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Of course, she thought. The damn thing came through the gas tank. Ha! Within the flames burned bright, beautiful colors—purple, green, and yellow. Despite the fire and the charring of its scales, the creature tried desperately to resume its journey, crawling toward her, inch by inch . . . Callie began to drift in and out of consciousness, blood loss and acute pain making her woozy, dreamy. The smell of burning stirred up a sea of memories. One memory in particular . . . Not a good one. Burning . . . She remembers looking down at the smoldering shirt. The bowl of water she poured on it didn't save it. As the steam and smoke billowed up into her face, the sight of the blackened shirt struck her heart like a poisonous arrow. That hot, sick feeling in her gut spread quickly, climbing up into her throat, her face. Oh no . . . The steam iron on the sideboard behind her hissed like a treacherous snake. "CALLIE?" His voice. Oh God. He's going to see. He's going to be cross. She looked round, praying she might have a few seconds to hide her mistake, but he was already standing in the kitchen doorway, silhouetted against the hall light. She didn't need to see his face to know what was in his eyes. That angry, cold expression. Oh how she hated it, feared it. She couldn't even look at him.
Oh God, she didn't want to have this memory, not now. Why was she seeing this now? "What the hell have you done, girl?" His voice so big, like thunder. She kept her eyes down, fixed on the smoldering shirt. "I—I just left the iron for a second, and . . ." "A second?" he growled. "You think I'm friggin' stupid, girl?" He took a few lurching steps into the kitchen, the beer bottle dangling from his fingers swinging like a club. He stared down at the ruined shirt. "That . . . that was the only decent shirt I had." "I'm sorry, Daddy," she said, fighting tears. But they were not tears of sorrow. They were tears of dread. She knew what would come next, what always came next. "You're sorry?" he said, shaking his head. "Well, you will be sorry, girl." He craned his neck and shouted over his shoulder: "Stevie!" Her little brother's silhouette appeared down the hall. "Yes, Daddy?" "Get me the strap from the barn." The burning sensation in her chest suddenly turned icy cold. "Daddy?" Stevie said. "I don't want to—"
"Do it! Do it now or you'll get the same." Callie met her brother's gaze and saw the mixture of emotions in his eyes. She nodded to him, just a small movement to let him know it was okay, that it was not his fault. Face creased in misery, Stevie slipped out the side door and returned half a minute later with the leather strap. Slowly, reluctantly, he brought it to his father, who snatched it from him and gripped it tight. Callie pressed her back against the mahogany sideboard, the steam iron bubbling quietly behind her. As her father approached, she let the fear in, welcomed it and accepted it. This was not her father. This was not the man who had raised her through infancy into young womanhood, the man who had taught her how to fish, how to hunt, how to drive a tractor when she was eleven. The man before her was a silhouette, just an outline of the man he used to be—the man he was before Mom died, before everything changed. But the pain he inflicted was real. The beatings did not fade. "Why are you so clumsy, girl?" he said, flexing his fingers around the handle of the whip. "You got rocks in your head?"
That's what he always said; those little phrases designed to wear her down, break her spirit bit by bit. Everything he did was designed to make her feel stupid, worthless, as though she deserved it. But you don't, a voice said. You don't deserve any of this. Then another voice appeared, her true voice: I won't be a victim anymore. No more. NO MORE "No, Daddy," she said, surprised at the calm in her voice. "No rocks in my head." He stopped, only a few feet away from her, fixing her with those red-rimmed, tired eyes. He swayed slightly as he tried to gauge her meaning. Then, slowly, he raised the whip. At the same time her hand gripped the handle of the iron, and she brought it round in a wide arc. The metal plate struck her father in the temple. His face twisted hard to the right. He stayed like that for a few frozen seconds, stunned, hardly comprehending what had happened. Then he slowly turned his head back toward her even as blood began spilling from the gash in his forehead. His face twisted, lips curling. "You stupid, little—"
She lunged forward again, pressing the iron against the twisted, distorted features of the man who used to be her father, the face that had smiled down at her all through her childhood, her teacher, her parent, her daddy. He screamed as the hot iron seared his skin. He fell backward, hitting the kitchen floor hard. Standing over him, Callie watched the strap skid across the floor as he clawed at his ruined face. She was lost in a whirlwind now, beyond rational thinking. Before she knew it, the strap was in her hand and she was striking him, beating the screaming man on the floor. Anger and resentment flooded through her like fire, urging her on. "Stop!" he screamed. But she didn't stop. Again and again she brought that leather strap down, harder than he had ever done to them. "Where's my daddy?" she had cried. "Where is he? Where's . . . my . . . daddy?" Callie came out of the reverie suddenly as the pain in her broken leg suddenly spiked. She screamed into the air. When the scream faded, a new sound filled the silence. The sound she now dreaded more than anything else . . .
The buzz of the shoal. Getting closer. WHY? Why did I have to see that memory now? Just to remind me that "Life's a bitch and then you die"? No . . . "No," she said, lifting her head off the road. She looked to her right and found the still-burning body of the creature less than two feet away, still alive, still twitching, still searching for her flesh. Then she looked down the highway and saw the cloud of swarming bodies approaching fast. Hovering several feet off the blacktop, they rose up in her vision like a specter. Needle-like teeth glinted in the sunlight. Alien eyes bulged at the sight of their latest meal. "No." She sat up, biting back the spike of agony coming from her fractured leg. The shoal reached her, but instead of attacking her they spread out in a fan around her. Before long, she was surrounded by them on all sides. They hovered, undulating in the air, hissing and spitting and eyeing her with those horrible alien eyes. "What?" she said. "What are you waiting for?" She studied them for a long time, waiting for an answer she knew would not come. Maybe she already knew the answer.
"You want to eat me?" She looked around. "Well?" The shoal didn't move. She looked down at their charred comrade and slowly reached for it. Its body was hot against the skin of her palms, but it was nothing like the pain in her leg. She raised it up, holding it just a few inches from her face. She stared into its ovoid eyes, its hideous, scaly face. The body was plump, like the trout they used to fish for in the lake. The creature hissed at her, reminding her of its alien nature. Before she could question herself she sank her teeth into the creature's side. The scales were crunchy, the flesh beneath surprisingly soft and juicy. The creature squirmed in her grip, but she didn't let go. She was not done yet. She bit down again, chewing into its flesh. She must have hit something vital as the beast suddenly stopped fighting. Limp in her hands, she continued to devour it. The taste was not unpleasant, and the sensation of it sliding down her throat, extremely pleasurable. As she ate, she looked at the other creatures. They had stopped hissing. They watched her in eerie silence.
A vision filled her mind, the blurry image of an alien landscape. Rocks and dust hung suspended in the air all around. The sky above was purple and full of ominous, lightning-filled clouds. A shoal hove into view, gliding high above the planet's rocky surface. Then a new shape appeared on the horizon, a huge, monstrous shape like a blue whale only a hundred times its size. The giant alien beast swam through the landscape, opening its huge maw to devour the entire shoal in one swoop. The behemoth swam on, disappearing out of sight. Food, Callie thought as the vision faded. That's all they are. Food. They want to be eaten. Smiling, she finished her meal. * * Through the heat haze, a dozen tanks appeared. The rumble of their approach could be felt half a mile away. Summoning herself from sleep, Callie sat up, wincing against the pain in her leg. She peered at the approaching garrison. The lead vehicle rumbled to a stop several feet from the burned-out husk of the upside-down Trans Am. Callie raised her arm, shielding her eyes from the sun's glare.
Two men appeared from the turret of the tank, a soldier and her baby brother. Their expressions transmuted from concern to absolute astonishment. "Howdy, boys," Callie said. "What took ya?" The shoal swam around her in a beautiful constellation, swooping, diving, swirling. Obedient. Callie grinned. "So . . . who's hungry?" Jack and the Bean Stalker * * Tonia BrownI had known Jack Talent all my life, so it didn't come as a surprise to me when he called me in the middle of the night demanding that I come over right away with no explanation. Or that the invasion of the human race was slated to start with him. Both of these things made perfect sense when you knew Jack personally. I mean, sure, I would've loved for him to just explain what he needed over the phone, but no, I had to haul my ass over to his place at almost midnight to deal with his crap. And some crap it was. The driveway was full of cars already, as was the yard and most of the street. I parked my Bug on the side of the road a few doors down and stalked across the wet grass toward the full house. Music thumped out of the open windows, accompanied by peals of zealous laughter and all the sounds of party-going antics. It dawned on me that Jack was having a birthday party for Tammy after all, and didn't invite me, his best friend. Of course, Tammy didn't like me so there was that. But still, calling me over during a party I wasn't invited to was pretty low.
It was also something Jack would do without a second thought. I stormed to the front door with every intention of beating it down with my insulted rage. But before I could reach it, someone grabbed me by the collar of my jacket and yanked me down into the zinnias. The person pressed me to the ground under his weight, facedown, wrapping a thick hand around my mouth. I was just beginning to wonder how the stranger planned on killing me when I felt his hot breath on my ear. "Rob," Jack said. "It's me." Of course it was Jack. The lunatic! "Are you one of them?" he asked, hissing his words with an angry slur. "Om om moo?" I mumbled under his hand. He released his grip and rolled me over to face him. In the thin light streaming down from the kitchen window, Jack looked like shit. Well, shittier than usual. I never understood what a girl like Tammy saw in him. His unkempt beard poked out at odd angles from his grimy face. Heavy, dark half circles lay under his bloodshot eyes. He smelled deeply of garbage and beer, most of it flowing from his filthy clothes. On this assessment, it struck me that I hadn't seen him in a few days. Not since the night we had a few too many at the Silver Dollar, and Jack was thrown out for trying to grope a waitress's ass. Again.
"How do I know you're not one of them?" he asked. "Get off me," I said in a wheeze. I tried to push him away. "I can't breathe." He ignored my struggling and repeated, "Answer me. Are you one of them?" "One of who?" "Them," he said in a slow drawl, narrowing his eyes at me. "Who are 'them'?" Jack frowned and drew closer, bringing his face inches from mine. He reached out, pried one of my eyes wide, and stared hard into it. Something in there seemed to satisfy him because he let me go and gave me a firm nod. I pushed him off me, finally, and gulped air into my aching lungs as I sprawled out on the lawn behind the bushes. "Jesus, man," I said. "What was that about? You nearly squeezed the life out of me." To my surprise, Jack grinned. "Good. That's good." I sat up and stared at him. "It's good that you almost smothered me to death?" "Yes. That means you're still breathing air. You're not one of them." He crawled forward to peer out of the bushes, making a quick scan of the porch before glancing back at me. "Unless they also need to breathe air. Do plants breathe?"
"What in the hell are you talking about?" "Plants. Plants! Do plants need to breathe?" "I . . . I guess so. In a certain way. I mean they need air to survive, but not really the same kind we do—wait up. Why are we crouched in the bushes talking about plants needing to breathe?" Jack turned around again, his wild eyes and wide smile almost unnerving. He looked maniacal. He still looked like shit too, but now there was an overwhelming touch of madness in his eyes. Shitty and maniacal. Shiniacal. That's how he looked. So there I was, crouching in the bushes with shiniacal Jack, when he opened his mouth and said something I never expected to hear him say. "Because a pod person has taken over my life." I blinked once, then twice. Surely I had heard him wrong. Pod person? I stuck a pinky in my ear and waggled it around, trying to clean out the obvious waxy buildup that kept me from fully understanding my best friend. I turned the now clean ear toward him and said, "I'm sorry, I think I misheard you. Can you repeat that?"
Jack dropped the shiniacal grin in favor of a shrown. "You heard me right the first time." "A pod person?" He nodded. "Has taken over your life?" I said. He nodded again. "How much have you had to drink?" I asked. "I'm not drunk," he said. "Then how much do you need to drink? Because you're sounding a little crazy right now." "I'm not crazy! I'm telling you, a pod person has taken over my life." "How? You're right there. Don't they need to eat you to copy you or something?" Jack grimaced. "Gross, dude. Why you gotta get nasty?" "What? You're the one that said a pod—" "You don't believe me." I dithered. I didn't mean to, but it was hard to hide the fact that, no, I didn't believe him. I didn't want him to know that, because he could get a bit fisty when he was mad. Not feisty. Fisty. As in punching his fists into the nearest source of his anger. Namely me. "Well," I started, "now, I wouldn't say that I don't believe you. It's just, well, you know, kind of hard—" "You don't believe me," he repeated. Jack laid a heavy hand on my shoulder. "I can make you believe me."
I winced under his strong grip. "You can?" He grabbed my sleeve and duckwalked away from the bushes, dragging me with him. I lurched forward, struggling to keep up with his much wider steps. Even at a crouch he was a clean foot taller than me. I tried to stand but he yanked on my sleeve, pulling me down again. "Keep down," he said. "They'll see you." "All right," I said, and did my best to follow him. Jack led me to the back of the house, where he finally allowed me to get up. I stood and stretched, making little circles in the air with my feet as I shook out the pins and needles in my legs. I wasn't exactly physically fit and duckwalking so far took it out of me. Man, I really needed to get in shape. "This way," he said, and headed for the shed. "Jack," I said. "I don't know what kind of game you and the others are playing—" "Not a game. No one else knows. Just you and me." He left me by the side of the house and stormed across the lawn toward the shed. "They'll know soon. They'll all know."
I followed him a ways before I decided enough was enough. "Why did you call—" Jack whipped around to face me and held up his right hand, fingers stretched out to show his palm. "Five seconds." I furrowed my brow at him. "Five seconds what?" "Give me five seconds to change your mind. Or else." He closed his hand into a fist and shook it at me. I gave a sigh, seeing there was no use fighting him on this. "Okay. Five seconds." "Okay." He turned back to the shed and swung the door open. Jack motioned for me to come inside. I followed him into the darkened shed, counting aloud. "One. Two. Three." By the time I hit three he flicked on the light. "Four . . . Holy shit," I said. My mouth dropped open at the sight. The entire shed was wall-to-wall foliage. Thick, green vines traced a path back and forth along the walls, the floor, even the ceiling. Huge leaves, two hands wide, hung from the vines. Beautiful blossoms of red and yellow dotted the vines all along the shed, their petals glistening in the fluorescent light. All of this scattered greenery led back to the far corner of the shed, under the single window. As much as I hated to admit it, under the window there rested an enormous seedpod.
About the size of a person. "What in the hell?" I said. "I know," Jack said. "This is—wow. I mean. Wow. What is it?" I took a few steps closer to the plant. "It's the pod that the other Jack came out of." "Other?" I shot Jack an unsure glance. "Care to elaborate?" "Remember that night at the Dollar?" "Yeah." "Well, the next day I was trying to sleep it off, when I woke up in the middle of the afternoon tied up and gagged and laying down in that thing." He paused to point to the pod. "Some guy that looked just like me said I had to stay in the pod so it could absorb me and he could take over my life." I raised my eyebrows. "Oookay." Jack didn't seem to notice my disbelief. "I was able to get myself free, but when I got back to the house, the new Jack was already in there with Tammy." "What did you do?" "Well, I was going to bust in and rescue her, but I didn't want to put her in danger." "Ah. Yeah. That sounds like you." "I decided to wait and study his moves. So I would know how to take him down." "And that's what you've been doing for the last three days? Living out here in the shed and studying this other Jack's moves?"
Jack nodded. "What have you been smoking?" I inquired. "What do you mean?" he said, losing his filthy thought and grin. "I can't believe you." I waved my hands at the vines and pod. "You called me over in the middle of the night to talk about gardening? You're losing it. Congratulations, Jack. You've finally drunk all your brain cells into submission. You know, I never understood why Tammy has stayed with you for so long. You're such a dick." He held up his hands. "Because I'm great in the sack." "Right. So you say." "Hang on," he said, grabbing his phone from his pocket. "I followed them to the park yesterday. Check this shit." Jack flicked through a few screens, then handed the thing to me. The screen was filled with a picture of Jack and Tammy on a park bench, laughing and holding hands. Only it wasn't Jack. I knew it wasn't Jack with a single glance. It looked exactly like Jack in every conceivable way, but it wasn't my Jack. And not just because the man in the picture was better dressed and clean cut. No. It was because in his other hand he held a bottle of water.
Jack Talent never drank water. Ever. He always said he got enough water in beer. "Dear God," I whispered. I scrolled through the photos and in almost all of them this other Jack almost always had a bottle of water in his hand. My skin crawled at the sight of it. Jack on a carousel, holding a bottle of water. Jack on a paddleboat, sipping from a bottle of water. Jack sprawled in the grass, a bottle of water just above his head. "He looks just like you," I said. "I mean, he's better looking, but he does look just like you. It's uncanny." "I know," Jack said, taking his phone back. "It kind of freaked me out at first, but after . . . Hey! What do you mean he's better looking?" I shrugged. "Well, you know, he's all cleaned up. And you're . . ." I pointed to his filthy clothes and ratty hair. Jack turned his nose up at me. "I can clean up. Just because I don't get all froufrou all the time doesn't mean I can't clean up. Besides, I didn't call you over to criticize my lack of personal hygiene. I need you to help me."
"Help you do what?" "Kill it." I swallowed hard. "I was afraid you would say that." "You should be afraid. Be very afraid." Jack chuckled. "Sorry, dude. That sounded better in my head." "Good, because it sounded pretty stupid coming out of your mouth." We both laughed for a moment. "Are you serious about this?" "As serious as I have ever been." Which wasn't saying much. He picked up a pair of shovels from their spot against the doorframe and handed me one. "Here, you'll need this. I don't know what kind of powers that thing will have, but I think just braining it with a shovel will work. All I need for you to do is watch my back. There is no telling how many other people have been taken over." He exited the shed, holding the door open for me. I stepped out into the yard and looked to the busy house, hefting the weight of the shovel in my hand. "I don't know if I can do this." "Sure you can. We go in there, expose him for the monster he is, and bam!" Jack waved the shovel about. "I smack him down and save the day. And Tammy is so grateful she throws herself at me and quits being such a bitch about the small shit." He lifted the shovel into the air again and brought it down on his imaginary foe.
I watched him wave the shovel around as I weighed his words. "Is that what this is about?" "What's with the what now?" "Is that what this is all about? Did you wait until Tammy's party so you could do this in front of her friends?" Jack hugged the shovel to him. "Maybe." I rolled my eyes. "Jesus. You're a real piece of work." I handed the shovel back to him. "I'm out." "Oh, come on, Rob. You've seen what she's like. You know how she treats me. Tammy is always telling me how worthless I am." "You are pretty worthless." "That I can't hold down a job." "You can't hold down a job." "That I have no fashion sense." "You don't have any fashion sense." "That I'm selfish in bed." I made a noncommittal noise to that one. "Sure," he said, "I could've gone in there at any time and told her she's been slobbering all over a plant man, but I waited until she had all her friends over so I could, you know, save the day." He held up his shovel again. "Don't we all dream of being the hero for our ladies? Help me be Tammy's hero, man. I need this. Come on." He held out the second shovel.
I let out an exasperated breath and grabbed the shovel. "Okay. Let's get this over with." We crept up to the house and quietly let ourselves in through the back door, which was easy considering the place was still thumping and full of party sounds. Jack pointed to me and made a motion to the bustling living room through the far kitchen door, then pointed to himself and motioned to the hallway at the end of the kitchen. I think he meant he wanted us to split up and go around and meet again in the middle of the living room. I nodded, hoping that's what he meant. Jack held up a thumb before he drifted off down the hallway. Holding my shovel close to me, I made my way through the kitchen full of party food and into the living room. The place wasn't as packed as I first thought. There were only about a dozen folks milling around a buffet table filled with more food and drinks. I didn't know anyone. They must've all been Tammy's friends. I waited there with my shovel, sweating up a nervous storm, wondering what Jack's plan was now. A cute little blond girl stood beside the kitchen door. She nodded at me.
"Hi!" she shouted over the music and noise. I raised a hand in greeting. "I like your shovel!" she said. "Thanks!" I shouted. "My name is Sarah!" "I'm Robert! My friends call me Rob!" "Rob with the shovel! It's nice to meet you!" All at once I felt like the world's biggest idiot. What in the hell was I doing? Once again I let Jack talk me into some crazy scheme. I had the creeping feeling he had set me up. That the whole pod thing was some kind of joke. Just then, I caught sight of Jack coming in through the hallway entrance. A nicer Jack. A better-looking Jack. This one was clean-shaven and wearing a pale yellow sweater with white slacks. The partygoers hollered at him and he waved at everyone. He looked so much like Jack. Could he really be a pod person? "What?" Sarah shouted. "What?" I said. "You said something about a pod person!" Great. I had been thinking aloud. Way to blow the plan. I looked around to make sure no one had heard her, or me. "What? Why would I say that? Don't worry about it!" I tried to wave it off, but I only ended up brandishing my shovel at the girl.
"Is that what the shovel is for?" "What?" "For the pod person!" I started to panic. If she didn't stop going on about it, she would ruin the whole sneak attack. I got in close and tried to lower my voice. "Don't be silly. Why would I think Jack is a pod person?" "What?" Without warning, the music cut short, leaving a vacuum of silence in its place. A silence I wasn't expecting when I asked, "I said, why would I think Jack is a pod person?" The sound of breaking glass drew my attention and I turned around to find Tammy standing near the buffet table. A shattered glass rested at her feet, the shards lying in a pool of punch all over the hardwood floor. "Robert?" she said. "Who told you that?" "I did," Jack said. A few people in the room gasped and when I turned around I saw why. Two Jacks stood together near the stereo. One was the clean-cut Jack holding a glass of water, the other the raggedy Jack with a shovel. I rubbed my eyes. When I opened them again, they were still there. Two Jacks. Which meant one wasn't the real Jack. It seemed Jack—my Jack—wasn't lying. The other Jack was a pod person.
"Get back," old Jack said. The new Jack lowered his glass of water to the end table beside him, making sure to put a coaster under the glass. Yeah, that wasn't my Jack. The new Jack stepped away from the old Jack, holding his hands up. "Okay. I know how this looks. But I can explain." "You don't get to explain," old Jack said. "You get to die." Jack raised his shovel. "Wait!" Tammy said, rushing over to the pair. She took the new Jack by the arm and pulled him close. "You don't have to do this. Please." "Tammy," old Jack said, the shovel still raised. "Get away from him. He's not me. He's a plant thing from outer space." Patting the new Jack on the arm, Tammy said, "I know." The shovel dropped from old Jack's hands. "What do you mean you know?" "I know. I've known for a while." Old Jack slowly lowered the shovel to the floor, confusion flitting across his grimy face. "You knew he wasn't me?" Tammy looked at the new Jack. "I knew the moment I saw him. I mean, it's obvious." She picked at new Jack's fancy haircut. "He's so much cleaner than you. And a nicer dresser. And kinder."
New Jack patted Tammy's hand. "Yes, I'm afraid she saw straight through my little ruse." He brushed his fingers over her cheek before he added, "And right into my soul." Tammy sighed as she gazed longingly in new Jack's eyes. Most of the people in the room sighed with her. I was tempted to sigh myself. That was an awful sweet thing to say. "Wait up," old Jack said. "Are you in love with this asshole?" Tammy stamped her foot. "He isn't an asshole. He is perfect. He is sweet, he is kind, and he doesn't try to dry hump me every five minutes." Old Jack laughed aloud. "Whoa. You mean you two haven't slept together yet?" "I don't think that is any of your business," new Jack said. "Which means you haven't," old Jack said. He chuckled again. "Man, you've had all that at your mercy for three days and you haven't boned her? What is wrong with you?" "You see?" Tammy said, putting her hands on her hips. Classic angry Tammy stance. "This is what I mean. You're such a pig. It's always sex, sex, sex with you."
Old Jack snorted. "I never heard you complain." "I did!" Tammy shouted. "I complained all the time! You just never listened." She grabbed new Jack's hand. "But he listens. He cares." I cleared my throat. "Excuse me." "What?" the arguing couple said as they turned to face me. "I hate to bring this up," I said, "but did all of you know about him?" I pointed back and forth at the partygoers, who all seemed abnormally calm considering what was playing out in front of them. The crowd looked around, then folks started nodding their heads. Old Jack's mouth fell open a bit. "All of you knew?" The cute blonde, Sarah, said, "Well, yeah. I mean we didn't know he was a pod person, but we knew something was different." "And you didn't try to do anything?" "Why should we?" a tall man said from the back. "Tammy is happier than we have seen her in years. I for one like the new Jack." "Me too," said a portly chick. Various cries of "Me too" and "Hear, hear" rose from the crowd. "What are you?" I asked the new Jack.
"Rob," Tammy said, scolding me. "Sorry, is that too personal?" "Not at all," new Jack said. "I am from a planet about twenty-three light-years from yours. I have been traveling for some time as part of a scouting mission to find a suitable place for my race to colonize." "I take it Earth is a suitable planet?" "The most suitable we have ever come across. My people will prosper here." "Aha!" old Jack said. "You are planning on invading!" "Not at all," new Jack said. "Don't think of it as invading. Think of it as integrating. We join other species, copy their genetic codes, and live as one with them. Our goal is to create peace and harmony in the societies we integrate with. All across the universe." "That sounds nice," Sarah said. "It does," Tammy said, snuggling up closer to new Jack. "You replace people, though," I said. "I mean, you get rid of the original?" "Yes," new Jack said, "but don't let that worry you. We never replace everyday people. We find that if we replace a few important people in key positions, the cascade effect of our actions creates peace in the rest of society."
"Then you only replace what, politicians and world leaders? Folks like that?" New Jack smiled a flawless grin. "Yes. Exactly. Folks like that." "And me!" old Jack yelled. "And you. I'm sorry." New Jack hung his head. He looked truly sorry. "You were just a test subject. I didn't mean any harm." "Speaking of harm," I said. "I hate to ask this but what happens to the folks you replace? Jack said you put him in the pod you came out of. That the pod needed to absorb him for you to survive." New Jack sucked a quick breath through his teeth. "That part is true, I'm afraid. We need to absorb the full genetic code of those we replicate or we can't hold the pattern. In fact, if Jack doesn't return to the pod by morning, I will cease to exist tomorrow afternoon." "Oh no," Tammy said. "I don't want you to go." She threw her arms around the new Jack and sobbed. "It's all right," new Jack said. "Don't cry, honey." All eyes turned to old Jack, including mine. "What?" he said. "You guys seriously expect me to just climb into that pod out there so this copycat can take my place?"
No one argued. No one spoke. We just kept staring at him. I felt bad for the poor guy, but I had to say, the new Jack was kind of cool. I could see why Tammy was so much happier with him. The old Jack was such a headache and the new Jack seemed, well, nicer. It just seemed a shame that old Jack had to go for new Jack to stay. "Is that what this party is about?" old Jack said. "This some kind of 'Welcome to the planet Earth' party for your new boyfriend?" That did it. Tammy balled her fists. Everyone looked down at their glass or plate or just at the floor. New Jack and I both cringed. "Jack," I said. "It's Tammy's birthday." "Is it?" old Jack said, genuinely surprised. "Well then, happy birthday, baby." But Tammy wasn't having any of that. "Don't you happy birthday me, you jackass. We've been together for five years and you never remembered my birthday. Ever! I always had to remind you and even then you never got me anything. I have no idea why I stayed with you for so long. I am sick to death of pretending everything is okay. You're a horrible person, Jack. You're selfish and filthy and always horny. Loud, obnoxious, rude. You think bacon is a fruit and beer is a substitute for water. And no matter what you keep telling yourself, pornography is not what everyone means when they say chick flick. You're always smelly and always late and always forgetful and never think of anyone but yourself. Please, just do the right thing for once and get in that pod, Jack Everett Talent!"
After that tirade, I fully expected old Jack to blow his gasket and give Tammy as good as she dished out. But no. Old Jack surprised all of us by nodding. "Okay," he said. Tammy blinked in shock. "Okay?" "Okay." "You mean you will?" "If he makes you happy, then I will get in the pod and let him eat me or absorb me or whatever he needs to do." Old Jack furrowed his brow at new Jack. "Will it hurt?" "Not at all," new Jack said. "Are you sure you want to do this?" "Yes," old Jack said. "I love you, Tammy. I know you never think I do, but I do. If he is what you want, then okay. I'll get in the pod. But only if he makes you happy." Tammy took new Jack's hand in her own. "He does. I'm sorry about this, Jack, but he does. This one act of kindness doesn't erase a lifetime of being a douche." "I understand," old Jack said. "Just give me one more night. Me and Rob will go out for a few drinks and when I come back at sunrise, if he still makes you happy, I will get in the pod." "Okay then," Tammy said. "We will see you in the morning."
New Jack held out his hand. "Thanks. This is really big of you." Old Jack looked down at new Jack's hand, then up at new Jack. "You can use that hand to go fuck yourself. Come on, Rob." On our way out I heard Tammy espousing that Jack's exit was exactly why she was glad he needed to get in the pod. I leaned the shovel against the door and rushed out to catch up with him. "What is the plan?" I asked. "The plan is to get out of here," Jack said. "Seriously?" "Seriously." "I figured you would lull the new Jack into a false sense of security while we sneak out back and destroy the pod or something like that." "Nope. Not this time." "Are you really going to do this?" "Sure," Jack said with a shrug. "If he makes her happy, I'll go. It's not like everyone wants me to stay. I see you didn't stick up for me back there." I rubbed at my neck in embarrassment. "Sorry, man. I should've said something but I got kind of overwhelmed with what was happening. I mean, a pod person? It's so weird." "Yeah, weird." He walked on ahead of me toward my Bug.
"You don't seem very worried." "Why worry? I'm a dead man walking. Nothing to worry about anymore." We settled into my Bug and I started the engine. "Which bar?" "Actually, if you don't mind, I'd rather go back to your house and crash. I'm beat." "I thought you'd want to spend your last night partying." "Nah," he said with a serene smile. "I want to be sober in the morning when I get back." "Oh. Okay." I drove us back to my place and we both went to bed right away. I was exhausted anyway and couldn't wait to get away from Jack. He seemed oddly calm. I had never seen someone shoot right past the other stages of grief and go straight to acceptance. It was weird, but then again Jack was weird so no surprise there. My dreams were filled with pods and plants and multiple Jacks. I woke in a cold sweat and didn't sleep much after that. Morning came and I found Jack sitting on the couch waiting for me. We drove back to his house with Jack as calm as I had ever seen him. When we pulled up in the driveway and cut the engine, Jack let out a slow exhale.
"You don't have to do this," I said. "Yes," Jack said, "I do." He got out and I followed him. Jack paused on the porch and rang the bell rather than just letting himself in. Tammy answered the door. I started at the sight of her. She looked horrible. Her hair was a mess and mascara streaked her face. Her eyes were swollen and red, proof of hours spent crying. "Jack," she said curtly. "Tammy," old Jack said. He looked through the open door. "Where is your boyfriend?" Tammy's lower lip quivered. "Gone." "Gone?" "Gone. We had a huge fight about, you know, stuff. He took his pod and his ship and he left. He said the human race could go to hell as far as he was concerned." "Huh. Imagine that." She opened the door wider. "Looks like you win." "Yes. Yes, I do." He looked at me. "Thanks for the ride, man. I'll see you later." I was more confused than ever. What in the hell was going on? As Jack walked through the door, she grabbed his arm. "How . . . how did you know?" He shrugged. "Just a guess." Tammy smiled. "I'll go and get cleaned up and we can . . ." She paused to flick a glance at me then back to Jack before she finished. "We can talk. About stuff."
"I'd like that." He grabbed her around the waist and growled at her. "I'd like to talk with you for a good, long, slow time." Jack smacked Tammy on the ass as she disappeared into the house, then he turned to me. "Thank God that's over." I stood in the open doorway, mouth agape. "What just happened? I thought he was so much better than you? Why did she make him leave?" Jack chuckled. "Tammy might be a bitch but she is right about one thing—I am a selfish lover." He smiled wide. "Except for one day a year." I smiled with him. "Her birthday." "Yup. Sure, she has to remind me, but she reminds me for a reason. I might have never bought her anything, but you can't buy that kind of satisfaction." "You son of a bitch. You have got to be kidding me." "No joke. You wanna know why she has stayed with me for so long? Every man has a talent, my friend. And mine happens to be in the bedroom, if you get my meaning." I laughed aloud. "I do, man. I do." "I mean, I ride her like a four-wheeler in a mud pit on a hot summer's—"
I held up my hands. "Jack, seriously, I get it. You don't have to tell me the details." "Okay. Suit yourself." With that, he shut the door in my face. Typical Jack. As I climbed back into my Bug, I wondered how different things would've been if the new Jack and his people had really integrated with us. I also wondered what their idea of happiness was. After all, if they couldn't satisfy one of our women, what hope did they have of satisfying the entire human race? The Rider * * Jake BibleThe flames licked the sky and I danced! I watched as my house, and all the houses, the perfect little houses, went up in smoke, and all I could do was dance like I'd scored in the Super Bowl. I was free. I had beaten them! They couldn't stop me, they couldn't keep me from telling the truth, they couldn't hold me with their balloons and cookies and business cards! I had scorched the earth they wanted so badly! Scorched it, cleansed it, obliterated any trace of them! They messed with the wrong Broncos fan! Then . . . then I heard the cries. I heard the screams. I heard the calls for help.
The calls for me to help. "Daddy! Daddy, help us! DADDY!" Oh God, what did I do? What did I do? * * "Anthony? Are you listening to me?" "What? Oh, yes, sorry. I was lost in thought." "What were you thinking about? Was it the fire?" "Yes . . . maybe . . . I don't know . . ." "Would you care to talk about the fire?" "Do I have to? I know you want me to, but do I have to?" "The court has mandated that you remain in this facility until I can ascertain your mental state. If you want to leave here then you'll have to show me you are mentally fit to stand trial, Anthony. The only way I can know that is if you talk to me and specifically talk to me about the fire." "But, the girls . . ." "Yes, I know how distressing the memories must be for you. I once—" "YOU KNOW NOTHING! YOU KNOW ONLY WHAT YOU WANT TO SEE! THEY ARE EVERYWHERE! EVERYWHERE! YOUR FRIENDS, YOUR NEIGHBORS! EVEN YOUR FAMILY! EVERYWHERE! AND THEY WILL NOT GIVE YOU WHAT YOU WANT! THEY TAKE! THEY TAKE AND TAKE AND TAKE! THEY TOOK IT ALL FROM ME!" "Calm down, Anthony. Please, calm down. No one can get you here, okay? You are in a safe place. This room is a safe place. I am here to help you, okay? Please, let me help you. Can you do that? Can you calm down and let me help you?"
"I don't . . . Yes . . . I can calm down and let you help me." "Good. Good. Now, tell me about these people that are everywhere. What do they look like?" "They aren't people, Dr. Chalmers. They are Realators." "I think you mean realtors." "No, Doctor, I mean Realators. REALATORS!" * * "The Berglands have a FOR SALE sign in their yard," Maura said. "Has Chip said anything to you about selling?" "What?" I asked, not really paying attention to what my wife said because . . . well . . . the football game. "I haven't seen Chip in a week." "I know that," Maura replied. "But the last time you saw him, did he say they were selling?" "Selling? Selling what?" I asked. "The boat? I don't blame them. That's a money pit and the HOA is tired of it being in their driveway." "No, Tony, they are selling their house, dammit!" Maura shouted. "Pay attention, please!" "What? Crap, sorry, baby. The Vikings just scored and—hey! Turn that back on!" "I will not," Maura growled. "I want you to answer my question." "Okay," I smiled. "Uh . . . what was the question?"
"You're an ass," Maura snorted. "Watch the girls. I'm going over there to talk with Lizzy." "Can I turn the game back on?" I asked. The door slamming enough to make the glasses in the kitchen clink was my answer. I wish I could take all of that back. As God as my witness, I would have listened and handled it better. I would have gone over with her. I would have told her not to worry about it. I would have been involved. But I wasn't. It was all my fault. But, you know, the football game. * * "Do you believe your being here is your fault?" "My fault? How the hell is it my fault? I didn't start taking over people's lives! I didn't brainwash them and turn them against their neighbors! I didn't plot the domination of the world!" "Then what did you do?" "I . . . uh . . . did nothing." * * "I'm going over to the Lancasters' open house, Tony," Maura said. "The girls are staying here. Please keep an ear out for them since they are in the backyard playing." "Mmm . . ." "Tony!" she shouted. "What?!" I shouted back.
"Did you hear me?" she asked. "Yeah, yeah, you're going into the backyard to play house with the girls. Got it," I replied. "You are hopeless," she snapped. "What are you watching? More football?" "This is college," I replied. "Thursday was NFL." "You're not going to watch football all day, are you? The front yard needs to be mowed." "Sure, right, front yard. On it." "Whatever," she huffed as she left the house. I went and found some Doritos. * * "Did you end up mowing the front yard?" "What?" "The front yard. Did you end up mowing it?" "Well . . . no. USC was in overtime and then I switched to the Michigan game and after that was the Oregon game. I just forgot." "So if you were so preoccupied with football then how did you start to notice the differences in your wife? That's what you said, correct? That your wife began to act differently after the open house at the Lancasters?" "Do I have to talk about this, Dr. Chalmers? I really don't want to." "Yes, you have to talk, Anthony. It is for your own good and for the good of the victims' families. There has to be closure."
"Closure . . ." "Yes, closure." * * "Uh, babe, what are you doing? It's three in the morning?" I asked as I came down the stairs to see my wife hurrying back and forth from the living room to the dining room and then back to the living room. "Eggshell," she said. "Or Morning Fog. Maybe Cappuccino? No, no, too dark. Keep it neutral. Neutral is how you draw them in and keep them. Don't let them see what's behind the paint. Don't let them see . . ." "Maura? Sugar? Are those paint samples? Why the hell are you comparing paint samples at three in the morning?" I asked, rather alarmed since there was no way I was painting the house. Screw that. "The Berglands just closed," Maura said without looking at me. She had the sample of Sauteed Mushroom in a Delicate Cream Sauce against the molding around the dining room door. "The Lancasters are about to close and from what Dorie Villanova has said, she and her husband aren't far behind. We can't be left, Tony. If we don't sell then we'll be left. We can't be left."
"Um, babe, we aren't selling the house," I replied. Yeah, that didn't go over well. "Yes. We. Are," Maura snarled. "We have to. I already scheduled the open house." "Wait. You what? Sugar, we aren't selling the house." "YES. WE. ARE!" she roared. "Daddy?" Bessie said from the top of the stairs. "What's going on?" "Nothing, sweetheart," I replied. "Mommy has just lost her sh—." "We're selling the house, Bessie. Isn't that great? It's all in the location, you know, and our location is the best. The best. No better in the neighborhood. Once they see that then we'll be allowed to go with them. Can't stay here. No, no, no. Can't stay here. All in the location." "We're selling the house?" Allison asked as she joined her sister. "Cool." "Not cool," I said. "We are not selling. Now go to bed, girls. It's late." They walked off and I turned back to my crazy wife. "I'm going back to bed too. We aren't selling." "Yes, we are," she replied as she taped all of the paint samples to the living room wall then sat down and stared at them.
"We'll talk about it in the morning," I yawned. "Come to bed when you're done there. Or not. Whatever." * * "If I'm reading this transcript right, you say that your neighbors started selling their houses one after the other, with open houses happening almost daily. Is that correct?" "Yeah." "But—and here's the problem, Anthony—there are no records of any sales. No one on your block has sold a house. Not a single one." "It's because of the Realators. They don't buy them with money and they sure as hell don't register it with city hall." "What do they buy them with then?" "Promises." "Promises? What kind of promises?" "Promises that you'll be spared when the Big Sale comes." "The Big Sale? Hold on, hold on, let me see . . . Oh, yes, here it is. You say the Big Sale is when the Realators finally take possession of the Earth and those that sold live and those that refused die. Correct?" "Yeah." "Do you believe this, Anthony? That there are beings called Realators looking to buy up all the property on Earth with promises?"
"They don't have to buy it all up, just the majority share. It's in their Covenants." "Right, the Covenants they make people sign to show their loyalty." "Yeah." * * "Sign it, Tony," Hal grinned. "Just put your John Hancock right there and it's all done." I stood on my front porch and looked up and down my neighborhood. Every house but ours had balloons on the mailboxes and OPEN HOUSE signs out front. The smell of fresh-baked cookies was almost overwhelming. I felt like I was choking on mustard gas made out of chocolate chips and snickerdoodles. "Tony," Maura growled. "Sign the paper. For me. For your daughters." I looked behind me and into the house. The girls stood there, their faces drawn and scared. They knew—they knew—that something was wrong. I mean, who schedules all these open houses during playoffs, am I right? "These aren't closing papers," I said as I looked at the strange documents on Hal's clipboard. "I've seen house closing papers before, Hal. I'm not signing these. And what the hell are 'Covenants'? You can't amend the HOA regulations without calling an official HOA meeting and having a quorum present. I know that much."
The TV blared the Seahawks game, and I could tell I just missed something big. I sighed and turned to my wife, ready to lay out my argument one last time. "We aren't selling," I said. "End of story." "Sorry to hear that, Tony," Hal said. "I am really, really sorry to hear that." "I'll talk to him," Maura said. "You do that." Hal frowned then looked past me and at my daughters. "You two should come play with Lisa. She misses you." The girls didn't respond. "Last chance, Maura," Hal said. "Midnight is the deadline." Then he turned and walked off to the group of neighbors waiting by the curb. The Berglands, Lancasters, Whitreds, Ketts, Garrets, Villanovas, Havingshaws, Tulanes, even the Trangs, who never came out of their house, all stood there staring at me. I waved and went back in to watch the game. * * "None of your neighbors remember that day, Anthony. They all testified, those that survived, that you were out on your front lawn in your underwear, screaming at everyone that walked by." "What? I never did that. No, hold on . . . Okay, yeah, I was in my underwear when Hal came over. I had spilled salsa on my sweatpants and they were hanging in the downstairs bathroom. But who cares? Everyone has seen their neighbors in their underwear."
"No, that's not true, Anthony. I haven't seen any of my neighbors in their underwear. But then I live outside town on a nice piece of land. Eighteen acres with a pond. So no neighbors, really." "Lucky you." "Keeps me from being burned to death by one, doesn't it? Oh, dear me, sorry. That was out of line." "Yeah, it was. Jeez." "Sorry. Now, tell me about what happened at midnight." "No." "Anthony? I am here to help." "No." "If you do, then I may be able to arrange for you to see your daughters. Would you like that?" "My daughters? But they . . ." "They are still recovering, yes, but it's within my power to arrange a visit." "My daughters . . ." * * "Daddy? There are people at the door," Allison said. "Huh, what, where?" I asked as I rubbed my eyes and switched on the bedside lamp. The rest of the bed was empty. "Where's your mother?" "She's at the door," Allison said. "Then she can deal with it," I said as I started to turn out the light, but Allison put her hand on mine. "No, Daddy, she's at the door with everyone else," she said.
"Yeah, so let Mom deal with them," I replied. "Daddy!" Allison shouted. "Mom is outside with everyone else! She isn't inside! She's outside!" "What? It's like thirty degrees out," I said. "She's out there and they are with someone," Allison said. "They keep calling your name over and over. It's making it hard to sleep." I sighed and stood up then grabbed my sweats and slipped them on. "Where's your sister?" I asked as I followed her to the stairs and down to the front door. "She's in bed," Allison said. "Upstairs." "She is? Good. You go back up there too, okay? You need your sleep." "Yeah, I know," Allison yawned. " 'Night, Daddy." " 'Night, sweetheart." I watched her go back up, then turned and opened the door. I noticed two things: that every single one of my neighbors was on my front lawn, with my wife in front of them, and that all the houses I could see had their front lights on and there were fresh balloons floating from the mailboxes. No, wait, I noticed three things. The third was that it smelled like chocolate-caramel brownie cookies. Which I don't like because they usually have walnuts in them and I hate walnuts. I preferred the snickerdoodle smell.
"Hey, everybody," I said. "What's up?" "Sign the Covenants," they all said as one. "Sign them, Tony," Maura said as she walked up to me and shoved a stack of papers in my hands. "Sign them now and we will get our promise. If you love me then you'll let me get my promise, Tony. Do you love me?" "Yeah, baby, I love you more than anything," I said. It was a white lie. I loved my daughters more than anything. Maura was easily second. Or tied for second with football, at least, since I'm being honest. "Sign the Covenants," the neighbors chanted. And that's totally what they did. It was like a little cult sing-along. They even started to sway back and forth. "Sign the Covenants," Maura said. "Then we can be together forever." Yikes. Forever is a long time. "I'm going back inside, baby," I said. "I need to sleep. The games start early tomorrow." "Grab him," Maura said to my neighbors. "We'll have to make him sign." "You what?" I asked as everyone rushed me. "Oh, crap!" I turned and ran inside, intending to head back upstairs, but I tripped on the hall rug and had to scoot-scamper my way into the dining room instead. I could hear them rushing through the house. A hundred feet all pounding against our bamboo laminate flooring.
"TONY!" Maura screamed. "Time to sign!" I got through the dining room and was into the living room when my path was blocked by Margo Zoletti. She was holding a baseball bat and smiling. "What are you going to do with that?" I asked. "Sign or no football," she said, raising the baseball bat above her head as she turned to my 64-inch HDTV. "You won't do that, Margo," I laughed. Margo had been a college cheerleader. There was no way she'd hurt my TV. Then she hurt my TV. She hurt it so bad. So bad . . . * * "And the next thing you remember is that you were dancing in the street while your house burned?" "Yeah." "You have no idea how you got the gas can? Or why you were burning your house?" "Uh . . . no." "Anthony, honesty is how I help you. Please, be honest with me. Why did you burn your house down?" "Because . . . because . . ." "Yes?" "Because . . . because they made me sign! They said I'd get a new TV and then I could watch all the football I wanted! They made me! They forced me!" "But why would you burn your house down if they were giving you a new TV?"
"Because they lied! That's what Realators do! They take over people, they control their minds, they get them to sign, and THEN THEY LIE!" "Calm down, Anthony. Tell me, how did they lie?" "It wasn't in the Covenants. I signed like they said, then they laughed at me and told me I should have read what I was signing. There was no rider for a new TV, Dr. Chalmers! THERE WAS NO RIDER!" "Okay, okay, take a deep breath. Center yourself." "Sorry, sorry, it's just so hard to think about. No TV. No TV. That meant no football." "So you burned down your house? Why? I'm still not seeing the connection." "I just said! No football. What the hell is the point of a house if there's no TV and no football?" "To live in, Anthony. To raise your family in. The normal reaction to losing a television is not to burn down your house." "It is when you're told you not only aren't getting a new TV, but you will NEVER be getting a new TV! My God, Doctor! Haven't you been listening? There was no rider! Why am I even talking to you? What's the point?"
"Your daughters. You are talking to me so I can say you are fit to see your daughters." "Right, right. My daughters. How do they . . . how do they look?" "They are healing. It's about all I can say." "Okay. Sorry." "Are you, Anthony?" "What?" "Are you sorry? I need to hear it from your lips." "Hear what?" "That you are sorry for burning down your house. For hurting your daughters. For trying to burn the other houses down. I need to hear you say it." "I don't know . . ." "Think about it, Anthony. Once you can admit what you've done and admit there are no such thing as Realators, then I can take you to see your daughters in their hospital room." "Wait . . . hospital room?" "Well, yes, that's where they are. Like I said, they are still healing." "I'm sorry. Totally sorry." "What?" "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for burning down my house and for lying about the Realators and for trying to burn down the neighborhood. I'm sorry for it all." "Well, that was sudden." "Yeah, totally, but you're a great doctor. You helped me see the truth. Can I see my daughters now in their hospital room?"
"Yes, but it'll be a couple of days. I have to make all the arrangements." "A couple of days? So, Sunday then?" "Probably. Let me check my calendar. Hmm . . . yes, Sunday will work." "Wonderful. Thank you, Doctor. Thank you so much." * * "You can speak to them," Dr. Chalmers said. "Just be calm about it." I barely heard him, I was so overjoyed. There, finally, a TV. "Huh? Oh, right," I said. "Hey, girls." "Heh, Duddee," they said. Or I think they did. Hard to tell with the bandages. "Where's the remote?" I asked. "I'm sorry?" Dr. Chalmers replied. "The remote," I said. "For the TV. The Super Bowl is on and I always watch the Super Bowl with my girls." "Yes, well, it's right here," he said as he picked up the remote from a bedside table and handed it to me. "But we can't stay . . . very . . . what are those out there?" He walked away from me and over to the window. I sorta looked, but didn't really since the—well, the Super Bowl. "Duddee?" Allison mumbled. "Hold on, baby, Daddy's finding the game," I said as I clicked through the channels.
"Duddee, wuz dat?" "Huh, baby?" I asked, but didn't really. I mean, I asked, but it was more of a reflex. I was too busy flipping through the channels. "What the hell is all this crap? Where's the damn game?" "Reports are coming in that balloons have started to appear on every piece of property in the country," an anchorwoman said as I finally stopped looking for the game. "Oh, God, Anthony," Dr. Chalmers said from the window. "You . . . you . . . the Realators." "That's not all, Diane," an anchorman said. "There are reports that everywhere you go, the smell of cookies is so overpowering that health officials are asking that those with bronchial issues stay inside." "I sure do love cookies, Ted." "Me too, Diane. Oh, wait, our producer is saying there is a new development . . . I'm sorry, Larry, but that can't be right . . . No, no, I understand." "Oh my." "Oh my, indeed, Diane. Folks, we are now receiving reports that there is something now blocking the moon." "But it's daytime, Ted." "Oh, Diane, you silly woman, the moon can show up during the day."
"Oh, huh. Well, learn something new every—well—day. Ha ha ha ha." "Let's go to our reporter in the field, Tamara Gutierrez. Tamara?" "Thank you, Ted. It appears there are several massive Mylar balloons now bobbing around the moon. And by massive, I mean massive. I have here a local expert. Can you tell us more about these types of balloons?" "Uh, well, I just fill up normal-sized ones at the Rite Aid. I don't really know about—" "Anthony? What do we do?" Dr. Chalmers asked as he rushed to me, grabbed the remote from my hand, and turned off the TV. "Hey!" I replied. "You . . . you were right, Anthony. The Realators. I see them. Down in the parking lot with their fistfuls of balloons and plates of cookies. They are hideous. What do we do?" I walked to the window and looked down at the parking lot four stories below. "Huh," I said. "I've never actually seen a Realator before." "What?" Dr. Chalmers exclaimed. "Yeah, I only dealt with my neighbors," I replied. "Boy, you're right, they are pretty hideous. Yuck."
"Anthony! You are the only one that knows what is going on!" Dr. Chalmers screeched. I grabbed him by the shoulders and slapped him once, twice, three times. Then four times because I like symmetry. "Get it together, Doctor," I said. I smiled at my girls. "Hang tight, girls. Daddy has work to do!" "Work? What work?" Dr. Chalmers asked, his eyes teary and wild. "Well, first, we go to every room and save the TVs," I stated. "But if that doesn't work then we find the best team of lawyers we can. If the lawyers haven't been taken over yet, that is. I'm sure the Realators have already gotten to the real estate lawyers by now, at least. Maybe the contract lawyers are still free." "Lawyers?" Dr. Chalmers cried. "Have you lost your mind? What do we need lawyers for?" "This time I'm ready," I said as I ran out into the hall. "This time there will be a rider! A RIDER FOR THE EARTH! A RIDER FOR OUR TVs, FOR THE SUPER BOWL, FOR OUR VERY LIVES! But mostly for the Super Bowl and TVs." "Buh, Dudee!" "Buh-buh!"
"Bye, girls! Don't be afraid! I'll be back with a rider! TO THE LAWYERS!" Out of Mind * * Faye McCrayIt had been four minutes since I'd thought about the dead girl at the party. Four minutes and about ten seconds if you count the tone-deaf riffs Ben and I attempted after the song was done. Then he looked at me, smiled, and ruined it. Reminding me that he was, in fact, trying to distract me from the dead girl while simultaneously reminding me that nothing could really distract me from the dead girl. That was the pesky thing about dead girls. They were impossible to forget. Less than forty-eight hours earlier she had been slumped at my feet, her thick blood pooling onto the sticky dance floor between us as her life poured from the smoky bullet hole burrowed into her toned tummy. Her body shook and shuddered as the stampede of screaming partygoers rushed toward the exit, trampling her beautiful salmon-colored dress. I stood beside her, speckled in her blood and still. My scream was stuck like a gumdrop in my throat, my feet frozen in place.
"Are you okay?" Ben looked at me uncomfortably from where he sat behind the wheel of his small sedan. He spoke in that same reluctant tone he had when I showed up at his apartment that night covered in her blood. Like he wasn't sure if the title of "sort-of ex-fiancé" made him qualified to deal with dead girls and blood stains. Drunk, midsex proposals make for a tenuous kind of commitment. The night I went to the club, Ben and I were on a break. I'd found a phone number for Katie-with-a-heart-over-the-"i" buried in one of his pockets and listened to him stammer out an epically weak explanation about how it got there. They weren't his pants or they weren't his pockets, he didn't even know his pants had pockets. "Drink," a coworker I'd confided in said the minute we got to the club. She placed the tequila shot in my hand and watched me throw it back. She barely gave it time to burn its way down before handing me another. Maybe if I hadn't been drowning in tequila when the dead girl was shot, I would have had the good sense to run. Instead, I stared down at her in a sort of dreamlike fog, not entirely sure she, or even I, was real.
"Tiff, are you okay?" Ben asked again. He placed his hand hesitantly on my thigh. We hadn't exactly gotten back together. The last time we spoke I was a blubbery mess. Spouting mournful Sara Bareilles lyrics in one breath and Beyoncé-like revenge predictions in the other. "I guess that's a dumb question." His dark brows furrowed, squinting his brown eyes. He'd been choosing his words gingerly for the whole ride as if at any moment I'd say, "I completely forgot you were an asshole," and leave him on the side of the highway. I placed my hand on his and managed a small smile. "It's not dumb. I'm just not entirely sure of the answer. One minute, I'm laughing and the next . . ." "I know." "This is the most depressing road trip ever," I said, frowning. "Not true. We could be listening to Celine Dion and playing with razor blades." I laughed. "Good point." He smiled and then looked at me a little longer than was driver safe. His face grew serious. "I'm just sorry you were there." I looked out the window and began biting hard on the inside of my cheek, a nervous habit I'd picked up from my mother. I bit a little too deeply and tasted blood on my tongue.
He continued, "You shouldn't have even been there. After everything that happened with your parents. After everything that happened with us . . ." I winced. "This didn't have anything to do with my parents or what happened between us." My tone was a little harsher than I intended. The only thing the dead girl had in common with my parents is that they were all dead. As far as Katie-with-a-heart-over-the-"i," she might as well have been dead, too. "I just meant . . ." "I know," I said softening. "I just don't want to talk about it. Any of it." I played with the tips of his fingers, lifting them one by one and watching them fall back against my leg. "I'll be okay." He laced his fingers between mine and squeezed, his face collapsing in relief. I looked over at the Maps app, shining bright from his iPhone. Less than two hours until we arrived at the "reclusive oasis in Western New York State, far from the hustle and bustle of fast-paced city life." Well, at least according to the Living Social ad. Maybe if we drove fast enough we could outrun all the memories, especially the cold, dead one still lying at my feet.
* * "Where are we?" The jolt of the car stopping startled me awake. I sat up and looked at Ben who placed the car in park. I didn't even remember falling asleep. "Bathroom," he said. "Here?" I looked out the window. We had pulled into a parking spot adjacent to a gas station convenience store, surrounded on either side by overgrown wild bushes and dense trees. It looked like it was covered in a haze of dust. Remnants of the station's name were peeling from a long, tattered signpost and blades of grass were growing from the cracks in the asphalt. A neon sign flashed the word OPEN again and again on the door. I could hear the buzzing from inside the car. "This is as good as it gets," he said, peering out the car. "Be careful." I looked out into the deep woods, imagining all the things buried in them. Ben laughed. He was always amused by my city girl wariness. Though we met at a café in Midtown Manhattan, Ben was originally from rural Pennsylvania. He didn't share my mistrust of uninhibited plant life and open space.
"You've been watching too many horror movies." "Um, raise your hand if you watched someone die in real life two days ago?" I put my hand up and stared at him. His face softened. I put my hand down, wishing I could pull the words back into my mouth. I walked myself right into that pity party. "I'm just saying, there's a reason I don't have the best opinion of other human beings right now." He nodded, looking at me in that same helpless way he had when I stood in his bathroom desperately trying to wash the dead girl's blood off my hands. "I'll be careful," he said. "And I'll be right back." He got out and ran into the store. I pulled the passenger seat visor down and tousled my onyx curls. My eyes were puffy and my deep brown skin looked dry. I looked horrible. I couldn't wait to get under the covers with Ben in our "reclusive oasis in Western New York State" and not come out until the weekend was done. We'd slowly forget about Katie-with-a-heart-over-the-"i." We'd slowly forget about the dead girl.
Dead girl. I thought of her again. The blood pouring through her dress. The crash of her body against the ground. I could still feel the speckles of blood spray against me as she fell to my feet. I wondered if her funeral would be on a Sunday. If her body would be lowered into the ground at the same time she would normally be having brunch. I wiped a stray tear from my eye and took a deep breath. I looked into the hazy windows of the store to see if I could make out Ben. Instead, I saw a round, balding store owner fiddling with things behind the counter. He pushed them in and out of their place before leaning forward and staring out at nothing. That must be the most boring job ever. Just then, a white pickup truck pulled quickly into the parking lot a few spots away from our car. It braked with a jolt. A man and woman hopped out, slamming their car doors hard before walking toward the convenience store. The woman's long, wispy dark hair floated as she walked, and her eyes looked unfocused and confused. The man was tall and broad. He had an ivory cap pulled down tightly on his head, casting a dark shadow over his eyes. A deep scar ran from the corner of his right eye to his chin that made his face look uneven, like I was looking at him in a fun-house mirror. He walked with intense focus and big, determined strides. The woman stopped and cocked her head to the side for a moment as if someone had called her. The man said something and took her hand protectively, pulling her along into the store. I shrunk down in my seat and began gnawing at the inside of my cheek again. I bet he kidnapped her, I thought, biting harder. They were exactly the kind of creepers I expected to be in a place like this.
Maybe I do watch too many horror movies. I leaned my head back against my seat and closed my eyes. "Take it easy, Tiff," I mumbled to myself. I wondered what was taking Ben so long. "Hey!" I jumped, feeling a sharp bolt of fear. I opened my eyes and Ben was standing at the window. I sat up and rolled it down. "It's just me," he said noticing he had startled me. "You okay?" Question of the year. I shook my head. "I'm certifiable." "Stopping here probably didn't help." He looked around the near-deserted station warily. I nodded. "Can we go?" "Yeah. I just wanted to see if you wanted anything from the store. They have Krispy Kreme." He smacked his lips together to entice me. I laughed. Just as I was about to speak, the man and woman from the pickup truck walked out of the store. They looked in our direction and walked toward us. Ben noticed me looking behind him and turned around. "Hey there," the man said as they approached. Ben leaned back against the car, partially blocking my view. "Hey." "Beautiful day out here, isn't it?" the man said. I could hear the forced smile in his voice.
"Sure is." "I'm Paul. This is Diem." Ben extended his hand. "Ben," he said shaking both of their hands. "That's my girlfriend, Tiffany." He leaned to the side and I waved, feeling a sudden rush of anger. Had he forgotten he'd proposed? I hadn't. Diem peered at me intently through the window, and a smile crept across her face as if she was reading my mind. "Any big plans for the weekend?" "We're from the city," Ben started. "We had a rough week and needed to get away for a few days. We got a good deal on an inn not too far from here. What about you all?" He glanced back at me and smiled and I tried my best to telepathically communicate my disapproval of his sudden onset of verbal diarrhea. Knowing Ben, he was seconds away from giving them our dates of birth and social security numbers. "We live nearby. I used to live in the city," Paul said. "It was a little too much for us." He looked squarely at me and I looked away uneasily. "I get that," Ben started. I glanced around, tuning out their small talk. A breeze was moving slowly through the air, sending a used Styrofoam cup tumbling across the parking lot. The cup stopped in front of the store. I looked inside and gasped. It looked like thick red blood was pooling at the base of the counter. For a moment, I thought I was remembering her again, so I blinked and looked harder. A steady drip of blood was unmistakably falling onto the floor. I looked up and the round store owner's body was draped awkwardly across the counter. His eyes were closed and blood was pouring from an open wound on his head.
Fear gripped my chest. "Oh my God." "What?" Ben stopped midsentence and turned to me. "I was really hoping you wouldn't see that," Paul said, looking at me. Ben turned back to look toward the store and I could see his face distort as his eyes fixed on the store owner. "Holy shit!" Ben backed into the car. "We don't want any trouble, man." Ben put his hands up defensively and started to round the front of the car, but Paul grabbed him by the back of his shirt and flung him back against the passenger door. "Don't touch him!" I yelled. I looked at Diem, who was looking at Ben and Paul with thirst in her eyes. Ben shoved him, but Paul's large frame barely budged. Paul laughed but just as quickly grew serious. He pressed Ben into the car with one hand and pointed directly in his face. "Don't let that happen again," he said but after a moment continued, "ah, screw it, they never go easy." He punched Ben hard in the face. Ben's head flopped back like he was a rag doll and he fell unconscious to the ground.
"No, no, no." I unbuckled my seat belt quickly, crawling my way into the driver's seat. Paul swung open the car door and grabbed my legs, dragging me by the ankles out of the car. I kicked and screamed, trying my best to hold on to the seats. I fell out of the car hard. The side of my face smacked the concrete. I turned on my back and held my hands up. "Do you want money? You can have our money." I pulled the thin gold locket I was wearing from my around my neck and held it toward him. "You can take everything we have." My voice was high-pitched and unrecognizable. Diem walked over to stand above me. She leaned down so she was close to my face and inhaled deeply. "It's her," she said. She inhaled again. "It's all over her." "Please," I begged. I could feel cold tears streaming down my face. She drew back and looked at Paul, who walked up beside her. "Are you sure?" She nodded. I started to speak but the words never made it out. Paul slammed his fist hard into my face, bouncing my head like a basketball off the concrete.
* * For a brief moment before I opened my eyes, I convinced myself that I was still in the car. I could almost feel the wind pouring in through the windows. I could almost see Ben's profile as he stared out contentedly at the road. It'd all been a nightmare. One shitty, terrifying, sad, long, nightmare. The pain belied my fantasy. I felt like someone had taken a hammer to my head. It shot through me, throbbing, causing a dull ache down my spine. I was sitting. The seat felt hard beneath me. My wrists were restrained behind my back. My legs, tied at the ankles. I peeled my eyes open and blinked slowly to bring the small, dimly lit room into focus. It smelled damp and musty. The walls were covered in peeling floral wallpaper. The ceiling had large holes and sections of it looked to be caving in. The door to the room was closed but knobless. The one window in the room looked as if it were completely shielded by shrubs. Wherever I was had been abandoned. They'd brought me here so I couldn't be found.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something move. "Ben?" I could just make out his shoes as he sat up from where he lay on the dusty floor. "Tiffany," he called. Relief washed over me. "Are you okay?" "Yeah. Are you?" "I'm tied up." Mustering all my strength, I tried to stand. My legs were like noodles beneath me. I crashed back into the seat and winced. "Me too," he said. He slid a little closer to me so he was just under the small stream of light that peeked through the window. His face was swollen and discolored. His arms were bound behind his back. Just then, the door to the room swung open. Diem walked in first with a gun hanging from her hand. Paul was close behind. She stood in front of me, inhaling again. She stared at me for a moment, then slapped me hard, her face contorted in rage. My head whipped back and then fell toward my chest. I looked up at her, filled with anger. Paul eased his hands over Diem's shoulders and squeezed. "It's okay," he whispered close to her ear. She closed her eyes and leaned into him. "She stinks," she said. "She stinks."
I looked at them and then at Ben. A cocktail of fear and confusion was pulsating through my body. I tried to squeeze my hands through the ropes. They rubbed harshly and deeply into my skin. "Why're you doing this?" Ben said. She looked at me and then back at Ben. "She knows." I shook my head, struggling to place their faces. Did I know them and just not remember? Had I wronged them in some way in the past? "How would I know why you're doing this?" "You left a big mess in the city," Paul said. "All that blood." "I think you have the wrong people," Ben said. "Oh, we have the right person," Paul said. Diem didn't take her eyes off me. "You stink," she said. "I can smell her blood on you." She leaned down inches from my face. "I know exactly what you did." * * The day I met Ben, I was planning to die. I was nestled at a corner table at a Starbucks tracing lines on my wrists with the thin brown stirrer and imagining the life draining down my palms. It was the day after my twenty-fifth birthday, the seventh anniversary of my parents' deaths. I was feeling particularly alone in that moment. I felt insignificant and unnoticed, as if I could do a full tap routine with jazz hands on top of my table and no one would bat an eye. That seemed like a good way to go, I'd thought. My first-grade recital routine with a bullet to my head as the big finish.
"In deep thought, huh?" he'd said. He sat on the empty stool beside me and looked at me. A hot latte with his name scrawled on the side was nestled in his palm. I put the stirrer down and looked back at him. The sun poured through the windows of the coffee shop and bounced off the flecks of hazel in his deep brown eyes. His pecan-colored skin looked warm and full of life. He was cute and not-dead. He was the first person to tell me he loved me since my parents. When I held her number in my hand that night, with fat tears soaking my face, all I could think of was how desperately I didn't want to go back to being her. The girl I had been. Orphaned and making suicide pacts with my cat. More than anything, I didn't want Katie-with-a-heart-over-the-"i" to take my place. I looked at Diem and then at Ben. His face was twisted in confusion. "Are you talking about that girl she saw killed? Are you the ones who killed her? She didn't see anything," Ben said quickly. "She didn't even know who did it."
My heart began to beat so quickly in my chest I felt like I would vomit it out. The room was spinning and suddenly, I could barely focus on anyone's face. A flood of memories was rushing over me and I felt like I might drown. I'd memorized the number. Her number. Katie's. I'd known it for a month before I told Ben I'd found it. I'd dialed it a few times to hear her voice. "This is Katie," she'd said at 8:00 a.m. on a Monday morning. "This is Katie," she'd said on a Saturday at midnight. Her voice was sing-song and impossibly chipper. I listened for a moment to hear him. A beckon in the background or a soft groan beside her. Even when he was beside me, I listened for him, as if a subtle sound in the background would betray he'd been there. I'd friended her on Facebook. She had more than two thousand friends. Ben was one. Her pictures ranged from introspective selfies to candid shots caught midlaugh with her and her friends. She liked to dance to Latin music on Thursday and have brunch on Sundays with her mom. Her dad was installing new cabinets and "OMGee, it was taking soooo long." She loved him anyway.
DaddysGirl. The night I confronted Ben, she couldn't wait to go out to Deux, her favorite lounge on the Upper East Side. She had a new dress. It was salmon-colored, she'd said in her status update, and she'd just found the perfect shoes. winning. That's when I told my work friend about the number. That's when she suggested we go out. That's when I suggested the perfect place. Diem looked at me as if she could hear my thoughts. She nodded in recognition and then looked over at Paul, who took a step toward me. "We didn't spill that blood. She did. Isn't that right, Tiffany?" Paul said. Ben was quiet for a moment and then he scoffed. "That's crazy." I could feel his eyes burning into me. I looked at Diem and whispered, "No one saw me." "But I heard you," Diem said. "I smelled you." The gun was in my purse. It was still in my purse. It was nestled beneath my wallet and my ginger peach lipstick. I put it in before I left because I wanted to feel safe. They could have been together at the club. If they were, I knew the perfect congratulatory gift. I'd blow myself away. Scatter my brains all over their freshly poured drinks.
It wasn't until my friend went to the bathroom that I saw her. Katie. She swayed back and forth with a martini glass in her hand. Her friends surrounded her and took selfies incessantly. They'd laugh after each shot like it was all so fucking hysterical. She knocked into me on her way back to the bar for a refill. She placed her hand on my forearm and smiled. "I'm so sorry." I placed my hand over hers. Her skin felt soft. "Do we know each other?" she said. Her eyes widened and mine grew smaller. I wondered how it was possible to not remember who you knew. I pulled the gun from my purse before I could frame a thought. I gripped her hand tighter and buried it deep into her stomach. I pulled the trigger hard, exhaling audibly as the bullet released into her. I let go of her arm and stepped away as she fell to the floor. I looked behind me in shock and everyone else did too. I slipped my gun back in my purse as they ran around me, assuming the threat had come from some random dank corner of the club. Not from the girl standing amidst them.
"You did this." Ben stood slowly, bracing himself on the wall beside him. "You killed that girl?" "Katie," Paul offered. "Katie?" Ben's eyes widened in recognition. "Katie, from . . ." "Katie with a heart over the 'i,' " I said, looking at him. Ben looked back at me like I was a total stranger. "You killed her." "Don't look at me like that, Ben," I started. I could feel the tears squeezing their way out. "I was all scrambled up. You were going to choose her." "Choose her? I never even went out with her." "But you wanted to." My voice cracked with emotion. I gnawed at the inside of my cheek hard, a chunk of meaty flesh dislodged and the tangy blood stained my mouth. How could he not want to? She was everything I wasn't. With her gone, we had a chance. "This has been the best year of my life." Our eyes met but his face twisted in disgust. "Do you know how crazy that sounds, Tiffany?" The word crazy hit me like a bolt of electricity. I looked at Diem. I felt consumed by anger. "So, is this what you wanted? A confession? What are you—part police dog? You sniff out blood like a good puppy and bring back the bones to bury?"
"She's making me upset." Diem clutched the gun a little tighter in her hand. Paul kissed her forehead and took the gun. "We aren't working with the police, Tiffany," Paul said. "We'd like to think we are more effective." I thought of the pale detective who barely looked at me when she questioned me. She didn't even notice my hands were covered in blood. "The thing is," Paul continued, "Diem is in pain. It's why we moved from the city." He rubbed her back softly. "She smells it all. The sins. The blood. It oozes from you. Through your filthy, guilty thoughts. You would have been fine if you kept your stench in the city but you brought it to us." His words sent a chill through my body. That night, no one's eyes met mine. No one pointed in my direction. No one knew. So I thought. "She wasn't innocent," I said, thinking of Katie dancing seductively in her dress. "And you two, you're hypocrites. You killed that man." I pictured the store employee slumped over the counter. "Do you smell that too?" I said, looking at Diem.
"Make it stop," Diem cried, pressing her hands against her ears. "We didn't kill him," Paul said. "He was just a bleeder." I chortled. "So was Katie." Ben looked at me, surprised, and turned to Paul. "So, what now?" Ben asked. "You kill us?" Paul smiled. "Just her." His words knocked the wind out of me. I struggled to catch my breath. I looked at Ben and he looked at Paul as if he was considering whether he was okay with that conclusion. "It will make her feel better," Paul said, raising the gun. He pointed it directly at my head. "Besides, it will bring some balance back to the world. An eye for an eye and all that." "She shot her in the stomach," Diem said. "How could you possibly . . ." "I hear you." She tapped at her head and pointed at mine. Paul lowered the gun toward my stomach and pressed the barrel into my abdomen. The barrel pointed slightly upward, in the same way I had for Katie. I took a breath. This trip had been long overdue. "Last words?" Paul said. His finger was itching to pull the trigger.
I shook my head and closed my eyes. "Hey, Paul," Ben said. I opened my eyes and Ben was standing behind Paul. His hands were free from the restraints. Paul looked in his direction and Ben hit him hard in the face. As Paul stumbled backward, the gun flew across the room. Paul and Ben dove for it simultaneously. They clawed at the ground and each other as they both struggled to reach the gun. Diem screamed over and over like a nut job and I struggled to break free of the restraints. I finally broke my arms free and threw myself to the ground. My legs were still bound but I slithered myself over to Ben and Paul. I grabbed hold of Paul's leg and yanked it with all my might, hoping to give Ben a chance to grab the gun. Paul turned over on his back and kicked hard in my direction. I fell on my side, narrowly dodging his forceful kick. When I looked up, Ben was holding the gun. He was shaking, but he pointed it in our direction. For a moment, I couldn't tell which one of us was in the crosshairs. I held my hands up slowly and so did Paul. Diem was cowering in the corner.
"Come on, man," Paul said. "This isn't you. I can tell from the way you are holding that gun." "Get up, Tiffany," Ben said. Now the gun was more decisively pointed at Paul. I felt a jolt of glee as I leaned down to free my legs. He understood why I did it. He understood why Katie had to die. I rose to stand beside him. "We need to get out of here," I said. Ben looked at me and nodded. He began to back toward the door. "Wait," I said. We had no clue where we were. Leaving them there meant they could follow us. They could have more guns. "Give me the gun, Ben." "Don't do it," Paul said. His voice shook with panic. "Shut up," I said to Paul. "Don't do it, Ben. You don't know her." I turned to Ben. "You know me," I said to Ben softly. "I know how to use the gun. If they try anything, I know how to use it." I remembered pulling back the safety that night at the club. I remembered shooting Katie. Ben held the gun for a moment in his trembling hands and looked at Paul. "She'll kill me," he said. "Eventually she'll kill you too."
"I would never hurt you, Ben," I said. Ben looked at me with pain in his eyes. He wasn't made for this. It was what I loved about him. "Give it to me," I coaxed. He handed me the gun. I smiled at him and turned to Paul. Without hesitation, I shot him twice in the head, blowing him backward. "Tiffany, no!" Ben yelled. Diem screamed and I turned to her. I shot her once, the bullet landing squarely in her cheek. She slumped to the side, her eyes still open. "You killed them," Ben muttered. "You killed them." I let the gun fall to my side and looked at him. "I had to. They would have killed us, Ben. They would have gotten in the way." I walked over to Diem and reached down to feel in her pockets. Ben was standing in the middle of the room with his hands over his head. He looked from Diem to Paul and then back to Diem. Tears streamed down his face. I moved over to Paul and began digging in his pockets. "What are you doing?" Ben asked. "Keys," I said, pulling them from his pocket. I started to head toward the door but Ben stood still. "Ben, come on."
He looked at me, disoriented, and reluctantly started to follow. I took his hand, squeezed it, and placed my hand on the door. I glanced back at the bodies and looked at Ben and smiled. The fear in his eyes was palpable, but I was sure it would wear off. He saved me. Even knowing what I'd done. He chose me. Our reclusive Western New York oasis seemed perfect right now. When we walked through the door, it would all be behind us. All of it. The blood. The bullets. The secrets. Diem. Paul. Katie. That stupid heart over the "i." I stopped and turned to Ben before opening the door. "Do you think we can still make check-in?" The Takers * * Gerald Dean RiceToby sat before his typewriter. He had to get something down on this page. He hadn't had an original thought in over three years, and his agent was going nuts, haranguing him to turn in something. His fans were clamoring for the next installment in his Death Harrier series; he was honestly just burned-out. Durand just didn't interest him anymore. The publisher wouldn't allow him to kill Durand—too much of a cash cow for that to happen.
Toby had actually plotted the first dozen books after signing his deal and had so far written only five. So here he was with the outline of book six in front of him with no clue where to go. He paged through the outline. The idea was strong; he just couldn't take off with it though. Toby slapped it back onto the desk and groaned in frustration. Phyllis was holding down the fort with the girls at home while he spent two weeks up in Red Deer Rapids. Toby had always begun each installment of the Death Harrier series here and once he had gotten a good head start, he could come back home and hammer out the rest. Not this time, though. Toby had been in town three days already and hadn't managed a word. He picked up his iPhone and unlocked it. Plants vs. Zombies awaited him. Normally, when he was in writing mode the allure of anything not writing held no sway over him. Toby noted the time on his phone. A little early for lunch, but he could eat. Maybe something in his stomach would help get his creative juices flowing. He grabbed his jacket and made his way downstairs, slipping on his Crocs at the door.
It was midfall and the air was already cool this far up in Michigan's Lower Peninsula. The remaining leaves on the trees were bright reds and oranges, and he crunched underfoot the ones that had fallen onto the walkway. Sandy's Southern Kitchen was about a fifteen-minute walk from here, a little too much on the brisk side to go it on foot. As Toby climbed into his SUV, he glanced over at the little garden area, a four-by-four section on his postage-stamp–sized lot and thought something was missing. He couldn't think of what it could have been before starting his vehicle and pulling out. He bought this house because he'd always liked it here. It didn't have everything Phyllis wanted; she was more of a big-city girl, but it was a great place to get away from everything else he knew. Everyone in town knew each other, so of course they all knew him. It bothered him until he realized it was the complete opposite of his early life in the city, where he'd grown up virtually invisible. They were neighborly here in Red Deer Rapids and that had taken some getting used to. When it was finally time to get away from the hustle and bustle of a major city, he could easily see himself spending the rest of his life here.
He could go no faster than ten miles an hour without giving himself whiplash along the lumpy, narrow dirt path that fronted his property. It turned onto a two-laner that had just been repaved and striped last year. His house was not actually in town. He could smell the freshwater scent coming off Spencer Bay, a stone's throw off Meguzee Point, in an unincorporated area adjacent to Red Deer Rapids that the city council hadn't gotten around to adopting. Meguzee Point Road turned onto East 3rd Street. Toby didn't know exactly at what point he was actually in town, but when he hit Ames Street, he was in the downtown area. The Village Market was to the left, but he had a taste for Sandy's shrimp and grits. Phyllis had made him promise not to throw his diet entirely out the window, but the food was too good to deny. He'd have plenty of time to eat healthy later. The general store was the first building on his right. There was a post office, a resale shop, a dry cleaner, and a few other stores and Sandy's Southern Kitchen on the corner at Maplewood. The original proprietor had passed some thirty years back and her children had sold it to some real-estate gazillionaire.
Toby tucked into a parking spot directly in front of the restaurant. It took him a little longer to parallel park before he climbed out of his SUV, crossed the narrow strip of sidewalk, and went into Sandy's. "Mr. D! Just have a seat and I'll be right with ya," Wanda said in her thick southern accent as he entered. Toby had presumed this was a yuppie tourist attraction when he'd first passed by, but Wanda had lent an air of authenticity the first time he'd come in. She was in the middle of taking someone's order and he gave her a smile and a wave, heading to the counter. The waitress went back to taking the order of the nigh-elderly couple sitting in the booth. Mel already had a steaming cup of coffee in front of him by the time Toby sat. The cook had lost a lot of weight since the last time Toby'd seen him, though he would always be a big guy. He gnawed at the piece of gum at the side of his mouth like a piece of tripe, smiling the whole time. "How you doing, Mel?" Toby asked. "Mr. Writer," Mel addressed him in thick East European–accented English as he'd done ever since finding out Toby was an author. He hadn't told him or anyone else, but Toby had found it true that secrets traveled fastest in small towns. "Quicker'n the clap in a whorehouse," Sheriff Karlo had told him the year before last, warning Toby to guard his closely. Mel nodded and scooched the little bowl filled with tiny, individual cups of half-and-half closer before heading back into the kitchen.
"Shrimp and grits. Shrimp and grits," he said as the double half doors swung shut behind him. Toby dumped two little cups of creamer into his coffee, followed by a shovelful of sugar. By then he'd noticed the two strangers one stool over. Toby rarely ran into anyone he hadn't signed something for when he was in town, and he would've been willing to bet he'd been the last stranger who'd come into town to stay beyond a fill-er-up at Hank's Hi-Octane. "Did I hear the old man right?" the closer stranger asked. Toby noted his red-rimmed eyes and assumed the man was drunk. "You a writer?" Toby smirked and turned in his seat to face the two. Either they had heard of him or they hadn't, but almost everyone who found out he was a writer was immediately impressed and wanted an autograph even if they didn't read him. He held his hand out for a shake. "Why, yes. I'm Tob—" The man launched himself at Toby, fist-first, swiping the dishes in front of him off the counter in the process. Toby managed to put his extended hand up to block the oncoming blow despite his surprise. The punch grazed his fingers as the man crashed to the floor. Toby stood from his stool. He got a good look and saw the man was in no shape to fight. The fire quickly went out of him, though his heart still raced.
"Who is this guy?" Toby asked, and then looked up at his partner. The second man looked slightly less ill, and just to be on the safe side Toby put one foot behind him and put his hands up. He'd taken six weeks of a boxing class at the Y, though he had trouble remembering which punch he should throw first if it came to it. "Hey, no más, pal," the second man said, putting his hands up in mock surrender. He had dirty blond hair and a horseshoe mustache. Mel must not have heard, otherwise he would have charged out of the kitchen and thrown both men out by the scruff of their necks. "What in Sam Hill is all the kerfuffle for?" Wanda asked, with a 'Cut it the hell out this instant' kind of tone. "My friend," Horseshoe said, kneeling and looking at her and Toby. "He's sick." He twirled a finger around his ear. "Flu's got him seein' and hearin' things. Sorry. Really, we got nothin' against writers. Hell, one of my fav'rite people's a writer." Toby lowered his shaking hands. He nodded, not trusting his voice wouldn't quiver.
"Look, the food was real good, but I think we should go now." "Agreed," Wanda said, hand firmly on narrow hip as Horseshoe collected his friend. He dug a ball of cash out of his pocket, shucked off five bills and placed them on the counter, thought a moment, then added two more to the pile. "For the dishes." Wanda fixed him with her blue-eyed, laser-sharp stare. Toby had only seen that look once before when a couple of teens who'd been fighting outside dragged their battle through the vestibule and right beside two occupied booths. She hadn't laid a hand on either boy, but they sobered up quick and were as contrite as a reverend late for church. Horseshoe averted his eyes as if she would convert him to stone, his friend draped over him as they turned and staggered to the door. Toby had no idea how they managed to schlepp their way out as awful as they looked. "Wanna know what Ah think?" she said. "Ah think you need a slice of my pie." She marched around the counter and lifted the heavy glass lid off the pumpkin pie. They didn't sell too much of it, though whenever Toby was in town Wanda baked it special for him. It was his one celebrity perk. Toby watched as Horseshoe just about rolled the other man into the passenger seat of an old, powder-green Lincoln and shut the door. Horseshoe yelped, then yanked the door open, bent and scooped something off the ground, and tossed it into the unconscious man's lap.
Toby was sure he hadn't seen that right. It had looked like a hand. "What is goink on?" Mel said, sliding Toby's bowl in front of the stool where he'd been sitting. He wasn't sure if he was in the mood to eat anymore. "Is problem?" "Nothin', Mel." Wanda tore off the ticket with the old couple's order on it and handed it to him. "Just cook this up, m'kay?" Mel's loose-skinned face curtained into an expression of confusion, then his head bobbed up and down and he trudged back into the kitchen with her order. She had an equally mildly apologetic expression, watching him go, though she didn't call him back. "Oh my goodness, will you look at this mess?" Wanda grabbed a bucket for clearing tables and began tossing pieces of broken dishes and glass into it. "Be careful," Toby couldn't help saying, as if she'd been on the verge of accidentally slashing her wrist before he'd chimed in. He sat down and went through the motions of salting grits, and by the time he took a sip of his tepid coffee found his stomach alive.
Mel came out with plates in hand, saw what she was doing, and continued to the floor, placing the food before the elderly couple. By the time he got back, she had taken the bucket to the back and was waiting for him, hand on hip, a much mellower version of the laser stare upon the big man. "Now what didja do that for?" she asked. "You were busy." Mel shrugged. "I do." "Mel, I don't need you doin'. I got this. Those are my customers, they don't wanna see you." It sounded more cruel than intended. Toby had been privy to this conversation before. Cooks were typically messy, with various sauces and meat juice stains on smocks, pit-stained shirts, and her personal opinion that people thought a cook out here meant something was burning on the grill. He was able to recite the next bit from memory, resisting the urge to mouth the words along with her. "You don't see me in the kitchen flippin' burgers, Mel." Her face softened. Sandy's didn't serve burgers, but the point was made just the same. "I . . . appreciate the help, but next time lemme do it myself, m'kay?"
She was chiding Mel, but either because English was a fourth language and something was lost in the words or nothing Wanda said had a negative effect on him. By the way Mel's eyes always followed her, Toby suspected the latter. "You should take break," he said, his accent thickening. He put a paw around one of her skinny arms and stroked it. Only when they came in physical contact was he reminded of Bluto and Olive Oyl. Although now a little more svelt Bluto. "Go out back for smoke—I come with." "No, I don't need no cigarette." She gently slapped his hand away. It looked to Toby as if she'd liked it being there. Mel stepped close enough that his mouth was mere inches away from her ear and began speaking low and fast. "Not in front of the C-U-S-T-O-M-E-R-S," she whispered as if Toby couldn't spell and shoved him away. "The cus . . . the cus . . ." Mel had a big worry-knot between his eyebrows. "Not in front of me, Mel," Toby said. He couldn't resist. He'd seen the two of them sneak quick little pecks and side-eye glances at each other. Wanda was widowed and Mel never spoke of his supposed family back in the old country, but they made a good-looking couple as far as Toby was concerned. She was nearly six feet, rail-thin, and strikingly pretty despite being somewhere in her fifties and Mel . . . was Mel. He wondered how a person could be on Earth for as many years as her and still care what other people thought, but as far as Toby could tell, Wanda was the holdout in that relationship going public. Maybe she thought she would have been dishonoring her husband or something.
She fixed Toby with that laser stare, daring him to say another word, to her now or to anybody else on earth at any other point in time. "Not a word," she said. "Yes, ma'am," Toby said. She turned and snatched up the money the man with the horseshoe mustache had littered on the counter, pulling a disgusted face. Mel almost put a hand on her shoulder. "What is wrong?" he asked. Toby almost thought she hadn't heard. "Nothin'." She looked at Toby one last time, an expression of half confusion, half something familiar he couldn't nail down until later, before turning and heading into the back. He quickly went back to his food, wanting to eat his pumpkin pie before she came back and snatched that, too. "Is good, no?" Mel said, a blocky-toothed grin on his face. Toby nodded, and the big man retreated into the kitchen, presumably to check on Wanda. Toby finished lunch without further incident, not seeing the waitress for the rest of his stay, which forced Mel to cash him out. The man may have been a wizard on the grill, but a chochem he was not with his fat fingers on the cash register.
"Now that would make an interesting story," Toby said after he'd climbed into his SUV, thinking of the incident with the two men. He turned the key in the ignition and put it in Drive, but before he could pull out someone walked right in front of his vehicle. It was Pete Erskine, who had been at the far end of the counter nursing a cup of coffee with a little something extra in it, if you could believe Mitty Hayes. Toby could believe he was drunk by the look on his face, but did a double take, realizing it was the same half confused, half something expression Wanda had worn. Erskine backed away from him, crossing Ames Street, but having eyes only for Toby. "What is wrong with you?" Toby asked, but didn't wait around for the off chance the man might have provided an answer. Twenty minutes later he was in front of his typewriter again, but had nothing to give. He sat forward, his hands poised over the keys. Nada. His cell rang. His daughters had changed the ringtone to nonsensical conversation between two minions from Despicable Me.
"Saved by the bell," he said, then, "Hey, honey." "How's the writing going?" Phyllis asked. His wife was always a straight-to-the-point kind of girl. "I'm great, how are you?" "Trying to figure out where to hide the bodies." "Really?" he asked. "How many?" "Just three this time." "Oh, well, there's a small patch that hasn't been dug up in the corner of the backyard." "I didn't even look over there. Thank you." "No problem. Get the girls to help." They both laughed and she proceeded to tell him about the three jerks she'd run into at the grocery store. Joking about murder always helped to depressurize stressful situations. He proceeded to tell her about the run-in at Sandy's and ended it with the odd expressions of Wanda and Pete Erskine. "You don't think you should call the police, do you?" "Nah. Those guys were in a bad way. The girls could take them." "The girls could take down a lot of people, though." "Good point. Maybe I could use them to work security." There was a metallic scraping sound outside.
"What was that?" "What?" "I don't know. Something outside. Hang on while I check." Toby dashed downstairs, peeking out the front window before stepping out. It didn't take long to figure out what it was; a large piece of aluminum siding had been pulled away from the house and half of the strip was missing. "—'s going on?" Phyllis was saying when he put the phone back to his ear. "Somebody stole a piece of the house." It was so laughable he wasn't even upset. He'd needed to replace the siding when he'd bought the place; the insurance claim would be just the boot in the butt to get it done. He explained to her exactly what he meant, and his wife told him to call the police immediately and call her back. Toby nodded, then responded with actual words, then hung up. Since his area wasn't on the 911 system just yet, he called the sheriff directly. Interim sheriff Fran Carey had given him her number in case anything ever came up and said it would be her personal pleasure to answer the emergency call of a famous writer. Toby was freaked out just enough to set his humility aside and call.
She showed up less than three minutes later and examined the damage as if she were a claims adjustor. Carey was Red Deer Rapids' first and only female sheriff's deputy and had been filling the shoes of sheriff since last year. The city council hadn't seen fit to give her the job proper even though Sheriff Karlo's stroke had all but officially retired him. "Prob'ly done it with some prunin' shears or sum'nlikeat." It had taken Toby a good week before he'd learned that last word was actually three words: something like that. There were a couple of others he'd had the pleasure of eventually translating, like "paper saik" (paper sack) and "fixin' to" (getting ready to). "Any ideas on who could've done this?" Toby asked. Sheriff Carey looked at him. "I wish in Sam Hill I knew, but I imagine I'd be usin' that particular ability for the numbers. We ain't had a case of vandalism in nigh on four years. You didn't see nothin'?" "No. I was upstairs writing." "Really." The sheriff smiled. "Durand gonna be dealin' out more death in this one than last time? 'Cause I thought he was gettin' a bit too talky last time out."
Normally, Toby invited these sort of criticisms. He felt it gave him a better understanding of the perspective of his fans, and he could in turn share what he was trying to accomplish. Durand getting talky was Toby's attempt to keep his main character from being just an assassin. He wanted him to have an actual backstory that fans would care about and provide a solid foundation for why he would eventually kill more than ninety people in the last thirty pages of the book. "Well, I'm not too far into it. What can we do about this, though?" "Oh, I imagine nothin'. I s'pose . . . I could go up the road a bit and knock on a few doors and see if somebody saw anyone carryin' a piece of aluminum sidin', but honestly, that'll prob'ly turn up in the river. It's one of those"—she began snapping her fingers—"y'know, one of those things you steal you don't really want. What's the word?" Toby didn't know if there was a word for that. "Kleptomania?" he guessed. "No. I think it's French. Like je ne sais quoi or sum'nlikeat."
Toby nodded in understanding without having a clue what the woman was talking about. Sheriff Carey pinched the brim of her brown hat, climbed back into the cruiser, and pulled out the driveway. "Come by the station later to file a report," she said. "You could also ask your neighbor over yonder if y'ontoo," she said out the cruiser window before pulling off. Toby should've been frustrated, should've yelled or kicked something, but the muse had grabbed him just then and he charged back into his house and plopped down in front of his typewriter. He had written for hours before realizing he hadn't called his wife back. Instead of focusing on one story, he had found himself dancing between two, ideas that put flesh on the bones of his outlines coming almost faster than he could write. When he reached for his cell phone, he realized it wasn't in his pocket. Toby had never gotten around to buying a holster for it. He ran downstairs, supposing he might have left it on the kitchen counter. When he didn't find it there he widened his search, checking places he knew he hadn't gone into, like the bathroom and the garage. He refused to check the crawlspace; that freaked him out just enough that he refused to go down there. If that were where his cell phone had wound up he would simply purchase another.
"The writer toiled fruitlessly in search of his cellular device," Toby said. He only referred to himself as "the writer" when he was alone, utilizing expansive prose. When he was in Red Deer Rapids he spoke with a faux-British accent to balance out the odd southern twang that had somehow invaded northern Michigan. He regretted not setting up the internet in this house and bringing along his laptop. He could have emailed his wife so she wouldn't have been worried. He could almost feel her anxiety ratcheting up by the moment the longer he went without contacting her. His wife could make rash decisions when she was frightened and he wanted to avoid her stressing out and doing something crazy like driving all the way up here. Toby stepped outside, walking along the path from the front door to the driveway where he had met the sheriff. After pacing the lawn he was certain the phone was not out here, unless in an unremembered act of horrible decision making, he had thrown it into the road. He was getting antsy about not speaking to his wife. She'd be beyond worried by now and it would be dark soon. He hated the notion of heading into town to buy another cell phone when the one he had had been perfectly good. He had to call just to reassure her that he was all right, though.
Maybe he could just borrow a neighbor's phone. He really didn't know the man who had the house down a ways from him beyond hello and good-bye when they both happened to meet up at the bank of mailboxes. Everyone else had been friendly enough; Toby could use a phone for a few minutes, couldn't he? Toby had no reason for why he was nervous. Maybe because, semifamous writer or no, he was still black and this was a very rural area. The people he knew seemed to legitimately like him, but he needed to call upon a stranger now and adding in the oddity of what had happened at Sandy's, he was a little hesitant to reach out to people he wasn't on a first-name basis with. The movie Deliverance swimming into his mind didn't help, either. Maybe he could just hop in his car and go back to Sandy's or to the little cell phone store. They always had those working display models people could use to make a call. Toby felt squeamish about going into town for some reason, though. What he really wanted to do was go back in his house and stay there. Today just wasn't right, not to mention yesterday he hadn't written a single word.
The sooner he could set things right with Phyllis, the sooner he could close the books on this day. It was starting to get late, maybe he could grab something quick to eat and turn in. But the muse was still thrumming in his bones. Despite his mounting, unjustified fear, he had to write. To simply scurry into his room and shut off the rest of the world beneath bedsheets would be the opposite of what he wanted most right now and, superstitious writer as he was, offensive to the muse. "Okay, one step at a time." Toby took a deep breath, realizing he'd been rooted to one spot for the last five minutes. He had to break this up into mentally digestible pieces so he wasn't overwhelmed. Without giving it another thought he began walking down the road toward his neighbor's house. The Laferle residence was just as small as his house, same style, with a slightly different elevation. Toby would have called the color of the house powder green with emerald trim, although it was difficult to tell in the lessening light. A tree that looked like it had begun life as a weed was much too close to the house, leaning over and scraping the roof with its naked branches. The landscaping looked to have been managed by a professional; otherwise, the lawn was kept at a trim two inches, edges sharp. Toby didn't know much about vegetation, spotting the golden spirea at either side of the house and the dark-leafed Japanese maple nearer the road amidst all the other bushes and vines.
The walkway was unpaved as he circuited to the porch. Again, without giving it significant thought, he knocked on the door. The impending night brought a strange silence. No animals called, no grasshoppers reeped, no wind stirred the air. One of the most relaxing things about this place was sitting on the porch at night with a beer and a couple citronella candles to keep mosquitoes at bay. The coming dark dragged across sky and earth, a giant eraser that would take away everything when the sun finally set. Even him. Toby knocked again and the door pulled open immediately. There hadn't been any sound from inside—no approaching footsteps, no one calling for him to hold on or a television being muted. It was almost like the empty-eyed man who was staring back at him had been waiting right behind the door all along. "Mr. Laferle," Toby said, putting on a smile and trying to swallow his heart back in his chest. The wan light coming from inside was a lifeline and it was all he could do to keep from cramming himself through the semi-open doorway. "I'm sorry, I'm your neighbor up the road in the corner house. We see each other when we pick up the mail at the same time sometimes. I hope this isn't a terrible imposition, but I could really use a phone right now. I seem to have lost mine and I have to call in with the missus."