Pacific nodded briskly, then turned toward Alfred. With a voice loud enough to be heard by anyone around he said, “That’s it! This is the place! The poor man was brought to the hospital after eating here! Take a good angle of the cart, and a panoramic view of the street. What are you waiting for? Action!”
Alfred jerked to attention and started taking pictures, aiming and shooting.
“Excuse me, sir.” A woman a few people away said, looking at Pacific. “Did you say ‘hospital’?”
“Indeed,” Pacific nodded gravely. Then, turning toward Alfred, he said briskly, “Don’t forget the inside of the truck! Take some more! Quickly now. She’s still in the back. She won’t notice.”
“A man, you said?” another person joined the conversation. “Went to the hospital after eating here.”
“Yes and yes,” Pacific answered, while people were breaking the line and crowding around him. “A man was sent to the hospital after eating one Khanom Buang sold at this very place.” He pointed to the food cart. “A severe case of Strombolocktisis, it is assumed by the doctors. The poor fellow will be bedded for a full week, and won’t be able to digest anything other than liquids for much longer.”
An ever-increasing murmur spread like wildfire, traveling mouth to mouth in a matter of seconds.
“Good Lord,” said the woman who had first spoken. “Honey, let’s get out of here!” She pulled her husband with her and led the way out of Draconian Street.
The rest of the people soon followed her and by the time Alfred had shot the last picture, Pacific and him were the only ones left.
“You can stop taking pictures, now.” Pacific said.
“What the hell is Strombolocktisis?” Alfred asked, while turning the camera off.
“I have no idea,” Pacific shrugged. “But the word is long enough, and sounds scary enough.”
“What?” Alfred blurted out. “You lied to them?”
“Lied?” Pacific frowned. “I prefer to say I manufactured reality to my advantage, but you’re more than welcome to use that word, if it suits you.”
In that moment the Thai lady returned from the back of the truck. She looked around, searching for people who were no longer there.
“Where … Where is everybody?” she asked, confused.
Pacific stepped forward, and smiled a broad smile. “We’ll take two of your finest Khanom Buang, ma’am,” he said.
The Thai lady didn’t seem to notice Pacific’s request. She was still looking for her costumers.
“Well?” Pacific snapped a finger, and finally got the lady’s attention. “The clock is ticking.”
The woman said something in Thai while glancing around one last time, then she busied herself with a big spoon she used to stir the cream and put on the crepes, and in less than two minutes she had the food ready for them.
Pacific took one crepe and handed the other to Alfred, then turned and started eating, leaving Alfred to pay. Alfred sighed. He thanked the lady and gave her a ten-dollar bill.
“You’re welcome,” Alfred said sarcastically, once he had caught up with the tall man.
Pacific licked the cream off his lips. “Beg your pardon?”
“The crepe? My money? You’re welcome.”
“Oh, this?” Pacific looked at his lunch. He took another bite, then added, “I always forget to pay for this kind of stuff.”
“That makes you a thief, you know that, right?”
“Hardly. I just know the fair price for things that don’t have one.”
“Well, the fair price for the crepe you’re wolfing down was four dollars and twenty nine cents, just so you know.”
“I sense annoyance,” Pacific said, studying Alfred’s gloom expression. “Is money an issue?”
“No, it’s not,” Alfred said quickly, then grimaced and added, “I mean, I’m not a money-making machine, plus I’m now jobless and … Well … That’s not really the point I was trying to make. All I’m saying is that a ‘thank you’ from you would have been appreciated.”
“No, you’re not,” Pacific said.
“What?”
“Jobless.” Pacific regarded Alfred carefully. “You’re working for me, remember?”
Alfred rolled his eyes. “Yes, sure,” he said. “I forgot. And you will pay me with words, right?”
“No, Alfred White.” Pacific stopped. He looked at the young man intently. “I will pay you with knowledge. We agreed on that, remember?”
Alfred bit his lip. Pacific’s silent stare was quite intense, and somehow made Alfred quite uncomfortable. “Yes, I do remember,” Alfred said. “Forget it. It was just ten bucks.”
Pacific stood motionless for a few more seconds, all the while looking at Alfred like he was trying to decide something. Then, without saying a word, he resumed walking. Alfred followed him.
They walked a while longer on Main Street, then entered a secondary street called Insinua Avenue, a narrow, dark lane with patches of fresh asphalt here and there. There was a considerably higher number of homeless people sleeping on the sidewalk.
“So, where are we going, now?” Alfred asked, looking around doubtfully.
“We have two meetings, today,” Pacific declared. “Both will help you broaden your world, and me understand a few things more about my employee. That means you.”
“Meetings?” Alfred asked, puzzled. “With whom?”
Pacific glanced at his wristwatch and then said, “Some call it Destiny, others Moira. The name doesn’t really matter, only the outcome it brings to people.”
“OK,” Alfred couldn’t really hide his exasperation. “What does that mean in plain English?”
“You’ll find out soon enough. There we are.”
Alfred looked around. They had reached the very end of Insinua Street. There was nothing around, except some parked cars, a broken fountain and a convenience store.
“There’s nothing here,” Alfred said while looking at the only store around. “Unless you fancy a cheap hot dog and undercooked fries.”
“See in front of the store?” Pacific pointed a few feet away from the entrance door of the convenience store. “The Enterprise parked right there?”
Alfred followed Pacific’s finger. Less than ten yards away there was a very expensive sport car. It was painted silver, and looked like a spaceship.
“Yeah,” Alfred said. “I see it.”
Just then the store’s door opened, and a chubby middle-aged man wearing a bright blue suit came out of it. He walked towards the sport car and once in front of it, placed a paper bag on top of the hood, rummaging inside the bag until he took out a gigantic cheeseburger and a can of soda.
“See that fellow?” Pacific asked, pointing to him.
“Yes, I do.” Alfred watched the fat man take a huge bite of the cheeseburger. “Why are we looking at him?”
“Allow me to introduce you to Mr. Steve Rowsons Junior. He’s forty-nine years old and was born in Atlanta, Georgia,” Pacific said, waving his hands in an elaborate, introductory gesture. “He’s divorced, with two kids who haven’t seen him in a decade. He works as a financial adviser at the prestigious Thur’as & Sons Capital Group Limited, makes six figures per year and hates his job. Yes. That should be enough to give you an insight on his life.”
Alfred frowned. “How do you know all that stuff about him?”
“I do my homework and ask the right questions to the right people.”
“I still don’t understand why we are looking at him.”
“I’m not looking at him,” Pacific lifted his chin slightly. “I’m looking above him.”
“Above?” Alfred looked above Steve’s head. “What do you mean above? There’s nothing above him.”
“For now.” Pacific turned and looked at Alfred. “Now listen. Think of what I said about that man. Think of his name, his age, and of where he was born. Think of his profession. Think of what you know of his story. Then, while you’re doing it, picture a square in your mind. It can be any squar
e, of any color and any size you want it to be.”
Alfred’s eyebrows shot up. “A square?”
“You know, the quadrilateral with four equal sides and four equal angles?”
“Yes, I know what a ‘square’ is. Look, I don’t get what you’re trying to—”
“Ah, I should have mentioned this earlier,” Pacific said, raising a hand to interrupt Alfred. “This is not question time, this is action time. You will do as I say, when I say it. You agreed on that, remember?”
Alfred rolled his eyes. “OK, fine. Got it. What do you want me to do, again?”
“Just look above his head, about six feet above his head, to be exact. Think of what I said about that man, and then picture a square.”
Alfred shook his head. He looked at the man still eating his cheeseburger, then looked at Pacific. “Can I just say this sounds very weird? I mean, I don’t mind—”
“I know it sounds odd. Just do it.”
Alfred was still skeptical, but did as he was told. He looked above Steve’s head, and tried to picture the image of a square while thinking of what Pacific had said about his life.
One minute passed. Two minutes. Alfred just felt really stupid staring at nothing.
“Look, I don’t get it,” Alfred finally said, giving up. “What do you want me to see? Mhm? There is absolutely nothing there, only air!”
“You’re not thinking,” Pacific warned him. “I can feel it. You’re just wondering why you should do something that makes you look stupid. You want knowledge? Then be ready to accept it. Stop focusing on yourself. Concentrate, now. Again, think of what I said about that man. Remember to picture a square while you’re looking above him.”
“I just don’t—”
“Stop trying to rationalize everything, young man. There’s nothing logical in my request. Nothing. I’m asking you to step out of your comfort zone now, and to trust me. Can you do it or not?”
Alfred rubbed the back of his neck. “OK, fine,” he said. “I’ll do it.” Then he added, looking at Pacific’s grave expression, “Seriously, this time. I promise.” He closed his eyes, and tapped his head a few times. “Picture a square. Look six feet above his head. Think about his life. Got it. On it.”
Alfred breathed in deeply and tried to focus, ignoring his feelings of insecurity. He closed his eyes and concentrated on forming the image of a square in his mind. It took him some time, but in the end he could see the geometrical shape with the eye of his mind. It was as big as a human torso, and silver like Steve’s car.
When Alfred opened his eyes again, he had the imaginary square still sharp in his mind.
He looked at Steve, and recalled what Pacific had said about him.
Middle aged.
Divorced.
Two children.
Prestigious.
Wealthy.
Unhappy.
Something flashed above Steve’s head for a fraction of a second. It was no more than a spark of light that ended before Alfred could actually make sure that it had ever existed.
The young man blinked several times in disbelief. He looked at Pacific, his mouth half opened.
“Don’t look at me,” Pacific said, pointing at Steve. “Look at your man.”
Alfred obeyed. Again he pictured the square in his mind, and again he thought about the man’s life.
“Good.” Pacific nodded. “Keep looking. Concentrate on his story, on his life. And visualize the image of a square in your mind. Evoke it, seize it and use it to see.”
Alfred did it. The second time was easier than the first. Again the spark of light flashed above Steve’s head and disappeared almost immediately. Then appeared again. And again three more times. Alfred kept staring at the spot where the light had appeared, six feet above Steve’s head, putting all his efforts in the task, concentrating on keeping the image of the silver square sharp in his mind. He was thinking of Steve’s information, and finally he was able to see it for more than a moment.
The spark of light became a stable streak of light that settled into a defined shape above Steve’s head. Alfred’s eyes widened when he understood what it was. It was a number, a red number, or rather, a series of numbers. There was a two, followed by the number forty-four. No. Forty-three. It changed again into forty-two … forty-one … forty. Every second the amount decreased.
It was a countdown.
Alfred’s eyes were wide open, now, his body tense. “What-in-the-name-of-Jesus-is-that?”
“What do you see?” Pacific stared at him with anticipation. He had never looked at him like that before.
“I see numbers,” Alfred said, still stunned as he was looking above Steve’s head. “A countdown, I think. Two minutes and fifteen seconds. Fourteen, now.”
“Well done.” Pacific nodded approvingly. “That, young man, is Steve’s remaining life span.”
Alfred jerked his head toward Pacific. “What?”
“You heard me. That is how long Steve has left to live. Just over two minutes, now.”
Alfred opened his mouth and stared at the numbers. The two was gone, now, replaced by the number one followed by fifty-nine … fifty-eight … fifty-seven … fifty-six.
“Are you … are you serious?”
“I am. Now, gather yourself. We have work to do.” Pacific pointed to the camera Alfred was holding. “Take a good picture of him.”
“A picture?”
“Yes, a picture.”
“You mean—”
“Take a picture of that man,” Pacific ordered. “And be quick about it. We don’t have much time left.”
“O … OK.” Alfred aimed, zoomed, and then took a couple of pictures.
“Let me see.” Pacific snatched the camera from his hands. They both looked at the picture’s preview.
The pictures were sharp. The numbers were there, too, clearly visible above Steve’s head.
“That’s good enough,” Pacific said, looking pleased.
Alfred licked his lips. “Are those numbers real?” he asked, glancing at the countdown as if he was still debating its reality. “I mean, the pictures show them, right?”
“This camera is special,” Pacific explained, patting the camera’s body. “If you were to take a picture of that man with anything else, you would see nothing. A normal camera freezes a moment in time. This one freezes time itself.”
Alfred had no idea what the hell that meant. He looked back at Steve, and realized the countdown was almost up.
“It’s go time,” Pacific said, pushing back his sunglasses. “10 … 9 … 8 …”
Steve suddenly yelped, and dropped his cheeseburger on the ground.
“What’s happening?” Alfred narrowed his eyes. He stared at the fat man who was now clearly gasping for air.
Steve grabbed his chest with both hands, and started howling in pain. He fell on his knees, and kept screaming. His face was red and getting redder.
“Oh my God,” Alfred said, both hands over his mouth. “He’s … he’s having a heart attack, or something.” He looked at Pacific with anticipation. “We gotta do something!”
“We’re doing something,” Pacific said, his arms crossed. “We’re watching him die.”
Alfred could not believe what was happening.
He moved a couple of steps forward. He didn’t know what to do, but he needed to do something.
5 …
Steve screamed in pain, a high pitched stream of blurted words begging for help. Alfred started running toward him.
3 …
Alfred got to him just in time to stare closely at Steve’s eyes, so wide and filled with horror.
“It’s OK, buddy,” Alfred assured him, looking around frantically. “Hang on. I’ll … I’ll get somebody to help. I … I …”
1 …
Pacific clapped his gloved hands, and the countdown disappeared.
Steve stopped moving. His eyes were still open, but there was nothing beyond them, only blankness. Only death.
A
lfred ran his fingers through his hair, and stared at the corpse in horror. “Oh my God,” he murmured, shocked. “This is not … this is not happening.”
He placed his ear to Steve’s chest. There was no heartbeat.
“No, no, no,” Alfred muttered. He started shaking Steve’s body frantically. “Come on, buddy! Come on!”
He needed to do something. Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, maybe? But how? He had no idea how.
His phone! He could call somebody. An ambulance. Yes, an ambulance. Alfred took his cellphone out of his pocket, but his hands were shaking so hard he dropped it. He could not move, he could not see clearly, he could hardly breath. His gaze went back to Steve’s horrified expression on his wide open eyes. Alfred’s head started spinning. He coughed, and felt his chest heavy. He was going to be sick.
“Breath,” he heard Pacific’s voice behind him. “It’s just a corpse. Can’t do you any harm.”
Alfred swallowed. He left Steve’s body, which slumped to the ground. “I … think … I think I’m going to be sick.”
Pacific sighed. “If you must,” he said.
Alfred could do nothing more than bend and puke right there.
“And there it goes your lovely lunch,” Pacific said, his hands resting on his hips. “What’s the matter? Can’t stomach death?”
“I’ve never seen—” Alfred cut himself off. He was fighting for air. The world kept spinning around him. He managed to sit on the ground, and took some seconds to gather himself. “I’ve never seen somebody … die.”
Pacific clasped his gloved hands behind his back. “I see somebody die most days.”
Silence stretched between them. Insinua Street was still empty, and very silent. Nobody seemed to have heard Steve’s screams. Nobody had come out of the convenience store.
“We need … we need to call an ambulance,” Alfred said, looking at Steve’s body while wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“What for?” Pacific asked.
“I … I don’t know.” Alfred was gasping for air. “They could … they could try to revive him, or something.”
Pacific shook his head definitively. He bent over Steve’s body and while looking at the man’s blank eyes he said, “The man has passed that point. He’s never coming back.”
Wicked Time Page 5