Brian O'Grady: Hybrid

You don’t need to be ruled by fear , said a small voice in his head. It really doesn’t matter if you’re late. Nothing is going to happen, so just relax and enjoy the world around you . The small voice was little more than a whisper, but it seemed to magically resonant in his mind, weakening his will, and in an unexpected moment of independence, especially considering what had just happened, Phil obeyed. He shortened his steps, and for a long, wonderful second he was the master of his own mind. A thrill rushed through him as he intentionally ignored the growing panic that screamed at him to hurry. He drew a long luxuriant breath, and almost, almost felt relaxed.

“Pardon me,” a voice said gruffly as he was bumped first by one and then by another person as the human traffic began to stream past him. A wave of fear drowned out the small voice. The moment of normality forgotten, he looked at his watch again: 12:54. Six minutes to do four blocks. He could just make it with a brisk walk; he wouldn’t have to start running, yet. He lengthened his stride, brushing people as he passed them. It can’t be helped , he thought. Besides, he hadn’t actually made physical contact with anyone. Three blocks: 12:55:25. If he kept this pace, he’d make it. He allowed himself to anticipate the relief he’d feel after making it to the office safe and on time. No pounding in his chest, no roaring in his ears, his mind free to focus on something less trivial than getting back from lunch on time.

The small voice returned: You live the life of a coward, afraid and small . Phil ignored it. He especially hated this voice; it was new and dangerous. It whispered, unlike the others, which raged. He’d learned to deal with the rages, but whispers were harder to ignore.

Admit it, you don’t want to live like this, and the truth is that you don’t have to. Find the courage to free yourself. Phil intentionally walked faster. He’d have to find a way to silence this small, seductive voice. It came at him sideways, not like the usual monsters that preferred a more direct and violent approach. It was so much cleverer than the others, playing on his deepest desires, softly speaking of things like enjoyment, spontaneity, choice — the components of a normal life. A life free of The Routine. Only Phil knew that would never be possible. He could never have a normal life, because he wasn’t normal.

One block to go — ninety seconds left. Phil stepped into the last crosswalk just as the traffic lights changed. Perfectly timed , he told himself, and with this tiny victory, some of his anxiety began to ease.

It’s sad that such a trivial thing can make you feel better. Life doesn’t have to be this inconsequential, and you know it. The small voice again.

If you continue, I’ll —

You’ll what? Start to count? Maybe some derivatives? How about some cube roots? Let’s try the cube root of 7,315,393,542, shall we? And the answer is 1941.24, give or take a few decimalpoints. Math isn’t going to work. You’re going to have to deal with what I say!

The small voice wasn’t so small anymore. Phil knew it was never a good idea to respond to a voice directly; all he had done was empower it.

Seemingly out of nowhere, a man passed Phil on his left and reached the opposite curb a fraction of a second before him. Startled, Phil sidestepped to avoid contact, but the abnormally tall man continued down the sidewalk without taking notice of their near collision. Phil chastised himself. It had been a long time since an internal debate had distracted him to the point of inattention. He resumed his hurried pace, but the tall man was faster. Dressed entirely in black — hat, overcoat, slacks, shoes — he stood at least six foot five and had a stride to match. On an average day, Phil would have found him unusual, but today the clock was ticking, and he still had half a block to go. The video store, the dry cleaner, the bakery, and then the office.

The door to Loeb’s Bakery opened, and a well-dressed woman backed into the sidewalk. Early sixties, Phil guessed, five foot two in high heels. Obviously not a local. She carried a large, ungainly purple box and was thanking the baker as he held the door. Unaware or unconcerned about sidewalk traffic, she tarried several more seconds, chatting away. The tall man was rapidly closing the distance, and in a moment would be forced into the street to avoid running into her, but she gave no sign of moving. Phil watched with interest as the woman had positioned herself directly in front of his office door, and in a moment, he too would be forced into the street. The tall man slowed, and for a moment looked as if he was going to join the conversation, but instead, he suddenly kicked her outstretched leg.

The woman’s leg flew out from beneath her; she fell hard onto her back and right side. Phil was close enough to hear the heavy thud and the whoosh of escaping breath. One of her shoes slid down the sidewalk as the man stepped over her. The box she carried skidded into the slush-filled gutter, where it split open, and the flowing snowmelt washed away a large purple dinosaur cake.

Almost against his will, and completely against his nature, Phil found himself running to her aid. She was less than twenty feet ahead of him, three or four strides, and he covered the distance in a moment. The tall man sensed his approach and turned to face Phil, his black overcoat billowing in the wind. A wave of fear every bit as tangible as a gust of bitter cold struck Phil, and he pulled up short. The man’s face, if one could call it that, was grotesquely deformed. The skin was a mass of twisted gray tissue, with no discernible nose, eyebrows, or ears, and his mouth, partially open to reveal pointed white teeth, was no more than a slit. But it was the eyes that froze Phil in place. Blood-red orbs bulged from malformed sockets, and they bored into Phil.

“You are too late, Phillip,” the slit-mouth said slowly in strangely accented English. Abruptly he turned and walked up the sidewalk. The spell broken, Phil returned to the prostrate woman. Her long fur coat had fallen open, and her sky-blue pleated skirt had worked its way up her thighs. Instead of trying to get up, she was working to regain a degree of modesty.

Embarrassed, Phil looked up and found that the assailant had disappeared. The sidewalk was empty, and so was the street. Puzzled, Phil jogged the hundred feet to the intersection, but found no six-foot-five-inch man dressed all in black in any direction.

The office! The realization hit Phil. He’s waiting for me in the office! He ran back down the sidewalk and pulled the side door open so abruptly that the guard jumped to his feet.

“Dr. Rucker, are you okay?” José Ortega said, his hand over his holster.

“Did anyone just come through this door?” Phil asked breathlessly.

“No one,” Ortega said definitively.

Phil pushed the door closed, cutting off Ortega’s questions, and turned back to the sidewalk and the fallen woman. The baker and several passersby were helping her back into the store. Phil waited for her to clear the doorway and began to follow her inside. Just as he was crossing the threshold, he hesitated.

I could just go back to work , he thought. She doesn’t need me. The baker was helping her into a chair, while someone else was bringing up a second one for what looked like a sprained right ankle. I don’t need to do this , he thought, but something compelled him forward.

The woman was in obvious pain, and despite excellent cosmetic surgery, her true age was evident. “Excuse me, ma’am,” Phil said, “but I saw what happened and got a look at the man who kicked you.”

She stared up at him blankly. “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t think I understand,” she said with a deep southern drawl.