Alienated (4 page)

Mo
was a big Grey.

He
wore denim overalls, stained across the front with oil and gasoline, close to
threads at the knees. The shoulder straps had long since frayed and broke, and
he'd replaced them with old leather belts. He'd done the stitching himself and
it was good and strong. Underneath the brown straps, he wore a white
undershirt, always clean and fresh, every day. It seemed to glow on him like
the moon emerging from a twilight sky. His black leather boots were scuffed and
scarred, but they still did the job—though they seemed to move a little slower
these days.

Mo
worked the Route 40 filling station, near the southbound 85 junction. He kept
the pumps in order, minded the small convenience store, and cleaned the
washrooms for travelers passing through. Filling tanks, washing windows,
changing oil, and replacing the occasional flat tire were some of his other
duties. He also gave directions to folks who sometimes got themselves lost.

He
didn't own the station, but he sure did run the place. He'd been doing so for
years now; he couldn't remember how long exactly. Regular folks who passed
through called the place
Mo's
. He liked that.

Today
a midsize, cross-town coach had stopped for a fill up.
Atlanta Bus Lines
read the bright crimson lettering on its side. The engine ran on biodiesel, a
fuel developed over in Roswell, New Mexico, a while back. Mo guided the
driver—a fellow who was more interested in chatting up his passengers than
watching where he was going—to the right pump on the far side of the lot. It
took only moments for Mo's practiced hands to couple the heavy hose to the
tank, but it would be some time before the bus had its fill. He waited nearby
and watched the scrolling numbers on the pump gauge.

He
kept an eye on the store. If somebody wanted a snack or anything, he was the
one to see. The sodas were cold and the peanuts were fresh enough, if anyone
was hungry.

Most
of the thirty or so passengers weren't interested in food, though. As soon as
the bus had pulled to a stop, they'd piled out and headed straight for the
washrooms. Unlike the bus, their tanks were full to bursting. Mo was sure
they'd find the facilities here to be cleanest on their trip.

Mo
liked to watch Humans. Over the long years, he'd become an expert in the art of
watching a person without the person knowing he was being watched. It took some
skill, but Mo had it down. He kept his eyes to himself most of the time, but
when nobody was looking, that's when Mo took a chance. Seldom did his gaze meet
that of his subject; but when it accidentally happened once in a great while,
Mo would nod and grin a casual, friendly grin and turn away, chiding himself
for being so careless.

The
travelers came and went as if on cue, making their much-needed pit stops. Half
of them looked to be retired, in their fifties or sixties; their gray and white
hair was either slicked over the balding heads of the men or piled up high on
the heads of the women. They all talked to each other like they were in some
kind of club. Mo wondered if they might be going to a high school reunion or a
Senator Kennedy rally.

The
other half of the coach's passengers were younger. Some traveled together in
pairs, but most were going it alone. The youngest of them all was a teenage boy
with hair enough to spare. Mo caught a few of the balding older fellows eyeing
the youth's head wistfully. Mo smiled to himself and scratched at his own bald
dome. It had been bare for as long as he could remember.

The
biodiesel was still chugging through the hose as the passenger traffic started
to die down outside the bus. Most of the travelers were returning to their
seats and would be anxious to get on their way. Mo glanced at the pump gauge.
They'd have to wait just a few more minutes.

The
door at the back of the bus slid open with a sudden creak. Mo turned just as a
young female Grey stepped out. She waited for two little females to follow her;
then she took each of them by the hand and led them toward the store. They kept
their eyes to themselves. The youngsters didn't smile.

All
three wore simple dresses made of the same fabric: a dull green cotton with
small sunflowers scattered in a repeating pattern. Their legs were bare. Their
shoes weren't new. Mo wondered if the female was their mother or their sister.
She carried herself like a mother: back straight, chin high, pace set for the
short legs that flanked her on each side. Mo found he couldn't take his eyes
from them.

They
went straight to the door of the convenience store, but they didn't go in. The
mother hesitated a moment, but that was all. She led her young ones to the
washroom outside, the one with the sign on the door. GREYS ONLY, the big, black
letters said. The mother's chin dipped slightly as she stood before the door.
She looked down at her daughters and told them something. She made them hold
hands. With her free hand, she tried the doorknob. The room was occupied.

The
youngsters had been good and patient up to now, but they couldn't be so
anymore. They let their mother know it. She hushed them. She had them each by
the hand again and her back was rigid as she faced the washroom door. They
would wait.

The
little ones couldn't wait. Again, they let their mother know it, pleading with
her. The mother hushed them again. She didn't want a scene, but there was going
to be a big one if she didn't get her daughters inside that washroom as soon as
possible.

Mo
could see inside the store. The washroom in there had just been vacated by one
of the older Human women with the hair piled up real high. There was nobody
waiting to use it. The sign on its door said HUMANS ONLY in big, black letters.

The
owner had put up these signs a lot of years back. They had always been there,
as far as Mo knew. He had never really worried about them. It was the way
things were, after all.

But
right now, two little ones needed to use the facilities in the worst way. Was
there any difference between the one for Human folk and the one for Grey folk?
Mo had been in both; he cleaned both of them on a regular basis. They looked
pretty much the same to him. Only the signs were different. Right now, did a
pair of signs really matter?

The
mother didn't know what to do. She glanced once toward the bus, toward Mo. He
was looking down at the pump, but he knew she was looking his way. He could
feel such things.

He
didn't turn toward her. He didn't look at her. He just nodded his head at the
store. She glanced up as the older woman headed back to the bus, and she saw
the vacant washroom inside, the one marked for Humans. Her questioning gaze
flicked back to Mo.

Eyes
downcast, he pointed a finger toward the store and scratched at the back of his
head with a careful air of nonchalance.

The
young mother hesitated a moment. Then with a quick word to her little ones, she
led them inside by the arms without a glance back.

Mo's
gaze dropped to his own bare forearms. They were thick and muscled with strong
cords beneath the skin, grey with the silver sheen of a dolphin's hide. The
cords would twitch like a snake when he clenched his fist. He used to squeeze
his hands into fists a lot, back in the day. Like sledge hammers, they'd broken
through the walls of his quarters.

"Boy,"
the Humans had called him. But he'd been a boy then, really—just fifteen Earth
years old.

"
Boy
,"
the Human had called Mo's father. Mo's hammer-like fist had broken that Human's
jaw.

Mo
closed his eyes and shook his head. He relaxed his hand, stretching out the
long, four-knuckled fingers. He took a deep breath and let it out in a quiet
hiss.

The
diesel pump clicked and Mo turned to remove the hose from the bus tank. As he
was capping it, he heard someone clear his throat nearby.

"About
time, boy." The bus driver had his wallet out and was thumbing through the
green bills. He kept his eye on Mo as he did so. "You take the money
here?"

Mo
nodded and wiped his hands on the bib of his overalls. He didn't look up.

The
driver had the cash out, but he paused before handing it over. From beneath the
bill of his
Atlanta Bus Lines
cap, he watched the young Grey mother and
her two youngsters scurry past, eyes to themselves as they boarded the rear of
the bus. Only when the door had creaked shut behind them did the driver pay Mo
what was due.

Mo
nodded again and stuffed the bills into his pocket.

The
driver still had an eye on him. For a moment he said nothing as he sized-up the
big Grey standing before him. Then he said in a low voice,

"I
seen what you did, boy."

Mo
felt every muscle in his body tighten.

The
driver took a step closer.

Mo
looked him in the eye. Two black, all-seeing orbs able to pierce through time
and space stared unblinking at the driver.

The
Human swallowed, silent for a moment. "Be glad I was the only one,"
he muttered and turned on his heel.

With
every passenger accounted for, the bus rumbled to life and eased out onto the
highway, crunching across the gravel and leaving the Route 40 filling station
with a cloud of dust and exhaust. Mo watched it go.

In
the back window he could see two little Grey faces, their big, black eyes fixed
on him. They smiled at him.

Hands
deep in the pockets of his stained overalls, Mo smiled back.

There
I am, floating facedown in the pool. It's a
Sunset Boulevard
moment, to
be sure. The difference being, of course, that I'm not narrating this sordid
tale as a disembodied voice hovering above. No, I'm standing right here at the
water's edge with a baseball bat at my side, dangling from fingers too limp to
hold on. Yet somehow they manage. There's dye spooling out around the back of
my head, and it's spreading, carried along by chlorinated ripples. Octopus ink,
black against a serene aquamarine.

But
you don't really want the metaphoric descriptions. You just want to know what
happens next. However, like any storyteller worth his love/hate relationship
with adverbs, I'm not going to give you want you want—yet. For now, how about I
tell you how I got here?

I
know what you're thinking:
Please, not another one of these flashback
stories. I can't stand them.
Yeah, me either. If you want, go ahead and
skip to the end. I wish I could.

But
I'm here, poolside, watching my doppelgänger's corpse bob in the agitated
water.

* * *

It
all started after a long day at the office, full of paperwork up to my ears and
phones warbling off the hook from the moment I stepped into my cubicle. Talk of
an impending merger ran rampant, and our advertising firm planned to do its
damnedest to remain top dog or big fish—take your pick where the metaphors are
concerned.

I'd
been transferred to the San Diego office six months earlier, and while at first
I missed the pizzazz of life in NYC, there was something novel about driving my
own car to and from work. The traffic here wasn't bad, nothing like back home,
and I had plenty of time to decompress behind the wheel, kick back with some
tunes while the I-5 took me north out of Downtown like molasses in a noreaster.

Friday
night—high time for the week's stress to release its chokehold on my throat. My
father had been in the same business, had gone through piles of acquisitions
forms with the same anal-retentive manager-type riding him hard from sunup to
sundown. Pop passed away at the ripe old age of 52. Over halfway there myself,
I knew better than to think I could handle stress the way he did: with a bottle
of Jack Daniels and a TV screen full of late night talking heads. Maybe it was
in my genes to die in twenty years or less, but I didn't plan on making the
Grim Reaper's job any easier.

That's
why I had the sound system in my '09 Honda Accord cranking out Vivaldi.  I'd
loosened my tie as soon as I climbed behind the wheel, and I was looking
forward to collapsing onto my massage recliner as soon as I got home. At over
two grand, it was something of an extravagant investment. But then again, I was
buying stock in my future, right? Maybe I'd beat my old man, make it to 60
before my heart went kaput on me.

Breathing
exercises helped, but I didn't want to get too relaxed yet. It was after dark
on the San Diego freeway, and the hazy blur of headlights and taillights were
enough to distract anybody with less than their full attention on the road.
Sacramento recently outlawed dialing and driving, but it didn't seem to make
any difference. Already, I'd seen three near-collisions, drivers with their
phones up to their ears thinking they could share the same lane at the same
moment, noticing just in time to swerve away from disaster.

But
I didn't blame them. Happy Hour was calling, and they had the weekend to look
forward to. Same here. I planned to make a day of it at the beach Saturday with
my fiancé—something I'd been thinking about all week. The glossy coastal scenes
from old calendars tacked up around my cubicle might have had something to do with
it. Nothing like battling a few sets of roaring waves to release the stress
wound up tight inside me, and nothing like spending time with my girl to make
life worth living again.

Just
thinking about her, seeing her smiling face in my mind's eye, was enough to
make me breathe easier. She had that effect on me. Something about her eyes,
dark chocolates accepting every word I said, no matter how often she'd heard me
whine about the merger. She was the one constant in my life, and I counted on
her.

Maybe
too much.

Braking
as I came to the end of the off-ramp, decelerating from 75 mph, I blew out a
sigh and eased to a stop at the red light. It wouldn't be long now. Just a few
more intersections, and I'd be home.

The
light switched to green.

The
cars ahead of me started forward.

Mine
didn't.

A
casual glance at the rearview mirror now held my gaze transfixed. It was my car
back there—the same make, model, identical color. And sitting in the driver's
seat, looking back at me with an expressionless pallor yet eyes that burned
with hatred, I saw . . .
myself
.

It
couldn't be. I blinked, stepped on the gas, burned a little rubber and glanced
back at the rearview. The identical '09 Accord followed, matched my speed. When
I came to the next stoplight, it pulled up close behind, headlights bouncing
off my tail lights and reflecting on the same face I saw in the mirror every
morning. The same eyes stared back at me as I clenched the steering wheel, my
hands slick with sweat.

The
light switched to green and I accelerated again, changing lanes once, twice,
passing any car in my way, glancing at the rearview to find the other Honda
tailing me without any regard for the rules of the road. A cacophony of horns
blared in my wake.

This
couldn't be happening. Who was this guy? The look on his face—was he daring me
to acknowledge his existence? This deranged version of myself?

My
front tire hit a pothole and I swerved. The rearview showed the other Honda on
a collision course. I turned my attention back to the road, but it was too
late; my speed wouldn't allow me to make the next turn. I slammed on the
brakes, burning more rubber, and whipped the wheel to the right, jogging wildly
up onto the sidewalk and through the manicured shrubbery of a business park
three blocks from my condo complex.

A
steady flow of traffic lights passed behind me. No one stopped. They must have
thought I'd started Happy Hour a little early and deserved what I got.

I
blew out a sigh and glanced over my shoulder. No phantom '09 Accord. No evil
doppelgänger in sight.

Cursing,
I shoved my door open to survey the damage. Besides some scratched paint and a
punctured headlight, my car was none the worse for wear. I couldn't say the
same about the lawn or the bushes. But I was pretty sure the Biotech company who
leased the site would be good for it. If there had been a night watchman
nearby, I might have offered to cover the landscaping damages, but as things
stood, I decided it was in my best interest to get home and drink something
strong enough to set my head straight—or to numb it beyond the will to care.

Reckless
driving. Paranoia. This wasn't like me. I half-expected my weird look-alike to
jump out of the bushes, or to be standing right behind me with his head cocked
to one side, slack-jawed and staring. Too many horror movies? Probably.

I
took an alternate route home, circled the block a few times just to be sure I
wasn't followed. Plenty of traffic covered the streets, but none of it
mattered. My only concern was my car's identical twin. But maybe not so identical
now, as mine had just gotten into a fight with a wall of shrubbery and lost.

* * *

A
full moon punctured the night sky by the time I made it home. I pulled into the
underground parking garage at my end of the complex, gathered up my laptop and
brown leather satchel, set the alarm. The electronic chirp echoed in shadowy
corners along with my footsteps, clapping toward the door to the stairwell. A
single bulb glowed above the doorframe. I sucked down a quick breath and
mounted the steps two by two, climbing to the third floor where a cold breeze
brushed past me. I fumbled with my keys.

A
dark cloud crossed the moon, and I glanced over my shoulder, shrugging off the
chill that started crawling down my neck. Unlocking the door and flicking on
the light switch inside, I dropped my belongings onto the couch and slapped the
deadbolt into place, falling back against the doorframe with a sigh.

My
living room didn't look right. Everything was too still, too silent—like
someone was holding his breath, waiting for the moment to attack. I retrieved
my baseball bat from the hall closet and made the rounds, turning lights on in
the bathroom, my bedroom, the spare room. All of them vacant, of course. Nobody
had beaten me here and broken inside.

Crazy
thoughts, right?

Windows
checked, balcony door locked, front door deadbolt double-checked, I collapsed
into my massage chair and turned on the TV. I didn't care what was on.

The
baseball bat made me chuckle. I dropped it to the carpet and leaned forward,
squeezing my head in my hands. I was acting like a kid afraid of the dark,
positive there was some kind of god-awful monster under his bed.

I
hadn't checked there yet.

My
chuckles echoed dully as I returned from the bedroom and returned the bat to
the closet. I was just losing my mind, that's all. You don't ever expect to see
your own double following you on the drive home. And the way he'd looked at me,
with those eyes so full of hate . . .

A
cold queasiness snaked through my gut.

Footsteps
outside came to my door and halted. The doorknob jiggled once. Then again,
followed by silence.

Pulse
stampeding, I crept to the door and stared in disbelief as a scraping sound
came from the deadbolt, a savage penetration from the other side, a metallic
grinding I instantly recognized.

Two
months ago, I'd locked my keys inside and had to call a locksmith out to pick
the lock. That's what I was hearing right now: somebody picking my lock.

My
lungs shuddered, but no breath came. I could only stare as the knob turned.

I
threw my weight against the door and twisted the lock back into place, holding
it there with a white-knuckled grip.

Silence.

I
glanced at the peephole in the door, too certain of what I'd see if I were to
look outside: the same dead face that had stared back at me in my rearview.

I
gripped the deadbolt with one hand, the knob with the other. I waited. I
listened. My pulse pounded hot blood, throbbing in both ears.

The
pick retreated with a long scrape. Footsteps shuffled away.

I
looked out through the peephole and saw a man's form blend into the shadows at
the end of the hall. I recognized the back of his head at once. I'd seen it in
my barber's mirror plenty of times.

Dragging
over a chair from the dining room, I jammed it under the door and spent the
night gripping the deadbolt, glancing out through the peephole at intervals,
until eventually I fell asleep.

* * *

Waking
up on the floor is far worse than the wrong side of the bed. I don't know how I
got down there, but my body felt like every muscle had a cramp in it, and my
neck didn't want to straighten itself out. Dressed in my rumpled work clothes,
I rubbed at my eyes and stumbled to the couch to fall lengthwise with a groan.

Had
last night been just a bad dream? Paranoia borne from too many hours staring at
a computer screen? Was my overactive imagination unable to contain itself?

I
glanced at my watch. It was already past ten in the morning, and I was meeting
Jana at La Jolla Shores in less than half an hour.

* * *

Fifteen
minutes later, cleaned up and munching on a protein bar, I emerged from my
condo with a towel and cooler. The sun was out in full swing, and I could tell
it was going to be a gorgeous day, the kind
America's Finest City
was
known for. Some quality time at the beach was just what I needed to clear my
head.

* * *

Basking
in the sunshine beside lifeguard tower 23, my beautiful fiancé lay sound asleep
on her floral beach towel.

It's
been said that the features on Sophia Loren's face, when taken in isolation,
wouldn't be much to look at—her eyes set too far apart, her mouth too wide, her
nose too angular—but all together, the complete package is sheer beauty. That
was Jana, but in reverse. Everything about her was perfect, and the whole
picture—her eyes, her ear lobes, her knees, her toes—was something even a
goddess like Sophia would've had a tough time overshadowing.

I
tried not to wake her as I set down the cooler, spread out my towel, and
started lathering up with an SPF-45. We New England boys turn into bright red
lobsters under the SoCal sun like nobody's business. I was straining to reach
between my shoulder blades when Jana awoke.

"Mike!"
She sat up with a bright smile.