by Graeme Hurry
The colonists want to come home.
Charlie sighed, rolled over and pulled away, dragging the bed sheet with him and leaving Dee’s nakedness exposed.
“Zack?”
“Uhu.”
“Picks his moments. Tell him you’re busy.”
What do you mean? he asked Zack instead.
Dee frowned, punched Charlie gently on the shoulder and eased herself out of bed. “Or I could make coffee.”
What I said. This planet has turned into Earth’s evil twin. If we stay here it’ll be under extruded domes until we’re all old and grey, and that’s without mentioning the heavy gravity, barely breathable atmosphere and unpleasant alien rodents. About all that survived, apart from the bugs. No one wants that. Whereas you have a nice comfortable mountain.
It’s not paradise.
Best on offer.
Dee returned with the coffee.
“The colony’s coming home. Zack doesn’t want to.”
I didn’t say that!
Charlie ignored him. If Zack had been happy he’d have said he wanted to come home, not the colonists. “It’ll take years. They’ll be in stasis, but…”
“…they’ll be out of contact.” She went quiet, talking, Charlie presumed, to Freya. “They want us to go back in stasis too. Wake up when they get here.”
Charlie frowned. Could the ageing equipment handle it? What about the failure rate?
“We could die,” said Dee echoing his thoughts, though clearly talking to Freya.
Do it, you selfish bastard, shouted Zack.
So they set the equipment up, prepared themselves as best they could and waited for the signal from Zack and Freya that meant they were on ship and about to enter stasis themselves.
Charlie waited until Zack was asleep to talk. Zack got angry whenever Charlie switched him off, so it became easier to find other ways to talk privately with Dee.
“We are doing the right thing.”
“Convincing yourself or me?” said Dee.
“With this equipment I’m not sure both of us will make it.”
“If we don’t do it, then we’ll probably never hear from Freya and Zack again. Can you live with that?”
“We’ll be alone here.”
“No, Charlie, we won’t. Apart from the obvious fact that we’ve got each other, do you really believe we’re the sole survivors of whatever happened here? I’m betting this isn’t the only subterranean bunker.”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it. When you’ve had someone else in your head constantly for the whole of your life it’s difficult to visualise anything different. It’s almost as if we’re the same person sometimes, just in different bodies.”
“Trapped for eternity. In my case with a needy sister who’s beginning to irritate the hell out of me, and in your case with a guy who always wants the final say. No, Charlie, we won’t be alone. And, more importantly, we’ll be free.”
With Zack in his head Charlie had never really had to make a choice before. And that, ultimately, was what persuaded him.
Freya had a complete meltdown when Dee told her they weren’t going under. Zack’s response was more subtle. He behaved as he always had when Charlie tried to exert his will: he ignored him, knowing that Charlie would give in eventually.
Except this time he didn’t.
Charlie and Dee closed down the stasis tanks and set to work finding other survivors.
As he went under, Zack screamed.
* * *
One night Dee emerged from the kitchen with an almost empty bottle and a frown.
“Last one.” She poured into two small glasses, eking out the dregs.
He swirled his glass, took a sip and eased back in his seat, enjoying the warmth of the single malt. “I don’t think of Zack much anymore.”
“Freya too. I don’t think she ever forgave me for hooking up with you.”
“They would never have let us if they’d been awake.”
“For the first time I was able to make my own mind up without having to consider her.” She grinned. “You’re happier without him, aren’t you?”
Charlie’s answer was measured. “And that makes me very sad.” He paused, took a sip. “I always used to think Zack was my crutch. My excuse for never having to interact properly with anyone else. But my mother was right. We do have a choice.”
He drained his glass and savoured the last mouthful. Harsher than he remembered. He realised he wouldn’t miss it much after all.
DEAD RINGER
by Peter DiChellis
“Can’t you do this for me, dear?” Vivian asked her husband. “Don’t you understand how much I miss him?” Petite as a pixie, she leaned in and offered a sad smile.
Trevor, Vivian’s adoring spouse for thirty-five years, sat beside her on their tattered living room sofa. The drab room smelled musty from worn carpeting and soured loneliness.
“I miss our son too,” Trevor said. “But this?”
He relented, of course. As he always did. And so two days later, a struggling thirty-four-year-old actor named Jeremy arrived at Vivian and Trevor’s faded bungalow in a rundown section of Hollywood, California. Vivian had carefully selected Jeremy from photographs on file at the second-rate casting agency where she worked part-time.
Gray and gaunt, Trevor greeted Jeremy with a brave face and tired eyes. Vivian’s sharp eyes appraised every facet of Jeremy, every detail.
“Please come in,” Trevor told the younger man, who grinned and nodded in return.
“You look almost exactly like him,” Vivian gushed. “Our poor lost David. You’re here again, back with us.”
Trevor and Vivian showed Jeremy to the living room and they all sat. The actor would need to prepare for his role.
Vivian handed him a video disc. “You must watch this. Study our David’s voice and mannerisms. See what his terrible illness did. Darken your hair and under your eyes. Prepare well.”
“Of course. May I ask… was an illness… how you lost your son?”
Trevor touched Vivian’s arm. “It’s complicated,” he whispered.
“We’ll want you Wednesday evenings,” Vivian advised Jeremy. “I’ll make David’s favorite supper. Afterward, we can watch his favorite TV show together. And laugh and remember better days.”
Jeremy proposed the couple pay his acting fee in cash, on the night of each visit. Vivian and Trevor agreed.
“Thank you,” Jeremy said. “The money will help. A lot.”
“You understand,” Trevor told Jeremy, “all this has to remain confidential. Not a word to anyone.”
“I understand.” Jeremy flashed a synthetic smile. “Confidential.”
Vivian beamed. “Perfect,” she said. “Everything will be just like before.”
***
As instructed, Jeremy rode a Metro bus toward Trevor and Vivian’s home for his first visit as David. He tried to stay immersed in the bizarre role he’d been given. But he felt both pity and disgust for the old couple, feelings born within him, he knew, not derived from his character study of David. He resolved he’d demand advance payment for his next visit, money he desperately needed, and would ignore his patrons’ misery as best he could. He wondered how much cash they kept in the house. Not as much as he needed, he guessed.
Jeremy got off the bus to walk the final blocks to his destination. Two hulking men intercepted him. They yanked him into a trash-littered alley, where the taller giant stuffed a damp rag into Jeremy’s mouth and the bald one hammered the unsuspecting actor with a baseball bat pulled from the men’s waiting car. Jeremy collapsed and the massive hitter pounded him again and again as he lay on the ground. The beating made grisly sounds like sharp cracks and dull, mushy thuds.
“Today you pay, deadbeat,” the bald hulk snickered, though his victim could hear nothing by now.
The men hoisted Jeremy into the trunk of the car, getting their hands sticky and wet with his blood and urine. The tall man snatched the rag from Jeremy’s mouth and both men
wiped their palms and fingers.
The bald man spit in Jeremy’s broken face and spoke again. “You can’t skip out on your debt, loser,” he said. “Not with us.”
He tossed the bat into the car’s backseat while the tall man shoved the rag back into Jeremy’s mouth and slammed the trunk shut. As the tall man drove them away, the bald man made a phone call.
“We got him. Bus stop, right where some crazy bitch told us he’d be.” He paused, listening. “Yeah, still breathing,” he said.
He listened a few more seconds, showing no reaction to what he heard. He ended the call.
“Boss says kill him slow and hard,” he said.
The tall man nodded and pressed the accelerator.
***
Inside their home, Trevor and Vivian prepared to visit with their son. Trevor stood beside the kitchen table, staring at the clock and nibbling his chicken dinner. They’d scheduled their appointment with Jeremy for 7pm sharp.
“It’s past eight o’clock,” Trevor announced. “He’s not coming.”
Vivian glowed. She wore her newest dress and took tiny, swirling dance steps toward Trevor. “Then we’re meeting in the park,” she sang. “At nine o’clock. Everything will be just like before.”
“You understand that David… might not join us?” Trevor said.
“We’ll see him in the park, dear. I just know we will.”
Vivian danced a few more steps and flitted away, clapping her hands and swaying in rhythm to whatever melody played within her.
***
Trevor and Vivian strode through the park. Vivian’s eyes sparkled. The couple approached a thin, haggard man fidgeting on a bench. Their son, David. They sat with him.
“It’s taken care of,” Vivian said. “Just like I promised.”
David nodded. “Thank you.”
“Thank you?” Trevor said. “Can you even comprehend what we did for you?”
“Please stop, dear,” Vivian told her husband. “We already decided. It’s done.”
She looked at David. “You can come back home now. Everything will be just like before.”
“But no more drugs, no more drinking,” Trevor said. He turned toward Vivian. “We decided that too.”
“I can’t,” David said. “I have to leave. The people I owe will find out. They’ll know.”
“Nonsense,” Vivian said. “They think they found you already, earlier tonight.”
“No. I can’t.” David rose from the bench, unsteady from drinking vodka since morning and snorting a packet of heroin an hour ago.
“David, come home!” Vivian screeched.
Her son turned away from her. “Do you have any money you can give me?” he asked his father.
Trevor handed David twenty dollars, but insisted his son buy food with it. David staggered off to feed his addictions instead, as he’d done so many other times.
“It’s just like before,” Vivian whispered. “We’ve lost our poor David.”
DANGER MEN AT WORK
by Ken McGrath
Robbie grunted with the effort of lifting the box. More over-sized and awkward than heavy it was none the less a nuisance to manoeuvre. He shuffled his feet until he’d navigated a half-circle and was facing the open hall door where Brian stood waiting.
Robbie had only taken two steps forward when a fast-moving man in a suit swept through in front of him, darting through the diminishing gap like some sort of office-working, Indiana Jones.
“Oi, watch it,” Robbie shouted, struggling to keep his balance.
“Sorry bud,” the man called dismissively without looking back and continued on up towards the junction at speed.
Brian jumped forward and placed a steadying hand on the box, then between them they got it into the hallway and deposited safely.
“Idiot nearly cleaned me off,” Robbie grumbled. “What’s his rush? I mean who wants to get to work so quickly?”
“Bikini inspector?” Brian shrugged. He stepped back onto the footpath and smiled when he saw the hurrying man was still waiting to get across the road. “Here watch this.”
He flicked the first two fingers on his right hand against his thumb. Instead of just being an obscene gesture a tiny flame sparked. Brian flung the little fireball and grinned wickedly at Robbie when it landed low, down between the shoulders of the man’s jacket. It smouldered for a second before burning out, leaving behind a nice sized hole that could even be seen from that distance. The man stepped out into a gap in traffic and was lost from sight.
“Bullseye. That’ll teach him some manners, possibly,” the firebug grinned, glowing. He patted his colleague on the shoulder. “Those office drones Rob my man, they lack patience. Don’t worry about it.”
“You’d want to be careful doing that in public,” Robbie sounded nervous.
Brian made a show of looking up and down Northumberland Road then shrugged.
“People are so caught up in their own lives they miss a lot of what goes on around them,” he said.
Above at the junction a few pedestrians stood, engrossed in their phones or yawning glumly while they shuffled in place, waiting for the lights to go green. Cars and cyclists zipped along, making the most of the free-flowing, early-morning, Dublin traffic or rather lack thereof. Nobody paid neither the men nor their battered van the blindest bit of notice as they ambled by.
“Makes it easier for us to hide in plain sight Robbie. Anyway, come on, I’ll take this inside for you,” Brian nudged the box with a foot. “You get those Danger Men signs up and we might actually be able to get this job started before eight.”
Robbie leaned into the van and pulled out two large, free-standing, diamond shaped signs. ‘Danger Men At Work’ was printed on both in black letters on a battered, burnt orange background. He set them down at either end of the van, blocking the footpath to pedestrians.
“Not that anyone’s going to pay any attention,” he muttered while locking the van and then followed Brian into the house.
All the old Victorian houses in the Ballsbridge area of Dublin they were working in followed the same basic layout – entrance hallway, front-room off to the right, stairs up to the next level directly ahead and kitchen down the hall, at the back of the house on the ground floor. Robbie found Brian in the barren front-room unpacking their tools onto a mobile workbench.
“You know a hole in the jacket isn’t going to stop that guy being a jerk don’t you?” Robbie rubbed a hand over the soft fuzz of his shaved head as he spoke, quickly checked his phone then slid it back into a front pocket.
“Ah forget about it buddy. Just do like that Frozen song says and let it go.” Brian reached into the box and with a grunt removed what looked like the engine of a mini motorbike. Placing it on the bench he turned to Robbie and let out a purposefully deep breath, his hands, palms down, held flat in front of him. “Breathe. Breathe. And… we’re done. It’s all going to be very Zen from here on out. There’s a job to do. I need you to have your mental capacities clear, sharp and completely focused. Small and all as this one promises to be there are always risks.”
Robbie looked at him aghast. “Jesus Bri what the hell was that all about? Disney references? Mindfulness? What have you been reading?”
“I’m all about staying calm these days. The stress is what kills you and I don’t need that. There’s enough things in this line of work that’ll do you in without any help whatsoever. I’d suggest you learn to do the same.”
“Dude,” Robbie placed a companionable hand on his work-mate’s shoulder, “I think it’s fair to say that this job is slightly higher risk than most.”
“Exactly,” Brian smiled, “all the more reason to take care of yourself. We’re in a high pressure environment with an above average risk of possession. I don’t need to be takin’ that sort of worry home with me to the little woman any more than you do. Actually you especially, what with a sprog on the way and all.”
“If Lorraine heard you calling her ‘the little woman’ she’
d wipe your mind and have you crawling around on your knees like a dog.”
Brian pulled an exaggerated expression of hurt then nodded in agreement. “You’re right, I should probably think these things thruuuu,” his face twisted, voice contorting the last word into an imitation of a werewolf howl. He dragged this on for about ten seconds then barked twice, before winking at Robbie and bursting out laughing.
“Dope,” Robbie shook his head but couldn’t hide the chuckle. “Still, I’d rather be doing this than stuck behind a desk all day like Mr Burny-suit from earlier on. So, do you need anything else from the van? I’m going to take a quick run through the rest of the house make sure our friend here is a one and only.”
On the wall above the boarded up fireplace a drooping shape hung, like a black bin bag half-filled with something heavy and oozing. Thin, spider-web cracks radiated out from a number of points where rose-thorn appendages hooked it to the wall. The bag pulsated slowly, like tar breathing. On the ground a little pile of tiny bones gathered dust.
Brian did a quick inventory of the items on the bench; overalls, heavy cloth sacks, a fire extinguisher, shock-stick, various carpentry tools, selection of chalks, cleaning products and the mini-engine.
“No, all seems in order. Just one thing before you go Robbie tell me, do you know where monsters like to go for dinner? Give up? Ghast-ro pubs.”
Robbie snatched up a packet of chalk and threw it at his partner who, grinning like a child, dodged it easily.
“Terrible.”
Brian gave a ‘whatyagonnadoaboutit’ gesture and shrugged. “Okay, let’s get this started and let’s get this over with.”
“The sooner the better,” Robbie replied. He tilted the phone out of his pocket, thumbed on the screen, sighed, then slid it away again.
“Everything alright Robbo? You’ve been lookin’ at that thing all morning. Scared it’s going to disappear on you?”
Robbie gave a blank stare.
“The phone,” Brian said. “You’ve hardly pulled your face out of it since we left HQ.”
“Sorry,” Robbie patted his pocket apologetically. “Anne’s going in for the twenty week scan this morning.”