Grinning Cracks

by K W Taylor

  “But those fellows out there—”

  “What about ‘em? I’ll knock their blocks off if they try to touch you again!” Younger Edgar was now positively manic. “Just let me at ‘em. I’ll make ‘em sorry they ever locked you up!”

  Edgar let himself be dragged to the hall before yanking his hand away. “Look, I don’t quite know if I’ve gone ‘round the bend or what, but if even you know you’re not real, how do you expect to harm anyone?”

  Younger Edgar frowned and canted his head to one side. “Hadn’t thought of that,” he admitted. Suddenly, he snapped his fingers and raced ahead of Edgar a few feet. After a moment, he gestured for Edgar to follow him. “Look, it doesn’t matter anyway,” he told his older self, “because, at least for now, the coast is clear.”

  Ahead of them was the most beautiful sight Edgar had seen since he arrived: a set of clear glass double doors leading out to a lawn. The sky was crystalline blue, and Edgar could even spot tiny white butterflies flitting atop tufts of purple-blooming moss.

  “I should like to cry,” Edgar murmured.

  Younger Edgar shoved him forward. “Don’t cry; just get out there, sir. That’s the spirit!” He clapped like a giddy child as Edgar wasted no time dashing for the doors and slipping through them. To Edgar’s shock, no alarm sounded, and no white-clad men lumbered from around corners to tackle him.

  Outside, the air was blossom-scented and heady with mid-summer humidity. He ran past copses of young trees, flowerbeds, and a shallow pond. He ran ‘til his forehead sprouted beads of sweat that ran down his cheeks and pooled in the hollow of his clavicle. He ran and ran and then…

  A bus stop. Oh, sweet heavens, an honest-to-goodness bus stop! He heaved a breath and parked himself on the bench to wait.

  No one rushed at him. No one made him leave. No one approached. But also, no bus arrived. After a few moments’ rest, Edgar began studying the stop itself. It was an ordinary enough wooden bench, some sort of pine, turned greyish from too many years of sun and rain. The rivets holding the slats together had rings of red oxide circling the edges. Some of the rust ran into the wood itself, in some spots leaving streaks of darker deposit that looked a bit too much like blood for Edgar’s taste. He ran a hand over the crimson smudges, half expecting his fingers to come away wet.

  Other times in his life, he’d had his hands thrust elbow-deep into someone’s entrails. Images from his time in the war flashed, strobe-light quick, through Edgar’s mind. Damnable, futile fight to save the whole world. A bloodbath was what it was in the end. A young boy with shrapnel in his skull. A nurse who’d gone too far from the hospital losing a leg when she stepped on a mine. An officer—weeks from returning home—dying a slow and painful death from a blast to the gut. It was always worse when they were completely conscious through their last few hours. They would always get a hazy, too-peaceful, too-forgiving look on their faces just before the very end. That, even more than the sheets turned pink and the scraps of flesh hanging loose from bone, was what haunted Edgar even into old age.

  Hang about. Old age? Edgar’s thoughts returned to the present, and he brought a hand just a few inches from his face. His pyjamas, his memory, his hand…

  “Last night, I was fifty,” he said aloud. Details he could not recall earlier began to grow clearer. There was Sarah, laughing and draining glass after glass of a most disappointing labrusco reggiano. Enough of it, though, and you barely noticed that the froth was flat. The Bakers were there as well—indeed, it was their house—proffering platefuls of soft cheese and stale crackers. Ignored on the coffee table was a game of whist left unfinished. The trumps was askew on the top of its pile, a fat thumbprint on its face revealing that there had been chocolate served at some point in the evening.

  “Was there chocolate?” Edgar wondered. Didn’t matter. He knew ...yes, he was fifty. Not newly fifty, either. Sarah was younger than he, her russet bob bearing no hints of silver yet.

  But this hand, this was the hand of a man decades deeper into his golden years. The skin was loose, the bones protruded at the knuckles, and the nails were yellowed and thickened. He flexed his hand, balling it into a fist and then releasing it, over and over again until he was convinced that, yes indeed, this was his own hand, after all. And the other matched it; they were both the mitts of someone at least eighty.

  “Last night, I was fifty,” he said again. Now he noticed his voice, time roughened and deeper than he remembered. He swallowed hard and cleared his throat. Wasn’t a bit hoarse, not in the least. No, this really was what he sounded like.

  He slumped against the back of the bench and stared, eyes unfocused, at the road before him. No traffic drove by. Still no bus. There was no schedule posted, no indication of the next pick-up time. But there was now someone sitting next to him.

  “Mister Smith, are you beginning to feel better?” It was the meaty-faced man, his thick-lensed spectacles propped up atop his head. The effect made him look as if he had short, glass antennae or tiny horns sprouting from between mounds of tight yellow curls.

  “I’ve grown old,” Edgar said.

  “And you don’t remember me or this place,” the man suggested. “I’m Doctor Dieb. You’ve been here for some time. You came here of your own accord, because of the episodes you were suffering.”

  Edgar cast a glance over his shoulder, back the way he’d come. Before, there was no one out on the lawns. Now there were several elderly people, mostly women, milling about in various states of confusion. A few were being pushed in wheelchairs. The man they’d called Coyle was among them, talking softly to an old man preparing to toss a horseshoe at a stake.

  “Where were you headed?” asked the doctor, gesturing to the bus stop sign.

  “Home,” Edgar replied. “My wife, Sarah—”

  “Your home isn’t your home anymore,” the doctor interrupted. “And Sarah isn’t there, either.”

  Edgar stared at the road. “There isn’t any bus coming.”

  “I’m afraid not, sir.”

  “Dirty trick, don’t you think?”

  “An effective one, though.” The doctor stood and extended a hand towards Edgar. “We have to keep you lot safe, don’t we?” He gave his hand a little waggle. “Come on, then. We’ll get you a spot of...well, what sounds good, hmm? Tell you what; we’ll have the cooks make up something special for you.”

  Edgar stood, but didn’t take the doctor’s hand. “Nothing,” he said.

  “Well, perhaps you’ll be a bit peckish after a rest.”

  Edgar imagined himself knocking the other man down and making a mad dash for the road, just running and running and never stopping until . . .

  “Until what, your heart explodes?” Young Edgar was at his side now, opposite from the doctor. He turned around and jogged a few feet until he was in front of Edgar, walking backwards as Edgar walked forwards. “Bad idea, mate. This fellow just wants you to take a bit of care now, doesn’t he?”

  “Of course he does,” Edgar agreed. He cringed and glanced at the doctor.

  “Beg pardon, sir?”

  “Nothing,” Edgar mumbled.

  “Come on, then, Smith,” the doctor urged. “We’ll get you rested up, and then tonight is bridge. You and Mister Milner surely are a force to be reckoned with!” He gave a smug little bark of a laugh and clapped Edgar on the back, pounding at his spine too forcefully. “There’s a night of fun, eh?”

  Young Edgar rolled his eyes and jerked a thumb at the doctor. “Lord, if that’s what this one thinks is a night of fun, I’d hate to see what he thinks is dull!”

  Edgar smirked. “Oh, yes!” he said.

  “Ah, there we are! That’s the first cheerful thing you’ve said all day,” said the doctor. “Well done. Back to your old self.”

  Young Edgar moved closer. “Not a bit. I’m your old self, aren’t I? You want to be cut loose from this awful place, don’t you?”

  “It would seem so,” Edgar said.

  Young Edgar pointed to a spot on t
he ground a few feet in front of him. “Tie your shoelace. Right there.”

  Wasting no time with questions, Edgar crouched down as soon as he reached the indicated spot. “Beg pardon, Doc.” He made a show of lacing his right shoe a bit tighter. Just before he straightened up, he saw why his younger self had wanted him to stop. A quick flick of the wrist, and he had a heavy iron horseshoe concealed between his pyjama jacket and undershirt. “Don’t want to trip now, do I?”

  “Certainly not,” the Doctor agreed.

  As soon as the other man’s back was turned, Edgar began to bludgeon him. The doctor went down in a messy crumple with barely any fuss, though he didn’t think he’d hit him that hard. A red rivulet coursed from his ear to his neck, and the sight of it sent a chill down Edgar’s spine.

  Seconds later, he was off back down the road. Though no one seemed to be racing after him, still he ran as if chased by the devil.

  “Still think running’s not the best idea!” cried his younger self, struggling to keep pace with him as he sprinted. “Your heart’s not in good enough shape for this!”

  I don’t care! Edgar thought. If he died in his escape, at least he’d die free.

  Coyle was the first to notice Dieb’s body. Immediately, he shouted to Farnon to come assist, and the two of them gazed down at the man’s lifeless body. “Smith, was it?” Farnon asked. He was two full heads taller than Coyle and a decade younger, though they both sported equally receding hairlines and identical white outfits with wide, fabric-covered buttons running down the front.

  “Who else?” Coyle sighed. Around them, the elderly people to whom they’d been attending stood up, even those in wheelchairs, and moved, en masse, back into the building. Coyle and Farnon paid them no notice.

  “Oh, spite, Farnon! Dieb hadn’t given his report today! What a run of bad luck.”

  “Now, now.” Farnon crouched down and pressed two fingers to the side of Dieb’s neck. “No need to be a catastrophist, Coyle.” He looked at his wristwatch as he took Dieb’s pulse.

  “Well?” Coyle demanded.

  “Thready. Slowing.”

  “Blast.”

  Farnon’s hands moved to Dieb’s head. “Mm, bit crushed back here,” he said, indicating a spot behind the doctor’s right ear. He picked up the horseshoe discarded nearby. “Bet if I matched this up with the wound, we’d get our weapon.”

  “That would’ve been painful,” Coyle said. “Heavy thing like that. Skulls aren’t so sturdy as they ought to be.”

  “Could stand some improvement in that area,” Farnon agreed. “I’ll have the developers get right on that.” He flashed a quick grin up at Coyle.

  “Oh, sure,” Coyle chuckled. “Yes, just tell them you’ve got some design improvements to make to human physiology. Right.”

  Farnon’s laughter joined Coyle’s. “Ah, well, you never know.” He straightened up. “Best get him inside, hmm?”

  “Shouldn’t we be after Mister Smith?”

  Farnon shrugged. “Let’s see what the director recommends. Best to tend the doctor first.”

  They picked Dieb up, Coyle at the feet and Farnon at the shoulders, and carried him into the building.

  Edgar couldn’t remember the last time he’d ran so far, so long, or so fast. That’s just par for the course, innit? I checked myself in that place ‘cause I couldn’t remember things, didn’t I? His younger self had long since disappeared after failing to keep pace with him. His legs burned, and yet he felt a lightness of body that was almost ethereal, the numbness of no longer being bothered by physical pain. Suddenly, however, a spasm of tightness gripped the center of his chest, and he began to slow his pace.

  Nothing surrounded him. Not vehicle, not human, not swarm of orderlies bent on dragging him back. He was now far enough away from the building and its grounds that he wasn’t concerned when he couldn’t find cover. No trees or bushes lined the sides of the road. No telephone poles, he noticed. No electrical wires. Though this struck him as odd, he looked up at the sky as he slowed his pace even more, and clouds drifted overhead just as normal as ever.

  No birds, though. No stray cats or even a chipmunk running about.

  An uncomfortable squeezing sensation began to build in his torso, and at last he gave up trying to keep running. Edgar came to a complete stop and flopped down on the ground. His intention had been just to sit, but he wound up toppling over and rolling onto his back. His chest felt full and heavy, as if he’d been chain smoking unfiltered cigarettes and couldn’t catch his breath. Shortly thereafter, a tingling began beneath his left armpit, making its way down to his hand and soon leaving the entire arm throbbing.

  “‘S all right, this is,” he said. “I suppose I’ll get to see Sarah.”

  “Sarah’s waiting, yes.” A shadowy face popped into view above him, shaggy hair hanging down about the lad’s ears.

  “Good old monkey face,” Edgar muttered.

  “This is your face, you know,” his younger self remarked. “If I look like a monkey, so do you.” He stretched out on the ground next to Edgar. “I can take over,” he said. “This is a bit of a burden for you, I realize. I can get out a lot easier than you can, being less long in the tooth.”

  Edgar started to speak, but his jaw wouldn’t work. His back flared into white-hot waves of pain. He winced at the severity of it, drawing a sharp breath in through his nose only to feel as if his lungs couldn’t expand. He closed his eyes, and he felt a gentle hand stroking his hair. “‘S all right,” his younger self repeated. “They’re about to wake me up, so if you need to, you just go right to sleep, mate.”

  Edgar felt sweat start to pour out of him, and he opened his eyes. “I just need a moment,” he whispered. His words sounded mangled to him, strangled as they were with his jaw unable to move. “Just give me a moment, son.”

  Edgar drifted off, and this time as he slept, he didn’t dream.

  “Coyle and Farnon to see you, sir.” The voice coming from the speaker on the desk was muffled and tinny, and a thin whine of feedback squeaked along with it.

  “Oh, hell, what’s this about?” The director pulled off his jacket and strode to the desk. He punched the intercom button. “Send them in,” he said. He sank down into his chair.

  The door swung open, and the two assistants entered. “So very sorry to bother you, sir,” Coyle started. “We know it’s nearly your time off.”

  The director waved a hand at him. “Get on with it,” he said.

  “It’s Doctor Dieb, sir,” Farnon said. “Mister Smith killed him and took off.”

  Coyle’s mouth fell open, and he stared up at his associate. “Bloody hell!” he gasped. “That’s your version of tact? Out there, you said, ‘Let’s be tactful about this,’ and I said, ‘All right, sounds like a plan.’ And now this is what you mean? Good heavens!”

  Farnon looked down at the shorter man and pointed a finger at him. “Look, I’m just trying to save us all some time here—”

  “Enough!” The director stood up and marched to the front of his desk. “Are you sure Dieb’s dead?” He leaned against the desk, stretching long legs out in front of him and crossing them at the ankle. “I mean, you both seem fairly incompetent today, so I assume you at least checked, yes? Didn’t just sweep him into the incinerator still alive or something?”

  Coyle sighed. “No, sir. We checked.” He glared up at Farnon. “You did, didn’t you?”

  Farnon smacked Coyle on the back of the head.

  “Did you initiate the procedures on him?”

  “The replacement model’s been started, yes,” Coyle confirmed. “But we’ve had this one for a few years now. The new Dieb will only be about thirty, far more impulsive and whatnot, even with what memories we can upload from the last one implanted.” Coyle screwed up his face. “Head wound. Damn it all. We have to use last night’s back up.”

  The director shrugged. “That’ll suffice. Just make sure the lab doesn’t dawdle.”

  “Of course, sir,” Farnon said.r />
  “But Smith’s gone, you say?”

  “Yes, sir,” Coyle confirmed. “The sensors at the edge of the terraform didn’t go off, so we don’t think he made it that far. But Dieb went out to the bus stop to initiate the senility con, and it seems Smith didn’t buy it.”

  “This one’s been a lot of trouble, hasn’t he?” the director asked. “Well, he probably died out there somewhere. Best get the next one started. Send the groundskeepers to find his body, but it’s no matter if they can’t locate it.”

  “Are you sure he’s worth rebooting?” Farnon asked. “Forgive me, sir, but we keep growing versions of Edgar Smith, and this is the fourth one who’s gone rogue in his golden years.”

  The director sighed. “It’s not me, lads, it’s my Aunt Sarah. She can’t seem to do without him, and if we don’t keep the lead scientist happy, none of us will be happy.”

  “We had a spot of luck telling the truth to the last model,” Coyle pointed out. “Earth gone, downloaded memories, cloned hybrid bodies, the whole thing. He took it all right.”

  The director raised an eyebrow at him. “He shot and killed you when we told him, Coyle. He shot your face clean off.”

  “I always forget that, don’t I?” Coyle shrugged. “Fine. I’m just making a suggestion here.”

  The intercom sparked to life. “Jim? Sarah’s here.”

  The director leaned back and pressed the button. “Send her in.” He stood up and gestured at the assistants. “Get on those lab folks and get the new Dieb running immediately.”

  The door opened, and Sarah Smith entered, young and lovely and crisply professional in her clean white lab coat. “Ah, gentlemen! Good evening!” she greeted the assistants as they left. “Hope my husband hasn’t kept you on your toes too much today.”

  Coyle and Farnon exchanged a look but said nothing. They closed the door quietly behind them.

  “What was all that about, Jim?”