by Brian Blose
Chapter 7 – Zack / Iteration 144
One day after the incident, a reporter from a Pittsburgh station came to the convenience store. Zack spoke to her briefly, explaining the video was a prank by some of his coworkers. The reporter asked him if he believed in miracles, Zack told her he wasn't religious, and she went on her way.
That same day, Kelly called him into her office so the store's owner could yell at him over the phone for escalating the situation with the robbers. Zack insisted he didn't think the man would shoot, apologized for making the gas station look bad, and begged to keep his job. The owner berated him for fifteen minutes before conceding Zack could keep his job.
Maggie didn't show for her shift and Zack learned later that she had quit. Kelly, never close to him, now spoke to him only when necessary. The other employees watched him constantly when they shared shifts. Many of the customers recognized him from the news and had questions or wanted to make comments. It tainted his observations and distracted him at the same time.
Zack decided he would give things two weeks to settle down. If he was still being scrutinized at the end of that time, he would get a job somewhere else. Provided he could find the energy.
For three days following the shooting, Zack went nowhere but work and home, skipping his customary trips to the library for internet access. He skipped the nightly news as well. He spent the time freed up from those activities laying in bed, staring at the ceiling and forcing his mind to stillness.
The fourth day, a Saturday, he wasn't scheduled to work. Zack spent the day with his wife, preparing the second bedroom of his trailer for a baby that was not his. The jobs Lacey assigned him were assembling a crib and changing table while she organized baby clothes, baby toys, and two hospital bags – one for her and one for the baby.
She prattled about the prices of everything until Zack made a throw-away comment about the cost of paying for college some day. That idea took hold in Lacey's mind and she insisted they immediately stock up on children's books. When they finished book shopping, Zack listened to Lacey's plans for the delivery. He rewarded Lacey for her productivity by ordering a pizza that stretched their budget more than was prudent, then was receptive to her advances later that night.
The fifth day, Sunday, his shift started at five in the morning. Zack worked the deli counter and watched the customers without any great interest, pondering happiness. Not the fleeting happiness that briefly accompanied success. The other kind. The kind that appeared when it shouldn't. In an elderly man whose every proud step brought pain. In a shy, obese woman who gambled away two dollars every morning at the lottery machine only to declare tomorrow must be her lucky day. In a long-haul trucker who announced he was single after catching his wife in the act.
As tempting as it was to diagnose these individuals with stupidity, Zack resisted the urge. They were functioning adults. They understood the circumstances of their own lives. Were they delusional? Did they intentionally lie to themselves in exchange for the taste of happiness? Zack gained no insight into the enigma despite devoting the entire morning to its consideration.
The arrival of a voluptuous blonde interrupted Zack's thoughts. Something caught his attention the moment she crossed the threshold. He studied her appearance and her mannerisms as she perused the shelves. The woman wore fashionable off-brand clothing, a conservative black blouse whose contours subtly suggested things to every man in the room and tan skirt that emphasized the movements of her hips. Her calm, curious inspection of her environment suggested intelligence, self-confidence, purpose, and situational awareness. Her appearance was a remarkable coordination of an outfit, a body, and an attitude.
He had no idea how to categorize this woman. If she were better dressed, he would say she was wealthy. If her movements were less seductive, he would guess she worked in law enforcement. He dismissed roles in rapid succession. Criminal? No; too relaxed. Celebrity? No; too natural.
She looked directly at him when her path through the store came closest to his counter. Her rapid assessment of him was obvious from the manner in which her eyes leaped from one feature to the next, pausing for brief inspections. Zack leaned forward. Who is she?
The woman smiled and swayed up to his counter. A tilt to her head told him she was about to slip into a less-than-honest role. He lifted his chin a hair and narrowed his eyes for an instant. The woman's demure shrug said she knew he could see through her and apologized for the act. Zack let out a slow breath. We just had a whole conversation without a single word. Who the hell is this woman?
“I saw you on the news the other day,” she said.
Zack cleared his throat. “That was a hoax.”
The woman's eyes darted towards the camera mounted to the wall beside him – the same camera that had caught the damning video. “You were sloppy.”
She knows. “Who are you?”
“Call me Bridgette. I believe you go by Zack?”
“That's my name,” he said.
She waved her hand in dismissal. “Names don't matter.”
“Who are you?”
“Who do you think I am, Zack?” She leaned forward in anticipation.
Zack's eyes traced the outline of her face. “A model? Maybe a reporter?”
She shook her head. “My job is a lot more important than that.”
Job. That suggested she was an employee and not an employer. “Professional manager, secret agent, scientist, preacher . . . . No? None of those? I give up.”
Bridgette blinked and stepped back. “You're serious. You really don't know what I am.”
“Why would you expect a complete stranger to be able to guess your job?”
Bridgette looked into his eyes as she spoke. “Hess, it's me.”
Zack glanced down at the counter before responding. “I think you have me confused with someone else.”
“No, Zack, I don't. I know exactly who you are. Who you have been for a hundred and forty-four iterations.”
He cleared his throat. “Why don't you tell me who you think I am and I'll let you know if you're right or wrong?”
“You're an immortal Observer for the Creator.”
Zack took a deep breath. How does she know that? It's an impossible guess. There's no way anyone could know about me. Not unless . . . . “I'm not the only one.” He blinked, then spoke in a rush. “You're an Observer. Are there any others?”
Bridgette stared at him. “You're not this convincing of an actor.”
“What do you mean?”
She shook her head. “Never mind. Can we talk outside?”
“Sure. There's a pavilion off to the side.”
“I spotted it on my way in.”
Zack laughed. “Of course you noticed it. I would have.” He abandoned his post at the deli counter, trying to suppress the giddy excitement within him. Other Observers existed. It lessened the guilt he felt over his deficits to know that he didn't bear the entire burden of witnessing creation. It meant there were others who understood his problems. Others who might know how to deal with things. It meant there was hope for him.
He asked his first question before they reached the pavilion. “Do you have any idea how many of us there are?”
“Eleven,” she said.
“That's awful specific. How do you know?”
Bridgette sat on the picnic table. “Because in a hundred and forty-four iterations, I have only met ten others. In case you hadn't noticed, it's pretty easy to spot our own kind. Even easier if they get themselves on the national news.”
“Why eleven? It seems an odd number.”
“Well, Zack, that's a very old question. Everyone has their own theory. Personally, I think the Creator is messing with us. People always have ten fingers. Twelve is almost always a holy number. But It makes eleven of us because numerology is a joke.”
Zack frowned. “It? I always thought of the Creator as a He.”
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Bridgette smacked her knee. “Right. Well, I say the Creator is a woman.”
He shrugged. “I guess it doesn't matter either way. Do you really think the Creator jokes with us? Doesn't that seem a little . . . irreverent?”
Bridgette shrugged. “Why not? We don’t actually know anything about the Creator. For so many worlds, everyone thought there was a twelfth Observer in hiding. But some worlds are much smaller than this one. It would be impossible to avoid detection by all of us for this long.”
“You talk as if this isn't the first world.”
“This is number one-four-four, Zack.”
“And all of you are the same age?”
“All of us.”
Zack shook his head. “Not me, Bridgette. I only go back five years.”
She took his hand in hers. “Hess, it's Elza. You're safe.”
He retracted his hand as gently as possible. “I'm telling the truth. Maybe the Creator needed a twelfth Observer. Maybe I'm supposed to be a joke: a clumsy Observer who gets caught.”
Bridgette sighed. “If this is your first life, then we should probably have a long talk. I'm sure you have a ton of questions. I rented a house just ten minutes from here.” She pulled out a set of keys.
“I can't go now,” Zack said. “But my shift ends at two. Does that work?”
She smiled. “Sure thing, honey. I'll be here.”
Interlude 1 – Hess / Iteration 143
The darkness was everything. Hess lay as if dead, listening to the heartbeat that would not cease counting eternity. Ragged breaths sawed through his parched throat at irregular intervals. Hunger gnawed at his middle and weakness wrapped him like a blanket. A tenuous peace existed in those moments of passivity. The weary emptiness was the state of least pain and he embraced its refuge. Hess forced down the memories struggling to rise within him. There was nothing but the darkness.
Time passed. Whether it passed quickly or slowly he did not know. Such concepts didn’t exist in the darkness. There was only now, one torturous moment stretching to infinity. Hess did not contemplate time. He did not contemplate anything. He simply existed in the darkness.
He existed in the darkness until the echo of his gasping breath in the tiny space sparked a constellation of recollections. The violence of the memories triggered a physical response. Hess swung his fists at the darkness, striking stone surfaces above his face and to each side. “Elza!” Some part of him recognized the hoarse voice as his own. Another part reacted to the sound, imagining rescuers spoke to him. “Help me! Let me out of here! Please help me!”
Yet another part of him observed everything from a distance, chronicling events even though nothing new happened, even though nothing new would ever happen. Panic attack triggered by perceived noise. “Elza? Can you hear me, Elza? I’m sorry! So sorry! Please forgive me!” Fragmented thought processes. “Someone help me! Get me out of here! I will do anything!”
His fists, invisible in the dark, were made of pain. He struck harder and harder at surfaces he could not see, ratcheting the pain higher. Blood began to spatter, raining down on his face. Hess licked the tangy liquid from his lips, desperate for moisture. Animal responses remain strong, instinctually seeking sources of comfort.
“Why?” he demanded of the darkness. That question was everything, but no part of Hess was sure what it referenced. Why did the others do this to him? Why would the Creator allow his suffering to continue? Why had he violated the divine command in such a drastic fashion? Why would the Creator make a world where such suffering was possible? The question could be any one of those, or all of them together, or maybe something beyond words and logic, something born of the darkness that could only be sensed and never defined.
As Hess continued to pound his mangled fists, the objective portion of him continued its narration, repeating a story he told himself often. The healing response restores as much moisture and calories to the body as necessary to support life for a short length of time. It appears likely that the atmosphere is being scrubbed free of carbon dioxide, but this is impossible to verify. Likely the products of respiration are reclaimed in the same way as blood. Hess snarled wordlessly at the part of him observing his plight.
The rage that boiled up dwarfed everything that came before. Hess coiled his entire body and launched himself forward the eight inches to the stone ceiling, driving his forehead into it. The rebound struck the back of his head against the stone floor of his crypt. Hess struck upwards again. The impassive narrator vanished with the other aspects of his personality, all of them absorbed into the all-consuming emotion of the moment. Hess struck again and again with as much force as he could generate in his tiny prison until he died.
When Hess woke once more in the darkness, he began to weep, eyes burning but too dry for tears. His body was whole and undamaged save for a touch of dehydration. “Let me die! I don’t want to live! Please, Creator, unmake me! I don’t want to live! I don’t want to live!”
He wept for a time he could not determine but which felt significant. Then emotional exhaustion brought a blessed return to the living coma that was the state of least pain. Memories bubbled beneath the surface, but Hess ignored them.
PART II
