Anomaly Flats

by Clayton Smith

  X

  “So. This is what chicken grease smells like.”

  Lewis made a surprised noise somewhere behind his nasal cavity. “Have you never smelled chicken grease before?” he asked.

  Mallory sank down in her seat and pulled the collar of her t-shirt up over her nose. “Not in such…quantity,” she said. The pungent smell stung at her eyes, and they glistened over with tears.

  “But look at the vantage point,” Lewis said, nodding toward the restaurant. They had an excellent view of both the side and back doors of the Chick-fil-A. They could see the employees in their chicken-stained red polos, wiping off tables and sweeping up floors and generally busying themselves in preparation for the mandatory dinner rush.

  “Why are the employees all muscly bald man?” Mallory asked. Something stirred involuntarily in the depths of her stomach as she watched a sweaty lunk with fading blue tattoos shake a pan of dirty water down a drain. Stop it, ovaries, she silently cursed herself, embarrassed on behalf of her biological clock.

  “Prison work program,” Lewis said.

  “They let prisoners work at Chick-fil-A?”

  Lewis nodded. “They insist on it! It actually solves a few problems at once. The mayor is firmly against paying a living wage, and the prisoners would do literally anything to get out of the jail for a while. Literally anything, Mallory. Our jail is terrible.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  Lewis gestured to the men working inside the restaurant. “This seemed like a decent solution for everyone.”

  “Are they violent?” she asked, working hard to keep a small hint of excitement out of her voice.

  Lewis shrugged. “Some of them, sure.”

  Strangely, this did little to dilute her estrogen levels.

  She gave her head a good shake and tried to focus. They had no clear view of the front of the building from this angle. “What if the clone goes in the front door?” she asked.

  Lewis chuckled. “The front door? No one uses the front door. You get sliced in half by a giant saw blade if you go in that way.”

  Mallory coughed in surprise. “Seems like a strange way to run a business.”

  “It keeps the foyer clean,” Lewis explained. “People tend track in a lot of mud.”

  A speaker just to their left squealed. Mallory jumped a mile. “Christ!” she said, putting a hand to her chest and catching her breath. “Does any place in this town not have a loudspeaker?”

  Lewis looked at her strangely. “No,” he said.

  The now-familiar female voice crackled to life:

  “Attention, Anomaly Flats: Next week, all water at the Anomaly Flats Island Adventure Water Park will be replaced by five metric tons of loose gravel as part of an ongoing experiment by a clandestine research group that you should never, ever inquire about. The water park will operate normally, at regular business hours, but with loose gravel instead of water. If you were planning on visiting Island Adventure Water Park next week, you should not change your plans. Anyone who has been planning on visiting Island Adventure Water Park but changes their mind because the water slides, lazy river, and wave pool will now be filled with loose gravel will be visited in the night by the clandestine research group and surgically removed.”

  The speaker squawked and screeched, and then cut out completely.

  “They sure know how to keep up morale,” Mallory grumbled.

  “Yes,” Lewis agreed. “Isn’t it fascinating?”

  A few early dinner patrons began filtering into the parking lot and sitting down to their chicken sandwiches and oversized Cokes, but they were older, much older, and the evil clone wasn’t among them.

  “So here’s a question,” she said, leaning back against the dumpster. The grease smell wasn’t so pungent, now that her nostrils had gotten a good dose of it. “Since Evil Lewis is your clone, isn’t he off the hook if you go in for dinner? I mean, they’re going to be on the lookout for Lewis Barnish—”

  “Burnish.”

  “—Burnish, sorry. But they’re not going to be looking for two Lewis Barnishes, right?”

  “Burnishes,” he stressed.

  “Get over it. You know what I’m saying, right? They’re not going to be all, ‘Oh, look, only one weird scientist came to dinner today, that’s suspicious; shouldn’t there be a second genetically-identical weird scientist that no one knows exists except for the weird scientist, the weird scientist’s clone, and a super-hot tourist?’”

  “Actually, they will. The mayor tracks everyone in town by heat signature from her fleet of drones. If they find his heat signature on the other side of town, he’s dead.”

  “I thought you said he’d go to jail.”

  “You think my genetic duplicate would survive more than three hours in a prison? Especially this prison? Mallory, you haven’t seen our jail…”

  Mallory laughed. “I think your genetic duplicate would be lucky to survive more than three minutes in prison. Any prison.”

  “Well, that’s…hurtful, mostly. But you see my point.”

  “But what if he risks it? What if he decides to take advantage of the rest of the town being empty to pull off some next-level evil clone shit?”

  Lewis raised an eyebrow. “Next-level evil clone shit?”

  Mallory shrugged with her palms. “You know. Sinister things. Like rig elections. Bomb buildings. Drown old people in ice water. Throw away their medicine. I don’t know—what do the town’s evil clones usually do?”

  Lewis squinted one eye, poked his tongue out of the corner of his mouth, and tried to remember. “It’s been a while since we’ve had one. I guess the last clone would have been Evil Lori Koppel. She set fire to the fire department and bulldozed the original bowling alley. Before that, Evil Mason Crosby poisoned the town’s water supply, and before that, Evil Mary Twixby brainwashed all the children and led them on a death march over the Lava Cliffs into Sputtering Volcano. That’s why everyone in town is sterilized now,” he added. “Just in case.”

  “Wow,” Mallory said, admittedly impressed in spite of the horror. “That’s quite a mixed bag.”

  “It is,” Lewis agreed. “You never really know what you’re going to get. But don’t worry. He’ll come. He will. I know it. I feel it.” He paused, and a heavy silence fell between them. “I would come.”

  Mallory started to respond, but movement in the corner of her eye caught her attention. A lone male walked up to the side door of the Chick-fil-A, wearing a pale blue bow tie, a green-and-yellow-checkered shirt, and a white lab coat over a pair of pressed khakis. “Lewis!” she exclaimed, grabbing him by the arm. “It’s him!”

  “Ow!” Lewis pulled his arm free and rubbed it tenderly. “Not so hard.” He adjusted his glasses and squinted at the man approaching the restaurant. “Are you sure?” he asked.

  “Are you kidding me? It’s you!” Mallory leapt to her feet and started out from behind the dumpster, but Lewis grabbed her elbow and pulled her back.

  “Wait!” he hissed. “I don’t think it is.”

  “What?” Mallory hissed, exasperated. “He’s wearing your exact same outfit.”

  “Yeah, but look…that guy has a mustache.” Sure enough, the man walking into the Chick-fil-A had a long, droopy mustache balanced precariously above his upper lip. “He’s also wearing a bandana around his neck, and a sombrero.”

  “So what?” Mallory said, throwing her hands into the air. “The mustache is clearly fake.”

  Lewis frowned doubtfully up at her. “And the sombrero? You telling me that’s fake, too?”

  “It’s a goddamn costume, Lewis!” she hissed.

  “I don’t think so,” Lewis said, shaking his head. “I’d never wear a false mustache. It scares me too much. When I first arrived in Anomaly Flats, I grew out a beard. I thought, new l
ife, new look! But facial hair changes you, Mallory. I believe that, in a very real sense. I grew that beard, and I literally didn’t recognize myself in the mirror.” He lifted his eyes, and they were clouded over by the pain of the memory. “It’s a terrible thing to not recognize yourself.”

  Mallory clenched her fists. “Look, I’m going in there. He knows where my bag is, and I’m getting it back. Are you coming with me or not?”

  Lewis frowned. “No, Mallory,” he decided. “We can’t risk giving up our hiding spot in case the actual clone is watching!” His grip on her elbow tightened. “We need to stay here.”

  Mallory crouched down and leaned in close to the scientist. “Listen, Barnish—”

  “It’s Bur—”

  “I DON’T CARE WHAT IT IS! You’re going to let go of my arm right now, for two reasons: One, because that’s the evil clone, and I’m going to go stop him; and two, because I haven’t peed once all goddamn day, and if you don’t let me go into that restaurant, I’m going to let my bladder explode all over your face. Got it?”

  Lewis let go of her elbow and scooted farther away, as if something from inside of Mallory might drip onto his shoes. “Geez, you could have just said you had to go…”

  “I. JUST. DID.” Mallory turned and marched over to the Chick-fil-A. She pushed open the door and was greeted by the harsh, sickly-sweet smell of fried things and cheap cheese. The restaurant looked like every other Chick-fil-A she’d ever been in, except that this one didn’t have computerized cash registers, of course. Instead, the counter was lined with four old-fashioned registers that dinged and clanged and popped little currency flags up and down like prairie dogs. The poorly-disguised evil clone was standing at one of these registers, placing his order with a bemused and sweaty man behind the counter, so Mallory figured she had some time. She hurried to the bathroom, which was remarkably clean for an establishment with a janitorial staff composed entirely of male criminals.

  On her way back out, she crept slowly down the little hallway and peeked her head around the corner. Shit, she thought. The clone was no longer at the counter. She did a quick scan of the restaurant, but he was nowhere to be seen. From her post near the door, she could see out the windows of the restaurant…and the clone wasn’t in the parking lot, either.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  “Well,” said a sharply familiar voice in her ear. “Look who came to dinner.”

  Mallory whirled around and threw her closed fist instinctively at the Evil Lewis’s face. He caught her at the wrist and yanked her in close, so that the lid of his sombrero crushed against her forehead and the hairs of the ridiculously oversized mustache tickled her chin. “Looking for me?” he asked.

  “I want my bag back, you little twerp,” Mallory seethed. She pulled her hand back, but the evil clone’s grip was strong, much stronger than the real Lewis’. Even so, Mallory’s anger was undeterred. “Now.”

  Evil Lewis made a grand show of pretending to consider this option. “Nah. I think I’ll keep it,” he decided with a wicked grin. “It’s just filled with such wonderful things…”

  Mallory stepped in even closer and grabbed the clone by the lapels of his lab coat. He gave a little yelp of surprise. “Listen to me, you little nerd: I made you, and I can end you. Tell me where my bag is right this second, or I swear to God, I will rip your face off your skull and use it as a dust rag.”

  Evil Lewis giggled. “First of all, a strip of face would be horribly ineffective as a dust rag. I mean, just think about it.”

  “Oh my God...you even dweeb like Lewis,” she said, disgusted.

  “And second of all, I’d proceed very gently if I were you.” With a huge, deranged grin plastered across his face, he slowly grabbed hold of one flap of the lab coat and lifted it gingerly. Beneath it, he wore a vest made of dynamite sticks bound together by electrical tape. The dynamite was wired to a small detonator that he held up in the other hand. “We wouldn’t want there to be any accidents.”

  Mallory’s heart froze. She loosened her grip on his lapel, and he squirmed out of her clutches.

  “That’s the smartest thing you’ve done all day.” He closed his lab coat and un-crumpled his sombrero. From around the corner, a burly male voice called, “Order 52!” Evil Lewis licked his lips. “That’s me,” he said. He gave her a wink. “Chow time.” Then he skirted around the stunned Mallory and made his way to the counter, tucking the detonator into his coat pocket. He picked up his grease-soaked bag and tipped his huge hat to the man behind the counter. On his way toward the door, he stopped at the hallway and smiled up at Mallory. “Don’t even think about following me,” he said, his voice taking on a hard edge that belied the dumb grin on his face, “or I’ll blow the bag to kingdom come.”

  “You wouldn’t,” Mallory challenged, summoning up at least a semblance of stubbornness. But she felt pretty certain that he very much would.

  “Try me.” Then he walked to the exit, squeezed the giant sombrero through the doors, sauntered out into the parking lot, and disappeared around the corner.

  That, Mallory decided, did not go well.

  Chapter 13

  “This is bad, Mallory,” Lewis frowned, plunging his nugget into a cup of honey mustard. “This is really, really bad.”

  “Yeah…my sandwich isn’t so great either,” she said, peeling back the bun on her spicy chicken. Two sad, defeated pickle disks stared back up at her.

  Lewis jammed the nugget into his mouth and chewed. “I don’t mean the food,” he said crossly.

  “I know, Lewis,” she said with a heavy sigh. “It was a joke.” She felt a weariness that could have been made of concrete for all its weight. Everything that had happened since she’d arrived at Anomaly Flats—and even the events before she arrived, ever since she’d woken up in St. Louis the previous morning for what she knew would be the last time—it all made her tired, physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually, and every other –ally in the book. And now, to have lost her backpack? That was to lose everything. She liked to think she was a fighter by nature, but now she felt the undeniable and uncontrollable urge to slide off her chair, curl up into a ball beneath the table, and die right there in the Chick-fil-A. She nibbled at the edge of her spicy chicken. “Actually, this is really pretty good,” she admitted. And that was the last straw. It sent her into tears. “I hate my life,” she sniffled into her napkin.

  Lewis stared down at his hands. Emotions made him uncomfortable. So they ate in silence as the Chick-fil-A filled with the citizens of Anomaly Flats.

  Maude Roach arrived, looking prim and sour and generally mean. She gave Mallory a hard stare, but did not say hello. The tourism director came in not long after, a trio of agitated flies buzzing in tight circles around her head. She didn’t need to open her mouth to order; the restaurant employees had her sack of food ready and waiting. At some point, they’d probably learned the hard way that a swarm of flies didn’t exactly make for successful health inspections.

  Trudy shuffled in, too, carrying two waffles wrapped in a napkin. She didn’t look terribly pleased to be there. When her order came up, she removed the flimsy bun from her sandwich and placed the chicken patty and its trimmings between the two waffles. This seemed to brighten her up some. She saw Mallory watching her and passed her a little wink.

  More and more folks filtered in, until the tables were all taken and there was barely any standing room left. The line went out the door and around the corner. Finally, Lewis crammed the last chicken nugget into his mouth and wiped his hands on his lab coat. “We should get going,” he said, snapping Mallory back to reality. “Give up the table for someone else.” Several impatient diners edged eagerly toward them, shooting each other threatening, violent looks.

  “All right,” Mallory agreed.

  She finished off her fries and stood. The second she was up, a small woman with bony h
ips slammed into her, knocking her out of the way and skidding into her seat. “Mine!” the woman snapped at every person in earshot.

  “Geez, these people…”

  As they squeezed past the line of people and out the door, Mallory noticed Rufus the mechanic standing in the queue. He hadn’t changed out of his sweaty, greasy coveralls, but he’d added some oil smudges to both cheeks and to his forehead. His mouth hung open, of course, and his saliva dribbled out and spattered on the shoulder of the suit jacket of the man standing in front of him. Neither man seemed to mind.

  “How’s the car?” Mallory pleaded, grabbing the mechanic’s sleeve as she passed. “Is it fixed? Please tell me it’s fixed.”

  Rufus turned to her and titled his head a bit, as if trying to remember how he knew this particularly disheveled woman.

  Mallory’s heart sank. “It’s not fixed, is it?”

  Something in the man’s brain clicked then, though his expression kept it mostly to itself. “Impala,” he said.

  Mallory waited for more, but there was no more. “Yes, Impala,” she said impatiently. “The alternator. Any chance you built it fast?”

  “The alternator,” Rufus agreed, letting his saliva spill onto the increasingly dirty Chick-fil-A linoleum. “’Bout half done.”

  Mallory sighed. It wasn’t exactly great news, but it wasn’t bad news, either. “Probably done tomorrow,” he added, and that brightened her up a bit.

  “I know you’re doing the best you can, but…the faster the better.” She patted his arm and let herself get caught up in the eddy of diners pushing their way out of the restaurant.

  “I’ll fix the dent in the door,” he called out as she was swept away.

  She gave him a thumbs up without turning her head. “So. What do we do now?” she asked Lewis as they stalked back toward the Winnebago.

  Lewis sighed. Between the drawn look of his cheeks and the two dark pouches that were growing larger and larger under his eyes, he looked about as exhausted as Mallory felt. She wondered if she had pouches under her eyes, too. “Well, he’s up to something big, there’s no doubt about that. He made a dynamite vest and put together an impenetrable disguise. I think he’s showing us that he has something complex in the works.”