A Life Transparent

by Todd Keisling

  Okay. You can do this. For Donna. Think, Don. North side of the city. Courthouse, garage—

  He turned back and faced the direction from which he’d come, tracing a mental map from where he was to the direction he hoped would lead back to the highway. The highway itself, he realized, probably wasn’t a great idea, though. He remembered his commutes earlier that week, during which the random bouts of gray sight revealed hundreds of the lurking, white monstrosities standing between rows of traffic.

  If one spotted him, it would call out to its friends, and he’d soon have an entire population of them breathing down his neck.

  George Guffin’s screaming face flashed before his eyes, and Donovan shook his head in disgust. For the first time since his flight from the garage, Donovan noticed he still held the man’s gun. He wondered if a bullet could take down one of those freaks, if a bullet would even be useful in this reality. Then he laughed at himself, a dry stuttering wheeze. He’d never fired a gun before tonight, and that had been an accident. All he had to go by was what he’d seen in movies. His brother was the real gun expert—

  Michael Candle’s face popped into his head. He turned in the opposite direction, gambling that the street to his back was Poplar. If his mental compass was accurate, this street would take him right to Michael’s neighborhood. It seemed as good a destination as any other. Getting back to the real world was a mystery he’d have to solve when he arrived. Walking to his own home would take hours, and there was no telling how many of those things stalked the monochromatic streets.

  Get moving, hoss.

  Donovan jogged toward the street corner and froze when he heard the sob of a nearby Yawning. It turned the corner ahead of him and stopped alongside the adjacent building. It swayed, its jaw quivering, peering at him with two beady, black eyes.

  Silence moved into the gap between them, broken only by the rapid thump-thump-thump of Donovan’s pounding heart. It sounded like a marching band warming up in his head. He wondered if the creature could hear it too.

  The Yawning steadied its face and opened its mouth. Donovan feared what might come next. If it made a sound, the entire area would know he was there. He had only a moment to react, and in that precise instant, he decided he couldn’t risk another Yawning alarm.

  He raised the gun and fired. The shot jarred him, filling his ears with a low ring. When his senses cleared, he saw the Yawning still stood. It held one clumsy hand to its chest, examining a wound that did not bleed. It looked over at Donovan, opened its mouth, and vented a deep, horrific growl. It was the sound of metal scraped against a chalkboard, inciting chills across the back of Donovan’s neck.

  Good job, Don. He was already running when the white thing took its first steps toward him. His legs felt like rubber as they carried him through an intersection he thought to be Poplar and Rose. There he paused just long enough to look back and watch the Yawning bellow one of its angry, communicative calls. A chorus of responses rose from deep within the labyrinthine city, heightening his terror and urging him to move. Don’t stop, his conscience told him, don’t look back, just go! Go, go!

  When he turned the corner, he found himself on another unfamiliar street. He cursed himself for staying away from the inner city for so many years. It was then he caught sight of the row of gray trees.

  The city park. He raced ahead, feet clattering across the pavement. The Yawning echoed from behind, but all he could hear was the frantic pacing of his heart.

  • • •

  Donovan found his bearings among the grove of trees. From there, he supposed, it would be only an hour before he reached Michael’s house. What he would do once he got there was a mystery to him, but he tried not to think about it.

  The park covered most of a city block, making it almost impossible to get lost among the trees and pathways. In the Monochrome, however, everything was a mere shade lighter or darker than everything else. Donovan struggled with a landscape in which even the trees lacked distinction. Viewed against a backdrop of gray forms, the sameness was disorienting. It wasn’t until he found the fountain that he discovered his place within the grove. He leaned against a nearby tree, caught his breath, and stared at the fountain’s rim.

  He and Donna had spent their third date here huddled on the grass, watching the water spout up in the fountain’s center.

  It was Homecoming night, and most of their friends were in the stands, cheering for the football team as they clashed against their long-time rivals. The choice to visit the park was happenstance. Neither of them cared for sports, the movies were sold out, and they’d just left a small restaurant a few, short blocks away. They walked hand in hand. It was a clear night, and despite the crowds gathered for Homecoming, it was mostly silent. He remembered Donna’s concerns as they strolled through the park. She worried they would be mugged, or worse. He’d assured her that he would protect her no matter what.

  No one troubled them that night. They sat together and watched as life moved on around them.

  Donna put her head on his shoulder.

  “I think I love you, Donnie Candle.”

  He rested his head against hers and took her hand, threading their fingers together.

  “I think you do,” he whispered. “That’s okay, because I think I love you, too.”

  Donovan resisted the tears elicited by the tender memory. He pushed away from the tree and passed the fountain, following a walkway to the park’s plaza. A pair of vendor shacks, once decorated with menus and graffiti, stood out like two gray monoliths. He stopped beside the nearest one and rubbed his eyes.

  How could he let this happen? He’d been careless with his own life, and now Donna might have to pay for it. He regretted not conceding to her wishes Monday night. All she wanted was to get away for the weekend. She was right—it wouldn’t break their bank account. He knew that. Even a full week away wouldn’t do them in. Years ago he would’ve agreed to it without a moment’s hesitation.

  Donovan shivered. When had he grown so selfish and boring? Perhaps Aleister Dullington was right. He was saturated with mediocrity.

  Chin up, hoss. This ain’t over yet.

  It wasn’t. Donovan took a breath, making a silent vow to take Donna on a real vacation when they made it through this, whatever this was.

  “Okay,” he said. His voice sounded tiny amidst the silence of the world. “Get a grip on yourself, Don. Keep moving. Kee—”

  Movement stole his attention. It was nearby, a subtle scuttling putting him in mind of a seething multitude of insects.

  Donovan raised the gun and peered around the corner of the shack toward the grove of trees. What he saw made a pit open in his stomach and all his insides fall into his feet.

  The tiny, white things marched across the grass, a veritable army of them numbering in the thousands. They looked harmless while standing on the shoulders of others; now, as they advanced, he found their mass intimidating. There was more movement in his peripheral vision. A small wave of the little bastards crashed over the fountain, their pudgy bodies sprawling across the walkway. Their backward voices meshed into a constant, buzzing drone as they advanced.

  He looked at the 9mm, then back at the swarming, white legion.

  One of the things saw him. It screeched and pointed. The others cheered.

  “I’m not seeing this.” His declaration fell deaf against their wall of reversed language. He tried to look away, but found he couldn’t take his eyes off them.

  The throng of miniature albino soldiers marched onward. When they reached the plaza’s perimeter, Donovan turned and ran, managing only a few strides before he realized he was surrounded. The Lilliputian monsters streamed from all corners, over the grass, the benches, even on the limbs of trees. He was lost in the Monochrome wilderness, and had stumbled into a hive.

  Donovan stepped back against the wall of the shack and raised the pistol. I’m going to die here, he thought. They’re going to drag me down and tear me to pieces.

  The creatures stop
ped a few feet away. They chattered in unison, looking up at him from a sea of black, empty eyes.

  “It is a shame Mr. Guffin could not follow instructions.”

  The creatures fell silent as Aleister Dullington’s voice boomed overhead. Donovan felt the ground vibrate with each pronounced syllable. On the phone, Dullington was soft spoken, disarming. In the Monochrome, his voice thundered with authority, asserting one immutable fact: this was his kingdom, and here he was God.

  Donovan turned, frantically searching for his enemy, but the voice came from everywhere. A mound rose in the center of the white swarm as the creatures piled upon one another, writhing like maggots on a corpse. When one climbed up to join the mass, a new feature sprouted from the whole. Extensions took shape as limbs; a stump became a hand, fingers seemingly carved out of the air by an unseen knife. The figure of a man slowly took shape out of the squirming mass. Two arms connected to a torso, the torso to a head, and the black eyes of the white creatures came together, forming a pair of bulbous, obsidian orbs.

  The white flesh dimmed, outlining the features of a robe. Aleister Dullington stepped out of the pale mass, walking atop their writhing bodies as if on water. His ashen robe draped from his shoulders to the mass of creatures below, and Donovan could not tell where one ended and the other began.

  They’re a part of him, Donovan realized. And he’s a part of them. He sees what they see. Suddenly everything he knew of the creatures made sense. They were Dullington’s sentinels, their language his own.

  Aleister Dullington’s features were pale, sallow. The man had no eyelids, eyebrows, or any hair on his head. At a glance, Dullington looked like an adult with the oversized head of a newborn.

  “My sincerest apologies, Mr. Candle. I did not instruct him to murder your cat. Perhaps I waited too long to give Mr. Guffin his opportunity; he was overzealous.”

  Dullington approached him. Donovan discovered he was too frightened to move.

  “I must say, you continue to surprise me, Mr. Candle. The way you handled him was most unexpected. You are proving to be quite entertaining. I am glad I chose you.” The creatures beneath his feet chortled together. Dullington looked down at them, listening. He smiled. His teeth were broken, jagged. “The Cretins say you have spirit. I am apt to agree.”

  Donovan looked down at the army of creatures. They snickered in unison.

  “Where’s my wife?” He hated how frail he sounded.

  “In due time, Mr. Candle.”

  “No,” Donovan said, raising his voice. “You fucking tell me where she is or I’ll blow your head off.”

  He pointed the gun at Dullington’s bulbous head. The man made no expression. His empty, black eyes peered into Donovan.

  “You cannot kill me, Mr. Candle. Your bullets mean nothing here, nor do your empty threats. Do not misunderstand your position.”

  Donovan slowly lowered his weapon. “Guffin said you played him. How do I know you won’t do the same to me?”

  “Mr. Guffin did not play by the rules I set.”

  “What rules?”

  “Simple rules, Mr. Candle. I gave him the opportunity—much like I am giving you an opportunity—to redeem himself by doing what I myself cannot. I told him to take your wife without doing harm. I did not tell him to take a life as well.”

  “What was his reward?”

  A corner of Dullington’s upper lip twitched. “Respite from this place.”

  “Would you have let him go?” Donovan watched his enemy bow his head in thought. He realized the man looked like a demonic monk.

  “I would. There will always be others.” A thin smile spread across his pallid face. “Always people like you.”

  Chills crept down Donovan’s spine. People like you. His mouth was suddenly very dry.

  “You are my puppet, Mr. Candle. Make no mistake of that. I am using you, just as I used Guffin, and just as I have used countless others.”

  Donovan remembered their conversation earlier that day. “This person you want me to find, is he one of your puppets, too?”

  Aleister Dullington frowned. For a moment Donovan feared he’d touched a nerve, but the hints of emotion on his adversary’s face were short-lived.

  “I believe ‘puppet’ is too harsh a term. Protégé would be the correct nomenclature, but that is not for discussion at this time, Mr. Candle.” His face lightened. “Tonight was a test to see if you truly are the right man for the job. You performed well, and as a reward, I will allow you to speak with your wife.”

  He reached into his robe and pulled out a small, black cell phone.

  “Consider this a down payment in good faith.”

  Speak with your wife. The prospect made Donovan’s heart sing. Finally, to hear her voice! Dullington stepped forward, offering him the phone. It had no buttons, no antenna—instead it merely contained a speaker and mouthpiece. He reached for it, but Dullington snatched it away at the last moment.

  “You will return to your reality when you are finished.”

  Donovan eyed the phone, ravenous with the thought of hearing Donna’s voice.

  “And then what?”

  “And then you will await further instructions. My Cretins will not inhibit your progress, so do not fear speaking to your brother. He will see you.”

  This startled Donovan. He didn’t want to show it, but when he looked into Dullington’s empty eyes, he realized there was nothing he could hide.

  “Call your wife.”

  Dullington held out the phone. Donovan hesitated a moment before taking it. He put it to his ear, recoiling from a sharp hiss of electronic interference. It was brief, fading into the low chirp of a soft ringing. A click followed.

  There were voices of men and women in the background. He heard someone say “Speak.”

  “D-Donna?”

  Heavy breathing filled the line, inhaling and exhaling in quick gasps.

  “Don? Donnie, is that you?’

  “Honey, God, oh God, baby are you okay? Has he hurt you?”

  “My head hurts, but I’m all right. Where are you, Don?”

  The sound of suppressed sobs in her throat forced tears from his eyes. Words escaped him. Where was he?

  “I-I’m in the city, near the park. Our place in the park. Listen, I can’t talk for long, honey. I’m coming for you. I promise, I—”

  “I love you so much, Donovan, I lov—”

  The line went dead, and Dullington plucked the phone from his ear. He was still forming the words to reciprocate his love when he met Aleister’s lidless gaze. He forced himself to stare deep into those glassy, black orbs with a newfound ferocity.

  “That is enough for now, Mr. Candle. You will return to the Spectrum. Expect to hear from me on the morrow.”

  Aleister Dullington offered Donovan a stoic nod. The Cretins chortled in their backward voices, providing a unified laugh track. Their laughter grew dim as the flickering overtook him, their bodies fading out of existence as the world came to life. Texture and color returned, as did the steady rainfall once again pelting his head.

  Donovan found himself alone in the city park. He blinked a few times, trying to accommodate the onslaught of color and depth. Friday night sounds met his ears. Crowds of people huddled beneath umbrellas rushed by on the sidewalk ahead of him. Cars honked and came to a full stop as traffic lights changed.

  His body tingled for a moment as the flickering swept over him, and then it was gone.

  He took a deep breath. The cold air was refreshing, not stale like that of the Monochrome. What had Dullington called this side of reality? The Spectrum? Fitting, he thought, then remembered his original goal: he had to get to his brother’s house.

  Donovan tucked Guffin’s pistol into the back of his pants. He turned, surveying the park to get his bearings. Another breeze swept over him, chilling him to his core. He zipped up his jacket, shoved his hands in his pockets, and began the walk back to his car. Along the way, he tried to work out the situation with Aleister Dullington
and this mystery man he was supposed to find, but most of all it was Donna who dominated his thoughts. She was out there, somewhere, scared and waiting for him to come to her rescue.

  He forged into the downpour, his wife at the forefront of his mind. It was her image that kept him warm in the cold night air.

  I’m coming, honey. I’ll find you. I promise.

  • 7 •

  THE MISSING

  One moment her husband was there, a panicked voice out of the dark, and then he was gone again. Donna tried not to cry.

  The haggard, young thing in the tattered clothes pulled the phone from Donna’s ear and frowned. She gave off a stench that curdled Donna’s stomach, as though she hadn’t bathed in months. Judging by what little she’d seen of the woman, Donna suspected this was not far from the truth.

  The flames of a barrel burning just beyond the doorway licked the air, casting wicked shadows over the area. The heat stung her eyes, and she had to look away. The young woman sat beside her for a moment, staring at the floor.

  “Alice? That’s your name, isn’t it?”

  She looked down at Donna and slowly nodded. Even in the dim light, Donna could see the life in this woman’s eyes.

  “Please talk to me.”

  “I’m not supposed to.”

  “Can you tell me where my husband is?”

  Alice looked away. “He’s in the Monochrome.”

  Donna opened her mouth to inquire, but stopped short when Alice produced a roll of duct tape. She tore off a small strip.

  “Sweetheart, you don’t have to do that. I’ll be quiet if that’s what you need me to do.”

  Alice paused. She stared hard at Donna, gauging whether or not she was serious.

  “Not a word?”

  “Not a word. Cross my heart.” Donna offered a smile, and she thought she saw the faint traces of one reciprocated on Alice’s face, but the light was too dim to know for sure. She shifted her weight and leaned down next to Donna’s ear.

  “You’re a nice lady, and I want to see you through this. If anyone comes near you, you scream, okay? You scream, and I’ll come running. Not all of us are good. Some of us deserve to be here.”