***
I'm back in my apartment and I don't remember how I got here.
The sickness has returned, and most of the night is spent hovering my face over the toilet bowl. Nothing stays down, and throwing up triggers indescribable feelings that come over me like…like…never ending waves of insects in a trans-substantial void.
When there isn't anything left in my system to bring back up, and the dry heaves have finally settled, I try my best to sleep.
Several times I wake in a cold sweat. Lingering images of nightmarish creatures bubble at the edges of my vision.
I grab the remote and sit up in bed. For hours I switch the television from station to station, intent on not viewing any single channel for longer than three seconds. After a while, the fragments of a million late night infomercial voices seem to be forming a coherent message, and I'm afraid to listen to what the voices say.
By the time the sky lightens to the sharp, red of morning, the nausea has retreated, and I'm not sure how much of the previous night had really happened. For reasons unknown, all I want to do is go outside in my puke-stained nightgown and run up and down the city blocks.
Instead of giving in to whatever illness had gripped me the previous day, I take a shower in the dark and let the hot water sting my skin. Afterward, I put on makeup, high heels, and a little red dress.
Looking in the mirror, I smile. No one will be able to tell how terrible I still feel. I pull a few loose strands of hair behind my ear, then turn to leave my apartment.
Outside, a new day awaits.
Chapter 2 – Signs Change
The sign read:
Will work for garbage.
It's the guy with mismatched shoes. His sign has changed, but he still smells like week-old beer. I can't bring myself to smile so I nod instead. His eyes follow me as I walk by. He flicks his tongue at the air as if he were a reptile.
Halfway up the block I see Joe lying on the sidewalk. He's wrapped up in a tattered American flag, frowning. "Ma'am," he says as I draw near. It surprises me to see him without his wheelchair.
"Where are the wheels, Joe?"
"I hated the damn thing," he mutters and looks away.
The sign read:
Where my legs?
The man—Mr. Business Suit—walk by and spit. Instead of running away like before, he stands there a moment, watching the glob of saliva drip from Joe's forehead as if stuck in deep concentration. Then the man kneels and takes a seat on the curb right next to Joe and puts his arm around him.
At the corner, the do-not-cross light is flashing red. The crowd doesn't wait for it to turn—they ignore the traffic and stampede into the intersection. All around me brakes squeal and horns blare. The nurse is wearing pink scrubs today. She's head banging to heavy metal music, but the cord of her earphones isn't plugged into anything.
In the shadows, the junkie woman is lying on the steps of the abandoned bank. She's noticeably thinner.
The sign read:
Thanks for the abortion.
A little farther down the block, the creepy ex-preacher is with his decaying friends. Together they hold up a large piece of cardboard, struggling to keep a hand on it as they slowly spin in a circle.
The sign read:
Life is better in the darkness.
The little boy is still in his box, but he quickly crawls deeper into the shadows until he's pressed against the far corner, cowering with the wool blanket pulled up to his terrified eyes.
The sign read:
The boy is NOT alone.
Then I come to the comedian. He's spread eagle, laughing hysterically.
The sign read:
If frustrated throw a brick.
I take the alley shortcut and I find, L. Porter, Ph.D. CERN. She makes her way toward me in a series of jerking motions. She looks almost like…like…a mutated calf, newly born and learning to walk for the first time.
The sign read:
I know what they are.
***
I act like everyone else. I put my head down and pretend she isn't there. A few more steps to go and I'll be out of the alley.
"I'm going blind!" L. screams, "Tammy? Is that you?"
I don't answer.
"Tammy, please?"
"Yeah," I say while edging past her. "It's me, but I'm late for work. I can't talk to you today."
"I made a mistake," she says. "They're taking my sight now. You know how I know?"
I don't care. I don't want to have anything to do with her. But the simple question crosses my lips anyway, "How?"
"Because I don't care that I'm going blind. That's how I know. That's how they get you."
She sees something across the street that catches her attention. "Oh, no," L. Says. "Oh no, oh no, oh no."
"You have something seriously wrong with you. I want you to stay away from me. Just leave me alone."
"You don't understand! The man across the street doesn't remember how much he loved his family."
"Nothing you say makes any sense." But it does, though. Somehow I know she's speaking the truth. The guy across the street hates his family. He despises his wife and two daughters, and he wishes his elderly father would die. I'm as certain of that as I am of my own name.
"Please, just take this." L. holds out an envelope. "I don't have long, anyway."
"Fine. Just leave me alone from now on."
I reach for it and L. grabs my hand. She says, "You're a good person, Tammy." The smile on her face fades. "But you're going to lose that."
***
At work, I sit at my desk and stare at the envelope. What is inside could be dangerous. I don't want to find out. I consider throwing it away, but instinct tells me that it could also be important. Ultimately I decide to lock it in my desk drawer instead. If L. keeps her word and stays away from me, with luck, I'll forget about all of this.
***
The weekend comes, and with it, insanity. Thoughts of L. are stapled inside my head. Several times the feeling of Déjà vu stabs me like a harpoon. Shivers attack for no discernible reason. Crazy thoughts and visions flash through my mind, and I know that I'm being watched from every reflective surface.
Instead of sleeping, I rearrange my furniture over and over again. Instead of eating, I count and recount the number of ice cubes in the freezer. By Monday morning, every picture in my home is defiled and turned backward, all the broken mirrors are thrown in the basement, each doorknob is covered in black electrical tape, and the collection of bent spoons and other ruined silverware have found a new home in the microwave.
***
At sunrise, I visit the doctor. Insomnia, that's all, I keep telling myself, even though I know it's not true.
In the examination room, I stare at my bloodshot eyes in a mirror. My irises expand and contract in a strange rhythm. I go as long as I can without blinking. When I finally do, a tsunami of tears rush down my cheeks.
The doctor walks in and stops dead in his tracks. "Déjà vu! That's so strange." He shudders, then he says, "Hello, Tammy. What brings you in today?"
Another insane thought flashes through my mind. I forget where I am or even who I am. It feels like a full minute goes by before my vocal cords respond. "Doc," I ask, "are you happy working here?"
"Well, that's a strange question." He smiles. "I love my job. Wouldn't trade it for the world."
He's telling the truth. I smile back and look away. Somehow I know it wasn't always true. A second before walking into the room, he had wanted to transition into neurology. He would have worked for years and eventually he would have discovered a cure for a major neurological disease.
"Doc," I say. "I'm sorry you're never going to win that Nobel Prize now."
He cocks his head to the side and serves me an odd look.
Chapter 3 – Now You Know
The sign read:
Now hiring.
The guy with the mismatched shoes is barefoot. His feet are bleeding from pacing back and forth over broke
n beer bottles.
Joe is in the lap of Mr. Business suit. I watch as Joe spits on the man's face.
The man says, "Thank you, Boss. Thank you."
The sign read:
Numquam Fi!
Never Faithful.
The morning crowd scatter like roaches as I walk toward them. Some lurch aimlessly in circles. Others hide behind dumpsters or disabled vehicles. I feel an electrical shock and experience Déjà vu whenever I stand too close to anyone. The nurse is now wearing pitch-black scrubs. She's swallowed her earphones. The cord dangles from the corner of her mouth.
A chalk outline and police tape cover the steps where the junkie woman sits. Her cardboard lays abandoned in the gutter.
The sign read:
I miss my children.
I run forward, pushing through the crowd, knocking people over as I go. I climb on top of the over-turned dumpster and search the alleys, but I can't find L. anywhere. I need to tell her I understand. I need her to know we can help each other.
Heart pounding, I walk back to the drug block as the world falls apart around me. I refuse an offered glass pipe then call out to the ex-preacher, "Have you seen the women in the lab coat?"
One of his disciples shouts, "She with God!" He holding up a burning cardboard cross.
The sign read:
God never existed.
We are God.
The little boy in the box reaches out and grabs my ankle, tripping me. The rough cement shreds my palms. He hisses at me and tries to bite into my leg. I kick him in the face and get back to my feet. Blood runs from the corner of his mouth but he doesn't attack again. I turn and go.
The sign read:
The boy is dead.
I step around piles of bricks that litter the sidewalk. Everyone in the crowd is laughing, but the comedian is gone. There's a bloodstained pizza box with some writing on it.
The sign read:
Stop! I didn't mean it!
I smile as I walk back to alley. It's the funniest thing I've seen all week.
***
The lights in my building are off. It's quiet. Every office is empty, and I'm sure it's abandoned because of L.
I run to my desk and open the drawer. When I see the letter, a violent chill assaults a spot deep within my soul. "One year and one month," I say, unexpectedly.
A mad urge to know everything about this situation replaces a thought, though I can't remember what that thought had been. At that, I chuckle, then laugh, then fall into a fit of laughter I can't control.
"Tammy, of course you want to know what's going on," I say to myself. "The thing you wanted most in the world was to not know."
I rip open the envelope and unfold the letter. Inside is a picture of two smiling people wearing white lab coats. At the bottom someone had written: "~Lauren and John Forever~" Next to a date…less than three weeks ago.
I put the picture aside and look at the letter.
***
"John," it read, "I don't understand. How do you suddenly had no desire to finish our research? The project you left is producing unexpected results which…"
It goes on to explain that L. was close to figuring out "the mechanics of a quantum wave collapse." Even though John, L.'s husband, had decided to walk away, she continued to make major breakthroughs.
Somehow she proved that we don't live in an infinite multiverse. Instead, it seemed as if life forms living outside of time and space are responsible for choosing what becomes our reality.
"My new model predicts that possibilities are eliminated by these creatures. They travel through the quantum planck space and consume all potential probability waves until only one outcome is left, which then becomes our present. John, there are indications we can feel changes brought about by them, but I'm not sure how that interaction works yet."
Several loud pops make me pause for a moment. I look out the window and see one of the doctors from the morning crowd waving a gun in the air. Another man, a lawyer I recognize, lay bleeding in the middle of the street.
I kneel down and continue to read.
"There seems to be two factions. The dominant group are responsible for providing probable events while the other force least likely outcomes. A small sub-section appear to cause truly improbable things to happen. This would explain the chaotic nature of the universe. But John, if they're intelligent…think about it. That would be these things choose our fate."
The carefully written letter goes on but I can't understand the scientific terms and equations. At the bottom of the page, the signature reads: Lauren Porter. Below, a postscript written more hastily in different colored ink reads:
"I know you're hurting from the sudden break-up. I led you on for many years, but you're not what I want. You've never been what I wanted. Entirely my fault. Sorry. On a professional level, as I mentioned, very great things are happening. I wish you would come back to work. I've got chills just thinking about what we'll discover next."
***
I don't bother to lock the door when I leave the office; I don't even close it. My attention is captured by the night sky. There's a tint, a familiar flickering orange glow. The smell of smoke is heavy in the air. The sound of screaming grows as the insanity spills out of skid row. I step over the now dead lawyer, then look around and realize I'm in the center of all the madness.
For some unknown reason, I decide to walk home a different, longer, route. I feel like it's time to see the world from an unexplored street for once. I want change. I want to be somewhere that isn't as tainted.
A woman sprints by, her face splattered with blood. She shudders. Déjà vu. "You're not going to beat that cancer now," I scream. "Sorry!"
A man and his daughter cower behind an overturned delivery truck. I see the hair standing up on the girl's arms. I say her, "Your life just got shorter by forty-five years and three days. Sorry."
A bus boy smashes tables outside of a café with a baseball bat. His jaw clenches shut as I approach. I see his futures as they all slip away until only one is left.
"Hey," I call to him.
He looks at me and readies the bat for a swing. "The fuck you want?"
"You're…" I try to say the words, try to articulate what has been decided, I don't have the heart to tell him. I shake my head. "Never mind."
***
I continue on, watching as people shudder when they pass. Eventually I make my way into a strange yet beautiful part of the city. A blue neon sign in a window flashes free tarot reading!
Why not?
I step inside and sit at the small table in the middle of the room. In the corner there's a tiny black and white television displaying a local news station. The picture is fuzzy, and the sound is turned all the way down, but I can make out the two words that flash below the reporter: Martial Law.
While I'm watching the news, a fat woman wearing nothing but a bathrobe and a turban sits across from me. "Whatever you once wanted to be," I say, "I'm sure it wasn't this."
"Who's the psychic here?"
"It must be nice to tell fortunes," I say. "All I see are dead futures."
She winks. "This card," she informs me, "points to death."
***
At home, the sounds of mayhem seem far off, but I know the storm is still following me. For the time being, the power is still on and the internet still works, so maybe I can find a way to end this nightmare.
I search for any information about Lauren Porter and discover a missing person's write-up on her but not much else. A cross query turns up a related article from the other side of the country. It's about John, her husband. He committed a very public suicide earlier today. Authorities are baffled by a sudden mass hysteria over the scientist's death. Representative from CERN had one comment: No Comment.
"What the fuck did you do?"
That question triggers a vision: L. in her lab. Parasites cover her, a wide variety of leeches, ticks, and tapeworms. Thousands of them, no…millions. They're the bad ones she warned ab
out. They're the kind that take the best potential. And all of them are feeding from her. They erase any good intention, each hope, and every dream.
The scene changes: John Porter screams into the night. Like L. the things dig into him. He jumps from the top of a skyscraper. Some of the things cling to him as he falls to his death, but with nothing left to take, most release and are carried away by the wind. Like snowflakes, they blanket a large portion of the city.
Another flash: I'm in the alley talking with L. for the first time. Countless masses leap from her and attach to me. As I walk down the street, they leap from me and latch onto others.
The missing pieces appear and fall into place, with them comes understanding: Every time they attack, a person will feel Déjà vu. It's how our minds interpret the loss of what we want most in life. Victims don't realize the possible futures that are shredded. Victims can't know about those longer versions of their lives since now they're impossible.
Carriers can tell. L. could see what they stole, and so can I.
The things breed in the wake of their host's lost potential. Their numbers continue to grow, and our sense of reality blurs more and more.
I snap out of the trance. My breathing is weak and shallow.
The computer and other items that were on my desk are now scattered across the floor. "How much of me is now gone?" I scream. "What else are you going to take?"
After the anger subsided, I pick the monitor up from the floor and place it back on the desk so I can continue to work. Time is short. I hear the screaming mob. The riots are getting closer. My block will be overrun within the hour.
I decide to focus on what I can still control. I search the web, looking for others like myself. It isn't too difficult to find information about the outbreak. News travels across the networks like…like… flies crawling on a billion billion decaying corpses.
My eyes widen as real-time reports fill the screen. Updates claim the government has contained it to the two major cities. Others add the rate of infection is decreasing. Experts are flying in to assess damages. All of it completely useless—No one knows what they are.
My body seizes up and I'm forced to witness another flip book of morbid images. I feel the remains of a phantom desire fade as a new one take its place. They want something from me, something only I can provide. Once I'm sure of the question, my fingers type the answer: I know what they are.
I laugh, cry, and scream at the same time. It's a trifecta of emotions just like the night I had played with matches. The sounds I make are the same as my father, brother, and mother, respectively. And just like then, the crying stops abruptly.
I Know What They Are Page 2