Free For I Could Lift My Finger and Black Out the Sun by Keith Soares Page A

Forget the hammer trick, forget Bobby’s two-story fall. We were eight stories up. The words terminal velocity came to mind. Walter snatched first at my hands, then at Bobby’s, using more tape to wrap us tightly to the pipe.
     
    “What do you want with us, mister?” Bobby begged. I just took it all in, wide-eyed with disbelief. Walter ignored the question and walked back to the forklift. Mr. Gerald must’ve left the key in the ignition, because Walter easily got the thing running, then turned it toward one of the large metal pods. As he drove, Bobby tugged hard on the packing tape holding his hands together, binding him to the pipe. “I can’t get out!” he said in a low voice.
     
    Walter slid the tines of the forklift under the pod and lifted it high. Then he wheeled back toward us.
     
    As he drove at us with the pod offered up before him, I could see the look in Walter’s eyes. A focused sort of insanity.
     
    Listen, I’d seen a lot of old movies. I knew what he was doing. He was sacrificing u s .
     
    I nearly wet myself.
     
    I shouted at Bobby. “He’s gonna kill us ! Like a ritual or something!”
     
    “Shit!” Bobby responded, ever the intellectual. “Shitshitshit!”
     
    “We gotta get away, somehow.” I pulled hard on the packing tape but couldn’t get free. “Maybe we can rock the pipe loose!”
     
    Bobby strained. “Time it with me!” he said. “Left! … Right! … Left!” It was no use. The pipe was solid. Walter and the forklift arrived directly in front of us, the giant pod looming above our heads, covering us with its ominous shadow. Walter fiddled with the controls and the pod started to lean downward, toward us. In seconds, I could tell it would slide off the forklift tines and we would be crushed.
     
    I had an idea. “Bobby!” I said, gesturing toward my head while turning toward Walter. I used my mind. Told him to Stop! For a moment, Walter paused, but only for a moment. He shook his head and continued to move the tines downward. I heard a gritty sound, like the pod was starting to slide. “Bobby, you gotta help me — use your mind to make him stop. Let’s do it together.” It didn’t really hit me at that moment, busy as we were, but later I realized that this was the first time we ever worked our new magic together.
     
    “Okay!” Bobby’s brow furrowed as he mentally forced the command onto Walter. I joined him.
     
    Neither of us had ever tried to push so hard. Even the police officer that I’d persuaded to ignore Bobby’s broken, bloody bicycle was easy in comparison. But Walter was resisting.
     
    I wondered, as I strained at the effort and sweat began to form on my forehead, if it was because his mind was corrupt already.
     
    Then I got my answer.
     
    Under the blunt force of both my and Bobby’s wills, we felt Walter Ivory’s mind snap . He fell out of the forklift seat and dropped to the roof, rolling in pain, letting loose terrible animal-like sounds. As he fell, he must have jammed the pedal or pulled at the steering wheel, because the forklift gave a jarring lurch, one of its front wheels bumping up onto the half wall of the roof. The pod stayed balanced on the tines, but slid ever farther toward us.
     
    All we could do was watch Walter writhe, scared by the thought of what we had just done. It was like we’d held a fragile egg in our hands, squeezing and pushing on it to test its limits, when suddenly it burst. Always the punster, I thought to myself, The yolk’s on you, John!
     
    After what seemed like forever, Walter stopped writhing on the ground. He lay still, face to the rooftop. Then slowly, he stood up.
     
    Walter’s eyes were no longer human. They were a rabid dog’s, a wounded deer’s. They were the eyes of a goat bleating as its throat was cut. He began to rage back and forth, flailing his hands.
     
    “We need to get outta here!” Bobby yelled. “Rock the pipe more!” And we rocked, but still it barely moved.
     
    Walter ran