Ex-Purgatory Peter Clines (books for 5 year olds to read themselves TXT) 📖

I remember being Christian Nguyen and seeing John Smith nod.

I remember being John Smith and seeing Christian in front of me. “I’m glad to know there are people like you here in the Mount. People we’ll be able to depend on even when things are tough.” I remember feeling the words slide off his tongue, and echoing in her ears. “I can depend on you when things get tough, can’t I, Christian?”

I remember being Smith and feeling the ever-so-faint tingle that told me the question was burrowing its way into her mind, planting ideas.

I remember being Christian and smiling. “Of course you can,” I’d said. “I’m always honored to serve the people.”

I said, “Excellent.” I used my confidential smile, the one that made people think we were sharing a small secret, and I remember seeing the smile as Christian and feeling proud.

It’s a weird sensation, I’ve got to admit. Remembering it all through two sets of eyes, two sets of ears. I’m stuck with it, though. It’s the one part of her that’s held on, the single most important moment of her life. The moment she met me.

Of course, I wasn’t expecting this. I just planted a few deep thoughts and ideas and figured I’d have a happy sock puppet at the Mount. Someone in my hip pocket if I ever needed them.

It turns out Christian had a little secret of her own, though. Nothing big on its own, nothing huge. Every time you hear about someone who could’ve been the greatest physicist in the world if they put their mind to it, it stands to reason there’s a few dozen people who would’ve been tied for the fiftieth- or hundredth-greatest physicist in the world. If they’d put their minds to it. Hell, I’d bet there’s a good chance she never even realized she had it. She was in deep denial, half the reason it never worked on anything past a subconscious level. And even then, it was a timid thing.

Christian had her own superpower. She taps into the gestalt, if I remember those old Psych 101 terms. She brings people together, connects them on a subconscious level. I mean, how else could someone with zero charisma and interpersonal skills be a successful, honest politician?

Of course, if I’d known that ahead of time, things might’ve gone differently. Instead, we had two sets of mental abilities overlapping and amplifying each other to crazy levels. A harmonics thing, I think. Maybe her gestalt thing, too. The whole being greater than the sum of the parts or something.

I ended up planting a very big idea. Much bigger than I’d planned. And she brought us together.

Of course, being in this body took a lot of adjusting. There were all those mornings Christian woke up and couldn’t figure out why her face didn’t look right. Plus all the old things she couldn’t remember, and the new things she could. Most people would start panicking about Alzheimer’s or something, but she was so focused on rallying the After Death movement and her steamroller-style mayoral campaign that she just kept brushing it aside. And she kept saying the phrase I’d given her again and again, like an error-loop glitch that keeps popping up.

People can depend on me when things get tough.

She started forgetting her life and started remembering mine.

St. George appeared in the sky and dragged me back to the present. He spun around in a circle like a kite whipping through the air. Then he dropped down and landed on the pavement a few yards away.

“What’s up, Christian?” he said. He always sounded so sincere. It’s incredible how fast that can get grating.

“I need to show you something,” I told him.

He glanced back across the Mount. “I’m kind of busy,” he said. “We’re trying to juggle a couple of things before—”

“It’ll just take a moment,” I said. “You can spare a minute, can’t you?”

“Yeah, of course.”

I turned away and fumbled with the lock. It was a show. I’d done it three times already at this point. “I’m glad you made that announcement,” I told him without looking back. “I’m sure a lot of other people are, too. It will make the vote go much smoother, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” he said.

The lock popped open and I pulled the handle. I glanced back at St. George. “Are you coming?”

He reached over and held the door open, then followed me in. One thing I’ve got to say, men treat women differently. It’s a bunch of little stuff, but it’s there. It threw me at first, but I’ve gotten adjusted to it.

St. George walked behind me toward the center of the stage. I’d set up some blankets, just to make things a bit homey. People are always a bit confused when things look homey, and confusion usually works in my favor. Three of the blankets already had people stretched out on them.

“Danielle?” he called out. “What are you doing here? I was trying to reach you for half an hour.”

My favorite redhead didn’t move, of course. She’d been the second one I’d grabbed. I couldn’t risk her recognizing some speech pattern or habit of mine. It was tempting to use her once or thrice for old time’s sake, too, but I don’t have that equipment anymore. Still getting used to that part of this, I’ve got to admit.

“Sorry about that,” I told St. George. “She was helping me with something. You don’t mind, do you?”

He was going to say no, of course, but by then he’d noticed Danielle wasn’t moving. And he’d seen Freedom’s bulk spread out on the farthest blanket. And, just past Danielle, a third person. In the dim light of the stage, she blended in and was hard to spot.

To give him credit, he didn’t shout her name or anything melodramatic like that. He just charged across the room. Leaped, really. A noble man of action.

I took my time and walked up behind him. He had the cloaked bitch in his