Chapter Forty-Four

Thankfully, I’d already changed clothes before Rosa’s dramatic return to consciousness. Jerry’s suitcase was on the floorboard in the back seat, and a new pair of poorly-fitting brown pants and an oversized “Friendship is Magic” t-shirt were a huge step up from the blood-soaked rags I’d been wearing moments earlier.

“WHAT THE HECK IS GOING ON?!” she screamed.

“Oh hey,” I said. “You’re awake. Now, try not to freak out, but we just saved you from a monster attack.”

She closed her eyes and grabbed at her hair. “Oh my God! Did we kill Leland?”

Jerry, now shirtless and covered in blood and goo, answered from the driver’s seat, “Well, technically, Jack was the one who killed Leland. We were just there when it happened.”

“How does that help?” I asked.

“Distinction is important!” he answered. Then, he screamed something that sounded like “SHOOP!” before slamming on the brakes. None of us were wearing seatbelts, so Rosa and I bounced out of our seats as the car skidded to a stop. I climbed up and looked out the window to find out what made Jerry freeze in his tracks. Rosa was still stuck on the floor when I saw it.

“Oh shit,” I said. “Is that… Is that who I think it is?”

The creature standing in the middle of the road, grinning like a complete idiot, was part man, part beast, and from the look on his face, was ready for the final boss battle.

I opened the door and stepped out. Jerry did the same. We stood our ground as the chimera monster scratched the asphalt with one hoof, snarled, and said, “Hello, shitheads!”

“Beaux?” I asked.

“That’s right!” he squealed. “Your greatest enemy is finally here to finish you off for good. The transformation is complete! I am now one with the beast, and you will rue the day—”

Jerry interrupted, “Is that a goat’s body?”

Beaux’s final form, it seemed, was a reverse Baphomet. Instead of having the body of a man and the head of a goat… well, you get the idea. His plump face grinned above a two-foot tall brown pygmy goat body.

Rosa appeared behind me, and her reaction was pure gold. Starting with an “Awww,” then, as soon as she noticed the head, morphed into a horrified “Ewww.”

“I see you brought me another snack!” laughed Beaux. “All the better. I shall feast on all of your hearts, one at a time. My power is far greater than anything you can imagine.”

I looked at the others. Jerry was trying not to laugh. Rosa was covering her mouth with both hands. I returned my attention to the goat-man (man-goat?) and asked, “Have you actually looked at yourself recently?”

“I see everything through the eyes of a true god!”

I whispered to the others, “How do you guys want to handle this? We can’t just leave him out here.”

“Why not?” Jerry asked.

“Well, I kinda feel sorry for him.”

Rosa yelled, “OHMYGOD look out!”

I turned just in time to see Beaux charging at full speed up the street towards us. He slammed into my good leg face-first, then bounced off and fell over. I’m not going to say it didn’t hurt, but it felt about like being hit by a kickball thrown by a first-grader.

Beaux scrambled back to his feet with a bloody nose and laughed, “Suffer my wrath you assholes!”

“Beaux! Knock it off!” I said in a stern voice. He didn’t listen. He just charged into me again, then fell over, then scrambled back to his feet.

“Never!” he yelled. “You will rue the day... HEY! PUT ME DOWN!”

His legs kicked at the air wildly as Jerry carried him from behind, walking over to the side of the road. He did a quick twirl, then chucked Beaux into the ditch. As Beaux cursed and bleated, Jerry ran back to the car.

“Quick! Let’s get out of here before he gets back up!”

As we sped away, Rosa asked, “Do you think he’s going to be okay out there by himself?”

Jerry took the words out of my mouth. “Who cares?”

 

***

 

I parked at the edge of the lot, close to the road. I wasn’t sure how this was going to work out, but depending on how much gas was left in the underground tanks, it could be anywhere from an anticlimactic bonfire to a crater-making explosion.

The plan was simple. I do what should have been done long ago. I drench every inch in gasoline, then destroy the property with such completion and permanence that nobody ever has any use for it ever again.

I walked across the lot and into the dark building. It felt like I was an explorer stepping into the mouth of a cave, knowing that there could be animals or pitfalls around any corner. But I needed to salvage a few things first. I found my backpack and loaded up my computer, medicines, a few of those books from Brother Riley’s box (I’m an opportunist—sue me), some chips, and bottled waters. When I was done, the bag was only halfway full, forcing me into the realization of just how little material of value I had left in this world. There wasn’t really anything left to save. No precious heirlooms. No photos of loved ones. No sentimental rocks. Not even enough stuff to fill a single bag.

Then I saw the package. The one I’d signed for earlier that day, after my dream.

I picked it up and wondered if it was worth saving, or if this was another mystery that should go away with the cleansing fire. There was no return address, but stamps from all over the world. It felt heavy. Way too thick for a birthday card, way too small for another severed head. It was made out to the oddly specific “Jack, the guy behind the counter at the gas station.” The envelope was so suspicious it may as well have been made out of red flags. I set it back on the counter. If there’s one thing I learned after all this time, it’s that some mysteries are better left mysteries.

“Jack?”

I spun back to see the man standing in the doorway. My hands reached for the gun in my pocket, but found nothing. I’d left my firearms with Jerry and Rosa. I looked towards the counter where Ricardo would have been, if I hadn’t left him at the scene of my most recent crime. 

“Hey, you,” I said in a voice that was supposed to be innocent but came out sounding a little too flirty. “What the heck brings you to my little place of business?”

The man standing in the doorway with a look of bewilderment and fear was none other than my old shrink, Doctor Vicedomini. The last time I’d seen him, he turned out to be a demon-inspired hallucination trying to trick me into opening my eyes so he could feast on my pain buffet.

“May I come in?” he asked.

“That depends,” I answered. “Are you a vampire?”

With a soft chuckle, he said, “If I were a vampire, could I do this?” and stepped a foot inside the building.

“Okay, please don’t take any offense,” I narrowed my eyes, “but are you a ghost?”
His face was smiling, but his eyes and forehead wrinkles were screaming, “WTF?”

I elaborated, “The way Doctor Weaver talked about you... I guess I just assumed you were dead.”

“Doctor Weaver? Jack, that woman should never have spoken to you. She wasn’t familiar with the intricacies of your case. Her influence may have contaminated an extremely complicated treatment plan that already had nearly no room for error. I need you to please try and forget everything she said to you.”

“Sounds like something a ghost would say.”

He looked around the dark room, then gestured at one of the few places with any natural lighting—the booth table under the window. “We’re long overdue for this meeting. Do you mind if we sit and talk for a moment?”

“I’m actually really busy right now. Maybe you can come back tomorrow?”

“You’re the one who called and invited me. Don’t you remember?”

“I… what?”

“You called my office this morning. You sounded delirious and desperate. You begged me to come here right away. You called it an emergency. In fact, your exact words were ‘world-ending emergency of apocalyptic proportions.’ It sounded serious, so I cancelled all of my appointments and drove here to meet you. Do you not remember any of this?”

I crossed my arms. “I see what you’re doing. You’re retconning my story. You’ve been planting seeds since our first meeting, trying to make me doubt my memory. All so you could do this right here. You’re telling me what you want me to think happened. Well, I got news for you—”

“Jack,” he interrupted. “Metagaming.”

“Yeah, I don’t think I’m okay with your rules anymore.”

“I’m not your enemy. If you’d please just give me a few minutes of your time, I think I can straighten this whole thing out.”

“Alright, fine. Let’s get this over with.”

The man squeezed into the booth seat, kindly ignoring the bullet holes and blood stains. I took a spot opposite him. He continued to show off that fake smile, but didn’t say anything right away. Behind those eyes, his brain must have been overclocking. When he finally spoke, it was an innocent introduction. We were avoiding the deep end of the pool for now.

“I must say, I like your new look.”

“What?”

“When I first met you—how do I put this kindly—you looked like you’d given up on appearances. Now, I see you’re experimenting with different styles. The prosthetic is a huge step, but also the fashion choice, the hairstyle, very becoming.”

He was confused. I was dressed like a hunter—camo pants, shirt, and jacket. As for the hair, I hadn’t had time to wash the blood out yet. I guess dried blood acts a lot like hair gel (there’s a life hack for you). I definitely wasn’t about to correct him, though.

“Thanks. You look exactly the same.”

He looked down at the table. His smile slowly faded. With a deep breath, he began the hard part of the conversation, “Jack, I want you to know that I’m worried about you.”

“Thanks. Don’t be.”

“You don’t understand. I’ve poured a lot of time and effort into researching your case, trying to build the perfect system to help you. Not just to help you cope, but to help you thrive. Yet it all depended on a crucial breakthrough point, and given the events of previous months, I’m beginning to worry that you’ve pivoted in the wrong direction. Everything I’ve said, everything we’ve done, all the progress we’ve made may not just be a loss. It might actually be causing more damage. When the treatment becomes worse than the ailment, we discontinue treatment.”

“Are you breaking up with me? Because that would be great.”

He removed his glasses, set them on the table, and rubbed his eyes, saying, “This is not going to go the way you think it is.”

“Story of my life so far.”

He returned the glasses to his face and said, “I work on a lot of interesting cases. I’ve written books on the theoretical potentials of the most diseased minds. When necessary, I offer my services as a consultant for law enforcement agencies.”

“You don’t always have to flash your credentials every time we speak, Doc. To be honest, it reeks of desperation.”

“I just need you to know that I am uniquely suited to manage your case. I had a patient once, who after radical brain surgery began suffering from delusions of grandeur. He told me that he’d died on the operating table, and the new being controlling his body was some kind of ageless god. I did what nobody else would do. I listened to him, and he had one hell of a story. Epic, even. Spanning millennia and planes of reality. He knew the names of all these old god families from which he said he descended. He told me about how he escaped hell by possessing this body. He also told me about his powers, telekinesis, pyrokinesis, divination. After a few months, he and I developed a professional relationship close to mutual respect. Then, when he knew he could trust me, I sat him down and confronted him with the truth. He fought, of course. That’s the problem with delusions. If you don’t come at the problem with just the right finesse, the patient will regress and become even more trapped within their fantasy. It’s called the Nyhan-Reifler effect. Helping a truly delusional individual recognize their illness is like removing cancer with plastic cutlery. It’s possible, but extremely difficult.”

“Did you ever think that maybe he was telling the truth?”

“Oh, I allowed him a chance to prove his claims of course. I took him to a place where he was comfortable and felt in control, then I gave him a sheet of paper and asked him to burn it with his mind.” The doctor leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Do you know what happened?”

“No.”

“He couldn’t do it. Instantly, he hit me with excuses. I knew he would. I knew those excuses were there, under the surface all along, ready to snuff out any doubts. So I asked him to make a feather lift into the air. I asked him to use his powers on me. And finally, I stuck him in the finger with a pin. Once he bled, I asked him to use his godlike powers to stop the bleeding. He couldn’t. That was what it took to finally get through to him, to finally make him see that he was not a god.”

“That sounds cruel and unethical.”

“No, what’s unethical is enabling a delusion. There was a man not long ago in a small town in Japan. He claimed to be a master of Kaia martial arts. He built up a following of hundreds of ardent supporters, men who believed his ludicrous claim that he had mastered his chi energy and could deliver a technique called the ‘touchless knockout.’ People travelled far and wide to study under him. They followed him like a cult leader. Allowing him to demonstrate the ability to any who dared challenge him. He claimed to have an undefeated fight record of two-hundred and zero. Newspapers and videographers showed him taking on ten or twenty of his supporters at a time. With a single handwave, they’d be rendered unconscious. The sensei became so overconfident, so cocky, that he offered a cash reward to anyone who could beat him in a fight. Stop me if you’ve heard this story before. Or if you saw the YouTube video with ten million views and counting.”

“I haven’t.”

“A famous mixed martial artist took him up on the offer, and then, in a truly humbling five seconds, the man learned that he was not a chi expert. It was utterly embarrassing for all parties involved, especially the Kaia master, who had to convince not just his followers, but also himself, that his abilities were real and this was some kind of fluke. These followers, or at least some of them, knew before the fight that he was going to get humiliated, and yet they said nothing. Who’s the victim in this story? And who’s the villain?”

“Alright,” I said. “You’ve laid the groundwork. I’m trying not to metagame, but I can’t help but feel like this is the part where you tell me… what? The things I’m seeing aren’t real? That Spencer isn’t trying to kill me? That I never got sucked into an alternate dimension?”

He steepled his fingers and said, “No, Jack. I think, on some level, you already believe that none of that is true. I’m here because I need you to know that you’ve made up a fatalistic mental condition as a drastic coping mechanism. You’re not dying, Jack. Not any faster than the rest of us anyway.”

“What?”

“When we first met, you were suffering from two life-altering events: a traumatic brain injury caused by a car accident, and your childhood girlfriend falling into a coma.”

“What?!”

“You don’t have fatal familial insomnia, but you were so worried about the time you lost to the recovery process, about underachieving, about never living up to your potential, that you created this idea as an excuse for your bleak future and complete lack of life achievements. You forced yourself to live in the moment. It’s not the strangest delusion I’ve ever encountered, but you were such a hyperrational subject that I couldn’t understand how you managed to continue believing the lie.”

“What lie? Are you saying I don’t have FFI? That’s preposterous! If I don’t have it, then how do I know so much about it?”

He shrugged. “I assume you read about it for five minutes on the internet.”

“Okay genius, riddle me this: If I don’t have insomnia, then how is it possible that I can work twenty-four hours a day?”

“Jack, you are sick, but not fatally so. You were initially brought to my attention for suffering a combination of ailments, including narcolepsy and REM sleep behavior disorder. You do sleep. If I had to guess, you probably sleep more often than an average person, but your sleep is extremely shallow, and often intertwined with hyper-realistic dreams and sleepwalking so convincing that those around you would have no reason to believe you’re not awake. It’s a very specific form of trauma-induced parasomnia. The symptoms include long periods of lost time, advanced drowsiness, occasional dreamlike states, unexplainable episodes that don’t make any sense, often worse at night. Any of this ringing a bell?”

I laughed, “So you’re saying I have been sleeping this whole time without knowing it?”

“That’s correct.”

“And I’m supposed to believe you? Why?”

“This is not the first time I’ve told you this, Jack. But your mind keeps rewriting the truth, because it’s always been easier to take comfort in self-pity. This is why I modeled your entire treatment plan off of the patient who thought he was a god. Build your trust slowly over time before dropping the incontrovertible evidence on you. Unfortunately, recent revelations have forced us to accelerate plans.”

I crossed my arms. “Okay, Doc. You say you have proof. Let’s see it.”

“The proof is all right there in your head. Think about it, Jack. You know the average lifespan of an individual with FFI is only a few months after symptoms present. You’ve been visiting me for years.”

“I’m just a lucky outlier.”

“Tell me about your father.”

“What about him? He’s a drunk, abusive asshole who lives by himself in a trailer in the woods.”

“Tell me more.”

“He took me to my first Klan rally when I was three. Broke my arm and three of my toes when I was seven and refused to take me to the hospital so I had to hitchhike. He threw me out of a speeding car one time because I couldn’t stop hiccupping. The guy was a total piece of shit.”

“And how did he die?”

“He didn’t. That’s just the shitty way the shitty world shitty works. Guys like him live on to be a hundred while people like Vanessa don’t even reach the age where they can legally buy alcohol.”

He said this next part slowly, “Do you know what the ‘familial’ part of fatal familial insomnia means?”

“Yeah, it’s hereditary. That’s why I could never have kids. If I had a son, he would—”

A meteor the size of Texas crashed into the earth at the speed of light, focused right where I was sitting. Or at least, that’s what it felt like. The follow-up feeling was a lot like being skinned alive from the inside. My heart didn’t know what to do, so it just gave up on beating and took up EDM music while my mind struggled to catch the thoughts that just exploded into confetti all over the place.

I can’t have Fatal Familial Insomnia if my dad is still alive. Which means I don’t have fatal familial insomnia. Which means I’m not dying.

All at once, the world became a much bigger place. The possibilities presented themselves in front of me like countless paths in infinite directions. Now I had something that was never really a factor before. Now there were very real stakes involved in staying alive. If something killed me, they weren’t just robbing me of a few shitty months in a hospital where my mind unraveled. No, they were robbing me of my chance to visit the pyramids or go feed pigeons in Central Park or swim with dolphins or—dare I even think it—have a family. I’d wasted all this time waiting for death when I could have been learning another language or training to be a painter. I felt sicker than that time I barfed on a bunny rabbit.

“Jack,” Doctor V continued, “I need to know you understand what I’m saying. Don’t fight this. Don’t regress again. There are two possibilities now. Two paths you can take. You can accept what I’ve revealed to you and let me help you. We can begin the actual recovery process. Or, you can lie to yourself, make up some insane theory to temporarily safeguard yourself from the truth, but that option will destroy you. If you give up again, you will never have another chance. Tell me you understand.”

“I understand… I understand how you just planted that thought of some deadbeat father into my head. Didn’t you? That’s what this is, right? Just like the witch doctor implied, you’re making up a fake family to torture me. Well, it’s not going to work! Fuck you and the horse you rode in on. I’m not selling the gas station, I’m blowing it up, and if you don’t want to get ‘sploded along with it, you should go beat your feet right now.”

I stood and pointed at the door.

“Jack, if there’s any way I can—” He froze. His eyes went wide, and the color drained from his face. Before I could ask what was wrong, he lurched forward and vomited all over the floor. It was long, forceful, and painful looking. And everything coming out of him was dark red. When he was finally done, he gasped desperately for air and leaned into his seat.

“You okay?”

“No, I… I don’t know what that was. I must have the flu or some—”

The blood exploded out of his mouth, all across the table. Another liter, at least. When he was done, the doctor slipped down into his seat breathing heavily. I would have tried to help, but right then I saw the flashing lights and heard the cars screeching to a stop in the parking lot. I left the doctor writhing in his seat and went to investigate the two sheriff’s cruisers parked outside. O’Brien stepped out of one. Deputy Love exited the other.

“What are they doing here?” I asked nobody.

“I called them.” I turned around to see Doctor V standing a couple of feet behind me. He was suddenly looking a lot healthier. A lot more confident. A little taller, even.

“Why?”

“You contacted me first, Jack. You called my office and told me to come meet you. You said it was ‘an emergency.’ I got to town an hour ago, but couldn’t find you anywhere. I tried your house. I tried that bookstore you love so much. And then I spent some time here, looking around the gas station. Of course I found what was buried in the backyard. The rain washes away topsoil so quickly, and you didn’t bury the bodies nearly deep enough. Our doctor/patient conversations are protected, but when I find a DIY graveyard, I have no choice but to call the authorities.”

I had my back turned to the door when O’Brien called out to me. “Hey Sleepy. Everything okay in there?”

“WAIT! STAY BACK!” Doctor V ordered. “NOBODY COME IN HERE!”

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I repeated. “What’s going on?”

Doctor V yelled back in a nervous voice, “HE’S GOT A GUN!”

“What? No I don’t!”

The doctor’s hands snapped out faster than I could comprehend, wrapping around my hands and holding them up, aiming them at him. Somehow, he’d put a weapon in them. A pistol I’d never seen before. The fear in Doctor V’s voice didn’t match the smile on his face. “Please, everyone calm down. I’ve got this under control! Jack, listen to me—”

“DROP THE GUN, JACK!” O’Brien was screaming from behind me.

“I’ve got a clean shot,” Love offered loud enough for me to hear.

“NO!” the other three of us yelled together.

The Doctor’s hands squeezed around mine with an incredible strength, bruising me down to the bone. “Jack, please listen to me! You’re having another episode. Do you understand? Whatever you think you’re seeing, it isn’t real. We can still help you! Just let go of the gun, and this will all be okay.”

O’Brien couldn’t see his smile. She couldn’t see him wink at me before pushing my finger over the trigger. The gun exploded in my hand, and “Doctor V” fell lifelessly to the floor. That son of a bitch had won.

A microsecond later, my face was on the ground, my arms pretzeled behind me as the cuffs went into place. For good measure, Love whacked me in the back with a billy club until O’Brien yanked it from his hand.

The body of Doctor V was bleeding on the ground nearby. A single bullet pierced his skull, in through the mouth, out through the back of the head. Another pawn sacrificed in the name of victory at any cost. The only real question was this: why all that mind game stuff beforehand? Was he killing time until the cavalry arrived?

O’Brien spun me around to look at my face. I couldn’t help but say, “Hey Amy!”

“It’s ‘O’Brien.’”

“Well I’m super glad it’s you and not one of the infectees.”

“What happened, Jack? He was begging you for his life, and you killed him!”

“I know how it looks, but there’s a perfectly good explanation for what just happened.”

“And that is?”

“He’s been replaced. Just like Calista. And he physically forced me to pull the trigger so you guys would freak out.”

Love offered his opinion. “It worked, Jack. We’re seriously freaked out.”

“Well, maybe you should be. Because things are a lot worse than just a bunch of dead bodies.”

Love picked up on the word and repeated, “A ‘bunch’? How many’s a bunch?”

O’Brien grabbed me by the arm and pulled me towards the door. “That’s enough. Time to go.”

I held my ground. “No, it’s time to stay and finish this place off once and for all. I’m so sick and tired of pretending everything’s hunky-dory. Don’t act like you’re all of a sudden drinking the Kool-Aid too. I know you. You actually pay attention. When things weren’t adding up, you started looking for help. You found Roger, didn’t you? I don’t exactly know what his deal is, but I know he’s in charge of the counter-revolution. Which must mean you’ve already seen some unbelievable shit. So maybe I’m right. Maybe, just maybe, this isn’t what it looks like. Maybe they’re still trying to turn us against one another in one last attempt to finish what they started. If we don’t work together right now, that’s it. That’s game over. The sheriff and his crew win, and then what happens?”

She let go of my arm. “Alright, Churchill. Nice speech. What exactly are you proposing?”

“Just trust me. Just a little bit longer. I can feel it. The end is in sight, and when we get to that final battle, we’re going to need to be together.”

A second later, I felt the cuffs being removed. Love was even more surprised than me. “Is that a good idea? He did just kill a guy.”

“Maybe. But I trust him.”

The sound of laughter came from below us, on the floor. A broken, guttural noise, emanating from the wounded mouth of Doctor V’s lifeless body. His eyes popped open, and he leaned up. The laughter grew louder as he began to clap his hands.

Love freaked, shouted something that sounded like “Not again!” then ran out the door to his car and sped away.

The doctor’s laugh evolved into words as he rose to his feet. Blood, brains, and teeth fell out of both ends of his head. “You had one job, you stupid bitch. All you had to do was arrest the bad guy, and now, because of your decision, we have to kill you and Love. It won’t be hard to pin a couple more murders on the boy.”

I searched the floor for the gun, but couldn’t find one. O’Brien stepped between me and the slowly regenerating corpse. “Careful,” I warned. “They’re extremely hard to kill.”

“Oh Jack, you have no idea.”

Black scales started to sprout from his pores, covering his arms and face in a reptilian facade. Blood erupted from the holes in his gums where the rest of his human teeth fell out, clacking to the floor, pushed out by new, longer, jagged fangs filling his mouth like a trap of needles. His chest swelled to the point that his shirt burst open, and razor thin protrusions extended several inches through his nail beds. This creature seemed much less innocuous than the monsters I’d dealt with before.

“Run?” I whispered.

O’Brien nodded. The monster laughed, and then his head exploded into a black and pink mist, splattering the walls and ceiling. It stood awkwardly for too long as a few final spurts of blood made their way out the top of its shredded neck stump, then the body crumpled to the ground.

I never even heard the gunshot. But I noticed the window over the booth table was gone now. As in, nothing left of it but the shattered debris on the floor. And another hole had appeared at eye level on our back door. I didn’t even know I was in danger until O’Brien grabbed me and yanked me behind the counter.

Some time later, the door opened up, and a familiar voice screamed out my name. I left O’Brien on the floor and stood with my hands up. “Hey there, Benjamin. What brings you around?”

He looked absolutely terrible. Cuts all over his exposed skin. Clothes ripped apart. His head was shaved, but poorly, like he’d done it himself with a Bowie knife in the rain without a mirror. His beard was the longest I’d ever seen it. And for some unknown reason, he was wearing a collar around his neck.

“Did it have time to regenerate?” Without waiting for my answer, this newest Benjamin walked over to where the doctor’s body had lost its head. “Ha. I guess that settles it. A .50 cal to the noggin is enough to stop the healing process. Good to know. Good. To. Know.”

O’Brien popped up and aimed her weapon at the man, screaming, “Put your hands where I can see them.”

“Calm down, woman.”

“Do it! Or I’ll shoot!”

“You don’t want to do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because if you try to kill me, I’ll turn into one of those things.”

“What?!” I asked.

“Sorry to tell you this, Jack. But I’m not Benjamin. I’m just another fucking mimic. And if you got some coffee laying around, I’ll be happy to tell you all about it.”