The Enemy of My Enemy…
By Roy Dorman
With friends like this, who needs enemies?
Stan Albright walked into the bar and
waited a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. The bar was a few
blocks off North Clark Street in one of those areas more likely to open a
quickie loan office than a trendy coffee shop the next time there was a
business turnover. But Stan now lived in the neighborhood, so here was where he
occasionally had a few beers. Sometime soon he figured that Stephen, an ally of
his in his fight against the Others, would make contact.
When he could finally see, he saw just the bartender and one
customer. At three o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon, the lack of customers was to
be expected. The bartender was hunched over the bar talking right up close and
personal to the customer, who appeared to be crying. He raised one finger to
Stan with the “be with you in a sec” signal and went back to consoling his
customer. Finally, without another word, he showed her two open palms, raised
his eyebrows, shrugged as if to say “what more can I do?” and walked the
distance of three or four barstools to where Stan was seated.
Before he asked Stan what he could get for
him, he looked back at the young woman. She was still crying softly, but was
now holding a small caliber pistol. The bartender, Ted (the name on his apron),
held up both hands in a warding off gesture, but she fired three shots, one
right after the other, into his chest. All three hit near his heart. Ted fell
to the floor, taking a half-dozen long-stemmed wine glasses from behind the bar
with him.
Stan turned to the woman and said the
first thing that came to him, “Feeling a little better now?”
Her frown evened out to a half smile at
that, but she then shot Stan twice in the chest—not as close to the area that
had caused Ted’s death, but close enough. Stan heard the sound of someone
falling to the floor and taking a barstool with him. He remembered reading
somewhere that hearing was the last sense to leave you when you were dying. He
wondered if the bartender had heard those wine glasses crashing onto the floor
around his head.
He was puzzling over the idea that he
could still hear and think when he heard the report of a single gunshot and
then someone, almost certainly the crying woman, land on the floor near him.
How long had it been since he had been shot and then heard the suicide shot?
Maybe he’d hear sirens soon.
Stan didn’t ever hear sirens. It had only
been about ten or fifteen seconds between the shots directed at him and the
shot to the head of the customer. What he did hear was all too familiar: the
skittering of hurrying feet racing at him from behind the bar. Something heavy
landed on his chest and fastened itself to him like a shuddering vest. He felt
himself being dragged around to the back of the bar and, just before he passed
out, thought, I don’t suppose these overgrown insects ever heard of 9-1-1….
A little more than a week ago, Stan had
been snatched from the comfort of what was supposed to have been a safe house
of sorts in another dimension. Without a good-bye, he had left Alicia Goodman,
John Doe, and Stephen, and had undergone a time and distance transfer. The trip
had ended with him being dumped unceremoniously onto the lawn of a mansion in a
wealthy Chicago suburb. Fortunately, no one had been home at the time to see
his graceless entrance from that parallel dimension.
Stan was getting used to this sort of
treatment. Without giving the episode much thought, he had taken a cab to a
working class neighborhood near Wrigley Field and had presented himself to the
homeowner who had advertised a room for rent in the Tribune.
“No luggage?” Harry Kowalski had asked.
“Not carrying it with me; it’s in a locker
at the bus station,” Stan had lied. “But I’ll be paying the first month in
cash.”
Over the period of these last two months,
a very odd two months, Stan had learned that lying and paying in cash could get
him pretty much anything he needed. A still ambiguous “support group” provided
him with plenty of cash and the lying had become second nature as a defense
mechanism. Now that he had a place to stay he could recharge; that last
adventure had tuckered him out. He looked and felt like a twenty-something,
about ten years younger than he had been two weeks ago, but felt his battery
was low. A recovery period had been needed.
Stan now woke with a start to find himself
in total darkness. The darkness was so complete that he thought maybe he was
blind…or dead. Material with the consistency of heavy spider webbing wrapped
his face and neck. He tried to raise a hand to wipe off the sticky strands and
found he couldn’t move his arms. He was secured with what was probably that
same webbing, only much more of it. Panic threatened to take over; darkness,
being tied down, spider webs—it was suddenly just too much. He took a few deep
breaths and thought, Nothing happened to me while I was unconscious, so why
should I get all freaked out now. Just wait…wait.
Stan decided if he couldn’t free
himself, he could at least take inventory. He continued the calming breaths and
figured that number one, the act of breathing meant he was probably still
alive. Secondly, he was lying on his back on some sort of coarse bedding and
unable to move. And third, there was something resting on his chest.
Flashes of the shootings in the bar were
coming back to him now and, when he remembered something fastening itself to
his chest just before he passed out, panic started to try and take over again.
The thing that had fastened itself to his chest was almost certainly one of
those crab-like skittering things. Even though he was totally grossed out by
the thought, he reasoned one of the Others’ nasty little beasties was still on
his chest. If that was true, for some reason it had acted like a bandage or
tourniquet and had probably kept him alive. He moved his chest as much as his
bindings would allow to see if he could provoke some kind of response from the
beastie. Nothing. It felt lighter than he remembered it being when it had first
attached itself. It now felt like only the dry husk of its former self.
“You awake?” came a voice from his
left.
Stan opened his eyes as much as the
webbing allowed and saw it was still pitch black. He tried to answer the
question but his reply was muffled by the webbing. A hand that was surprisingly
gentle pulled the webbing away from his face.
“Better?” It was the same voice only much
closer. It was too close. Whatever it had recently been eating was still on its
breath and it smelled awful.
“I’m here on important business with
whoever is in charge around here,” said Stan. “So, if you’d untie me and take
me to them it would be appreciated.”
“Are you sure you would like to meet those
who are in charge? I’m one of their most trusted helpers and I try to have as
little contact with them as possible.”
“What’s this nasty beastie thing doing on
my chest?” said Stan, changing the subject. “Get it off me, would ya?”
“That’s a trilobite of sorts and it gave
its life to save yours. Your body sucked the life out of it in order for you to
survive the shooting. Our trilobites are much like your hunting and shepherding
dogs; they do a lot of that sort of work for us.”
Stan shuddered to think that his body had
absorbed anything from one of those nasty critters, but at least he was still
alive. “That shooting at the bar; was that staged by you to capture me?”
“No, that was just the usual human drama
being played out in what you call a dive bar. We’ve been monitoring your
comings and goings, looking for an opportune time to capture you. The careless
way you live life was an assurance to us we wouldn’t have to wait long.”
“Well, suppose I wanted to get caught in order
to gain access to your leaders?” said Stan.
“Which proves my point exactly as to your
recklessness.”
“How about at least giving us a little
light? And cutting me loose?”
“I can see just as well in total darkness
as I can see in the light, but I will release you and give you light. Based on
your past behavior, I know you almost certainly won’t be cooperative. I do have
a stun gun and will use it at the first sign of hostile action from you.”
A week or so ago, Stan had allowed himself
to be captured by the Others with the loosely thought-out plan that he would
meet with and challenge their leaders on their own turf. Stephen had killed the
Others’ helper that time and the two of them had walked to an Others’
stronghold, meeting up with Alicia and John on the way. Now having been
captured once again, Stan wondered whether he should allow himself to remain a
captive under the control of this helper or try and dispatch it and explore his
surroundings solo. He knew from recent experience that the decision might not
be his to make. Stan didn’t often make things happen in his chaotic life;
things more often happened to him.
Gradually there was a little light and
Stan was also freed from his bonds. He was not, however, prepared for the first
thing that he saw with the new lighting. The Others’ helper who stood before
him with a stun gun pointed at his head was wearing the face of Alicia Goodman
on its otherwise yeti-like body.
“Shit, man, what are you doing?” yelled
Stan. “That’s just about the sickest thing I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen some
sick stuff recently.”
“Our information gatherers told me this is
the face of someone you respect and trust. What better face to wear in
attempting to get better behavior from you?”
“Sorry, buddy, but that’s not going to do
it. You’re seriously creepin’ me out.”
“The gatherers also say when you and she
are together your auras glow very brightly.”
“Auras?” said Stan. “You can see auras?”
This was good information to have. He wondered if Stephen’s forces were aware
of this.
“The auras show respect, trust, and also
that feeling you beings call affection.”
“Her aura shows affection?” asked Stan,
momentarily losing focus as to what his immediate mission was. “What do the
auras of John Doe and Stephen show when they are around?”
“For you they show respect and trust as
well as the desire for male bonding. Since neither John Doe nor Stephen is
originally from your society, they only know what they have learned since being
on Earth.”
“What do they project as to Alicia?” asked
Stan.
“There is a hint of affection from them to
her, but she only has respect and trust for them. They seem to accept that most
of the time but both do sometimes, what would you say, speculate?”
Stan felt a little uncomfortable pursuing
all of this with none of the others here, so he let it go. He decided he would
like to follow-up a little more on what the helper had said about John Doe not
being originally from Earth. “You seem quite knowledgeable for a …”
“A helper? A peon? Yes, I’ve been around
the block a few times. I certainly know more about you than my masters do. I’ve
taken an active interest in Earth’s people and some of their cultures. I’ve
done a lot of reading of your literature. Your science fiction is quite
imaginative—off the mark most of the time, but quite interesting.”
Stan decided this helper was much too
valuable to kill. It also sounded like it may have gone native. Maybe he could
win its trust and use it to get close enough to the Others to do some real
damage.
“Your aura is showing duplicity. Though I
am interested in you as part of my continuing education, I will stun you into
unconsciousness at the first sign of trouble.”
“Okay, okay,” said Stan. “You got me. But
you must have seen a little bit of respect mixed in there too. Am I right?”
“I can’t entirely trust my abilities in
this area. The information gatherers are better trained than I am. But I do
know that you are one of the most dishonest beings I’ve had one-on-one contact
with.”
“Gee, thanks, I think,” said Stan. “How
about you put your own face on and take me wherever you’re supposed to take me.
I’ll try to be good as long as I’m not threatened. And hey, what can I call
you?”
“I have no name; I am just called ‘Helper’
by those you call the Others. In English they would be called something like ‘Great
Ones’ by those of us they rule.”
“How about we give you a name?” said Stan.
“How about ‘Yeti’?” A yeti is a mythical hairy creature thought to live a
solitary life in some mountains on Earth. The name Yeti is much classier than
Helper. As to Great Ones, well, we’ll see about that.”
Here Stan was once again on his way to
meet with the leaders of the Others. He had a few questions he would like to
ask them, one of which was why he was so important to them. Ever since the
Norbert Miller Grocery incident, they’d been hounding him—never trying to kill
him, only making clumsy attempts to capture him. His new captor/companion,
Yeti, had done an excellent, though thoroughly disgusting, shape-shift. They
obviously had that power. Though Stan wasn’t sure how he himself did it, he
could do it, and he wondered if maybe it was his ability to move in time and
space that interested them. But he didn’t know how he did that, either.
Entering a small stone grotto, probably in
another dimension, Stan mentally prepared himself for what was to come. Would
the leader or leaders he was about to meet try to get something from him by
force or would they try winning him over? He didn’t think they would just kill
him outright, having had plenty of opportunities to do that before. But there
was the possibility he might have become too much of a thorn in their side and
they considered him too much of a threat to let live.
Yeti opened a solid oak-like door that had
been concealed by some shrubs that on earth would be called greenery. Since the
shrubs were a bright crimson in this dimension, Stan mused that maybe they were
“reddery.”
As Yeti opened the door, there was a loud
whirring noise from within. Yeti threw Stan to the side and opened fire with
his stun gun. Rolling on the floor to a place of some cover, he adjusted the
beam from narrow to wide and from stun to kill. Stan had also found some cover
and watched the stun gun do its terrible work. A large Other and a half-dozen
underlings were burned to a crisp in less than ten seconds.
“I think you’ve just made an irrevocable
decision here, Yeti,” said Stan. “I appreciate it, but what were you thinking?”
“That whirring noise you heard when I opened
the door was a death ray. I was told to bring you for interrogation, but they
obviously planned to kill you. That they felt it necessary to keep that from me
means they no longer completely trusted me and were going to dispose of me with
you, which ‘pissed me off,’ as you might say on Earth.”
“I guess it did,” said Stan. “But all this
commotion is sure to bring reinforcements. We’ve got to get out here fast.”
“You go; I would just slow you down,” said
Yeti.
“I hear them coming,” said Stan. “Here,
grab my hand and when I say ‘run,’ run with me as fast as you can.”
Stan decided this whole business of trying
to meet with the Others just wasn’t working, especially since it seemed they no
longer wanted to take him alive. He intended to take Yeti back to Earth and
find a safe place for him while he figured things out. He had some questions
for Stephen, Alicia, and John, but they would have to wait. Stan intended to
take a vacation from all of this for a while. If he could.
“Ready? Run!”
To Be Continued
The
beginning of this story is a slightly revised version of a flash piece
originally published in Grant Tarbard’s “The Screech Owl,” a wonderful British
literary site that sadly closed this past summer.
Roy
Dorman, roydorman@yahoo.com, of
Madison, Wisconsin, who wrote BP #75’s “The Enemy of My Enemy…” (+ BP #74’s
“Doesn’t Play Well with Others,” BP #73’s “A Journey Starts with a Flower,” BP
#72’s “The Beach House,” BP #71’s “The Big Apple Bites,” BP #70’s “Borrowing
Some Love,” and BP #69’s “Back in Town” and “Finding Good Help…”), is retired
from the University of Wisconsin-Madison Benefits Office and has been a
voracious reader for 60 years. At the prompting of an old high school
friend, himself a retired English teacher, Roy is now a voracious
writer. He has had poetry and flash fiction published in Apocrypha and Abstractions, Birds Piled
Loosely, Burningword Literary Journal, Cease Cows,
Cheapjack Pulp,
Crack The Spine, Drunk Monkeys, Every Day Fiction,
Flash Fiction Magazine,
Flash Fiction Press, Gap-Toothed
Madness, Gravel, Lake City Lights,
Near To The Knuckle, Shotgun
Honey, The Creativity Webzine, Theme
of Absence, The Screech Owl, The Story
Shack, & Yellow Mama.