by Amy Cross
She stared at him for a moment. “You poor, sad fool,” she muttered finally.
“So is his how I wake up?” he asked, holding his arms out to the side as if to embrace her. “The ghost of my victim shows up to scare me silly and jolt me back into the real world?”
He waited, but she was still just watching him with a trace of pity in her dead eyes.
“Well, I'm ready,” he continued. “Bring it on, because I'm sick of hiding away in my own subconscious. I'd rather face reality than carry on bumping along in this nightmare world.”
“I'm not here to wake you up, Colin,” she replied, spitting out the words with barely suppressed derision.
“Then what?” he asked, feeling a flash of panic. He raised the beer glass to his lips and drained the dregs, and then he rubbed his arm as he felt a faint, painful tightening sensation. “Please,” he continued, “I know I have no right to ask, but I can't live like this, not now. This world is too crazy, too... frozen and shell-shocked. I can't handle it, and I'm ready to face reality. More than ready. I need to go back, so however you wanna do it, wake me up.”
He waited, and then slowly she took one final step closer, until he could smell her foul, rotten breath. He could see the wound on her forehead in greater detail, too. He remembered how vibrant and wet and red it had seemed at first, but now it was dry and brittle, with the blood having coagulated and the edges having dried like paper.
“Wake me up,” he said finally, with tears in his eyes. “I'm sorry for what I did, and I'm ready to face the consequences. And I'm begging you, Monica.” He paused, his whole body trembling with fear as sweat began to pour down his face. “Wake me up.”
***
“It was beautiful,” Mary said, before slamming the car door shut and turning to lean back down so she could see Joanna's face. “I honestly didn't think the service would be so moving,” she added, wiping a tear from her eyes. “It really brought it all back, you know?”
“Try to get Colin to come next year,” Joanna replied. “I know he says he's recovering from the shock of getting caught up in it all, but...” She paused for a moment. “Well, you know what I mean. It's in his eyes, Mary, the poor guy just hasn't been the same since.”
“I know.”
“And if he comes to the next memorial service, I think it would really, really help him to unlock some of that... Well, whatever he's been keeping buried deep down.”
“I know.” Mary took a deep breath. “Good night. Thanks for driving me, and I'll give you a shout in a day or two about that play.”
Stepping back, she waved as Joanna drove away. Left alone on the sidewalk, she turned and looked toward the house, and she sighed as she saw that although Colin was no longer at his table on the porch, he'd left all the lights on. She'd told him over and over to turn all of them off if he went inside, apart from the main one by the door, but she figured that this was the one day of the year when she could cut him a little slack.
Heading across the yard, she made her way up the steps, while wondering to herself whether Colin would have drunk much more beer. She always worried whenever he -
Stopping suddenly, she saw his body next to the front door.
“Colin?” she said cautiously. “Are you alright?”
She waited, but there was no reply. Her first thought was that he must have passed out, but as she stepped closer she realized his eyes were wide open and staring glassily toward the porch's roof.
“Colin?”
A ripple of fear was spreading through her chest now, as she made her way around her husband and waited for some sign of life.
“Colin, are you okay?” she stammered. “Colin, answer me! Colin, what -”
Gasping, she saw a series of thick scratches running down the sides of his face, all the way onto his neck. There wasn't much blood, just a few trickles, just enough to suggest that something had dug its nails into his flesh and ripped into his body. It was almost as if he'd been dragged down to the ground and -
“Wake -” he suddenly whispered.
“Colin?”
Dropping to her knees, Mary placed a hand on his chest.
“Colin, can you hear me?”
“I'm going to wake up,” he gasped, his voice sounding choked and full of pain. There was sweat on his brow, and when Mary put a hand on the side of his face, she realized he felt cold. “It's time,” he stammered. “Finally... I'm going to... back to the plaza on that morning...”
“I'm calling an ambulance,” Mary stammered, pulling her cellphone from her pocket and quickly dialing 911. “I think you're having a heart attack, but you'll be okay, I promise, we just have to -”
She heard a voice on the other end of the line.
“I need an ambulance at 5423 Wintergreen Terrace,” she sobbed, trying not to panic. “Hurry, it's my husband! I think it's his heart!”
As Mary continued to speak on the phone, Colin turned and looked across the porch, toward the night sky. He still felt a crushing sensation in his chest, and his left arm was agony, but a strange feeling of absolute calm had begun to wash over him. He imagined himself sitting on the bench on a sunny Tuesday morning, and he he knew that at any moment he was going to emerge from his fantasy and go back to that moment. He'd have to face the truth about Monica, of course, but he was finally ready to own up to what he'd done. Everything since then, he knew, had been all in his mind, and had probably taken place over the course of just a few minutes.
“I'm waking up,” he gasped, feeling a sudden surge of pain in his chest. “I'm waking up, I'm -”
“Please tell them to hurry,” Mary stammered. “Please, for God's sake, tell them to get here as soon as they can!”
Dropping the phone, she reached down and kisses the side of Colin's face.
“It's going to be okay,” she told him breathlessly. “An ambulance is coming, and they'll make sure you're fine. Can you hear me, Colin? There's nothing to worry about.”
She waited, but this time there was no response.
“Colin?”
She nudged his shoulder, before realizing that his eyes seemed different now, as if they were no longer focused on the world around them.
“Colin?”
She paused, before placing a finger against his neck and feeling for a pulse.
“Oh, Colin...”
As the sound of a siren began to ring out in the distance, Mary leaned down and rested her face against her husband's chest. There were tears in her eyes, but she knew there was nothing more that could be done for him.
Nearby, her bag lay where it had fallen, partially open and with a program for the memorial service poking out.
A Single Blade of Grass
I
It began with a blade of grass.
Sitting up in bed, I spotted it on my right foot. In this bare white, minimalist, glass-walled apartment, the little sliver of green stood out. I reached down to remove it, and held it for a moment in my hand. How did it get here?
I mean: how did it get here again?
I live in the city. I haven't been near any grass for years, and I shower every night before bed... and yet, every morning, there's a single blade of grass on my right foot.
***
When I get to the bathroom, I drop the blade of grass into the toilet and pull the flush. This is becoming a routine. Every morning for two weeks now, the same mystery. How much longer should I allow this to happen before I investigate? I tell myself that I'm too busy to think about it, but deep down I think perhaps that isn't true.
Fear is involved, too.
My phone buzzes. It turns out to be a message from my senior colleague, informing me that Assignment 031 has been postponed by 29 minutes. That's good. I could use the extra time for my ablutions this morning. I send back a quick acknowledgment and start shaving, dragging the blade across my skin a little more slowly and calmly than usual.
I enjoy staring at my own face. There is something so... comforting about seeing the same image stari
ng back at me day after day. I'm quite good looking, with startling blue eyes that I feel should be remarked upon more often. It's really a wonder that I am, at the moment, single and seeking female companionship. Still, look at me: It can't be long before I'm attached again.
Unfortunately, I've already dated every woman in the building. I shall have to look further afield.
My phone rings and I get an instant headache. I step back from the sink, grab the phone and answer. The headache goes away. I hate the way that happens. The HealthChip3000EX implanted in my skull does wonders for my personal vitality, but it has an annoying habit of picking up the signal whenever I get a phone call. I've been meaning to get it fixed for a while now, but I just never seem to have the time. A quick web search suggests that no-one else suffers the same problem.
“Agent Charles,” I say into the phone.
“It's me,” replies a voice that I instantly recognize as belonging to Second Superintendent Huffer. “I just wanted to warn you to try to get in a little early today. They're spiraling extra recommendations at us and they're particularly anxious about under-cloaking vis a vis the latest United Nations edicts on human rights. It's a pain in the ass”.
“Understood,” I say. “I'll be there very soon”.
The line disconnects. Well, I guess the 'extra time' has been snatched back. I'll just have to grab breakfast on the way. Finishing my shave at slightly above the usual speed, I head to the fridge and grab a pouch of nutrients. Should keep me going for the commute, at least.
And then, heading to the door, I spot it: another blade of grass, just inside the apartment, next to the doormat. I kneel down and examine it. When I hold it up to the light, I immediately see that it's real, not synthetic. Is it the same blade I just threw away? The same blade I seem to find every day now? Am I being haunted by the ghost of a blade of grass?
Time for action.
***
“What happens when they go to the toilet?” asks Malcolm, apparently seriously. “Do you follow 'em in and watch, or do you wait outside discreetly?” He's examining my blade of grass under a microscope, in his forensics lab up on the fifteenth floor.
“I'm not permitted to discuss mission protocol,” I reply. I allow the faintest of smiles to cross my lips. If he's paying attention, he'll be able to guess the truth. “But let's just say, we leave no stone unturned”.
Malcolm laughs. “Stone being a euphemism for shit, I guess”. He makes some adjustments to the microscope and then he looks up at me, his mouth hanging open. “Do you have any idea what this is?”
I step closer. “Tell me.”
He stares at me. “It's a blade of grass”.
I sigh. “I know that,” I tell him. “I mean, that's what it looks like. But are you sure there's not a neurotransmitter inside it, or maybe it's micro-synthetic or something? Those guys at G-Lab have been cooking up some pretty strange things recently.”
“It's a blade of grass,” he says blankly, perhaps a little sarcastically. “Like you get in parks and fields. Just a normal blade of grass. It's not robo-grass, it's not a tiny mind-control device, it's a single blade of grass. Simple as that. Maybe you need a holiday, mate”.
“My holiday is due in thirty-seven days' time,” I tell him. “My last one was forty-two days ago. I'm at an optimal midpoint between holidays, unless you're suggesting -”
“Relax,” Malcolm says, “I'm not suggesting anything. I'm just observing and making witty, sometimes quite intelligent points that I think you should consider. You seem fried, man”.
I nod. “There's a lot of stress at work. Somebody's still hacking into the mainframe on an almost daily basis. We close one security hole, he finds another. Last week we were investigating a bot-net, turned out it was using our own computers to launch DNS attacks against ourselves from inside the network”.
“Damn it,” says Malcolm. “Sounds like you're dealing with a hacking mastermind. And -” He holds up the blade of grass. “Now you have this to deal with on top of it all”.
“It's not the grass that bothers me, dumbass,” I reply, taking the specimen from him. “It's where it's coming from. I don't go near grass. I don't -”
I wince as a pain strikes my head, and a moment later Malcolm's phone rings.
“You okay, mate?” he asks.
“Answer your phone!” I hiss, clutching the side of my head.
“What?”
“Answer your god-damn phone!” I shout.
Realizing that he's staring at me open-mouthed like a fool, I grab the phone and answer it for him, before pressing it into his right hand. The pain stops almost immediately.
“Yeah, sure,” he says to the person on the other end of the call, then he hangs up and stares at me. “Dude. What was that?”
“It's my HealthChip3000EX,” I reply, breathlessly recovering my composure. “It's supposed to monitor my health at all times, and it does that just fine, but it has a nasty habit of picking up the signal from mobile phones”.
Malcolm stands up, grabbing his coat from a hook on the wall. “You got that looked at?” he asks.
“Haven't had time.”
He smiles. “Hang on”. Going back to his computer, he punches up a series of command boxes. Within about 30 seconds, he's into the HealthChip3000EX servo data unit. “I'm in your head,” he tells me.
“Get out,” I reply.
“No really,” he says. “I'm in the hard-drive in the HealthChip3000EX that's in your head. I hacked your skull”.
“Please don't do anything stupid,” I say.
“Relax,” he says. “But I'll monitor it for 24 hours, and when I see the problem, I'll work out how to fix it. Probably just a software patch or something. This time tomorrow, you'll be fine and dandy”. He grins at me and, despite my doubts, I find his optimism contagious and I nod approvingly. “You won't regret it,” he continues. “I'll fix your head for you in no time”.
II
One hour later, I'm standing in the briefing room. Huffer has just given me some new details about our current target: it seems Debra Desmondleigh, senior VP of one of America's largest technology companies, has been engaging in a little more insider trading than we'd realized. She might have made up to $5bn that she's squirreled away somewhere for a rainy day. So this case just got upgraded from a Cluster 1 to a Cluster 3, which means there's a lot more responsibility on my shoulders, which means a lot more people are going to be reading my reports, which means... Well, you get the idea. It's a nightmare.
As I cloak, however, I can't help but acknowledge the tingle of anticipation that runs up my spine. I have often thought about the erotic aspects of the work that we do, and I've heard horror stories from some of the other agents, about the things they do while they're invisible... Still, I try to put this out of my mind as much as possible; if I didn't, I'd end up following Debra Desmondleigh into the bathroom, watching her while she showers, watching her while she masturbates, watching her while she has sex with the latest idiot she's picked up at an industry conference. Well... Okay, I already watch her doing all those things, but it's part of my job. I don't enjoy it. I'm not invisibly jacking off in the corner.
This morning, Debra is scheduled to work from her office, so I head straight over to her building and by 9am I've managed to slip through open doors and I'm finally sitting near her desk. She's typing away, looking like she's doing lots of very important work, though from where I'm sitting I can see that she's just playing on a retro gaming site. Eventually, though, she starts opening some text documents and email programs, and this is when I move closer. As she types out messages to colleagues, I'm looking over her shoulder. She has no idea that I'm here of course, but I have to get the information somehow. And sure enough, the messages she's typing are in clear violation of federal laws regarding insider trading. We have her now, it's just a question of gathering enough evidence.
Just as I'm reading one of her latest emails over her shoulder, her phone rings. I grab the side of my head and
fall to the floor in agony, having to be very careful not to scream out in pain.
“What the hell?” she asks, turning around after hearing the sound of me hitting the carpet. She looks in my general direction, but she can't see me, which is just as well: I'm rolling around on the floor, my head feeling as if it's about to split open. And still the phone rings.
Eventually, after what seems like an eternity, she picks up her phone and starts speaking. Still on the floor, I regain my composure and sit up. I'm pretty sure Debra has forgotten all about the noise she heard; she's talking on the phone, telling someone that she can't talk now but that they should meet up later in a bar. Sounds like she's planning something she doesn't want to organize in a way that might leave a paper-trail. As she arranges the meeting, I make a mental note of when and where she'll be tomorrow afternoon. I guess I'll be going along, except this time I'll be able to go uncloaked. It won't matter if she spots me, visible in a crowd of strangers. She has no idea who I am, despite the fact that I've been following her every day for more than a month.
I decide to get out of the office for some fresh air. Fortunately, the door has been left open, so it's not hard to slip out without being noticed. Once outside the building, I de-cloak and grab a sandwich at a nearby bar. I glance at my phone and find I have, quite improbably, 5 new messages from Malcolm. Deciding it would be quicker to just go and speak to him in person, I eat my sandwich on the go as I walk a few blocks to his office.
***
“Screw the grass,” says Malcolm, ushering me into his office and making sure the door's closed behind us. “This isn't about the grass, this is about your HealthChip3000EX, that computer you've got in your brain. What did you say they told you it was for again?”