Alice Isn't Dead

by Joseph Fink

  Keisha thought about a bathroom at a rest stop south of San Francisco. The smell of heather. The jittering movement. Who were these oracles, haunting these roadside places, and what cause did they serve?

  Unsure of what else to do, they went the next morning to the Dutchess County Sheriff’s Office in Poughkeepsie. The woman at the front desk seemed friendly. An older woman. Definitely not police anymore, if she ever was one.

  “Can I help you?” she asked. A good question that Keisha was unsure of the answer to.

  They explained they were looking into a murder that happened a few years ago. Gave the details. She did some searching on the computer.

  “Huh,” she said. “This isn’t right.”

  “What is it?” asked Sylvia.

  “The case was closed. I don’t know why that would have happened. It’s a murder investigation, double homicide, only a few years old, and no suspects arrested. Why would they close this?”

  She frowned, reading through the notes they had on file.

  “Why would they close this?” she said again. Her tone wasn’t confusion, but despair. She knew exactly why they had closed it. She looked up at the two of them, lips half open, holding what she had to say next uncertainly in her mouth, and then finally let it slip.

  “Go have lunch, at the Palace Diner. It’s around the corner. Food’s good there.”

  They thanked her and went to the diner, a twenty-four-hour institution, with a sprawling parking lot and its own in-house bakery. The kind of diner impossible to find outside of the Northeast.

  “Hey,” said Keisha, after they had ordered. “Have you ever heard the name Cynthia O’Brien?”

  Sylvia shook her head. “Why? Is she important?”

  “I don’t know. She was murdered. I think by the same people who murdered . . .”

  “Oh.” They didn’t talk after that.

  Sylvia was halfway through a chicken salad sandwich and Keisha was stealing Sylvia’s fries when the woman showed up, holding a filing box.

  “I want you to know,” said the woman, “that there are some of us who don’t believe in it. Who believe that this is wrong, what they’re doing. I want you to know that we are not all on their side.”

  The woman looked around briefly, felt satisfied that no one was paying attention in the crowded diner, and put the box under the table.

  “There isn’t much, but take it. Not me. At least not me.”

  She turned and left without waiting for a response. The waiter asked if they were ok on their coffees. They were ok.

  31

  There are vineyards in the Hudson Valley among the apple orchards. A serious effort to create a wine industry. New York wine is so-so at best. But as the climate changes, who knows? Certainly the areas famous for wine will lose their climate, and so one of these places that are a laughingstock among wine snobs will become the new Bordeaux. Either that, or everyone will be too busy being refugees from the drowned cities to worry about wine.

  Keisha and Sylvia drove past vineyards to a motel room in which they were two of fifteen living creatures. The box was almost empty. No real investigation done on the case. The police knew who the killer was, and so officially had no leads. The bare minimum of paperwork, which is still a lot of paperwork, but none of it said anything. Restating basic physical facts of the scene. Describing actions taken by the responding officer in a step-by-step style of writing designed to intentionally repel the reader through tedium.

  But there was one item of interest. A manila envelope, folded over and mummified in packing tape. Keisha performed surgery with the knife from her bag. Inside was a videotape.

  “Camera at the gas station?” she said.

  “Oh, god, I hope,” Sylvia said. She frowned at it. “How do we play this?”

  “Jesus, you make me feel old.”

  The area was full of high-end antique stores run by transplants from Manhattan. They skipped all those and went to the grimiest secondhand store they could find, a basement shop with a window display cluttered with childlike paintings of animals flying kites and riding skateboards. There was a taxidermy moose head well on its way to falling apart by the door, and, in the back, for fifteen bucks, there was a VCR/TV combo.

  “Had this exact one in my dorm room.”

  Sylvia nodded. “I used to think about what my dorm room would look like.” She left the rest unsaid, and with that they returned to the motel. Sylvia pulled the drapes while Keisha set up the TV.

  “Let’s hope this works.” She stuck the tape into the slot. There was a worrying thud, but the image sprung to life. Warped colors and digital static resolved into a wide shot of the side of the gas station. Sylvia’s mother against the wall. The Thistle Man stepping toward her. Not the same Thistle Man that had followed Keisha, but just as misshapen and toothy. And there was Sylvia, coming out of the door, seeing what was about to happen, screaming. The Thistle Man seeing the younger Sylvia, breaking into a half-melted smile. Even through the low-quality tape Keisha could see his skin bulge and writhe.

  “That’s not what happened,” Sylvia said. “I hid. She gestured for me to run. He never saw me.”

  On the tape, the Thistle Man turned back to Sylvia’s mother. His hand was on her throat. The person in a hoodie was there. They didn’t walk up or emerge from anywhere. First there was nothing and then there was a person in the shadows. It was impossible. But Keisha remembered Crystal Springs and knew that she didn’t understand impossible anymore. The person in the hoodie flung themself toward Sylvia’s mother. On the tape, Sylvia made a sobbing scream that the Sylvia in the motel couldn’t hear because the tape had no sound.

  Before anything else could happen, the Thistle Man snatched his hand back, and there was something wet in it, and Sylvia Parker Senior had a gaping wound where her throat had been. He had taken it, like someone might take a box of cereal off a shelf. Now the Sylvia watching the tape was screaming, too, and Keisha held her, hoping no one at the motel would decide to call the police today.

  Back on the screen, the person in the hoodie put their arms around Sylvia’s mother. They eased her to the ground. The dying woman stared deep into the face of the person, completely obscured from the camera by the hood, as though she had seen a sight more astonishing even than her own death, and then she was gone. The Thistle Man tossed what he had taken from the woman onto the ground, and just as casually picked up Sylvia Junior. He held her aloft like a parent looking at a baby. He was laughing, his jaw wobbling wider and wider. The person in the hoodie got up from their crouch and took hold of the Thistle Man’s head. They yanked backward and their strength must have been incredible, because the Thistle Man flew like he weighed nothing. Sylvia fell hard and lay senseless or stunned. And then the person in the hoodie took the Thistle Man apart. Tore off his arms and his legs in two easy movements, crouched down and whispered to him as he wriggled in that oozing puddle of yellow fat coming out of his body, and then popped his head off. It was over in a few seconds. Keisha thought about how much it had taken from her to fight off a Thistle Man. What was that figure in the hoodie? Certainly not human. The creature in the hoodie picked up the unconscious Sylvia and carried her out of frame. The footage went to black.

  Sylvia touched the screen. Tears ran down her face but broke against the determined set of her mouth.

  “All this time, I thought they helped the Thistle Man kill my mother. I thought I had gotten away on my own. But they saved me.”

  “Whoever they were, they were very, very strong,” Keisha said.

  “Yes. And they are on our side.”

  “So what now?” Keisha meant this for herself as much as for Sylvia. Wait until whatever those creatures were in the hoodies saved the day? It had its temptation.

  “I need to find that person in the hoodie. Whatever they turn out to be. There is a powerful force of good somewhere. Before I can find the evil that destroyed my life, I need to find the good that saved it.”

  She hugged Keisha, and Keis
ha hugged her back, fiercely.

  “Anxiety bros,” Sylvia said, smiling into Keisha’s shoulder.

  “Anxiety bros.”

  “You’ll see me again.”

  “I better. Goddammit, I better.”

  32

  Keisha went back to the one clear lead that she had, the abandoned house with its hidden staircase and locked steel door. Any time she could find a moment between her deliveries, she would rent a car, drive to Georgia, and stake the place out, watching for movement. But the location seemed as abandoned as it had been made to look, and she wondered if her poking around had caused them to avoid it in preference for other entrances. She was almost to the point of giving up her vigil when a truck pulled up, trailer and all, and someone—she was too far away to tell who—hopped out and entered the house. Keisha followed them inside.

  The interior looked exactly as it had before. The same sense of abandonment. Dust over everything. A feeling that the structure of the house was uncertain of its physics and ready to settle into rubble. But she didn’t hesitate on any of these details. She understood them as window dressing. Instead she made directly for the kitchen. The stove was already swung aside, the staircase exposed. Why would they leave the entrance visible like that? It was possible that they simply did not expect anyone to enter this long-abandoned farmhouse on this specific afternoon. This was one of several possibilities that occurred to Keisha.

  Still, she didn’t see any other option for herself. She had set her own trajectory long ago, and now could only follow wherever it led. So she made her way down the stairs, ready for the ambush from whoever had laid this trap for her. Instead she made it to the landing, turned, and saw that the steel door had also been left open. Beyond it was a sterile, steel corner, with the same institutional fluorescent lighting as the stairs. This was of course a trap. This was a bad idea. She hurried down the stairs and through the door before she could listen to all the shouted warnings in her head.

  The corridor was short and lined with cameras and ended at a second steel door. Here was where any who entered were vetted and either let through or trapped between the doors until they could be dealt with. Keisha didn’t know whether this meant life in some black site prison, or poison gas hissing out of the walls. She did know that the door at the other end of the hallway was ajar. She approached it slowly, giving them plenty of time to slam it shut and end her investigation forever. But it remained cracked open. She pushed and it swung silently inward.

  On the other side was a balcony overlooking a colossal underground space. The space was full of equipment and offices, training areas and storage. It was an entire base, buzzing with activity. Hundreds of workers, many visibly armed, bustled around. Overlooking it all, next to Keisha on the balcony, was the commander. The commander didn’t turn to look at Keisha as she joined her.

  “My name’s Lucy,” the commander said instead. “Impressive, isn’t it?”

  “It’s unbelievable.”

  “Bay and Creek is fighting a very dangerous enemy. You know. You’ve met them.”

  “Thistle.”

  Lucy nodded. “Thistle indeed.” She turned to face Keisha. “I understand your curiosity, I truly do. Bay and Creek has many secrets, and secrets invite uncovering. So here. I have let you through the doors. I am letting you see the secret at the heart of this war. A war almost everyone you’ve ever known has had no idea was happening in their country. Here it is. Here are the good guys.”

  “How long has this war been going on?” Keisha said, picking from one of a thousand questions.

  “How long has America been going on? It’s a shadowy line, but the conflict gradually formed as the nation did. Listen, Keisha, you can’t keep following me.”

  “Ok,” said Keisha. She didn’t know what else to say. Given what Lucy had done for her that day, it seemed a reasonable request.

  “I’m showing you this because I need your curiosity sated. But you can’t come back here. Ordinarily, an outsider who saw this, they wouldn’t make it back out into the world. But something in me says you won’t be an outsider to this war for long, if you ever really were one.”

  “I’ve been fighting in it this whole time and I didn’t even know,” said Keisha.

  “Exactly. Well, now you know. What you do with this information is your business. But you need to walk out of this base now. Go back to your deliveries. Go back to the towns and the highways. You can’t come back here. And you can’t keep looking into me. Do we have a deal?” Lucy reached out a hand. “I like you, and I know Alice loves you, so please take my hand and tell me we have a deal.”

  Keisha took her hand. The name of Alice had made her tremble, and she knew Lucy could feel it.

  “Thank you, Keisha. Now it’s time for you to go.”

  So Keisha went. Back to her truck, and back to her life. As she drove away, she went over all the new questions this revelation had given her. Just what was Bay and Creek? Where did it get the funds for enormous underground bases, designed to fight a war with monsters? Monsters who had the police in their pockets, and apparently at least parts of the military, if not the entire government? And why in the world would she be allowed to see all that and get to walk away? That was the question she kept coming back to, because it did not make any sense to her. Given what she knew, why was she still alive?

  33

  After the wedding, Alice got a new job. It had a better income, and soon they were able to make a down payment on a house. Alice hadn’t been sure that buying a house was worth it anymore. The future value of a house was so uncertain, and dependent on the gambling of rich investors who could never lose their own money, only lose everyone else’s. And a homeowner always has to look fearfully for cracks, leaks, mold, mice, and any number of things that were no longer anyone’s responsibility but her own. Rental, that was where it was at.

  But Keisha had had enough of rentals. Of not being in control of the place that she called home. Subject to the whims of landlords who might decide on a change in tenants or any other number of things that would affect their living situation. The breaking point for her had come from a landlord who without warning or compensation turned the entire rest of the building into a gut renovation. Abruptly their life in a place that they had thought of as home became a series of hanging plastic sheets and leering men in their hallways and sharp bangs and drilling starting from six in the morning.

  “Never again,” Keisha said. “A house. That we own. We’re putting down roots.”

  Of course, the irony was that in order to put down those roots Alice would need to take this new job, which involved a great deal of travel. She would be gone two or three months out of the year, cumulatively, but the pay was so much better that she couldn’t turn it down.

  “Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that shit, Chipmunk,” said Alice. “This way we’ll never get tired of each other.”

  And for a while she was right. There was the pain of the separation, but the pleasure of the reunions was intense. Where others talked about marriage as an uphill walk, a struggle and a negotiation, they were just in love and that was that. Maybe it was all that time away that did it.

  About a year into Alice’s new job, though, that changed. She came back from one of her business trips different. Keisha didn’t know how else to put it. On the surface, Alice acted the same. Same smile. Same easy way of moving through the world. Someone who didn’t know her that well wouldn’t have seen any difference at all. But for Keisha the difference blared. There was something new buried in Alice’s personality. Keisha couldn’t figure out what, and she certainly didn’t want anything to be different, so she pretended it wasn’t. She took what she knew and put it in the highest, most remote corner of her mind, and hoped it could sit there gathering dust forever.

  It was a hunch that saved Keisha. She was sleeping in a truck stop that met only the barest minimum of the definition. A spot where she could park the cab and sleep, near a bathroom hut with a few lights and a
couple bored security guards in a booth near the bathrooms. But it was enough. In her life, at this point, space and time were all she needed. She settled back into her cot. Usually she listened to music or podcasts on her phone, anything to misdirect her mind long enough to perform the sleight of hand of sleep, but today she lay in silence. The revelations of the day, all that the underground base implied, should have kept her up thinking, but instead they made her indescribably tired, and she knew that her mind needed no distracting that night. It had thought itself out, and the moment she was lying down, the world started to drift away from her.

  Then came the stab of panic. There was no stimulus. The night was as quiet as before. No movement. No sounds. No suspicious shifts in the light. But her body filled with anxious energy. For a moment she was frustrated. Not now. Not when she was finally approaching something like rest. Then she thought of a walk-in cooler, where that anxiety had manifested itself as a weapon, one that had saved her life. She decided to trust it. She got up from her cot. Felt the cold air and decided to take the blanket with her. She walked away from the cab, stood in the big empty lot, where the other rigs hunched like hibernating animals. Where to? She let her anxiety lead her, followed the spikes of her panic toward the bathroom hut, where there was a bench in the lights. The bench faced the guard hut. She sat on the bench and looked across at the guards, who looked at her bemusedly and then turned back to their television. She ignored them, watched her truck.

  For a long time there was nothing, and she considered that anxiety was irrational, and listening to it was like listening to a child. It’s not that they are never right. It’s that the correct info is mixed in with a lot of imaginary things, and, like a child, anxiety can’t tell the difference between the two. She wrapped the blanket tighter, preparing to stand and return to her cot, a little ashamed at herself for giving in to her stupid gut, when she saw the movement by her truck. A figure was capering around it. Small, frail even, dancing sideways around and around it. It was the woman who had pulled her over near the Salton Sea. Keisha sat back down, looked again at the guards, wondered if they could possibly provide enough protection. The woman crawled into Keisha’s cab. The door had been unlocked, but she wriggled in through the passenger window. A minute later she wriggled back out again and considered the truck with her hands on her hips. Then she turned and saw Keisha and even from across the lot Keisha could see a broad smile cross her paperskin face.