Chad A. Clark's Blog

[image error]

 

“I don’t understand!”

Bruno stomped around the room as the writer watched him patiently, waiting for him to settle down and get to the point.

“How can you just toss us in the garbage like we don’t matter? Whatever did we do to you except amuse you on the pages and pages of drivel you manage to fornicate with on your—”

“Bruno, take it easy. You aren’t going anywhere. You’ll always be here. All of you will be here, why do you think that would change?”

“But you’re ending it all!”

“Not all of it. You aren’t ending. I’m just moving on. Taking things in new directions.”

“I’m sure that’s how you see it.” Brett Campor’s voice came from the speakers of the writer’s computer, sounding modulated as his digital image looked up from the screen. “But think about us. This is all we have to live for. How do you expect us to feel about this?”

“Guys…”

The writer started to speak and realized that he wasn’t sure if he even had a good answer.

“Look, I know this hurts. I know it’s probably more than a little scary for you. I get that and I wish I could make it better by just waving a magic wand.”

“I don’t want to point out the obvious, but you actually do have that power in the worlds we exist in, you absurdly dense clod-brain.” Bruno sulked as he dropped down into a sitting position, leaning back against the wall.

“Okay, you got me there. But you all have had a great run. You got to entertain people and bring ideas into reality. You got to be a part of people’s lives and it’s been great for me to be there with you. But I always knew this time was going to come. I have to move on to new challenges. You can understand that, can’t you?”

“So what does that mean for us?” Brett asked from the computer.

“I don’t really know,” the writer answered, feeling awkward at having to say it.

“Because you don’t care!” Bruno said, seeming to be gaining wind. He gestured at the crowd of people that were slowly appearing around him to watch the argument unfold. “You gave us about as much thought as you do to the paper you use to wipe you ass before you—”

“Okay, stop.” The writer stood and looked around, wondering at how it was possible for so many people to fit into this small room. He put his hands up and tried to address them all.

“Bruno. You know how much I love you. You’re one of my favorite characters. You’ve appeared in more stories than almost anyone here.” He turned to the rest. “Morris. You were in the first story I ever posted. You taught me that characters don’t always have to be perfect to be interesting.” He moved down the line to the man who had just stomped out a cigar on the floor, wiping his hands off on a blood-smeared apron. “Dale. Your story in the diner with the health inspector? Loved it. How often am I going to get to use cannibalism as a punch line? You were amazing in that story and I loved writing it. And Jessie?” He made eye contact with the kid towards the end of the line. “You taught me a really important lesson too. That even though I might not think the story is scary as I’m writing it, it’s completely different for the reader. You made me realize I need to be better at trusting my instincts.”

The writer walked back to the computer and gazed down at Brett for a moment before looking back up. “I could go on with every one of you if we had time. The point is that I learned something from each one of you and even though I’m not doing these anymore, the lessons I learned fmwill always be there and I will never forget you. Don’t ever think I don’t care.”

He could sense the mood of the crowd softening. Gradually, they began to nod their understanding, if not their agreement. They turned and began to depart, slowly dissolving into the wall behind them, leaving behind wisps of steam as they went. The writer looked down at the screen of his computer but found that Brett had already left as well. Soon, all but one person was left standing there with him. Bruno crossed and uncrossed his arms, eyes glistening with what actually looked like tears. The writer approached him and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t ever think that I don’t care. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you. You’re more than just a piece of a story to me. Don’t ever forget that. You have something none of us have. You are eternal. Every time someone picks up one of the stories that you’re in, you get to ride again. Do you know what I would give for a gift like that?”

Bruno shook his head and shifted his gaze to the floor. When he spoke, it was so quiet, the writer could barely hear him.

“I don’t want to leave.”

The writer smiled and took him in a brief embrace before lifting his face up to meet his gaze.

“You don’t have to leave. You don’t ever have to leave. Wherever I go, you’ll be right there with me. That much I can promise. And this doesn’t necessarily have to be goodbye. You don’t know where the road will take us. Who knows what might happen?”

Bruno sniffed as he nodded, wiping moist tears from his eyes. The moment crossed between them as he finally turned to leave, dissolving into the wall as he lifted his hand for one last wave.

Finally left alone to his thoughts, the writer sat down and reclined back, gazing at the computer as he ran his mind past all the characters yet to be, the worlds and stories still out there, waiting to be told. He didn’t know how much longer the journey would be or where it would take him. The important thing was to put his feet upon that road and let the force of the river do as it wished.

There were no limits and only endless possibility.

The writer let his arms go limp as he relaxed into the chair. He closed his eyes and finally surrendered, giving himself up to the words that swept him off into the infinite future.

.
.

[image error]

 

[image error]

[image error]On September 25, 2013, the Baked Scribe blog went live for the first time with a story titled, “Ambition”.
I was not a new writer by any means but I was new in my desire to seriously pursue the dream of having my writing published and to see my name on the cover of a book. I sought out a lot of guidance and advice at the time and one of the most common refrains I heard was that if you were going to be an author, you had to have a blog.
This is advice that I would now question. That is, I question the soundness of it unless you have the time, resources and willingness to put as much time into your blog as the rest of your writing. Ironically, while the blog may once have been a useful tool for marketing your brand, it now is as hard to get your blog recognized as it is your books.
Still, at the time, I thought it seemed like a good idea. But as I didn’t think an observational style blog could be a success for me, I thought that a blog instead could be a great way to introduce people to my writing, maybe to bring them around to buying a book or two from me on the side.
I had never been a fan of short stories but I devoted myself to this discipline and learned the craft of writing flash fiction as I went along this path. And I was surprised as much as anyone to find that I actually liked the form and found it to be a natural outlet for my abilities and narrative strengths. Writing these stories over the years for you has been educational for me but also a lot of fun.
I wanted to make sure I took a moment before the final story saw the light of day. I can’t say enough how grateful I am to all of you who have been checking out and enjoying these stories.
Note – this is excluding the guy who stole my work and published it as his own. That guy is an asshole.
Without you there on the other end to read my work, I’m pretty much nothing. This doesn’t work without you. Thank you for being a reader in this culture of easier digital options for entertainment. Thank you for being

[image error]

interested in a genre that has become less profitable over the years. But mostly, thank you for allowing my words to take up even a little of your overly crowded lives. Thank you for helping me make these memories.
Thank you.

[image error]

“Now what are we supposed to do?”

Stanley looked at the instrument panel, now mostly dark with the exception of the few keypads for ship functions that were functional but useless to their situation. The library search engine would serve little purpose, as they were slowly starved to death inside this tomb, now hurtling through the dark desolation of the star-field around them.

Eileen shook her head and asked the question again. “I mean, what are we supposed to do?”

Stanley had no more of an answer than he had before, but he tried anyway, tried to let her down gently. “I don’t know what we can do at this point. We sent the transmission, but there’s no way to know if it was received by anyone. The drive isn’t getting any power, so short of drifting into dry dock, there’s no way we can repair the linkage.”

“But we have to be able to call for help, we can still broadcast.”

“But we can’t receive. So we’d have no way to know if anyone was hearing. Also, we drifted so far from District lines, there probably wouldn’t be anyone listening for transmissions originating from this sector. More than likely, we’d just be announcing our location for a smuggler to come by and—”

“Stop!” She leaned forward and placed her head down onto her hands. “How long can we last here like this?”

It was this punch line that he was both dreading and excited to deliver. “We’ve got enough power to keep environmental controls going, so at least we won’t suffocate. The problem is we’ll probably run out of food in about a week.”

That sank in for several minutes before she nodded, a look of resolution on her face. “Okay, then. So someone has to find us within a week.”

It was one of the more absurd ideas he had heard but he didn’t need her getting more despondent. He nodded, careful to avoid the eye contact that would verify that he believed none of what he said to her. “Yeah. A week, or less.”

“Someone has to find us eventually.”

Stanley nodded again. “Somebody has to.” He parroted her words, not having the ability to manufacture a lie any more convincing than that.

They had been on the return leg of a supply run to one of the outer listening posts. After his assigned partner had come down sick, Eileen had been volunteered to sit in on the trip. He didn’t know if she was desperate for work detail credits but it made no sense for her to want to come along. The fact that she barely associated with him on a day to day basis only served to underline how much she likely didn’t want to be here or be around him.

No matter. That would all change now that her options had just dwindled down to him or nothing. He had always admired her from afar but the self-imposed restrictions of social inadequacies always stopped him from doing anything about it. It was funny how being isolated in the outer reaches with someone like this could change your outlook and bring you around to seeing someone’s inherent merits.

She was crying.

Stanley snapped out of his train of thought and stutter-stepped towards her, forward and back again as his train of thought tripped over what he should do. Finally, he stepped forward to put an arm around her. She immediately leaned into him and buried her face into his shoulder, her body shaking from the force of her sobs. He hugged her and held her tight, feeling the elation of that moment of her finally needing him. No one else could have been more worthy.

Him.

It was inconceivable to him that in that moment, he could feel such need from her and an emotional connection from someone who had been so disconnected. Deep down, he had always been sure that it would just take the right circumstances for her to come around and clearly this was that very situation.

“No one’s going to find us,” she cried out, barely understandable. “We’re going to die out here, we’re going to…”

Her speech became impossible to understand and he tried to hold her with an intensity that matched her speech. She needed him and he would be there for her. After all, he had been able to take the time to prepare for this situation. This was all still fresh for her.

“How can you be so calm about this?” she asked, almost reading his mind in the process.

He recited the line he had been practicing in his head for the week he had spent planning this. “There comes a point where you just have to give yourself over to the destiny that brought you here.”

Her crying increased again in intensity and he smiled. This was going exactly as he had hoped when he had heard she would be coming with him on the flight. Actually, it was going slightly better than even he had hoped. They would have a week here together, “stranded” and lost with no one but each other. Whatever minimal chance of someone stumbling across their position would be mitigated by the false flight plan he had filed. If anyone was searching for them, it would be in the wrong place. At the last minute, he would execute the miraculous repair and save the day. Their salvation and his heroism would make her want him.

As her sobbing reached a crescendo in volume, his mind went to the small collection of microchips he had removed from the relay inside the control panel. They were stashed inside a toolbox so he could create the illusion he needed of their now joined fates within the depths of space.

It was only at the zenith of that perfect moment, within the wail of her sobs that he felt the tip of the knife press against his side before slipping in, through his ribs where it cleanly pierced his heart. He drew in a ragged, shocked breath of pain as he looked into those sweetly cold eyes, gazing at him as she spoke one last time.

“Now I can eat for two weeks.”

[image error]

[image error]

 

The Traveler rose with the dawn.

As sunlight started to stretch its way across the discolored floorboards of the bedroom which wasn’t his, he stretched out on the down comforter and gazed out the window over the expanse of lawn which he did not tend to. Contrasting the tranquility of the scene outside, the bedroom itself was a personification of chaos. Picture frames had been ripped off the walls and shattered on the floor, clothes pulled from the closet and strewn about the room, drawers ripped out of the dressers and smashed into pieces on the floor.

He strolled out of the bedroom and into the hallway that wasn’t his, and towards the bathroom. The claw foot tub looked inviting, but he didn’t really have the time, especially considering how much blood had stained the once pristine porcelain. The water out of the faucet was refreshingly cool as he bent down and took a long drink. He examined himself in the mirror for a long time before pulling the door open to evaluate the prescriptive collection, and marveled at the number of little orange plastic bottles that some people needed just to propel themselves through the day.

Returning to the bedroom, the Traveler took a few moments to select some articles of clothing that did not belong to him from the accumulated mess on the floor. He took one final look out the window; it really was a glorious view, looking out over the expansive farm as the light of early morning was shining down over the world, turning the sky into various shades of blue. Time was starting to run short. There was work to be done.

The stairs creaked and groaned under his weight as he walked, and he took a moment to wonder absently if anyone ever gave any thought to how precarious their lives really were, how close to the edge they really lived. He wondered how close people got to that terminal moment before realizing too late that none of this really mattered.

He made his way down into the kitchen that wasn’t his, a mirror image of the destruction in the bedroom. Despite the carnage that surrounded him, he was still able to take advantage of some of the comforts of the home. Despite what he felt about the people who had lived here, they did have good taste in some things, coffee being foremost among those. The Traveler made a large cup for himself and sat at the table as he drank, mediating on the day and where he should now go from here.

Normally he would have preferred the taste of cream to accompany the bitterness of the coffee, but since the refrigerator was currently lying flat on its side, pulled free from the wall and the door hanging open he doubted that the dairy products would be trustworthy at this point. Every drawer had been pulled free from their tracks and turned upside down, dumping all the contents onto the floor. The table and the chair he sat in were the only remaining pieces of intact furniture in the room. There were stains on the walls and ceiling, probably blood although, who could really say for sure?

There was still a plate in the center of the table, boasting a small collection of now stale danish. He made several selections before standing and straightening out the clothes that weren’t his. The sound of the birds singing outside fostered a renewed sense of purpose and drive within him.

It was time to leave.

On the way through the living room to the front door, he could not stop himself from pausing one last time to admire his handiwork. The family who did own this house and all of the nice things inside were all here in this room. No one stood to greet him or see him on his way of course, they weren’t even aware of his presence.

The stains in this room were impossible to mistake for anything but blood. The bodies were piled up in the corner, cuts and gashes appearing as lines on a map connecting bruises and severed parts. The Traveler looked them up and down, taking in the remains of the room. There, he saw the shattered screen of the television where he had put someone’s face before snapping their neck. Those smears of blood were where he had taken one severed torso and dragged it across the wall in a long streak. The frame of the couch had been damaged after he had lifted it up and brought it down onto the prone body, again and again until his arms hurt from the effort.

The work in this room had taken a physical toll on him, but his pride in his work carried him through. Not enough people appreciated the time and attention of a true artist. He shook his head. It was pointless to lament something that would never change, to strive for recognition of his efforts which he would never really obtain. Better to just focus on the tasks at hand and the work still to be done.

The Traveler left the house that would never be his and walked out to the road. His acute hearing could detect the sound of a truck, off in the distance and moving in this direction. Before long, there would be morning commuters driving past, and shortly after that, his work would be revealed to the world. He pulled his collar up over his face as best he could and turned into the chilling breeze and misting rain. The dawn sky swirled about him in a burst of sunrise, masked by gathering clouds as he walked off down the road, and slowly dissolved into the growing morning fog.

 

[image error]

[image error]

 

Details are sketchy at this late hour about the bodies recovered from the cabin upstate in what has been described as a brutal triple homicide. The bodies of Grant Forge, Shannon Radson and Kyle Rollins were found, the victims badly mutilated by party or parties unknown. Local officials are reluctant to provide too much information at this late hour as investigations are ongoing in an effort to contain—

Sheriff Dodgeston turned the radio off and sat back in his desk. The photos he had taken at the scene were scattered across his desk and were the only grim reminder he needed of what had happened at that cabin. The bottle of bourbon from his desk drawer was already half gone. It was rare for him to indulge at work but it was definitely called for in th. He had stopped looking at his hands after several times when he looked down to discover them trembling. And it wasn’t because of the bodies. Even in a relatively secluded part of the country, he had seen his fair share of violence.

It was the house itself.

Walking in, he had never had a stronger feeling of being unwanted. It was like the house had hissed when he walked through the doors. Every step around the place, he kept expecting something to jump out at him. In the kitchen, he glared at the tiny door leading into the cellar that he had no intention of exploring. He knew enough of the history of this house that he wasn’t going down there. Most of the killings had happened before he had been born but just knowing how many children had been killed down there made his skin crawl. Add these poor bastards to that list. There had never been a place as tainted as this, as far as he was concerned.

Dodgeston hadn’t wasted much time exploring the house. There wasn’t much to be found, apart from the victims themselves. And he had no interest in taking a minute more than was required to get the job done. He cleared out and let the coroner’s office finish up. Whoever had been responsible left behind no sign, no clue as to their identity and as far as Dodgeston was concerned, they were probably three states away by now.

In the inner recesses of his unconscious, Dodgeston wasn’t sure if he was avoiding looking too much into this because he knew it was probably wasted effort or if there was something else. He would have never admitted it out loud but a small part of him had to admit that the lack of any kind of physical evidence made him wonder if the person responsible for this was even human. It was crazy to consider, what else could it be? All he knew was that from the moment he walked into that house, he felt like he had stepped out onto an alien landscape where literally anything was possible, where nothing was absurd or crazy.

He was terrified of that place.

And it was only then, in the breadth of that moment that he realized exactly what he needed to do. It had nothing to do with paperwork, or making notifications to families of the deceased or with putting out an alert for perpetrators unknown. The cabin out there lay at the heart of everything.

He had tried to track down the owner of the property and had spent an hour on the phone, going around in circles, trying to find any records.

On paper, it was like the cabin didn’t even exist.

What he had to do was see to it that reality matched up with that paperwork.

He took no one with him. In truth, there was no one he could trust to not have him committed for what he was thinking about doing. He needed to get out there and get this thing done before he lost his momentum and his nerve. This had to be done. He didn’t know how many people had been killed within the walls of this house but he would see to it that it wouldn’t happen again.

The sky overhead was clear and black as he stepped out of the jeep, moving towards the silent cabin. The gasoline sloshed around in the can as he walked, already fingering the lighter in his pocket. There was no indication of any kind of life inside, in fact the building seemed to stand as a repellent to the very life force he felt surging inside of him. It felt like an ending for anyone and anything that veered too close to its presence.

But Dodgeston would put a stop to all of it.

He moved around the house slowly, taking his time to make sure the gasoline was soaking into the wood. Once he had made a full orbit around the foundation, he pulled out the lighter, rolling his hand across the top to produce a strong flame. He saw the names of the victims, images from file folders strewn across his desk.

Kyle.

Grant.

Shannon.

No one had been here to help them. He would do the best he could. The only thing he could think to do.

Dodgeston tossed the lighter.

Within minutes, the house was engulfed in flames, raging up to lick at the night sky. He followed the tracks of the inferno and embers, up past the second floor windows and as he watched silently, his heart began to skip a beat.

Someone had just walked up to the window.

He could see the outline of someone, tall and reedy, an oversized hat on its head that reminded him of old timey clothing that men might have worn over a century ago.

“Christ,” he muttered.

Dodgeston ran up onto the porch and winced as he stepped into the cabin, picking up on the smell over the smoke. wasn’t from the bodies they had found earlier. A smell like this took decades to seep into the pores of every surface. He couldn’t fathom how those kids had endured staying here. His father had been a mortician and Dodgeston had allowed himself to be taken to work with him on only one occasion.

This smell was even worse.

The house itself smelled like it was made from the dead.

The ceiling above him groaned, as if from a footstep. He looked up and tried to see through the splitting boards.

“Hey!” He shouted but there was no indication of movement or response. No call back from anyone who might have heard him.

Dodgeston sprinted up the stairs, knowing that time was short. He was willing to be on the hook for the destruction of this decrepit property. But if someone ended up dead, his life was over. The hallway upstairs stretched away from him as he ran, looking into each room as he tried to find whoever he had seen.

It wasn’t until the last bedroom when he found the woman, strung up from the ceiling. The noose dug deeply into the flesh of her neck. Her eyes were vacant mirrors, reflecting the room around her as there was no longer any presence inside of her to see anything.

Dodgeston didn’t know who she was or where she could have come from. The sight did serve to further solidify what he already knew, that this house was clearly something that had to be destroyed. He heard the sound of wood cracking, felt the heat coming from below and turned to leave.

The man now standing in the doorway stopped him short.

Dodgeston couldn’t see any facial features as they were obscured behind the brim of the hat he wore. His clothes were simple white cloth that hung off of him loosely as he leaned against the door frame, seemingly uncaring about the fire or anything else going on around him.

“Who the hell are—” Dodgeston began to ask but in the span of a heartbeat, he was pinned against the wall, the man holding him tightly as he shifted his gaze up towards him. As Dodgeston got his first look at the thing’s face, he screamed.

The face was gone, replaced by a solid mass of burned, congealed flesh. The skin flexed and molded, as if somehow conveying the anger that seemed inherent in this thing. It lifted Dodgeston up even higher, until his head brushed up against the ceiling. The arm that held him stretched out, elongated as it continued to push him up higher. The side of his face was now pressed flat against the ceiling, his neck screaming out in pain as it bent back. He waved his one free around in an attempt to swing at the thing but all he found was empty air, the heat from the fire below now just caressing his flesh. He felt something start to snap and in an instant everything blinked away.

He woke up on a dirt floor. Standing, he looked out the one smudged, dirty window at the flickering light from outside. Somehow he had ended up in the basement while the fire raged overhead. The creature that had evidently sent him here was nowhere to be seen.

Dodgeston had to get out of here before it was too late. But as he turned to the stairs, he heard the high pitched sound of glass breaking. He turned to look and saw the flames coming in through the window, like water. The house seemed unaffected, uncaring as the fire sought him out, quickly engulfing him and in the end, the one blessing he found was that the final moments he spent within agony were also brief.

In the coolness of the night outside, the house remained as a beacon against the expansive night sky. The muffled screams from within were nothing new and extinguished quickly. The cry from a lone bird flying high overhead could be heard as the wind began to pick up over the open valley. Silence returned, the fire gone and all that remained was a house.

A house, patiently waiting for whoever might be next to cross over the threshold and into what waited for them within.

****author’s note – if you are intrigued by the events in this story and would like to see more, keep an eye out for my upcoming novella, Yesterday, When We Died.

 

[image error]

[image error]

 

Sara listened to the gravel crunching under the tires as the car groaned to a halt and the engine coughed one last time before dying. The warehouse entrance was only about a hundred feet away, but it might as well have been a hundred miles. Maybe if they had jumped out right at that moment, one or both of them could have made it, but as they sat there in a stupor, that thin opportunity vanished. She reached down and twisted the key, knowing that there was no point but needing to try anyway. The engine turned, but did not catch. She considered leaning on the horn but it was unlikely that anyone would hear it and, even if they did, it wasn’t like they could do anything about it.

Arman looked over at her, his face blankly reflecting the lack on understanding. There had to be something she could do to save them, something to get the car started again. She returned his gaze, shaking her head slowly to indicate that they had run out of ideas to try.

Outside, the swarm was already starting to form, tiny insects buzzing around the side mirrors and the windshield. They were slightly larger than gnats, tiny little jet-black specks floating lazily around the car. If she didn’t know any better, she might have taken them as harmless, but she did know better. One bite from any of those things would be enough to kill them. They wouldn’t be able to get into the car but in the end, that wouldn’t really matter since they also couldn’t get out.

“What do we do?” Arman asked. She shook her head again. A hundred feet. It was nothing. The darkest reaches of her mind was contemplating pushing him out of the car and hoping that those things out there would focus on him, giving her the opportunity to get away.

“What are we going to do?” His voice was rising, going into clear panic mode now. She turned to look at him, disgusted at his unwillingness to acknowledge the obvious.

“What can we do?” she asked, turning back to the window and placing a hand up against it. The things out there clustered on the other side of the glass, trying to burrow through to her.

She turned back and saw the entire spectrum of emotions cross his face in a matter of moments. The fear in his eyes quickly gave way to anger as he struck the dashboard several times with an open palm. He screamed until his voice started to go hoarse, until his energy began to wane. His chest heaved, trying to catch breath as he slowly calmed down, leaning against his door. Sara saw his hand fiddling around with the door handle and thought for the briefest second that he was just going to throw it open.

The hand returned to its starting position though and she breathed a little easier, even though the real situation hadn’t been resolved, just delayed.

She wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but the bugs were now swarming the car so heavily, they could no longer see out the windows. The outside light came through in fractured cracks within the writhing blanket of insects as they crawled across this metal tomb.

“Does the battery still work?” Arman asked.

“There’s no way we could do anything to them with it, even if—” Sara started to say.

“I just thought we could listen to the radio.” His voice sounded like a child who was about to start crying. Sara turned the key in the ignition and pressed the power button on the dashboard. Music started to filter through the speakers and returned her attention to the death that awaited them on the other side of that glass. Anger flared up in her again, along with the hundredth iteration of how unfair this entire situation was. She remembered being intrigued about the new form of insect life that had been discovered in the Congo. All the way over there, it was other people’s problems. It wasn’t so intriguing now.

Arman took in a breath and she could hear it shaking as he let it out. She wasn’t sure if it was resignation, or if he was steeling himself to do something. She returned her gaze to his hand which was still resting near the door handle.

“A hundred feet. One more minute,” Arman said, coming close to repeating her internal dialog to the word.

It was pointless. Either they were going to die in here, or they were going to die out there. At least, out there, they would know when to expect it. At least out there, it would be quick. She didn’t want to just sit in here and starve to death.

One of her favorite songs was playing and she closed her eyes, letting herself be washed away in the tide of memories. High School prom, losing her virginity in college, faces and names flowing past her, and all attached to that one song, as it slowly dwindled into the silence of sputtering static and the battery also gave out.

She didn’t want to second guess herself. Sara lunged past Arman and opened his door, shoving him out with her shoulder as she did so. As he toppled back, she waited for the swarm to lift up and flock towards him before opening her door, falling out onto the ground as she did so. As soon as she hit pavement she rolled to the side, only vaguely aware of Arman screaming her name. There was no time. She sprang to her feet and began to sprint away from the car. Somehow, she had managed to get past all of them without being bitten. The door was fifty feet away now. Twenty feet. Ten feet. The sound of the swarm moved up from the car and started in her direction.

Sara felt the burning in her chest but ignored it as the elation swelled up in her heart that the door was just within reach. Just another second or two and she would be inside. She was going to make it.

The last thing she felt before her fingers brushed against the metal of the door handle was the stinging bite on the back of her ankle. Darkness bled in and enfolded her.

 

[image error]

[image error]

 

“He hasn’t been well for over a week,” Sarah said as she poured the hot water over the loose tea leaves.

“Sorry to hear.” Brianna replied.

“It isn’t serious, but it’s sure taken him off his feet. And he looks about the color of skim milk.”

“And your sure it’s not serious? Have you guys been to a doctor?”

“It’s nothing. Just one of those bugs going around. Dickie has always been sickly.”

The comment hung in the air like a foul odor as Brianna watched the tea leaves steep in the near boiling water. What was there to say really?

“So, is this going to interfere with your trip?” She finally figured out something to say. Sarah laughed at the suggestion.

“Are you kidding? The sun and the mountains are what he needs the most. He actually wanted to limp down here last night to help me load up the van.”

“Well, I suppose it’ll be good just to get away from things for a while,” Brianna said.

“I agree.”

Brianna felt her gut twist at the overly chirpy tone from her coworker. She had been reluctant to come here, but Sarah had been relentless, and there wasn’t exactly an unending supply of plausible excuses. She couldn’t even claim that she wasn’t feeling well, as the last time, Sarah had sent her private physician over to check on her. This visit was already going exactly as awkwardly as she had been expecting. Maybe even worse.

“So…” She looked around the room, desperate for inspiration, something to talk about, calculating exactly how long it might take before it stopped being rude to just leave. She took a closer look at the pictures and for just a moment, her attention was piqued.

“Where were all these pictures taken?” She asked.

“Oh, all over. We travel so much, and these are from just some of the trips. Isn’t it just the best?”

“But your husband. I don’t see them in any of the photos. Wasn’t he with you?”

“Oh, Dickie does better behind the camera then in front of it.” As she said this, Sarah let out a honking bray of laughter, so absurd sounding that the Brianna was barely able to cut off the giggle that rose to her lips.

“Here, try some of the biscuits,” Sarah said as she slid the tray of hockey puck looking pastries across the table. Brianna forced herself to choose one. She bit down, slowly, so as to conceal the sound like granite splitting in her mouth.

“We thought about buying another time-share this year, but it’s so hard to keep them all straight, don’t you know?” The laugh again and, this time, it was only the mouthful of stale biscuit in her mouth that stopped her laughter from spilling out.

“It’s good that you’re able to take so much time off,” Brianna said. How much more of this would she have to endure? At this point, she would have even welcomed a phone call that someone had been in a car accident. Anything to give her an excuse to leave.

“You meet so many interesting people,” Sarah said, seemingly oblivious to Brianna’s comment. “Sometimes, it’s a wonder that you can even come home after everything you get to experience. You really just don’t understand the world unless you really been out in it.”

Brianna had always found sentiments like that to be a conceit of the well-to-do. It was easy to blather on about the importance of seeing the world when you had the means to drop whatever you were doing, hop onto a jet and enjoy the world from the serenity of your four-star hotel balcony. It wasn’t so much that Sarah was experiencing the world as much as she was likely zip-lining over it. On her last trip, Sarah had brought gifts into the office, trinkets that Brianna was sure had originated in an airport gift shop.

Sarah was blathering on about something, probably the expense of walking tours or swimming with dolphins, but it was getting harder to focus on the words. In fact, she found that what had started as an odd queasiness had suddenly blossomed into the stark imminence of throwing up.

“Are you all right?” Brianna could hear the sounds of concern in Sarah’s voice. She could see the expression on her face to match it, but it looked like it had been painted on, by a poor artist. She just wanted to get out of this house, out into the fresh air. That would make her feel better.

“I just need to go home,” she said, the heel of her hand pressed her to her forehead. “I’m sorry, I just need to—”

“Oh, I understand.” She said the words, but the hurt expression on her face told otherwise. “But at least come upstairs for a minute. Dickie has been wanting to meet you, as much as I talk about you.”

Brianna nodded and allowed Sarah to lead her upstairs. As they reached the top, she felt the outer edges of frigid cold air, like a freezer. She shivered and looked around, wondering how sick she was getting.

“Down here.” Sarah gestured as she walked to the end of the hall, pausing just long enough for Brianna to walk in ahead of her, the pinup smile still firmly planted in its place

Brianna entered the room and the only thing that stopped her from screaming was the blast of cold, dry air that hit her like a physical blow.

The room felt like a meat locker. At the center, stood a simple hospital bed and lying atop it was a corpse, in an advanced state of decay. Brianna started to weave from side to side, vaguely recalling that Sarah had never once touched any of the pastries, or drank any of the tea. The sense of alarm came far too late, as she tried to back away. She felt Sarah’s hand pressing firmly into the center of her back, shoving her forward.

“Can’t you at least say hello?” she asked, the hurt plain in her voice. “He was nice enough to ask to meet you, I think it’s the least you can do.”

 

[image error]

[image error]

.

The decor of the bar looked like it was brined in the deep waters of tradition. Stained oak tables were scattered throughout with chairs of deep glossy black. Clients in expensive tailored suits milled about, savoring the feeling of their cigars or the weight of the brandy glasses.

Chester was leaning on the end of the bar, watching his friend mixing the drinks. They were unlike any spirits he had ever seen, not the muddy browns of bourbon and scotch but the fluorescent beverages of a science fiction set.

Colby strolled over and refilled his glass. “Enjoyin’ yourself, then?”

“This place is the best, I don’t get why you’re so secretive about it. “

“Orders from management. Very exclusive.”

“So why’d you finally invite me?”

Colby shrugged. “I’m about to give notice. What are they going to do? Besides, of everyone I know you’re the least likely to shoot your mouth off.”

“What kind of booze is that?” he asked, “I’ve never seen anything like it. “

Colby looked around the room before answering. “It’s pretty exotic stuff. Shipped in special just for us.”

“Well what is it? Some crazy electromagnetic process that makes them that color?”

Colby shrugged. “No idea how it’s made. I just know what they are.”

“And?”

He looked around the bar again before answering, a flash of mischief as he answered. ” They’re emotions.”

“Get the fuck out of here.”

“Swear to God. Emotions in liquid form, available by the glass.”

“That’s crazy.”

“You think I don’t know that? Regardless, it’s true. We really have to be careful with our dosing.”

“Well then do your buddy a solid. Give that babe over there a big dose of lust and point her in my direction. “

Colby was shaking his head. “I can’t make people do things that they wouldn’t otherwise. It’s not mind control. It just revs up what’s already there.”

Chester shook his head and laughed again, “You are so unbelievably full of shit. You tell a good story though.”

Colby wasn’t laughing, “All right, I’ll prove it to you. See that dunce making his way towards the bar?”

“Yeah.”

“Looks like he might have a lot of pent up aggression in him, doesn’t he?”

“I guess.”

Colby winked at him and made his way down the bar to wait on the new customer. Chester watched as the guy pointed at something while Colby shook his head, pointing instead to a different bottle filled with the effervescent liquid. The guy nodded with what little neck he had and gave a “who cares” gesture indicating his willingness to take whatever Colby was going to provide. He filled a tall glass with the glowing liquid and they watched the man weave his way back to his table.

“What was in that?” Chester asked as Colby came back down.

“My own blend. Mostly aggression with a touch of paranoia.”

“Uh, huh,” Chester said, not believing a word of it but willing to play along, “So they let you play around with the recipes do they?”

“We get pretty free reign once we make it to bartender. It’s not an easy gig to get.”

“So why are you leaving?”

“I have my reasons. Ah,” he said, pointing at the table. The dunce was now standing and jabbing a finger into the chest of his companion, face red from the anger boiling up out of him. Colby gestured for the bouncers but before they could get there, dunce had reached out to upend the table. After landing several quick jabs, his hands were firmly wrapped around his friend’s throat before he was pulled off, kicking and yelling about cameras and surveillance vans.

“You see?” Colby said as he reached down to run a glass under the tap. “Pure emotions available at your server’s discretion, of course.”

Chester shook his head. He had to admit that he was intrigued. “Do they know what they’re drinking?’

“Not a clue. Management has never given us their reasons and we are given luxury to administer the spirits as we choose.”

The door to the bathroom swung open and a young couple walked out. They were both noticeably disheveled; the man straightening his tie and running his hands across his hair, trying to mat it down. The woman tugged at her skirt, straightening it as she walked. Chester turned to his friend and gestured with a raised eyebrow. Colby laughed.

“You caught me. She clearly wanted to but he was too nervous.” He reached out and flicked the neck of one of the bottles, producing a high pitched ringing. “Nudge, nudge.”

“You’re a true—” Chester stopped talking as he spotted a man in a green turtleneck at the far end of the bar obviously trying to get Colby’s attention. He pointed and Colby turned to look, turning somewhat pale at the sight of the man.

“Just a second. He’s my boss.” He walked to the other end and commenced a hushed conversation with the man who seemed irritated and was pointing around the bar at something. Chester looked around to see if he could figure out what the guy was so worked up about but was clueless as Colby came back down, cheeks flushed. He spoke to Chester in a quiet, whipped tone, “You’d better get out of here. Boss is pretty pissed. I’ll see you later, huh?” He walked back to the middle of the bar without waiting for Chester’s response.

Chester headed for the door, not wanting to cause problems for Colby. He noticed that the manager was staring daggers at him as he walked and it took every ounce of self control he had to keep from telling the asshole off.

It was hours later that night when he turned on the news and saw the report of the fire. At first he disregarded the story until he recognized that it had occurred in the very building he had just been in that night. The report stated that initial findings were that the fire had started in a private club on one of the higher levels.

Chester grabbed his phone and dialed Colby’s number. It rang several times before going to voice-mail. Chester disconnected and dialed again. Again, he was directed into voice-mail. One last time, he pressed disconnect and re-dialed and this time, the phone picked up and a cool voice, not Colby’s, spoke on the other end.

“May I help you?”

“Yeah, I’m trying to find Colby Tryerson. He was working at—”

“Mr. Tryerson will no longer be available at this number sir. Am I correct in assuming that you were his unauthorized guest whom he brought onto the premises this evening?”

Chester had an image of his head of the self important asshole in the green turtleneck and his flexed his hand, trying to stay calm, “Look I just want to make sure he’s all right.”

There was a long pause on the other end before the man spoke again, “Mr. Tryerson will no longer be available at this number, nor any other number for that matter. He has moved on to a different position with the company. He will join all the others who perform such necessary services.”

“What does that even mean, where is—”

“This number will no longer be functional after this evening and the phone company will have no record of it even existing,” the voice plowed on, “Feel free to inform whatever authorities you like. A story like the one you would tell would be quite fantastic, I would imagine”

“I don’t—”

“Rest assured that your friend will continue to be an asset to this company. While he is no longer living in the strictest definition, he will prove to be a long lasting source for us to take from him what we require for our rather unique product.”

Chester stammered, not understanding, “I don’t…” He trailed off, question left unarticulated. The man seemed to hear it regardless.

His thoughts and fears were greeted by laughter before the man responded.

“Where did you think the emotions were coming from?”

[image error]

[image error]

 

“Come on, stop feeding me this bullshit,” Dominic said.

“No bullshit, I really don’t know what you’re talking about.” Darius responded.

“Come on.”

“What?”

“How long have we been working together?”

“Going on ten years now.”

“And how long have we been meeting for drinks like this?”

Darius frowned and looked down at his hands, trying to remember. “At least five years. Pizza and beer, every Wednesday.”

“And after all of that, you still can’t bring yourself to trust me? Is that really what you’re saying?”

“It’s got nothing to do with trust, I don’t know—”

“Darius.”

“Seriously, I don’t know—”

“Darius!”

They had reached the point where each was starting to realize that the argument was actually more serious than it had seemed at first. Dominic has started it almost as a joke, but Darius’ reaction was clearly making him upset.

“Okay,” Darius said as he placed the pint glass down on the table. “Just explain what’s bothering you.”

“I know something isn’t right with you. I’ve seen all of the signs, everything you think no one is noticing because no one is watching.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

Dominic rolled his eyes and looked away for a moment. “Don’t make me say it, all right? It makes me sound like a loony. I need to hear you say it.”

“Say what?”

“Darius, for fuck’s sake.”

“I really don’t—”

“All right, I’ll tell you what I’ve been seeing, and you can try to explain it. Last week, I saw you trip and spill an entire pot of hot coffee, all over your arm.”

“And?”

“What do you mean, ‘and’? I would have screamed my damn head off. You didn’t even make a sound. I thought maybe you just have a high pain tolerance, but your skin didn’t even look burned.”

“Wait, I remember that now, the water wasn’t even—”

“Don’t insult me. I watched you take it off of the burner, right after the brew cycle ended. I could see the steam coming off of it.”

“Okay, I think you’re a little off in your recollection, but okay. What else?”

“Just last week. I saw that forklift—”

“Now hold on.”

“No. I know what you told everyone, that you had gotten out of the way, just in time, but I saw the thing back up over your foot. I watched your foot vanish underneath the wheel, and you acted like you didn’t even notice it.”

Darius was already shaking his head. “You’re imagining things. There’s no way I could have—”

“I know there’s no way you could have done that. That’s kind of my point, though. Where are you from, Darius?”

“What? You know that I’m from Baltimore.”

Dominic shook his head. “Nope. I checked you out”

“You checked me out? What kind of a friend does something like that?”

“I don’t know. What kind of a friend keeps something like this to himself? I did a couple of those Internet background searches. No record of anyone with your name in the greater Baltimore area. No one in Maryland, no one in Vermont. Pretty much the entire east coast. Nothing.”

“And why would you trust the Internet?”

“That’s your defense?”

“I don’t need to defend myself, I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Maybe not yet.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Where do you really come from, Darius?”

The two men stared at each other, not conceding an inch in either direction. Darius tugged at his ear with an irritated air about him, as if he was trying to figure out the fastest way out of this argument.

“What do you expect me to say?” he finally asked.

“The truth would be refreshing.”

“Is that what you really want?”

“Yes!”

“Because I think you just want me to tell you whatever you want to hear and wrap it up in a bow, as if it was the truth.”

“I can’t do anything about that,” Dominic said.

“So what is it that you intend to do?” Darius asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m assuming that this confrontation is some kind of preamble to a threat, or demand of some kind. Can we just skip ahead to that part?”

“I just want you to look me in the eyes and tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

Dominic slammed his glass down on the table and slid his untouched food to the side so that he could lean in closer to speak, hissing the response at Darius. “I don’t think you’re human.”

The proclamation stopped the conversation cold. Darius stared, as his mouth slowly dropped open, so taken aback that even he didn’t know how to respond.

“You…do you have any idea how crazy that sounds?”

“Maybe. But that doesn’t make it not true.”

“Well, actually it—”

“I actually know for a fact that you aren’t human. In fact, it was the reason why I was sent here.”

Darius frowned, clearly not getting it.

“I’ll give you credit, you’ve stuck to your cover story, but that doesn’t change the gross errors you’ve been making as of late.”

“What the hell are you—”

“Darius, Sector Command received reports that you were being sloppy, putting yourself into a position to be discovered. Naturally, we couldn’t have that so they sent me, and instructed me to use this body, in order to evaluate your performance here.”

Darius’ eyes went so wide at the shock of the revelation that he didn’t even see Dominic lean forward and bring the blade around, into the base of his neck. He stiffened in his seat and after several convulsions, collapsed to the side onto the seat of their booth.

Dominic stood up and bent down to retrieve the knife. He wiped the blade clean with his handkerchief as he looked down at the body.

“They sent me to clean up your mess.”

 

[image error]

[image error]

 

The rain was heavy that night, coming down in sheets across the empty street around him. Bryce was out of gas and of course, in one of the worst, most isolated areas, just south of the city. All the buildings he could see were dark, save for one.

It was set back from the road, at least several hundred yards. Despite the parking lot being empty, he could see lights on in several of the windows as well as distorted movement through the frosted glass. They would have a phone he could call for a tow.

He was drenched, even through his clothes, by the time he reached the building. Even over the noise of the storm, he could hear the sounds of heavy equipment coming from inside, but he had to take several laps around the building before he found a door. It was locked, of course, being so late, but as hard as he banged on it, no one came to answer. Either they couldn’t hear him, or just didn’t care

The noise from the equipment seemed louder to his right, and when he walked over to investigate, he discovered that a window was cracked open. It looked like an employee locker room, and seemed empty. He spotted a phone across from him on the wall and begin trying to worm his way through.

He eased himself down onto a couch, and stepped down, beginning to move towards the phone that he now spotted on the far wall. It was just out of his reach and as he inched closer, his breath caught in his throat and he froze as he caught sight, in his periphery of someone, sitting alone at a small table.

Bryce jumped back, too surprised to even yell, and managed to kick a book that had been dropped on the floor, which slid across and clattered against the legs to the table. The man didn’t seem even aware of his presence however, and just sat there, staring blankly into space in front of them. A thin line of drool formed at the corner of his mouth, and was drooping nearly all the way to the table.

As Bryce slowly regained his control. He saw for the first time the unfocused look on the man’s eyes, darting from side to side as if on a timer. After several elongated moments of this, he started to rock forward and back in the chair, moaning slightly as he did so.

Bryce walked past him, to the window that looked out over the factory floor. He cracked open the blinds, peeked through the gap and for the second time felt his chest seizing up, unable to catch his breath.

There were people emerging from the machine, rumbling out on a long conveyor belt.

They all looked like the man who was sitting behind him. It was like watching a string of duplicate copies, everything the same, down to the glazed look on their faces. After a few minutes, a buzzer could be heard and now, a female version began to come out of the machine, again all completely identical.

Whatever was going on in here, he needed to get away. Somebody had to be told about this place. He had no idea how he would convince the police to come down, but he had to try. He railed against himself internally, as the drive to do all these things simply wasn’t powerful enough to overwhelm the disgust and awe at what was happening in front of him.

As he pressed closer to the glass, he saw another group of the things climbing one by one, into what looked like large barbers chairs. Equipment lowered down and began working them over, adjusting their appearances. Hair color was changed, glasses were added, the bone structure under the cheeks was actually adjusted like clay, until each thing started looking like a different person. Arms dropped down from the ceiling, attaching different items of clothing, like some kind of life-size doll.

Bryce jumped at the soft moan from behind him. He swiveled his head around to look at the man seated at table, but he still gave no indication of moving. Bryce began to make his way back to the window, where he had crawled in from.

He stepped up onto the couch, and had started to pull himself through, when he heard the door banging open behind him. Someone yelled out, and he heard someone running across the room. He tried to pull harder, but a pair of pants took hold of his legs and pulled him back through. The side of his head knocked against the window frame and he saw darkness.

When Bryce woke up, he thought he had gone blind. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them to make sure that his eyelids hadn’t just been dried shot. All he saw around him was darkness. The sound of his breathing echoed off what he assumed were the walls around him.

His hands had been tied behind him, to the chair in which he was seated. He pulled on them and twisted his hands, but to no avail.

“Hello?” he called out. What had he stumbled into? He was still trying to even reconcile what he had just seen with what he had always thought was even possible. People, being churned out of an assembly line like canned food?

He started to hear sound coming from the darkness around him. He couldn’t identify it at first, but slowly he began to recognize the sound of shuffling footsteps. Bryce strained forward against his restraints but could could not make any headway. Whatever knots were holding him down were not relenting.

He was about to scream out, when bright lights exploded around him and he had just enough time to take in what was going on in the room around him.

All he could see was a small mob of the faceless figures he had seen on the factory floor, still awaiting their final mold. The skin was stretched, grotesquely thin over them as they stumbled towards him. Their moans, which he could now just barely hear, was soon drowned out by his own screams.

All around him, the light retreated to darkness, rendering him once again blind. His shouts became high-pitched shrieks, and the last thing he felt was what seemed like hundreds of different hands grabbing him, and beginning to tear.

 

[image error]