by Stanley Gray
Looking at it, he knew then more clearly than he ever had before what he was. What he’d been bred for. All those years of experiments, all that time of denuding any shred of decency or humanity he might have inadvertently obtained through the taint of school or the media, they had all been cleverly concocted for this moment. That Xenobia seemed to know that well before he figured it out was…mildly disconcerting. But, Alan could only focus on the prey before him.
It somehow made the game more fun, to have his prey trying to hunt him.
Alan pointed the gun.
He’d never fired a gun before. His hands shook. He experienced a slight twinge of fear that caused him to hesitate. Alan knew that the window of opportunity to act would soon be gone. This already wasn’t clean. So much evidence could be left behind. All he could hope for this late in the game was to minimize his risks. He also needed a body for Xenobia.
He fired.
The sound stunned him. The reverberations left his ears ringing, and the world seemed to slow down. He couldn’t see for a moment, and when he regained most of his faculties, a strong, astringent stench lingered in the air like a bad aftertaste.
He saw blood on the ground.
Alan looked around, but didn’t see anything. He crawled out from under the trailer, scraping his hands a bit as he did so. He looked around. There, with his back to him, was the man. Despite the bloody gash on his leg, the guy remained mobile. He seemed to be walking towards the diner for help.
Alan picked up the gun, closing one eye, his tongue out at a jaunty angle. He aimed. His finger was on the trigger when the whore jumped on him.
Alan had the wind knocked out of him. He felt squished. He was squished. The woman screamed as she slapped at the back of his head.
The pimp turned, and a garish smile dominated his face. He reversed course and began marching towards the NASA Office of Inspector General cop.
Thoughts swirled around in the boiling cauldron of his mind. Alan tried to grasp at the vapors as they swept upwards. His vision blurred and his body ached. Defeat seemed imminent.
Suddenly, without conscious thought, seemingly not even of his own volition, Alan turned. He pointed the gun up and fired.
The poor woman’s face exploded, spraying Alan with blood and bits of bone. Thick, viscous goop dangled on his shirt collar. Alan pushed the body off of him, then braced himself so he could stand and face his attacker.
The two men stared at each other. Time seemed to stand still.
Alan idly wondered as they exchanged their solemn gazes what kind of place this was. Two gunshots, and not one person rushed over to see if anything were wrong. No sirens. Nothing. Maybe it was how loud some of the trucks were.
Alan began to shake. He felt light-headed and weak. He teetered, and then fell down onto the asphalt, landing hard on his butt. He grunted.
The other man, presumable the dead hooker’s pimp, rushed forward, seizing his opportunity. As he got within a few feet, Alan tripped him, sweeping one leg out. When the large, bearded creature of the night fell, Alan scooched forward and placed the chloroform-soaked rag over his face. He felt him struggle for a few interminable seconds, and then…silence.
Now Alan had to figure out how to get this fat fucker into his car.
Chapter 14
He stared at the unconscious pimp.
Looking around, his mind numb and his movements lethargic, Alan tried to focus. He saw trucks. Neon lights seemed to accuse him as they penetrated the thick, reeking blanket of night, which Alan tried to cover himself with in a vain effort at protecting himself from the boogeyman. As he stood there, bereft and afraid, shaking from adrenaline, Alan caught hold of one thought: maybe he was the boogeyman.
He slapped himself on the side of the head. He needed to get moving. At some point, someone was going to see the dead hooker lying in the parking lot. If they didn’t see the well-dressed nerd dragging an inert body first. Alan chuckled as he briefly entertained the idea of asking for help. He laughed a little more when he thought that some of the truckers that frequented this particular dump might actually take him up on any offer, if anything, just to escape the rut of watching countless miles of road pass by.
Bending at the knees, Alan tried to lift the unmoving man by his arms. He barely got a few feet before exhaustion overcame him. The pimp’s tattooed arms looked flabby from a distance, but they weighed a good deal. The man almost certainly would have beaten him to death had he been given the faintest opportunity.
Gulping, he decided to use that knowledge as motivation. He circled the body, and grabbed at the legs. After a few seconds, he stopped. Panting, he swung his torso down and inhaled, his head close to being between his legs. When he’d recovered somewhat from the strain, Alan straightened.
Looking from the shadows to his car and back, he tried to gauge the feasibility of simply driving his car over to the spot. It certainly would make things easier, though it could also increase the potential for him being seen.
Shrugging, Alan cast one last lingering look at the slumped over form of the purveyor of flesh. Satisfied that the brutish thug remained knocked out, he walked back to his vehicle. Looking around, it didn’t seem that anyone took notice of him. The cameras were there, silent witnesses, but, overall, things hadn’t deteriorated as badly as he’d thought.
It’s probably easy to think the worst when you’ve left your murder victim in a public parking lot and your kidnapping victim not far from the corpse.
Driving the short distance to the pimp, Alan popped the trunk. He stretched before attempting to move the body again. Heaving the large dude up, he managed to get half of the body into the trunk. It slumped over the edge, legs dangling, feet scraping the edges of the pavement as they lolled at a jaunty angle.
Lifting the legs, Alan curled the body so that it mostly fit in the small-ish space of the trunk.
He nodded. Taking the rag, he placed it over the face of his unfortunate victim. Then Special Agent-in-Charge Alan Grunke returned to the backseat of his old car, where he retrieved a plastic zip-tie, some duct tape, and a blindfold. He bound the feet and hands of the abductee, trying not to make the restraints too tight. He cut a small slit into the silver tape, and secured it firmly over the mouth of the man. Last, he tied the black cloth tightly around the hustler’s eyes.
Then, he slammed the trunk.
The trunk bounced back up. Alan only narrowly escaped being hit by the ricochet.
He looked around. He felt vaguely disturbed. The fact that absolutely no one had taken notice of his recent illicit activities made him feel… a profound lack of trust in the social contract. Alan sensed his world view crumbling. A man who’d prized control beyond all things for so long, it only took a few minutes, some cheap household chemicals, and a gun to help him see how little in this world we each could really control.
He shook his head.
Alan saw a skinny white girl, blonde hair down to her ass, rush out of the diner, slamming the thin metal door behind her. She advanced, head down, furiously chewing gum, towards the approximate spot where the poor prostitute he’d named after one of his favorite celebrities lay. He walked to intercept her, taking an angled path.
She bumped into him. When she looked up, he saw in that sudden awkward smile something…human. Something broken, but inherently tender. Angry red pimples staked their claims at various points on her face, all of them eager to strike it rich on oil. She had cerulean eyes that seemed…fragile. Beautiful.
“What the fuck?!” she said. She pushed him.
Alan stumbled back. So transfixed had he been, he lost sight of the reality of where he was. What he was doing. He held up his hands, palms out, in the universal gesture of surrender. “Hey.” he said.
He blinked repeatedly. He clenched his fists. He tried to maintain normal breathing, but felt unable to. His body felt both febrile and weak. He had no fucking clue what he was doing, or why. All he knew was that he didn’t want to have to add this delicate creature
to his growing list of victims.
“Randy!”
Alan rushed forward, and before the woman could skitter away or do something stupid, he crammed a hand over her mouth. This woman, too, tried to bite him. But, Alan knew that trick now. He pulled the woman, kicking and thrashing, towards his car, opening the passenger door with some difficulty. He tossed the woman in, then slammed the door.
He hurried around the other side as the woman fought with the door knob. Alan had reconfigured the vehicle so that only the driver’s-side door opened from the inside.
When he slid in, the woman was on him. She scratched at his face, beating her fists fervently on any part of him she could get to. Alan endured the abuse for some time. In truth, he liked it. It made him feel alive. It alleviated some of the residual guilt he felt for the lives he’d already destroyed. The lies he’d told.
When his nose began to bleed, he decided to stop the game. He grabbed the woman’s hands, squeezing. He watched as fear filled those delicious orbs. Alan didn’t like seeing the peaceful innocence of those eyes violated by such an ugly feeling.
The woman calmed down, gradually.
“I’m not going to hurt you. After a little bit, I’ll let you go, okay? You don’t even have to have sex with me.” Alan said.
The last statement seemed to have the most noticeable calming effect.
“Well, then, what the hell do you want? Aint no man aint want no goddamn pussy. You aint no man. So, what? Ya still gots me fuckin’ hostage.” she said. She smelled like stale sweat and cigarette smoke, mixed with a cheap fragrance that had probably been watered down a time or two.
“Do you know…any of the…”
“Just fuckin’ spit it out, junior, okay? What the fuck, you think I gots all day?” the woman said.
Alan looked at her. The sudden vehemence, the nastiness and vitriol, changed his opinion of her. He began to feel the old fatigue. He knew he needed to return soon. Xenobia would begin to wonder.
“Do you know the whores around this place? What do you call yourselves? Lot lizards?” Alan asked.
The woman tried to break and arm free and swing at him.
Alan grunted as he strained to maintain his control over her. “Calm down!” he said.
“Yeah. I know all the girls.” the skinny blonde finally said.
“Do you have any…brown ones? Mexican?” Alan said.
The blonde cocked her head. She gave him a sultry smile. “Is that why you aint want none o’ this? ‘Cause you got some sort o’…fetish?” she suddenly broke free. But, rather than trying to effectuate an escape, the woman sidled closer to him. She pressed her lips against his, and her tongue slithered into the moist cave that was his mouth.
For a moment, they shared a kiss. The force of that gesture tingled through Alan’s body. It invigorated him.
But, he had to pull away.
Alan wanted to cry. He reached back into the backseat, dreading what he had to do. Everything in his being seemed to resist this one inevitable act, and yet he watched as his hands searched out one of the rags. He saw his arms moving as he placed the chloroform over her face.
She didn’t struggle long.
Restraining her, he threw her over his shoulder, surprised at how light she was, and tossed the anonymous woman into the trunk. He hoped they would both stay out long enough. Especially the pimp.
Someone drove slowly by as he was leaning into the car, trying to compose himself and think about what to do next. Alan peered out from beneath one arm and made sure the vehicle passed.
Returning to the deceased prostitute, he dragged her some tall grass nearby. Pouring some alcohol on her body, he stood over the lifeless body, staring at it for some time. He held a match in one hand, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to light it. It seemed an incredible insult, to add desecrating her body to the litany of abuses the woman had faced. The least he could do was allow her to rest in death.
He shrugged. He knelt and kissed the damp side of the hooker’s head.
And then he walked away.
When he was miles away, he remembered that he hadn’t used the magnet to wipe any computers which might have stored footage of his presence at the truck stop that night. He didn’t think too many people would be asking questions, but…it wasn’t best to take unnecessary risks when you’re wading into the murder game.
His body felt leaden. His mind felt…tired. He wanted to escape into sleep.
Remaining focused on the winding roads presented a challenge to him. Alan drove, studiously observing the various traffic laws as he sliced through the crisp October morning. He could barely see the trees that dominated both sides of the roads.
When he pulled into his lot, he stared off into space. Alan wondered if any of this were worth it. Then, with considerable effort, he slowly turned the key in the ignition. He relished the silence as he sat there, looking ahead at the cream-colored surface of his garage door.
He stumbled inside, collapsing onto the couch. He let the black take him.
When he awoke, it was day. Birds sang their melodic choruses outside. Sniffing, he raised himself onto one elbow and cast a suspicious glance towards the kitchen. Pancakes. Xenobia was making him pancakes.
Alan saw the alien moving, and it seemed as if she were happy. She made little sounds as she moved, almost like she was humming. There was something quaint and…comfortable, in seeing her there, preparing him breakfast.
Getting up, Alan had to reach out with one hand to steady himself. He blinked. When he licked his lips, they were cracked and dry. Pressing his fists into his eyes, he rubbed them. After several moments of getting acclimated to standing, Alan was able to stumble, arms out to catch any potential falls, to the bathroom.
He puked when he got there.
Wiping the back of one hand across his mouth, he remembered the previous night. He recalled the sound of the gunfire, the look on the woman’s face as he shot her. He recalled struggling to stuff two bodies into his trunk.
He puked some more.
Looking down, he saw the blood and gore on his clothing. He shuddered. Standing, he braced himself against the porcelain sink and stripped his attire off. Naked, he felt vulnerable and exposed. He avoided looking into the mirror.
Turning on the shower as hot as it would go, he waited. When steam filled the room and the faucet seemed to hiss, he stepped in. He welcomed the pain. Wanted it. He stood under the barrage of extremely hot water, gritting his teeth. Tears forced their way out of the corners of his eyes.
When his eyes strayed to the mirror above the sink, he paused. He stared at the reflection of himself. But, was it, really? What was he? The thing he saw in the mirror…might not be the person he was. Or, was it? At that moment, the answer seemed critical.
He stayed cloistered away in the bathroom for some time. He lingered there, for it seemed the inly place in the entire world where he could feel somewhat safe from Xenobia. The manipulative little alien who now shared a house with him. At one point, Alan had wanted to consider this house, nestled in the idyllic countryside, home. But, he couldn’t.
He wasn’t sure if he’d ever have a home again.
Alan dropped the white terry cloth towel on the tiled floor and walked out of the room, finally. His eyes darted about, searching for any clue, any trace of his illicit roommate. Seeing none, he relaxed, if only for the moment. He walked into the bedroom. Shutting the door behind him, he exhaled. He leaned with his back against the door, sliding down to the floor. He stared at the open window, the curtain flapping slightly in the breeze.
His mind took him on a journey. He fantasized about escaping. The idea seemed so simple, so powerful, a brutal and effective trick. Alan knew the truth. He sighed. The tears no longer would come. Despite the profound pain and lachrymal comprehension of his doomed fate, the saline drops of catharsis refused to aid and abet any attempt to escape the emotions clamoring for his head.
Escape was not an option. He could never escape the things in
side his head. The demons.
He looked up. The clock read 12:04. He’d missed the morning of work. His heart began to race. Alan closed his eyes. He indulged that fantasy, of escaping through the window, for several minutes.
It was the only thing that calmed him.
Fighting to think, he tried to figure out how he would explain his absence to Dale. Alan stood. He went to his end table beside the bed and picked up his phone. He looked at the device for several seconds. Everything seemed so…distant. He could remember having always used the phone, could even picture some of the recent memories he’d forged with it. He recalled one of the first nights, maybe even the first night in town, house loaded with boxes, and he’d stumbled home drunk. In the morning, the only evidence of his inebriated adventures came via the text messaging he’d exchanged the night before.
The door opened.
Alan mewled. The he became quiet and still, as if feigned paralysis might help him remain undetected by the alien from Crimea Ai-Petri. It wasn’t exactly a conscious process, that swept him up into a frenzy of indecision and fixed immobility. Yet, somehow, the delusion of invisibility seemed to help him through the shock of Xenobia’s surprise visit.
An abrupt thought strafed his consciousness and dominated his mental skies. Its engines buzzed with the evil, clarion insectoid calls of the Nazi warplanes. Alan again mewled, a pathetic, weak animal sound that seemed to roll in the back of his throat. He envisioned the answer to his silent question, and what he saw haunted him.
“What happened…to…those people?” Alan asked. The words came out husky and broken.
[They served an important purpose.] Xenobia said. Somehow, she conveyed the idea through the invisible planes of thought that she was smiling. Her lips and face, however, remined the same as ever.
“What do you want?” Alan asked. His eyes were watery. He reached up and rubbed one. He felt the need to hide. He flinched back from the idea that, at any moment, the alien would pull a trick from her bag, and with a mere thought, would cause him extreme pain.