The Weird Travels of Aimee Schmidt: The Curse of the Gifted (52 page)

“Damn…” ripped out under her breath when she hit the floor. Ignoring the pain, Aimee doggedly pushed up into standing. Wild hair covered her eyes, and she pawed at the loose strands to get them out of her face so she could see. She quickly checked the faces of the passengers. Everyone quietly sat in their seats. Her heart jumped into her throat.

This can’t be real! This has gotta to be a sick dream!

Jack Reynolds, his skin black and peeling off his body like brittle, old wallpaper, sat in the front. A few seats behind him was the young girl from Washington, still draped in Aimee's t-shirt. Her entire throat was bruised dark blue. The young backpacker who had fallen and become trapped in the ravine was a few rows back. Faces of almost every victim Aimee had failed on her journeys stared at her with despair.

Too scared to move, but too mortified to stay, Aimee inched towards the back. Finally, a few rows from the end she glanced back praying that it was all a dream. But they were still here, and everyone was turned around in their seats watching her. No one uttered a word. She had to escape this nightmare!

She whipped around and noticed someone sitting in the last row. For a few seconds, Aimee paused trying to suppress her fear. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and shook her head as if that would erase everything around her. She peeked back again. They were still all staring at Aimee with the same helpless look. She clamped her eyes hoping to squeeze out their faces.

Wake up, stupid!
She had to be stuck in a horrible nightmare, but if this wasn’t a dream, she must have finally cracked like everyone feared.
Geez, I should have listened to Dad and gone back to therapy!
After a few seconds, Aimee gulped a chest full of air and turned back to the last passenger.
Slowly, she opened her eyes, but stared straight ahead through the window of the closed door. Out of the corner of her eye, Aimee could see a woman with long, blonde hair sitting in the window seat. She gulped another breath, and gradually eased her face around.

The air stuck like glue in her lungs, and her scream stuck with it. In a subdued, but beseeching voice her mother cried, “Please, Aimee, please seek others to help you...”

Aimee freaked, and busted through the next door hollering for Dylan at the top of her lungs.

“Dylan! Dylan! Help! Help! Omigod, where are you?! Please, please don’t leave me here!”
Tears gushed down her face as she tore to the other end of the car trying to outrun the madness. Without stopping to see what she was running from or where she was running to, Aimee forced her weight against the last door and fell through. She could only think of one thing; find Dylan! He would protect her. She looked back quickly, but no one was there. Aimee swallowed a huge breath of air and whipped back around to search the last car of the train. Dylan had to be in this one.

In the final row, an arm dangled over the armrest into the aisle. It looked like a man’s arm. Aimee's pulse suddenly quickened.

“Dylan! Omigod, I’ve
finally
found you!” she whispered. Without thinking, Aimee flew to
wards the back, but when she got about ten feet from it, the arm jerked away. She jumped. But nothing happened. After a few seconds, her heart started again. She took another breath, unable to exhale, and tiptoed the last few steps until she stood dead even with his seat. She kept her eyes pinched shut, too
afraid she would find Dylan no longer
her
Dylan, that he too had somehow changed into some kind of
freak.

But
someo
ne forced her head around. She clamped shut her eyes. A voice ordered, “
Open your eyes!”
She obeyed, and their eyes met. Joseph’s face
sparkled like a rare diamond. He spoke in his British accent, “Here you are, Aimee. I was beginning to worry something had happened to you.”...

…Aimee awoke shrieking. Dylan instantly smothered her into his chest. Everyone in the rail car around them was definitely alarmed by Aimee's peculiar behavior. Once awake, the screaming quickly died into bawling, then with Dylan holding her tight, it finally dwindled to a subdued whimper. The older man across the aisle with nervous, twitching eyes, leaned over and asked Dylan with a very thick German accent, “Sir…sir…iz there…uh…iz there nzeething I can do for your friend?”

Dylan replied, “Thank you, sir, but I think she’s okay now. I appreciate your concern.” He contrived a smile, and then turned his attention back to Aimee. The man continued to watch her for another minute definitely unconvinced she was fine. Slowly, he returned to the newspaper he was reading before her screaming rudely interrupted him, but he kept peeking over at them while Dylan continued to console her. Aimee buried her face in Dylan's warm chest. He held her, ignoring the embarrassing stares and whispers of the passengers around them. He softly said, “Shhhh, babe. It’s okay now. It was only a bad dream. You’re safe, Aimee.”

After a few minutes her whimpering died into silence, but she kept her head resting on Dylan’s chest listening to his heart. It beat slow and strong. The rhythm pounded with such intensity she knew it would never stop. Finally, Aimee peeked up into his face. The mascara had washed down her face. Dylan smiled when he should have laughed. She looked hideous. He licked his thumb and gently rubbed her cheek to erase the black smudges. Lovingly, he gazed into Aimee's eyes, and then leaned down and kissed her tenderly on her forehead.

“Oh, Dylan,” cried Aimee, “it was awful! I couldn’t find you. You left me, and I couldn’t find you any...”

“Shhh. It’s okay. You just had one of your bad dreams. It’s over and I’m still here with you. I’ll always be with you. You never have to worry about me leaving you.”

She laid her cheek back on his soft t-shirt. She felt totally humiliated, yet the sensation of his body against her face pacified every nerve ending. It was amazing how something as hard as marble felt so comforting.

After a few minutes Aimee heard the lady in front of them tell her husband the train should be in London in about thirty minutes. Aimee slowly sat up, stretched, and covertly turned around to check who might still be watching them after the ruckus she had caused. Thank goodness no one seemed interested in her any longer. She tugged at her shirt, brushed her fingers through her tangled locks, and halfway attempted to swipe off the remaining makeup. She must have been a mess because Aimee heard Dylan chuckle under his breath.

“What?”
Aimee leered at him, then inhaled a deep breath.

Dylan just smiled at her, and shook his head. “That is
sooo
why I love you.”

“What? What is why you love me?”

“It’s never dull when I’m with you.”

Aimee shook her head and snickered.“I love you, too.”

Dylan quickly answered in a serious voice, “I love you more.”…

…England was sadly the last stop of their incredible journey to Europe. They planned only to be in the U.K. for four days before flying back to the States; a couple days to sight-see in London, a day and a half touring the countryside, and the last day trekking back to London to fly home.

Dylan's dad, Greg Townsend, had a branch in London and a small flat. He also had a couple cars parked onsite for his use whenever he was in the country. Greg let Dylan and Aimee use the flat and a car while they were in England. Dylan decided they would drive up to Cambridge, then down to Wiltshire to see Stonehenge. He let Aimee pick the sites in Paris, so he got to choose where they would venture the last few days of their trip. It didn’t really matter to Aimee as long as she was with him. If anything, this trip had proven one thing to her; Dylan was as much a part of her as her own blood, flesh, and soul. No matter where he went, she’d follow, and she knew he felt the same. They were destined to go through life together; partners until death…and then, if God was merciful, through eternity. Aimee would just have to pray and have faith he wouldn’t get sucked up
with her on any of her
journeys. That could
neve
r happen!

Dylan leaned impatiently against the column next to the car, fretfully twirling the keys around his forefinger while he waited for Aimee to come out of the flat. He had already crammed all of their luggage into the tiny trunk. As she approached, he reluctantly held out the keys. Aimee just sniggered and snatched them.

This morning Aimee pleaded to Dylan to let her drive since they were leaving London. Dylan insisted he drive. In a nice way so he wouldn’t hurt her feelings too badly, he told Aimee her driving sucked, and he preferred returning to Medford…alive. But Aimee told him he was totally wrong. Only one of her accidents was her fault; the one where she backed out into Benny’s monster truck, and it would have fatally wounded just about any car as big as it was. And, she reminded him, he couldn’t count the little mishap she had in Eugene a few weeks previous when she passed out in her car. It wasn’t moving, and nothing happened to the car. And the one where she was purposely run off the road and almost killed certainly wasn't her fault. Traveling was wreaking havoc on her otherwise perfect driving record, but Aimee couldn’t tell Dylan
the
real
reason for her lousy record.

“Besides,” Aimee argued, “every American should experience zipping around in a tiny car in the wrong lane with the steering wheel on the wrong side of the dash at least once in their lifetime.”

Dylan wasn’t amused. He obstinately refused, at first, but Aimee kept pestering in her irresistible, charming female way until he finally agreed to at least let her bet for it. Paper, Rock or Scissors - winner drives. On three he played rock…and Aimee played paper.

So, as Aimee approached Dylan, she victoriously whipped the keys out of his hand and arrogantly jumped into the driver’s seat. She ignored Dylan’s grumbling as he crushed his six foot two frame into the tiny passenger seat, crunched up his legs under the dash, and hastily grabbed for the seat belt. Aimee smirked again, turned the key, and jerked away from the curb.

Navigating through London with the zest of any British driver was like playing one of James’s video games, which Aimee was lousy at. She always lost within a minute or two of playing. She managed to at least stay in her lane while they raced along with Dylan barking directions. Dylan’s loss of the bet meant he was in charge of taking pictures and spotting all the famous sites. Aimee needed to keep her eyes on the road and her hands on the wheel. Not one picture had been taken, yet. Dylan’s fingers would have to be pried off the armrest when they got to Cambridge. His eyes, too, were glued to the road straight ahead, no venturing left or right out the window at the London scenery. Occasionally he stole a peek at the map on his lap, then barked more orders at Aimee where to turn. She chuckled to herself. Aimee rarely saw this side of Mr. Always Cool Townsend. Nothing seemed to faze him, except for his ex-girlfriend, Brandi Peters…and now Aimee's driving.

Feeling a little naughty, Aimee lightly tapped the brake and watched his eyes roll like dice on a Crap’s table from the map to the road ahead. A few hair raising close calls later and a couple of expletives that Aimee never heard Dylan use before, they made it out of the city and hit the road traveling north to Cambridge. Finally out of London, the thick traffic gradually disappeared. Dylan sighed heavily. His hand, which had been cemented to the armrest, came loose, and he finally relaxed enough to search for some decent music on the radio.

Aimee grinned at him feeling pretty smug at her success getting them out of London alive...and in one piece. She punched down on the accelerator and watched the speedometer jump from left to right. Dylan’s recovery quickly vanished and he grabbed the armrest again. Just like her beloved VW, the baby car sped down the road careening sweetly around curves while the two disappeared deeper into England. After a few minutes Dylan relinquished his death grip on the armrest, wiped the sweat off his brow with his forearm, exhaled, and smiled awkwardly. He chuckled under his breath.

“I guess you’re right. Not hard getting used to it, is it?” he asked as he finally looked out at the lush English countryside, then glanced over at Aimee and smiled for real this time.

She answered triumphantly, “See. I told you I could do it.”

The car tore down the road to Cambridge. After ten kilometers of cruising and listening to British rock on some station, Dylan had to ask, “Sooo…are you gonna let me drive sometime today?”

“Don’t know. Depends how nice you are to me.”

Dylan grinned at her devilishly. “Well, that’s one I’m sure I can win. So, what are the terms,
and who judges, you or me?”

“Me, of course,” she replied. “I’ll get back with you on the terms.”

Feeling more at ease, Dylan reached down and grabbed the camera off the floorboard, then started to snap some pictures. A couple minutes later, he swung around and took one of Aimee. He stopped shooting, perched the camera on his palm, and peered up at her. “Hey, I’ve got a cool idea. Let’s take a detour and see some real English countryside.”

Aimee looked at the map laying across his lap and spotted a wiggly, fluorescent yellow line highlighting an alternate route he had obviously picked earlier. “Sure. Why not? Sounds like fun.” They were on vacation. They didn’t need highways dictating their course. So, after a few more kilometers, Dylan pointed to the road Aimee needed to turn on and off the beaten path they drove in search of countryside. The farther they traveled, the farther away they escaped. Down one road, then another, and another, they ventured deeper into rural England.

The rolling, velvety green pastures were absolutely breathtaking. Aimee slowed a bit, just enough to roll the windows down, so both could hang their heads out and savor the cool, damp breeze on their faces. The sweet aroma of the rich pasture grasses floated like perfume into the car. They giggled at nothing, and Aimee turned up the song on the radio while they rolled down the road chasing Dylan’s wiggly, yellow line. They never slowed longer than a second or two to head down a new road. They cruised, without a care, through a sea of green.