I kick my high heels off and walk downstage trying to get a better look. Smoky steam from bombs and smoldering fires block my view. It makes me cough and hurts my eyes. I can't spot the shooters. I don't really hear anything, but I feel their gunshots press on my eardrums. If they've already herded people toward the front doors, I don't have long to try something. Through the fog, everybody in my left eye looks like ghosts in the mist. My damaged right eye only sees shadows moving in darkness. The cries of my classmates sound like whispers to my shocked ears. My power depends a lot on vision, so I don't want to wander into the smoke blind.

Suddenly, I'm dizzy and faint. "Sue! I'm . . ."

"Carrie!" she shouts.

I never saw her on my right, but thank the Lord she catches me. I read her concern, her anger over Tommy equal to my own.

"I think I must have a concussion or something," I say.

"Can you do this?" she shouts next to my ear, which is the only way we can hear each other.

"Yes, I can! I'll stand." I balance on my feet. "Thanks. Let me go. Stand away, please. You're blocking . . . what I do."

FLEX!

My heart kicks. My arms raise over my head by themselves, palms turned out, my mind-power expands throughout the gym. I sense Sue recoil as she feels it. The echo of my presence resounds through ninety-three minds in the building.

CARRIE!

Yes me, Carrie White! Who you tricked, harassed and taunted every day. Always your victim, the butt of your jokes. Now I bare my soul to you, I grip you in its strength, and you will suffer as I have for my whole life . . .

There are so many. The minds distract me. My power bounces and distorts around so much interference. I find the three shooters but it's like I see them tangled with everyone else in a fun house mirror, gnarled in a can like transparent worms. I try to grip their guns, jam them, heat them . . . something. I discover that with so many minds around, and sight unseen, my power can't make contact.

Meanwhile, the mist still slips through my power like water through my fingers. No! I've lost my grip. My eyes are wide open and they burn with the smoke. I pant, my throat numb. The cut on my temple stings I can feel the blood stream out down my cheek like a river. My head pounds and screams with my effort, but the mist isn't moving. My power is too diffuse, too porous. I shut my eyes.

FLEX!

All the lights flash, some go out. My flesh goes cold down to the bones where my power revs and resonates. I don't shiver. I'm like an ice statue. My heart gallops. The gym shakes with a rumble. Like thunder. And like Sampson in the temple, I can bring it down on everybody now.

"Carrie!" cries Sue. "Don't!"

"Sto-!" Ms. D. touches me. I restrain myself from crushing her flat, but enough force gets away from me that I knock her off the stage.

Don't touch me now! I admonish her.

My power concentrates then it "tunes" itself to the vibration of the mist and smoke. I've never done anything like this before, and I see the nature of molecules and atoms as I do it. Now my arms begin to span out. The mist parts to either side opening a clear view.

Flex!

I steal its heat. My hands twist. The water condenses into droplets and carries the particles of smoke down with it. The air is clear for the moment, though fires smolder to replenish it.

The crowd continues out the door, none even pause in curiosity. One shooter isn't here. The other two turn toward me. I've squandered any surprise, but I'll settle for shock and awe.

Flex! I lift myself from the stage and lower myself gently to the floor. This gives them pause, then two guns are being trained on me. Sue shouts from the shadowed side of my vision but I already know. The one visible to me on the left, Rick Donohue, fires and misses. Flex. His next bullet jams. Flex. His clip goes hot and explodes. Metal tears into his hand and belly. He stumbles back.

I snap my head right, spot Keith Nelson taking aim. Flex, the rifle lifts and fires into the ceiling. A light explodes and sparks come down. Flex! I grab and squeeze him, my power a cold serpent coiled around his body. He gasps, his eyes wide.

(what's wrong, keith you can't breathe? excuse me a second. don't go away.)

I pause, distracted by the bodies. Many are dead, some are wounded, a few are wisely playing possum. Rick and Keith's minds are like labels. They're not going to run or surrender if I let them go. No, they're bent on murder-suicide. They were planning to flee the consequences of their sins by shooting themselves quickly and painlessly. For them, numb death is the escape they desire, their final insult to life and the living.

I'm Carrie White, God's arm and sword, and I forbid it! I'll give you a sample of Hell.

Back to the left, Rick tries to draw a pistol with his wounded hand. Flex. My left arm extends toward him. His handgun goes off and fires into his knee. He yelps. Flex. The pistol goes off again and shoots him in the foot. He falls, drops the pistol and screams. I'm so deaf, he sounds like a mosquito. Ending his life in one swat is too good for him. Flex. His gun levitates and aims. Flex, flex. Bang, bang. It takes out his other knee and foot. Flex! Oh, there goes his elbow, too.

Meanwhile, I loosen the coils on Keith.

(trying to pass out? Naughty!)

My fingers on my right hand curl and my wrist turns in response to the power feedback. I turn my attention to the wounded shooter left.

(how many bullets does your gun hold, rick?)

Bang . . . bang . . . bang, click, click . . .

(. . . oh, that many.)

I drop the handgun. He's not dead, he's just missing an ear, his nose and many of his teeth. He's screaming and shrieking like a girl. like I did in the shower. That gives me an idea. Flex! The lights above him break and spark, the glass shards swarm down into his face. He cries out and tears into his face with his good hand, but I make the glass dig deeper and deeper.

I sense movement. One of the possum players is trying to crawl away. My power grabs her by her long, beautiful brunette hair and stands her up on the tip of her toes. Her wet, black dress clings to her and I'm struck by her stature and slim, but shaped, figure. My hatred for her becomes inflamed with envy. "Tina Blake! How can I ever thank you for your vote?"