“Why? After all that happened.…”
“Because it’s real over there,” she said seriously. “Is it ‘real’ here in Los Angeles? Hollywood? It’s all make-believe; it’s all bullshit illusion, people living fantasies and virtual lives. I don’t want that. I grew up here, I know that life, and it’s not for me. I don’t know what I want, but I never felt more alive in war than I ever have. Here, it is all ‘reel’—spelled like the spool is moving pictures.”
Yet three weeks later, she informed me that she was now having second thoughts about reenlisting because she was officially in love with my sorry dreamer’s ass. I didn’t know how to respond to that; you never do when someone says, “I love you,” and you do not love them back. “No need to answer, TV boy,” she said, fingers on my lower lip, “what I feel has nothing to do with what you feel, and I can wait.” Wait for what? I was fond of her, she was great to talk to and have sex with, but I had only known her for seven weeks and I was more occupied with getting a staff writer’s job on a new hit science-fiction show than getting involved; if I landed the job, I wouldn’t have the free time to see her as I did as an unemployed writer.
Then we had our first big fight. It was about a camping trip she and her sister had planned, a week in Big Bear; her sister was bringing her fiancé and Allison wanted to know if I would join them.
“A week?” I said. “A weekend, maybe, but Allison, I’m sorry, I can’t do a whole week out of the city.”
She wasn’t pleased with my response. “Why not?”
“I can be called into a meeting last minute,” I told her. “I have pitches out there, I’m up for this staff position. I have to be in the city.”
“Company town,” she said with distaste.
“You know how it is. Look, I’ll go two days, Saturday and Sunday.…”
“And leave me alone with my sister and her future husband?”
“The best I can do.”
“Is it because of what I said?” she asked. “Confessing I love you?”
“What? No.”
“I can see it in your eyes.”
“See what?”
“I don’t expect you to love me back yet, but I expect you not to lie to me and pull bullshit!”
“Allison,” I said, and then I got it: her flattened palm into my nose. I felt the blood flow. I don’t know what happened; it was in her eyes: she was not the same person, she was a mad woman, or a soldier, and she had a serious intent to hurt me. She used whatever hand-to-hand combat training she had been given and did some serious damage to my body, hiding her hands and feet, kicking and punching and chopping and screaming, calling me every name in the book. “Kidnap and torture me?!?” she yelled, and I felt a rib crack as I went to the ground. She was not here in Los Angeles; she was somewhere back in the Middle East, reliving a moment of violence, and I was not the guy she was dating, but an insurgent who had to be taken down.
And down I went.
II.
I woke up in my bed and every inch of my body hurt, like Godzilla had stepped on me a few times, treating me like Little Tokyo. She must have put me in bed after she knocked me out. I could hear her in the living room, pacing about, talking to herself.
I reached under the bed, where I kept a .38 snub nose in a shoebox for intruders. There are a lot of criminals in Los Angeles. I checked the chamber and made sure the six rounds were there. I had been on the firing range, and my Dad had taught me how to shoot.
I limped to the living room, wondering if she had broken my foot. Determination and self-preservation kept me moving.
She stopped pacing when she saw me. “Oh, God, Brad,” she said. “I’m so sorry what I did. I don’t know what happened—I snapped, and.…”
She saw the gun I was pointing at her.
“Brad?”
“Get out of my apartment,” I said as calmly as I could.
“I don’t understand.”
“Get out of my home, and get the hell out of my life, you psychopathic bitch.”
Her eyes became hard. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I don’t know what happened to you,” I said, “but you’re nuts, and I want nothing of it. Look what you did to me.”
She stepped forward. “I can explain.”
I didn’t give her a chance. I fired three times, all in her chest.
III.
I poured myself three shots of vodka. I wasn’t aware of the pain in my body now that I had a dead body to contend with.
I considered what to do. Call the cops? Would they believe me? Soldier goes crazy, uses the karate chops, I had to shoot her. Or would I get fifteen years for manslaughter? I had plans, dreams, schemes. Even if the D.A. agreed it was self-defense, the scandal would ruin me; no studio wanted to hire a writer who’d shot a woman, justified or not.
I used to surf in Malibu when I first moved to Los Angeles. I still had two boards, and two surfboard bags. Allison fit into of the bags; I had to bend her body some, using gloves on my hand; I got her in there, zipped the bag up, carried the bag over my shoulder down to the garage and placed her in the trunk.
No one saw me.
I had no idea what I would say if anyone did.
IV.
I drove toward Malibu. It was past midnight. I kept to the speed limit. I stopped off at a canyon on the way. No one was on the road. I parked, opened the trunk, and dumped her body into the canyon.
Driving home, I went through my story for when Wendy reported to the cops her sister was missing more than twenty-four hours.
“I was expecting her to come by,” I would say, “and she never did.
“No, everything was going great.
“We panned a weekend trip with her sister and fiancé.
“I’m really worried about her.
“Did you ask the Army? Maybe she went back.…”
And when someone found the body…?
I couldn’t think that far.
V.
I slept for two days; then met my agent for lunch. He had a meeting set up for me with Harold Croker, head of a new cable station looking for quality material. “Get your best pitches ready,” said agent. Normally, I would have been excited, but the only thing on my mind was Allison Bennings’ body: when they would find it, what I would say when the cops came around.
But there were no cops for now, and what I found strange was that Wendy had not called or come around asking where her sister was.
I found out why when I got home.
Allison was there.
She was cooking dinner, some sort of stuffed bell pepper. She had opened a bottle of wine.
“Bet you didn’t know I was an awesome cook,” she said. “I thought I’d make us something special for our two-month anniversary.”
She looked fine: no gunshot wounds, no bruises from being tossed into a canyon. She was more chipper than she usually was, the Allison I had known. It was obvious I had no idea who this woman was. I killed her again when she slept, after we had made curious tender love, no rough stuff. I took a pillow, put it over her face, pulled the trigger twice. I used the second surfboard bag and did the same as before: bundled her into it, took her to the canyon, tossed her down. “Let’s see you climb back up with two bullets in your brain,” I muttered into the darkness of the earth.
VI.
The next day she called and asked if I had a sleeping bag for our trip to Big Bear. “I have an extra, and a tent, if you need it. I’ll come by at seven, okay? I have a surprise for you. I want to cook you dinner. Well I guess it won’t be a surprise now, huh? See you then, Brad. Love ya!”
I didn’t even contemplate how weird this was getting. All I knew was that I was going to get it right; I was going to kill her for good this time. I would put six bullets into her body, then reload the pistol and put six more into her carcass. I would chop off her head and bury it in the desert and put her body in a different canyon.
It was five o’clock and I heard someone opening the door to my apartment. She
had gotten in before; she must have made a copy of my key. Why was she here early? No matter, I would kill her now rather than later.
A middle-aged man with a bald head, wearing a military uniform, stood at the opened door and smiled at me.
“Hello, Mr. Thompson.”
I pointed the gun at him.
“No need for that, Mr. Thompson.”
Someone was behind me. Before I could turn, I felt a needle pierce my neck and my knees gave way, I felt like jelly and I laughed at the man’s bald head and asked, “Where did all your hair go?”
VII.
I came to sitting on the living room couch, still smiling. The man in the uniform sat across from me, and another bald man, twice the size and half the age as the uniform guy, and wearing a dark sweater and black jeans, stood to the right of me, a syringe in his hand. He was waiting.
“How do you feel, Mr. Thompson?” asked the man in the uniform.
“Strangely, pretty good. This is some happy drug you gave me.” I felt calm, at ease, wanted to giggle.
“We gave you something to relax you, and so that your mind will be more receptive to what I am about to say.”
“Lay it on me, General Feel Good,” I said and giggled.
“That would be Colonel, son,” he said, serious. “You murdered one of our operatives, two units destroyed, in fact. Allison seemed to be happy dating you. So what happened? Are you a serial killer and our file on you was all wrong?”
“She’s the nutcase,” I said. “She snapped on me, acting like she was back in the Middle East and I was the enemy. She beat the crap out of me. I thought she was going to snap for good and do me in, so I protected myself.”
“Hmm. What triggered her ‘alter’?”
“Her what?”
“What made her violent?”
“We had an argument. Nothing big, but she wigged out.”
“She’s a trained killer. A weapon.”
“And I was sleeping with her,” I said, finding it funny.
“Here’s the situation, son: Allison Benning was created by me and my team. We took a young enlistee and played with the wetware and made us what they call a ‘super soldier.’ But losing such a unit, all that money and time and training put in, well, we had to ensure the weapon would remain intact should something unfortunate happen. So we cloned her, her and many others. Whenever one unit is terminated, a new one is automatically switched on. The memories of the dead one get transferred to the new one. I won’t go into all the details of this technology because you’d need a clearance I couldn’t get, and you wouldn’t understand it. Hell, I barely do myself. All I know is that you killed two Allison units and they were replaced. We can’t afford you killing a third, the one heading over here at seven.”
“I almost believe you,” I said.
“You got any other explanation why the woman you murdered keeps coming back?”
“Y’got me there. Say,” I giggled, “aren’t you telling me top secret stuff? You’re not going to kill me now, or wipe my memory are you?”
“What good would that do? You became part of an experiment, Mr. Thompson. We wanted to see if our super soldiers could reintegrate themselves back into society. After all the programming, training, and experience, could the originals or copies return to their old lives, or become civilians? We were pleased about the relationship, and that she had fallen in love, because it looked like it would be a success: she would return to civilian life, but always be ready to go on a mission if we needed her…or her clone.
“So, instead of terminating your function, Mr. Thompson, I want to make you a deal you cannot refuse, and the drugs we put in you should make the deal sound feasible and sweet, You will continue your relationship with Allison Benning, You will refrain from any arguments that will trigger her alter—the super soldier, as it were. You will make her happy, marry her perhaps, have children.”
“That’s asking a lot,” I said. “Am I supposed to do it as a patriotic duty?”
“Not at all; we will give you something in return. Something that you desire more than anything else.”
“Yeah? What? Strawberry ice cream? ’Cause I’d sure love me some right now.” Giggles, giggles, ha, ha. What the hell had they given me?
“In a few days you have a meeting with Harold Croker, a powerful new player in Tinsel Town, and one of ours. On your desk you will find a proposal for a new TV show. A TV show that will get the green light and be a hit. A TV show that will make you rich and allow you to create more TV shows down the line—an important executive producer and showrunner, with his beautiful wife Allison at his side.”
“And if I reject that life?”
“We erase you. Your choice.” He nodded at the other bald man in the suit, who moved to inject me in the neck with the syringe.
VIII.
I found myself sitting at the table with Allison, eating the linguini and baked potato she had prepared.
“Well?” she said.
“It’s wonderful,” I said.
“A woman who can cook! A soldier and a chef,” she said, grabbing my hand.
“A keeper,” I heard myself saying, groggy and stifling one last giggle.
IX.
The pages on my desk were quite curious, and something I might have thought up myself: a group of soldiers who believe the government enhanced them in a secret program band together to learn the truth, and help others in need along the way. They were called the Idyllwild Group.
What the hell. I took it and pitched it to Croker along with three of my ideas. I thought it was a good pitch meeting. My agent called ten minutes after I left Croker’s office on Wiltshire and Santa Monica, as I was about to get on the freeway and return to Allison, who was waiting for me, our camping gear packed.
“You certainly made an impression, Brad,” said the agent. “Croker wants to buy The Idyllwild Group right off, and for half a million. Can you believe that? Hey, what is this storyline anyway? You never drove it past me. Never mind, he wants to go for it and get it on the fast track for his Fall season line-up. This could be big, buddy. You were on your A-game and it paid off. Now go out and celebrate.”
Yeah, I could go along with this life change, and everything else in the deal.
I felt damn patriotic.
X.
Allison and I finished packing and headed to Big Bear with her sister and fiancé, who also happened to be in the Army, and bore a strong resemblance to the fellow in the black jeans who had injected me with the wonder drugs. But he wasn’t bald, and that toupee was impressive. I took it in stride. They had to keep an eye on the merchandise.
It was going to be a nice week, I knew it; and maybe a nice life. Sure, I could marry this soldier girl, and if I ever got tired of her, and decided to kill her again, she would simply come back to me, bright shiny new.
I would have more Allisons than I’d ever know what to do with.
—November, 2012
Tijuana, México
SIX DAYS APART
I.
They appeared six days apart from one another. That wasn’t too bad; they were told the uncontrollable variables could be anywhere from ten seconds to ten months, and in the early days of the Transmigration, couples who went together could be separated up to ten years—one had to wait a long time for a partner to show up.
Bethany and Gabriel Morton did not arrive in the same cities, either. Bethany appeared, naked, in the middle of a busy beachside intersection in San Diego, California, while Gabriel appeared, equally nude, in the living room of a large house in West Hollywood.
II.
Cars swerved, avoiding Bethany. People on the sidewalk stopped and gawked like they had never seen a naked woman appear out of mid-air. The twenty-first century is a strange place, thought Bethany. She inhaled the stale air and looked up at the bright blue sky. It was a warm southern California day.
The police arrived. One officer put his jacket around her, covering her body, which she found a bit amusing.
III.
Gabriel popped into a home where a family was watching television: a husband and wife and two teenage daughters who giggled and pointed at Gabriel’s genitals and muscles.
The adult woman screamed. The man went to a closet and removed a shotgun and pointed it at Gabriel.
“Please,” said Gabriel, “I mean you no harm.”
“You’re trespassing and intruding,” the man said. “Who do you think you are?”
“I apologize greatly.”
“He’s a real live time traveler, Daddy!” one of the teenage girls said.
“Is that true?” the man asked the sudden intruder.
“Yes,” Gabriel said. “I’m a transmigrator.”
“You future people have no sense of decorum,” the man said with distaste, lowering the shotgun. “You show up anywhere you want without a stitch of clothes.”
“Again, I apologize,” said Gabriel.
“Dear,” the man said to his trembling wife, “go get one of my dress shirts and a pair of slacks. We’re about the same size, him and me.”
She nodded and left the room, her body still shaking from the surprise.
“For Pete’s sake,” the man said, pointing the shotgun at Gabriel’s crotch, “cover yourself, sir; show some modesty—you’re standing in front of my little girls.”
“Oh, it’s okay, Daddy,” one teenage daughter said, rolling her eyes. “Like I’ve never seen.…” She stopped, as if letting her father know too much about what she has or has not seen in her fourteen years was a good idea.
“He’s hot,” said the other, who was fifteen.
They giggled and admired Gabriel’s form and parts.
“Enough of that,” the father said.
The wife returned with some clothes; she handed them outward, not looking at the naked man as her daughters were. Gabriel quickly dressed.
“Thank you,” he said, and he was indeed grateful (mostly that the man had not shot him on sight, which Gabriel heard had happened on occasion).
The Chronotope and Other Speculative Fictions Page 3
