The Humanist

by Kenneth James Allen

  I return to the bedroom, which is surprisingly spacious. I’m not sure if that’s due to the size of the area or because of the lack of other objects in it. Sonja is there, leaning back on the bed, inviting me to her. She talks to me, asks me some very deep questions, and I respond in kind.

  “Of course,” I respond.

  I remove my coat, discard it unceremoniously in the corner of the room, and yank the file out of the back of my pants. The corner is dogeared from forcing it into my briefs. The mattress gives way under me as I sit next to Sonja, its springs having given up long ago.

  “What was that?” I muse.

  Sonja replies.

  “Oh, well,” I state. “I’m hoping this’ll give some information about what they want. If I can find out what they want, I can do something with it.”

  Sonja speaks.

  “Yeah, I know it looks boring.” I sigh. “I can’t do anything about that.”

  I open the cover. My photo is attached to the inside cover with a paper clip, along with some of my vitals: name, address, the usual bullshit.

  Parents: deceased.

  Guardians: numerous.

  The bulk of the file begins with what looks like an official, albeit unfinished, psychiatric report. I skim the verbiage, noticing “Dissociative Identity Disorder” in the middle of a paragraph.

  “What? This can’t be,” I say, gripping the folder.

  ...

  “Because it just can’t,” I retort. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  ...

  “Well, I’ve started now,” I say. “So, I might as well read the rest of it.”

  There is a list of names listed down the center of the otherwise blank page: Jason, Sloan, Atlas, Stone, and so on. The inventory concludes with Sonja and Tessa. Recognition hits like a scud missile, then just as quickly, falls apart like broken glass. Sand through the hourglass. Who the fuck are these people and what have they got to do with me?

  At the bottom of the page is: “Jet”

  Once more—flashes. A footstep on the stairs. A knife in my hand. Bodies. Blood. Whimpering. Letters. Numbers. Gone, replaced with confetti, like the photographs were torn into tiny pieces and thrown into the air. It makes me feel sick, like I’m in a wildly accelerating car that brakes suddenly. It jolts me. I’m getting nauseous.

  I run to the bathroom. Bugs scatter as I hover over the bowl, screeching like a wild animal, but nothing comes up. It sits in my throat—stomach acid limbo. I spit, hit the flush, and watch it swirl in the water.

  I’m wiping my mouth as I return to the bedroom. I lay down, hands over my eyes.

  “Who the fuck is ‘Jet’? Who are these people? I don’t get it.”

  I wait for a reply but don’t get any. A few more deep breaths and I sit up, satisfied my stomach has steadied itself. I return to the folder, eager to see more, concerned with how it’s going to affect me.

  “What do you want to do?” I ask.

  ...

  “Really? Do you think that’s practical?” I say, raising an eyebrow.

  ...

  “Well, of course. Finding out is number one on the list.”

  ...

  “No, that’s like number four or something,” I announce.

  I flick through the bulk of papers, each subsequent page blank, save for some handwritten scrawls over them. Words like bipolar, time, schizophrenia, forgetfulness, map, key. The rest of the pages are blank...except for the last page.

  It’s not blank, nor pristine in its condition. It is brown, tattered. Parts of the edging are missing. It reminds me of a pirate’s treasure map. There are numerous fold lines, deep crevasses in the paper. But it’s what’s on the paper that is far more intriguing and interesting than the paper itself. Numbers. Characters. Sequences. Combinations. They’re written in every direction, in every size. Every listing has been drawn over several times, uneven, crossing lines filling the page. Lines bridge characters together, so that one sequence could change tack and join the beginning of another sequence running in a different direction.

  I stare at it, waiting for it to tell me something. But it doesn’t. It’s a jumbled mess of scribble, and I’m not sure why it’s included in the file or even who created it. The writing isn’t familiar. And the more I stare, the more I imagine the biro gushing black rivers in the valleys, staining the world. The more I stare, the more I feel myself slipping away. Safely. Quietly. Peacefully.

  I blink and shake my head, feeling rested yet tired at the same time. I look around the room. “Why the hell am I here?”

  Sonja comes into view. “What the hell are we doing here?”

  Where else would we be?

  “I can’t argue with that. Why are you here?”

  Because you need me.

  “I do, I absolutely do.” We look at each other, connected. “Sonja?”

  Yes?

  “Why am I here?”

  You need to find out. Help the others.

  “I...I can’t. I can’t do that.”

  You can. You absolutely can.

  “Are you sure?”

  You have what they want.

  “I’m scared.”

  You’re not alone. But you must do this. You must seek the truth.

  “What is the truth?”

  That’s an excellent question.

  “That doesn’t help!”

  You’ll find it. Just be careful.

  I trudge down the stairs with some dollars in my pocket and the file tucked once more in the back of my pants. The lock on the door looked feeble, and I couldn’t trust it, so I figure the file best stay with me for the moment.

  Frank has his back turned; a phone receiver mashed to his ear. The cord is wrapped around him. Had he been practicing a pirouette while on the phone?

  “Yes, I’m damn sure it’s him!” he states in a hushed tone. “Listen, just be as unhelpful as possible, that’s all I’m saying... Yeah, just like you always are!”

  I clear my throat. He turns, drops the phone, and attempts to free himself from his binds.

  “Can—can I help you?” His voice is scattered, like handful of dice thrown down a flight of stairs.

  “Frank!” I shout, a little too exuberantly. I approach the desk, leaning onto it like a Burmese nestling into someone’s lap. “I’m looking for an internet café or something like that. Somewhere I can get on the internet, check some stuff out.”

  His eyes narrow. “Sure,” he replies. “Out the door, circle back around, two or three blocks. You know the place.”

  “I do?”

  “You will.” Then he adds, “Oh, take your time. No rush at all. I’ll make sure no one goes up there. For your...you know, confidentiality.” He winks, forcing a smile, revealing teeth in various shades of yellow.

  I stare a little too long, then make my way into the big bad world in search of answers.

  As I walk out the door, I call out over my shoulder. “You’re a strange man, Frank.”

  I ponder more questions on my short journey, but each one spins me around in circles. I’m on a hamster wheel—running hard but ultimately going nowhere.

  Soon, I arrive at Barr’s Internet Emporium, which is nestled between a late-night sushi stall and an exotic dancer gentleman’s club. Almost fifty percent of these places pique my interest. Inside, the internet café is bright and clean. There’s a young couple, sitting much too close to each other in a booth, sharing a thick shake through multiple straws. There’s an elderly couple sipping coffee, looking at a map on a tablet. They pinch, zoom, and swipe their way across the state.

  At the counter, I’m served by someone with the name of Barr, or so it says on his nametag.

  “Well, it’s great to be served by the owner,” I say cheerfully.

  “My name’s Oscar.” His voice’s composition is the opposite of the place’s interior.

  “Then why are you wearing a nametag that says Barr?”

  “Policy.”

  “That’s stupid.”

&nb
sp; He ignores me and points to a co-worker standing at the coffee machine. “That’s Stacy.” She turns, beaming a smile at us. Her nametag also says Barr.

  “She’s Barr too.” He smiles. I don’t.

  “I need to use a computer.”

  “Obviously, not really Barr,” he explains, as if an explanation is necessary.

  “I get it,” I say, looking for the conversation to progress.

  “I mean, look at her. She’s a girl!”

  My head pulses, my skull becomes tight. “Yes, I can see that. I just need a computer.”

  “So, you see, it’s policy.” He slams his fist into the palm of his other hand.

  Exhalation. I lean across the counter, motioning for Oscar to meet me halfway, which he does.

  “Oscar, I’m going to say this once. If you don’t tell me where the computers are, I will beat you to death with Stacey. And trust me, there’ll be no happy ending. For you, anyway. Do you understand what I just said?”

  He lifts an arm and points to a curtain.

  “Through there?” I ask.

  He nods.

  “And it’s free?”

  He nods again.

  “My dear Oscar, I do believe we have come to an arrangement.”

  I very much enjoy my powers of persuasion.

  Chapter 41

  The curtains are a portal to another dimension. One is occupied by young people whom I would barely classify as adults, connected to their respective machines via keyboards, mice, and headphones. Not a single person pays any attention as I stride through their dimly lit intergalactic battle arena. The only sounds are clicking, clacking, and swearing. Evidently, they pay little attention to the “Please respect our equipment” and “No swearing” signs that adorn most walls dispersed over a mural of a space Marine wearing metallic armor, with a futuristic weapon slung over their shoulder.

  The room is long and narrow, flanked on both sides by walled pods. There’s a break in the sequence halfway down the left side. As I approach the gap, I see it leads to another identical room, giving the entire area the shape of a capital “H.”

  I want to take residence in the corner farthest away from the hordes of techno-nerds, but I instead settle for a position between a teenage boy who takes up the space of two chairs as he sips a bottle of cola and a teenage girl with long, strawberry blonde hair wearing what looks like a dog collar around her neck. I’m sure it’s fashionable...I guess. The sounds of machine gun fire, alien gurgles, and Space Marine chatter float through the air, emanating from their snug-fitting headphones.

  I get acquainted with my machine and open a browser. My fingers pause over the keys. There’s so much to search for, so many names, places, and events. I don’t know where to start. Or maybe I’m afraid to start. Scared of what I’ll find out. Not the fear of confirming the horrible things I’ve done, but of finding out what I thought to be real is a complete lie.

  I look up at the mural on the wall, taking in the detail and imagining myself in the armor, carrying a big gun. There’s a personnel number on the chest plate, as well as a code on the screen of the Marine’s arm and a registration number on the weapon.

  Taking a deep breath, I type and purposefully plunge down the rabbit hole, linking names and personas to articles, blogs, and exposés. I type a cast of names I gleamed from my file into the search engine: Atlas, Jet, Sonja, Kolton, Galdini, Taylor, Isabelle, Jason... me. Different combinations deliver varying results.

  Atlas and Jet seem to be dead ends, a waste of time and mental effort. The useless information I uncover is Atlas is an author and screenwriter. He lives upstate in a town that doesn’t register on any maps. The person called Jet seems to be from the other side of the tracks, dangerous and deadly, having been arrested for many murders but convicted of none. What those types of people have to do with me is as astounding as it is unanswerable.

  The links between Galdini and Kolton, on the other hand, provide an interesting tapestry of information. And when I throw another name into the mix, it becomes even more frightening. Grant Taylor and Isabelle Chalmers become the center of the universe, the thing around which all others revolve. How or why is beyond me, but I know it must have something to do with what Kolton and Galdini are after. I search my mind for the event. Faint recollections of being in the house the night of the murders. I needed something from Grant. I just don’t remember what.

  As soon as I envision myself stepping through that doorway, my memory becomes shrouded in darkness, and a heavy blanket douses the neuron flames. Nothing fires. It’s like walking around in the dark with your eyes shut and your hands tied behind your back. My head erupts in a pain that creeps down the left side of my body.

  I know who I am. At least, I thought I did. The file I stole from Galdini’s office suggests something very different. I had read it with a healthy dose of skepticism, as one often does when their beliefs are challenged. It just couldn’t be true—because I don’t believe it can be true. And sometimes, that’s all it takes.

  I sit and stare at the screen until it blurs and pixelates. I think back to the file. To the last page. I picture it clearly—too clearly—like it’s right in front of me, like I created it with my own hand. Letters. Numbers. Special characters.

  And then, it occurs to me. I don’t know how I didn’t see it before when I was reading the tattered piece of paper. The page held different sequences of characters, yes, but all the arrangements had the same characters in them, just in a different order. Was this what they were after? Surely not, since I took it from Galdini’s desk. They already had it in their possession. Yes, they already had the page, but maybe they didn’t know which one on the page was the right one!

  I bring the screen into focus and type out one of the strings of text from memory. It produces an error: Your search did not return any results. I try another one, but I receive the same result. Another one, then another, then another. All for nothing. But it must mean something.

  It seems like there’s nothing more I can learn here. But I know where I can find more answers—a place at the heart of all of this.

  I step outside the safety of the dungeon curtains into the bright lights of the coffee shop. Waitresses dart back and forth from tables to counter, swiftly taking and dropping off orders. Smells of coffee and buttered popcorn hang in the air. As I walk, I wonder how long the watercolor that is my memory will last. Actually, that’s not the right metaphor, because it’s clear; what I know is so very clear. It’s just what I know doesn’t seem to be right, like someone taped over reality with a fake narrative.

  “Thanks for dropping by,” a cheery voice calls out from over my shoulder.

  I turn slowly, glacially, still trying to find my feet in the shifting sands. It’s Oscar, standing at the counter, a ridiculous smile on his face, waving at me. I ignore his acknowledgement and turn, but then stop. I turn back, focusing my vision. His nametag is now a series of five characters. I stare at them, surreptitious in nature yet in plain sight. They resonate with me, but I don’t know why. I try to find that spot in my memory they correlate to, but I come up empty. Something, somewhere, sometime.

  A screeching car tire and revving engine steal my attention. A car has pulled up out front, and two shadowy figures are getting out of it. Are they here for me? Or just in a hurry to get some caffeine? Do I wait and see what happens, or just start shooting? It’s dark outside, and I can’t tell who they are or if they’re armed. My heart rate increases exponentially.

  I turn to Oscar. “Fire exit. Where is it?”

  He points out the back, to the same mystical curtain that took me into another realm. I rush through it, almost colliding with the “too large for one chair” gamer who’s probably on the prowl for the bathroom or another keg of cola. I turn down the adjoining corridor and into the identical room, identifying the fire door from huge stenciled letters and a metal bar across it.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  “What the fuck are you going to do about this?” I mur
mur sullenly.

  What the fuck are you going to do?

  Chapter 42

  I don’t slow down as I careen into the fire door, jumping at it at the last second and falling into the alley. The screams of the pulsating alarm ring out around me. The ground is wet, with puddles dotting the area between dumpsters. A mist hangs in the air like smoke in a confined space.

  There is a screech to my right at the far end of the alley—a shout breaking through the air. I don’t wait to find out who it is or what they said. I sprint toward the other end of the back street. An accelerating car, its engine changing gears, looms behind me, its headlights burning into my back. I see my shadow elongate as I dance around pools of rainwater, the end of the alley within reach. I feel the heat of the engine like a breath on my neck.

  I take the corner at speed and shoot out on the footpath. As dark windows blur by, I wait for the roar of the engine and squealing tires as the vehicle attempts the tight turn to follow me, but there is nothing. I don’t stop running to find out what happened.

  Sprinting to the end of the street, I take a right, cross over halfway down, through another alley, and then blast out onto a main road. Cars swerve around me as I fail to slow or even acknowledge their existence. I’m too preoccupied with keeping mine intact.

  Four streets and several twists and turns later, I slow my steady sprint to a causal walk. I feel fresh, as if I’d just been out for a Sunday morning stroll. No burning, no pains. But then a sharp pain erupts across my cranium, like fireworks inside my skull. I tilt my head back and suck in a lungful of night air. And then hotdogs. I snap my eyes open. I fucking love hot dogs.

  The aroma of boiled, mass-produced fun packages—mystery meat crammed into cellulose casings—finds my nostrils. I realize, even though my mind is fickle, I can’t remember eating. Like, ever. Not one single meal comes to mind. I’m drawn to the frankfurters’ smell like a siren’s call, unable to resist.

  At the corner, I see a sign attracting patronage from every direction, adverting cheap slushies of every conceivable flavor and two-dollar coffee guaranteed to taste the same as one made by a barista. I seriously doubt that’s the case, yet I lazily stroll toward it, nonetheless.