Andrew Neiderman - Deficiency

But he was in a particular hurry now, fleeing with an intensity he had not experienced. Never before did he feel this degree of desperation. He hated it and didn't want to look at himself. He was ashamed of his fear. It made him weak, made him more like... them, his prey. If there was one thing that terrified him above anything else, it was the thought that he was someone else's prey. He was the hunted and not the hunter.

He was practically running now, running toward the motel office, blind to everything but the tasks at hand. Focused, intense, a projectile of raw determination, he charged through the door and into the apartment. He went right for the can of money he had left in front of the closet, filled his fist with the bills, and stuffed them into his pockets. Then he rose and walked slowly back to the living room, feeling more confident, feeling more in control of events. But when he stepped into the room, he paused. In his haste, he had run right past the motel owner. For a moment he was confused. The dead motel owner wasn't against the wall where he had left him. The man was in his easy chair, his head back, his eyes open, facing the television set that was on, the volume low.

Did I leave him that way? he wondered. Did I turn on the set? Was I having some fun?

"It's better this way," he heard himself say. "This way it looks more like he had a heart attack while watching television. I'll make sure of that." Did he think aloud?

He turned very slowly and looked at himself and saw Garret Stanley.

"Boy, have you made a mess of things," he heard himself say. "You have no idea what I have gone through covering all this up. Some important people had to use big muscle."

He looked at the dead motel owner and then turned back to Garret.

"What else have you done here? What else do I have to clean up? Well?" Garret followed after a moment. "Are there any other bodies in the vicinity? Hello!

Those two cars parked in front of the motel units?"

He nodded.

"Great." Garret stepped closer, moving more into the illumination. There was a nasty looking bruise on his forehead. He raised his hand to his own forehead and felt for it. "No, this is particularly my own trauma. Thank you for caring. Seems a local physician, a Dr. Terri Barnard, was a bit more resourceful than I imagined she would be. Did you know she had the pleasure of confronting two of your pieces of work, and eventually, might have made a lot of trouble for us?

You don't read newspapers? You didn't see our face on the front page?

He nodded.

"Oh, you did. Great. Well, why are you still here then?"

"I'm leaving," he said.

"Yes, you're leaving. We're leaving. You can't continue like this. You understand that, don't you? Well? Don't you?

He nodded.

"Good. We'll get you back and help you."

There was something in Garret's face he recognized. People lie to themselves, but they know they're lying to themselves. They can't look into the mirror and not know the truth. They can put on a facade to hide the truth from others, but there is no mask thick enough or good enough to hide the truth from yourself. He saw the deception in Garret's eyes. He saw the looming betrayal.

"You can't lie to me," he told Garret.

Garret's eyes widened.

"I'm your mirror and you're mine."

He saw that Garret understood. He saw the look of fear now. He reached for the pistol in pocket and brought it out, but just as he was doing so, he lunged at himself and grasped his wrist. They struggled and turned, a strangely beautiful dance of death, mirror images, each anticipating the other's steps, looking into the duplicated eyes, the duplicated twisted lips of effort, their arms equal in strength. The spinning grew faster, a little more awkward.

Garret's head trauma sang and shortened his ability to keep his balance. Then, he did a surprising thing to Garret. Maybe he had to duplicate that head trauma. He brought his head back and snapped it forward so his forehead would strike Garret just at the bridge of his nose. The nose cracked and the pain was electric, shooting up in a dozen directions, tearing through Garret's eyes, into his brain where it exploded like a big lightbulb.

Darkness came rushing in. The grip Garret had on his hands loosened. His legs began to retract as if they were receding into his hips, the calves into the thighs, the thighs into his lower torso until they were completely gone and he was dangling in the air.

It felt like water rushing over him, a great wave washing him farther and farther down until he was too deep to ever come back up.

Garret died in little ways first, first losing all sensitivity in the tips of his fingers and toes, the tip of his nose, his lips, his ears, every extremity falling away, crumbling. It was truly as if his skin was peeling off. There was bone showing everywhere.

There was no sound possible, just the tremendous urge to make one. How remarkable, Garret thought, is death.

What a fool I have been to avoid it.

Garret's body folded at his feet. He stood looking over him for a long moment. First, he felt relief. The organism felt relief. It had survived, but that was followed by a tremendous sense of sadness, of sorrow and desolation. He was literally mourning himself.

He dropped his head back and squeezed his eyes closed and then he howled like a wild animal that had lost its loving offspring. He was, after all, now truly alone, not connected to anything, floating out there. Prey needed its predators. He had no purpose. From what would he flee? After all, that was all he really existed to do: flee. Refuel, refurbish, and then flee.

He howled again and then he lowered himself to his knees and looked at Garret. What was more terrifying than looking at yourself in death? This was a nightmare come to life. He shook his shoulders and his head bobbed and swung about, those dead eyes like two glass marbles threatening to fall out of his skull. Then he embraced him and held him, held himself and rocked back and forth for a while.

Afterward, maybe out of a need to deny what was true, he changed clothing, even down to underwear. He put on his watch, took his wallet and identification, slipped, as it were, into him, the way he had slipped into so many other identities. It gave him some consolation, some relief. He rose with a renewed energy, especially when he looked at him in his clothing.

The weaker part of me is dead, he thought. That's all. I go on. A sacrifice was made, nothing more.

"Thank you," he told the new corpse and turned to go. Before he reached the lobby, he heard the car drive up and saw a tall man get out of a black automobile. There were two men alongside him, both looking rather aggressive, military, even though they were in suits. He stepped back as they came to the door.

"Dr. Stanley, are you all right?" the tall man asked as he entered.

"Yes," he said.

"What's happening?"

"It's over," he said. It just came to him to say that quickly.

"Oh good. What went on here?"

"I'm afraid a few more victims. You'll find them in the two units: a woman and her mother, and a couple. Both of the women are... depleted," he said. The tall man nodded and turned to the two men.

"I suppose you're going to want to go check it out," he said.

"Right," the taller of the two said and turned to his partner. "I'll do that. You stay with Mr. Dennis and assist him and Doctor Stanley here." Dennis turned back to him. "Where's...?"

"He's back there with the motel owner," he said quickly.

"Let's take a look," Dennis said and he and the other man followed him into the living room. "Christ, he looks exactly like you. Just as you described. Jesus," he added turning to him, "you both have a bruise on your foreheads, too. That's eerie. How's that?"

"We struggled. He knew why I had come. I didn't have a chance to shoot him. I hit him with the handle of the pistol. Just a coincidence," he added.