I have him on the run. For the first time, I have the upper hand. I see a glimpse of fluttering black fabric disappear around a corner. I bolt down the bare white hallway in hot pursuit. He's not going to get away from me this time.
The length of the next hallway opens up before me and seems to stretch for miles. In the far off distance, a cloaked figure slips into an open doorway. How the hell did he get down there so fast? I take off at a full sprint. The bare walls provide no perspective for me to mark my progress. It seems like I'm going nowhere.
Then, slowly, the door starts to get bigger. I'm getting closer. I lean into the run and really pump my legs. I'm going to catch this sonofabitch...
The apparent blackness of the room through the doorway was only an effect of the brightness from outside. There is a single dim spotlight in the center of the room shining down onto a hospital bed. There's a guy lying there under the covers with some kind of device attached to his head. The black-cloaked figure is leaning over him.
"Hey!" I yell.
The hood jerks as the head underneath looks up quickly. I can't see the face through the shadows of his cowl.
"Who are you?" I demand.
The figure shakes his head. "Don't be afraid of me, Rick...I'm who you want to be," his low voice sounds evenly from the shadows. It sends a chill up my spine.
"No!" I scream, but it's too late. The figure rolls onto the bed and disappears into the man's body. I run a few steps toward the bed, but a noise from behind has me spinning to find its source.
"What are you doing out of bed, Mr. Menda?" the creepy black-haired doctor in the doorway asks with a German accent.
I look back toward the bed. It's still occupied. "Stay away from me!" I shout at the doctor.
In a blur of motion, the doctor suddenly stands before me, staring at me with a perverse hunger that makes me want to retch. I stumble backwards.
"If you keep resisting, we will have to terminate the experiment," he says to me, grinning.
I continue to step backward until I bump into the bed. I look down at the man laying there. I see my own face cradled in the pillow. Startled, I look back toward the doctor.
"There is nothing to worry about, Mr. Menda. Just relax. This is for your own good."
I look down again. The man with my face opens his eyes and suddenly lunges for me. He grabs me and pulls me onto the bed while the doctor rushes forward to help.
"Trust me, Mr. Menda, you would thank me for this if you could," the doctor says calmly over the commotion.
A machine somewhere in the room begins beeping rapidly. I struggle against the two men, but they're both incredibly strong. They're both trying to push me into...into...
The beeping comes faster and louder. It actually sounds more like...
Ringing. I jolt upright, the restraining arms around me suddenly gone. I look around, panting. The room is dark, save for six red, glowing symbols.
4:26 AM.
The phone rings again. I reach blindly over to the bedside table. "Hello?" I ask groggily, pressing the handset to my ear.
"Richard?" a familiar voice crackles on the other end.
I freeze, catching my breath. Am I still dreaming?
"Hello?" I ask again out of confusion.
"Richard, can you hear me?" The connection isn't so good, but I'm sure I know that voice.
"Who is this?" I demand.
There's a pause. "Richard, this is Loretta," the woman's voice says.
I squeeze my eyes shut. "Okay, you're not real. I'm going to hang up the pho-"
"No, Richard, wait!" Loretta's voice pleads. "I am real. Please, you have to trust me."
"What do you want?" I ask impatiently, thinking to condescendingly humor my delusion for just a moment.
"I need to meet with you. We have to talk. I know this is hard for you to understand right now, but please believe me. Both our lives as we once knew them depend upon it."
"Why can't we talk right now?" I ask.
"There isn't enough time," she responds. "Listen, at eleven pm tonight, come to this address: 1420 Mission Avenue. It's an abandoned church near the city limits. I should have everything set up by then and we can talk safely. Just make sure you get ready for bed and actually lie down before you leave. Got it?"
This sounds absurd. "Yeah, sure," I lie.
"Richard, please. You're not crazy. Come tonight and I'll explain everything."
"Uh-huh, ok," I say with a patronizing tone.
"Fourteen-twenty Mission Ave., you're sure you got that?" she asks.
"I got it."
"Say it," she says.
"Forty-twenty Mission Ave.," I repeat with a sigh.
"No, FOURTEEN-twenty," she corrects me.
"Okay, I got it."
"I really hope to see you there, Richard."
There's a click, then a buzz. I hang up the handset and stare into the darkness for a few minutes. What time is it?
4:31 AM.
Damn, it's early. I doubt I'm going to get back to sleep, though. With the threat of dawn right around the corner, I might as well go ahead and start the day.
Work has been really weird ever since...Linda. People either avoid eye contact, or when they do get up the nerve to interact with me, it's always with a tone and expression that comes off as, well, forced sympathy. I took a week off after it happened. They wanted me to take more, but what the hell? Yeah, as if I don't already spend every unoccupied waking moment thinking about what happened and how much I wish...
Well, the point is, the last thing I need is more time to myself. Work is an excellent distraction, and it would work even better if everyone would stop walking on friggin' eggshells around me. Every hushed whisper I walk up on or furrowed brow that greets me is just another deafening drumbeat extending my already seemingly endless mourning. I swear it would be easier for me to get over if everyone else would get over it first. Maybe.
And so, I scrub off the previous day's muck and gloom in my morning shower. I get dressed in a daze, choke down an antidepressant in lieu of breakfast and coffee, then get straight on the road. At work, I'm greeted with surprise and faux empathy.
"Mike! You're here early this morning," some random guy whose name I don't remember yelps. Already looks like he's squirming to get away.
"Yeah, couldn't sleep."
"Oh," the guy says heavily. "Well, I'll see ya around. Try not to work to hard."
I nod. You are hereby released from this uncomfortable situation. This place is seriously depressing, but it's a tad bit less depressing than home, which is why I'm here. Ah, cubicle sweet cubicle.
"Hey, Mike."
I nod to my neighbor. "Hey, Tom. How's it going?" Tom practically lives here.
"Oh, y'know...it's going," he says, rolling his eyes.
Tom actually hasn't been that bad. He makes work tolerable.
"You look tired," he notes.
"Oh, yeah," I agree. "Weird phone call this morning. Woke me up at 4:30."
"Really?" asked Tom with a curious expression. "Who the hell would call that early?"
I stare at my desk for a second. "I don't know," I lie. "Must've been a crank call or something."
"Huh," Tom offers. "Well listen, I've already gotten a call from Greer about the meeting this afternoon."
"So early?" I ask.
"Yeah, he's such a dick, but what else is new?"
"What did he say?"
Tom shrugs. "I don't know, some bullshit about crossing the i's and dotting the t's on the reports. I was only half listening."
I laugh. I do that infrequently lately, as I'm sure you can imagine. It's another reason why I come to work. Tom can usually get a laugh out of me. So while I'm here I'm either working my ass off or laughing at Tom. It keeps the pain at bay until punchout time.
And so the day goes by. I get some work done. Laugh at Tom's quips. We go to the afternoon meeting. Greer is a raging douchebag, like always. Tom does most of the talking while I nod in a manner that I hope is intelligent. Nobody really pays me that much attention, which is kind of how I prefer it. We grab a late lunch, and all too soon, 5:00 rolls around.
"I'll see ya tomorrow, Mike. I'm outie," Tom offers as he skips out of the office.
"Later," I call after him.
Well, I guess this means I have to go home too. I clean up around my desk, close the files on my pc and generally just delay the inevitable. Having no more options, I gather myself up and head out. On the way home, I contemplate stopping all sorts of places and doing all sorts of things, but really, I think I just want to go home and sleep. I've been doing that a lot lately. Sleep is the other way I avoid my problems.
I step in the door and take off my belt and throw it on the couch. Lacking the motivation to remove anything else, I turn down the hall and plop into bed. It wouldn't be the first time I've slept in my clothes over the past few months. I roll over and look at the alarm clock.
5:54 PM.
Not that it matters. I'm not going anywhere tonight. There was no phone call this morning. It was just a continuation of my weird dreams...and yet...
Where did that address come from? Is there even a Mission Street on the edge of the city? Morbid curiosity drags me out of bed, but only far enough to bring the laptop back with me. I pile up the pillows behind me and open the cover. Let's see what MapQuest has to say on the matter.
Now, what was that address again? It was something like...1240 Mission Street. I type that in. MapQuest loads a page with 1240 Mission Avenue. That's right, it was an avenue. Well, the street is real, and it is about at the city limits. I just don't know if I have the number right.
Not that it matters. I'm not going anywhere. Yeah, so, I looked it up and it exists. So what? Maybe I passed by that street once on my way out of town. I don't know. Of course, I don't remember ever being in that area, but that doesn't mean anything. I might have heard about it from someone else. Who knows what my deluded mind has incorporated into its wild fabrications?
Resolute, I close the laptop lid and roll over. I'm not going anywhere, except maybe to sleep. I feel pretty weary, actually. I close my eyes and stretch out. I can feel myself being pulled deeper. Deeper into...what are they pulling me into?
"Trust me, Mr. Menda, stop struggling. You would thank us if you could."
*****
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