He Knows My Name

Veteran Gale, a powerplant security guard outside of Los Angeles, is involved in a horrific accident at work... and he has the sneaking suspicion that he is being stalked by something... unnatural...

It started with the dream. He was at the power plant, a black Maglite in his hand. The beam traveled over the carcasses of long-retired equipment, rusted and twisted metal, compiled over the years. Beyond the beam was blackness, night without description. He was searching for something. And then the beam cut out- one moment there, the next he was entombed in strangling darkness. And his feet became heavy, the emptiness pulling him down into the earth; he could taste the rich soil as it filled his mouth and the grass pulled and knitted over his eyes, the clay molding him into place. He felt pinpricks in his extremities, felt the pressure build and crack his ribs, the dirt filling his ears, his nose, slithering down his throat. All was darkness.

            Suddenly, it eased. All fight relaxed and seeped from him. His eyes closed. The pressure dissipated as if it never was, the soft calm of weightless sheets enveloping him as the nightmare eased. He was in his room, in his bed. He lay on his back; the blankets tousled and pulled messily about him. And suddenly he was very aware that he was not alone. He cracked open his eyes, the room coming into focus, a scream throbbing in his heart, the silhouette of a man standing at his bedside- a man with his eyes and his face- smiling whimsically down at him where he lay. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak- just stared into the gray eyes, flecked with gold, the eerie replication of his own, and that taught grin that held back some terrible knowing.

            The stranger tilted his head and crossed his arms, “Hello, John."

            Veteran felt a rivulet of Jamison whiskey roll down the edge of his lip and down his chin. He started, the strange, tickling sensation waking him from the catatonic daydream.            He wasn’t supposed to drink on the job, but it was Christmas Eve and his nerves were fried. He’d tossed and turned all day, fretting the night shift, unable to go back to sleep after the horrible dream; he had even moved to the living room couch, fearing his bed- or that he might wake up to that terrible clone whose gaze made his veins turn to worms. His mind repeatedly returned to the night terror. All through his shift he had shoved it back into the recesses of his brain, but the miniscule pinprick of reminder resurfaced- a bobber in the still waters of routine thought. It was an itch he couldn’t scratch.

            Don Gilreath was working the same shift. He was somewhere down in the east wing of the building, walking his beat. Don’s wife was in the late stages of early-onset Alzheimer’s. She was only fifty-something. She barely recognized him anymore. They had no children. It was easy to see why Don would take the Christmas Eve night shift. Like Vet, he had no one to go home to. Lena was in the hospital more often than not. Don would visit her when his shift ended in the morning. Such were the melancholy tales of the holiday shift worker.

            Veteran tucked the whiskey bottle back into his locker and flipped through the schedule for the week. He was working Christmas day as well. Merry F*****g Christmas- at least he had Don with him. Choose the men without obligation so the rest of us can enjoy ourselves.

            Suddenly, the static of his radio hummed to life at his hip.

            He unclipped the dated monstrosity and held it to his mouth, “Don? You there?”

            Don’s gruff voice came through, “Yeah. Vet, we have a small problem down here. I     think you might want to come have a look at it, just in case.”

            Vet sighed, “I’ll be there in a minute.”

            The walk to Don was long and empty. The late nights at the power plant used to scare Vet, but the ominous feelings had passed many shifts ago. His footfalls echoed down the lengthy corridors, the walls and ceiling thick with pipes and wires. Most of the power plant was underground, or at least partially so. The burial of the halls made them seem all the more lonely and separate from the outside world- vast caves of mechanical hums and concrete with sparse exits to the surface. It was like a maze, a maze that provided most of Los Angeles’ electricity.

            Don was leaning against the wall in the hallway when Vet finally made it to him. The older man’s face was tired and reflective. Vet knew he likely hadn’t slept in some time. The man was a machine. He was smoking a cigarette- something else the department of water and power didn’t approve of in the plant. Vet let it slide. He wouldn’t say anything if Don didn’t. As far as he was concerned, that cigarette was serving as buffer between Vet and an insane Don Gilreath. If it helped calm his nerves, damn the rules.

            Don said nothing as he nodded for Vet to follow him, just made a grunt low in his throat and started walking. They paused at a metal door and Don swung it to, letting Vet enter first. This part of the plant was old, very old. Vet was unsure how many pieces of equipment still functioned in this place. Most of the lightbulbs in the room were burnt out, leaving the room in a hot, buzzing haze, lit here and there by dirty bulbs on the walls. The ceiling was high. Vet looked up into the vaulted darkness and felt the weight one might feel in a cave- an unknown vastness lurking just beyond his line of sight. Don walked past him, his flashlight beam bobbing along the ground.

            He paused after a time and pointed to Vet, “See there? That box?”

            Vet came around him and looked. There was a box, roughly four feet tall and six feet across. A panel on its side was torn loose and wires spilled in robotic, writhing intestines from its insides. They looked chewed or cut. Something living had definitely made its mark.

            Don shrugged, “Thought you might want to look at it, see if we need to call the main office?”

            Vet kneeled and shined his own light on the box. They kept their distance. Electricity is a strange and parlous b***h. One minute she is powering your favorite television program, the next she is blowing up the tips of your toes through the ends of your boots. Vet pushed his right hand into his pocket and thumbed the quarter there- it was Arizona. His calloused fingers ran over the saguaro cactus and the thin lines of the rising sun as he thought. He often found himself thumbing a coin in his pocket; it was a pensive habit he’d had since adolescence.

            “Let’s wait until morning. Otherwise we’ll have to drag some poor b*****d away from             his family. It can’t be that bad. Nothing seems to be malfunctioning.”

            Don nodded, “Okay. Are you sure? I hope it’s nothing important.”

            Vet crossed his arms and glanced at Don, “Are you an engineer?”

            Don grinned, “No.”

            “Then we can’t tell s**t about it anyway. Let’s make a note of it and keep on. Look at   this place. It’s falling apart. It’s probably nothing. Even if it is, we can’t fix it.”

            Don ran his hand through his grizzled beard and put his flashlight back on his belt. Vet had always thought he looked a bit like a bear, tall and hirsute, always dressed in overalls. He was a simple man, someone who could’ve been a dad if he’d tried.

            “Maybe it was an animal. Think we should set some traps?”

            Vet tilted his head and looked at the mess of wires again, “It couldn’t hurt.”

            They left and returned with three cage traps. They separated and made rounds around the rusting machinery, checking for spore and finding the semi-abandoned room to be surprisingly clean. They set the traps and were just finishing when Don made a strange noise of alarm. Vet made his way around to investigate, when an equally strange smell assaulted him. It was sharp, the scent of burned plastic and chemicals that reached his eyes and made them water. He held a vain sleeve to his mouth to filter the smell, the stench growing by the second. A whirring sound was coming from somewhere in the middle of the room- not so much the sound of fans- more the sound of something overheating, the high, loud drone an airplane engine might make that just sucked in a piece of shrapnel.

            Veteran closed the gap between himself and the piece of machinery, a piece connected to the very box Don and himself had been contemplating earlier. Don was lying on the ground, a pool of black liquid beneath his body, his muscles jumping and jolting out of his power. He was being electrocuted in what looked to be a growing mere of oil. Vet quickly grabbed the wooden broom he had been using to test the traps and tried to pull Don’s body with it. There were emergency switches somewhere nearby, but Don would likely not survive in the time it took to reach them.

            He leapt over the electrified chemical spill and found the control panel, a poorly lit swathe of very similar-looking buttons. Only two switches were present and he chose the largest one, a red-handled lever that seemed the most promising. The room vibrated suddenly, sparks spitting from the console, the lights flaring and dying. Contrary to Vet’s supposition, the room sprung to life. Light bulbs shattered and burst around the room, the sound growing, the smell becoming unbearable. He flipped the switch back but the room continued to drone as if the console were broken entirely.

            He raced back to Don, the bear’s steaming body motionless. He was feeling dizzy, the smog of fumes overpowering him. He reached for the radio at his belt, mumbling incoherently about Don, the plant. Gordon Moore, the plant supervisor, spoke on the other end. Vet stumbled and was very suddenly on the ground, only feet away from the chemical spill. He pulled himself away, his limbs feeling heavy, that black ooze creeping closer and closer; he had the thought to tell Gordon to turn off the power to the east wing, and then he passed out.

           

 

            Gordon Moore’s thin, tall frame ran down the concrete halls in a panic. Veteran Gale’s voice exploded over his radio as he was steeped in his weekly paperwork. He shuffled papers maniacally, searching for the radio lost beneath them. He snatched the walkie from the desk and tried to reply, Gale’s voice rasping and screaming- the hum of machinery audible in the background. He had just stood to reach for his keys and glasses when the power flickered. He put on his glasses and grabbed a flashlight- then the room went black.

            Gale’s voice wavered, as if he weren’t pushing the button down all the way when he spoke; his words trailed off slowly, mumblings about Don, electricity, a leak of some sort. By the time Gordon had reached the bottom of the stairs in west wing, all that was coming from the radio were strings of moans and choking, labored breathing, then silence.

            Gordon had been on the track team in high school and he called on this experience as he ran. It was at least a half-mile run to east wing, the only sense of location he had gathered from Gale’s inane speech. He had no idea what room the men were in, the hazard they were facing, but it had to bad. It took a massive error to shut down the plant in such a way- catastrophic. The pitch blackness of the corridors were cut by his flashlight as he ran, the only sounds his breathing, his thunderous heartbeat.

            As he entered the east wing, a putrid smell assaulted him. It was a culmination of burned plastic, a seeping, chimeric mixture of chemicals- and a chilling overtone of seared meat. The halls were thick with a fog that hugged the ground and wisped around his ankles as he walked. Acting quickly, Gordon jogged down the main hall and found a ventilation switch. The backup generator to the plant started the fans and the horrible flux began to thin slightly, the vents pulling it outside.

            He indecisively began to search the east wing, room for room, calling to Gilreath and Gale, his glasses fogging in the steamy buildup, sweat sliding down his face- the air conditioning hadn’t kicked back on yet. He tried the radio over and over; nothing but static answered. He called emergency services, hoping he would have somewhere to direct them by the time they arrived. It was a long drive through the Hollywood Hills, a long wait.

            Finally, he came upon an open steel door. His flashlight scanned the large room, his heart sinking when the light fell upon a man’s boots. Gale was lying face down, unconscious. Further inspection revealed Don, his clothing charred in places, red burns on his neck, his face. He was on his back. A pool of foul-smelling chemical haloed his body. Carefully gripping Gilreath’s wrists, he pulled the large man from the spill until the oil smeared over the concrete several yards away. He looked as if he’s been electrocuted. His hair was a frizz, his lips blistered. Gordon knelt, fearing the cold, blunt silence of death beneath his ear instead of a heartbeat, but one was there, faint and fluttering. Don was somehow still alive.

            Relieved that the big bear’s heart hadn’t stopped, Gordon returned to Veteran. A trail of saliva oozed from Gale’s mouth as he rolled him over. The younger man’s body was limp, but living. Gordon stood, staring over his wards, and called emergency services again, telling them which entry to take, which door to enter. He would have to leave to unlock the door. Most of the entryways to the plant were locked at all times. This fact bothered him- what if one of them died while he was away? But he could do nothing more for them- their fates were set in stone.

            Gordon sat and started talking to Gale. He didn’t appear to be electrocuted. Gordon surmised that Gale had been overcome by the fumes; it seemed so at least, based on the radio evidence. He tried to revive Gale. He became increasingly aware that the smell of meat had been the smell of Gilreath’s burned skin; he checked on the bear again but his breathing was still the same, labored wisp. Suddenly, a cough alerted him to Gale, who rolled onto his side, hawking up a terrible gargle of slime and vomit.

            “Gale? Gale!”

            Gordon shook Veteran’s shoulder, the man’s eyes rolling back to whites and coming back to focus on his own. Gordon’s hands were trembling. He helped Gale to a sitting position, propping him against a barrel of sand. Suddenly, there was an awful rumble; the plant was trying to come back to life.

 

            Veteran’s eyes felt like course sand paper. He was aware of Gordon’s voice- that he was sitting now instead of lying down. His world existed in flickers and headache-inducing slides which marbled past and made him want to vomit again. He placed his hands over his eyes, cupping his face. Gordon was speaking rapidly, but none of his words seemed important. All he knew was that he hurt and he wasn’t entirely sure where he was.

            Gordon finally pulled one of his hands from his face. The mustached man gave him a flashlight and said something about an ambulance coming, that he would be back. Vet gave a slight nod, unsure about what was happening, but happy to agree.

            His head was clearing slowly. He recognized Don’s overalls lying on the floor near his feet as the lights struggled to come back on, the plant giving itself the paddles to start again. It was an ethereal, heavy progression, his waking.

             Footfalls came outside the door; an array of cleanly dressed medical personnel and Gordon flooded the room. A young nurse fell upon him and felt his wrist, shined a penlight into his eyes, prodded his ribs. He held his hands out in front of him to fend her off, but masculine hands pulled him from his feet and helped him over to a gurney. He protested, glancing over to Don. He didn’t look so hot. The nurse above him was shaking her head. Surely, that was a bad sign.

            He was wheeled quickly down the concrete hall, wiring taking up the bulk of his vision. They loaded him into the ambulance and closed the doors, the pretty nurse taking residence at his side. He had just tried sitting up to talk, the nurse trying to push him back down, when the ambulance hit a pothole- and he vomited down the entirety of her clean pants.

 

            Gordon picked Vet up from the hospital later that morning. His lungs were seared and his throat raw, but he was finally thinking clearly. Don wasn’t as lucky. He still hadn’t woken. Gordon told Vet the doctor was relatively sure the bear had brain damage and likely organ damage as well. He had been fried by an unknown voltage. He might die.

            Veteran leaned back in the car and let out a long, anxious sigh, “Gordon, did you see    him? Did the doc tell you he would make it?”

            An uncomfortable silence passed that spoke more than a reply.

            “Gilreath is in critical condition. The plant said they want a full report on what            happened. You have Christmas Day off.”

            Vet harrumphed and opened a slit of eye to look at Gordon, “How magnanimous of     them. Tell them I’ll write down what I remember.”

            Gordon ran a hand over the back of his head, the other on the wheel, “What did            happen? When you came over the radio and said something about Don, you        mentioned a box?”

            Vet looked out the window, his arms crossed, “Yeah, a f*****g box. Don found it and             we thought it wasn’t important; thought a critter was loose in there, set some traps. I         heard Don say something and then it all went crazy. He was on the ground when I             came around the corner. And Gordon…”

            “Yeah?”

            “I think there was another man in the room with us. I can’t be sure, but I saw   someone run past me when the fumes started to get me.”

            Gordon thought a moment, rolled down his window, and stuck his arm out. Cold air   flooded the cab. “Damn… Don.”

            Vet thumbed the quarter in his pocket, “Yeah. Damn.”

            Gordon’s blue Ford followed the winding hills. It felt odd going back to the plant, if only to pick up his black Chevrolet. The drive seemed longer, somehow, more sinister. It was nearly noon by the time the plant’s cooling tower came into view; everything seemed back to normal. The vehicles of the day shift workers dotted the parking lot.

            “Do you think you can drive?”

            Vet smiled, “Who do you think I am?”

            Gordon smirked beneath his mustache, “A lucky man.”

            “We’ll see about that. Hey Gordon?”

            “Yeah?”

            “Thanks for saving my a*s.”

            Exhaustion overcame Veteran as he walked into his house. Sleep came fitfully at first. It was hard to breathe. He tossed and turned and finally gave in to oblivion.

                        Christmas day- Veteran threw back the blankets and tossed his legs over the side of the bed. The chill of the air conditioning greeted him, kissing the sweat crawling between his shoulder blades. Sunlight streamed through his bedroom shades. He took a deep breath, the tremors of stress reverberating through his throat. It was the second time in a week he’d had the dream. It was the same as before in every way.

            He went into the bathroom and looked himself in the mirror. His face was scruffy, his eyes limned in red. Feeling restless, he decided to take a shower. He smelled of hospital antiseptic and illness and all manner of malodors. The hot water turned his back red, the pounding pressure trying to drive out the thoughts of the plant, the accident. He thought of Don, the man’s confused wife just one floor down. God, he hoped they hadn’t said anything to her.

            Vet slid down the tiled wall and closed his eyes, his knees to his chest. Could he have helped Don? Could he have done something to stop it? In some sick way his conscience told him that it was his fault- for suggesting the traps, for shrugging off the loose wires, for even touching that goddamn console.

            Swathed in guilt, he decided to check up on Mrs. Reyes, his next-door neighbor. No cars were visible in her driveway. Her annual family visit must’ve ended the night before. She was eighty-five years old and had thick dementia. She always seemed to remember him, though. She answered the door and hugged his neck, her jewelry clicking together as she waved him to come in. She was once a plump woman; her cheeks were still full and jubilant. On her nose was a pair of thick, round, seventies-style glasses. She sat in her La-Z-Boy recliner and linked her fingers together expectantly.

            “How are you Mrs. Reyes? How was your Christmas?”

            She scoffed, “I told you, John, you should call me Katherine. Mrs. Reyes sounds so      old, like a marrit woman.”

            “Well, you aren’t married anymore but…”

            He held his hands out in teasing mockery. Mrs. Reyes was the only woman he ever let call him by his foster home name. John was, in a way, his slave name. He’d chosen the name Veteran when he turned eighteen. He wanted no memory of his childhood.

            She rolled her eyes, “Ok. I’m old. I admit it. Oh!” She held up a finger and went to       the kitchen, returning with a banana, “I heard you had an accident at the plant. It was          in the paper this morning. Are you ok dear? And on Christmas too…”

            She handed him the banana and resumed her seat.

            “I’m ok. The man I work with was hurt pretty bad. Thanks for the banana.”

            She smiled and shuffled through a pile of mail on her cluttered side table, “Here.           Before I forget again; I have some mail that was supposed to go to you. I guess it flew   over to me. I should have given it to you last night.”

            Veteran stood to take the envelope and scowled, “Last night? I was working last            night, Mrs. Reyes. You know that.”

            She shrugged, “Well, you came by late last night after the kids left. You said you          needed to talk, that it was important. You stayed for some time, dear. Do you not          remember? Eliza had barely left a moment when you came to the door. Such a lovely           surprise…”

            Vet stared at her a moment in confusion. Her eyes trailed away from him and rested on the sunny windowsill.

            “I didn’t come by last night Mrs. Reyes. Are you sure it was me?”

            She looked back at him, “Oh, yes. He had the same haircut and the same silly piece of metal in his eyebrow. I think I’d know my favorite boy!”

            Veteran touched the industrial bar that ran through his right brow, “Did he ask you    anything? What did he say?”

            Mrs. Reyes shrugged and looked contemplative for a moment, then she rested her head on her chest and wiped at her eyes. She smiled, linked her fingers together, and asked if Vet would care for a banana.

 

            On December twenty-seventh, Vet returned to work. Don lingered in the hospital and Gordon seemed to hover over Vet, checking in on him repeatedly throughout his shift over the radio and even shadowing him after his lunch break. The grandfatherly supervisor seemed unglued by the incident even more than he was. The plant had given him a day shift to ease him back into work- less hours, more co-workers.

            After his shift, he returned home. He cleaned the house and took a short trip to the grocery store. He downed a fifth of Jamison and flipped on the TV. A Blues game rerun was on and he settled into the recesses of his couch. At one-thirty in the morning, the phone rang. He groaned and answered, “Hello?”

            The sound of breathing and a light chuckle came to him through the earpiece, a faint sound of another television in the background.

            “Hello? Who is this?”

            The Blues scored. The fans erupted; the buzzer sounded. Vet froze. An eerily similar sound echoed in the telephone. Intrigued, he muted his own television and listened. He was almost positive the caller was watching the same program. Spooked, he abruptly ended the call, wondering exactly who in the hell was calling him this late at night and juggling the odds that they were watching the same Blues game.

            The phone rang again two hours later, the same number lighting up Vet’s cellphone. He didn’t see the call. He had passed out on the couch…

 

            December thirtieth, Veteran drove into town to get fast food after his late shift. He swung by the hospital first. Don Gilreath was dead. He had suffered massive internal damage and had never woken up. He had died early the morning before. Lena died one day before him. It was as if they were linked to one another.

            He pondered this during the drive and pulled over just off Murphman road. He sat in his car and cried. At least they didn’t have to live without each other. He called Gordon and passed along the news, the supervisor’s voice cracking as he hung up. He never did go get something to eat.

                       

 

            On December thirty-first, Vet had to stop by the plant and go into town for gas. He was numb from the news of Don’s death. The higher-ups felt the need to bring him to the plant early in the morning. There was an inquiry active at the plant on whether or not he had followed procedure and there had been talk that he might be temporarily laid off during the investigation. He had submitted a note detailing all he could remember on the night of the accident.

            Gordon watched him write it, hands on his hips, uncomfortable. Gordon was a good man- even more a good friend. Another man, some attorney representing the plant, watched him too. The power outage had blackened almost half the city for several hours. It had been on the news, in the paper. He couldn’t leave the plant fast enough. He’d written his statement, handed it to Gordon, and quickly escaped to his truck.

            Vet was pumping gas later that morning when Nate Abernathy came to speak to him. Nate had retired from the plant only three years prior. He had also frequented the night shift and his eyes fell when they met Vet’s.

            Nate apologized and gave Vet his condolences, commenting on the decency of Don     Gilreath, “Well, at least you’re not isolating yourself. It was good to talk to you at    Berta’s the other day. Good to catch up. Take it easy, Veteran. If you need anything,           you call me.”

            Vet paused and nodded to the man. Nate slapped him on the shoulder and walked back to his truck. Berta’s? Berta’s was a hole-in-the-wall café on Franklin Street. He wasn’t a customer of Berta’s- he’d never even stepped inside- but somehow Nate Abernathy had seen, spoken to, and recognized him being there. His paranoia soared on his way home. He finished off the Jamison bottle, downed more than half a dozen cans of beer, watched three episodes of Supernatural, and fell asleep. He woke up around midnight to the sound of the Times Square ball drop. He didn’t watch it. He turned it off, his dreams riddled with fireworks and the occasional gunshot.

 

            January first, the first night of the year, Veteran was hung over enough the thought of food on his lunch break made him vomit in a trashcan. It was a mesh trashcan. His day dragged on and by the time he clocked out, he was pining for sleep. It was five-ten in the morning and his head felt cleaved. He had slept so much the past few days- he was still so exhausted. It was like some aura loomed over him, a sanguine entity whose hands were tightly vined round his soul.

            Veteran wiped his eyes, his hand tight on the wheel as he started home. His headache buzzed angrily. Luckily, there were very few cars to pass him. A set of headlights would be more than he could handle. The evening before, it had misted, a deep fog rising from the asphalt roads of the Hollywood Hills. His drive from the power plant was vague and eerie. The road appeared to be an endless track into a gray wall, the occasional tree or sign drifting by in an amalgam, ethereal dream. It was difficult to tell the precise point he occupied on the road, as if every mile were more drawn out than the last. It was purgatorial, a trip of emptiness.

            The radio broadcaster fizzled through ticks of static. Reception was spotty this far in the hills. Apparently, all of Los Angeles was covered in a blanket of mist. Veteran turned the dial on the radio, ambient, familiar songs coming through in quick, cut-off frequency as he rotated the knob.

            Lost in this prosaic action, he didn’t notice the fast-approaching figure in the road, the broad shoulders, the dark hair, the hominid shape. He was standing in the middle of the road in the middle line of Veteran’s bumper.

            He locked eyes with the man as he looked up, the wheel turning violently, slipping beneath his sweating hands. The black Chevy veered promptly, the stranger’s figure vanishing as the headlights found the trunks of trees, foliage snapping and licking the metal body of the truck, before buckling cyclonically in a storm of wood chips and soil. The windshield fractured into spider webs.

            Veteran’s jaw stamped painfully against the wheel, his headache atomically detonating in his skull. A constellation of stars flecked across his vision. The taste of blood coated the inside of his cheek where his teeth had ground into the soft flesh. Unsure of the rest of his body, the shock of the crash newborn, his muscles stiff, he sat a few minutes in silence. Smoke boiled from his transmission. His Chevy was totaled beyond recognition. The driver’s door creaked open. He tested his legs. They didn’t feel broken, but he knew his body was in shock. His knees wavered; his spine felt like a boiled noodle. He leaned against the cab of the truck. Heartburn roiled up his throat.

            Realizing he was standing in the dark, he stumbled back to the cab and searched for his cellphone. He found it in the floorboard. The screen was cracked but it was still working. He called for a tow and called the hospital, the numbers blurring beneath his fingers. He likely had a concussion. His head swooned and he closed his eyes. The sick sensation of falling accosted him and his gray eyes flew open with a sharp intake of breath. He definitely had a concussion.

            Fighting sleep, he made his way back to the road. A street lamp cut through the fog where he exited the woods. Tire tracks, branded into the asphalt by his grinding rubber, swerved over the pavement. A siren was faint, far away, blaring dully, far down the hill. He sat stiffly down on the asphalt shoulder, shaking.

            He had yet to think of the man in the road- the reason for his crash- but now the memory resurfaced. The man had looked like… No. He couldn’t be. He was delirious, hungover, injured, tired. Vet could see the lights of the ambulance, maybe a mile distant, maybe two, accounting for the twists in the road. As he watched the twinkling lights, he started. A figure was standing in his line of sight, just beyond the light of the street lamp.  He was tall, with dark hair, wearing a white tee and jeans.

            He did a double-take, but he was still there. The man smiled and walked into the light.

             The man kneeled several yards away, “Are you alright?”

            Veteran wiped his hands across his face. The man was an exact copy- of himself. It was like looking in the mirror. The doppelganger glanced towards the ambulance. Veteran observed him. He had scars on his upper-left shoulder that seemed to indicate a picture- they were in the same place as the inked tattoo on his own arm.

            The man grinned widely, “Foggy? Isn’t it?”

            The man’s voice sent a chill through Veteran. It was so much like his own soft, steady tenor- but off somewhat. The ambulance came around another bend, its lights growing closer. The stranger turned from him again. Vet looked at his face. There was a knot of scar tissue through the stranger’s brow- the piercing wasn’t there- but the mark was. Vet reached up and touched his own brow, his finger shaking over the twin piercing. This man was an exact replica- not a twin- but alike in every way. Every scar, every freckle; he even had flecks of gold in his gray eyes. He couldn’t see small details in the dim lighting, but he knew they were there- he knew as surely as they were present in himself.

            Vet leaned back, dazed, “Who are you?”

            The man gave his attention back to Vet, “You don’t know?”

            Veteran gawked openly at the man. The man’s finger twitched. He reached into his pocket and thumbed something. Veteran was sure it was a quarter. He was damned sure.

            The doppler fidgeted as the ambulance encroached.

            He stood, extending a hand out to Vet, “I’m John. Be seeing you around.”

            The stranger tilted his head slightly. He nodded once to Veteran- then disappeared into the darkness of the woods.

Author's Note

This is a workshop rough draft, so I'm sure there are several mistakes. If you spot one, let me know so I can correct it! Thank you. If you like this mystery, you’ll be pleased to know it will be getting new installments! Enjoy. Btw, this story is actually called "The Replicant" but error 001 didn't approve...