Resonance: Dead Forever Book 3

by William Campbell

Copyright 2011 William Campbell. All Rights Reserved

Chapter 3

Blackness, a single point of light. A candle’s weak flame, swaying in darkness.

She whispers, “Put it out.”

The flickering spreads, climbs higher, and grows to a raging wall of fire.

“We won’t survive,” she says.

Countless missiles rocket into the sky, fan out and reach no higher, then begin their descent. Some distance above the ground, the first ignites in a blinding flash, then another, another in quick succession, each a star exploding in silence.

The hurricane blast comes fast—flash, washed out to white, then fading, blackness returns.

BLAR, BLAR, BLAR…

“Don’t you hear it?” a voice asks.

I hear him and that irritating noise, but I see nothing.

BLAR, BLAR, BLAR…

The bastard turned us in. We have to escape this room.

I swing the door open to find a man armed with a rifle. The whizzing begins, and a scorching beam—flash, washed out to white, then fading, blackness returns.

BLAR, BLAR, BLAR…

Strapped to a chair, I can’t get free. A man wearing a white lab coat is standing over me, his eyes giant behind horn-rimmed glasses. Holding a hypodermic needle, he pushes my sleeve higher—flash, washed out to white, then fading, blackness returns.

BLAR, BLAR, BLAR…

“How can you not hear that?”

That voice again, from nowhere.

A blade crosses my belly, my insides tingle, a twinge of stinging then burning and flooding with blood. The sword I hold glows brighter—flash, washed out to white, then fading, blackness returns.

BLAR, BLAR, BLAR…

From darkness above comes the sound of rattling chains, like a winch unwinding fast. Giant metal jaws drop down and clamp shut around me, in the cold, in the dark. My body is stiff, trapped in ice, hoisted up and thrown into blue sky, then tumbling down. The ice smacks water, sending up a fountain spray hurling outward. The block plunges deeper then snaps back, breaking the surface and down again until settled and floating, riding swells on a syrupy ocean as black as oil.

A sea serpent rises from the black ocean, head and torso of a snake, arms like a man, holding a flaming torch. “Burn in Hell, heathen creature.” The serpent taps the torch to the black water and the sea bursts into flames—flash, washed out to white, then fading, blackness returns.

BLAR, BLAR, BLAR…

The blackness is shaking, then slowly, it begins to brighten. Blurry, shifting and spreading, indistinct colors begin to form, then an undulating sheet of vapor rolls out and slithers past. From the misty shroud, a woman appears, walking on the clouds. She wears a crown of slender braided vines, imbued with petite blossoms, and a sleeveless white gown, fluttered by a soft breeze.

The vision of a goddess.

“Remember,” she says. “Promise.”

She glides closer, her arm outstretched.

“I promise.” I reach for her. “I’ll remember you.”

Our fingers brush.

Blinding white light.

BLAR, BLAR, BLAR…

* * *

All on its own, this body twists onto its stomach, fumbles for the nightstand, and smacks the snooze button. At last, the annoying racket ends.

“Gawd, it’s about time.”

That voice from nowhere… is here.

“Get your ass outta bed. You’re gonna be late.”

I peel the pillow from my face, focus on the nightstand, and find the clock. The darn thing has gone haywire, red LCD stick digits advancing two minutes every second. Nine o’clock, ten, eleven, tomorrow is coming fast. I smack it again, hard. Now it blinks 12:00… 12:00…

When I flip the covers and sit up, all the blood drains from my head and leaves my brain a shrunken dry sponge. Here comes that truck driving through. I slap both hands to my skull and hold tight.

It feels like the mattress is flopping around. Maybe I’m still dreaming. Focus improves and there he is, one foot planted to the bed, shoving hard. Vinnie, my roommate. The guy hasn’t shaved for days, hair going every which way, outfitted in a pair of boxer shorts and tee complete with sweat stains. A dexterous fellow, standing one-legged like a stork while he rattles the bed to jelly, he holds a bowl of cereal and a spoon aimed for his open mouth, loaded so full his lips can’t seal and milk dribbles out.

“Teach you to party all night when you gotta get up the next day.”

I throw my legs to one side. Sitting on the bed’s edge with my head in my hands, I try rubbing away the throbbing ache. Useless.

“Hey, Vinnie, where’s the Duprixol?”

“Do what? What the fuck you talking about?”

That’s right, I’m not there—I’m here.

Vinnie stares at me, silent and unmoving, other than a spastic jaw pulverizing cereal.

“You know what I mean. Aspirin, or that other stuff. Come on, can’t you see I’m hurting here?”

“What do I look like, your servant? Get it yourself, dickhead.” He heads out of the bedroom, leaving behind the fading slurps of inhaled cereal.

I flex my knees and get some blood moving, then strain to stand, wobble some, and stagger into the bathroom. A search of the medicine cabinet turns up nothing. Great. The one day I get the hangover from hell and we’re out. Note to mind—pick up pain relief before going out to party all night. I slap the mirrored door shut to be greeted by something undead staring back, eyes like a road map, plugged into ghastly dark sockets. I should shave. Maybe tomorrow. I try brushing my hair but it’s useless, it just springs back to sticking out. But my teeth, yeah, I’d better. Attack the coating of future plaque during the early slime phase.

There’s aspirin at work, if I make it there. Traffic is bad enough, but add a pounding skull and early morning sun in your eyes, might as well shoot myself now. I finish washing my face, take a mini-shower in the sink to paste my scalp back in place, and return to the bedroom.

From the dresser I pull out jeans, then scrounge for a fresh pullover and find one in the bottom drawer. I rip open the plastic, unfold the long sleeves, and admire the gleaming fabric, never to be this white again. Washed even once doesn’t match the feel of virgin cotton. Next I fetch my black leather vest. Haven’t worn this combo in a while. The vest still fits, encasing my torso rather well.

At the window, I nudge the drapes to check the weather. The ground is dry, not a trace of last week’s snow, and the sky is clear. I’m glad for a rare sunny day, but I won’t be fooled—it’s still freezing cold out there.

One of these days I’ll buy a real coat, but for now, the closet holds my vast collection of zip-up hoody sweat-jackets in a variety of colors to suit any mood. Maroon, royal blue, green and tan, charcoal gray and more. Today, black.

When I step into the living room, Vinnie comes out of the kitchen holding a glass of water.

“Here, you pussy.” He passes the water and drops four tablets in my palm. “There’s eight hundred milligrams. That oughta kill whatever’s in your head.”

Sure, after it kills me. What has he handed over? Tiny red pills. I don’t care, down it goes.

Vinnie returns to his favorite spot in our apartment—the sofa, facing the TV. On the coffee table is a gallon milk jug and two boxes of cereal. And there goes the last of another box into his king-sized bowl. He angles back, getting comfy, and slurps breakfast while watching Saturday morning cartoons.

“Vinnie, it’s Saturday.”

“I know,” he says, dribbling milk. “When the best stuff’s on.”

“I don’t work on Saturday. Why did you make me get up?”

“You don’t know?” He laughs. “Boy, scrambled your noggin good last night.”

Scrambled is right. I can’t even remember yesterday.

I drop onto the sofa next to Vinnie.

He stops laughing and stares at me. “What’s wrong with you? You’re the one who told me to wake you up.”

“I did? When?”

“Last night, before you went out. You don’t remember?”

Last night feels like ten-thousand years ago.

“So what did I tell you?” I ask. “Is there a reason I wanted to get up?”

He goes back to watching cartoons. “Hell if I know. Just to make sure you got up when the alarm went off. Oh, and your mom called, wants you to call her.” He inhales another load of cereal. “What is it with you and your mom anyway? I mean, look at you, you’re twenty-six and you still hang out together.”

“Just because you don’t like your parents doesn’t mean the rest of us shouldn’t like ours.”

“You know it, dude. My mom’s a regular bitch. But your mom, now she’s a babe, even if she is older. I’d do her.”

“Vinnie! You’re talking about my mother, for Christ’s sake.”

“Oh yeah, that reminds me. So what did you get her?”

“Get her?”

“You know.” He waves his milky spoon, directing my attention across the room. In the corner is a two-foot tall plastic tree decorated with a dozen spastically blinking lights. And beneath it, not a single gift.

I spring from the sofa and to the front door.

“Where you going?” Vinnie asks. “I thought you didn’t work today.”

I stop halfway out. “Not work, I remember now. Two days till Christmas.”

* * *

Sidewalk squares slip beneath each stride as I chase after a bus that just flew past the stop. I’m not waiting another half hour. Somehow, the driver failed to notice me patiently waiting below the proper sign. After kicking the rolling monster while running alongside—quite a feat of physical dexterity—the driver realizes that he has another passenger.

I toss my change in the hopper. The driver scowls, a grumpy old fart who looks tempted to throw me out and lay rubber across my backside in return for abusing his precious bus. Every seat is taken, even in back where few dare to ride, and on a day so cold outside, all the warm bodies fog the windows. The aisle is crammed with standing people packed in so tight the scent of others is difficult to bear. One thousand flowers, a fragrance popular among the ladies, competes with the masculine odors of those promoting the conservation of soap and water.

The bus weaves in and out of traffic, dips and rises, jostling passengers who sway to each jerk like zombies. The engine drones on and everyone is silent, staring ahead, clutching their sacks. That’s something about the bus—no one wants to talk to anyone else. Too dangerous for some reason, something unpleasant, like we’re all being transported to Camp Death.

The new light rail may have been a better choice, but the eastside track runs nowhere near my apartment. I’d go in comfort and take my car, but there’s little chance of scoring a parking space downtown this weekend, the final shopping days before Christmas on Monday.

At last we cross the river, then roll into the narrow streets of downtown. At the next stop, I get off the bus and my breath turns to vapor. This is one cold December. The blue sky is without a single cloud, the air hangs still and the sun shines bright, but it fails to warm anything. A perfect day if not for the biting cold, some degrees below freezing that easily penetrates the wimpy sweat-jacket. I put the zipper up as high as it goes, flop the hood up, and plug each hand into the opposite arm like a Chinese finger puzzle.

A short hike leads to Pioneer Courthouse Square, an entire city block spared the fate of so many others—launch pad for another downtown high-rise. Developers fail to realize, residents of the West Hills actually enjoy their view of Mt. Hood.

Though a rare open space amid a forest of steel and glass monoliths, ’tis the season for the square to host its own brand of stature. In the center stands an enormous Christmas tree reaching the height of some buildings, decorated with colored lights, tinsel, and ornaments the size of basketballs. Flowing around the towering tree, shoppers move about the square, toting their sacks chocked full of gifts. Mixed in are teenagers hanging out, old ladies, businessmen and transients, people from all walks of life. Tattooed punks with spiked hair are playing hacky-sack. A boy and his father are sitting on a bench, wrestling an electronic gadget out of its plastic package. A young couple on the curving steps is eating hot dogs smothered in mustard, others stand in line at a food cart cooking up burritos. At tables with chessboard tops, old men contemplate their next move. Along the sidewalks circling the square, street performers sing and dance, one playing banjo, another guitar, the instrument case open and collecting change. Every race, color, any culture, rich or poor. Step into the square and leave the classes behind.

Like every year, I’ve waited until the last minute to complete my shopping. Actually, I’ve yet to start any shopping. Perhaps the procrastination is subconscious, some kind of suppressed resistance to the whole idea. Why do we participate in this holiday? Because our parents did when they were young. And their parents did, and showed our parents, and they showed us. And we’re passing it on to our young, and their young, and theirs. It’s hereditary without an identifiable gene. But then, the season’s allure exceeds any influence of our genes. Turkey and ham, cookies and candy, gifts wrapped in colorful paper and shiny bows—what child wouldn’t crave one day each year to have all that? Somehow, after all these years, I feel tricked into participating.

Beneath the candy-coated, joy-to-the-world mindset they promote, architects of this holiday have a few skeletons in their closet. But we shouldn’t talk about that. Things aren’t like that anymore. But still the idea is odd, exchanging gifts between ourselves when it’s someone else’s birthday. That is, if it’s even the actual day he was born. One more questionable detail, as is all the rest, dead and buried in a perverse record of history. Instead of others, we should buy him a gift. What better way to show that you love someone? But dead two millennia makes that a bit tough. Then again, that particular body is dead. He could still be here, alive in a new body. We wouldn’t even know it’s him. He might not even know.

But I didn’t come here to ponder any savior and how all that turned out. Christmas is just around the corner and I’ve yet to buy a single gift.

Across the street, a string of retailers takes up the lower level of a building that consumes an entire block. Shoes, jewelry, and upscale women’s fashions, next to a men’s store. So near the final day, prices should be good. One store catches my eye, even from a distance. A future boutique of sorts, peddling consumer electronics, toys, and video games. On display in the storefront windows, the menagerie of gizmos is difficult to identify, but rising in the center is a pyramid of color TVs, all tuned to the same channel. Their ploy to capture our attention has worked. Off the curb, I step into the street and make my way across.

Gathering outside the store, plenty of others are interested as well. The program is a newscast, but not in the studio, rather on location, outside at night. Where is unclear, as the barrier of glass prevents us from hearing the newsman give his report. But we can all see what is happening, duplicated on every TV forming the pyramid.

Men are climbing a concrete wall covered with graffiti. They have sledgehammers, and they’re bashing away chunks of the wall. The Berlin Wall. They’re tearing down the wall.

The crowd grows larger, everyone captivated by the report. We don’t have to hear it, the sight alone says it all. The dark umbrella is lifting. The Cold War is ending.

But I’ve already seen this.

I step closer, and my breath fogs the cool glass. I remember.

“Exactly how it looked before.”

Except I never realized the picture was on a television.

“Before what?” a man asks, somewhere behind me. An older fellow wearing a long coat, skullcap, and mirrored sunglasses that reflect an image of me.

“Before it happened.” I explain. “I saw this when I was a kid.”

“Like a psychic?” he asks.

I go back to watching the TVs. “I guess. I don’t know.”

Behind me, he chuckles. “Psychics are supposed to know things, not wonder.”

Did I know? Can’t say that I did. Seeing something before it happens doesn’t mean it will. Or does it? The men attack the wall, graffiti breaks apart, and a tall slab topples. Did I know this would happen? Or make it happen?

This used to happen all the time, but then it stopped. I remember now, how I used to see things, and sometimes, they would become real.

When I turn around, the man is gone. Instead, I have a crowd of people staring at me. Something about me is far more interesting than I care to portray this morning.

My only escape is the store’s entrance.

* * *

Inside the store, every aisle is crammed with shoppers, and the sudden change of temperature is alarming. I’ve gone from the coldest day this season and stepped into a sweltering locker room. Sweat-jackets live up to their name. Getting cooked, I strip off the hoody and think about ditching the vest as well, but a mound of clothing draped over one arm is bound to get me tagged as a shoplifter. They need to jack up the AC. Ridiculous in winter, but so is undressing at every stop along the way.

In the TV section, many are tuned to the same channel as those in the front window, but now the Berlin Wall story has shifted to local news reported by an anchorwoman seated behind her desk. “In other news,” she says, and the inset above her shoulder changes to an amateur video at night. Unsteady and dark, tiny lights shift and jerk, little more than a wiggling blob of starry night that rises from a tall building and shoots off like a bullet, heading for the horizon. “Recent UFO sightings remain unexplained. Air Force officials maintain a weather phenomenon is responsible, however, eyewitnesses claim the strange lights emanate from mysterious craft.” The shaky five seconds of footage replays, then it fills the screen and keeps repeating.

“They gonna eat our brains?”

A young boy is standing next to me.

“Who?” I ask.

He points to the TVs. “The aliens.”

The news breaks for a commercial. A guy wearing a chef’s hat dumps meat into an amazing device that only produces a tangled gray mess.

I crouch to the boy’s level. “No, they don’t eat brains, that’s silly. They eat regular food the same as us.”

“Then why did they come here?”

The tile at my feet has lost its shine, scuffed and worn as countless shoppers pass over this one square, like inmates shuffling about their prison.

“They would never come here. They forgot about us a long time ago.”

“But you didn’t forget.”

I stand fast. “Forget what?”

Looking up, he smiles like he’s proud of me. “You came here to save us, right?”

A frantic woman flies around the corner, searching the aisle, then sees the child and sighs relief. “There you are.”

He runs to her. “Mom, Mom, I found the hero man.”

“You already have that toy,” she says. “And besides, we didn’t come here to shop for you.”

“No, Mom, he’s real.” He tugs on her coat and points to me.

She glances at me, then tells her son, “That’s just to sell more toys. Find the princess lady. Maybe she’ll have something for your sister.”

What do I look like? I’m just some guy. I study myself and realize the problem—the vest makes me look like a store clerk. Next some kid will ask where to find the video games.

Except in this store, the clerks wear red vests.

* * *

Shoppers pour into the store, and getting out is a challenge. I push past the flow and make it outside, back to the sidewalk, then zip my hoody and seal out the cold.

A chattering racket comes fast. I twist to look—a reckless shopping cart crashes into me and I’m thrown to the sidewalk.

“Hey! Watch where you’re going with that thing.”

The thing is loaded with junk fit for a dumpster, mixed with garbage bags and empty pop cans. At the helm is a crusty old bum.

“Hey, buddy,” he says. “You got some change? Help a poor guy out.”

I get up and brush myself off. “Looking for a drink, is that it?”

“No,” he says, gazing from sober eyes. “I’m hungry. Come on, it’s Christmas. Where’s your holiday spirit?”

“I hear they’re passing some out at work. You know, a job? Find one and you’ll have plenty.” I steer around to pass, focused on more important matters, like getting my shopping done.

Fading behind me, he says, “I had a job once. A vet.”

I turn back. He’s a filthy mess, except for his brown suede hiking boots, brand new. Maybe he’s not a loser.

“Which kind?” I ask.

He swings the cart around and wheels the noisy thing closer. “Fighting for our country. That’s worth something.”

He deserves better than living out of a shopping cart.

“What the hell happened?”

“Made me crazy, see?” He opens one hand to show a scar in the shape of a pentagram, carved into his palm.

Gross. “Who did that?”

He projects a deranged sense of pride. “I did.”

Can’t argue with crazy. But I have a place in my heart for those who defend our country and pay the price. I reach in my pocket and scrounge for a few bucks.

“You know, a lot of folks think Vietnam was for nothing, but it was important. You guys fought the spread of Communism, and maybe we didn’t win that particular war, but you helped win the bigger war, the Cold War. You should all be proud, and everyone should be proud of you. Just think, without you guys, maybe the Soviet Union would be big and strong today instead of crumbling.”

He says nothing, eyeing the fold of bills I flick through. I pull out a five and hand it over.

“So what was it?” I ask. “Army? Marines?”

He marvels at the bill, just imagining what it will buy.

“A pilot?” I ask. “Shot down and tortured?”

“Huh?” He snaps out of his five-dollar fantasy.

“You know, the war. Vietnam, right?”

He stuffs the bill in his pocket and smiles like a jack-o-lantern. “Never been there, but I hear it’s nice this time of year.” He whips the shopping cart around one-eighty.

“You lying sack of shit.” I snatch hold of his filthy coat, yank him back, and go for his pocket. “Give it back!”

He shifts out of reach, and incredibly, he is offended. “I didn’t lie. Every day I fight to save our country. One nation under God. Have you spread the Good Lord’s word today?”

“I’m spreading your face across the sidewalk.” I lunge at him and he whips out a crucifix, waving it like I’m a vampire and should be scared. Oh brother. I swat it away and plunge a hand into his coat pocket. Snap! Sudden pain triggers my arm to recoil, bringing with it a mousetrap dangling from my throbbing fingers. That conniving little bastard! Having thrown me off guard, he makes his escape. The worn wheels of his shopping cart chatter and fade.

I’m getting nowhere, other than injured, annoyed, and out five bucks. Across the street, a bank monopolizes an entire corner block. Below their abundant signage and ten-foot logo, a digital readout swaps the time and temperature. I didn’t need reminding of either.

Past noon? But it was eleven, just before…

Oh hell. Worse than any year, now I’ve done it, lost track of time and missed my lunch date. At least it wasn’t lunch with Mom. I won’t even begin to imagine the choice words she would have for me. My best friend may have a few of his own. Away at college these last few years, he comes home to visit, wants to buy me lunch, and what do I do? Blow a rare chance to hang out again, maybe catch up on the separate paths our lives have taken. I may not have a best friend after this. Let’s hope Evan enjoyed lunch anyway. A nice and quiet, private meal all to himself. I’m such a heel.

* * *

The real problem is, wandering around window-shopping all these screwy little stores, none have the right thing. Who gets a TV for Christmas? Or shoes, a rotten gift, and fur coats, can’t tell who that’ll offend these days. Jewelry’s outrageous markup is just a crime, and fruitcake or other food concoction is probably the ultimate expression of distaste for that special unloved one.

Enough with these nickel-and-dime cracker-box shops that make good sauna baths. This year I will begin, enjoy, and actually complete my shopping in one trip, to one store. A big department store with tall ceilings and open air, gleaming tile and escalators running between floors, each sprawling level stocked with merchandise. Countless racks of apparel, though I wouldn’t dare guess the right size, but plenty of trinkets, housewares, perhaps a book, or something for the bath. I just don’t know. But I know where to go, in plain sight the whole time. Across from the square is downtown’s finest department store. Nordies will have the perfect gift.

Crossing the street, I aim for the stretch of glass framed gold where shoppers hurry in and out of the store. The automatic doors swing open and a heated breeze rushes out, pleasant maybe ten seconds before I’m entombed by another mass of warm bodies devouring all elbowroom. Tall ceilings and open air aren’t enough to combat this many shoppers. Pump in some extra oxygen. The store is so packed, the only gleaming tile to witness is the one square where I stand. The escalator could be the stairway to heaven after the Holocaust, but then again, the down escalator isn’t any less packed. Behind me, people push in through the entrance, shoving deeper into the crowded aisle and whisking me along, everyone in a hurry, seconds ticking away until Christmas.

One aisle over is better, still plenty of shoppers but not as frantic. A commotion ahead has caught their attention and everyone is slowing down to watch. Except the children, who are excited. They break free from their parents and dart ahead, slice past the grownups, and vanish in the swelling crowd. On my tiptoes, I strain to see over the gawking bystanders, squeeze in closer and try again, then wiggle through and get to the center.

It’s a man dressed as Santa Claus.

Children gather round as the jolly ol’ fellow passes out toys. He’s a good Santa, old and plump as any Saint Nick should be, and with a real beard, though different from the average Santa—a beard with no mustache. And funny looking, how his beard spreads out, shaped to follow the contour of his jaw, almost like a disk supporting the rest of his head.

“Ho ho ho!” He reaches into his bag of goodies and passes out dolls, foot tall and plastic, some for girls, some for boys.

The girl dolls are pretty little things, but the exaggerated proportions of their curvaceous bodies defy reality. Looks like someone slapped a belt around her waist and pulled so tight her guts had no choice but to fill her breasts. Well, except the bulbous portion that dropped down and popped out the back.

Most of the boy dolls are closer to reality, some modeled after modern-day soldiers similar to dolls I had when I was a kid. But others are fantasy warriors with outrageous muscles, stocky frames, and legs bigger around than their heads, as if they come from Jupiter or other planet with extreme gravity. Though physical build differs, each boy doll shares a theme related to combat. Those not modern soldiers are either ancient warriors wielding swords, or futuristic knights with blades of light and laser blasters.

A hand to his creaky knee, Santa struggles up from his bag of goodies. “Okay, children, that’s all for now.” He shoos the little ones and the crowd begins to loosen. He notices me, and oddly, he acts as though we’re old friends. “Well now, what brings you out here this fine day?”

I’m not sure what to say.

He becomes puzzled. “You remember me, right?”

I don’t want to appear rude. It’s completely embarrassing when you run into someone you should already know, like they were so uninteresting that you didn’t bother to remember their name.

He scowls. “If you don’t remember, just say so.”

“Sorry, I’m afraid…”

“It’s okay,” he says, stepping closer. “I wouldn’t remember me either.” He bursts a big belly laugh, “Ho ho ho!”

His eyes get a cheery sparkle, and his rosy cheeks get rounder as he pulls a wide smile. He playfully slaps my shoulder. “So what are you up to? Just out to see the sights?”

The contact is stirring, like waking from a dream. “Me? No, I’m just, you know, Christmas shopping like everyone else.” I point out the flowing crowd weaving around to pass.

He chuckles a bit softer. “Waited till the last minute, did we?” He bends over and reaches into his crumpled sack lying on the floor. “Just like last year at Sam’s party.”

Is that how we know each other? But I don’t recall him being there. Must be the costume.

He rattles the big velvet bag. Looks about empty. The holiday cheer drains from his face. The dread in his eyes is frightening, like the world will end any minute.

“You got here just in time,” he says.

“In time for what?”

From the bag he pulls out a cardboard package with a doll behind clear plastic. “I only have one left.”

He acts like it’s a matter of life and death. Then he bursts with laughter. Right, a big fat joke. I should have known.

“Look, Mac, I’m a grown man. I don’t need a doll.”

“Oh come now, there’s a little child in all of us.” He studies the package, smiling as though proud of it. “You should like this one.” He chuckles and tosses it to me.

Behind clear plastic is a male doll, normal like a real person, none of that squat man from Jupiter stuff. The doll is wearing jeans, white pullover, and a black vest. Just like me, how I’m dressed. Along the top, flamboyant lettering reads, “Space Patrol, Superhero Legion of Intergalactic Crusaders, Defending Truth and Justice Across the Universe.”

“A fine product,” he says. “Sure to please, best in its class.” He gestures that I flip it over.

On the backside are pictures of other dolls, team members that go with this one, and messages urging kids to collect the entire set. A girl with dark pigtails, shorts and boots, next to a nerdy shrimp with stringy hair, and another guy with a big white grin and spiky yellow mess atop his head.

This can’t be happening.

I rattle the box. “What the hell is this?”

Santa frowns. “It’s just a toy.”

I flip it over to the front. Printed along the bottom is the team member’s name.

Adam.

The action hero hits the floor.

* * *

The exit is a wall of people, everyone wanting in when I want out. Clawing past the mob, I fight for space, air—any escape. I burst into the cold, fill my lungs with an arctic blast, and crash to the sidewalk. I scramble up and collide with someone, then down again and they try to help, but I shoot ahead, knock over two ladies, and shove past the rest. Arms reach out, scratching at my back, let us help you, are you okay? Get away!

Horns blare from cars in every lane as I dodge bumpers and make it across the street, to the square, and hurl myself at a flock of pigeons that scatter, leaving the snap of their wings echoing inside my skull like hornets, wasps and bees.

Across the square, gawking people circle like vultures, all their beady eyes watching the freak go insane like a druggie tripping off the deep end, overdosed on his own diseased thoughts. Their eyes are like insects, each multifaceted orb a golden honeycomb that stares a thousand stares, an entire crowd staring at me. Hundreds, thousands—a billion souls are staring at me.

Stop looking at me!

They were right—I should have been loaded with drugs and locked away. I’ve always been crazy. This entire life is a lunatic dream. All I’ve ever believed is just an insane childhood delusion.

They’re coming, hundreds of them, coming to get me. Stick legs tap-tap-tap, grating mandibles clack-clack-clack. Spiders, roaches and ants, a shimmering ocean of black and brown. I start spinning round and round, faster and faster. I agree, make it go too fast. Make it all a blur. Make it go away.

Something snaps hold of my leg and stops me from spinning.

“Grrr…”

Fangs jerk wildly, yanking my ankle.

“Adam!” a woman shouts. “Stop it!”

The ground rises to an incline, a wave towering vertical to crash over and bury me. Dirt under my nails, clawing loose ground, the hillside is too steep. The ferocious beast hauls me every direction and back again, dragging me down and ripping my pants to shreds.

“That’s enough,” the woman calls, getting closer. “Knock it off!”

The ground levels out. I swing around in search of her.

She emerges from the crowd, coming toward me, a young woman in designer jeans, a puffy pink coat, and wearing dark sunglasses. She grabs the dog’s loose leash and pulls it back, then drops to her knees and shakes a scolding finger.

“Bad dog! Bad dog!”

The Toto-sized mutt isn’t more than a handful if you shaved off the fluffy fur. Weird. Yanking my leg, it was like the hounds of Hell had me for dinner. Weirder—now everything is okay. I’m not insane.

The woman looks up at me, her eyes a mystery behind the dark sunglasses.

“I’m sorry, sir. Adam is never this bad. I don’t know what came over him.”

“Your dog’s name is Adam?”

“Yeah, and he’s a good dog, really, he is. He’s just a goof sometimes.”

Petting and scratching, she gives the dog some loving. The vicious thing is as sweet as can be. I crouch and reach out to the critter, but careful, in case it goes berserk again. Down to her level, I strain to see past the dark lenses of her sunglasses.

“Why did you name your dog Adam?”

“I’ve always liked the name,” she says. The animal enjoys my touch, eagerly panting like the scratching should never end. She smiles. “He seems to like you now.” Although the dark lenses hide her eyes, I can feel her staring at me. “Have we met before?” she asks. “You look familiar.”

I stand. “Who, me? I don’t know, maybe we have.”

She rises and we silently study each other. Her curly hair is rusty blonde, thick and bouncy, but past the sunglasses her eyes remain a mystery. The rest is pleasant, her cheeks silky smooth, a little rosy in the cold, and her full lips are a natural shade, coated with just a touch of gloss. Hard to imagine coming across any face so gorgeous and not remembering her. She seems a bit flighty, but cute in a way, how she carries herself, the curious tilt of her head as she examines me, something I can’t put my finger on. I find it appealing, and the urge grows stronger—I may enjoy touching her if she would let me. Not only for obvious reasons, that she looks like a model from a magazine cover, but more than that, something about her is… What is it? Enchanting. I want to be near her, talk with her, and explore who she is.

“Did we meet in college?” she asks.

“Nope, never went.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Maybe at work.”

“I doubt it. We don’t see many girls like you where I work.”

She steps back. “What is that supposed to mean?” She tugs the leash, pulling her dog away from me. “What kind of girl do you think I am?”

“Well, a…” I wave across her features, particularly, how well she fills her snug jeans. “You know, a pretty girl.”

She smiles. “So you’re charming even.”

“What? No, I’m… I mean, you know. It’s true though, it’s just… I wouldn’t forget, that’s all, someone like you. I mean, gosh, you’re so…”

“Just say it.”

Her little dog barks.

“Say what?” I ask.

She gets a familiar grin. “You like me.”

“I do?”

She tilts her head. “What happened to your charm? Use it up already?” Her dog matches the curious gesture and she giggles.

“No. I mean, I guess, but, I wasn’t trying to—”

“Sure you were. I’m a girl, we know.”

“You do? Know what?”

She leans close and whispers in my ear, “I’m just teasing.” She drifts away slowly, with a nice smile. All I can do is stare at her, hypnotized by the curl of her lips. My neck tingles, and I’m lost in the sensation of warm breath she leaves behind.

“I must know you.”

“Me too,” she says, “and it’s driving me crazy. I’m sure we’ve met before.”

I feel like a child again, back on the merry-go-round.

“Let me see your eyes.”

Her dog growls and she shifts away. “Why? Are you a weirdo?”

I have to calm down. Act my age?

“No, I’m okay. It’s just… eyes are pretty. I like to see them.”

She smiles. “Found your charm again?” Her dog sits and stays quiet. “Okay, you can see them. See?” She reaches for her sunglasses.

A horn sounds and she turns to look. Double-parked in the street is a blue car, and a young woman is waving out the driver’s window.

“Carmen! Over here.”

She turns back to me, her sunglasses still in place. “I gotta go.” She starts backing away. “I’m really sorry about your pants.” She scoops up her dog and dashes toward the street.

“Wait. Come back.”

She hurries across the square, to the curb, and climbs into the blue car.

The car speeds away.

No.

* * *

This could be the best day of my life—any life—or the absolute worst. I have to know. I sprint across the square, to the sidewalk, and into the street. A taxi is coming, perfect. Or not. Not its grille. Tires screech and my palms slap the warm hood.

The cabbie climbs out his window, waving a fist. “What the hell’s wrong with you? You gotta death wish?”

I hurry around to his window and point ahead. “Follow that car.”

“Why should I?”

“There’s a girl in it I have to talk to.”

He rolls his eyes. “Sure, when it’s about a girl it’s all different. What do you think, you’re in a movie?” He drops the lever out of park, into drive. “Listen, buddy, I got a fare already, so buzz off.”

The backseat passenger taps the driver. “Wait.” The rear window rolls down, and a gentleman in suit and tie peers out. “About a girl?” he asks.

I point to traffic. “She’s in that car. Please, I have to hurry.”

The back door pops open. “Get in.” I climb aboard and pull the door shut. The backseat stranger says, “Driver, follow that car.”

The cabbie asks, “Which one?”

I climb the seatback, pointing out the windshield. “The blue one, up two blocks. Hurry!”

He studies traffic ahead. “Three, four, I see five blue cars. Any one in particular?”

“In the right lane. A plain sedan, four doors.” It goes around a corner. “They just turned. Did you see?”

“Yeah, I see it.” He launches the taxi into traffic and I’m thrown back, pressed firm in the seat. We veer across lanes, cutting off vehicles, horns blare and tires screech. In seconds we’re at the corner and go flying around, chasing after the blue car.

The stranger asks, “What’s all this about a girl?”

My attention stays on traffic, watching the blue car. “I can’t figure it out. I just met her, but it feels like I’ve known her forever. Has that ever happened to you?”

He doesn’t reply, but I can feel him staring at me. The kind of stare to remind—if you’re going to ask a question, look at the person, not traffic. When I offer my full attention, he drowns me in his gaze, beaming as if pleased to see me.

He says, “As a matter of fact, it has.”

“Really?”

“When you stepped in front of the cab.”

Is he an old friend? Something about him is familiar, but few people I’ve ever known dress so well, which I now realize is far beyond a typical business suit. This guy’s ensemble isn’t from a department store, more the sort handmade and imported at great expense. He dresses like the CEO of a global enterprise. Hard to imagine ever making his acquaintance, not mingling so much with any jet-set corporate types. Perhaps earlier, an old classmate, before success and the fancy threads.

“Do I know you?” I ask.

His gaze shifts to the road ahead. “We may have crossed paths once upon a time.”

“Look, this isn’t a fairy tale. Either we know each other, or we don’t.”

He glances at me and his smile grows, like he just swallowed the canary and got away with it. He is silent but his gaze speaks volumes—he is very happy to see me.

“Okay, buddy, you act like you know something, and it drives me nuts when people do that. And it’s true, I can tell, you do know something. So come on, stop grinning and share.”

“Do you believe in past lives?” he asks.

“Believe is when you wish it were true. I don’t believe, I know.”

“Then you’re a past-lifer.”

“A what? I guess, if that’s what you want to call it. So what are you saying? Is that how we know each other?”

He goes back to watching the road ahead. “You know how it works, right? Some people are just other people, but then you run into someone and it feels like you’ve always known them, and you get along naturally. For instance, you sit next to one person and can’t think of a single thing to say. But another, you become an absolute motor-mouth.” He glances at me. “Surely, you don’t think that’s a coincidence.”

“Of course not. Some people you know, and some you don’t.”

His smiles stretches wide. “Indeed. I believe we are perhaps friends from the past, or at a minimum, acquaintances. However, I do not believe we have been properly introduced this time around.” He extends a hand, offering to shake. “Roy Phillips, pleased to meet you.”

His nails are immaculately groomed, and he wears a gold wristwatch that may exceed the price of any car I’ve owned. Combed back, his orangey-blond hair has only begun to recede, not yet middle age. And not a single strand is out of place, like his last stop was a high-dollar salon with pedicures and massage.

I put my hand in his. “Damian.”

“And your last name?” he asks.

Slowly, I unwind my hand from his. “You mean, the last one I had?”

“Your surname,” he says. “You know, the name your father gives you.”

“Oh. I don’t, I mean…”

“Don’t what?” he asks. “Have a father? Or a name?”

Something about this is way too familiar.

“Where did we meet?” I ask.

My new friend is suddenly distracted, as though he didn’t even hear me. Watching traffic, he reaches into his coat and pulls out a small device. Nothing I’ve ever seen before, at least in this lifetime. About the size of a calculator, but it flips open, and something tells me this gadget is no calculator. I’ll know for sure once he calls to have us beamed up. Instead of talking at it like they do on TV, he brings it to his ear, as you would a phone.

“Hello, Becky,” he says. “Mr. Phillips here. I need a favor.”

It is a phone. Or a radio. Some kind of communicator. Except it’s tiny. I’ve seen those new-fangled mobile phones, but they’re bulky bricks with giant antennas like walkie-talkies from old war movies. This thing hardly fills his palm.

“Take this down,” he says into the phone, then relays a series of call letters. “Find out what you can and get back to me.” He withdraws the device from his ear and folds it closed.

“What the heck is that thing?” I ask.

“A cellular phone.”

“You mean like organic?”

He laughs. “Your surprise is understandable, as the term was coined only recently, though I assure you it has a perfectly logical basis. The transceiver towers are spaced relatively close, a few miles at most, each providing a small cell of coverage area. Hence the term cell, or cellular, with limited range using short waves. Unlike long waves used for most wireless transmissions over the past century.”

“Oh, I see. So tell me, Roy, would you happen to be from outer space?”

He laughs. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“But that thing…”

“Don’t be alarmed.” He bounces the gadget in one hand. “This is an advanced prototype, and yes, quite compact compared to models currently available. Consider it a glimpse of the future, what everyone will have someday. And it’s not from outer space. It was made right here on Earth using technology that’s been around for years, though it has been slow to enter the mainstream. At this point, a matter of wrestling with the FCC over bandwidth allocation. A mountain of red tape my sort has to deal with.”

“And what sort is that?”

“Myself, an attorney, though not so much in court.” He chuckles. “Don’t get the wrong idea, thinking I am one to chase ambulances. I work for a telecommunications firm, serving a role somewhat different from what you might typically expect of a lawyer. My colleagues and I focus on legislation that affects the telecommunications industry. We spend most of our time in Washington convincing bureaucrats of new ideas and their value.”

“So you’re not from outer space.”

He grins. “Not this time around.”

“And you’re not visiting from the future.”

He becomes stern. “I’m making the future, by advancing technology such as this.” He waves the phone across my view. “A future in which we are not doomed.” More than stern, he scowls. Seems I touched a nerve, maybe even raised some fur.

“We’re doomed without phones? Aren’t you being a little dramatic?”

“Oh no, this is quite serious.” He bounces the phone in one hand. “Technology like this will save us.”

“That little thing?”

He clutches it tight as if holding the cure for cancer. “This enables people to talk, at any time, and wherever they may be. And so easily they will talk more than ever before.” He slips the phone into his coat pocket. “It’s the talking that heals, and reveals. Without communication between individuals, we are nothing more than mindless drones glued to our TVs after work each night, living out our lives as unwitting slaves to a master hiding behind the cathode ray tube. Instead of exchanging ideas with a great many others as we should, we are fed the ideas of the few controlling mass media. If people don’t talk and learn the truth, we’ll destroy ourselves again.”

“Again?”

His gaze drifts as he touches a painful memory. “I once lived in a beautiful place. A place we shared with another culture different from our own. But the two could not communicate directly, and instead, our opinion of the other was fabricated by a third party who convinced us to become enemies. In the end, our entire planet was destroyed.”

“A whole planet? How?”

Stern again, he says, “Nuclear. The same threat we live with today.”

“You were there.”

“It would please me beyond compare to say that I wasn’t. However, I recall the incident quite well.”

Out the side window of the taxi, storefronts stream past and people crowd the sidewalk, but a dreamlike vision overlays reality. Everything in flames. People screaming, melting, then smacked by a gust they burst into ash, and the buildings, every brick turns to dust, blasted away in a heated cyclone screaming across a scorched wasteland.

“Reminds me of something.”

“What is that?” Roy asks, snapping me out of the vision. The sidewalk is back to normal, crowded with people bundled in their coats and scarves, hurrying past.

The words are difficult to vocalize. “Be this the place we will die?”

His face is hard, no emotion, yet his words are undeniably firm.

“Not this time.”

* * *

His optimism is difficult to share when a cloud of doom covers our world. The street ahead is packed with cars full of people, and countless more crowd the sidewalks. This city alone must be home to nearly a million. Add to that, cities across the country—the world—billions could perish. Today’s news of the Berlin Wall is encouraging, but this planet still stocks more than enough warheads to destroy it and bring an end to civilization. What happened before could happen again, but part of us lives on—here we are, long after that horrific past. I know this soul sitting next to me, perhaps because we shared a terrible experience. To meet someone from another life should be a joy, but it also proposes an element of danger—the reunion brings with it a connection to the past. This other who remembers could also remember my actions in the past, some of which I may regret. In his presence, and all that he may recall, denial is no longer a means of escape.

I go back to watching traffic and realize—the blue car is gone.

“Hey!” I rattle the driver. “Where’s the car we’re following?”

“I dunno. It was there a minute ago.”

“Yeah? Then what happened?”

“Beats me. It just disappeared.”

I scan forward, behind, and every passing side street. There’s no sign of the blue car anywhere.

“Find it. It has to be around here somewhere.”

“You want me to just drive around? That’s gonna cost some.”

“I don’t care if you have to drive around, sideways, or straight up a building. Find that car!”

“Hungry?” Roy asks. “What do you say we grab some lunch. My treat.”

“What about the girl?”

“Have patience.” He smiles. “So where shall we eat? Any place you’d prefer?”

“Maybe, if I had a time machine. All I need is an hour.”

“To do what?” he asks.

“I had lunch with a friend at noon.”

Roy is puzzled. “You’ve eaten, or…”

“I was supposed to, but I lost track of time.”

He studies his watch. “Let’s visit your spot. Perhaps your friend is still there. What’s the place?”

“Sally’s, Sammy’s, something like that.”

“You haven’t been there before?”

“It was Evan’s idea. Probably some greasy dive. He loves that kind of joint. But it’s no use. I’m sure he’s gone by now.”

“Sandy’s,” the driver says. “I know the place. Best French toast in town.” He cuts off a bus, around the corner, and we speed ahead weaving through traffic.

“What about the blue car?” I ask.

“All in good time,” Roy says. “And we have more than you imagine.”

* * *

Given a destination, cabbies get determined. No longer wandering, now we’re on a mission. The driver slices through traffic, swooping across lanes and back again, charging ahead at twice the speed limit. Maybe in a hurry to ditch the pair of fruitcakes riding in his backseat.

The taxi pulls to the curb. “Here you go,” the driver says.

Roy opens his wallet and hands over a one-hundred dollar bill. “Keep the change.”

The driver lights up like a kid on Christmas morning. “Wow, thanks.”

I slide across the seat and join Roy on the sidewalk, then slap the door shut and watch the taxi launch back into traffic. “Weren’t you on your way to some important meeting? Sorry about that. You know, sidetracking your whole afternoon.”

“No need for apologies, my friend.” Roy checks his watch. “And we have plenty of time. Nothing for me till seven.” He ushers me toward the diner’s entrance.

Inside the diner looks like a lunatic decorated the joint, given the odd knick-knacks mounted to the walls—a car’s grille, banged up road signs, and ceramic masks happy and sad. Splattered across every wall are ancient photos behind cracked glass in broken frames, of people from another century. Dusty junk hangs from the ceiling—a corroded washboard, rusty old Radio Flyer, all sorts of crap.

The back wall is tiled by mirrors, the sort popular in the seventies, foot square and printed with golden cobwebs. The deception almost works, making the space appear twice as big. And just as empty.

A row of malt shop barstools are bolted to the floor, topped by black padding secured by shiny trim that matches the counter’s edge. Along the wall are booths similarly upholstered, and more booths stretch across the windowed face of the diner, looking out on the street beyond where the chrome of passing cars spark flashes of bright winter sun. Every booth is empty, but for some reason I don’t feel entitled, even though I’m not alone. I head for the counter, and Roy selects the stool next to mine.

Behind the counter, a waitress approaches, wiry thin and wearing an apron, with a face like an elephant’s armpit. Try some moisturizer, lady, it works wonders.

She leans on one hip and taps her pad with a pen. “What’s it gonna be, boys?”

Roy says, “I’ll have a Reuben.”

She looks at me. “And you, sonny?”

“You got a Patty Melt?”

She smacks her gum. “What diner doesn’t have a Patty Melt, hon?”

I’m in luck. I’m almost surprised.

“I’ll take one, ma’am. Please.”

She eyes me funny—maybe she didn’t like the ma’am part—and sticks her little paper to the metal merry-go-round that sends our order to the cook, who is busy in the kitchen past the portal where they trade orders for food.

On the wall behind the counter, a television is mounted up high. More news. Most likely, bad news. Tragedy strikes in another country, a plane crashes or terrorists bomb a cafe, and the first concern is how many Americans were involved and might have died. I’m almost right, at least, about the potential for American casualties. A report on Panama, and the invasion three days ago.

Roy notices the TV. “First year in office and already playing war.”

“I’d think the possibility of turning over the canal to a drug-dealing dictator is just cause for military involvement.”

“That doesn’t happen for another ten years. Why the rush? I’ll tell you why—our new president has only four years, and the agenda is long. Besides, who told you he was a drug dealer? You see, this is just the sort of thing I was talking about, our opinions being molded by a third party.”

“He’s not running drugs?”

“Not the point. Who told you he was? And if he is, why does it take an army to apprehend him? You’re getting that from the media. All of this may have some basis in fact but is exaggerated in the name of national security. Justification for military deployment.” He points to the TV. “There’s more to this invasion than the news is telling us. For example, did you know that drug-dealing dictator has ties to the CIA?”

“Not exactly a surprise.”

“And our president, you realize his past.”

“He was vice president.”

“You’d have to live under a rock to miss that. But what you might have missed is what he was doing before that.”

“Congressman, governor? Isn’t that where most come from?”

“Director of the CIA. Odd personnel pool for staffing the executive branch, wouldn’t you say? An oil man is no surprise, though the CIA background is a new twist. But more interesting is the trail of breadcrumbs. The man was appointed to direct the CIA by the only president in US history not elected by the American people, an appointee himself. And that president’s Chief of Staff is now our Secretary of Defense, another appointee, who happens to be the mastermind behind the invasion of Panama.”

“Are you one of those conspiracy freaks? I think you’re jumping to conclusions.”

“Perhaps I am, though better to form your own conclusion rather than watching TV and letting others hand you theirs.”

“And your superior conclusion is what? The CIA is taking over the country?”

“The golden rule—he with the most gold rules. A gang of elitists are taking over, and taking this country to war. Panama is the first of many to follow in an elaborate plan of military escalation. Make the world appear dangerous, the nation gets worried, and public support rises. The elitist have their wish—the privileged few profit from increased defense spending, and a nation at war diverts resources away from domestic concerns. The result is further separation of the classes. In wartime, the rich get richer, and the poor get poorer. That is, if they don’t end up dead infantry. For the elitist, waging war is the golden example of having your cake and eating it too.”

“Where do you come up with this stuff?”

“I go looking for it. And yes, facts are difficult to uncover, precisely how the common man is kept ignorant. His only basis for opinion is what television and newspapers have to say, both of which scare him so he’ll support war.” He pulls the phone from his pocket. “That’s why I say, technology like this will save us.”

“I still don’t see how talking on the phone saves anyone.”

“The solution is more than casual conversation. One day soon, similar devices will provide wireless access to the Internet. We’re entering a new age, aided by technology, in which citizens of all countries will be empowered by information.”

“The Internet? College mainframes wired together over long distance doesn’t empower the rest of us. Some elite professors, maybe a few students.”

“Nodes are being added daily, no longer exclusive to universities. Its spread is inevitable, and the network provides a rare opportunity, a means to exchange information, rather than a push medium, as is TV and others. Advances in personal computing are the key, and once realized, the Internet moves into the mainstream, its use as commonplace as a household appliance. Everyone will have access.”

“Doesn’t mean it’ll get used. All text and difficult to navigate, I doubt many average people will bother exploring it.”

“A page markup language is being developed, and once fully implemented, it will give the network a friendly face. A cyberspace community is born where everyone has equal access, and equal opportunity to contribute regardless of their computer skills. The common man will be able to share information with any other, anywhere on the planet, at any time. What the elitists hope to keep secret, everyone will know.”

“A bit ironic.”

“What is?” he asks.

“The Internet. Dreamed up by the DoD as foolproof communication in the event of nuclear attack. But now it’s all over universities. Seems the Big Brother idea backfired. The government won’t be watching us, we’ll be watching them. And the funniest part, there’s no way to stop it, just like they wanted. Knock out any connection, it seeks an alternative and carries on. Impossible to shut down, unless you could somehow pull every plug all at once.”

“An unlikely scenario,” he says. “Which again reinforces its value. And only odd if you imagine its shift in use occurred by happenstance.”

“It didn’t?”

“The network was hijacked, so to speak. Its evolution didn’t just happen, it was made to happen, by the efforts of individuals such as my boss, who…” He laughs softly. “He is rather fierce about the subject, how the network becomes his beloved library, and this time, impervious to flame, even nuclear.”

“Your boss?”

“A powerful man. Not one to cross.”

“And this phone stuff, the Internet. All his idea?”

“He is a firm believer in their value. Add technology, perhaps some this planet may be slow at developing, and the plan unfolds. People have access to information that might otherwise remain obscure. Conclusions follow, not supplied by a third party, and we dearly hope, people question their elitist leaders who push for war, or better still, boot them out of office, and together the people of Earth straighten out this mess before the planet is destroyed.”

“Roy, are you sure you’re not from outer space?”

“Not I, though my boss might have some fun with that question. He is, how should I say? Certainly unusual.”

“Unusual how?”

“That is for him to reveal, and you may decide for yourself. And certainly, you two shall meet. I believe he will be very pleased to see you.”

* * *

The waitress returns with two plates. “Here you go, boys.” She sets our meals down and walks away. The Patty Melt doesn’t look right, and peeling back the bread confirms it.

“Hey,” I call out. “Where’s the onions?”

She turns back. “Is there a problem?”

“Yeah, a big problem. No onions, and it’s on wheat. Where’s the rye? And it’s toasted, not grilled.”

“I told the cook you wanted a Patty Melt and that’s what he gave me. Would you like some words with him?”

Past the portal where he trades orders for food, the cook picks up a butcher’s knife and stares at me. I get the hint. The dude is in no mood to speak with anybody, more likely dice them.

“Never mind.”

Between bites of his sandwich, Roy says, “I’ve spoken so much of my concerns, yet I know so little of you, Damian. I feel almost ashamed, rambling on that way. Please, tell me about yourself.”

“Where should I start? How I’d prefer an actual Patty Melt?” Drowning it in ketchup doesn’t help. The toasted bread is like a giant crouton, sure to rip out a tonsil or two.

Roy glances at my sandwich and cringes. “Let’s start with work. What occupies you?”

“Me? Oh, computer stuff.” I start with a vague description as always, never sure how much the other person will understand.

“Is that so?” he says. “Hardware or software?”

“Mostly software, but for making hardware. Does that make sense?”

“Indeed. Software support for circuit design. I know of others doing the same.”

He understands perfectly. Almost too perfectly. But a good thing—this won’t be the usual one-sided conversation.

“Who do you work for?” he asks.

“My uncle. We’re just small-time, nothing like the big boys, but we’ll get there.”

“And the hardware?”

This sandwich qualifies as hardware. One last bite is all I can stomach. Looks like I’m having fries for lunch today.

“Our own designs,” I explain. “A few application-specific integrated circuits, and we’re developing a digital signal processor.”

“Fascinating,” he says. “Have you ever worked on compression?”

“Sure, kid stuff. Why do you ask?”

“We’re searching for better methods of squeezing conversations into a single frequency. Engineers suggest further division, but dropping to ten kilohertz from thirty will result in marginal sound quality at best.”

“Why not make it digital? You know, talk in code.”

“We understand digital is the future, but still, even digital samples require bandwidth.”

“But you can do some tricks. Once the voice data is binary, line up the numbers and take turns, like playing leapfrog. I mean, electrons move fast, and relatively speaking, people talk a lot slower. Or use a wider band and send bigger numbers, with conversations lumped together, and set up an encoding scheme at each end so when it gets where it’s going, the signal breaks down into the original samples. Do that and you ought to get hundreds of calls in one data stream. Maybe thousands.”

Roy looks utterly amazed. “Does this idea have a name?”

“I don’t know. Digital multiplexing, I guess. Pretty much all it is.”

He sets his sandwich down. “Your multiplexing idea is brilliant. Millions could have cell phones.”

“Maybe, but would they want to?”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know, it just seems weird. Sometimes it’s nice to leave the house, and leave the phone behind along with it. I get enough calls from people I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to answer. It’s a choice. And the point. Better to live in a world where you have a choice, to talk, or not, and when. The topic of conversation, with whom you will converse, your friends, a lover, your mother, even your worst enemy. Just think of the convenience.” He pulls the phone from his pocket and hands it to me.

Come to think of it, I could call Mom back, like I should have done before racing out the door this morning. That’s not like me. By now she might be worried.

When I look to Roy, he seems to understand my question without words.

“Go on, give it a try.” He motions as if dialing, eyes bright and nodding, urging me on.

I punch in Mom’s number, but now what? I listen to the speaker and nothing happens.

“Press send,” Roy says. “The big button.”

My first lesson. Now it rings.

“Hello?” she says.

“Hi, Mom, it’s Damian. You called earlier?”

“I’ve been trying to reach you all day. Where have you been?”

Good thing we’re doing this over the phone, out of spanking range. So much for being worried.

“Out shopping, or trying to, but then… Never mind. Why did you call?”

She sounds excited. “We’re getting together tonight. There’s someone I want you to meet, a wonderful, charming man. He’s invited us to dinner, his treat. He’s very anxious to meet you.”

“Mom, are you telling me you have a date?”

“Yes! Isn’t it exciting?”

Stop the presses, film at eleven. Mom hasn’t been on a date since… Well, ever, that I can recall.

“That’s great, Mom. I’d love to join you. Where, what time?”

“Seven o’clock, le cuisine de Montmartre.”

“Ooo, fancy. Sounds romantic.”

“Stop it, Damian. Let your mother have her fun. I haven’t felt like this since I was a teenager.”

Must be why I don’t remember. Back when I was still dead.

“Just teasing, Ma. Sounds great, really. I’ll be there, you can count on it.”

“And don’t forget next week,” she says.

“Next week?”

“Damian! Don’t tell me you forgot already.”

Think fast. Oh—“The benefit. No, I didn’t forget. How could I?”

“Sure you didn’t. You never did care about them the way I do.”

“Come on, Mom, I care. Don’t do that to me.”

“We’ll discuss it later,” she says. “Now tell your mother who you love.” After exchanging the sappy luv-ya and luv-ya-mores, we say good-bye and she hangs up. Now it’s my turn but I don’t get it. Where do I set it down?

“The big button,” Roy says.

I press it and the phone rings. I listen to the speaker.

“Hello?” a woman says. “Mr. Phillips?”

“A friend of his. Hang on.” I pass the phone to Roy.

“Yes,” he says into the phone, then listens. “Really, is that so? Well then, check into the rest. Thank you, Becky, and have a great holiday.” He clicks the phone off. “About that car we were following…”

“You found it?”

“Not quite, but a good start. I had my secretary run the plate.”

“When did that happen?”

“Remember? I called her from the taxi.” He grins.

There’s hope. “Where is she?”

He motions that I sit back down. “The car isn’t registered to an individual. It’s a company car.”

Hope scatters like hurling yourself at a flock of pigeons. I sink back onto my stool. My heart sinks even further.

“They won’t tell us who had the car, even if they know. Now it’s even harder.”

“Not really,” he says. “It’s the company I work for.”

* * *

A ruckus erupts behind me. I spin on my stool to see a dozen shopping bags piling up around the next stool over, then he looks up, beaming that big white grin.

“Sorry I’m late.” Evan plops down on the stool surrounded by gifts.

“Late?” The bigger surprise is his scalp. “What the hell happened to your hair?”

“Pretty cool, eh?” He fondles the spiky mess. “Made it blond like I always wanted.”

“Ah, Evan, I gotta tell you—that’s not blond.”

He pops off the stool and checks the mirrored wall. Once finding his image, he is relieved. “What are you talking about? Sure it is.”

“Try yellow.”

He shrugs. “Close enough.” He gets back to his stool and says to the waitress, “Gimme the usual, doll.”

She scribbles on her pad and moves off.

“They know you here?” I ask. “You’ve been gone.”

“I used to eat here all the time,” Evan says. “Me and Sandy go way back. Right, Sandy?”

Passing his order to the cook, she twists to shoot Evan a crinkly smile.

Evan stares at the floor beneath my stool. “Damn, dude, what happened?”

Around his stool are sacks chocked full of gifts. Under mine, zilch.

“You don’t have to rub it in.”

“Rub what in?” he asks. “The accident with farm equipment?”

“Huh?” Then I realize, he’s gawking at my ankle. I had almost forgotten. Wanted to anyway. “Trouble with a vicious little dog.” I raise my foot to better display how the critter shredded one leg of my pants.

“I see,” Evan says. “Or maybe better I didn’t. Good thing I’m late, I guess.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask. “I’m the one who’s late.”

“Score some good drugs, pal?” He points over my shoulder.

I turn to see a clock. “Twelve-thirty? It’s at least one-thirty by now.”

“According to who?” he asks.

“The bank across from the square. It was past noon before the girl, before the taxi, before…”

He laughs. “You dumb-ass, they do it every year. We’re lucky if they roll back their clock a week before Daylight Savings comes around again.”

Roy chuckles.

“You knew about this?” I ask.

Silent, he shrugs, but his grin says it all.

Studying Roy, Evan asks me, “You buying insurance or something?”

“No, this is Roy, an old friend of mine.”

“Is that so?” Evan grows suspicious and says to Roy, “So am I. Since Kindergarten in fact. So how come I don’t know you?”

I explain, “We just met today.”

“Your old friend you met today,” Evan says. “How’s that work?”

“You know, past lives.”

He rolls his eyes. “Oh, that stuff.” He says to Roy, “I’ve listened to his stories since we were kids. Pretty wild.”

“You don’t believe?” Roy asks.

“Me? I didn’t say that. I just don’t talk about it so much, like some people.” Evan tosses a stare my direction. “Besides,” he says, “drag me into a religious debate and it ends up in a fight, and I’m not talking a heated discussion, more the kind with bruises and black eyes. Let’s just say I agree mostly with Damian. Not completely, but close enough.”

News to me.

“Evan, what are you saying? You’ve known all this time? Why haven’t you told me?”

“I think lots of stuff but keep most of it to myself. Otherwise people will think I’m a screwball, like you.”

“Do tell,” Roy says to Evan. “You are among good friends. The subject is not alarming to other past-lifers.”

Evan leans away like we’re diseased. “Now you freaks have a name? Who came up with that one?”

Roy says, “The man I work for uses the term quite often.”

Evan busts up laughing.

“What is funny?” Roy asks.

“Yeah, Evan, what’s the deal?”

He calms down and says, “It’s just the way it sounds. You know, the man I work for. Like he’s an angel working for God.”

Evan keeps laughing, and worse, Roy joins him.

“That’s ridiculous,” I say to Evan, then shift to Roy. “It is, isn’t it?”

Roy begins to calm, but he’s in no hurry to respond. Sure, let me squirm.

“Of course it is,” he says. “But funny. When I first met the man, I had almost thought the same. He is very, how should I say? Intense.”

Evan says, “For Christ sake, Damian, it’s a joke. Don’t be so goddamned serious.”

“You try being serious for once. Stop joking around and tell me what you know.”

“Know? Sorry, Damian, I’m not as self-assured as you. I can’t say that I know, but I know what I think. There’s a difference, you know?”

“Fine. Tell me what you think.”

“All right. I think Heaven and Hell is a fairy tale to make kids behave. You know, be good, or else. But around here, the kids grow up and keep believing the fairy tale their whole life. Creepy, like being thirty and still believing in Santa Claus.”

“He’s real,” Roy says. “I saw him this morning at a department store.”

I shift to Roy. “Are you that immature? That was some guy in a suit.”

“So you know the fellow?” He acts so serious I have to wonder if he still writes letters to the North Pole every year. Then he busts out laughing, and Evan joins him. Right, another joke.

“Will you two please grow up.”

“Why?” Evan asks. “Much to do, something like that?”

Roy says, “Just hoping to add some levity.”

“You’ve both added enough to levitate a barrel of monkeys. Now look, Evan, you’re dodging the question.”

“No I’m not. I told you what I think and that’s it. We’re surrounded by weak people who can’t think for themselves. A bunch of sheep, convinced they live only once.”

“But you don’t?” I ask.

“Hell no, that’s retarded.”

“So we did this before. Lived before.”

“Duh.”

How does this happen? Twenty years and he never says a thing. We lived before, and the three of us know it. How many others might know? People are walking around living their lives, the whole time holding in secrets they’re afraid to tell. Afraid of what others will think. Millions of people, with a million things to say, and a million reasons not to say them.

“If I may ask,” Roy says to Evan, “Damian mentioned that you were gone. You have been traveling?”

“Not much really,” Evan says. “Just Texas so far. College, you know.”

“He’s going to Florida next,” I explain to Roy, but I can’t stop gawking at the spiky yellow mess atop Evan’s head. “You really think they’ll let you keep that hair when you get to Pensacola?”

“Officer Candidate?” Roy asks. “Impressive.”

Evan hangs his head.

“What is it?” I ask. “Something happen?”

He looks up with sober eyes. “I didn’t make it, Damian. Aeronautics is one thing, you know I got what it takes to be a great pilot, but that physics crap is frustrating. A bunch of backward nonsense, like they just dreamed it up.”

“Then why did you take it? Why not mechanical engineering or something more your speed?”

“Everyone said it would improve my chances. Guess not, after all. My early school record didn’t help, either. I can’t believe they look at that shit. Christ, I’m a grownup now. I just want to fly, and I know I could be really good at it.”

“Now what are you going to do?”

“I’m out. This isn’t a visit, Damian. I guess you could say I’m grounded for good. Well, other than a Cessna maybe. I still got my private pilot license.”

To know my best friend will no longer be away at school—or worse, halfway around the world aboard an aircraft carrier—is reassuring. But not at the expense of failing to make his dream come true.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “It’s okay. It was meant to be.”

“Bullshit. Nothing is meant to be. It’s meant to be how we make it. You deserve to make the cut. You’re the best pilot I’ve ever known.”

“Thanks, that means a lot coming from you. If a guy like me isn’t good enough for them, fine. If I’m good enough the way you see it, I can be happy with that.”

“What about your parents? Your dad can’t be happy.”

“He’ll get over it. He’ll have to. And yeah, mom’s crushed but she’ll get over it too. And really, it’s not that bad. I mean, so I’m not flying the shuttle, big deal. I still learned plenty and know enough to get some gig worth a shit. It’ll all work out.”

“Indeed,” Roy says. “Even a partial degree in aeronautics has value.”

“Partial?” Evan almost laughs, mocking Roy’s choice of words. “The funny thing is, I knew all that shit before day one. It’s the rest that wraps my brain in a knot. You got something that flies, I’m the guy.”

Roy reaches into his coat and hands Evan a business card. “I know some people. Give me a call sometime, perhaps I can help.”

The waitress returns and sets a plate down in front of Evan.

Am I dreaming?

“What the hell is that shit?” I ask.

He lifts the sandwich, rye bread grilled to perfection and leaking strands of greasy onions. It doesn’t need one ounce of ketchup, doused in secret sauce and fluid cheese smothering the meat. The sight alone starts my mouth watering in anticipation of any sandwich so divine.

Evan sinks his teeth in, then mouth full and chewing, manages to say, “Last I heard they call it a Patty Melt.”

“No fair!” This can’t be happening. My sandwich was some freeze-dried nightmare cooked on Venus at nine-hundred degrees. Where did this sandwich come from?

The waitress says, “You made such a fuss, I asked the cook to look it up. He’s a little new. Is that better?”

“Better for who?”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like some words with him?”

I look to the portal where she trades orders for food. Butcher’s knife in hand, the cook stares at me.

“Never mind.”

Evan runs a napkin over his greasy lips. “Now they just have to find the guy.”

“Who?” I ask.

Wrestling his sandwich in one hand, he points to the TV. “The drug dealer, Nory-egghead.”

On TV is more news from Panama and the search for the disposed dictator.

“That’s not his name, Evan.”

He shrugs. “Close enough.”

Roy says, “How do you know he’s a drug dealer?”

Not another rant about the media busy spreading lies.

“Roy, can we give it a rest?”

“Precisely what they’re hoping for.”

Hopeless to imagine we might convince him that everything’s not a conspiracy.

Watching the newscast, Evan says, “So what do you think, Damian, you’re an ace. How would you drive the rat out of hiding?”

The TV shows images of tanks roaming the streets of Panama, which reminds me of something from long ago.

“Noise works pretty good.”

Evan laughs. “You mean like holler and scream?” He sets his sandwich down and cups both hands to his mouth. “Ollie ollie oxen free.”

“No, you dork. Something I did before. We were outnumbered so I mounted speakers to a truck and drove around the enemy camp blaring the sound of assault craft and bombs exploding, like a massive invasion was going on. It scared the crap out of them.”

“When the hell you do something like that?”

“It wasn’t this lifetime.”

Roy says to Evan, “I believe you have suffered the effects of mutation through generations.”

Evan slaps his sandwich down. “Who you calling a mutant?”

“No one. The phrase. It began as all in, all in, outs in free. To indicate those hiding were free to return without penalty.”

“Oh.” Evan lowers back to his seat. “How would you know?”

Roy grins. “We past-lifers are particularly talented at recall, including words spoken.”

Evan rolls his eyes. “Sure, right. So you’re probably one of those guys all bent out of shape over hide-and-seek, versus hide-and-go-seek.”

Roy thinks about it. He shrugs. “Close enough.”

* * *

On TV, reports from Panama continue, as though no other story across the globe is newsworthy. Roy may be pushing things with his conspiracy theories, but one aspect of news agencies is undeniable—beat a story to death after hyping its devastating implications beyond galactic proportions. Like around here when it snows maybe half an inch. The weather event gets a flashy new logo, and the crisis is awarded a title like Winter Storm 89. Then we get to watch the catchy icon dominate one corner of the screen until everything melts the day after tomorrow. We could be in the desert and they’d call it a storm, logo and all.

Done with his sandwich, Evan pushes his plate away, then he notices the floor beneath my stool.

“Where’s your stuff?” he asks.

He would have to remind me.

“Still at the store.”

“So what are you doing sitting on your butt? Christmas is the day after tomorrow.”

“I was trying to shop, but I got distracted by a girl.”

“A girl you met today but already know, is that it?”

Smart-ass.

“Actually, yes.” I shift to Roy. “What about the car?”

“Becky should know more by now.” He rises. “I’ll give her a call, if you boys will excuse me.”

Evan says, “This joint has no payphone, pal.”

Off his stool, Roy pats his lapel. “I have all I need right here.”

Evan looks at me, maybe concerned. “He doesn’t really think…” Over his shoulder, Evan watches Roy move off. “I was just kidding, you know, about working for God. He’s not like…” Evan does the loco-motion of twirling one finger beside his head.

“No, he’s just from outer space.”

At first Evan thinks I’m serious, then slowly, here comes that big white grin. “That’s a good one. I like that one. I’m gonna use that one.”

I can hardly wait.

“So this girl,” he says. “Distracted you, eh? She hot? Got the hots for you?” He starts rocking his pelvis.

Mention any girl and all he cares about is whether they’re hot. Like when we were kids, after he lost his aversion to cooties, he’d crayon a giant P and tape it to his chest, don a towel for cape, and run around the neighborhood scaring the panties off all the girls. Some perverted superhero named Penis Man.

“Is pussy all you think about?” I ask.

“No,” he says. “I like tits, too. Oh, that reminds me.”

“What reminds you?”

“Your mom called this morning.”

“Called who? You? Since when does she have your number?”

“We exchanged a while back, you know that. Anyway, she said we have dinner tonight. A nice spread with her new boyfriend, his treat, about seven. You know me, I don’t pass up free food, especially expensive free food.”

“We have dinner? Who invited you?”

“Your mom did. Some fancy French place. You think they got French fries? Ha-ha, that’s funny.”

At times his company is painful.

“Where do you come up with the lamest jokes ever?”

He shrugs. “Raw instinct.”

Not sure about any instinct, but certainly raw.

“And what’s this about Mom inviting you? Why would she?”

“We’re tight.” He goes silent. “Don’t look at me like that, you know what I mean. We get along well, right? Besides, I got more to be jealous about than you ever would.”

“Jealous? Who’s jealous? Of what?”

His eyes start shifting, searching for a way out this conversation. “You know… I mean, you’re just lucky to have her for a mom, that’s all.”

“Bullshit. That’s not what you’re talking about. Spill it.”

“Okay, but don’t tell anyone, especially your mom.”

“Why not?”

“Because, it’s kind of, you know, about her.”

“Go on.”

If he holds out one more time, I’m choking it out of him.

“I have a crush on her,” he says. “I have for a long time.”

“Is that so? I suppose next you’ll tell me she’s hot.”

“Well sure, she’s way hot. I mean, damn, dude, you got the foxiest mom around. I was lusting after her even before I knew how to jack off.”

“Evan! I don’t need to hear that.”

“Oh, sorry. I mean she’s a real babe. Is that better?”

“You’re talking about my mother.”

“So? She wouldn’t be anybody’s if she wasn’t female.”

I vault off the stool and cover my ears. “Not another word, don’t you dare.”

A hand slaps my shoulder. “I have great news,” Roy says.

I whirl on him. “Say anything about my mother and so help me…”

He retreats, palms out. “I’m sure she’s a wonderful lady. I wouldn’t dream of saying anything unflattering.”

“What’s great?” Evan asks.

“They’ll be here any minute,” Roy says.

“Who will?” I ask.

Roy notices something past my shoulder. “I take that back,” he says. “Looks as though they’ve already arrived.”

I spin around.

Beyond the diner windows, parked across the street—the blue car.

* * *

I burst out the door, to the sidewalk, and sprint into the street. Tires screech and a car’s bumper taps my knees. I scramble past another car stopping hard, dodge traffic, and reach the other side. Around the blue car, I search the passenger seat. Empty. Behind the wheel is the other girl who called for her at the square.

The power window rolls down and she leans toward the passenger side. “Can I help you?” The young lady has big open eyes, and loves eyeliner. All the way around, like a raccoon.

“Where’s your friend?” I ask.

She looks ahead and behind. “You’re too late, and it’s a good thing.”

Following her glances, I search for the mysterious female. “Where is she?”

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on between you two, but you’d better cool it for a while. She’s already in a lot of trouble.”

“What trouble?”

She scans ahead, then over her shoulder, as if someone might sneak up any second. “You really should get out of here. This is bad news.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“You don’t know? You’re her boyfriend, aren’t you?”

“I am?”

Her eyes narrow. “You don’t even know her name. Who are you?”

“Her name?”

“You’re some weirdo stalker.” She sends the power window up.

I slap both hands to the rising edge but only get my fingers squashed. “Ouch! Roll it down.”

She starts the engine and yells past the glass, “Get out of here! You’re in danger.”

“I might if you let me loose. Come on, roll it down.”

She sees my fingers caught in the window, then notices something behind me. Her raccoon eyes go wide.

“Freeze!” a man shouts.

She inches the window down and hits the gas. The car peels out, leaving behind smoky remnants of vaporized tire.

“Drop the weapon,” the man says.

Carefully, I turn around with both hands out, palms open and empty. “Whoa, hey, I’m not armed.”

On the sidewalk is a man, pistol in hand, and a straight line between me and the barrel’s end. He won’t miss when the hammer drops. He has the rough start of a beard, wraparound sunglasses, and hair in a spiky style. He wears a long dark coat, dress shirt as black as night, and a soft gold tie. Careful to keep me in his aim, he reaches a gloved hand into his coat. Out comes another handgun that he tosses on the sidewalk. It skitters across and closer, but well out of reach.

“You got the wrong guy.”

“I don’t think so.” He gets a devious grin. “Go ahead, pick it up. It’ll be better that way.” One arm out, he raises his pistol to eye level and sights down the barrel.

Countless lives in danger scream a million cries as this one flashes before me.

I dart between parked cars, into the street. A shot rings out, horns blare, and tires shriek. My palms slap the hood and the bumper scoops me up into the windshield—crunch. I tumble onto the roof, another shot is fired, and the bullet pierces glass. Over I go, across the trunk lid and off, as buildings and sidewalks fly past, twirling round and flipping away.

Everything turns black, and ringing, ringing, a thousand bells that won’t stop ringing. Pain radiates like wildfire, but so much I couldn’t say where, just everywhere. My poor aching bones, tired muscles, my throbbing head feels like a brick. I must have downed a truckload of booze last night. I should just go back to sleep.

No—I have to get up. That ringing, the alarm clock. Two days to Christmas and not a single gift. I told Vinnie to wake me up.

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