Followed East

by Andre Gonzalez

  They had moved all of Susan’s belongings into the pantry in the basement. The same freezer that served as a secret passageway to the underground panic room remained in place, a gentle reminder of what they had all gone through on that fateful day. Kyle often went down there anyway, sifting through the boxes of her old Crew notes and files. He had educated himself on the Exalls and the workings of the Crew. The history was rich, and reading through those six-inch-thick textbooks always kindled a flame in his soul.

  I actually do love this stuff, he thought. I’ve never felt this way about anything.

  “I’ll do that,” he said. “I’ll go down there right now. Thank you.”

  “Any time, son. I’ll be here if you need me.”

  Kyle ran down the stairs to the old pantry, boxes and tubs piled to the ceiling. In the back corner, on top of the freezer, was the box he looked through most. It had Susan’s personal journals, with her handwritten notes in sharp cursive. She had written in her journal on a weekly basis in the early 1970’s, and he flipped one of the journals open to a passage he recalled skimming over in the past.

  The entry was dated June 3, 1972.

  I’m terrified. The training has been grueling. I feel like a truck ran me over. There’s no end in sight, and I’m wondering if I made the wrong decision. I’ll see it through the end, though – I can’t quit in the middle of this program. The work is too important for the future of the world to ever stop. I’ve never had this much purpose in my life, or been so in demand. My life is taken care of. My future kids’ lives are taken care of. Even my grandkids will be set. I suspect my doubts are personal. I miss my husband, as we only see each other for a few hours each week. They promised it will change when training ends, but I imagine I’ll just have more work to do. Thankfully it’s meaningful and gets me out of bed in the mornings. Next week I’ll probably be laughing about all of this – my dream life is just a few days away. I know it will all work out for the best.

  Kyle ran his fingers down the old, crisp pages, feeling his grandmother’s presence in the ink. She had written this particular note before Travis had even been born. He didn’t know her exact age, but she was definitely at a point in her life where making such a decision would have changed her entire future.

  Deciding between a regular life and a set future as a Crew member seemed a no-brainer on the surface. He was just becoming observant of his parents’ stress of balancing jobs and life, although much of that had vanished after the inheritance.

  Kyle still planned on taking his time to think the decision over, but the choice appeared to be leaning in favor of acceptance. He just needed that final push to convince himself that it was okay to give up the rest of his teenage years to have a life like no one else.

  3

  Chapter 3

  The sun set later that night, bringing a cool breeze over the eastern plains of Colorado. Dr. Hudson Klemens and his friend, Brian Carsner, had been hiding since destroying Brian’s middle school in 2016 and killing all of those pesky preteens in the process.

  “It’s time,” Dr. Klemens said, an evil grin spreading across his gray face, black teeth revealed under the moonlight. “Time to ride.”

  He howled, loving the solitude they possessed in the middle of nowhere. They had lived in a tent thirty miles north of Stratton, Colorado, no longer requiring food or sleep, just spending their days dreaming of the future.

  They were glad to have found each other, undergoing their complete transformations together. They had to learn their new way of life, mold new abilities that made them feel like their heads might explode any second. If they stepped into a crowded area like a restaurant, the sounds of dozens of voices screamed within their heads.

  It had happened to them on the first night they decided to go out after learning how to morph their bodies into their original human versions. They had driven down to Stratton for dinner at the only diner in town. For a town with a population of 600, a good five percent of that crammed into the small restaurant to chow down burgers and malts. When they stepped in, the voices hit them like a water balloon to the face and they immediately turned around and left.

  “What the hell was that?” Dr. Klemens asked, rubbing his temples.

  “You heard that, too? There weren’t that many people to make that much noise, were there?” Brian replied, both hands grasping his head.

  “No, of course not. That sound was coming from within. I could feel it in my head.”

  They headed back to their tent, fortunate to not have to eat thanks to their new Exall bodies. They didn’t require food or air, but that didn’t stop them from craving the old foods that they had grown fond of during their lives as humans.

  It wasn’t until they were visited by a fellow Exall—by complete surprise—later that week that they learned of the other gift they had inherited. The voices in their heads belonged to all of those people in the restaurant, and Brian had damn near shit his pants learning he had the ability to hear everyone’s conversations. Their visiting friend, who opted to not share his name, gave them insight on how to manage the voices when stepping into a full room. It took many brain exercises to learn how to compartmentalize their minds, creating a filter of sorts that pushed the voices aside, yet still allow them to zone in on specific conversations.

  The Exall, who insisted his name wasn’t important, assured them more knowledge awaited, but would come in due time. “You just need to stay under the radar for now,” he told them. “The humans have ways of tracking us, and they definitely know about those of us who remain on this planet in between our Explorations. For some reason, they leave us alone. I’ve wandered this planet for more than 200 years and have never been bothered. But once the others land, they decide it’s time to break into war. I’ll never understand the aggression.”

  Brian reminded the doctor of this particular encounter, stressing the need to not make any moves until they received word to do so.

  “You can sit here if you want, Brian. But I’m not gonna wait around for thirty years until they decide they want to have some fun. Besides, did you miss the part when he told us they want to plan bigger things for those of us on Earth? We know this world, it’s ours. I take that as an invite to do whatever we want. I don’t know about you, but I’ve never felt so strong. So pure. I feel like I drank 100 gallons of adrenaline—and I feel that way all the time. Don’t you want to go fuck shit up?”

  “I feel it too, but I don’t want to disobey him. We don’t know if they’re watching us, or what they’ll do if they catch us.”

  “That’s very cute of you. I guess I can’t be surprised – what are you, ten years old?” The doctor threw his head back and howled again. “When you shot that old lady, you made your choice. You’re in this whether you like it or not. And I know you feel what I feel. Don’t you love not ever having to sleep or eat? What a waste of time those things were.”

  “Sure, but we don’t do anything with our time.”

  “Aha!” The doctor raised a finger in the air. “And that’s why I’m ready to head out and spread our good news.”

  “Good news?”

  The doctor’s grin returned. “We need to let the world know that the Exalls are here and we’re not going to play nice.”

  “You’re going to get us killed. You know they have special bullets to kill us? Did you not read any of the information he left for us?”

  “Why would I read anything when I feel like God? Brian, we can turn ourselves into our human selves and walk around like nothing ever happened. You could go home and raise all kinds of hell just by walking down the street. People will think they’re seeing a ghost! I can read and control people’s minds. Why the fuck do I need to read that giant folder he left us?”

  Brian shook his head. “You know, I thought you were the adult among us, but I wonder sometimes. You’re stupid like a teenager. You act like I should, not like an educated doctor.”

  “Get off your high horse and have some fun, kid. You think I like
d being a doctor? Giving sixteen or more hours out of my day just to save people’s lives? It killed me from the inside out. I was a walking zombie. And now . . . I’m a zombie who can’t be killed.”

  “WE CAN BE KILLED!” Brian snapped. “Stop thinking we’re invincible. They will hunt us down and kill us.”

  “You can live here in fear. But I’m going out into the world.” Dr. Klemens jumped up from the small lawn chair outside of their tent. “I suggest you come with me, and channel that beast living inside of you. There’s no need to hold back. That Exall told us they want to increase our population, so let’s go make it happen.”

  The doctor lunged into the tent and returned with the car keys in hand. They had stolen a pickup truck in Denver shortly after the attacks in Larkwood, and parked it in the field. They were a good five miles away from the nearest road where no one could ever find them. The closest ranch was ten miles away as they nestled into an area of land deserted of vegetation, animals, or people.

  “We’re going tonight. Let’s just head into town, see what kind of action we can find, and have some fun. Think of all the possibilities we have now with our abilities.”

  Brian chased him to the truck. He had no intent on staying overnight by himself. Even though he trusted his body’s new capabilities, his mind still belonged to that of the 16-year-old boy who had been jerked out his life at the age of twelve, and used like a remote-controlled robot to kill his best friend’s grandmother. Somewhere back in Larkwood his friends continued on with their lives, scarred by the tragedy, but living as humans. They would all be on summer break between their junior and senior years, probably playing baseball all summer, dating girls, and making out with them in the backseat of their cars. He often looked up to the stars, knowing that in some alternate universe where none of this happened, his life carried on with them as well.

  “Let’s go!” the doctor shouted, firing up the engine of their Ford pickup. Brian climbed in and strapped his seat belt over his chest by habit. They no longer felt pain. They could get in a car accident, fly through the windshield, and not feel a thing. Just stand up and walk away like they had tripped on their shoelaces. He understood why the doctor felt the urge to live a carefree life now that they had been liberated from everything that made being a human so painful, but he still feared what the humans could do.

  He had escaped from Susan’s house that day just in time. Had he hung around any longer, The Crew would have captured and killed him. Lights out for Brian, ladies and gentlemen.

  But it hadn’t happened in their four years hiding out. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, the doctor was right. They were likely safe from any attacks. Even in the middle of nowhere, they had been left alone. Killing the two of them would be easy—no one in the general public would ever know. Their remote location could have worked against them, but the only person—or thing—to visit them was the other Exall.

  The doctor drove out of the field, screaming, “We’re going to tear this town to fucking pieces! LET’S GO!”

  Dr. Klemens had many moments that reminded Brian of a person with Turrets Syndrome, especially when he drove, all fear dissipated, pedal to the ground as they sped down the country roads at 120 miles per hour.

  This night was no different as they skidded onto the main road, the quiet town waiting a short fifteen-minute drive away.

  4

  Chapter 4

  Every Wednesday night locals packed the Eagle’s Landing Sports Bar and Grill in Stratton. The bar offered their best drink specials on this day: two-for-one shots, three dollar beers, four dollar well drinks. Most people stopped by for a quick drink after work before returning home to their families, but there were always a dozen or so who stayed all night to take full advantage and obliterate their minds.

  This group grew close over time, to the point they expected to see each other every week for this ritual. They all sat around the bar, leaving the dining room open for anyone who wasn’t part of this alcoholic cult to sit and not disturb their good time.

  A handsome man, probably in his early forties, walked in with a tall, skinny teenage boy. The bell above the door chimed, causing everyone at the bar to look over their shoulders and see who was barely arriving at 10 P.M.

  John Chambers, the owner of Eagle’s Landing, came out from behind the bar to greet his guests. “Evenin’, folks. Were you looking for a late dinner?” John, who would turn sixty later in the year, looked the pair up and down, moving a toothpick from side to side below his thick, black mustache. Most of the locals dressed like John: jeans, button-up shirt, boots, and a cowboy hat. These two men were clearly from out of town in their athletic pants and t-shirts. Likely some uppity father and son from Denver, passing through on a road trip to some other big city like St. Louis or Dallas.

  “Good evening, sir,” the presumed father said. “Yes, my son and I are looking for a quick bite. We saw your neon lights from the highway and thought we’d give it a look-see. It’s been a long day.”

  “Where you folks coming from?” John asked, laying out a couple of menus on a table.

  “We were visiting some family in Nebraska, headed back to Denver tonight.”

  “I see. Well, our kitchen is still open for another hour, so please take a look and give me a shout when you know what you want. Can I get you a drink from the bar, sir?”

  “I’d love one. Pour me your finest scotch.”

  “And for you, young man?” John turned his attention to the teenage boy.

  “Coke is fine, thank you.”

  The boy seemed to not want to be there. Perhaps he was just tired – sitting in a car for hours did no good to young people who had so much energy to expel on a daily basis.

  “Very good. I’ll be right back with those drinks for you gentlemen.”

  John returned to the bar to top off everyone’s drinks and pour the fresh ones.

  The father and son sat at their table, the boy glancing suspiciously around the room.

  “Why are we doing this?” the boy whispered to his pretend father. “These people are just minding their business. Leave them alone.”

  “We’re doing our job, expanding our brand. Don’t you want there to be others like you and me? Or do you want just the two of us forever? Because that’s what I think their plans are for us.”

  “You know where we are. These people probably have guns.”

  “Let them shoot us – nothing happens! You worry too much, son.” The father cackled as he slapped the top of the table, getting the attention of everyone at the bar for a brief moment.

  John returned with their drinks. “Did you gentlemen decide on something to eat?”

  “Yes, sir,” the father said. “We just want a couple orders of burgers and fries. Put all the good stuff on it. Also, is that a real jukebox over there?” He nodded to the far corner of the room where an obvious jukebox stood, its lights flashing and tempting the man to come over.

  “Sure is. Do you need any change?”

  “I have some. We don’t see too many of those in Denver, and the ones we do have are all electronic. You still have a classic one with actual records. I’m impressed.”

  “Yeah, they don’t make ’em like her anymore. She’s from 1968 and has all the classics. Still runs like she’s brand new, too.”

  “I’ll definitely give it a look,” the father said, grinning, winking across the table.

  “Perfect, I’ll get those burgers started right away.”

  John left them, and the father leaned in toward the boy. “What do you say we have a little fun before the party starts?”

  He stood from the table, chair screeching against the floor, and skipped across the room to the jukebox. He didn’t give a shit about the music inside; he only wanted to see how loud the machine would go. Currently, a TV behind the bar blared Fox News as the only noise in the building.

  He placed his hands over the glass case, telepathically flipping through the books of records until he landed on Frank Sinatra’
s “Luck Be A Lady”, and started the machine. Sinatra crooned the opening line, and he cranked the volume dial as far right as it would go. When the trumpets started blaring, the song boomed through the bar, getting the attention of every single person who had swiveled around to see the strange man swaying side to side in front of the jukebox.

  “Hey, buddy!” one of the patrons yelled. “Some of us are trying to have a conversation over here.”

  The man at the jukebox looked to the bar, but couldn’t hear a thing they were yelling at him. The music drowned out every other sound in the world. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as the boy stood from the table and ran to the opposite side of the room toward the bathroom door. The father cupped a hand behind his ear, craning his neck as if trying to hear the screaming patrons.

  John burst out of the kitchen, his hands in the air, shouting, “Shut it off! Shut it off!”

  The man grinned, showing pearly white teeth, shaking his head. He turned back to the jukebox, placed his hands on the glass, and raised the volume to the level of an outdoor concert. Silverware vibrated on the tables, and one of the neon beer lights hanging on the wall fell to the ground with a crash that would never be heard.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” John screamed, his words falling on no one’s ears. He crossed the bar and was making his way to the jukebox.

  The father pivoted to see John’s hands balled into fists, charging for him. A fat man from the bar had jumped out of his seat and trailed behind John. “What the fuck is your problem?” someone shouted, and although the actual words were lost behind Sinatra’s singing, the father could hear them in his head.

  John lunged at the man with his fist leading the way, swinging and missing, sending him flailing off balance into the jukebox. His fingers fumbled across the dials, but caused no changes to the volume.

  The fat man jumped forward, arms extended in front of him like a drunken bear. The father lowered his shoulder and rammed it into the fat man’s belly, pushing him back. One thing he had recently learned was how to rally together all of the strength in his body and focus it on one target; in this instance, placing the bullseye on the fat man’s gut. It felt like hitting a trash bag full of water balloons, his shoulder sinking into the man’s stomach, pushing the years of food and alcohol out of place as he flew backward like he had been tasered.