What Looks Back Read online

  Part 5:

  Decades passed as he searched. Decades became centuries, and unbeknownst or even considered to the Devil Slayer, his wife passed away. But he kept searching, collecting, and organizing, and in time the demons forgot his name. They forgot what had come to pass, and his name reduced from the Devil Slayer to the Devil. And more time passed, and soon they forgot the difference between the two.

  Still more time passed, and the Devil forgot how his obsession with souls began, and only knew his job was to keep them. And the souls became dear to the Devil, and he filled the pit to hell which he'd dug centuries before with cold dirt, to bar those who would take from him his souls.

  Then he heard the whispers from far above, mortals offering their souls as compensation for wishes granted. And he accepted, and granted their wishes with his power, and their souls too he collected and organized.

  Millennia passed, and the Devil grew weaker in his conviction, yet his obsession lingered. And one day, in a different dark tale not unlike this one, a desperate young man offered his soul in exchange for a loved one's—but the Devil declined. So the young man, distraught, instead offered his soul in exchange for The Devil's power enough to kill.

  And the Devil accepted, and fared the mortal well.

  The Simulator

  “Has he moved?”

  “No. No, he just sits there, all day, all night. He can't take his eyes off that thing.”

  “Is he happy?”

  “I—” She paused, glanced at his back, and sighed. “I wish I knew. He doesn't move from it, I've never seen what he's made first-hand.”

  “Miss Smith, you have to understand. The war, it's very… unnerving for men like him. The Simulator may very well relax him. I'm sorry—there's nothing I can do.”

  Miss Smith nodded as an explosion rattled the planet surface fifty miles beneath her home. The face of their doctor flickered once and then the screen cut to black. She looked at her son, and a sympathetic smile wavered on her parched lips. She walked into the kitchen and ran the faucet. It sputtered once, coughed up brown chunks, and moaned and choked sporadically until she turned it off—frustration lacing the lines of her aging face. She sighed, and glanced again towards her son. She was unnervingly familiar with the curvature and arch of his back, as he never turned from the glass window of their white dome in the sky. She had tried to get him to shift from the window, thinking that the constant explosions of their war below would mar his fragile psyche, but she didn't want to upset him, so she let it be.

  His hands moved as things of their own, as if each were the manipulations of dueling puppet masters—his torso shimmered back and forth and a soft blue glow enveloped him.

  His age was in the Omegas, about 1-2. Autism had been a disorder of the past, cured simply by prenatal testing and mild genetic restructuring. Since the discovery of the cure, it'd had only one recorded failure. Him.

  ‡ ‡ ‡

  He knew his mother watched him sadly as he worked. She thought he didn't listen to her conversations with the doctor, but he did. He grew, unhindered by age as they all were, but he knew anger towards those unlike him, joyfully flaunting their free minds as he struggled within the confines of his. His mother bought him The Simulator at five years old, and it'd been his life since.

  ‡ ‡ ‡

  A second explosion rattled their home as she watched him, but he didn't seem to notice. His hands pushed and pulled, scoping and scanning the world he'd made. The doctor confirmed that he couldn't help her—she'd have to physically Dr.ag her son from The Simulator, or let him die.

  She walked over to his area and placed a hand on his back, watching his eyes dart back and forth, and felt pain for him, pain of wasted youth and a life spent creating something worthless. No, not worthless, she resolved—at least not to him.

  He didn't look as she knelt beside him. His eyes kept darting back and forth, hands moving a mile a minute, manipulation, creating.

  “Honey?”

  He didn't respond. He never did.

  “Honey? How's your world?”

  She felt her eyes moisten, scared for what she'd soon be forced to do. It'd be like tearing his mind in half.

  “I know,” he spoke suddenly.

  She held her breath, stunned at her son's words. Oh speak again, angel, oh please. “Know what?” she asked.

  “My world. I can't save it.”

  She wanted to collapse against him and hold him close, but resisted the urge. Comforting him would have the opposite effect.

  “I'm so sorry,” she replied. “If there was a way, any way at all...” She sighed. “But there isn't. We need to escape very very soon.”

  His fingers danced along the screen, and holographic images of smiling humanoids made their way around his fingers. When he touched them they'd stop, as if for a moment, they felt a great unknowable presence.

  She smiled. He'd created a whole, fully-functioning world. The Simulator. He'd apparently thoroughly advanced it, and programmed it, made it true to life, shaped it into the greatest work. Art as an imitation of life, in the purest of forms. She watched his screen, fascinated by his dance around The Simulator as his humanoids lived their simulated lives.

  “They call it Earth,” he said. “They can Dr.eam.”

  Strands of understanding entwined in her mind as her son’s psyche finally, for her, crystalized. For the first time, she felt something other than sadness for him. Here, in their world, he was trapped, but within his simulation he was limited only by his imagination.

  “Your world is beautiful,” she said.

  “The Dr.eaming was the hardest part,” he replied. “They can Dr.eam whatever they want. They have wants, and they can Dr.eam them.”

  A third explosion shattered the sky, and their home shook and glassware fell from shelves, crashing onto the floor. They had minutes, if that.

  “Honey, please—can you say goodbye? We have to go now.”

  For the first time in a long time, he turned and looked at her. “I'm ready. I think they're ready too.”

  “You're not going to shut it off?”

  He looked back at the Simulator. “No. I programmed into it a version of myself, so they'll know they're not alone in the end. I don't want them to feel alone. And just before the end, they'll Dr.eam. I'm happy I made it so they can Dr.eam.”

  She felt jealousy of his love for the machine. Shaking it off, she took his hand as he stood, and as a deafening siren erupted they ran from the room and a voice erupted and echoed around the chamber. “The last ship for Sarm will be leaving in thirty minutes.”

  It echoed a few more times, and then cut out with a fourth explosion that seemed to lift their home and throw it back down simultaneously. She screamed and covered her head as pieces of her roof crumbled.

  They left their home and entered the Warpway of West Foxtrot, heading towards Central Alpha. As the pressure of the Warpway magnified, her hand squeezed his, and she knew that not even the force of the splitting planet could tear her from him.

  In the blink of an eye, they stumbled out of the Warpway as glimmering white dust fell from their clothing, and they followed the crowd to the last remaining starship. She gripped his hand even tighter as they joined the long line of frightened people attempting to board. She panicked. There were far too many people, there was no way they'd all fit.

  ‡ ‡ ‡

  He realized that there were too many people and not enough room in the starship, and he was frightened beyond belief. He wanted to curl up into a ball and cry—he'd never in his life been surrounded by so many people, and now, in a matter of minutes, he'd be blown apart with them. He watched them scurry back and forth with a desperate panic as they attempted to flee. So, he realized sadly, this was it.

  But then, inexplicably, a calm enveloped him, and for the first time in his life his mind relaxed. The fear and panic of only moments earlier evaporated, and it felt as those feelings had never existed.

  Something flickered in t
he depths of his subconscious, something that gave him the slightest urge to simply turn around. The only similar feeling he'd ever felt was familiarity. It was simply a feeling, and it was odd that he even acknowledged it—he rarely acted on impulse.

  But he turned anyway, and blinked once in disbelief. The form of a man materialized in front of him, gathering light particles from around the room. Blue light enveloped the body, and then faded, and an elderly yet youthfully jovial man appeared, gazing directly at him. He gazed back at the man, and simultaneously the two erupted into laughter. And as the world ceased to exist he laughed, understanding the hilarious secret they shared.

  What if Your Hand is Empty?

  “What if your hand, right now, is empty?” asked the crumpled man.

  “Then you have nothing to fear,” the armed man replied.

  The air tasted sordid and raw, Dr.aped like a veil, edges flickering from hints of wind. Fog-like in feeling but transparent. It howled from miles away. Grass crunched and stung like spent charcoal.

  “What if your hand is empty?” the crumpled man repeated.

  “Then at least I still have my footing.”

  The plains were designed for the overcast. Color desaturated, as if blanketed by a thin veil of gray. Shadows contrasted with the pale ground. The howling continued.

  “You aren’t listening. What if your hand is empty?”

  “Then I have my fists, and you’re crumpled on the ground.”

  The clouds fell towards the plain. Grass waved, but of its own accord. Translucent air brought wisps of red streaks. The howling persisted.

  “Are the clouds falling?” the armed man asked.

  The crumpled man shook his head. “If they are, what does that mean for your hand if its empty?”

  “Maybe I’ll just pull the trigger and break this silence.”

  “Wouldn’t your mind create an explosion, despite the state of your hand and its contents?”

  The grass crunched beneath shuffling feet. The clouds cast shadows on the ground. Streams of red jazzed. The howling increased in pitch.

  “What if your hand is empty?”

  “I guess there’s only one way to find out.”

  “But then, what if it is?”

  “What if it is?”

  “Tell me the state of the clouds.”

  The clouds, closer still, cast darkness on the pale grass. They waved and flickered, still, wily, caressing slits. Bounding plains extended and speared and the howling sustained and overlapped itself like chords.

  “They’re falling.”

  “Do clouds fall?”

  “I suppose they could.”

  “Then what of your hand?”

  “I can feel the gun.”

  “Is your will an extension of your mind, or is it just the opposite?”

  “One way to find out.”

  “Tell me the state the clouds.”

  The clouds were so close. He could reach upwards and touch them, hairy, prickling, stringent, razor-edged. Puncturing flats and howling. Streamlining, bearing down upon the horizon. Red streaked across the translucent veil. And the howling, oh—the howling!

  “I could touch them.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  “I won’t feel anything.”

  “What if you do?”

  He looked at the clouds. They became reflections of themselves on transparent glass. Overlapping holograms. He closed his eyes and heard his lids fall—the black of his eyelids a veined relief. But soon, jumbles of colors tossed and rolled in diagonal waves across his eyes. Sparkling danced from sourceless light. Clouds—the clouds howled.

  “What if I feel them?” the armed man asked. He could hear his limbs tremble.

  “If your mind decides to feel, who’s to say whether or not they can be felt?”

  “I know what can be felt.”

  “Can the clouds be felt?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “There’s only one way to find out.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “You’re going to regardless. It’s a matter of time.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Tell me the state of the clouds.”

  He barely had to look up. The clouds were just above his head. They were a hat, his head lifted them—they pounded his neck and compressed his spine.

  Claustrophobia.

  He shrunk.

  “They’re going to crush us.”

  “Or obscure us. Your moment is slipping away.”

  The armed man lifted his opposite hand, palm forward. It stopped at the clouds and he felt sand.

  “I can feel them. They’re sand. It’s an avalanche! They’re going to crush us!”

  “Then you better shoot before we’re both crushed.”

  The armed man fell to a crouch. The gun’s weight shook his hand. He inhaled through his teeth. Grit smacked his gums. The red veil saturated and translucified, burning the edges of his vision. The grass billowed like trees in a storm, fighting to remain planted, yet there was no wind. The clouds sidled their many heads next to his and together they howled furiously, a duet of sorts.

  He squeezed the trigger again and again. Gunshots rang out. He saw the bullets fly through the thick air and strike the crumpled man’s chest. Blood spurted.

  The armed man grinned. “Looks like your mind game didn’t work after all. It was a nice effort.”

  The crumpled man opened his eyes. “Are you sure about that? What if your hand is empty?”

  “Then you’d be fine, instead of shot.”

  “I am fine.”

  The crumpled man stood. His head broke through the ceiling of falling clouds. The clouds ignored the crumpled man.

  “But I shot you.”

  “Your hand is empty.”

  “It’s not!”

  “Well, for your sake I hope it isn’t. I’d prefer to be shot and die quickly than slowly crushed to death by an avalanche of clouds.”

  The armed man pointed the gun at his own head and fired. But it made no noise. He opened his hand and stared at it. The gun fell, and as it did it disappeared. The clouds fell further, and he screamed and fell to the waving grass as howling deafened him.

  And the crumpled man walked away—a slight grin on his face, and his hand in his pocket. He fingered six bullets that weren’t his and listened to the armed man shriek.

  You Might Not Like What Looks Back At You

  I wasn’t listening, I didn’t have to, I knew what the bartender would say.

  “I don’t care,” I replied. “Just tell me where I can find it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Yes, I’m sure.”

  The bartender stared at me for a moment longer with an unreadable expression. Finally he replied, “It’s in the back.”

  You might not like what you find looking back at you. You might not like at all. That’s what they kept saying. Except they don’t know me. What did they know? What did they think? That I’d look and realize that I’m not as handsome as I thought I was? Or I’d find that I look completely different altogether? It didn’t matter. They said the mirror was reserved for those who literally hated every aspect of themselves and had nothing left to lose. I’d reached that point, I was sure of it. When you have nothing left to hate, it could only show you an improvement. That’s what they said.

  I reached the door, and a bouncer or a guard stood in front. He watched me approach, but didn’t move. “Get out of my way,” I said.

  The bouncer remained and stared at me with a blank expression. He was small for a bouncer. “You don’t want to go back there,” he said. “You might not like what you find.”

  “I’m fully aware of what I might find.”

  “I don’t think you are.”

  “Why? Why do you think that? You don’t know me,” I said. I was getting angry. “You haven’t seen the bottom. I have. What makes you think I haven’t?”

  “You haven’t.”

  “You know something I
don’t?”

  “Yes,” he said. “This bar is always hiring.”

  “I know. The bartender told me. Is it a requirement that you all just repeat everything constantly?”

  “You don’t want to know the answer to that.”

  “And is it a requirement that you pretend to know someone you’ve never met and know nothing about?”

  “I know enough. You don’t want to know. You should leave, and forget about the mirror.”

  “All I see are a bunch of pretentious assholes. I hate that. I hate when people who have experienced something tell someone that they shouldn’t experience it. Something made you look, nothing stopped you—what makes you think you and I are any different?”

  “We aren’t. We are exactly the same. Or we were. Now we’re not. Trust me, you’re fine how you are.”

  “You don’t know me! Stop assuming to know me!”

  “I don’t know you. I know me, and I know everyone else in this bar. Trust me. Leave. Live your life. Forget about the mirror.”

  I shook my head. “Let me through—we’re done talking.”

  “You might not like what you find looking back at you.”

  “So I’ve heard a thousand times. Let me through.”

  ‡ ‡ ‡

  “Let me through,” she said.

  I looked at her. How...? But she was me. Or how I was. There was a flicker of something. How can I convince myself? How could I save myself?

  I looked at her. I could look, but that was it. She had dark brown hair that Dr.ained downwards, Dr.y but Dr.ipping. Her eyes were bloodshot, but soft. Her lips formed a pout, but that could’ve been the natural shape of her lips. Her brow was narrowed as she looked at me.

  “Please. Listen, I know exactly what you’re thinking,” I said. “Don’t do it. Leave, forget about it. Forget you ever heard about it.”

  She twisted her fingers. Her clothes were the same color as her hair, and fell from her shoulders in the same manner. The look she gave me I recognized as once, long ago, my own.

  “Listen,” I continued, “I’m begging you. This bar is always hiring, but you don’t want to work here. Walk away. Leave. Live your life. It gets worse, I promise you that no matter what you’re going through it can always get worse.”

  “Don’t pretend to know me!” she said. Her eyes were bloodshot, as if they hadn’t been Dr.y in years. Her complexion seemed almost transparent. I wanted to express something, but I had nothing to express.

  I looked at her, but it was hard to see. “I know you think you’re at the bottom, but you’re not. I am.”

  Three dark lines fell vertically between her eyebrows. Her bloodshot eyes were slits. “I hate that,” she said. “You know something I don’t know, so why don’t you just tell me?”

  I recognized the words that I replied as I’d heard them replied to me sometime before.

  ‡ ‡ ‡

  “I can’t.”

  There was another person in front of another damn door. And he wouldn’t let me through. Someone else wouldn’t let me through. And they all had that same, non-expressive look. It was condescending even, and I read it as pity. It looked like pity—they recognized my pain, yet they still disregarded me.

  “That’s bullshit,” I said. “If it’s so bad, just tell me. If you experienced something that bad, you must be able to at least describe it.”

  His eyes remained expressionless. He neither smiled nor frowned, he just looked at me, but looked at me like I was a wall. I stood there in front of him, no more and no less significance than a wall. “It’s darkness,” he said. “It’s nothing. It’s a shade.”

  “You’re fucking rambling and that doesn’t mean shit,” I said, angry and upset. “I’m darkness, I’m nothing, I’m a shade. You think you know me, you think it can get worse from here—well, for me, it can’t. I know it can’t.”

  “It can. I know you. I know what you’re thinking, what you’re feeling, because I felt that way too. But I promise you, you’re wrong. I was just like you, and I promise you that you’re wrong.”

  ‡ ‡ ‡

  “It’s darkness blacker than black,” I said, reflecting on the memory. “It’s nothing, it’s completely nothing. It’s emptiness. It takes everything.”

  She took a step closer to me, and lines on both sides of her nose deepened, like a snarl. “That doesn’t mean anything! I asked you to describe it, you literally described it as nothing. Obviously it’s something. I hate myself. I hate everything. I want to look. I have nothing. It can only be an improvement.”

  “I thought that too.”

  “Then let me through. If you know me as well as you think you do, you know nothing will stop me.”

  “I know. But you don’t want this. As badly as I know you think you want this, I know that’s exactly how badly you’ll wish you never knew.”

  ‡ ‡ ‡

  “I’m not going to ask again,” I said. “Let me through.”

  His expression was blank. He waited a moment, then he stepped aside, keeping his eyes on me the entire time.

  The door opened before me. The mirror was incredible. Or at least from the back it was. It was at least eight feet tall, with a frame that from behind seemed to be a floral design. The room was decently lit, well enough that I’d be able to see whatever I was about to well enough. I shivered with excitement.

  ‡ ‡ ‡

  It’s so obvious, in retrospect.

  “Listen, will you let me through if I show you my boobs?”

  I stared at her. I looked at her body. She wasn’t fat, if anything she was thin. Underneath her clothing that fell from her shoulders like hair from her head I saw an impression of boobs. This struck me as nothing. I almost wondered the significance of that, but the flicker faded like a spark in a storm.

  “When I was like you, that would’ve compelled me, I’m sure,” I said. “Now it doesn’t matter. Believe me, you have to believe me.”

  She took a step back. Her features smoothed and relaxed. “What’s wrong with you? My mind is set,” she said. “I hate myself. I’m angry and I’m sad all the time. Nothing, literally nothing is good. I have nothing, I literally have nothing. This mirror can only be an improvement. That’s what they say. If you have nothing left it can only show you an improvement.”

  “You don’t have nothing,” I said.

  “I just offered to show you my boobs and you said no. What do you think that does for my self-confidence, or my feelings about myself?”

  “I can’t explain what you have, because I don’t anymore. I lost it in the mirror. I don’t even remember what it was. But I know it can get worse. I didn’t think it could but it did.”

  ‡ ‡ ‡

  There was a large black velvet Dr.ape over the mirror. I approached. For the first time in years, I felt excited about something. For the last few years, I’d had nothing but hate and sadness. The world was heavy, large, imposing, and impossible. Every day was a struggle, getting out of bed in the morning was a fight. This mirror was the only thing in my life. Without it I’d likely still be sleeping. Would this mirror give me friends? Help me find love? Give me purpose? There were so many possibilities. I couldn’t wait. It was a fresh start—this mirror was a fresh start.

  ‡ ‡ ‡

  She wouldn’t have it. None of the other bar staff were successful. Truth be told, we rarely are.

  I stepped aside, keeping my eyes glued to her the entire time. I knew I’d be seeing her again, but at the same time, I knew I wouldn’t. Whatever she would become would be worse. It can always get worse.

  ‡ ‡ ‡

  I stepped around the mirror. The large black velvet Dr.ape Dr.ipped off the sleek surface, reminiscent of blood. Foreboding, but not deterring—beautiful in its size, shroud, and mystery. I had to look—I’d come this far—there was no turning back now. The velvet curtain was soft between my fingers, I gripped it tight. It was overwhelming, I felt like I’d come so far, that I was finally reaching the
end, or the beginning. Tears inexplicably formed and fell.

  ‡ ‡ ‡

  Little did I know, that would be the last time I cried. I watched the girl as she walked past me, into the room with the mirror. I thought back to my life before the mirror, but it was blurry. Minutes prior felt like years, and my life prior to entering the bar was fog. And the memories faded even faster. I could barely remember the beginning of the conversation with the bartender. My memories only came to focus towards the end. My last true memory was the moment just before the mirror. It should have been so obvious then, how I felt. How I thought I had nothing.

  Had I had nothing, would the mirror have given me such a feeling? Could the mirror have made me feel how I felt? Because at the end, I had one thing, one desperate thing that I didn’t realize I had. The mirror is paradoxical in that aspect, because it represents exactly what it takes, no more and no less.

  She stepped out of the room, and the look in her eyes was exactly the look I have now.

  “There’s nothing left,” she said. “I’m empty.”

  “Well,” I said, “We’re always hiring.”

  ‡ ‡ ‡

  The velvet curtain fell off the mirror. I looked.

  I saw myself and stared at my reflection. My eyes were bloodshot. I kept staring—my eyes were locked with my own.

  Then I saw myself grin. I could feel the muscles in my face, and they were relaxed, which made my grinning reflection a curiosity. I touched my lips and my reflection followed. I kept my finger there, studying the curiosity of my grinning reflection.

  I don’t think I was grinning. In fact, I’m sure I wasn’t grinning.

  I watched myself grin and thought that the improvement was about to take place. I thought that I was about to prove everyone in the bar wrong.

  But they weren’t. I was.

  I Dr.opped my hand, but my reflection’s hand remained. A look of shock formed on his face and this time it was a reflection of my own. Aside for the hand, that is. From where my finger touched my face, a Dr.oplet of blood formed and crawled along the bottom of my finger, running down my arm. But I didn’t follow the blood—my eyes remained locked on my eyes. My reflection began crying, but I could’ve sworn I was still in shock.

  My reflection Dr.opped his hand. Tears streamed down his face. I felt air leave my lunges. As my chest deflated, the mirror darkened.

  Try as I might, I couldn’t breathe in or even stop exhaling. The mirror darkened and darkened, and I saw my reflection—laughing, crying, shocked, and broken—fade. As it disappeared my feelings left, slowly diminishing from shock and confusion to apathy. Then I was empty, and the mirror was black.

  I blinked, and the mirror came into focus. I stared as hard as I could, to bring back my reflection, but staring did nothing.

  Because it was never a mirror—it was just black velvet over a frame. I blinked again, and again, but nothing. But I remembered what I saw. I saw myself grin, but I’d forgotten what that meant. I’d seen myself crying, but that had no meaning. I saw myself filled with something, something good, but whatever that was had disappeared.

  So I stood there in that room with a single question: What had I possessed before the mirror? Those feelings, whatever those feeling were didn’t exist. The mirror represented something, but now it was just black. Stare as hard as I could, I saw nothing. I saw just darkness, just a shade.

  I wanted to see what I’d seen before, but the longer I stared, the more I realized that it’d all been in my head. The longer I stood there wondering, staring, blind and empty, the more those feelings faded to obscurity. Soon I stood in front of a frame covered by black velvet, nothing more and nothing less. And I didn’t want to look anymore, so I looked on the floor where I’d placed the black velvet curtain, but it wasn’t there. I looked back at the mirror, and there the black velvet curtain hung, exactly as it had been the entire time. But that didn’t matter. I felt a hint of curiosity—to remove the curtain and see what was actually underneath—but the curiosity faded, and I was left alone in the room and about that I felt apathy, nothing more and nothing less. So I left.

  I don’t know why I left the room. I only knew one thing: Whatever I had before was something, and I could never get it back, never go back.

  But I didn’t care. There was once a world outside the bar, but now there was the bar, and that was decent, no more and no less. It didn’t matter. There was the bar. So I’d wait.

  I walked out of the room. “It was nothing,” I said. “There’s nothing. I’m empty. It’s a void.”

  “Well,” the bartender said, “We’re hiring. We’re always hiring.”

  Good Night, Noises Everywhere

  “So the body has finally been identified,” said Dr. Wright.

  Mr. Barnes scratched his beard. A lamp in the corner of the room blinked every four seconds. The light bathed the black corpse bag scarlet. Only the top of the bag was unzipped, where Steve Shallow lay, the pale, almost transparent flesh of his head exposed, eyes shut peacefully. Dr. Wright and Mr. Barnes both noted two peculiar facts. The first of which being that the body lacked the foul odor commonly associated with corpses.

  “The second fact is peculiar still, Mr. Barnes, but both of these facts are pieces of the same puzzle considering where he was found.”

  “Yes, Dr. Wright, the moon was certainly the last place we’d have expected to find Mr. Shallow’s body. The fact that he was an astronaut, and Dr.eamed of being the first man on the moon adds another layer to the mystery of his disappearance. Not that anyone, after all this time, had still been looking.”

  The pair studied the body, watching the winking red light shroud it every four seconds. The sleek metal morgue table felt like ice through Dr. Wright’s gloved hands.

  “He was a religious man,” Dr. Wright continued. “He had a tattoo on his left chest.”

  “A tattoo?”

  “Yes.” Dr. Wright looked at her chart and continued. “’God wouldn’t have created the Dr.eam in your heart if it were impossible.’”

  Mr. Barnes retrieved a notepad from his jacket pocket and wrote.

  “‘…it were impossible.’” He finished, then put the pad away. “Well, we know what his Dr.eam was, Dr. Wright.”

  “We certainly do. I’ve read the court transcript.”

  “Have you, now?”

  “Yes. His story is interesting. Very much so.”

  Dr. Wright zipped the corpse bag, hiding Steve Shallow’s head. Mr. Barnes retrieved the court transcripts from his briefcase. He sat down at the desk nearby, turned on the lamp, and began to read:

  ‡ ‡ ‡

  Court commenced October 20th, 1968. Jury present. Presiding judge, George O’henry.

  The Court: Have the members of the jury reached a verdict?

  The Foreman: Yes, your honor. We find the defendant not guilty by reason of insanity.

  ‡ ‡ ‡

  Mr. Barnes glanced back at Dr. Wright. The doctor scribbled voraciously on her notepad, eyes ticking back and forth, back and forth, almost synchronized with the red light.

  “What if Shallow wasn’t insane?” Mr. Barnes asked.

  Dr. Wright looked from her notes and furrowed her brow. “From the transcript, it seems he thought he was nearing the moon.”

  “And then he was on the moon. This religious aspect has got me thinking.”

  “It’s certainly intriguing.”

  Dr. Wright returned to her notepad. Mr. Barnes closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he spoke. “Are you a God fearing woman, doctor?”

  Dr. Wright cleared her throat. She studied Mr. Barnes for a moment before responding. “That question seems inappropriate, don’t you think, Mr. Barnes?”

  “Humor me.”

  The doctor studied the corpse bag on the silver table as if its gravity and mystique was par with that of a crossword puzzle.

  “I’ll give you my answer when you’ve ruled out every other explanation,” she said.

&nb
sp; Mr. Barnes sighed and returned to the transcript. He flipped back a few pages and continued reading.

  ‡ ‡ ‡

  The Defense: My client, Dr. Shallow, opened the door and was confronted by the victim and associates. They were from a prank television show, but they posed as a crew from a news outlet. You were the cameraman. Is this correct so far, Mr. Kale?

  Mr. Kale: Yes.

  The Defense: My client begged for the truth. He said, and I’m quoting, “please. I can’t take this if it isn’t real. You don’t understand. Please. Please. Is this real?”

  Does that sound correct?

  Mr. Kale: Yes.

  The Defense: The victim assured my client that it was, in fact, real. He claimed that my client had been chosen to command the Apollo 11, which was something my client desired desperately. How did my client react when this false information was relayed to him, after his initial disbelief?

  Mr. Kale: He was ecstatic.

  The Defense: Did any behavior at this time lead you to believe that the defendant was not in his right mind?

  Mr. Kale: No.

  The Defense: So after this exchange the prank was revealed. My client, in your words, “did not react at all. As if something inside of him broke.”

  Mr. Kale, my question is this: In your time as a prank show cameraman, would you say you’d witnessed others pranked react this way?

  Mr. Kale: No.

  The Defense: Would you say that this was the moment my client, as you put it, broke?

  Mr. Kale: Yes.

  The Defense: So in your opinion, did my client lose his grip on reality at this moment?

  The Prosecution: Objection. Speculation. The witness can’t possibly know the mindset of another man based on observation.

  The Court: Sustained.

  ‡ ‡ ‡

  Mr. Barnes turned to Dr. Wright.

  “What if he never fully understood that this was a prank? What if part of him understood, but not all of him?”

  Dr. Wright looked from her notepad once more. “My answer to that would be far and away from a medical opinion.”

  “We’re far and away from any division of science at this point, it would seem. I want your opinion.”

  “Then yes. I believe your postulation has merit. But I have no credibility on this matter whatsoever, and my opinion should be weighed as such.”

  “Understood.”

  Mr. Barnes withDr.ew another transcript from his briefcase. It was an interview with Sharon Shallow, Steve Shallow’s wife at the time.

  ‡ ‡ ‡

  “…He was quiet. He barely spoke. He never slept. Would I say he changed? Yes. Absolutely. One hunDr.ed percent. I heard the cameraman, who should, God forgive me, go straight to hell, along with everyone else involved with that horrific show.

  The cameraman? Oh yeah. The cameraman said that something inside of him broke. In my opinion, this was a gross understatement. Nothing inside my husband broke. No. Something inside of him died. His soul, it just...died. He wasn’t the same—he wasn’t even close to the same. He was a shadow. He left the house once since the incident, and I haven’t seen him since.

  Did I have any idea what he would do? Are you kidding me? Are you [expletive] kidding me? That a month later he would murder the [expletive] host of the show? My husband would never in a million years have been capable of murder. That [expletive] prank show host, rest his horrible soul, got his comeuppance. He got what he deserved. I’ve seen the footage, I’ve seen how my husband begged him for the truth. Pleaded with him. Broke into tears. I’d never seen my husband cry, in fifteen years of marriage, never once. He told them countless times that he couldn’t take it, if they were pranking him he couldn’t take it. But the prank kept going. That was nothing shy of pure evil, and you can underline that on your record. Pure. Evil. He got what was coming to him. Was my husband capable of murder? No. But whatever they turned him into apparently was.”

  ‡ ‡ ‡

  Mr. Barnes stood and returned to the morgue table and the corpse bag.

  “What I don’t understand is the blood,” he said.

  Dr. Wright nodded her head and flipped a few pages in her notes.

  “It was at least half a liter on the walls of his room,” Dr. Wright said. “He’d have needed a significant wound somewhere to bleed that much.”

  “Yet there were no physical wounds found on his body.”

  “Nor any scars, Mr. Barnes, suggesting a wound of that magnitude healed.”

  “Not that the time lapse between the blood and his disappearance would have been enough to allow wounds of that nature to heal. Am I correct in thinking that, in an environment such as the moon, the lack of oxygen would prevent blood clotting? A wound can’t heal without oxygen, right?”

  “Correct.”

  “He would have bled to death.”

  “If what you are saying is that he would have needed medical attention, then that’s correct.”

  “That isn’t what I’m saying.”

  “Then you are suggesting that he magically healed, then teleported.”

  “Maybe, Dr. Wright. Remember, there was no sign of forced entry into or out of his room. When they found it empty, they still had to unlock it. The room has been since dismantled, but it seems that any means of escape at that time were impossible.”

  “There are many ways a man can get through a door, Mr. Barnes.”

  “But those rooms are impossible to open from the inside. Cameras in the hallway. No door opened, no man exited. If he managed a way to escape from that room, Dr. Wright, it can’t have been through the door.”

  “Is it possible that whatever damage he caused to escape he could have repaired?”

  “Two feet thick concrete walls. Even if he managed to burrow through the wall, there’s no way he could have done so without leaving evidence of obvious damage. But there was nothing. No damage. Not even a scratch. How did he get on the moon, when even leaving his room was impossible?”

  Mr. Barnes opened his briefcase and pulled out a third transcript. An interview with the orderly on duty that night.

  ‡ ‡ ‡

  “The first thing I noticed was the blood. Obviously, patients have no access to anything that might be used to cause bodily harm to oneself or others. But what’s most peculiar is that the patient was in a straight jacket. He’d been seizing almost every night for months prior to his escape, but even with doctors on hand evaluating the patient during and after, there was, they claimed, no medical reason for the seizures. And the strange nature of the seizures themselves led all involved to believe that the patient—for lack of a better term—was faking. For the last month of his tenure, he wore a straight jacket at all times, for his own safety.

  His behavior? Peculiar, but not any more or less peculiar than the average asylum patient. You see, he was certain that he was on the moon. Or close. If I remember correctly, he repeated often the words, ‘So close’, ‘Almost there,’ and nonsense like that. Obviously pertaining to the moon. He spoke of it often. ‘Soon,’ he’d say. ‘I’m almost there.’ And when asked ‘where?’ he’d look at you with a raised eyebrow, condescendingly even, and say, ‘The moon, of course!’

  Where do I think he might be hiding? [Laughter] Well, have you checked the moon?”

  ‡ ‡ ‡

  “They should’ve listened to the orderly,” Mr. Barnes said.

  Dr. Wright didn’t look up from her notes. “Seventy years ago, I would have laughed right along with the man,” she said. “Today I would have too.”

  “It’s remarkable. Maybe Shallow bribed an orderly to finagle the cameras and help him escape, then, somehow, he snuck aboard a spaceship, hopped off once in space and died on the moon.”

  “Except the cause of death doesn’t point to suffocation, or freezing, or any of the other countless ways one might die on the moon.”

  Mr. Barnes took a deep breath, attempting to hide a yawn. “Dr. Wright,” he said. “For the first time in my car
eer, I’m at a complete and utter loss.”

  “I think it’s safe to say we’ve exhausted every plausible explanation.”

  “Which, I’ve found, always insinuates that we’ve missed something obvious.”

  “We aren’t missing it, I don’t think, Mr. Barnes. We’re ignoring it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Dr. Wright sighed and closed her notepad. “Mr. Barnes, it’s three in the morning. I’m clocking out, and going across the street for a Dr.ink. You’re welcome to join me. There’s nothing more to learn from this body.”

  Mr. Barnes stood from the desk and packed his papers into his briefcase.

  “Lead the way, doctor.”

  Dr. Wright opened the double doors and the hallway’s fluorescent lights nearly blinded them.

  “What you should be looking into,” Dr. Wright said, “is what those marking that he wrote on the walls of the asylum in his blood mean.”

  “From what I found it seemed to be Enochian. The language of the angels. Which, as a religious man, he very well could have memorized at some point in his life prior to this whole business.”

  “Which brings us back to the intangibles.” Dr. Wright sighed. “Mr. Barnes, I’m having trouble deciding whether we’re being realistic or blind.”

  “How so?”

  “Is the answer right in front of us?”

  Mr. Barnes listened to their footsteps echo down the long hospital corridor, bounding and magnifying in volume. As they walked forward the door toward which they headed seemed to remain the distance it had been originally when the pair first began walking. Mr. Barnes closed his eyes for a moment. This discussion would do nothing for his report or his credibility, but his curiosity had been aroused nonetheless. This report, regardless of his findings, had no immediate or likely long term implications. Explaining a seventy year old mystery, to his superiors, was busy work for an aging detective. To Barnes, however, the disappearance and recovery of Steve Shallow became the strangest case he’d ever taken. And recent discoveries did nothing but compound it.

  “Dr. Wright,” Mr. Barnes said. “Are you talking about God?”

  “Maybe. Divine intervention. Something. Miracles seem to happen all the time. But miracles seem to stem from occurrences that have an extremely low probability of coming to pass. This, however, seems not like an improbability, but an impossibility. What can we call it, if we call rare, fortunate occurrences miracles, or divine intervention? This is something else, Mr. Barnes. This is something very, very different.”

  The sliding-glass doors opened before the two, and they crossed the threshold to the night. Dr. Wright pointed across the parking lot, across the street to the bar, a green blinking light indicating that it remained open, even at this ungodly hour.

  As they walked, Dr. Wright spoke again. “You asked me earlier if I’m a God fearing woman. Maybe. Maybe I am now, Mr. Barnes.”

  Mr. Barnes tilted his head back and looked at the moon, thinking nothing, quickly losing interest.

  “Well,” he said. “At least we know one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “If the timeline is correct,” he continued, “Steve Shallow was the first man on the moon after all.”

  Chirping Chirping HellDr.awn Horror

  For the past couple days, cute animals have been killing themselves around me, and I can only presume it began with the gypsy at the mall.

  The Dr.ead-haired beaded clerk asked if I'd like to purchase an electronic pet. I rolled my eyes and replied, “what am I? Five?”

  In retrospect, that’s the moment I'd sealed my fate.

  ‡ ‡ ‡

  The freak accidents began in a manner so jarring that my initial response was not fear but black-hearted laughter.

  A bird crashed into a window. A cute five-inch sparrow, and it wasn't until I’d noticed the blood smear that my laughter choked in my throat.

  The bird twitched once or twice on the pavement, then lay still.

  You may be thinking, “Hey, guy—that sounds like naught but misfortunate!”

  Well, you’d be dead wrong.

  Dead. Wrong.

  Like the puppy which had apparently thought the best time to cross the street was as the tractor trailer barreled down towards it at fifty miles an hour.

  Yelp!

  Please, you have to understand. Fear caked me like sweat, and daily I grew more terrified to leave the safety of my home.

  Which didn’t protect me at all. You should’ve seen the cat outside my apartment. Standing on the edge of one of those green metal dumpsters, digging through the trash, scrounging for a meal, minding its own business. I remember thinking that the cat looked super fluffy and cute, and I considered bringing it some milk.

  That’s when an unfortunate gust of wind burst forth, slamming shut the heavy lid of the dumpster—with half the cat inside of it, and the other half out.

  If you want a clearer picture: take a chocolate eclaire, place it on the floor, and chop it in half with an axe.

  On second thought, that imagery should suffice.

  Friends and family worried about me. But their worry wasn’t directed toward my curse, but toward my mental stability.

  The lobster tank at the grocery market exploded as I walked by. Have you ever been Dr.enched in lobster guts? No? Didn’t think so.

  It's human nature, I suppose, to strike down freak-coincidences simply as a mental breakdown by the witness. My mother repeatedly questioned my sleep habits and Dr.ug use, both of which grew worse only after the curse's effect took hold on my life—not before.

  ‡ ‡ ‡

  One week had passed since the initial incident with the sparrow, and since then the cute animal death toll had easily risen past a couple dozen. Why were all these cute (aside from, arguably, the lobsters) animals dying horrifically around me?

  I couldn't understand it, so I'd hid. I barely slept, and rarely left my home. I shied from windows, and kept in dark rooms with curtains Dr.awn.

  In retrospect, I wish I'd remained hiding.

  I woke this bleak and cloudy morning determined to end the curse. I logged onto the web to search for something—anything—that could help separate my flesh and curse.

  I researched for hours, and resorted to Dr.inking four cups of salt water mixed with garlic powder. A concoction that caused me to vomit, which is supposedly cleansing.

  Then I performed every counter curse I could find. I spun clockwise and counterclockwise, spread salt around my body, lit candles, marked my naked body in foreign symbols, and bathed in chamomile tea.

  Many of the websites asked how I'd come about the curse. They questioned whether the cursed—myself—had witnessed any evil-eyes, offended any witches, walked beneath any ladders, or broken any mirrors. The gypsy struck my mind in a flash.

  I had no choice. The websites repeatedly stated that I'd have to confront whomever cursed me.

  And so, donning my red pullover sweatshirt, I left my home. But before I left, I called my girlfriend, who was shocked, but still thrilled to hear my insistence regarding returning to the mall, an activity I so consistantly despised.

  She didn’t understand the truth behind my insistence. She didn’t know that I couldn't bear to face alone the cute animal deaths and the gypsy.

  ‡ ‡ ‡

  We entered the mall, and she held my shaking hand and Dr.agged me into a few of her favorite clothing stores.

  To be honest, the ensuing interminable boredom from watching her try on outfit after outfit helped calm me slightly and morph my cold-sweat paranoia to a comforting, familiar, frustrated pacing. I remember thinking that I might just be overreacting, and by the time we left the fourth clothing store, bags of clothes on both her arms and mine, I'd felt much calmer.

  I almost laughed at the thought of confronting that poor mall clerk gypsy about the curse. Something he'd likely have no idea about.

  I decided to play it safe. My plan was to make a pass by the sta
ll before confrontating the gypsy. To dip my feet before diving in.

  I didn't tell my girlfriend my plan. I resolved to pass by the stall casually, then tell her I was interested in purchasing one of those toys. We'd double back, and I'd confront the gypsy then.

  So we passed the toys. As we did, a flash-flood of regret near Dr.owned me.

  I haven’t yet described the toys to you, have I? I’ll explain as best I can. The stall sold those cute electric battery-powered pets, the ones that hop forward and chirp, bark, purr—whatever. They just hop, squeak, and move incessantly. The epitome of horror, no?

  So we passed the stall, and I kid you not, those toys stopped hopping, squeaking, and moving, and turned their battery-powered bodies and locked their black marble eyes upon my soul. They held their gaze with those endless fathomless singularities of eyes as I passed, and every fiber of my being screamed for me to run.

  A passing child noticed the phenomenon as well, commenting, “that's weird.” I kid you not.

  At that point, even my oblivious girlfriend noticed my pale sweat as the steep cliff of a panic attack hurtled towards me. She offered to sit down with me, skeptical when I’d told her about the electric pets—convinced that I'd simply imagined it.

  She questioned my recent diet—which consisted only of microwavable pizza, but that was beside the point. I was cursed and even those cute toy animals knew it. I wondered if those toys were not merely toys, but the ghosts of animals that had fallen victim to my curse.

  I begged my girlfriend to come over, to sleep over, to not leave me alone, but she only laughed and replied “nice try,” and told me she had work early the next morning. I asked if I could sleep over her place, and finally she relented.

  But then I’d remembered—she'd recently adopted a kitten, and there wasn't a chance I'd risk the violent death of my girlfriend's only pet.

  I told her this, and she rolled her eyes and said, “suit yourself.”

  She cut me off as I mumbled an apology, replying simply, not-angrily, for me to get it together. I wanted to too, but damn if I could. I couldn't even work up the nerve to return to the stall and confront the gypsy clerk.

  We left the mall and she Dr.opped me off at home. I asked her if she wanted to hang out, but it was already past nine.

  The sun had set, and she reminded me that she had to feed her kitten, and I wasn't going to let another fluffy innocent starve and die on my account. I had enough cute animal blood on my hands.

  So I locked my door, shut in, and prayed until I went to bed.

  As a last measure to defend myself from an onslaught of evil, I Dr.ew a ward with my blood on a sheet of computer paper and placed it by the door.

  Somewhat secured, I finally closed my eyes.

  ‡ ‡ ‡

  I'm uncertain of the time I fell asleep, nor the time I awoke, but when I opened my eyes the night remained pitch and it took me a moment to discern the reason for my unnatural wake. I felt a heavy aura in my room, like a mist that altered and slowed time around me.

  Blinking alert, I looked over the side of my bed—and screamed.

  For there, glistening from the moonlight through my window, were countless black marble eyes bourn on countless cute electronic pets—baby ducks, puppies, kittens, birds, even lobsters—staring at me in the darkness.

  An unnatural glow emanated from around them, and I swear on everything that those toys were not mere toys, but alive.

  Ghosts—stalking me, haunting me.

  I closed my eyes and shook my head—just a nightmare, I presumed. I must still be Dr.eaming, I hoped and begged.

  But as I attempted to rub from my eyes the sleep—the chirping, oh the horrible barking purring chirping erupted, and an army of hopping approached me with an otherworldly fury.

  I opened my eyes, and they stopped, and no evidence remained of their ghostly possession aside from the distance they'd covered since last my eyes were open. It wasn't much, but it was obvious, and I kicked off my sheets, grabbed my pillow, and scuttled against the wall to the furthest corner of my bed, watching those toys wild-eyed, uncertain of my available options.

  They stood fast between myself and the door, and the thought of coming to contact with any of those marble-eyed apparitions summoned an unknowable, depthless fear to me that rattled my spine from within.

  My phone lay on the bedside table, my only hope, I realized, for salvation. Unfortunately, the only way I could grab it securely would be to remove my eyes from the furry beasts on my beDr.oom's wooden floors for a moment.

  But I had no choice. I shuffled towards the beacon of light that was the dim glow of my charging phone, and their eyes seemed to follow me even as their bodies didn't. I moved slowly, keeping my eyes on them at every moment, reminding myself to calm, to steady as I moved. My arm extended, but my desperate hand found no solid, and I whimpered, oh God I whimpered.

  I had to look, and to look I’d have to look away.

  My friends, as you may very well know, it's the nature of man’s reptile brain to overwhelm all rationality in the flight or fight autonomic response of the sympathetic brain, and this subconscious tick has kept alive humanity in dangerous situations for millennia. But the forces of nightmares have grown stronger through countless ages, and it's the reptile brain that succumbs man to the unspeakable horrors of horror’s wrath. And, although I kept my eyes on the manifestations of my curse and I turned my head as far as I could without shifting my gaze from my foes, I soon found myself with no choice but to look away, and I turned my eyes from the floor to my phone and lunged.

  But as I did so they erupted, a growl—I kid you not they growled and wailed as unholy hell hounds from deep pits in blankets of infernal fire do each and every boundless night. And as my reptile brain has done successfully for generations—it overwhelmed conscious thoughts and actions.

  So I jumped. My hand swung to defend myself, and in doing so I knocked my phone from its post and onto the floor, right beside a fluffy, Satan-eyed puppy.

  Slowly, I returned my dejected, broken gaze to the demonic four-inch tall army on my floor. I cried, “By all that is holy, what do you want from me?”

  But they gave neither sound nor indication that my words bore any effect. I scuttled back to my post in the corner of the bed and raised my pillow to my chest as a last defense against the forces of darkness.

  And here I sit, wave after wave of sandman's sand pouring on tired eyes, hour after hour passing in years, and every loss of focus and Dr.oop of eyelids results in that horrific chirping and robotic hopping that approaches ever closer. My only hope is the rising sun, but the moon hasn't moved in hours, the night seems overwhelming, and soon I'll be shrouded in darkness—be it directly from the depths of hell, or hell's ambassadors finally chirping to what will surely be a corpse or worse by the time they reach. I know not how this will end. I can only wait, locked in a staring contest with an adorable darkness.

  BONUS: Prologue and Part 1 of The Harbinger Break

  Prologue: Such Deliberate Disguises

  On a cosmic scale, Doctor Simon Fischer knew it wasn't too important that he struggled to lock his office door–but he just wanted to feel secure, regardless of how false and almost laughable that feeling was in this period of human existence.

  His keys rattled as he tried again. The lock was old and rusted, and would fight against being turned–a desperate battle that often left Fischer with aching fingers. He'd talk to Rachel in the morning–he's told her for weeks now to get it fixed.

  The lock finally submitted, and as he turned from the door he heard leaves rustle, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood rigid. It was a windless night.

  The last patient that evening had been Patches Shane, who irked Fischer like a painting with scattered lines and arbitrary colors hinting at a meaning beyond face value–a meaning incomprehensible, yet haunting. Patches–or Pat as he preferred–was tall, thin, well built, and had a handsome face which was marred by shadows linin
g his pale, scared, compassionate eyes.

  Fischer couldn't pinpoint exactly why he sat further from Pat than he did his other patients, or why his hand trembled when they shook, or why he failed to return a smile when Pat cordially greeted him four times a week, always on time. Maybe he was just paranoid–but he didn't think so.

  Fischer was a renowned psychiatrist–if asked, he would rank himself top five in the state. And the Federal Bureau of Eugenics, a division of the FBI that regulated the human gene pool, certainly thought so, considering how much they were paying him to take on Pat Shane as a patient.

  But the sessions with Pat went nowhere. Pat would sit on Fischer's black leather sofa just to tell story after meaningless story built out of cracked glass and wet tape.

  "So how are you today, Pat?" Fischer would begin.

  "Good, Doctor. And yourself?”

  "Fine, fine. Everything's fine,” Fischer said. He always lied when asked.

  He pushed back his chair and crossed his legs before continuing, speaking only once he felt secure.

  "So tell me, Pat. Have you been able to relax?"

  Pat would smile, but Fischer routinely noted that he only did so with his mouth–his eyes remained pale and expressionless.

  "More so than I've been in years," he would say slowly. "Thanks entirely to you and the Bureau.”

  Fischer always took note of Pat’s responses for his files, which he sent copies of to the Bureau every week. Although this case was complex, his job was simple: confirm Pat’s mentality as stable before green-lighting his highly sought-after genes.

  Pat had been Fischer's patient for about a year, and in that time he’d maintained a normal lifestyle. Or so it seemed. Fischer knew he was hiding something. But what?

  Fischer wasn't quite yet sure, but during today’s session a new door opened in the mystery–interesting because the session went, for lack of a better term, poorly.

  About halfway into their session, Pat had an episode, something the FBE had warned Fischer about but something he'd yet to see.

  It began out of nowhere. Pat had been paralyzing Fischer with a detailed, yet fabricated retelling of a fishing trip, when he stopped speaking and his eyes widened. Fischer began scribbling on his notepad. He watched Pat’s hands twitch, eyes dart, and his already pale complexion become translucent.

  Then Pat stood, and Fischer fingered the FBE issued panic button in his pocket as he withDr.ew a sedative from his Dr.awer.

  “Relax, Pat,” Fischer said. No response.

  Pat, trancelike, made for the door–keeping his wide, haunted eyes locked upon the doctor.

  Fischer had no choice. Reluctantly, he activated the panic button and jabbed the syringe into Pat’s forearm.

  He eased Pat back down onto the couch, veins bulging on his forehead from the effort. Sessions had been going so smoothly, he thought as Pat collapsed. Well, at least relatively speaking.

  After leopard print hives and apparent anaphylactic shock, Pat lost consciousness, but as he did so he mumbled nonsense.

  “You betrayed us," he said. Then, “You're one of them."

  "You betrayed us," and “You're one of them.” Just when Fischer’s doubts concerning Pat's stability had begun to subside. He’d been mere days away from signing off on Pat’s genes, and with enough evidence to do so ethically. He’d almost been free of that feeling in his gut... and the source of his nightmares.

  It just so happened that in his profession there were times that instinct proved itself correct against contradicting evidence. Pride and feelings of satisfaction enveloped, warmth flowed, and mental champagne poured–he was good at his life's work, his life had meaning–go celebrate. Fischer had a great relationship with his instinct, and relished moments when it steered him through the fog. It felt good, being correct–

  This, however, was not one of those times.

  The leaves rustled again, and Fischer returned to the present. He sighed and rubbed his hands together. His fingers were still sore from that damn lock. He grabbed the lapel of his overcoat and turned from the door, casting his gaze across the dark and foreboding parking lot. The light of a single streetlamp overhead cast a circular glow on the ground, its yellow beam visible in the night's mist. Directly in the glow's center was his new red 2017 Mercedes Benz, the only car left in that rundown, cold, and otherwise empty strip mall.

  He parked beneath that single streetlamp intentionally. Every action was a meager attempt at security–that was all he had. From his perpetual days spent behind the multiple doors of his office, subconsciously crossing his legs, tracing the same cold walls by now laced with a cold memory of his youth, he'd resigned to obstinate selflessness, hazardous enough as it was. At least he had his locks indoors.

  The night was different. Every night he crossed the dark parking lot that felt less like a gateway home and more like a hiatus between recurrent nightmares, praying that his career choice and solitude wouldn't lead to an untimely death.

  He felt a painful grinding in his head and assumed the worst.

  Opening the Dr.iver's side door, Fischer tossed his large leather-bound daytimer to the backseat and as he did so he quickly scanned for anything malicious, but found his beige leather seats void of evil.

  He sat down and shut the door, shivering off the idea of an attacker prowling, shaking bushes, and watching him like a jungle cat. He hit the lock button and the knobs of all four doors fell like tiny prison cell bolts. A familiar sense of security enveloped. False security, of course. It wasn't like the windows were impenetrable, but for eighty thousand dollars they sure as hell felt like they were.

  He sat for a minute and rubbed his temples, waiting for the headache to subside. After a moment it did–as quickly as it had come on.

  He twisted his key in the ignition and the car rumbled to life. The oddly calming "Welcome to the Jungle" destroyed the cold silence like wildfire. Fischer took one last look at his office and pulled away from the parking lot.

  He Dr.ove home, heading as always towards the I-95 Skyway, trying not to think about the day's events. Trying not to think about Pat Shane. He told himself that you just can't win them all, and assured his brain that the matter was settled, and he'd hear no more of it. But his brain was persistent.

  What exactly was bothering him? He'd had patients freak on him before–although those patients were never remotely as intelligent, nor as seemingly capable of evil as Pat Shane. It was rare that Fischer had a patient whom he considered as sharp as himself. Not only was Pat as smart, he was decidedly smarter.

  "You betrayed us."

  Chills became spiders on his arms at the thought, and he resorted to calming himself with thoughts of the scotch on his mantle, and relaxing with a glass or two to take the edge off. Maybe a third and a fourth glass to wash down the previous two. It had been one of those days.

  Engaging magnetically to the metal lift, the Mercedes was yanked airborne as if a prize in a claw crane. Fischer loved the view from the Skyway, which was like a long metal ski lift for cars about thirty feet above I-95. Despite this new and exciting method of transportation, however, many people still preferred antiquity. Fischer enjoyed watching the cars below as he passed them by, but he understood their Dr.ivers’ reluctance. He knew from experience that not everyone adjusted well to new technology–a good reason why his profession was so lucrative.

  That, and of course, the aliens.

  After a ten minute gondola-esque ride, his car disengaged from the Skyway. Paying the dollar-fifty toll, he turned left and continued the short Dr.ive, checking his rear view mirror every few seconds. As far as he could tell, he wasn't being followed. So what was the nagging feeling that kept at his subconscious?

  Following the bend of the road, he sighed with relief as he pulled up to his neighborhood.

  Winter Oaks was a gated development, and a damn nice one at that. Filled with million dollar two-story mansions, customized mailboxes, gym, golf course, tennis courts, pools, Jacuzzis, and a
guard posted at the gated entrance through all hours of the day and night–only the richest, most elite members of society could afford its offered luxury.

  Harry Samuels was on duty tonight. He was Fischer's least favorite guard. Samuels had a habit of reclining in his chair, resting his feet on the desk, and snoring audibly until a car pulled up, sometimes sleeping through a few honks. Which was what Fischer had to do now.

  "S-sorry 'bout that Doctor."

  Frustrated as he was, Fischer wasn't going to berate the man. At this point he just wanted to get back home to his chair and his scotch.

  "How's the night going, Samuels?" Fischer asked.

  "Good sir, very pleasant."

  “If you don’t mind me asking–have you noticed anything suspicious around tonight?"

  Samuels laughed, but stopped when he realized Fischer wasn't joking. "No sir, nothing suspicious."

  Fischer nodded as Samuels opened the gate. He Dr.ove through his neighborhood, practically speeding in anticipation of the calming release hidden within that amber tonic. Unlocking his front door, he sighed with relief that not only was it still locked, but it also showed no signs of foreign tampering. That settled it–he hadn’t been followed. He was finally secure.

  He stepped inside, took off his coat, and locked the door behind him. His entrance hallway had red carpet, mirrors on both sides that trapped you within infinity as you stood between them, and white walls with studio lights. He lived on his own–no pets, no family. He kept his home spotless. A housekeeper came three times a week, but despite her large hourly wage he cleaned after himself and did most of her work for her.

  Inside the freezer portion of his stainless steel fridge he had countless frozen meals. He would pick up dinner on his way home when he was in the mood–which meant he microwaved frozen meals often.

  ◊◊◊

  In the sky, high above Winter Oaks and even higher, above Jacksonville, above Florida, through silver clouds and above the United States, above North America, into the atmosphere and higher still until the cold Northern Hemisphere emanated like a glowing television in a dark empty room–a galactic silence was broken. A satellite ticked and beeped, and a photograph of an alien civilization about 2,100 light-seconds from Earth downloaded line after line into a 100 by 100 yard cement room with a hedge-maze of stacked processors. This photograph, with a resolution that would've been mediocre for thirty-year-old technology, revealed rectangles. Laced sporadically between these rectangles were dots. A less advanced species than humanity might've thought these dots aliens–but those employed by NASA were certain that those dots were not aliens, but their automobile equivalent.

  ◊◊◊

  Finally in his parlor, sipping his scotch, relaxing on his velour armchair by the mantle, Fischer had forgotten until the beeping of his microwave that he'd been zapping food. He placed his glass on the coffee table beside the armchair and walked into the kitchen. The red carpet ended abruptly at the tile separating the two rooms. Between these rooms stood a four-foot marble counter. Left of the counter was a microwave above a stovetop, and past that was his stainless steel refrigerator.

  As he walked he looked at the front door and grinned, relieved to see it still shut and locked.

  "You betrayed us," his brain repeated much like a time bomb. It was an itch he couldn't scratch. He tried shutting it down, but it was somewhere deep, prickling his subconscious. Something didn't feel right. It was like a wisp from far off–a crack in the hull of his security.

  Forgetting his food in the microwave, he left the kitchen and walked past the parlor, up the staircase, and into his beDr.oom. He flew straight for his nightstand and pulled opened the Dr.awer.

  His eyes widened. His lips moved. “No,” he whispered.

  His gun was missing. He always kept his gun right by his bedside in his nightstand Dr.awer, and it wasn't there. He couldn't believe it, and scrambled through the Dr.awer as if a large pistol could somehow hide beneath a few sheets of paper and a book. Beads of sweat gathered on his brow as he scrambled, and chills ran down his spine as he succumbed to the truth. Someone took his pistol–he wasn't alone–his instincts were right yet again.

  He wanted to call the police. He wanted to curl up into a ball and cry. He was both the bear and its cub–he was angry and scared, then furious.

  "Is anyone there?" he whispered.

  No response.

  "Is anyone there?" he shouted.

  "I'm downstairs, Fischer."

  His heart froze.

  He could recognize that deep and grating voice anywhere–like the hum of a revving engine. But the inflection it now carried he'd never heard–only imagined and feared. It was the voice of Patches Shane.

  Fischer withDr.ew his cellphone from his pocket, but the moment he did so Shane spoke.

  "I wouldn't call the cops if I were you, Fischer. I have nothing to lose, if they show up here I will shoot you–I have your gun."

  So his instinct was right yet again. No feeling of shock enveloped him–only that of inevitability concluded. Fischer felt the weight of the phone in his hand grow infinitely heavier, and stared at the holographic dial pad like a trained dog at trash. Pat Shane was a man who had nothing, who desired nothing, with a tortured past and a bleak future. "Nothing to lose?” Yeah, he could buy that.

  Returning the phone to his pocket, Fischer took a few deep breaths. He was a psychiatrist, and arguably the best in the state. One less intelligent might need the cops, he thought–but he, the FBE's first choice, could talk his way out of this.

  He descended the staircase, and Dante’s Inferno flashed in his mind as he entered the parlor. Shane stood, relaxed and curious, by the microwave, food in hand, evidently enjoying himself. Fischer noted that Shane went so far as to have a glass of his scotch.

  Shane looked different. He towered over Fischer as usual, but his gaunt cheekbones seemed darker, his long hair unkempt and ragged, and his pale eyes Dr.agged with the dark circles beneath them. He’d morphed from the Empire State Building into the Buffalo City Court Building–a domineering concrete monolith that had once frightened a much younger Fischer.

  But it had been only five hours since Shane’s decompensation, since the FBE had come and taken him. How had he come here? How did he find Fischer's house?

  Fischer eyed his gun on the countertop, which Shane kept in plain sight, right by his glass.

  Shane reached towards the gun, and Fischer froze, but he grabbed the scotch instead and held it up.

  "A toast, Fischer,” he said almost listlessly. “To you working for me now."

  The doctor stood frozen, his brain ticking a mile a minute. He didn't understand.

  Shane shook his head with a grin and sighed. "Have you never done a toast before, Fischer? Go ahead, get your glass."

  He spoke condescendingly, and Fischer didn't move.

  "What are you doing here Pat?" he said. “You can’t be here. What do you want?"

  Shane slammed his glass down onto the counter top, his smile gone. The impact startled Fischer, who jumped. Shane glanced down, as if deep in thought, and when his gaze returned he looked strangely compassionate. His hand was cut and bleeding from the shattered glass.

  “I’d get my glass if I were you, doctor,” Shane said.

  Fischer complied. He walked to the coffee table and grabbed his glass, the situation already out of his control. The microwave beeped, and he twitched at the unexpected sound. He turned to see Shane taking out a second frozen dinner.

  "I replaced your dinner, so no harm done. Let's sit and chat."

  He walked from the kitchen and past Fischer, who watched him with bloodshot eyes, and sat in the other sofa. He motioned for Fischer to sit, and handed him the second frozen dinner.

  Fischer followed Shane’s commands wordlessly, his brain clicking and spinning like a film reel, rolling memories of doctorate classes, searching for anything he'd learned on the subject of life and death, but his projector's lamp was off.

&n
bsp; "Why are you in my house, Pat? Why do you have my gun?"

  Interrupting, Shane raised his glass. “To the truth,” he said.

  Fischer raised his and Dr.ank, keeping his eyes locked on Shane.

  Shane placed his Dr.ink aside and took the gun from his pocket, placing it on his lap.

  “So my question,” Fischer said. “Why are you–"?

  “I heard you the first time,” Shane said.

  “You never answered.”

  Shane leaned forward. “Did you know that millions of years ago, the snail’s shell, as opposed to the mollusk inside, was the actual living organism? No? The snail we see today, the gastropod, was a parasite that buried itself inside the hard exoskeleton of the original round creature. Over time, the parasite’s DNA changed until it adapted what it needed to survive–the shell–and in the process killed off the entire host species.”

  Fischer shook his head. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

  “Which is why, Fischer, you and I are going to work together.”

  “Then why do you have my gun?”

  “And why am I here, right?”

  “Yes.”

  "To answer both your questions: to kill you. But no no no, Fischer no, take a deep breath. You didn't let me finish. To kill you, but only if I must."

  Fischer took a deep breath, holding his head in his hands. He spoke, staring at his lap.

  "What do you want, Pat?"

  "There you go! First, I want my chart. Second, I want you to admit who you really are."

  Fischer glanced up, Shane was staring back at him, waiting, with a slight grin on his face like a wolf that'd broken the leg of an elk, saliva Dr.ipping from hungry fangs.

  "Your chart is at the office. And I'm sorry, Pat, but I have no idea what you mean. I'm Doctor Simon Fischer. I'm a psychiatrist. I enjoy helping people, people like you Pat, but also people like me."

  "Good. Keep going. Tell me what you really are, Fischer. Remember that I've seen your true face."

  "I live alone. My work is my life. I've never been married. I've been paid by the FBE three separate times to impregnate three different women. Aside from that, my life is a plateau."

  "Is that all?"

  "Yes."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes… yes I'm sure."

  Shane stood and turned away from Fischer, with his scotch in his left hand and the pistol in his right. He took a sip and scratched the back of his head with the gun. Fischer stared at him, wondering if what he said worked, if he broke through.

  Fischer cleared his throat. “Are we–”?

  "Do you think I'm stupid, Doctor?" Shane said, turning around, pointing the gun at Fischer, who instinctively raised his hands.

  "No! No! You're incredibly intelligent! Of course I know that, I've read your files."

  “Okay.” Shane lowered the weapon. "So let me tell you the facts, and feel free to correct me where I'm wrong:

  "In 1979, the Voyager 1 photographed evidence of intelligent life on Europa. Europa is one of Jupiter's moons. Do you know where I'm going with this?"

  Fischer stared, dumbstruck. "What? Where you're– Pat, believe me when I say that I have no idea why you're bringing up history from almost forty years ago!"

  "Okay!" Shane said, voice rising, "I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you are incredibly stupid. That's fine. In 1980, former President Morgan Scott beat out incumbent Jimmy Carter and former governor Ronald Reagan as President of the United States, becoming President in 1981. As an extreme Radicalist, Scott's campaign involved heavy criticism of global technological advancement, and he preached that, should the aliens–whom NASA discovered are not native to Europa, but settlers–decide to attack us, we'd be hopelessly out-matched. That is an undeniable fact, and something that you, of all people, would agree upon."

  "Why me of all people? Honest to God I have no idea what you're getting at, Pat."

  Shane laughed. He raised the gun at Fischer again and cocked back the hammer.

  "How fucking stupid do you think we Earthlings are?"

  "What are you–what?" Fischer raised his hands again, and he pushed so far back in his armchair that its two foremost legs were raised off the ground. "What are you talking about? What are you saying?"

  "You expect me to believe that in almost forty years, you Europans have been just sitting on your moon, ignoring us? Thirty-eight years with no attempt whatsoever at making contact? A society so advanced, yet apparently not interested in even finding out whether or not a planet within walking distance is dangerous? I don't buy it Fischer, or whatever your real name is. And if you don't start revealing your plans right now, I will unload this gun into your skull to see if you aliens even can die. It's not what I came here to learn, but it's sure as hell better than nothing."

  "I'm not an alien, Pat! I'm not an alien!"

  Fischer fell backwards in his chair as Shane approached, gun Dr.awn, murder dancing in his wild eyes.

  "I saw what you really are, Fischer."

  "That wasn't real, Pat! I swear on anything and everything that wasn't real!"

  "You injected me–"

  "–I sedated you! You were having an episode!"

  Shane laughed, then smashed Fischer's Dr.ink off the coffee table.

  "An episode… Why did these episodes only begin after I escaped? After I stopped eating regulated food?"

  "I don't know! I swear I don't know, they never told me what goes on at GenDec! Nobody knows what goes on there!"

  On the floor, Fischer moaned as Shane took a deep breath and calmed down slightly. "Okay. Alright, Doctor."

  He walked to where Fischer's glass landed on the floor, picked it up, and walked over to the mantle. Fischer wiped the tears from his eyes and considered running while Shane had his back turned, but decided against it. He'd never make it to the front door, a door which he now regretted locking. Shane handed him the refilled glass.

  "Dr.ink."

  Fischer sat up and took a sip. Then another, and then finished the glass. He exhaled.

  Shane sat back down. Silence filled the room, and Fischer heard the pounding of his heart and the swelling of his veins. His breath was so thick that it seemed to mist, as if his brain was certain that the room would run out of oxygen.

  A minute might have passed, but it felt like hours.

  Finally, Fischer couldn't stand it anymore, he had to say something. He stood slowly, fixed his chair, and sat down.

  "Tell me what you saw, Pat.”

  Shane grinned. "Are you going to charge me the normal rate?"

  Fischer laughed, maybe a little too hard. He didn't know how he did it, but right then it felt like he dodged a bullet. He felt like he answered correctly, like he won.

  "For you? Only half. Tell me what you saw."

  "I saw the skin of your face shift and disorient. I heard sounds coming from your mouth, and although I understood the meaning behind them, I couldn't make out the words. I saw you approach me, and trap me, and inject me with a pale green liquid. And then, when I awoke, everything was back to normal."

  Fischer nodded and crossed his legs. He stroked his chin, attempting to look calm, to look like they were back in a professional setting, not in his house, and not with a gun.

  "You're a smart man, Pat. Smarter, even, than I am. Humor me for a moment… if what you saw was just in your mind, and those visions weren't real, what's something else that could have caused you to hallucinate like that?"

  Shane took a sip of scotch from his cracked glass. He closed his eyes.

  "It's possible that GenDec was Dr.ugging me, and my withDr.awal led me to develop a sickness not unlike Delirium Tremens."

  "That seems reasonable to me, Pat. So, consider this for a moment: I obviously can't prove to you that I'm not an alien, try as I might. But you're a reasonable man, and I know you love this country and what it advocates. So–and not to sound condescending–but remember 'innocent until proven guilty'? Couldn't you give me t
he benefit of the doubt, at least until you've found more evidence that suggests otherwise?"

  Shane grabbed his empty glass and laughed quietly to himself. “Not bad, doctor,” he said, standing. “You know I invented everything I said about snails earlier, right?"

  Fischer stared at Shane, struck dumb, watching him walk over to the mantle to refill his glass.

  “I suppose I could give you the benefit of the doubt,” Shane continued.

  Fischer grinned. Then he burst out laughing. He leaned back in the armchair, feeling good, confidence rebounding, thinking of the snails, thinking that this was the reason they pay him the big bucks. Yeah, that 'benefit of the doubt' line wasn't too shabby…

  He was still laughing when a giant hand suddenly covered his mouth and lifted his chin–stifling first his laughter, then his screaming.

  "I could," Shane said. "But I can't take that chance."

  And the last thing Fischer ever felt was the cold steel of a razor as Shane split open his throat.

  Part I: By the Sins of the Father