Elizabeth Hand: 12 Monkeys

Cole stared at the man’s dignified face, the carefully knotted tie about his neck, and his neat faux-alligator belt. Then, glancing down for the first time, Cole saw that L.J. Washington was wearing an immense pair of fuzzy orange bedroom slippers.

“And you, my friend?” Once more the black man touched Cole gently on the shoulder, gazing with intense concern into Cole’s eyes. “Are you, too, perhaps, divergent?”

Before he could reply, the muscular figure of Billings loomed up behind them. “Okay, Jimbo — conference time.” The orderly clapped a huge hand on Cole’s shoulder and directed him to the door. “Say good-bye to your pals. We’ll see ‘em again in a little while…”

“Conference?” Cole wondered, glancing back over his shoulder at L.J. Washington.

“That’s right. Psychiatric evaluation — pretty standard stuff, nothing to worry about,” Billings added soothingly. “Right this way…”

Cole walked with him, his head aching. His mouth was parched; the acrid taste was stronger now, and he knew it must have something to do with the drugs they’d given him the night before. As he padded down the dim hallway, voices wafted out from behind closed doors: walls and laughter, a nervous giggle. He passed a room where eyes glittered from the darkness of a raised bunk and someone whispered words he couldn’t understand. Cole blinked, the throbbing behind his eyes almost blinding him, and stared at his feet slapping against the linoleum in their flimsy cloth sneakers.

“Here we go—”

He was brought up short by Billings yanking at his arm. “This way, Jimbo. Doctor’s waiting.”

A metal door swung open, revealing a long, brightly lit room. In the middle, four men and women sat around a beat-up conference table littered with coffee mugs and manila folders. On the walls hung newspaper clippings, a schedule of recreational events, and a newsletter from Tulane Medical School. A bulletin board was plastered with notices advertising various meetings: ONE DAY AT A TIME! JUST TWELVE STEPS TO A NEW LIFE!

“Here he is, Dr. Fletcher,” Billings announced. “James Cole.”

The man sitting at the head of the table nodded at the orderly. Even inside, he wore tinted glasses, so that his gaze was inscrutable. “Thank you. Now, Mr. Cole—” he gestured at an empty chair “—please, have a seat.”

Cole remained standing as Dr. Fletcher went on. “I’ll introduce you to my colleagues: Dr. Goodin, Dr. Casey, I think you already know Dr. Railly…”

For a moment Cole’s eyes met Dr. Railly’s. Her expression was cool, almost icily professional, but her eyes held a glint of warmth. He shook his head agitatedly. “This is a place for crazy people! I’m not crazy!”

Dr. Casey frowned slightly. “We don’t use that term — ‘crazy’ — Mr. Cole.”

Cole’s voice rose. Behind him Billings crossed his arms and watched him knowingly. “You’ve got some real nuts in here! Listen to me, all of you! I know things you don’t. It’s going to be difficult for you to understand, but—”

“Mr. Cole,” broke in Dr. Fletcher. “Last night you told Dr. Railly you thought it was…”

He took a pencil from a small pile of writing implements and glanced at a file by his elbow. “… 1996.” His gaze flicked back to Cole. “How about right now? Do you know what year it is right now?”

“1990,” snapped Cole, gazing down at the conference table. “Look, I’m not confused. There’s been a mistake, I’ve been sent to the wrong place—”

He lunged, grabbing for Dr. Fletcher’s pencil. Just as his fingers closed around it, Billings huge hand enfolded Cole’s.

“Hey!” Cole cried. He looked up into Billings’ implacable face — no help there — then twisted and gazed imploringly at Dr. Railly. “Tell him — I’m not going to hurt anybody.”

“James, please.” Kathryn Railly turned in her chair to face him. “These are all doctors here — we want to help you.”

Beside her Owen Fletcher nodded. He adjusted his tinted glasses, looked down at the pencil in Cole’s fingers, and motioned at Billings. The orderly let go of Cole’s wrist. Cole quickly reached for a pad of paper and began drawing.

“Do any of you know anything about the Army of the Twelve Monkeys?” Cole held up the paper, now scrawled with the crude image of a dancing monkey. “They paint this, stencil it, on buildings all over the place.” He waved the paper excitedly, turning and holding it up so that first one doctor and then another could see it.

“Mr. Cole…” Dr. Casey murmured, shaking his head.

“Right.” Cole stared at the paper dejectedly, crumpled it, and dropped it to the floor. “I guess you wouldn’t. This is only 1990, they’re probably not active yet. That makes sense!” Billings eyed him watchfully as Cole began pacing the room.

“Okay — listen to me. Five billion people die in 1996 and 1997. Five billion .” Cole ran a hand over his stubbled scalp, then stabbed at the air with a finger. “Got that? Almost the whole population of the world! Only about one percent of us survived.”

He paused, saw the doctors exchange knowing looks.

“Are you going to save us, Mr. Cole?” Dr. Goodin asked.

Cole clenched his hands in frustration. “Save you! How can I save you? It already happened! I can’t save you! Nobody can! I’m simply trying to get some information to help people in the present so that they can—”

“The present?” Dr. Casey interrupted gently. “We’re not in the present now, Mr. Cole?”

“No, no, this is the past.” Cole’s voice broke as he said with exasperated patience. “This has already happened. Listen—”

Dr. Goodin raised an eyebrow. “Mr. Cole, you believe 1996 is the ‘present’ then, is that it?”

“No, 1996 is the past, too. Look…” Cole stopped and stared at each of them in turn. In their eyes he saw nothing but cool detachment and, perhaps pity.

“You don’t believe me,” he said at last. Above the bruises on his face, his cheeks reddened. “You think I’m crazy, but I’m not crazy. I’m a convict, sure, I have a quick temper, but I’m as sane as anyone in this room. I…”

Tap . A small sound disoriented him. Tap, tap, tap.

Cole looked around, feeling a faint prickling on his neck, a growing sense of unease.

Tap, tap …

That noise, where had he heard that—?

“Can you tell us the name of the prison you’ve come from?” Kathryn Railly asked softly.

Tap . Cole felt sweat breaking out on his face and chest. Tap, tap . He glanced down, glimpsed cold eyes behind the tinted lenses, a pencil twitching in Fletcher’s hand. Tap .

The pencil. Memory flooded him. The microbiologist at the camp — he wore glasses like those, didn’t he? Or had that been another doctor? a policeman? His icy voice had demanded, His icy voice had demanded, Why did you volunteer?

Tap .

“Does this bother you Mr. Cole?”

Cole jumped as Dr. Fletcher’s voice boomed out. The doctor held up a yellow pencil between two long thin white fingers. “It’s just a pencil,” said Fletcher. He smiled disarmingly. “Nervous habit of mine, that’s all…”

Cole shook his head, forcing the image of that other man, that other room, from his thoughts. “No!” He took a deep breath, willing himself to stay calm. “Look, I just don’t belong here, okay? What I need to do is make a telephone call to straighten everything out.”

Fletcher nodded, infinitely patient. “Who would you call, Mr. Cole, to straighten everything out?”

“Scientists. They’ll want to know they sent me to the wrong time. I can leave a message for them, on voice mail. They monitor it from the present.”