Author: Vicky Brewster

Trembling With Fear

 by 

Serial Saturday: Lunar Colony Seven by Georg Koszulinski, Chapter One

  1. Serial Saturday: Lunar Colony Seven by Georg Koszulinski, Chapter One
  2. Serial Saturday: Lunar Colony Seven by Georg Koszulinski, Chapter Two
  3. Serial Saturday: Lunar Colony Seven by Georg Koszulinski, Chapter Three

Chapter One

                                                          

A scruffy-looking man wearing a white undershirt and white shorts and thick white wool socks sat at a wooden desk with a radio receiver in his hand, held close to his mouth as he thought of his next words. Twice a day for countless years he sent a message across space, hoping to get some kind of response. None came. The man stared silently out the large window before him. In the foreground, the barren pocked moonscape disappeared into the horizon, and beyond that Planet Earth loomed large in the black expanse of the universe. 

The room was small, white-walled, and gave off a mid-century modern aesthetic with the elegant wooden desk and the three white chairs surrounding it. The walls were constructed of bricks made of lunar regolith and looked strangely similar to the walls of a 19th-century factory like one might have found on Earth in cities like Baltimore or Buffalo or Boston, or the cigarette factories in old North Carolina. The face of the desk was constructed from a single slab of multihued acacia wood, grown in the wild on the African savannahs. 

The sound of birds played through the invisible speakers embedded in the lunar bricks. A few plants with deep green ovoid leaves hung from the ceilings closest to the window, lit with artificial light that brought their lush growth into glittering focus against the cool white of the room. 

The air in the tiny room was crisp and clean. Cleaner than the air one might have breathed in Los Angeles or Mexico City or Tokyo or Beijing or Mumbai, Egypt, Vienna, Prague, Paris, Moscow, Madrid, Nairobi, Bogotá, Buenos Aires, Rio de Janiero, Taos, Toronto, or New York City if you were on a boat traversing the narrow waterways between the aging island skyscrapers of former Manhattan, which now belonged to the sea. You would have had to go to the far reaches of the Arctic Circle or Antarctica to find breathable air that came anywhere near as pure and clean as the air being breathed here in the white Moon room.

Deep within the lunar South Pole, on an embankment where sunlight never touched, the trapped ice was mined with large drilling machines, hundreds of them, that transported the ice to be heated in vast underground processing centers, manned by Terran refugees with engineering and aeronautical expertise who migrated from all over the world and almost never saw the surface of the moon, never saw natural light, never saw stars, never saw a smiling face, the landscape of the human soul. Only water and ice. And the pipes that led to the above-ground lunar colonies where the first- and second-class colonists lived and worked. The workers’ living quarters were deeper still, beneath the platforms where they worked in their waking hours. These were the unmen who kept the lunar colony afloat.

The heated ice transformed into vast amounts of water, pumped in through underground channels to electrolysis stations where the water split into hydrogen and oxygen, or viaducts that fed the greenhouse crops where the sun reached, or the lunar waterworks where drinking water and lakes and pools made life pleasurable for the surface colonists. Aquatic life existed in some of those waterworks above, and the colonists enjoyed watching them through the transparent walls of their tanks. 

Some of the subterranean pipes led to the rocket fuel processing centers. Others led many kilometers away to the lunar colonies above, where the breathable air extracted from ancient moon water was breathed and enjoyed by the lunar citizens of Earth. None of the colonists knew what had happened on Earth, so they continued to process the ice, produce the rocket fuel, drink the pure water, and breathe the clean lunar-manufactured air. Life on the Moon continued without disruption, despite the reality that they could not return to Earth, could not communicate with their home planet, could not answer any of the questions that had plagued them for almost a decade. 

The air pumped into the small white room overlooking Planet Earth, and the man at the desk continued staring into the vastness of space. A system many kilometers away and hundreds of meters below the lunar regolith kept this room in a state of perfect comfort and stasis, with the purest air one could ever hope to breathe. The value of this air here in Shackleton Crater on the Earth’s only moon was immeasurable. Without it, all the colonists would be dead within a matter of minutes. 

The man breathed the lunar air and enjoyed the gravity processors that kept his body tethered to the moon like a normal human being, not one of the unmen below who floated and bounced on the moon’s light gravity, their bones and muscles weakening and atrophying to the point where to return to Earth would crush their bodies, render them immobile. They were trapped processing the lunar ice until the end of their lives. There seemed to be no escape from this reality. Not even sunlight on the lunar surface to calm their nerves.

On the wall opposite the large window hung a number of priceless artworks, among them a small drawing of six symmetrical moons, framed in an ornate wooden rectangle. The drawing depicted detailed sketches of the moon in various phases of light, some checkered white on black squares, others floating orbs on the white paper. The sketches were highly detailed and could be read both as an object of study and an aesthetic rendering of Earth’s moon. The drawings, encased behind glass, were sketched by none other than Galileo Galilei himself in 1609 after having viewed the moon through his telescope. Here, those drawings were now staring back at the Earth itself from across the glass. 

Next to Galileo’s drawings, the imposing canvas of Jan Vermeer’s The Geographer hung. On the large canvas, a man stood hunched over his maps, facing the lit window of his painted world. Looked at from just the right angle, it was as if the man in the painting were staring out the glass window in the room, gazing out towards a distant Earth. 

In the far corner of the room, shrouded in shadow, an Egyptian sarcophagus laden in gold stood sentinel, and next to it, a grayed stone carving of the Egyptian goddess, Sakhmet. Her slender humanoid form was topped with the head of a lioness crowned with an orb above her head, the stilled image of the moon floating above the goddess of violence, disaster, and illness. Behind the sarcophagus and behind Sakhmet, hanging on the wall, was a blackboard. On the blackboard, this formula was hastily written out in chalk:

Beneath the chalkboard on a small white card affixed to the wall, the words ‘Einstein’s Chalkboard’ were neatly typed out in black 12-point Times New Roman font.

The man at the desk stared out the large window in absent gaze. His eyes were not focused on the moonscape, or the Earth beyond, only out into space. The man broke his trance, reached for a leaf, broke it off, and chewed on it slowly. He clicked the radio on and began to speak.

Hello? This is Noel Rodgers, is anybody home? Do you read me? I repeat, this is Noel Rodgers of Lunar Colony Seven. Do you read?

The man took a deep breath and swallowed.

He looked down on Earth and asked himself the same thing he had been asking for years, without ever getting a satisfactory answer: what have you done down there? 

Just then the intercom kicked on, muting the birds. A man spoke with a heavy Eastern European accent.

Mr. Rodgers, are you there? We’re about to start season two, Breaking Bad. Classic American television. Best stuff. Only gets better after first season. Should I tell them wait for you?

Rodgers put down the radio, grabbing another leaf from the hanging plant and shoving it in his mouth. He took a deep breath, stretched his arms, broke out of his inquisitive state.

Tell them I’ll be right there.

Very good, sir. We wait. 

The intercom clicked off and the birds resumed their song.

Trembling With Fear

 by 

Serial Saturday: A Touch of Fear by Zach Grant, Chapter Four

  1. Serial Saturday: A Touch of Fear by Zach Grant, Chapter One
  2. Serial Saturday: A Touch of Fear by Zach Grant, Chapter Two
  3. Serial Saturday: A Touch of Fear by Zach Grant, Chapter Three
  4. Serial Saturday: A Touch of Fear by Zach Grant, Chapter Four

Chapter Four

                                                          

“You have to let me in, Alan. I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.”

Liz leans forward in her plush armchair and places a hand on my knee. Her soft green eyes emanate warmth, and her sharp chin wrinkles as she smiles.

“I can’t…” I mutter. “I can’t put that on you.”

“You’re my brother,” she insists. “If they’re hurting you, I need to know. Are they hurting you, Alan?”

I shrink into the couch and shake my head. She scowls, and the scene shifts. 

My arms are bound to the chair as a body is thrust before me—a young man, maybe twenty years old, with a stab wound in his abdomen. 

“Go ahead, Alan,” purrs Dr. Heart. “Do the ritual.”

They position the man under my cuffed hand so that I can touch his skin. I sob, salty tears pooling under my tongue. They tighten the restraints and I yelp. Sniffing, I swallow my tears and utter the choice words:

“Grant me permission to see—to share in your pain. Allow me into your soul so I might catch the one who did this to you.”

“How dare you!” shouts a woman in the background. It’s Liz being held by Dr. Li in the corner. 

“What do you feel, Alan?” asks Dr. Heart. “Are you scared? Is it you or the victim?”

I writhe and cry, trying to stop the reel of emotions that flicks through my brain—images of Liz mixed with the dead man’s fear, depression, and defeat. 

“You can’t do this,” Liz shouts. “I’ll call the police. You…”

Her voice wavers in and out of focus. The man’s final moments still echo through my body like an electric shock. 

“You can’t,” Dr. Li retorts. “We had a deal. You signed.”

“Screw your deal, you’re torturing my brother!”

“Alan,” Dr. Heart whispers as Liz continues to shout. “Please speak to your sister. She must calm down, or things are going to get complicated.”

“L-Liz,” I managed through my chattering teeth. “It’s okay. Don’t make them angry.”

I can barely see her face as it lingers just out of focus. But she’s shaking her head and trying to wrench herself free. 

“No!” she shouts. “You guys are monsters, you…”

I snap back to the warehouse as quickly as I left. Deja vu strikes harder than a bus as my hands remain bound against a wooden chair. Rachel is next to me, her mouth gagged and eyes wide with fear. 

“You’re back,” muses a familiar voice. Dr. Tyler rises from a small desk. She resembles her photo on the fourth floor—rounded face with piercing blue eyes and short black hair—but with additional age lines, as if carved through her skin with a scalpel. 

“Dr. Tyler?” I ask. “I assume you’re our killer.”

“Killer?” She scoffs. “I am the greatest mind of our generation.”

She drags her chair in front of me and sits so we’re face to face. 

“My, you’ve grown up since those videos,” she says, prodding my cheek with her sharp pencil. 

“Right,” I say. “You had a lot of those on your computer.”

I glance at Rachel again, who looks surprisingly calm. She must trust me to get her out of this. It’s not the prospect of death or being back in the chair again that makes my heart race. It’s her life at risk. 

“I’ve spent a long time studying you,” she says. “The others did the hard work, but their vision died when you left. It was up to me to continue their legacy.”

“And what legacy would that be?” I ask. 

She spreads her arms as if addressing a large crowd. “Fear,” she says. 

She rises from her chair and begins to pace. 

“Is fear really a weakness?” she poses. “Or is it a strength? You work with emotions, Alan, you tell me.”

I’m not in the mood for a psychology lesson, but keeping her talking is the only thing preventing my partner’s death. I remember Lara’s poster: “Fear: Poison or Prosperity.”

“Both,” I say.

“Indeed.” She claps her hands. “Fear is what drives our survival instinct. We needed fear to evolve fight or flight, yes? But what about all that useless fear that still lingers? The anxiety that drives modern society. See, that’s where fear becomes poison. What we need is an antidote.”

She pulls a thin syringe from the breast pocket of her lab coat. I’m so fixated on the instrument that all thoughts of escape drain from my brain.

“What do you mean, antidote?” I ask. 

“Haven’t you wondered what you felt when you touched Lara Henderson? I figured that you wouldn’t understand. If you did, you may have put it together faster.” She flicks the empty syringe. 

The terror re-enters my mind—a sensation of being dragged through the worst moments of her life all at once, just like the memories I experienced only moments ago. 

“You’re making a vaccine,” I manage. “Forcing people to re-live the worst moments of their lives, then harvesting their fear.”

“Look at you.” She grins. Her icy eyes dance like marionettes in the moonlight. “They said you were smart. Yes, I believe that a microdose of liquid terror would help our bodies cure themselves of fear once and for all. Humans will become limitless.”

“But why me?” I ask. “Your notes said I was the final piece. Why?”

“I thought that was the most obvious part,” she says. “From the start, I’ve been laying clues, Alan. After the terror gave Lara a heart attack, I wouldn’t have left her body in the street if I didn’t want your attention. I needed you here because you are the key. Your fear is unique because of all the outside emotions you’ve experienced. When I extract it from you, it will be the catalyst for my reaction.” She flicks the syringe again. “If you don’t mind, of course.” Tyler giggles at her joke, making my stomach churn. 

My mind works overtime trying to figure out a way around the end. Once she pricks me with that needle, we’ve served our purpose. I think I have a way, but it requires time. 

“This wasn’t your idea, though,” I say, slowly rubbing my wrist against the ropes. 

“What do you mean?” she snaps. 

“Wasn’t it Lara’s? I saw her poster. Seemed like excellent work.”

Dr. Tyler snarls and storms back to her desk. “Lara had no clue what she was talking about,” she says. “She was working under me. They were my ideas.”
 “So, why’d you kill her?”

“I didn’t kill her. Well, I guess I committed the act, but her ridiculous passion got her killed. She went digging where she wasn’t supposed to—learned about my plan, and you. So, I used her for my experiment.”

“Have there been others?” I ask. “Other people you’ve killed? Victims who died of fear?”

She nods. “A scientist with one subject isn’t bound to succeed. Lara was simply made public as my beckon to you.”

I keep sawing at my bonds, hoping Dr. Tyler remains at her desk. But the purpose of her trip becomes apparent when she snatches a note and marches back, shoving it in my face. 

“Proof,” she says, “that it was my idea first.”

I don’t bother reading the theories or scribbled formulas. Dr. Tyler just gave me all the information I need to widdle out of this. 

“Okay, sure, it’s you now,” I say. “But you weren’t there when I was being researched. You didn’t actually witness my abilities; you watched them on a TV screen. If anything, the other three doctors are at least equal in the discovery.”

As suspected, her pride gets the better of her. She growls and punches me in the face. I feel blood trickle from my nose. The metallic taste graces my tongue. 

“You really want them to get credit?” she snarls. “After what they did to your sister.”

I hear Rachel struggle as the doctor hits me again. I avoid my friend’s eyes. I don’t want to see how scared she is or how disappointed I didn’t tell her about Liz. 

“I have an answer for you,” I say through a mouthful of blood. “About fear. It’s not poison. Liz was scared for me, and that’s what made her so kind. I was terrified of those doctors, but I use that fear now to do good. I use it as a reminder of my responsibility to help people, even though I couldn’t help her. You would know what kind of person I am if you’d been there.”

She leans in, her eyes dark with rage. 

“You would also know that they bound my hands every night,” I say. “You think I’d go that long without learning a few tricks?” I grin and spew blood into her open eyes. As she stumbles back, I flip my chair onto its side. I grit my teeth in preparation for the pain. Then, I apply pressure and feel my thumb snap. I wrench my hand free just as Tyler bounds towards me. In one hand is the syringe, in the other, a thin blade. She pins me to the floor, knife to my throat. 

“Do you feel the fear?” she hisses. “Let me take it from you.”

She plows the syringe into my arm. In my desperation, I reach into her pocket to find the pencil she flicked me with. With no other option, I jam it into her neck. I close my eyes as the weight of her limp body sags on my weak shoulder. As the life leaves her, her skin presses against my broken hand and I can’t help but recite the sacred words, as I absorb her final moments.

***

“You okay, Alan?”

Rachel shoves through the crowd of officers who have been showering me with questions about how I killed Dr. Tyler. Even though my abilities didn’t save me, I’m still their magician putting on a good show. They disperse when my partner arrives and wraps me in a hug tight enough to suffocate a large bear. 

“I’m good,” I say. “How are you?”

“Alive.” She chuckles and squeezes me tighter. “Jesus, Alan. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“Everything that’s happened to you. I never knew.”

She releases me, a look of guilt and grief in her eyes, like I’m a wounded animal she doesn’t know how to address.

“I didn’t want to burden you,” I say. “Last time I did that, it was to my sister. And that didn’t end well.”

“What happened?” Rachel asks. “You promised to tell.”

I sigh. “When I was fourteen, our family was struggling. The doctors wanted to research my abilities, so the government set up a confidential contract allowing their experiments for compensation.”

“That can’t have been allowed,” says Rachel. 

I shake my head. “The original contract was never meant to include any of the experiments they ran down the line. The compensation wasn’t enough. When my parents passed, and it was just me and Liz, we needed the money. So, when the doctors offered an under-the-table deal, we took it. That’s when the torture began.”

“God, Alan,” she whispers. “I can’t even imagine…”

“I’m not done,” I say. “I was so scared of the doctors. I never told Liz what they were doing because I knew she would get upset. We needed the money, and I was also afraid they’d hurt her if she confronted them. But one day, I gave in and I explained how they forced dead bodies upon me like meals, and made me re-live their final moments and…” I trail off and clear my throat. “Anyway, one day, they brought Liz to the lab for a special test. They wanted to see how my body would react to my own fear—seeing Liz in danger while experiencing someone else’s, a dead man’s. Liz lost her mind. I was told I needed to calm her down before she breached the contract. I tried, but I couldn’t do it. I was so scared I could barely talk. And when I woke up, Liz was gone.”

“G-gone?” Rachel squeaks. 

“The doctors said a fire broke out in all the chaos.” I shrug. “But I think the truth is pretty obvious. I told them I’d never go back—that I’d call the police if they ever came near me again. I was the greatest scientific discovery of the decade. They weren’t about to kill me. I wish I realized that sooner.” I lean against a police car and massage my aching temples. “I felt her body, you know—Liz. I went through her final moments. She was so scared and angry. But beyond all, there was a sense of loyalty I’ve felt in no other victim. So, that’s when I accepted my responsibility. I spent the next fifteen years becoming who I am today. And I swore that no one would ever see me afraid again.”

“And that’s why you never told me,” says Rachel. 

I nod. 

“Alan, I…”

I hold up a hand and allow myself a smile. She looks so much like Liz in this moment—her rageful eyes and proud posture, like she’s ready to take on the world for me. I clap her on the shoulder. 

“Don’t apologize,” I say. “It’s in the past.”

She rolls her eyes and smiles back. “You really take no pity, Alan. Won’t even let me be sorry for you.”

“Nope.”

We laugh, and the joy in her eyes is enough to tell me I did the right thing. 

“At least let me be there for you,” she says. “Promise you’ll talk to me from now on.”

“Okay,” I say. “You’ve earned that. Coffee?”

She snorts and looks up at the moon. “Sure, why not? Can I ask you something first?”

“Go ahead.”

She shifts on her heels, the purple bruises on her cheek shining in the white glow of the night. 

“Did you feel Tyler’s final moments?” she asks.

I incline my head. 

“And?”

I follow her gaze to the moon and stars above—the same stars I cursed every night I was dragged to the lab. The sky I screamed at when Liz was taken, and poured my fear into after every case since. 

“She was scared.”

Trembling With Fear

 by 

Serial Saturday: A Touch of Fear by Zach Grant, Chapter Three

  1. Serial Saturday: A Touch of Fear by Zach Grant, Chapter One
  2. Serial Saturday: A Touch of Fear by Zach Grant, Chapter Two
  3. Serial Saturday: A Touch of Fear by Zach Grant, Chapter Three
  4. Serial Saturday: A Touch of Fear by Zach Grant, Chapter Four

Chapter Three

                                                          

I had hoped never to return to the university in my lifetime. As I approach in the dead of night, memories of guards and their strong arms wrap themselves around me like handcuffs. Sometimes, I wish those experiments never ended. That way, the accident wouldn’t have happened. She’d still be here. 

I follow the familiar route to the side entrance, locked by a fob scanner. A quick stop at home had allowed me to pick up the copy I made ten years ago when I managed to steal one from the head doctor. The punishment for my theft was twelve hours of searing pain, but those appear to have paid off. I scan the old fob, and with a flash of green, I’m in. 

The stairwell to the fourth-floor lab remains painfully similar to my day. Purple flowers speckle the off-white paint, leading up towards my agony. I focus on my feet, one step at a time, as I forge my path to the grand laboratory. The stairs open to a large plaque that’s new to me. The glass is clear with fine navy letters naming the researchers on the floor.

 

Dr. Ivory White

Dr. Desmond Li

Dr. Richard Heart

Dr. Brie Tyler

 

Pictures are displayed next to their titles, each smiling in a frustratingly professional manner. I recognize all but Dr. Tyler, who must have been hired after my time. I resist the urge to spit on the plaque and continue down the hall to the lab and offices. I peek into each dark room, my badge ready in the event of any caretakers or night dwellers. For all I know, the doctors have another subject they’re torturing once the moon rises. As I creep down the hall, a poster catches my eye—a research project by none other than Lara Henderson, dated a few years back. A bold title sits above the cluster of neuronal diagrams and charts: 

Fear: Poison or Prosperity? 

I scan the text for anything helpful in solving the author’s murder—any illicit references or backhanded comments towards faculty or research organizations. There’s nothing of the sort. It just appears to be a fine project about whether fear is useful in developing the human mind. I can certainly attest to its usefulness in solving murder cases, though I suspect that’s not what Lara had in mind. 

All that remains is the large oak door at the end of the passage—a door that’s plagued my nightmares for the past fifteen years. I draw my revolver, the metal cool against my sweaty palm. My breath comes in short rasps as I edge toward the lab entrance. My legs tremble and beg me to turn back or to call Rachel and insist she join me—anything to avoid entering that room alone. But I drain all anxiety from my brain with an image of Lara’s sightless eyes. It’s my responsibility to do this for her. I push open the door. 

The main lab is just as I remember it—normal. Standard benches poke from the walls, with shelves bending under stacks of pipette tips, beakers, and solutions labelled in black felt marker. The pungent stench of ethanol lingers as if someone recently disinfected the entire workspace. This is where the students do their work and, most likely, where Lara spends her days. But the door into the back is where I’m most familiar. 

The hidden laboratory is a freakish display of machines pulled straight from a horror movie. Long hospital beds and chairs with restraints sit beside large devices with nodes sticking out like strands of hair, slithering along the dark floor. A desk is situated near the back, where I picture the doctors sitting and observing my strapped body—listening to my screams of terror. There’s a wall of cubbies to my right, empty now, but that used to hold the dead bodies that they would force upon me. Corpse after corpse, they would flash at me, forcing me to relive hundreds of final moments—thousands of emotions evoked by every method of death imaginable. The despair re-enters my mind, as if it never left, weighing so hard on my soul that I stumble into a rolling bed. I take a deep breath and wipe the tears from my eyes. Now is no time to cry. 

I wade through the equipment to the main desk, scattered with notes. I refuse to sit where they’ve sat and choose to stand over the workspace as I inspect the scrawls. They don’t make much sense—just observations and ideas about fear and its roots. But there is one note that proves useful—a password. I enter it into the desk computer to discover folders of notes and videos. The first I see is labelled “Alan River.”

My finger hovers over the mousepad. Afternoon coffee creeps up my throat, stinging my tongue with acid and vomit. I click the first video. 

“Please! No more. I don’t want to do this. I want Liz. Please. I want Liz!”

My blood congeals at the sounds of my fourteen-year-old voice wailing. I close my eyes and exit the file before I can see anything else. Then I vomit into the trash can. Blood rushes to my head. My eyes pop from their sockets as tears and saliva drain down my chin. 

“Get ahold of yourself, Alan,” I mutter. “Find Lara.”

It takes all my strength to look back at the screen. I work some computing magic to locate the most recent open tab, or rather video. This one is labelled “Henderson.” 

I watch through squinted eyes as Lara screams at the top of her lungs. She’s strapped to the bed, her eyes closed with nodes protruding from her hair. A woman stands above her, inserting something into her victim’s arm. It’s the needle of a syringe. I can’t see her face when the doctor turns, but I’d know three of the four with my eyes closed. It isn’t any of them, which means it must be Dr. Tyler. 

I shut down the computer and scour the notes one last time. They’re all gibberish. I curse and swipe them from the table, blood pounding in my ears. Then, I spot one on the floor. It’s simple, only two sentences. But the few words still scare me worse than anything I’ve seen so far. 

 

It all comes back to River. He is the final piece. 

 

I scramble to dial Rachel’s number. Each ring hits me with a train of terror as my heart beats like a racehorse. She doesn’t answer. I call again, and this time someone picks up. 

“Rachel!” I stammer. “This is so messed up, you will never believe…” But I’m interrupted by an unfamiliar hiss that does not belong to my friend. 

“Hello, Alan. Solved the case already?”

I freeze as my ears buzz. “Who is this?” I demand. 

“I think you know. I need you, Alan. Stop poking around my lab. I think it’s time we had a little chat in person. Sending you the details. Come alone, or she dies.”

The line cuts to static. I’ve never heard that voice before, but I can guess who it belongs to. The same person I just saw in the video—the one at the bottom of the plaque, and the name of the Supervisor on Lara Henderson’s poster. Dr. Brie Tyler.

***

My sister Liz taught me more than anyone about the consequences of being afraid. Dr. Tyler has my only friend, and I’m frozen with fear, just like I was that day all those years ago—the day of the accident. The difference is that I refuse to remain paralyzed today. I swore an oath to Liz, and it’s about time I kept it. 

Tyler summons me to a warehouse thirty minutes out of town. I inform the department, but I have a head start, meaning that if Tyler bests me before they arrive, Rachel and I might both be done for. Perhaps it’s for the best, as her instructions were to come alone, but if I can’t beat her, we’re screwed.

The warehouse in question is the most stereotypical hideout I’ve ever seen. Graffiti decorates the exterior with painted murals depicting blood, bodies, and murder. A rather gruesome scene of a woman screaming sends a shiver down my back despite the warm summer breeze. I replace the paint with chalk drawings in my mind, imagining Liz colouring all over the grotesque designs. The thought gives me strength as I plow into danger.

The inside is dark and damp, with boxes stacked in sky-high piles, creating a cardboard maze. Mould clings to the corners and ceiling, spreading like leaking oil. I wind through the labyrinth, gun in hand, ready to shoot at every turn. The stench of rot, blood, and decay infiltrates my nostrils to join the aroma of fear. A small light peeks from the final turn. I raise my gun, but the force comes from behind. A figure emerges from the shadows. I see the whites of her wide eyes before everything goes dark.

Trembling With Fear

 by 

Serial Saturday: A Touch of Fear by Zach Grant, Chapter Two

  1. Serial Saturday: A Touch of Fear by Zach Grant, Chapter One
  2. Serial Saturday: A Touch of Fear by Zach Grant, Chapter Two
  3. Serial Saturday: A Touch of Fear by Zach Grant, Chapter Three
  4. Serial Saturday: A Touch of Fear by Zach Grant, Chapter Four

Chapter Two

                                                          

As the emotional necromancer of the police department, everyone expects me to have power over fear—to reach deep into my soul and extinguish any sign of anxiety that comes with the job. My relationship with fear has taken years to establish, and by no means am I void of the pestering bug. Years of scouring neurobiological research to understand the workings of the human mind, coupled with my dives into the hearts of dead victims has granted me important perspective. Whatever fear I feel is no match to the terror of someone seconds from death. 

When I flashback to the lab—the experiments—I remind myself that it’s nothing compared to the dead. My pain doesn’t come close to comparing to those I read. So, when we arrive at Conrad Henderson’s home, I shove my anxiety from my mind and focus on Lara.

It takes three knocks for Conrad to open the door. The bags under his bloodshot eyes and the slight tremble of his hand might seem like grief to some, but I know better. The signs of regret are all too familiar.
“Hello, Mr. Henderson,” says Rachel. “I’m Detective Hillcrest, and this is Detective River. We’re here to talk to you about your sister.”

Conrad doesn’t ask for ID. He just nods and allows us into his dank living room. The stench of beer and sadness fills the space. Mysterious stains laden his small couch, which is atop a faded rug and most certainly infested by pests. I avoid his offer to sit, leaning against his kitchen counter instead. Rachel follows suit. 

“What do you wanna know?” he grunts. 

“Is it correct that you reported Lara missing yesterday at around three?” asks Rachel, taking out her notepad. 

“Yeah.” He rubs his nose and looks longingly at an open bottle on his coffee table. 

“You can have a drink after we’re gone,” I say. 

Conrad wrinkles his brow. “What else?”

“You reported her missing yesterday, yet claimed she’d be gone for two days prior. Can you explain that?”

Conrad shifts uneasily, his eyes on me. I hadn’t noticed my balled fists. 

“I didn’t know until two days ago,” he says. “The university called and said she’d missed work two days in a row. Asked if I knew where she was. Assumed she was just home sick or something.”

“Did you try to contact her?” I ask. 

“Obviously,” he drawls. “When she didn’t answer for twenty-four hours, I called you guys. I don’t see the problem. She doesn’t live here, so how the hell am I supposed to know what happened?”

“What did she do at the university?” asks Rachel. “Was she a student?”

Conrad shakes his head. “Lab assistant. Worked under a bunch of people. It made fine money but wasn’t as posh as she made it out to be.” There’s a hint of bitterness in his voice that boils my blood.

“How can you talk about her like that?” I demand. “She’s dead, and you’re going on about how she flaunted a successful career?”

Conrad glares at me, tears forming in his rugged eyes. 

“How dare you,” he spits. “Do you know how she treated me? Like a waste of space. Ever since our parents died, she never once tried to comfort me. Instead, she just shoved it down my throat how pathetic I was—how great her job was and how I’d never amount to anything like her.” His voice cracks, and he collapses onto the couch. “I loved her so much,” he mutters. “Despite everything.”

My mind is blank as I stare at the weeping man. I don’t need my ability to sense his heartbreak, grief, and overwhelming regret. My own heart sags with the weight of his tears, and my anger begins to sizzle away. 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say. “If it helps, I think she would have liked to apologize. I’m sure she loved you.”

Conrad looks up from his hands, cheeks dowsed. 

“How do you know?” he asks. 

I couldn’t help but reassure him, but now I have to lie. My affinity for the dead isn’t a matter of public knowledge. 

“I have a sister,” I say. “Just a guess.”

But his eyes narrow at my vague explanation. As I watch his gears turn, I wish I could take back my sentiment. 

“You’re Detective River,” he says. “Like Alan River? Did you feel my sister’s final moments?”

My heart stops. His words freeze me to the floor.

“How did you know that?” I ask.

“Lara talked about you sometimes. Said your case was fascinating—your ability to sense dead emotions or something.”

I grip the counter until my knuckles turn white. Waves of fear slam into me, clogging my lungs with thick saliva. Rachel grabs my arm.

“Alan? What is it?”

“We need to leave,” I mutter. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Henderson. We’re going to solve this case. For Lara.”

We leave Conrad bewildered in his rancid living room and storm back into the fresh air. 

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Rachel asks.

I pace up and down the sidewalk. My mind whirls like a Ferris wheel, with too many thoughts sliding out of reach. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. Lara Henderson experienced the worst fear of her life before it was taken from her. If she endured that, I could overcome this wave of anxiety. 

“Lara knew who I was. Knew about my ability. That’s classified information.”

“Are you saying she had connections to the police department?” asks Rachel. “Wouldn’t we know about that?”

“The department aren’t the only ones who know.” I stop pacing and round on my partner. “Lara was a lab assistant working for the university. As a teenager, they used to run experiments—classified, of course—on my abilities.”

Rachel’s eyes widen. Her next words aren’t what I expect.

“You were experimented on?” she whispers. 

In my shock, I forgot my secret from Rachel—one of many in my questionable past. I swore never to put that weight on her shoulders. At least my other secret is still safe.

“Yes,” I say. “Do you know what this means? It means that she worked for the people who studied me.”

From Rachel’s stiff shoulders and worn face, it’s obvious she wants to question me about my childhood. I shoot her a sharp look, and she concedes.

“What does that imply?” she asks. “How does that help us?”

“It means that Lara could have known other things, too. Perhaps things that a lab assistant isn’t supposed to know.”

“You’re saying someone had her killed?”

I run my fingers through my tangled hair. I witnessed the signing of the NDAs, and the analyses ran in the dead of night to avoid lingering eyes. They were some of the worst months of my life—all to study the grand magician with his unholy powers. I remember the disgust in their eyes—the fascination but also the disapproval that anyone like me could exist. But the most terrifying memories were their faces. Even though I couldn’t see into their souls, it was clear how far they would go to push the boundaries of discovery—how far they’d go to protect their secrets. The worst memory begins to surface, but I shove it out of sight with the force of my trained mind.

“There’s only one way to find out,” I say. “We have to go to the university. We must find out what they’re working on—what she could have seen.”

Rachel folds her arms and stares at the setting sun. Darkness begins to engulf us as the orange glow fades into the horizon. 

“It’s late,” she says. “I have dinner with my family tonight.”

“Please, Rachel. Just call Wilson.”

I don’t notice the plea in my voice until Rachel grits her teeth. The fine lines of her forehead etch deeper into her skin as if my request ages her twenty years. A pang of guilt sinks into my stomach.

“I promise I’ll explain everything once this is done,” I say. “Please, Rachel.”

She approaches me in the darkness, her face shadowed by the evening. She squeezes my arm, and my heart leaps.

“Fine. But you owe me an explanation,” she says and steps away to call the commissioner.

I collapse onto the cold curb and bury my face in my hands. Conrad’s grief grinds through my body like tiny razor blades. I imagine his sister yelling at him—insisting that he’s a piece of garbage. I shiver in the warmth of the evening. I’m glad that Rachel can’t touch me and sense my emotions. 

I picture my sister’s face—her dimpled smile with eyes brighter than Jupiter in the night sky. She runs around the street in front of me, sliding her chalk along the concrete like we used to do every day. A fresh wave of guilt arrives, but it’s dull and lived-in—nothing new. I will solve this case for Lara and Conrad, even if it means confronting the monsters of my childhood. They’re not allowed to hurt anyone else. Never again.

***

Commissioner Wilson won’t let us investigate the university without a warrant. Though it’s standard procedure, it still makes me slam my toe against the curb. 

“Did you tell him what we learned?” I ask. 

“Yes,” Rachel insists. “He said to hang tight.”

The moon has taken the night, casting a looming shadow across the quiet street. Conrad’s drapes are closed, but I swear I see them rustle every few minutes. 

“I don’t know if time is on our side,” I say. “You don’t know these people like I do.”

“Alan, what did they…?” Rachel catches herself. “Look, I don’t know what to tell you. We can’t just break down the front door. You know the rules.”

Rachel’s calm demeanour scratches me with clawed nails. I want to shake her—to scream that this is the only way. Ever since Conrad spoke my name with such familiarity, my terror has been off the rocker. 

“I’m going to go see my family,” she says. “You should come. Then, if Wilson calls, we can go straight to the university.”

I shake my head. “You go. I need some time.”

She nods and moves as if to hug me. She halts, seems to think better of it, and waves. 

“I’ll call you as soon as I hear anything,” she says. “Don’t drive yourself crazy, Alan. Please.”

I watch her drive into the night, squinting at the beam of her headlights. She may be able to go home now, but I can’t. Warrant or not, I need to get into that university.

Trembling With Fear

 by 

Serial Saturday: A Touch of Fear by Zach Grant, Chapter One

  1. Serial Saturday: A Touch of Fear by Zach Grant, Chapter One
  2. Serial Saturday: A Touch of Fear by Zach Grant, Chapter Two
  3. Serial Saturday: A Touch of Fear by Zach Grant, Chapter Three
  4. Serial Saturday: A Touch of Fear by Zach Grant, Chapter Four

Chapter One

                                                          

Her eyes are wide and petrified as if frozen by a haunting spirit. Rachel chalks it up as a muscular release in her eyelids triggered by the end of rigor mortis. It’s a probable conclusion, yet I can’t help but feel that our victim is trying to tell me something. 

“Strange,” says Rachel, joining me next to the corpse. “No signs of trauma. No stab wounds, no gunshots. What do you make of it?”

I run my gloved hand over the pale cheek. “Do I have clearance?”

Rachel gives a hollow chuckle. “I don’t know, man. RCMP took the case, so this isn’t our scene. Want me to ask?”

“I can do it.” I manage a smile. “Just give me a second with her.”
 The girl is no more than thirty. The long curtains of her blonde hair spread over the sidewalk like golden waves, shimmering in the morning sun. Her body seems untouched, like she simply fell asleep and would wake at any moment. But she won’t, and that thought roots itself in my heart like a six-inch dagger. I’ve never seen this woman before, but the thought that those beautiful eyes will never see the sky again makes me feel hollow.

Part of me doesn’t want clearance. Every time I perform the ritual, it chips at my soul with a blunt pickaxe. One day, it’ll be too much. But until then, I have a duty. Someone killed this girl, and no matter how much it hurts me, it’s my responsibility to discover who.

“Detective River.”

I look up when the man arrives at my side. He’s an important-looking officer with an ironed black suit and tie to match—a spectacle compared to my wrinkled dress shirt. 

“Yes, sir. I’m with the Vancouver Police Department.” I rise from my knee and feel my bicep bounce as the man shakes my hand.

“I’m Commissioner Wilson, RCMP,” he says. “Gathering data?”

“Yes,” I say. “I was going to ask…”

“Your clearance?” Wilson raises his eyebrow. “I’ve heard some scary stuff about you, River. Is it true?”

Scary—a simple word that nearly makes me laugh. Of course, it’s scary to me most of all. I don’t dare inquire about the rumours, but I imagine how distasteful they must be based on the expression of my superior.

“It’s true,” I say.

“Then, by all means.” He gestures to the girl. “I’d like to see this.”

My knee cracks when I kneel on the coarse sidewalk. My morning bagel wriggles in my stomach like a tangle of centipedes. The first time I officially performed the ritual, I vomited on the deceased victim—a grotesque mistake I haven’t repeated. I take a deep breath, my hand shaking with anticipation. Sweat clings to my palm as I peel the latex glove from my fingers. Then, the words I’ve uttered so many times flow from my mouth:

“Grant me permission to see—to share in your pain. Allow me into your soul so I might catch the one who did this to you.”

I place my bare hand on her forehead, her skin warmed by the morning sun. But the warmth lasts less than a second as a jolt shoots through my veins like a heroin injection. I stumble back, and my eyes snap open. White flaws in my vision circle the girl, like the centrepiece of a watercolour painting. Tears drip down my chin, and my breath picks up. This feeling is unlike any ritual I’ve performed before. 

“What is it?” Wilson demands.

I take a heavy breath and shake my head.

I’m gifted or cursed, depending on who you ask. I can feel the final moments of a person’s life—sadness, denial, fear—all emotions that provide insight into who committed the murder. Once, I solved a cold case simply by touching the victim—a young man murdered by his uncle. The feeling of betrayal narrowed down a small list of three suspects. 

The most common emotion I feel is denial—a mix of fear and sadness in a way that seems fictional. But what I feel after touching this girl isn’t even close to that kind of fear. It’s sheer terror, like someone experiencing the worst moments of their life all in one second. 

“Well?” Wilson prompts when I don’t answer.

“I don’t know,” I mutter.

“I thought you were supposed to be a magician, River,” he says. When I remain silent, he pats my shoulder. “Let me know if it makes sense in time. The victim’s brother is quite distressed. He could use some good news.”

I freeze, a chill crawling up my spine. 

“River?”

“Yes, sir,” I say. “Sorry.”

“Good. Thank you for your work. It pays to have a man who speaks to the dead. I’m sure my unit would kill for that ability sometimes.”

He chuckles and strides away.

I stopped correcting people long ago on the specifics of my abilities. It gets frustrating to repeat, “I don’t actually speak to them,” and, “It’s more of an emotional connection,” over and over again. No one could understand the weight that comes with my responsibility—how it feels to be overwhelmed by the emotions one feels before their life ends. Even those who studied me in the lab didn’t understand. No, it’s easier to play the part of the wondrous magician. 

“You okay?” 

I hadn’t heard Rachel return. Theories swarm my mind—synapses connecting words with emotions. One in particular prickles my skin—brother—to go along with another horrible yet familiar feeling that surfaced during the ritual. 

“I’m fine,” I say.

Rachel helps me to my feet.  “Did you get anything from the victim?” 

“I don’t know. Maybe. It’s hard to tell.”

She claps me on the shoulder, nearly sending me face-first into the body.

“Think about it, man. I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” she says. “Coffee?”

“Sure, lead the way.”

***

Coffee with Rachel always lifts my spirits. She is the only one I talk to besides my cat. Being alone with this gift is enough to drive anyone crazy. The familiar hum of the café and distant ruckus of downtown Vancouver always provide a comforting backdrop to our meetings.

Rachel sits across from me, her thin fingers intertwined around the white mug as steam fogs her youthful face. She tells me about how her kids refuse to go to summer camp and how her husband’s car was scratched by a reckless teenager. I love listening to her stories. They’re a gateway into her world that seems so peaceful. I know she’s happy despite her complaining. She had a rough upbringing and, like so many of our trade, let it harden her. That being said, she is still the kindest person that I know.

“Sorry, I’ve been ranting about me.” She places her mug on the table. “What’s new with you? How’s your sister?”

I avoid her eyes and stare out the window at the busy street. 

“Nothing new,” I say. “She’s good.”

“Getting up to anything fun tonight?” 

“Nope.”

Rachel laughs. “Careful. If you give any more detail, I might just learn something about you.” She sips her coffee. “Ah, you got it simple, Alan. Sometimes, I wish I had a little apartment with my brother. Just the two of us with no drama, like when we were younger.”

She playfully punches me on the shoulder when I don’t answer, sending drips of coffee down the side of my mug.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, using her napkin to clean my cup. “Is it the vision?”

A magician never reveals his secrets. Rachel is my only friend, but even she wouldn’t understand. I would never burden her with my curse.

“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. So, what do we know about this girl?”

Rachel seems to want to push for more information, but eventually, her shoulders sag, and she gives in.

“Her name is Lara Henderson. She was missing for three days before a biker found her last night. Forensics will confirm the time of death, but the estimate is around twelve to twenty-four hours ago.” 

“So, she can’t have been killed on the sidewalk,” I say. “She was dumped there.”

“Seems so.” Rachel sighs and rubs her brow. “We don’t know how she died, who killed her, or even where it happened. All we know is that she’s dead.”

“Who reported her missing? Her brother?”

Rachel nods. “Conrad Henderson. Reported her missing yesterday but claims she’d been gone for two days already.”

“He waited two days to report?” My coffee sends bubbles of acid up my throat.

She shrugged. “I dunno, man. We could go talk to him if you want?”

“Might be our best shot.”

A brother who failed to notice his sister was in trouble for two whole days—I’ve never wanted to speak to anyone more. 

Trembling With Fear

 by 

Serial Saturday: Degeneration by Sarah Busching, Chapter Five

  1. Serial Saturday: Degeneration by Sarah Busching, Chapter One
  2. Serial Saturday: Degeneration by Sarah Busching, Chapter Four
  3. Serial Saturday: Degeneration by Sarah Busching, Chapter Five

Chapter Five

                                                          

Only Chris went with me to the bar he’d suggested. Most of the team was needed to hunt the degenerates that had attacked me. Prisha had taken me aside and asked if I needed her or Katie to come, too, and I shook my head. “Thank you, though,” I said. 

Chris drove into an area that could loosely be called the city’s night district. Once he parked, we only had to walk a couple blocks, but suddenly the expanse of dim sidewalk was overwhelming. I climbed out of the car and froze while holding open the door. 

Chris walked around to my side of the car as I kept staring out at the dark street. We weren’t really that far from where my attack had occurred. 

“Look at me,” he said gently.

My eyes flicked to his, but the rest of me couldn’t move. 

He held out his hand and said, “Take my hand. Walk with me.”

I did, letting his warm hand guide me down the street. The walk was a little shorter and slightly less terrifying that way, and I could eventually let go of him. 

It was the first time he took me to Wiley’s.

“How is a bar still serving at three-thirty in the morning?” I asked.

“Well, the thing is,” he said, leading us toward the outdoor bar, “I’m not exactly sure. I have a feeling that the people who own this place, and the people who come here, are all kind of like us.”
 “They see degenerates too?” I whispered.

He grinned. “No. More like, they’re seeing stuff other people don’t. Everyone is kind of evasive when you talk to them, but I think we all know we’re—”

“Ghostbusters,” I finished seriously, then laughed at his expression. It was nice that I could joke already. It was definitely Chris’s doing. Anyone else could have made the entire night even more awkward and awful than it already was, but being around him was comforting.

My suspicions about the legality of serving in the earliest hours of the morning were confirmed when we were offered a menu that had only two types of beer and one cocktail on it, but it didn’t really matter, because the cocktail was sweet. I settled into a couch with Chris. He had a habit of making long eye contact when he spoke to me, which was flattering.

Except then I remembered the glowing white patches in the scan of my brain, and started shivering. I zipped my jacket and then drank half the cocktail.

“You’ve had a long night,” Chris said. “I know you don’t know me, but we can go back to your apartment and I can just sit on your couch?”

“It’s okay.” I muttered, “I’m never going to be able to sleep again anyway.”

He grimaced. “When I started seeing them, I got insomnia for a while.”

“Great,” I replied, stirring my drink. “How did you get over it?”

“Fighting back,” he said. 

And that was the first but not the last time I thought, I’m not strong enough to be part of this team. I don’t want to fight back. I don’t even want to know that’s an option.

He must have seen my thoughts in my expression, because he added, “Not at first. It takes a while. You’ll get there.”

“What if I don’t want to get there?” I whispered. “What if I just want to go back to before tonight?”

He sipped his drink, let us sit quietly for a few moments, listening to the mostly calm conversations around us. Eventually he said, “There might be a way, actually.”

“Get black-out drunk so I forget tonight ever happened?”

He laughed. “No. I’m working on this project that might help.”

“Good. Because there’s no way I can be a part of your team.”

#

But now, in the MRI for a second time, I think, maybe I can. Maybe I am strong enough, if I have other strong people around me. If I have Chris and I’m not alone with my secret. It was selfish of me last time not to give my decision a little more time—to give Chris more time.

The team is nearly silent while I’m in the machine. Prickles roll up my spine, and a rock drops in my stomach. Surely somebody should have something by now? Unless they’ve suddenly decided on a more professional protocol, which seems unlikely, as we are, yet again, not supposed to be using the fancy equipment.

When they pull me out, Chris helps me stand. “We’ve decided we better go get a drink to discuss the results.”

“That sounds… bad,” I say cautiously.

“It’s not terrible. But a drink will help.”

“Won’t it be kind of public if I have a meltdown?”

He smiles. “It will and it won’t be. You know the place.”

It’s still early enough in the night that Wiley’s isn’t too crowded, and our group—Chris, Prisha, Mateo, Katie, and me—find a cozy corner with two loveseats.

Chris starts, “So, there’s pretty amazing news, and then there’s—”

“Bad news,” I interrupt, nodding. “I figured it was bad if you thought I needed this,” holding up my cocktail.

“Weird news,” he finishes, ignoring me. “You remember the damage in your brain?”

“Yeah, the damage that is giving me a permanent, nonreversible degenerative brain disease? I remember,” I say, sipping my drink.

“It’s still there,” he says.

“Great,” I say.

“But,” he continues, exasperated, “some of it has healed.”

I choke.

Chris takes a deep breath and says, “It’s stunning, actually.” He nods at Mateo.

Mateo says, “What we can best theorize is that deactivating the memories of the degenerates healed some of the injury. Not all of it, but a significant percentage.”

I manage to stop gaping. “So you guys are magic.”

“Not magic,” Prisha says.

“The neural pathways the degenerates use to consume memories overlap with what we think may be the location of your memories of them,” Mateo says.

“This is news to us, too,” Prisha says, “and it explains why when we think about them, talk about them, whenever, they show up like roaches. It’s like we’re waving a flag at them.”

“So…” I trail off. I almost understand what they are trying to tell me, but I’m tired and my drink is honestly too weak. 

“We think removing memories of the degenerates may, in fact, repair some of the damage. Look at the scans.” Mateo points to two images on his phone, the first one they took of my brain and the one they took the first time. “It’s not complete, but it’s significant. It’s years back.” 

Years. 

“There’s a catch I’m still not getting,” I say, glancing at Chris. 

He nods. “Remember when I said that it’s my fault the degenerates were trying to kill you, even after we removed your memories of them?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“We each have neural pathways that are twinned, or connected, or something—”

“Or something?” I ask.

“Look, you know this is—”

“Magic,” I finish.

Despite himself, he smiles. “It’s alien to us, definitely. When I think about you, it reminds them, or alerts them, to your presence, and in the same way they come looking for us when we think about them, they go looking for you if I think about you.”

“So don’t think about me.”

“Most of us don’t,” Katie snaps.

Mateo elbows her.

“You’re going to think about me all the time. You have my brain scan,” I argue. 

“Actually, Chris has offered to forget you, too,” Prisha says.

“What?” I ask.

“He just told you you have parallel pathways to the degenerates. Do you know why?” she says.

“Oh, parallel pathway, I like that,” Mateo says.

“Thanks.” She flicks a hand and continues, “It’s because he has the same brain disease you do.”

I bite the inside of my cheek as I turn to Chris. “You do? This whole time… you too?”

He shrugs. “Only a couple of us have been lucky enough to be attacked in the same way. I wasn’t being entirely selfless when I offered to forget you. I might also get some time back.”

It’s like a punch to my gut. 

Prisha adds, “This is all theoretical. There’s no way to tell what’s us thinking of each other that brings the degenerates, versus what’s us thinking about them. We’re constantly working together, talking about them, thinking about each other. But if Chris forgets about you, maybe the degenerates will really leave you alone. You couldn’t see them anymore a few days ago.”

Chris says, “Of course I’ll do it.” 

“I can’t ask you—” I start.

“And I can’t ask you. And you don’t have to.”  

And more importantly, I can’t ask him not to. Maybe I was reaching a point where thirty years with him outweighed the fact they’d be thirty years ( or more now?) spent battling alien parasites, and maybe even to a point where they would outweigh gaining a few extra years of being myself, but I don’t know if that’s where he is.

“But what’s the point?” I ask. “You guys will be looking at my scans, and even if Chris thinks it’s someone else, he’ll be thinking of me.”

Mateo says, “Exactly. Making you both forget each other is short-sighted.”

Katie counters, “But it’s an excellent experiment. And if you guys remember each other? Well, Natalie won’t be able to run away anymore, and her brain will be even more repaired.”

“The stakes are low,” Prisha says, draining her drink.  I’m not sure if she’s being sarcastic.

“We have to try,” Chris says.

Mateo sighs. “Guys, this isn’t good. Reactivated memories are fragile, and subject to contamination. The reactivated memories you have now, Natalie, probably aren’t in the same condition they were before we deactivated them. You had all this new information introduced about us since the second time you met Chris. You’ve lost information, it’s been interfered with, and then it’s been restored—literally put into storage a second time—and it’s not the same it was before.”

“It’s her best bet,” Chris says. “I have to give her a chance.”

Why is my heart screaming?

“We might be able to convince you this time, Natalie. But Chris? You’re going to figure out we’ve tampered with your memory. It’s going to be blurry,” Mateo says.

“Right, but I’m prepared. I’m going to know some of my memories were deactivated to help a member of the team who’s had to go into hiding.”

Mateo blinks. “That seems very likely to fail.” I have a feeling he was keeping himself from flat-out saying, “That’s stupid.”

Prisha announces, “I’ll make it so I’m the only one who remembers your name. Everyone else will know that there was a team member who had her brain scanned, but they won’t know personal details.”

Mateo nods slowly. “That could work.”

They would all forget me. 

“Excuse me,” I say, and slip over to the bathroom stalls that are also mostly outdoors. I close myself in a stall.

On the one hand, my life is awesome. My nephew and my brother, along with my parents, are all the family I’ve ever thought I needed. I have been to almost every continent and I want to keep going. My promotion means the money to do it, and I don’t want to start missing work to battle aliens and risk the life I’ve made. On the other hand, Chris makes me feel like maybe there could be room in that life for even more. But I can’t ask him to forgo a possible treatment for his own brain disease. I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth until I’m sure I won’t cry, and then I head back. 

“Well. Let’s do it now,” I say, returning from the bathroom.

Chris looks up at me, panicked. “Now?”

“If I wait, I won’t be able to do it. Let’s just do it out on the sidewalk, get me back to my car, and then—yeah. Let’s do it now or I’m never going to do it,” I babble.

“Good idea,” Katie says cheerfully, which almost makes me change my mind.

Prisha is silent. She and Mateo exchange a glance. Chris is staring at the three others, as if hoping they’ll come up with something new to stop tonight’s absurd direction.

Then Prisha stands and gives me a hug. It’s a relief, but then she whispers, “I won’t do this again. Stay away or you have to come back for good.”

I can’t say anything because otherwise I’ll cry, but I nod.

I shake hands with Mateo and Katie, and presently Chris and I are out on the sidewalk, walking towards my car. It takes no time at all.

“I’m sorry, Chris,” I look at him miserably. “I want you to know, I had almost changed my mind about staying. But. Well, you guys said years. Years back, for both of us, so, I’m sorry.”

“Natalie—” his voice hitches. “I really wish there was a better way. I can’t take this from you.” He’s about to say something else, but he stops. “Are you ready?”

I let the tears spill over so I can speak through them, then tilt my chin up. “Do it right this time,” I try to joke. 

Then, terrified he’s really about to do it, I put my hands on his cheeks, push myself onto my tiptoes, and kiss him. A little off balance, I fall into him and he catches me, kissing me back. He holds me so tightly it hurts, in a good way, in a burning way. 

When I step back, he’s blinking very wet eyes and chokes out, “Believe me, I will. Can’t do this again.” He presses his hand to my forehead.

“Chris,” I say. “I… Stop. Stop.”

“What?” his eyes are wild.

“I’ll stay. I’ll stay. Please,” I say.

His hand drops from my head.

And then three, no, four, degenerates slam into him out of nowhere. He’s on the ground, he can’t get up. Their limbs encircle him, their pinchers dig towards his brain.

I reach for one and my hand touches its warm, clammy skin. I think of sitting with Chris on his couch. Another pincer coming toward me. I think of being in bed with Chris. I think of him looking down at me on the train track. I think of—

#

I’m having a weird week. It’s like my brain is short-circuiting. I just took nearly back-to-back beach vacations that pissed off my managers (and somehow didn’t dent my savings?), but it doesn’t seem to have been a very good idea. I thought I’d feel rested, at least after the second trip, but I’m exhausted already. I can barely remember what I did or where I went.

#

I spend hours at night watching classic cartoons, which I never even liked as a kid. I stare up at buildings I pass under as I walk home on my commute, hallucinating falling pianos. I avoid the river, certain an aquatic vehicle is about to lose control and come careening towards me. In my mind, danger is everywhere: outlandish freak accidents are waiting around every corner, but even though I’m sure there’s something out to get me, they never materialize.

After countless nights of a bored yet unstoppable stupor of cartoon viewing, I start to formulate a theory around the Sisyphean attempts to kill the bunny, kill the duck, kill the canary, kill the mouse. Woo the cat. Never seeming to learn from their previous failures.

#

I’m not suicidal, but I lie down on a train track and wait until I hear the horn blare. I push myself off the ground and race away into the shadows down by the river. My chest heaving, I feel the train roll by in my whole body, the chugging matching my pulse. Nobody came, nothing happened. It was all in my head.

Finally, I walk back up the path and onto the sidewalk. I let my feet keep going. I open the door of the first bar I come to, a hole-in-the-wall I would have never noticed if someone wasn’t stepping out of the gate at the same moment I walked by. They hold the door open for me with a smile, and I wander into a beautiful courtyard shaded by a large, lantern-filled tree. I flash the host a half-crazed smile and take a seat at the bar in between a happily chatting couple and a guy in a dark green beanie. He looks like he wants to say hi, but has thought better of it. He just glances at me and nods, goes back to his food.

Maybe I should say something, let it lead somewhere and make his night. 

While studying the beer menu, I peek at him. Brown hair, brown beard, nice looking arms, no ring, seat next to him clearly empty.

He’s really very cute. I can’t stay quiet, anyway, not when I’m feeling like I’m going to claw my way out of my own skin. 

“Hi,” I say. “I’m Natalie.”

He smiles and holds a hand out. “Chris.”

Trembling With Fear

 by 

Serial Saturday: Degeneration by Sarah Busching, Chapter Four

  1. Serial Saturday: Degeneration by Sarah Busching, Chapter One
  2. Serial Saturday: Degeneration by Sarah Busching, Chapter Four
  3. Serial Saturday: Degeneration by Sarah Busching, Chapter Five

Chapter Four

                                                          

Everyone else goes back to work. Meeting over. It’s a normal day. Prisha heads for a bus stop. Chris steers me out of the building, saying we’re getting lunch, but he looks at me so sadly once we’re back in his car. 

He drives for a while and eventually parks on a street a block over from the shopping district. We’re sitting next to a mural that’s a face taking up the entire side of a building. Hands cover the man’s eyes, but the angle makes it unclear if they’re his hands or someone else’s.

“Do you want to get out?” Chris asks, but he doesn’t sound like he wants to. 

“You knew what I was going to choose,” I say, unable to keep from sounding accusatory.

“I had hope. But yeah, I knew.”

“You don’t want a life outside this?” I gesture vaguely. 

“It would be nice, but…” He shrugs. “It doesn’t sit well with me. And that’s no criticism of you.”

It is, though. “Maybe things would be different if… I don’t know, if I’d found out when I was sixteen and directionless, but now—“

“Now you have a life and goals, and a set timeline,” he finishes exactly what I was going to say. “And that’s okay.”

I shrug. “And I don’t want to know I have a deadline.” I want to put the trouble back in Pandora’s box. Again.

“We all have one,” he says. “An expiration date.”

I laugh. “Could you find me again?” I ask after a beat. “And just let me think you’re a detective or something?”

“You’d get suspicious eventually,” he says. “And besides, you might not like me under regular circumstances.”

I look up at him and wink. “That’s very definitely true.” Because of course it isn’t.

“The point is that if you don’t remember them, you shouldn’t see them anymore, either. That part of our theory did seem to be proven true.”

We watch a car try to get out of its parallel spot and tap the bumper of the car behind them. The driver hesitates, then speeds away.

“One thing is different this time,” I comment. “What’s with all the cartoon stuff? The piano? The freaking bells today?”

“Yeah, that’s the part I don’t want to tell you.”

“It’s because you were stalking me, right?” I ask.

“I was keeping an eye on you!” he exclaims. “I mean, Prisha was kind of right about that, though. I watched a lot of kids’ cartoons for a few days after we sent you home. Just, you know. Comfort watching. I’m still connected to the degenerates, so they used images from my brain to attack you.”

“That’s messed up,” I say.

“Yeah, I’m sorry,” he says. “I made everything worse.”

“It’s okay.”

Our gazes meet and we start giggling. I grin harder, almost hysterical, as I study the smile lines in his face, and then we lean in, me leaning further, and kiss. 

I was immediately attracted to him the first time we met—and the second time, really, on the train track. The first time we kissed was more romantic, since we were standing on a walkway above the river, watching the sun set, an osprey circling over the rapids, in which stood a dozen great blue herons. But this is pretty good too, because I suddenly feel all the missed time between us. I forget everything but his hands gently holding my face. 

When we pull away, he laughs softly. “This sucks.”

“Yeah,” I agree. Then slam my hand on top of the glovebox. “Wait,” I say.

He waits.

“So you alerted them to where I was? If you’d just stayed away…”

“I’m not sure. I thought about you all the time. It could have been proximity, or it could have been my thoughts,” he says, but his hands do not release my hair, which they’re tangled in.

I dig my fingers into either side of my head. “Even if you hadn’t stayed away, they might have still come after me, because you were thinking about me?” 

“It’s possible,” he says.

“Well, now what?” I ask.

“Lunch, then back to the lab?” he suggests.

#

We don’t go back to the lab. We don’t even go to lunch. We go back to his apartment. I don’t know what makes me do it. I must be a cruel person. Even as I lie with my back against his chest, the two of us curled like the concentric rings of a target, I’m not planning to stay with Chris. But he’ll remember me.

It’s half-perfect, half-wrenching, to know how good this feels. Is it good enough to spend thirty years knowing there’s a bomb ticking? Does it matter if it’ll be ticking either way?

To avoid the topic, I ask, “What kinds of cartoons?” I lace my fingers in his and hold his hand on my chest, letting the heaviness of his arm hold me down like a paperweight.

“All of them. Old ones, new ones. Anything I could stream.”

I laugh. “I could watch some of those with you.”

I have no right to feel crushed, or even guilty, when he asks, “Do you think you’ve changed your mind?”

I’m quiet for too long.

“Right.” He peels away.

“Chris…”

Somebody down in the alley screams with laughter. A door slams shut.

I unravel. “I’m sorry. I’m not saying no, but I also didn’t mean to get your hopes up. I just…it felt like I’ve missed you for so long, even though you’re the one who’s missed me, right? I mean, you have? This was shitty of me. I do like you, and if there was another way, I mean, maybe there is?” Maybe there is a way.

His phone buzzes, and he checks it instead of answering me. “The team is still at the lab. Jitender can get us into the MRI after hours. We should head over in a bit.”

“Sure,” I say blankly. But my heart might be breaking, so I sit up and grab his hand. “Chris. I like you a lot. I might want to stay. I think I…might.”

He kisses me on the forehead. “You still have time to decide.”

But at the lab, we find out he’s wrong.

#

While I’m lying in the MRI, I half-expect to look up and see a degenerate crawling up the tube, coming to eat my entire brain. But it’s a boring process, and compared to the last time I was here, it’s easy. 

#

The first time I saw a degenerate, I’d been walking to my car after a dinner with friends. I’d parked on a residential street. It was mostly empty of people, but packed with parked cars. Most of the rowhouses had lights on. Some of them had old, gaudy stained glass in their front doors. Their tiny yards sported fairy gardens, welcoming yard signs, unweeded but clearly beloved vegetable gardens, trendy lanterns, and lawn chairs. Not a place that would make me cautious. 

The white light I saw up ahead didn’t arouse any suspicion in me. I kept walking toward it. What did I think it was? A belated fourth of July firework? An extremely early ghost inflatable? I probably wasn’t thinking anything.

When something hard flung itself at me, shoving me off the curb and wedging me in between two parked cars, I wasn’t prepared. I did have my key in my hand, but it went flying into the street. I froze for a second, then started struggling, but it was too late. A strong hand—claw—gripped my nose and mouth, smothering my screams. The back of my head dug into cold, hard pavement. 

A bulbous white head loomed over me. I could feel its fingers probing my head.

Aliens, I thought wildly. Goddamn aliens. Goddamn aliens. That’s still the only thing I can remember thinking, although I know the entire time I was trying to figure out how to get away. It was like sleep paralysis: I was unable to move or scream, my body stuck under two cars, this creature on my chest. I could barely see what was happening. 

It was the same as the attack under the bridge, except worse, because the monster had full minutes to carve into my mind, peruse my mind, read each memory that came up. I couldn’t tell if I was remembering or if it was remembering for me. Thoughts started and then stopped as they were taken.

Nightmares and degenerates are similar in that, quite frequently, you forget them, unless something makes you think about it over and over until the memory solidifies in your head. I might have decided I’d fallen and hit my head on the street if Chris hadn’t passed me entirely by chance. He’d seen the glow of the degenerates and started chasing them, but found me instead, trying to crawl onto the curb on shaky hands.

I didn’t know that at the time. All I knew was that I was stumbling on my knees, both trying to flee and to find my car keys, when a hand touched my shoulder and I screamed again.

“Hey! Hey, it’s okay,” a man soothed. “It’s okay, I’m just trying to help you. Are you okay?”

“No,” I sobbed, standing dizzily and keeping my distance. “Goddamn aliens.”
 “I know,” he said seriously, which made me pause my search for my keys and look at him.

“Did you call 911 yet?” I asked, reaching for my phone.

“No.” He put out a hand, and the gesture was enough to stop me, I was so vulnerable at that point. He continued slowly, “You don’t need to. I can help you.”

“Okay, pal,” I said suspiciously, like I was in a gangster movie, and unlocked my phone.

“They read your mind, right?” he burst out.

I hesitated. “Yeah.”

“They’re not aliens. They’re parasites called degenerates.” He was speaking fast, keeping me from interrupting or dialing. “They latch onto your mind and mess with your brain.” He held up a badge attached to a lanyard. “See? I’m a neuroscientist.”

I stared at the grainy photo of him printed on the badge. “That means absolutely nothing to me.”

“Look, we really need to get you checked out immediately.”

“At a hospital.”

He sighed. “They’ll ask who attacked you. They’ll either think you need psych work or they’ll accuse me.”

“It was an alien! I’ll tell them!” I exclaimed, but even I could hear how delirious I sounded.

“No one will believe you,” he replied quietly. “Nobody believed me.”

I started. “Was it you?”

“No. God. Look, my team believes you. Please,” he added.

I started edging away. “How do I know you aren’t a psychopathic murderer who set this all up?”

He ran a hand over his hair. “I’m not usually the person who does this. I’m not good at convincing people. Look, I’m not trying to freak you out, but they took over your brain, right? They were controlling your thoughts?” 

I bit my lip, annoyed that he was right.

He pressed, “I’ll send you the address. You can meet me there and decide to come in, or not, when you get there, okay?”

I’d just been attacked. Most of me was still planning to let him go, then get in my car and call the police. When I looked up the address he sent me, it was legitimately labeled as a scientific research company.

“Look,” he said again. “I believe you. But no one is going to believe us. Nobody can see them but us. Come with me.”

The part of my reality that was breaking fully broke, and I agreed.

#

At the lab for the first time, I was introduced to Mateo and Katie. Both of them were much warmer than the second time I met them, I guess because I hadn’t ditched them yet. Katie smiled and patted my shoulder reassuringly a lot, and Mateo chatted to me the entire time he had me in the MRI, telling me in a disarmingly precise manner about degenerates and how they worked.

I understood that you generally don’t get scan results immediately, but this wasn’t a normal situation. Officially, we weren’t there, and we had the actual doctors, Chris and Katie, in the room with the tech, Mateo. 

“Look at that,” the latter exclaimed.

“It’s there,” Katie replied. “No one will ever replicate it, but yeah.”

“We might replicate it,” Chris said.

They were talking about my brain. My body. My stomach twisted. “Can I see now?”

“Almost done,” Mateo said. “Pulling you out now.”

When I was seated with the others, Chris showed me the images. “So, the main thing we’re looking at is where the degenerates got into your brain.” He pointed to the screen. “Do you see this area?”

“Um. Sure,” I said. “My brain.”

“This is where the degenerates latched on. We’ve never had a picture of it before today, but you see how it almost glows white on the edges?”

“No,” I said.

Everyone laughed a little.

“Well, it’s there. Anyway, they left some damage.” He frowned, looking at the scan and then Katie. “I think they took a lot of your memories, Natalie.”

Katie has been studying the scans this entire time. “It’s hard to say exactly. But there is some evidence the damage will have far-ranging results on your health.”

I swallowed. “How far-ranging?”

And that’s when they tell me that there’s already evidence that, in a couple decades, my brain will melt and groove in the wrong places, taking who I am and leaving me with neurodegenerative brain disease.

“But how can you be sure?” I asked.

“That they’ve affected your brain function?” Mateo replied. “One scan can’t predict the future. We’re completely guessing here.”

Katie said, “But we do know something important now. Your brain is made up of white and gray matter. White matter has long axons that communicate longer distances, for example, throughout the brain and to your central nervous system.”

“Okay. White is long-distance,” I said.

“Right. And white matter is white because of the myelin sheaths around its nerve fibers. It’s bright white, in fact.”

I scrunched my mouth. “Bright white like the degenerates?”

“Exactly.”

“Degenerates are made of white matter?”

“Not exactly, but not far off. Myelin sheaths are basically a protective layer of fat around the nerves. So the degenerates have a lot of fatty material protecting the pincers on their hands, or limbs, or whatever you want to think of them as. Our theory is that it allows the electric signals from your brain to travel to theirs.” 

“The neural pathways,” I repeated. 

“This parasite has adapted to work the same way as human brains. They have developed long-distance connections, allowing them to latch onto your brain, devour memories—”

“Destroy my brain,” I finished.

Katie said kindly, “I know we gave you some bad news tonight. But your brain could change the world, Natalie. You’re the first person we’ve been able to get to the lab quickly enough after the attack for this, well, afterglow to be visible.”

“Afterglow,” Mateo said thoughtfully.

“I know,” Katie said. “Good, right?”

Chris added, “We may finally be on the verge of proving that some neurodegenerative disease is caused by an alien parasite.”

In disbelief, I scanned their faces. They were excited, maybe even had the audacity to look victorious. After I’d been attacked. 

I meant to sound angry, but my voice was hoarse as I said, “You told me you’d help me.”

They all stopped talking.

Chris said, “We did. We got you an immediate MRI. You can see the damage and the degenerate glow right here. You would’ve never gotten this at the hospital. They would’ve seen you didn’t have a concussion, taken your statement, and sent you home. Or admitted you to the psych ward.”

“You knew I was vulnerable and you convinced me to come here instead of somewhere safe,” I accused him.

He managed to look guilty and startled at once. “Natalie, I know you’re having a horrible night, but please trust us. You are the safest you’ll ever be with us.”

“How could I ever trust you?” I snapped.

At that moment, a woman who looked like a walking arsenal appeared in the doorway. “Are we ready to go hunting?” she bellowed cheerfully.

Chris smiled. “Natalie, this is Prisha.”

Prisha waved. “I heard they got some good pictures of your brain!” she said happily. “Don’t worry, we’re going to murder the things that probed you.”

Despite myself, I smiled at her. “You don’t have any guns.”

“Knives are quieter,” she said. “Degenerates aren’t really that big, after all.”

“Big compared to protozoa,” Mateo chimed in.

While he and Katie showed Prisha the scan, Chris pulled me aside. 

“I know you’re scared and hurt right now,” he said quietly. “We’ve all been there, Natalie. Finding out you’re one of a few people who can see an alien just… blows.”

I wanted to be angry with him, but he was sincere enough that I nodded. 

He continued, “We can help you. And more than that, we can teach you enough that you won’t need our help. To defend yourself, to protect yourself. You won’t be alone with this.”

I almost thanked him. But then I flashed back to being thrown into the street, and I shuddered. “I just want to go home.”

“You can’t go home until we’ve cleared out this cell of degenerates,” Prisha said, suddenly at my side. “You could stay with Katie or me for the night.”

Katie didn’t look any more pleased with the proposal than I did.

“Well,” Prisha said, exasperated. “What? You want to stay out all night clubbing?”

“I’m not going home with any of you,” I snapped.
 Chris interjected quietly, “I know a place.”

Trembling With Fear

 by 

Serial Saturday: Degeneration by Sarah Busching, Chapter One

  1. Serial Saturday: Degeneration by Sarah Busching, Chapter One
  2. Serial Saturday: Degeneration by Sarah Busching, Chapter Four
  3. Serial Saturday: Degeneration by Sarah Busching, Chapter Five

Chapter One

                                                          

A stranger saves me from being crushed to death by a grand piano. I don’t understand what’s happening until it’s over. One moment, I’m stopped in front of a boutique, window browsing, and the next, a man has shoved me ten yards down the sidewalk like a linebacker.

I scream, at first because a man grabbed me, and then again, louder and longer, because a piano has crashed where I was just standing.

“Oh my god, oh my god,” I shriek, and burst into tears.

“You’re okay,” the man says, awkwardly patting my back.

“Imurgerrrrld,” I sob. “I waaaa! I wasssss there, right? Oh my god.” 

The man tries politely to disentangle himself from my clawed fingers while I hiccup and snort.

“I need to thank you,” I say when my sniffles have stopped and I’ve found my tissues in my purse. “Let me, ah…” I trail off. “Coffee. Drink?” I attempt.

“It’s nothing,” he says. 

I wipe my nose and peer up at him. I step back, startled, hit with an overwhelming sense of familiarity. I know these brown eyes, faint lines crinkling around them and across his forehead, even though I’ve never met him before. 

One of the piano movers has exited the crane and calls out, “Hey! Are you okay?” He probably wants to see if I’m going to sue them. I don’t want to talk to him alone.

“What’s your name?” I turn to ask my rescuer, but he’s already gone.

#

I see him on the way to work one day. I’m walking on the cobblestone path along the river, taking the long way, and I spot him standing on the other side, waving wildly at me. It’s the green beanie that I remember. He points just in time for me to start running.

A jet-ski has gone rogue, flying at an outrageous speed straight for shore. It bounces high on the water’s surface and skids up the bank. I barely escape, and by the time I’ve raced out of the way, my rescuer has disappeared.

#

I start taking nighttime antihistamines to help me sleep. After a week, I tell myself to kick the habit, but it turns into a month, then two. I open my windows and the city’s light-studded darkness comes screaming in. I let the muggy southern heat drown me. 

#

I have a theory, and I decide to test it. It works as quickly as I expected. 

I lie down on a train track.

The train’s arrival isn’t imminent, but it should pass through within the hour. A “NO TRESPASSING” sign is labeled with the train corporation’s name in a menacing red. 

The sun has set, but there’s still a little light beyond what the street lights provide. This track goes through an empty grassy lot and then over the river, so there’s nobody else around. I lay in between the rails, eyes closed, listening to traffic.

I wonder what will happen if any of my friends or coworkers see me lying here. Downtown, there’s always a good chance I’ll run into a friend or someone from my office or my hiking group. And with my latest promotion, there are even more people at my engineering firm who would recognize me.

“What the hell are you doing?” It’s his voice.

I open my eyes. He’s standing over me.

“Hi,” I say, unable to keep from grinning in triumph.

With the sun fading behind him, his face is shadowed, but his voice is wary as he asks, “Are you suicidal?”

“Nope.”

He sighs and holds out a hand to me. I take it and let him help me up, and he keeps holding my hand until we’ve moved well away from the track. 

We stop and stare at each other as he releases my hand. He’s a little above average height and wearing a dark green beanie, so I can’t see most of his hair, but what is peaking out looks light brown, matching a short brown beard. Cute, albeit exhausted-looking. I name all his clothes to myself like I’ll be called to a witness stand: black running shoes, jeans, and a racer jacket, but not a fancy one, one that’s wrinkled like it’s been slept in.

“Why were you lying down on a train track?” he asks me.

“You tell me.”

“What does that mean?” 

But I know he knows. “Why do you keep appearing when I’m about to get killed in freak accidents? Are you…” I sigh. He’s really going to make me say it out loud. “Are you my guardian angel?”

“What? No!” He frowns.

I frown back. “You don’t have to act like I’m being crazy. I know something weird is going on.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “I told you this would happen,” he mutters.

The train’s horn blows from the other side of the river.

I raise my eyebrows. “You told who this would happen?”

“You,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

The train honks louder as it rolls over the bridge, at no more than thirty miles per hour.

“Who are you?” I ask.

“My name’s Chris,” he said, which explains absolutely nothing.

“I’m Natalie,” I say.

“I know,” he replies, somehow managing not to be creepy, or at least, not any creepier than this already is.

We watch the train and its coal cars rumble by. Every car is tagged, and the graffiti colors go by like a daydream. 

“Let me buy you a drink,” I offer, half-yelling over the screech of the train wheels.

“You don’t want to,” he says, his expression failing to suppress some old hurt. 

A broken heart, I decide. But the feeling that I know him has oddly translated into a deep need that’s making me nervous. “Hey, it’s not a date. I just want to say thanks,” I reassure him. “Let’s just go have a fun evening.” I’m practically begging, but I have to know why he keeps showing up.

We wander up the street, and, terrified that he’ll vanish again, I try to herd him into the first open bar. He shakes his head and says, “I know a better place.”

We walk for several more blocks until he stops at a door in a tall wooden fence and leads us in a patio garden. There’s no signage on the gate or anywhere else, but Chris says, “This is Wiley’s.”

A giant tree stands in the center of the patio, with dozens of metal lanterns hanging off its feathery branches. Clusters of wicker chairs and couches with brightly patterned pillows dot the space. There’s no music playing, but the low hum of conversation and not-too-distant traffic fills it with white noise.

He leads us to a bar under a vine-draped pergola and orders us two beers. There are space heaters here, and Chris unzips his jacket, revealing a plain t-shirt with absolutely no clues to his identity or interests. I unzip mine, too, and sit down. I have to admit, I sort of dressed up for him, wearing my dressiest jeans and a black top.

“You look nice,” he says.

“Thanks.”

I haven’t had dinner, but I’m too jumpy to eat. We watch our beers being poured in silence.
 After a sip, I ask, “Why do I feel like I know you? How do you always know when I’m about to die? Can you see the future or something?”

He smiles at me and my heart breaks and I don’t know why. “No.”

I wait a moment. “Are you going to elaborate?”

“I don’t know.” He takes an awfully large swig of his beer.

“Hmm,” I say. In an overly introductory voice, I drawl, “Well, I’m an engineer.”

“Electrical?” he asks, as if randomly guessing.

I squint. He’s not guessing. “Yeah,” I say. “And you… save people?”

“Sure.”

I sip my beer. “Where do you get the funding?”

He laughs at that. “That’s funny. I do spend a lot of time worrying about funding.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Not what I thought you were going to say. Are you in a nonprofit?”

“No. I’m a neuroscientist.”

“Let me guess, you started in academia and switched to commercial because you got tired of—”

“Tired of not making money,” he finishes. “Yeah.”

I snort. “My brother’s a PhD, too.”

We chat a bit more about jobs, but eventually there’s a lull in the conversation.

“I’m sorry, but this is still super weird,” I say. “What’s going on here?”

“May I show you?” he asks.

“Okay. What do you mean—”

In response, he reaches out a hand and gently touches the side of my head.

—his tongue in my mouth his hand pushing my knee my hand pulling his hair—

I gasp, pulling away like I’ve been burned. 

His face is red, and he’s staring very hard at his glass. 

After I stop gaping, I whisper, “What was that?” 

“A memory,” he says, still unable to look at me.

“That can’t be a memory.”

“It’s yours,” he says quietly. 

“But we’ve never met before…” I trail off. He’s telling the truth. I’m not scared at all. In fact, I’m hot, literally sweating, and I want to hop off my barstool and climb into his lap and wrap my legs around him like an octopus.

Thankfully, before I have the chance, a tall woman in athleisure appears at his side, startling me so that I loudly huff out the breath I’ve been holding. 

“What are you doing here?” she snaps at me.

I’m sure my eyes bulge. “Oh, my god. Are you his girlfriend?”

“Absolutely not.” She shakes her head. “For fuck’s sake, Natalie.”

I draw back. “Sorry, do I know you?”

Her mouth falls open. “Apparently not.” She turns to Chris. “For fuck’s sake, Chris!”

“It’s not my fault,” he says.

“Isn’t it, though?”

Chris says to me, “This is Prisha.”

When I glance at her, Prisha gives me a goofy little wave that I was entirely not expecting, and I’m surprised enough to wave back. She smiles as if we’ve just shared a joke. The interaction loosens something in my chest. 

Prisha waves the bartender over and asks for our check. To us, she says, “Sorry guys, but we’ve got to go.” 

“We?” I ask at the same time Chris asks, “They’re here already?” 

“You should have known,” Prisha says to him.

Chris glances at me hesitantly. “You should probably come with us.”

Prisha rolls her eyes. “I can’t believe we’re doing this again.” 

I shiver. “Again?”

She looks at Chris. “Your turn to explain.” She smiles at me apologetically.

The bartender brings back the check and Prisha puts down a card and winks at me. “Least I can do for interrupting your date.”

Chris switches it out for his card before she can protest. He stands up, leaving half his beer undrunk. I don’t quite chug mine, but I do finish it quickly. They wait expectantly, but I keep sitting after I set my glass down.

“Well, bye,” I say.

“I’m serious about you coming with us,” Chris says.

“No thanks,” I reply, wondering if I should say I’m going to the bathroom and then sneak out the back door.

“Just walk with us. We’ll stay on this street. There’s still a lot of people out,” Prisha offers.

My hands clutch the sides of my stool like these people are going to physically grab me. Prisha steps back a little, glancing at the gate. Chris looks like he’s trying to apologize, but he says, “You’re safe with us. I know this is weird, but also, you laid down on a train track tonight.”

It would be a questionable decision to follow two strangers out onto the street at night, but I picture the grand piano, the jet-ski, the train track. It would be nice to be able to sleep without diphenhydramine. So I follow them.