I Know What They Are Read online



  I KNOW WHAT THEY ARE

  by

  Kristopher Mallory

  I KNOW WHAT THEY ARE

  A short horror story.

  Copyright

  www.StealthFiction.com

  I KNOW WHAT THEY ARE

  Copyright © 2012 Kristopher Mallory

  Cover Art Copyright © 2014 Stephan Geyer

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  ISBN-13 (EPUB Version): 978-1-30185-348-9

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  Edited by Em Petrova

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  eBook License Notes:

  You may not use, reproduce or transmit in any manner, any part of this book without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations used in critical articles and reviews, or in accordance with federal Fair Use laws. All rights are reserved.

  Disclaimer:

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or the author has used them fictitiously.

  Other Books by Kristopher Mallory

  Master Stargazer

  These Bad Dreams Combined

  Mega Millions

  What People Are Saying about Kris's Books:

  I Know What They Are:

  "This is absolutely amazing. Has me a bit paranoid as I get deja vu quite a bit, hopefully not too many good futures have passed me by..." – Niamhel

  Master Stargazer:

  "Hands down one of the best short sci fi books I have read" – Ricky G.

  These Bad Dreams Combined:

  "No idea WTF is going on here, but I'm fascinated!" – Ali

  Dedication:

  To those that want to know.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Book List

  People Say

  Dedication

  Chapter 1 – Meeting L.

  Chapter 2 – Signs Change

  Chapter 3 – Now You Know

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  What's Next?

  More from Kristopher Mallory

  More from Stealth Fiction Publishing

  Chapter 1 - Meeting L.

  The sign read:

  Will work for food.

  The homeless man holding the cardboard wears mismatched shoes and stinks of alcohol. There's a spark of lust in his otherwise worn eyes. He licks his lips and mumbles some vulgar line about my skirt while staring at my breasts. His voice slurs so I don't quite make out what he says. The message is still clear—money isn't the only thing he'd like to get his hands on.

  Despite his rude behavior, I realize he doesn't have a clue about surviving on the streets. His sign, will work for food, doesn't work on anyone. With a different sign, he'd have a much better chance of squeezing a few extra coins from the morning commuters.

  He stumbles in front of me and reaches out a hand. It looks as if he's trying to steady himself, but I know he's trying to cop a feel. Some women might get upset at this, but I'm used to dealing with his type camping along these sidewalks. I do what I always do: side-step his reach, pay him a friendly smile, and continue walking down the block.

  The homeless aren't all creeps. Most only want to master the art of looking pathetic while cradling their sharpie-written messages and shaking a cup with a few nickels and dimes inside.

  Half a block later, Joe, the legless Vietnam veteran, calls out, "God bless, ma'am." He's one of the regulars along skid row. He's been sitting in the same spot on the corner since long before I moved to the city and he'll probably be sitting in the same spot long after I move on.

  He waves to me as I approach his busted wheelchair.

  I smile and wave back.

  The sign read:

  Disabled.

  Got No Family.

  God Bless.

  "Good mornin', Joe. How are you?" I drop quarters into the vintage He-Man lunchbox he keeps in front of him on the pavement.

  "'Twice as fine as yesterday an' half as fine as tomorrow."

  While I'm searching my purse for more quarters, Joe calls out to someone else. "God bless, mister." He taps his finger to his forehead in a salute.

  The man—Mr. Business Suit—shoulders by me, spits at Joe, then shuffles off toward the side street.

  I clench my fists. "Hey!"

  The man flips me off without turning around.

  Seething, I want to give chase, but running in stilettos is nearly impossible. I'm about to kick the shoes off when Joe says, "Ain't no need for anger, ma'am. He do it every day."

  "What?" My jaw drops. "That man spits on you everyday?"

  Joe nods. "I tell him God bless just the same. Don't bother me none."

  I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. "You're a good man, Joe."

  "I try to be, Ms. Tammy. Can't let a thing like that change ya heart, understand?"

  "Thanks for the advice, Joe," I say, nodding.

  "No, ma'am, thank you." He waves me away. "You have a blessed one. Go on now."

  "See you tomorrow?"

  Joe smiles. "You know where to find me."

  Talking with Joe reminds me of my father. That man had known what respect meant. He had often said, "Tammy, honor everyone until they prove to be unworthy. Then you tell them to kiss your ass."

  Joe seems to live by a slightly different philosophy. Someone must've taught him that being spit on isn't reason enough to stand up for yourself. Maybe that's why he's still on the streets?

  No, that isn't fair. Anger doesn't change anything, and I'm positive that confronting someone like Mr. Business Suit would've been pointless. Not much you can do when someone has their head that far up their own ass.

  The do-not-cross light flashes red at the main highway intersection, and I join the crowd waiting for it to turn. All around me are office workers, lawyers types, and doctors. I spy a young nurse wearing yellow scrubs. A loud country song is escaping from her earphones. She's bouncing along to the beat and lip syncing the words. The light changes, but my attention is still on her. I'm curious how she'll react to the pregnant junkie swaying back and forth on the steps of the defunct bank.

  The sign read:

  Spare change please?

  Trying to pick myself back up.

  The pregnant junkie begs, "Help me for the sake of my unborn baby."

  The girl in scrubs averts her eyes. Like everyone else, she's trying to pretend that the poor and lost don't exist. I find that kind of attitude disheartening. I nod to the pregnant junkie but don't give her any money.

  Farther down the drug block, two shady-looking fellows with vacant eyes and sallow faces covered in sores stand in the doorway of a burnt-out row home. A noxious plastic smell emanates from the glass pipes pressed to their lips.

  The people here are the worst. These are the real addicts. No one stops in this part of the city, not even the police. No surprise, really. Anyone stupid enough to do that would likely be robbed by one of fiends for a watch, wallet, or even a pair of shoes. They've even been known to kill people getting in the way of them scoring their next hit.

  One of the men wears a clerical collar. His cardboard message is propped up on one of the steps.

  The sign read:

  In Recovery. Please Help.

  I cautiously walk by, keeping eye contact. The priest smiles a mouthful of broken, blackened teeth, and makes the sign of the cross.

  My God!

  It isn't fair to judge, I know, but…my god.

  I'm biased. I've seen how far my father fell once he took up the pipe. I try my best not to form opinions based on outward appearances, no matter how bad, because I know that mixed in with all the addicts, drunks, and lunatics are those who have lost everything through no fault of their own, or in some cases, simply because
of an accident. I know how horrible that feels…first hand.

  A memory flashes through my mind: My father laughing hysterically on the front lawn as flames devoured our home. My mother is struggling in the arms of a fireman. The fireman is trying to pull her away from the intense heat. Crying, she breaks free of his grip, runs toward the inferno, and disappears into the thick, black smoke.

  I shudder and raise the collar of my coat, pretending that my reaction was caused by an ice-cold gust of wind.

  The next light changes, and the crowd moves back into safer territory. I approach a makeshift shelter with a sad-eyed child huddled underneath, clutching his knees to his chest. He nods as I drop a dollar on the wool blanket he's using as a mat.

  The sign read:

  The boy is alone.

  I notice everyone else passing by as if they don't see the little boy, and I pause a moment, wondering what else I can do to help him. There's nothing, so I just sigh, then mutter, "Good luck," before running to catch up to the herd.

  Nowadays the sight of pain means jack shit to most people. So many have become desensitized to the agony that surrounds them. They don't realize that anyone can end up out here. All it takes is a spark at the wrong time and place and your whole world can burn to the ground. I've lived in the gutter and know all the secrets those stinking pits hold.

  I look at the faces around me. It seems that almost everyone wants to go on in blissful ignorance. That's fine. I'll continue to nod and smile at the forsaken. I'll offer the acknowledgment that they deserve and try to help them when and if I can. Sometimes I think I should make friends with one of the other people in the morning crowd…maybe that young nurse still bobbing along to her country music. I could tell her about the gratitude that shines in the eyes of the less fortunate simply by making eye contact.

  Turning the corner, I chuckle softly at the sight up ahead. The comedian is sleeping in the middle of the sidewalk, like usual.

  The sign read:

  If frustrated throw quarters.

  Smiling, I step over him and continue on my way to the shortcut through an alley.

  I leave the herd and round the overfilled dumpster near the passageway between two slumlord-ran apartment buildings, a short cut to my office building. A melancholy woman wearing a dirty lab coat is standing at the mouth of the other end. Oddly, she's covering both of her eyes with her palms. The writing embroidered over the lab coat's left breast pocket identifies the owner as L. Porter, Ph.D. Below the name, in bold letters, CERN

  I step through a brown puddle, and the woman lowers her hands. The expression on her face is a familiar mixture of confusion and grief. As I make my way closer, chills run down my spine. The pain etched on her face reminds me so much of my mother. She kneels and picks up a damp piece of cardboard then holds it out with shaking hands.

  The sign read:

  I know what they are.

  I experience Déjà vu. Without realizing what I'm doing, I stop inches in front of her. Words come out of my mouth all on their own. "Hello, my name is Tammy. Would you like to join me for a cup of coffee?"

  "Yes." She nods. "I'm L."

  ***

  L. seems to stare at the teenage waitress carrying a tray to our table. As the girl sets down the two coffees, she shudders and says, "Whoa, that's weird. That thing just happened to me. You know, what's it called?"

  "I'm sorry." L. shakes her head and says to the girl, "You'll never be a veterinarian."

  The waitress cocks her head to the side. "Excuse me? Did you say vegetarian?"

  L. shrugs. "I said you won't be a vet."

  The waitress seems to fake a smile and says, "Oh. That's good, I guess. I don't like cats." She blinks. "Dogs either," she adds, then blinks again. "In fact…I hate all animals."

  Unsure of what the exchange was all about, I say to the girl, "Thank you. If we need anything else, we'll ask."

  "Sure thing." The waitress smiles politely then walks away.

  I attempt to strike up a conversation about the lab coat L. is wearing. "I've heard of CERN," I say, "but I can't remember how I know the name."

  L. shrugs.

  "Where did you find the coat?"

  L. takes a sip of her black coffee. "It keeps me warm at night," she says. Her face twitches slightly then her eyes quickly dart around the room before looking back down at the steaming cup in front of here.

  "L.?"

  She looks up at me.

  "Where are you from? Is there someone we can call?"

  "It doesn't matter where you're from," L. says. "It only matters where you used to be going."

  "Used to be going?" I begin to wonder why I'm even sitting here.

  L. blurts out, "Thanks for your kindness. I really must be leaving." She bites her lip and then says, "Also, I'm really sorry about your children."

  "Children?"

  "Yes."

  "I don't have any."

  "I know."

  "I'm not sure if I even want to be a parent." I consider it for a moment and decide I don't. "It's a huge responsibility."

  "Do you know your name still?"

  "Of course I know my name," I say, furrowing my brow. "It's Tammy."

  L. reaches over and takes my hand. Tears form at the corners of her eyes. "I'm terribly sorry about your children, Tammy."

  The way she spoke made it sound as if they had died in a tragic accident…a fire. I'm upset for a moment. L.'s sincerity over my non-existent children had dredged up another unwanted detail from my past. I don't know how to respond. If I even try, I'll break down, so I just stare into her dark eyes. A few long seconds pass, then L. releases my hand and quickly makes her way to the exit.

  "Wait!" I call out a bit to loud and the other patrons begin to stare.

  L. turns toward me and raises her eyebrows.

  I know I shouldn't stop her, but I'm compelled to find out more. The cardboard sign is tucked under her arm.

  I stand and walk over to her. "Just wanted to ask…." I hesitate. "I mean, I noticed your sign?"

  L. clutches it tighter. "I know what they are."

  "Who are 'they'?"

  "Not who, but what, and you don't want to know about them."

  "Then why do you carry the sign?"

  "Why not?"

  "This isn't going anywhere." I try a different approach. "Have you sought help? I know a doctor…."

  L.'s eyes narrow. "Things were better when they were secret," she says.

  "If you don't want to tell me about them, it's okay."

  "Mandy?"

  "No. I told you, my name is—"

  "Tammy! I'm bad with names now." L. takes a deep breath. "You seem like a good person. If I find out what they are, you will get hurt again."

  "What do you mean, again? You keep saying these things, and I don't understand. You know what, never mind. I'm sorry that I asked."

  "The choice is yours," L. says with a hint of sadness in her voice. "Meet me tomorrow if you really want to know."

  Before I can respond, L. pushes open the door and runs down the block. As I watch her go, it occurs to me that L. is the definition of insane. Even so, I can't deny the connection I feel. There's a crushing depth to her hopelessness which had somehow pulled me in.

  It's extremely dangerous to associate with the mentally ill, but…I need to know what they are.

  ***

  The following day I find L. sleeping in a cardboard box. Her blue Solo cup is on an over-turned milk crate. It only has only a few pennies inside. I grab some cash from my purse, and as I'm about to place the money into the cup, I realize it'll most likely be stolen before L. would find it.

  "Hey, it's Tammy. Are you awake?"

  L. rolls over, grabs her cardboard sign, then holds it over her face like a protective shield.

  "Hey, calm down. I'm not going to hurt you." I try to reassure her by keeping my voice as slow and steady as possible. "We had coffee yesterday. Do you remember?"

  L. nods.

  "I want to give
you this," I say, holding out a twenty.

  Gracefully, she takes the money from my hand, and says, "Thank you. I'm sorry about those goose bumps."

  It's true, the hair on my arms is standing on end, but I'm wearing a thick jacket today so I don't see how L. could've known about the chills. I laugh. "Someone must've walked over my grave."

  L. swallows hard then shakes her head. "They didn't walk over your grave," she says. "They stole eight years and five months of your life."

  Once more, the hairs on my arms rise, and a deep shiver accompanies the eerie sensation of Déjà vu.

  "Three more years and nine months," L. says. "Plus, I'm sorry you'll never find true love."

  "That's silly," I say. "I'm twenty-seven. I don't have the time to deal with a serious relationships, so finding true love is the last thing on my mind."

  "I know. I'm really sorry. You should leave now or you will keep getting hurt."

  "You haven't hurt me."

  L. whispers, "No. But they have."

  Suddenly, I'm sick to my stomach and an excruciating pain stabs through my body. It's worse than any menstrual cramp I've ever experienced. The world is suddenly streaked with a dark, surreal tone. And L. doesn't seem so hot either. Her face has gone pale and she looks worse than I feel.

  "Are you all right?" I ask between gritted teeth.

  Her eyes roll into the back of her head. "One Alpha Six Sigma. Confirmed. Confirmed. Confirmed!" She twitches.

  "L.?" I ask unsurely as I back away from her.

  "Cauls. Vacate. Confirmed." L. screams, "Tammy!" then she retches. "Gone. Fourteen. Change. Change. Change!"

  The pain in my gut changes to intense tingling pulsations.

  Oddly, I feel like…like…one of the helpless fools who went outside to stare at the aftermath of the Chernobyl nuclear disaster. I wonder what the hell that even means and were the thought had sprang from.

  "You should…" L. screeches, "you should… you should… you should…"

  She's not even looking at me anymore. Her head slams into her shoulder, repeatedly. She's having some kind of seizure, except she's still walking toward me.

  "You should…you should…you should…."

  I'm backed all the way against the brick wall. I should what?

  "You should…" L. is only a few inches from my face. Her pleading eyes lock onto mine and she screams, "Run!"