besides Interstate 5 so that I could be a little more off the beaten path. Right away I spotted another, ski
Oregon ’s rain seemed to instantly turn to Northern California fog as I put the McDonald’s behind me and stuck out my thumb.