by Sean Platt
“The dreams didn’t mean anything,” Luis said. “They didn’t come true.”
“But they did. Me and several other people were snatched from here and wound up in another world, identical to ours. Nearly all the people on that world either vanished or died. There were aliens — these big, ugly, black things that infected people. I know it sounds crazy as hell, but you, the you over there, told me a lot.”
As Luis stared, Brent shared details gifted to him by another version of the same man: dreams, his daughter, a wife dying of cancer. He watched as Luis’s eyes filled with water. His chin trembled, slowly losing a battle to crying. Brent wondered if the tears were from joy in knowing he wasn’t crazy, or liquid fear to think he had escaped the prophecy of October 15, only to have Brent knocking with the truth that he hadn’t.
“Daddy?” a girl called from behind. His daughter — Gracie! — who had vanished on the other world, and whom Luis had missed so much.
“Stay inside, Honey!” Luis snapped before she reached the door. He closed it, but kept his gun firmly on Brent.
“Why are you here?”
Brent said, “I was gone for six months, and my wife thinks I’m nuts. I was told not to tell anybody what happened, and for the most part I listened, but I’ve lost everything — my wife, my son, and my job. I need to talk to someone who would know I wasn’t lying. You and I were good friends over there. I trusted you with my life. Hell, you saved me. I’m assuming I can trust this version of you, too. Please, I just want to talk. I know you must be at least a little curious about what your dreams really mean.”
“Meant,” Luis corrected Brent. “I haven’t had the dreams since October 2011 came and went with nothing around it. I was hoping to keep it that way.”
“I’ll tell you everything you want to know,” Brent said. “And I’m hoping you can help me.”
“Help you what?”
“Get my life back,” Brent said.
“Okay, let’s assume you’re not insane, we can talk,” Luis said through a deep exhale that sounded like he’d been holding something in. “But not now, and not in front of my daughter. Give me a call later, after 10, but before midnight, okay?”
“Thank you,” Brent said. “I knew I could count on you.”
Luis looked like he wanted to say something back, but only nodded, then said, “Talk to you later,” and went back inside.
**
10:40 p.m.
“Jesus, that is the craziest shit I’ve ever heard,” Luis said once Brent finally finished detailing everything from the moment he woke on October 15 to when the other Luis was killed by the Black Island Guard, then everything that followed, all the way until he was back in Ben’s bed, exhaling beside him.
“Do you believe me?” Brent said, not wanting to ask, afraid Luis might think him crazy, like Gina.
Luis said nothing for a while, adding to Brent’s apprehension. If Luis didn’t believe him, Brent wasn’t sure he had any chance with the others. Stan had been friendly enough on the other world, but the Earth-Stan ran when Brent tried to talk to him. And the other Melora was icy to start with, Brent had no reason to expect a warmer version on this world. Luis was his best — his only — hope: his friend. If one Luis trusted Brent with his life, Brent had to believe this one might, too.
Finally, Luis said, “Yes, I think so. But I’m not sure what good that will do you. I mean, you were there, not me. All I have are a few dreams that never came true.”
“That’s why I want to talk to the others — Stan, Melora, and the other woman who didn’t make it.”
“What do you mean the other woman who didn’t make it?”
“On the other world, when I met the 215ers, it was the other you, Stan, and Melora. They said there was another member of the group who was supposed to meet them and wait for The Event. But she never made it.”
“There’s no other woman in the group. But there is a man. And he didn’t make it, either.”
“What’s his name?” Brent asked.
Luis hesitated before answering. “Roman Rosetti, but his name don’t matter,” Luis said.
“Why’s that?”
“Because you’re not gonna be able to talk to him.”
“Why not?” Brent asked.
“Because on October 14, he walked into a veteran’s administration building and opened fire, shooting six people before turning the gun on himself.”
“Jesus!” Brent whispered. “And? He’s dead?”
“No, he ran out of ammo, oddly enough. Before Roman could reload, he was tackled. He’s locked up in Harrison Psychiatric Hospital, last I heard. We tried to visit, well, Melora did, but they wouldn’t let her see him.”
“Why do you think he did it? It must’ve had something to do with The Event, or the dreams, right?”
“I don’t know,” Luis said. “Roman hasn’t been right for a while, ever since his wife killed herself six years ago. I mean, he was already messed up from his time in the Air Force, so this pushed him over the edge. He started talking about black helicopters, aliens, government agents following him, tin foil hat shit … well, it seemed tin foil hat at the time, anyway.”
Air Force? Maybe he knew more about the aliens than just some dreams.
Brent’s journalistic wheels started spinning as he thought back on people he could contact for help getting to Roman. He had interviewed the hospital’s newest director, Mindy Benson, when she first took the job three years ago. They had hit it off, and she had reached out to Brent for a number of features. He wasn’t sure he had enough juice to see Roman, particularly since he was no longer a reporter or in any way valuable to the director, but he could certainly ask.
“Tell me, Luis, if I could get us in there, will you go with me? Would he talk to me with you there?”
“I don’t know,” Luis said. “He was kind of in and out of our group, never really opening up all that much. I don’t think he trusted us. What do you think he can tell you?”
“I don’t know, but my gut says if anyone knows something, it’s him.”
* * * *
CHAPTER 2— Ed Keenan
Black Island Research Facility
Ed and Sullivan stared into open laptops as they sat at a long table in the bright-white light of the main communications room, waiting for Frank Bolton, the Black Island Research Facility Director.
Bolton was the man who arranged for the expunging of Ed’s crimes the Agency had trumped up, in exchange for helping Sullivan track the alien threat. Bolton was in his early 50s, short and built like a brawler. His rock-like shoulders bookended a stone-cold, don’t-fuck-with-me stare. He never minced words and called shit like it was: exactly why Ed liked him. After dealing with too many silver-tongued bureaucrats in the Agency, Ed couldn’t stand the politics of bullshit.
Though Ed liked Bolton well enough, he couldn’t trust the man to honor old deals once Ed fulfilled his job’s duties. Which was why Ed played it safe and moved his family — Jade, Teagan, and Becca — into a safe house in upstate New York that nobody knew about.
Bolton stepped into the room in his crisp, black uniform, which, despite the man’s general ranking, bore no decorations and declared no honor: black and utilitarian, same as any other Guardsman.
“So, the shit’s hit the fan, eh, gentlemen?” Bolton said, taking a seat opposite them.
“Yes, Sir,” Sullivan said. “We have our first documented infection. We’re culling everything we have on Mrs. Flores to see if we can trace her point of contagion.”
“And her child? Husband?”
“Both were quarantined on Level Four, but neither shows signs of infection.”
“And the other women with her in the park?”
“Also quarantined, along with their families. We don’t expect any positives.”
Bolton sighed, “OK, the press is having a fucking field day, suggesting everything from biological attack to homegrown terror from a sleeper unit of soccer moms. We need to find this Boricio Bishop
. Have we got any leads, at all?”
“No, Sir,” Sullivan said. “We’re monitoring all communications and all closed circuit television for any sign of him, but we’re at zero hits.”
“So he’s just out there infecting people and there’s nothing we can do about it?” Bolton asked.
“We’re doing everything we can,” Sullivan said. “And this is the first person that we know is infected. The other cases we worked showed no change to the bodies, so we had no actual proof linking Bishop to this.”
“Until now,” Bolton reminded him.
Ed sympathized, seeing Sullivan sitting empty handed beside a man used to commanding answers with a snapping finger. Ed had seen many men in Bolton’s position get petulant when their underlings didn’t stuff their hungry bellies with the answers they wanted yesterday. To Bolton’s credit, he was either managing his stress well and trapping his rising anger, or truly in charge of his emotions. While he was short with Sullivan, Ed had seen men like Bolton go completely unhinged, batshit ballistic.
While Bolton’s patience was a deeper well than other men’s, it wouldn’t be long before that well ran dry. Men like Bolton didn’t only expect answers, they also had to provide answers to someone higher up the food chain. And those people, in Ed’s experience, were far less patient.
Earth’s Black Island wasn’t the same agency as the other world’s. While this organization was also part of Homeland Security, it hadn’t benefited from the alien technology as it had in the other world. This Black Island was designed as a biowarfare research facility, with four levels rather than seven. Neither the facility nor its staff, comprised more of scientists than actual Guardsmen, were prepared for a full-scale alien invasion or outbreak of infected. The pressure was on Bolton to head this off before involving the military.
Once the military was involved, keeping the information secret would be impossible: The people of Earth would know there were aliens among them. Mass panic would tear society to pieces.
“OK,” Bolton said. “We picked up a communication last night on the computers, and I need you to follow up. Someone you both know: Brent Foster.”
Ed felt Bolton’s eyes on him, weighing his surprise.
Bolton punched his laptop’s keyboard, and played a recording 0f Brent speaking to someone Ed didn’t know. The men were discussing Black Island, the aliens, and someone Brent referenced as the 215ers. They were also discussing a man named Roman Rosetti, a former Air Force member who went on a shooting spree before being committed to a psychiatric hospital.
The recording ended, and Bolton’s eyes met Sullivan’s. “I thought you said we could trust these survivors to keep their mouths shut. This man sounds like he’s doing the opposite. Do I need to remind you of the mess this makes for us?”
“No, Sir,” Sullivan said.
“I need you two to take care of this,” Bolton said.
Ed swallowed, “Take care of?”
“I want you to find out what Brent Foster knows, then kill him. And the man he was talking to. Name’s Luis Torres.”
“Whoa, whoa,” Ed said, “I didn’t sign on to kill anyone.”
Ed looked at Sullivan, who seemed equally surprised by Bolton’s directive, but was silent.
Bolton responded, the first bit of anger tinging his voice, “We have a deal, Mr. Keenan, predicated on you helping us do whatever must be done to eradicate the threat. I don’t need to remind you that we secured your freedom from some fairly serious government charges, do I?”
“What part of not reminding me is this?” Ed asked. “I said I’d help, yes. That was before you had me killing innocents.”
“Please,” Bolton said, “don’t insult me by acting like a whore with last-minute scruples. You are a paid killer, Mr. Keenan, the only thing that’s changed is your master.”
Ed stood, “Excuse me? Master?”
“Sit down!” Bolton thundered, his face red.
Ah, there’s the anger. The well is shallow, after all.
Ed refused to sit.
Bolton glared at him, “Let’s not kid ourselves, Mr. Keenan. You’re here not out of the goodness of your heart, nor because we wiped your slate clean and made you a ‘free’ man. You’re here because we found you. And we found your family. And you’ve nowhere to run, do you? It would be a shame for something to happen to Jade, Teagan, and her baby.”
“Are you threatening my family?” Ed said, trying to throttle his own rising anger before he leaped across the table to see how tough Bolton actually was.
“I’m only telling you what you already know,” Bolton said. “You’ve seen how this works. Don’t make me the bad guy. Your time in the other world has made you soft if you can’t see Foster’s clear and present danger. I never wait for cracks in the foundation to worsen. I take care of them before they spread. We could roll in with a team of operatives and snatch all these people up, but I prefer discretion, and we’ll need you to find out what they know. You’re still good at that, right?”
Bolton didn’t wait for an answer. “So, you will do as instructed, then get the rest of them.”
“Rest?” Ed asked, swallowing.
“Yes, everyone who came back. I want you to find them, get whatever info they have, then kill them. Discreetly.”
“And if I say no?” Ed stared down at Bolton, his face settling back into its calm facade.
“We both know you won’t,” Bolton said.
The fucking bastard was right.
* * * *
CHAPTER 3 — Rose McCallister
The murder inside her head had been working for hours.
Rose didn’t want to meet Marina, even though it was the biggest opportunity she had ever had. Her head hurt too much. She wanted to crawl under the comforter and sleep for several more hours. Rose had begged Boricio for “just 15 more minutes.” He was hesitant, knowing her ways, but finally gave her the quarter hour, after she promised to be a good girl and get out of bed when it was time, but now, a full hour later, Rose was determined to prove that some promises were born to be broken.
“Time to rise, shine, and bring God your glory,” Boricio said, sitting at the edge of their hotel bed. “Kick those covers in the face, and give ‘em bloody noses. You’ve important people to meet today, and you’re running thin on seconds.”
“No,” Rose said, or moaned, then turned toward the window and pulled the comforter tighter around her body.
“Well, ring around the Rosie,” Boricio said, like he always did when trying to talk her into something she didn’t want to do. Except this time there was no talking after he started. Instead of finishing his sentence Boricio reached into bed, scooped Rose out from the comforter with a hand slithering up under her waist, then draped her over his shoulders like dry cleaning and carried her into the bathroom. Boricio kept holding Rose like a sack as he started the water, then planted her on the ground and started undressing her, though not at all like he normally did.
Rose tried to fight, but only barely and mostly for fun since she and Boricio both loved the banter, and it usually gave her energy, which at the moment she needed more than anything else, besides a nuclear bomb to soften her head’s relentless pounding.
With her clothes in a puddle, and Boricio smiling and waiting, Rose stepped into the shower and let the hot water beat her into waking up enough to ignore the throbbing in her head.
“Another headache?” Boricio asked.
Rose couldn’t see his face through the shower curtain, but could picture it easily enough: his furrowed brow and twitching nose, bothered if not altogether angry that her headaches had been growing worse for a month without more than a few minutes of reprieve at a time. Rose didn’t want to admit it, especially an hour away from meeting Marina and the Maris Brothers at Marina’s home in Malibu, but most days Rose felt physically incapable of lying to Boricio.
“Yes, and this one’s especially bad. It’s just starting, but I can already tell I’m going to want to die in another hour, you kno
w, right when I’m supposed to be at my charming best. How much will Veronica hate me if I reschedule?”
“You know you can’t do that,” Boricio said. “You can’t let this slip, Rose Red. You’ve gotta grab this fucker by the neck and choke it ‘til its eyeballs pop from its face and get all squishy.”
Rose shampooed her hair. “So violent this morning! It’s still early and you’re wanting me to give my covers bloody noses and choke the eyeballs from my opportunities.”
She laughed. Boricio was always so … colorful.
“Look, Rose, it’s simple,” Boricio peeled back the curtain, poked his head inside the shower, looked Rose up and down, from her big, pink nipples to her tiny toes, giving her a blush all over, then pulled his head back out and finished the thought. “Today is one of those days when anything can happen, and something sure as a big shit after a chili dog will. And what might happen in the hotel room ain’t near the same thing that’ll happen outside. Now I know your head hurts, sweet blooming Rose of mine, but you can’t stay in bed and sleep off this chance. You’ll hate yourself forever.”
Like always, Boricio was right. But that didn’t mean Rose was happy about it.
“And why won’t you come with me again? You know I feel better when you’re with me.”
“Well of course you do,” Boricio peeked his head back inside the curtain as Rose rinsed her hair, “but that’s because Boricio’s all special sauce. Still, special as I am, I’m also smart enough to know when I’m a use and when I’m a waste. Today is your show, and I’m in the way. They want to meet the woman who wrote The Billfold, and I had nothing to do with that. If anything, I was a distraction, sucking on your tiny toes like I do, distracting you from your writing.”
Rose pouted as she stepped out of the shower and towel dried her hair. “I know you just want me out of the hotel because you have some hot date coming in here while I’m away.”