by Sean Platt
Rose didn’t know what to say. Or think. Or feel. Or do. Part of her wanted to say that maybe he should’ve put the gun in his mouth. He was a monster, and didn’t deserve to live. She wanted to say that and a hundred other things, but her tongue was too thick in her mouth, unable to find will or words.
More than anything, Rose wanted to run.
If there wasn’t a man holding her in place with a gun, that’s exactly what she’d do. Rose was mortified. If this was her scene she would have to rewrite: It wasn’t believable for her heroine to be with a man like Boricio and not know.
How could I have been so stupid?
Part of her wondered how she could ever believe in anything again. Another part, the part who loved Boricio in ways she couldn’t explain, wondered if there were pieces of herself that knew all along, and stayed in denial.
Boricio.
She loved him. Not just the man she thought she knew, but the man she did. The man who knew it was him or the world, and was strong enough to keep himself breathing inside it.
But loving Boricio was horrible: Thinking on it for longer than a blush was too awful to stand.
Anger bubbled inside her. She ignored Mike’s gun, stayed in its aim as she marched to Boricio and slapped him hard across the face. She drew back her hand, swollen and throbbing and stared at the red welt. Boricio stared at her, eyes welling up with tears, silent.
Boricio had held his tongue for longer than Rose had ever seen.
She wanted him to talk, to say something — anything — that might help her understand why.
She knew he could somehow make sense of this if he would try.
They held their stares, neither blinking forever. Rose knew — because she knew Boricio — that it would break something inside him to open his mouth.
His breath reminded her of an animal pawing dirt, getting ready to run. Her pulse quickened, knowing Boricio was seconds from speaking. He opened his mouth. She tipped her body toward him.
Mike’s attention prickled behind her.
Boricio spoke, but before Rose heard a word, the door behind her ripped from its hinges. She spun around, and found herself staring into the eyes of the man who had interrupted something else before, at Marina’s, a second before Paola stepped into The Capacitor.
Steven was his name.
His eyes found Rose, held her stare, and told her without words that she was his reason for coming.
* * * *
CHAPTER 8 — Edward Keenan
Sullivan watched them on the couch, waiting for Ed to accept his proposal: Join the aliens or die.
“I’m not letting those things inside me,” Jade said, vehemently shaking her head, glaring at Sullivan, not seeming to care if he saw her disgust.
Crying, Teagan said, “If they’re going to kill us anyway, why not join them? I mean, it seems like he’s still human.”
“Looks are deceiving,” Jade said. “You saw what they did on the other world! You saw them kill your Ed! How can you trust them?”
“He said it was different this time.” Teagan desperately wanted to believe whatever bullshit Sullivan was selling. Ed felt sorry for her, but at the same time, he couldn’t blame her. She was looking out for her daughter. Given the choice to live, even if it meant a parasite inside you, or die, most people would choose life. That was everyone’s ultimate goal, after all, to live, no matter what.
Ed stayed out of the argument, letting the girls talk it out as he studied Sullivan’s responses. At times, his face seemed to flirt with emotion, though Ed could never be certain what emotion it was. At other times, the man’s (alien’s?) face was blank. Ed wondered how much of Sullivan had stayed inside the body. If “Sullivan” had any control over the alien’s actions, or if he was forced to sit, mute witness to whatever the alien wished to do with his body.
Teagan must’ve been wondering the same thing. “Sullivan, if you’re still in there, tell me something about yourself. Give me a reason why I should believe what the alien’s saying.”
Sullivan’s face shifted ever so slightly. He cleared his throat. “When I was 13, my father found out he had cancer. My mother was scared to death, didn’t know what to do. He told her everything would be OK, that not only had he taken care of all the financial stuff and paperwork, the doctor also said there was a chance he could go into remission. It wasn’t much hope, but enough for my mom to hold onto. My mother was a devout optimist, and needed that ray of hope. A few weeks later, I was sitting outside on the porch swing, daydreaming, when the front door slammed and my dad came out and sat beside me. He told me he was going to die. I said I thought the doctors told him he had a chance. He said he’d lied to my mom. While he knew there wasn’t any hope, he didn’t want her to know that because of how much it would harm her. He needed her to believe, not for his sake, but hers.”
Sullivan started to choke at the memory, though Ed wasn’t sure if it was genuine emotion, or some guise of humanity broadcast.
Sullivan continued, “So I asked my dad why he was telling me. Why not lie to me, too? He asked what I preferred, a lie or the truth. I told him I’d always rather have the truth. He said he knew that about me, because I was just like him. We were realists, prepared for when the world pulled the carpet from under us, especially when compared to idealists, like Mom, whose worlds crumbled when reality crashed. He said it was up to me to make sure Mom didn’t lose faith. There was nothing more important than keeping her hope as high as I could. I asked why, especially when there was none? He looked me in the eyes and told me that he didn’t choose not to believe. That’s just how he was wired. But for those who could believe in things like hope, God, and whatever was better than that, he felt it necessary to maintain the illusion, because sometimes belief paid off and offered a salve that indifference never could.”
Teagan swallowed, her eyes welling with tears. “What does that mean?”
Sullivan answered, this time his voice bleached of emotion. “I believe that was Sullivan’s way of saying what you needed to hear, but that he himself doesn’t appreciate his role as host.”
Ed had to make his move.
Sullivan sat, Glock in hand, somewhat on them, but not directly. If Ed could get Sullivan — the real Sullivan — thinking again, he might be able to strike while the alien was preoccupied.
Ed said, “I would like proof that Sullivan’s still in there somewhere.”
Sullivan looked up, “What proof?”
“When we first met, you were questioning me in an interrogation room, do you remember?”
Sullivan’s face softened. His eyes looked up and to the left as he searched for recall.
“Yes,” Sullivan said. “I remember.”
“I told you about something back then, something important about my job, do you remember what it was?”
Sullivan looked up, trying to remember. Ed launched himself forward, over the coffee table, both hands reaching out for the gun. He grabbed it by the barrel, but couldn’t pull it from Sullivan’s hands as the two men fell to the ground in a tangle. Ed pressed both of Sullivan’s hands to the ground, facing to the right, and shouted back at the girls, “Run! Get Becca and get my guns in the back yard!”
Teagan jumped from the couch and raced upstairs while Jade ran out the back door to get the guns Ed was forced to drop. All he had to do was make sure Sullivan stayed down until Jade was back.
Sullivan’s eyes met Ed’s, as they fought for control of the gun. His eyes looked like a scared man’s, though Ed wasn’t sure if it was the alien’s fear of Ed or Sullivan’s fear of what the alien would do if it wrested control of the gun.
“Let go!” Sullivan grunted.
Ed said nothing, pressing his body harder against Sullivan’s, keeping him down.
Hurry up, Jade!
Ed felt something slipping around his neck and tightening, black and slippery, like twisted, fleshy vines slithering up from Sullivan’s ribs. An alien appendage ripped through his clothes, threatening to strangle Ed
if he couldn’t stop it.
If he let go of the gun, Sullivan would be back in control.
If he didn’t, the alien would crush his windpipe and kill him.
Ed pushed with his feet, head butting Sullivan in the face as hard as he could, repeatedly, despite the pain to his own skull. He heard Sullivan’s nose crunch and break. Hot blood streamed over them both as the black ropes loosened from his neck. Before Ed could use momentum to gain the upper hand, more ropes wrapped him at the fingers, pulling them back, and away from the gun. Ed screamed as his left index finger snapped.
He let go of the gun, and Sullivan seized both moment and pistol, grabbing it as he turned and fired a shot, barely missing Ed, bursting his eardrum as it did.
Ed heard a muffled gunshot, and turned to see Jade behind them, aiming a pistol into their tussle. She screamed, “Let him go!”
Sullivan put his gun against Ed’s head and held him tight. He said, “You all get one final chance: Join us or die.”
* * * *
CHAPTER 9 — Rose McCallister
Mike pointed his gun at Steven. “You need to turn around and get the fuck out,” he said. “Nothing to see here.”
Steven paused, smiling. His entire body seemed to soften, bones going mushy as he looked around the room, from Boricio to Mike, before hanging his stare again on Rose, smile still shining. She felt it, like fire on ice as the man stepped toward Mike, ignoring the waving gun.
Mike raised his voice and yelled, “Get out!” probably hoping louder would work.
A few feet from Mike, Steven curled his palm into a fist. Mike’s shirt wrinkled at the collar, and his body rose in the air, levitating along with the man’s raised arm. His fingers shot open, dropping the gun, and his feet wiggled, brushing the carpet with his toes. Steven held his smile, wrenched his arm like he was hurling a ball, then watched as Mike crashed into the wall and dug a melon-sized scoop from the drywall.
Steven laughed, laying his hand so it hovered horizontal and parallel to Mike, while Mike struggled for breath.
“What’s happening?” Rose cried out, unable to believe she had landed a BINGO of crazy: the machine turning on Paola; finding out her true love was a homicidal maniac; Marina Harmon’s man — a guy with super powers — had come to (maybe) save her and now her attacker was being murdered by that same man, with an invisible hand.
“What’s happening?” Rose repeated more than once. Steven ignored her, keeping his focus on Mike, squeezing his right fist tighter as Mike struggled harder, until after turning purple and bloated he struggled no more. Seconds after Mike’s foot twitched for a final time, Steven turned to Rose. He stood beaming, like he was waiting for a kiss.
Rose said, “What’s going on?”
Steven looked surprised, maybe hurt. He stepped toward her. Rose held her ground, knowing a fallen step meant surrendering all she had.
The man’s face darkened. He said, “You don’t remember me?”
“No,” Rose admitted.
His face shifted. Tiny waves rippled across the surface, reminding Rose of rolling dough beneath a pin. It stopped as Rose screamed.
The new face was mostly Boricio’s, though kinder and gentler, less hardened. His eyes were still intense, but not as angry.
“Boricio?” Rose whispered, holding out her hand, knowing this other Boricio was somehow different from the first.
The true Boricio found his voice and screamed. “You have to get out of here, Rose!”
He thrashed on the bed, yanking restraints as muscles bulged on his neck and biceps.
“It’s not human! Run, Rose, run!”
Rose turned toward the door, and tried to run, but only managed three steps before something snaked her ankle and yanked, sending her face first to the carpet. She turned over, looking back to see a large, black, wet tentacle-looking appendage coming from Steven’s ribs through a hole in his shirt and holding her by the ankle.
She screamed. She immediately thought of the aliens Boricio had battled on the other world. Now they’re here.
“Don’t scream, Rose, I’m not going to hurt you. I’m here to save you.”
“She don’t want you, you limp dicked alien fuck,” Boricio screamed, shaking the bed hard again. A loud splintering crack grabbed both Rose and the alien’s attention. The black tentacle let go of her ankle.
Boricio broke the headboard, and was desperately trying to squirm free, hands cuffed, one to another.
Rose backed toward the door as Boricio jumped from the bed, legs still bound, and knocked the alien down.
Boricio looked up at Rose, eyes wide and scared — the first time she’d ever seen him scared — as he screamed, “Run!”
The alien turned back to Rose. Eyes narrowed, he said, “Move and I’ll kill you!”
Rose was frozen, paralyzed by fear, imagining the black tentacle racing toward her and grabbing her at the throat.
Boricio brought his cuffed hands up and drove his thumbs into the alien’s throat, choking him. The tentacle snaked up and twisted around his throat, the two Boricios engaged in an attempt to choke one another to death.
Boricio looked up at Rose, and widened his eyes as if to say: Go, now … while you can.
“Die!” Boricio grunted as he dug deeper into the alien’s throat.
The alien’s tentacle pulled Boricio up by his neck, until Boricio was forced to let go of his hold. The tentacle lifted Boricio like he was a bag of trash, and tossed him onto the bed.
The alien turned to Rose. She froze.
Boricio grabbed a broken piece of headboard and raised it above his head, about to strike.
The alien must’ve noticed the change in her expression, as he turned back on Boricio, his tentacle grabbing him by the wrist, and shoving him down onto the bed.
The thing that wore Boricio’s face leaned into the thing that was born with it and hissed, “I should have killed you over there. I’ve been waiting for this. I wasn’t … pleased … with what happened last night, but am … happy … it turned out as it has. Now I’ve found my Rose, again.”
“Well I’ve gotta warn you, I ain’t done a dookie douche in a while, so there’s like a 100 percent chance you’re gonna get muddy.”
“You are a cat,” the man said, “in constant need of scratching, a dog who must beg for attention.”
Boricio cackled: “I thought you said I was a cat.”
“You are a child.”
“Well whatever you are, it sure as shit ain’t Boricio.”
Boricio kept mouthing off to the man as Rose made slow steps backward toward the door. Boricio was no match for the alien, and he seemed to be running thin on patience. If she was going to run, she had to do it now.
Her heart galloped, certain the impostor would turn and see her at any second, but Rose made it to the open door. She stepped through the doorway, suddenly not wanting to leave Boricio with the impostor.
Yes, Boricio deserves to die. But not like this.
The impostor turned to her and their eyes locked. He smiled, then turned to Boricio, giving Rose silent permission to leave.
But then what?
He murders Boricio and comes after for you. You think you’re really going to get away? And go where?
Rose didn’t know if it was because she loved him, or her life, but it was impossible to leave Boricio to his fate. Leaving the room meant running forever, and knowing that thing, whatever he was, would kill Boricio, and would probably never stop looking for her.
She was six steps from the door, into the parking lot, when she looked back and saw the thing choking Boricio with his tentacle. Boricio’s face was turning blue, and he looked seconds from death.
Rose saw Mike’s gun on the bed where he dropped it when the impostor grabbed him. She ran back into the room, leaned onto the bed, grabbed the gun, twisted around from the mattress and landed flat on her back, then pulled the trigger three times.
Rose fell back against the wall with the gun raised, poised to shoot aga
in. The one on the left missed him by atoms. The third bullet slammed into the monster’s face and sent him writhing to the ground. Rose had already made enough noise to bring sirens, so she lowered the barrel to the fallen monster’s head and pulled the trigger again, killing him for good.
She turned to Boricio and said, “We’ve gotta get out of here.”
* * * *
CHAPTER 10 — Boricio Wolfe
Boricio’s heart barely ever raced. Notes climbed, sometimes before the kill, but that’s because good murder was a symphony in tune, with no motion an accident. His heart raced, but never ran. Few got far running from Boricio.
Yet, his heart was away from him now. Gone, and if he got it back it would be inside out and stomped on. He had melted her face, his confession pouring acid on their every shared moment. He had destroyed their trust and her faith in him.
For all the horrible things he’d done in his life, and some he actually felt bad about, nothing matched breaking Rose’s heart like this.
“Let me explain,” Boricio smiled for Rose, knowing the one thing that always worked would never work again.
She turned from his smile. “You’re a monster.”
“No,” Boricio said, reaching down and untying his feet, desperate to make Rose see what logic couldn’t. “I’m not like that, Rose. I was, before you. You changed me, even more than Boy Wonder. I purge to breathe, Rose, but I do right by it. I keep us safe.”
Rose shook her head. She looked like she wanted to spit on him. Boricio wished she would, it would’ve been honest, rather than suffer the hush, wondering each second what she was thinking, and living through a hell of waiting to know.
She clawed his heart, calling him a monster, then slammed it with her heel when she said it again. “You’re a monster … I can’t believe I trusted you … can’t believe I loved you!”
