Xperiment

By Dan Skinner

Monsters aren't born... they're engineered.
For nineteen-year-old, socially awkward Geoff Markham, the promise of a miracle pill to make him into the person he’d always wanted to be was everything he could have hoped for.
At first, the experiment delivered on that promise. Geoff began to change, becoming more confident, stronger, even fearless. People began to admire him and find him attractive.
As with every new drug, there came side effects: the agitation, sleeplessness, the bad temper. When the strange dreams began, the ones that couldn't possibly be his own, he realized something else was happening to him. As he continued to change, he was becoming something much more than what had been promised... something far less human. Something unimaginable, unrecognizable.
Increasingly strange and violent things begin to happen around him. Is he the hunted or the hunter?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dan Skinner
• Release date: Jan 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310131479

Dan Skinner

I'm a single gay man living in the Midwest... I write because I consider myself to be an old-fashioned story teller. I've been a photographer for half my life specializing in male romance cover art. My dream is to one day live on the beach with my dog and continue to tell tales that inspire and entertain.

Book preview

There wasn’t a day in the nineteen years of his life that Geoff Markham woke up glad to be himself. He cursed the alarm clock that woke him to the two-room hovel that was his cheap apartment. Sunlight squirmed through holes torn in old window shades. He could smell the heavily curried Indian food that had been cooked in the neighbor’s apartment the previous night. He still had the headache he’d gone to bed with. He sat up, feeling it jackhammer inside his skull. The depression that accompanied it still clung like adhesive to the persistent pain.

An old episode of I Love Lucy was playing in a neighbor’s apartment. He could clearly hear every exchange between Lucy and Ricky and the tinny audience laughter. The skittering noises in the walls that separated him from the other tenants were made by mice, or rats, or very large cockroaches. He didn’t know which. It didn’t matter. They’d lived there longer than he had.

He was out of coffee, but there was a cup left in the pot from the day before. It was not only cold, but acidic, and he didn’t have creamer to lessen its sharpness. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, so he drank it anyway. A cold slice of pizza would be breakfast before heading to work.

The one truth in life is that everyone has baggage: the things that made their life uniquely challenging. Geoff just had more baggage than most. Born to an alcoholic single mother in the rural town of Bonne Terre, Missouri, he learned early how to live from one day to the next. When he was fifteen, he was raped repeatedly by one of his mother’s alcoholic boyfriends because the creep had discovered he was gay. The man threatened him and he was too intimidated to say or do anything. He lived in fear of the man because of what he did to him and said he would do to him. With that buried secret, he worked and saved until he turned seventeen, when he put what few possessions he had in a duffel bag. With the five hundred dollars he’d earned working at the local Burger King, he hitchhiked to Saint Louis to make his own way in the world. His mother wouldn’t miss him. His absence just meant extra booze money for her. He found his one hundred dollar a month apartment on the poorer side of town, and he got a minimum wage job at Godfrey, Inc. Telemarketers. It was a job that suited the gangly, unattractive country hick who preferred not to be seen, but hidden all day in a cubicle.

In the two years he’d been in the city he hadn’t made a single friend. At work, people ignored him. It wasn’t that he was unfriendly. He smiled and greeted everyone. He had the manners of a perfect gentleman. He was just one of those pathetic, faceless creatures no one paid attention to. He filled up a space people found easy to look past. He sat in his cubicle making his calls, reciting his rehearsed speech to sell whatever the junk he was instructed to sell each week. He ate lunch alone. No one invited him out, asked him about his weekends, or inquired anything about his personal life. In a noisy world, there were no voices addressing him.

Like most lonely souls, he had dreams. Those phantasms of hope which all desperate people cling to like prayers that a miracle will deliver them from the quicksand of their existence. He didn’t dream of finding a prince. He knew what caliber of person was out of his realm of possibilities. But there had to be one soul who’d find him attractive or interesting. It was said there was someone for everyone, but no one ever gave him a second glance. His expectations weren’t enormous. Just someone to come home to, who would make life bearable, who could make a home for him; one that had scrubbed floors, a full refrigerator, and clean sheets on the bed, someone to talk to. He hadn’t recognized how much he’d missed simple conversation until he moved to the city and faced the monotonous silence of his four walls. He just wanted the normal things. The same things that most people longed for.

It was on his walk home from work, along the main streets of Saint Louis, four blocks from where the squalor of his neighborhood began, that he heard the couple strolling in front of him discussing the weekly lottery jackpot. It was enormous. In the multi-millions of dollars. The sort of money that could buy dreams. He counted the change in his pocket that he’d saved for the next day’s lunch. He could spare a dollar’s worth and still buy a pickle loaf sandwich. The nearest place to purchase a ticket was at the In and Out liquor store a few blocks from his apartment. He hated to waste money on a gamble, but there was no chance of winning without the risk. If he won, he could eat steak for the rest of his life. Money could make him interesting, buy him friends; dress him in attractive clothes. Money could make him visible. If people saw him… there was the possibility of love. It wasn’t a chance he could pass up.

The line to purchase lotto tickets snaked around two aisles in the liquor store. The only thing everyone in the line had in common was their appearance: they didn’t look rich. The conversations among strangers were typical—what they would do with the money if they won. There were no idealists in line. Just poor souls wanting a nicer life, one that would be better with a car or house of their own. Some dreamed of vacations or expensive food and booze. Charity would begin at home with most of them, including Geoff. Everyone, he thought, was hoping they were the lucky one, even him. He closed his eyes for just a few minutes to imagine living in that better world. The world of having things rather than wanting or needing things.

The line jostled him from his reverie and back to the fluorescent-lit aisle stocked with drink mixes, soda, and snacks. He was four bodies away from the counter and squarely in the path of an air conditioner blowing directly on him. The five cups of coffee from work made him need to piss. He didn’t want to leave the line to go to the restroom, but at its snail’s pace, it would be ten minutes before he could get his ticket. It was a cross his legs, dance, grin and bear it moment. Once he got his ticket, he would make the dash to the restroom.

He was two people away from the counter when his eyes locked with those of the young man in the next aisle, at the tail end of the line. He was staring at Geoff. He was attractive in a blue-collar, rough stock kind of way. Dressed in a sweat- and greased-stained blue work shirt, dark blue pants, and work boots, Geoff guessed he was a laborer of some sort. He had medium-length dirty blond hair that had been brushed backward. There was a tattoo on his forearm of a skeleton riding a Harley. His eyes were big and blue, and there was no mistaking that he was looking directly at Geoff. He found that unnerving. No one ever stared at him. Whenever anyone had before, it hadn’t been in a pleasant way. There was nothing to look at. He was six feet, one hundred thirty-two pounds of pale skin and bones dressed in an ill-fitting white button-down shirt and black clip-on tie. His was a plain face, no outstanding features, his haircut cheap. But this man’s stare was not deprecating or intimidating. It was pleasant. And that made it odd.

Instinctively, he looked away and then back again to see if he was mistaken. But the man was, indeed, still looking at him. He dipped his head at Geoff and smiled. That was even more disconcerting. He blushed, turning his attention straight ahead to the counter. He was unaccustomed to anyone acknowledging him. Responding to a kindness was not in in his repertoire, so he froze. Without realizing, he was sweating profusely, as ifhis pores opened up to release a fountain of surprise. He was aware his shirt had pasted itself to his spine. Heart racing, it felt stuck in some gauzy clog between his breastbone and throat. And his mouth was dry. In his peripheral vision, he could still see the man staring in his direction. More than that, he could feel the weight of his gaze.

He’d never made introductory conversation with a stranger; wouldn’t even have a clue how to approach someone he didn’t know to say a Howdy do. He hated himself for not having the simple social skills that came so naturally to everyone else. Even if by the remotest possibility the man was interested him; he didn’t know the procedure. The whole thing made him anxious. He wanted to figure it out on the spot. He wanted to know the stranger’s name, wanted to give him his. Maybe he would ask him out for a coffee at the diner down the street. He didn’t need lunch money. They could talk and get to know each other, even though there wasn’t much for anyone to know about him. But….

Before he knew it, he was at the counter, the lottery ticket spitting out of the machine, feeling queasy and desperate to take a piss before his bladder burst. He grasped the ticket as soon as the clerk handed it to him, made a U-turn in the aisle and bee-lined for the restroom at the back of the store. From the corner of his eye, he could see the man in the blue workman’s uniform still watching him. That had to be a good sign. Maybe the fates were going to bestow him with a long overdue moment of good fortune. He had to hurry. He wanted to get back before the blond was gone. He’d figure out what to do then.

Standing at the latrine, he pissed as hard and fast as he could, rehearsing in his mind the possible ways he could approach the first attractive man who’d ever paid attention to him.

So how many lotto tickets did you buy? No. Too impersonal. Bet you buy a Porsche if you win…. Too cheesy. Hi my name is…. He sighed. He had no clue how to walk up and talk to a complete stranger. He might as well trip clumsily and fall into him. He paused long enough to consider that possibility but dismissed it as juvenile. He was just a ridiculously pointless person, he thought. The sinking feeling bloomed in his chest to remind him he was considering something he would fail at—again. He knew he’d just walk out of the restroom, straight past the man. His ineptitude made it inevitable. Even if he won the lottery, even if he had all the money in the world and he was standing in this same place and time, he still wouldn’t be able to approach the only person who’d ever made purposeful eye contact with him. Money wouldn’t buy him interpersonal communication skills.

He finished pissing and stood at the sink washing his hands, shirt stuck to him like a postage stamp, dually cursing himself and wishing something providential would happen to give him the courage he wanted. His gaze drifted from his hands to his face in the mirror—that pallid, sorrowful and gaunt thing his soul looked out of. Blue veins lined his forehead and temples and he could sense a torrent in them. Why would anyone look at him? His eyes went wet with the realization he lived in a vessel he detested.

His vision blurred like the mirror had become unfocused. A sort of faint light moved in it, as if surrounding him. The buzzing fluorescents flickered. The room felt fuller, even though he was the only one in it, and for one startling moment, he thought he heard a voice whisper in his ear.

His hands gripped the sink to steady himself. He wondered if he’d just had a seizure, but everything had returned to normal in a matter of seconds. He was now staring at his reflection and feeling the anxious tremor coursing through him. What the fuck had just happened? He took a deep breath.

Blood sugar, he told himself, looking for an explanation. Need to eat more. But would that explain what he’d felt? He looked around the small, green-lacquered room. Even if he were blind, he would’ve had the feeling that someone had been in the room with him. You don’t have to see what you can sense to know it’s there.

Okay, he’d creeped himself out. He grabbed a paper towel, dried his hands, and with one last, nervous glance backward; hurried out the door.

The brighter light of the store was an assault to the eyes. He paused, squinting. His gaze scanned the line of people looking for the attractive guy in blue. His heart sank when it became apparent he was nowhere in sight. Gone. The frigid air hit Geoff’s wet shirt; he shivered.

He was becoming accustomed to disappointment and the accompanying ability to shrug off the idiotic expectations he’d had, however briefly, that something wonderful would happen. Oh, well, he sighed. If the words had musical notes and a chorus, they would have been his theme song. He made his way through the line of people to the door and back into the summer heat. Standing for a moment to adjust to the temperature change, he watched the wavering distortions above the asphalt. The street seemed blank, nothing moving in either direction. He couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, though. Maybe the oppressive heat was making the world feel like it was just too full. He turned away from where wealth and privilege started, and trudged toward the world of need and want: his home.

One turn of the corner and the glass and chrome of the city morphed into small streets lined with crumbling apartments, and the smell of age, neglect, and decay. All brick and cement, with glass enclosed behind bars. He could hear himself breathing in cadence with his stride. He touched the lottery ticket in his pocket and hoped. Please, oh please be the escape he needed. He didn’t know how much more his head or heart could stand. He’d reached so many breaking points in his life and still held on, but his grasp seemed to be failing more each day.

He’d just crossed the street onto his block when something hard crashed into his back and knocked him to his knees. In an instant he was on the sidewalk, his hands finding broken glass and gravel in a gutter. They were scraped and bloody before he could blink. He’d grunted in the descent, the wind knocked out of him. The pain took seconds to register, and in another few moments he realized he hadn’t fallen, but been knocked there… purposely. The recognition of all these facts collided at once, as he felt the blunt toe of a work boot kick him in the ass, knocking him further into the hot, empty street. He was face down in the waves of heat rising from the asphalt. It felt like the surface of an oven against his cheek. Another kick plowed into his ribcage. Awful pain ripped through him from head to toe as he rolled, grasping his side. Through tear-glazed eyes, he looked up from the lake of heat. The first thing he saw was the tattoo of the skeleton riding the Harley. The good-looking man from the liquor store. Comprehension catapulted to disbelief as he focused on the face sneering down at him. What he’d thought attractive was now a teeth-filled, horrid mask.

Well, hi there, little faggot! the man said, bending closer to him. Looks like you’re having yourself an unlucky day….

A groan churned from Geoff. His mind flailed away, unable to form words. The man kicked him hard again, this time in the hip. He heard his own cry like it was disembodied, coming from someone else, from somewhere else. It was two octaves too high to be his own. Muscles coiled on bones like wounded serpents. He was paralyzed, at the mercy of his assailant. Why was this happening?

Hands rummaged roughly through the pockets of his jacket and pants, and the weight of his wallet and phone disappeared. He had nothing to steal. A few dollars and cents, no credit cards, a lottery ticket and a cheap phone with only a work number programmed in it. That didn’t seem to matter to the man with the tattoo. He pocketed them like he was retrieving his personal possessions.

You really are a worthless piece of shit, the voice snarled above him. He knelt closer. Geoff could smell the residue of cigarettes on his breath. What is your purpose, huh? Fucking faggot. He nudged the toe of his boot into Geoff’s crotch. You have no purpose. That thing between your legs is for breeding. Fucking worthless ass fucker!

Geoff grabbed his crotch protectively. That made the man laugh.

Pathetic piece of shit.

The toe of the boot found his thigh instead. It rolled Geoff square into the gutter of broken glass and gravel, tears and spit spilling from him as he made incoherent noises. He heard the man stomp away from him and was thankful. He was left alone in the silent, baking street, waiting for the pain to go away.

2.

It was the way of the world. There were no saviors or superheroes to swoop down and save the victimized. Eyes that bore witness to his suffering hid silently behind curtains, afraid to come to his aid lest they become victims as well. Geoff sat on the curb waiting for the wracking pain to subside. The relentless heat of the western sun charred every ache deep inside him.

It was incomprehensible to him how the minds of bullies worked. Was there some chemical deficiency that dried the well of what should have been their conscience? How could these people do what they did without feeling any remorse?

His apartment was dusk-swathed and stifling. His existence was scentless. There was nothing inside the walls of his apartment which real homes contained, making them feel warm and inviting. The only sound of life was the muffled dissonance of the faceless beings that lived beyond his walls. Their televisions, their discussions and arguments. He heard what it was like to interact with others, but he had only his own dark and desolate inner voice to keep him company. The pitiful wondering… what kind of human would assault another for a cheap phone, a wallet worth less than the couple of dollars in it and a lottery ticket? He could feel flesh and muscle swell as he sat in the window overlooking neon blue nighttime city.

He was beyond crying. Crying meant you felt that, at least, you had some value. But that sentiment had long ago dried up. There was nothing he was waiting for, wanting to do or compelled to offer. He was too much of a coward to take a blade to his wrists, loop a noose around his throat or swan dive into oblivion from a rooftop. Suicide required another form of dedication he also didn’t possess. He was involuntarily taking up space. The man in the work clothes would’ve done him a favor if he’d broken his neck. Geoff would’ve gladly taken a bullet to bring the whole mess to an end. It didn’t matter to him if he believed in a hereafter… he just wanted no part of the here and now.

He bathed and bandaged his wounds, discovering more bruises than he’d suspected. They covered his thin white legs and arms in grape-colored pools. His cheek was swollen enough to misshape his left eye, and his ribs ached. While nothing was broken, there’d be no disguising he’d been battered.

He found a can of pork and beans and ate it for dinner straight from the can. Then he lay down to sleep. He could hear the music from an old Twilight Zone playing in another apartment and thought: Rod Serling was right. The world was filled with monsters. Sometimes they took the form of an attractive man in a blue work uniform with a pleasant smile.

3.

The lights that sliced beneath his sleeping lids were not the projections of welcomed dreams. They were yellow with the poison of the nightmares that frequently plagued him. But this nightmare was different. It didn’t possess the creeping monstrous shadow of a drunken man peeling his pajamas down from his white legs to expose him, calloused hands forcing his head into the pillow before ramming him with a dick that felt as big as a fist. This nightmare was like his day, a film being rewound in slow motion.

He was back in the street, uncringing from the boot that pulled itself from his thigh. Hands shoved his belongings back into his pockets; the phone, the wallet, the lotto ticket; but the look of distaste hadn’t changed on his assailant’s face as he towered above him. His hands healed themselves of cuts and scrapes from gravel and glass as he was yanked back into an upright position on the sidewalk by an invisible puppeteer. His gasp refilled his mouth. And then he was walking along the sidewalk, his face peppered with all the normal sadnesses he’d felt prior to the incident; before he was aware he’d been stalked like prey.

Something was different. The streets were the same. Still empty and hot. But inside those movements that had been so drastically slowed in his mind; he felt smothered and closed in, like he was packed in bubble wrap. Each step backwards felt like trudging through murky, muddy swamp water. Each breath that blew from his lungs was swallowed by a vacuum that made it harder to draw the next. Every step backward drew him closer to the In and Out liquor store where he’d encountered the deceptive snake in the grass with the sweet smile. And then he was in the restroom... in front of the mirror. He’d reversed himself from exiting to face it again and was confronted with eyes that he hadn’t remembered looking so panicked. The pupils looked wide and black like marbles. The causes of his fear came in reverse. The flickering fluorescent… the movement in the mirror.

And then he heard a voice again; Clean, Clean, Clean. The words seem to come from his mouth. In his voice. His face in the mirror where the lips moved like pale worms. Where the molecules of light grew heavy with the disease of darkness. The crowded feeling began to close the space around him like bodies pushed up against bodies with no room to spare. He wasn’t alone in the empty room. He could feel… someone. Clean, Clean, Clean. He heard his voice say again. The words made his throat grow tight.

They buzzed around him like invisible insects. The eyes… his eyes in the mirror... were no longer his own. Something coarser stared at him through them. Something that didn’t know fear, but could inspire it. And it had a smell… it was… intoxicating. It filled the green-tiled room like an unfamiliar incense.

He awoke with a start, unable to move. This was partially due to the dread inspired by the nightmare, but more from the painfully swollen bruises mapped over his limbs. It took him a full minute to sit upright on the edge of his bed. Each movement was accompanied by a grunt or a curse. He could only open his right eye a sliver. A finger traced the knot on his brow. He didn’t have to see it to know it was blackened. He was a beaten mess.

He reached for his phone on the nightstand then remembered… he no longer had a phone. It’d been stolen with his wallet. If he had the phone, he would’ve heard the alarm. It was the only clock in the apartment. He looked up at the windows. The light wasn’t right. It was too far to the center of the window. Later in the morning than it should be. He’d overslept. He could hear the neighbor’s television. I Love Lucy was no longer on. There was a rerun of Mr. Ed airing instead. He was late for work. He’d no phone to call in. The shock of his situation pushed him to his feet. Mr. Ritenor, his boss, would be busting blood vessels because he hadn’t called in. He could lose his job. The man didn’t like him much to begin with.

There was a pay phone in the hallway. He could call from there if he could find enough change. Pockets were searched, cushions pulled from sofa and chairs. A dime here; a nickel there. In a chipped sugar bowl, he found several more nickels. He’d just enough to make a call and hopefully save his job. He hobbled to the hall. Every step was agony. His ankle threatened to buckle. Steadying himself on the grimy wall, he made it to the end of the corridor where the pay phone stuck out next to a dirt-smeared window. He could hear the wail of a hungry baby through the scarred gray door across from it. The noise made his head throb. Dropping in the coins, he punched in the number to the office of Godfrey, Inc. Telemarketers.

He touched his ribs and winced. A hospital was out of the question. His company’s insurance was piss poor, and he didn’t have money. Nothing was broken. He’d just have to survive as is.

A busy signal. He got a busy signal. His brain wanted to explode. How could that be? He worked at a telemarketer. The office was nothing but endless banks of phones. Exasperation twisted his gut. The morning wasn’t getting any better. He hung up the phone and waited for the coins to return. Nothing happened. He hung up the receiver again. Still nothing. He checked the coin return. Nothing. The phone had eaten his change.

Goddammit! he cursed, banged the phone back into its hook. He didn’t have any more change. He had no other way to call his office. He cursed again, rubbed his swollen jaw. He’d have to go in to tell them he couldn’t work today. How stupid was that? Could his life get anymore pathetic?

It was pointless trying to drag the dull blade of a razor over his morning stubble. It hurt too much. He rinsed his face in cold water, hoping it would lessen the blue lump encasing his eye. He pulled himself into his cheap white shirt, clip-on tie, and suit coat. He looked like something in a mug shot after a bar brawl. A younger, better dressed Nick Nolte. He’d have laughed if he wasn’t on the verge of screaming. He couldn’t lose his job. He couldn’t live on less unless he lived on the street. Life just didn’t like him.

Limping every step of his trek downtown, he finally made it to the tall chrome and glass home of Godfrey, Inc. Telemarketers. Eyes stared from every direction in the lobby; people took steps to avoid him like he carried a disease. The elevator opened onto his office, depositing him directly in the path of his employer, Mr. Ritenor. He was a humorless man in his late forties who wore starched shirts and sharply creased slacks. He never smiled, never cracked jokes, never returned a greeting and clearly had the word pleasant removed from his vocabulary as a child. They both came to an abrupt standstill, leaving a two-foot, face-to-face gap between them. Geoff drew a breath and held it, trying to think how to begin his excuse. Ritenor crossed his arms after an exaggerated glance at his watch.

Ten forty-four. His voice was low, but the level of disdain was quite loud. That’s an hour and forty minutes docked from your pay.

Sir, Geoff began, even though he still hadn’t prepared his explanation. It didn’t matter. Ritenor’s hand raised like a stop sign in front of him.

I’m sure all of this… His gesture took in Geoff’s entire person. … is supposed to give you some fantastic explanation, but we are here to win—not whine, he said. His tone was entirely denigrating. You’re here to work, and I am being most generous to allow you to still do that for us. My recommendation to you is to get to your desk and do just that. And with those final words, he turned on his heel and took his starched and pressed indifference toward his office.

Geoff blinked. His heart dropped in his chest like a lead ball. This was incredible. Battered and bruised, yet he still had to work. This was the twenty-first century. He was certain slavery had been abolished.

He made his way past the confused, demeaning stares of his colleagues to his cubicle. He’d have to work. He’d have no lunch, because he had no money, because he had no wallet. He carefully eased his bruised body into his chair and sighed. The depression was setting in. It dropped inside his skull with that heavy weight that pushed tears out involuntarily. He wiped them away with a scabbed finger, looked down through the blur at the typewritten papers containing the text for the sale of the day.

Clean, Clean, Clean. The text read. His eyes fixed on it. His breath caught. He couldn’t believe the words were in front of him. Was it a leftover from yesterday’s work and he’d just… No. He looked at the date and time stamp in the corner. It was from that morning. He looked up, sensing he was in that strange nightmarish space again. Everything was still moving around him like a normal workday. No slow motion, strange lights, buzzing noises, feelings of otherworldly….

Sorry, that’s old. Ritenor had crept up behind him, and with one long, crooked finger moved the sheet of paper to the side and put a new one in front of him. This is the one you’ll be doing now. Time marches on. And with that, he disappeared into the maze of gray cubicles.

Geoff pulled the discarded paper back in front of him to reread. It was nothing more than a solicitation to buy an overpriced kitchen-cleaning product—a coincidence.

The day was long and arduous for someone in pain and hungry. Gun metal-colored clouds moved in late in the afternoon, darkening the office windows. They rolled ominously, surreal in their wave-like appearance and sun-suffocating thickness. Not long after the canopy dropped, the lightning and thunder began. The noise rattled windows, stopped phone conversations, and drew eyes to the spectacle. Birds shuttled in scared V-shaped flocks beneath the blackening sky, looking for quick shelter. Then, near the end of the workday, the rain began. Sheets of rain. Vision obscuring rain. Hard, straight down; furious.

Of course, everyone in the office had heard the forecast before work that morning and brought an umbrella. Geoff dropped his head, not wanting to deal with the despair over his run of rotten luck. As the office emptied, he looked around for anything he could use to cover himself. A box, a poster board; anything that could be used as cover for his long, unprotected walk home. He found nothing.

As he neared the elevator, Ritenor exited his office reading the Riverfront Tattler, a Saint Louis tabloid. His typical dour gaze locked on Geoff. Geoff pressed the elevator button several times, praying the door would open before his boss elected to speak to him. However, his luck hadn’t improved.

Markham, I’m hopeful I needn’t remind you that another incident of tardiness will result in your termination? He moved closer, folding the newspaper in half as he approached.

Geoff lowered his gaze to his shoes. No, sir. It won’t happen again.

Good! he said, slapping Geoff’s arm with the newspaper. Could you throw this rag in the garbage outside? I’d rather not have it circulating through our offices inspiring needless gossip.

He took the newspaper as the elevator doors opened, and stepped inside quickly.

The rain was pounding down in sheets. People dodged through it with their umbrellas, traffic slowed to a crawl, wipers banging windshields. Street gutters quickly overflowed with swirling gray water; pedestrians leaped over puddles. Geoff groaned.

Looking down miserably at the paper in his hands, he knew it was all that stood between him and the downpour. It was a long walk to his apartment. There were a few covered bus stops and doorways in between that could give him shelter. It wasn’t like he wore expensive clothes, but he had no means to dry or iron them, and he’d need to wear them again. The workweek wasn’t over yet.

Lightning streaked jaggedly. Thunder cracked and boomed. It was now or never. Exiting the building, he unfolded the paper and held it over his head with both hands. As he began his dash, he realized how fruitless his efforts were with his battered body. His knees felt like they’d give way, and pain jabbed his ribs; slowing his pace in seconds. He tried walking closer to the buildings. They provided no shelter. The rain still found him. He spotted the first covered bus stop and aimed for it.

The walk light flashed on and he moved hastily toward his goal. He’d made it as far as the curb when a flash of yellow and black streaked past him and the taxi splashed a body-length, horizontal wave of water over him. It soaked him, stopping him in his tracks. The water seeped through every thread of his clothing.

He didn’t expect to have such an emotional reaction to the small misfortune. Bunched with other recent calamities, it was too much for him to deal with and he began to cry. He didn’t care if people saw him, no one ever noticed him anyway. He made his way to the Plexiglass canopied bus stop and sat, with a plopping wet noise, on the bench. He was alone. He was sad. Geoff bowed his head and sobbed.

This was no way to live. This was merely existing at the mercy of life’s foibles. He wanted to do more than just cry for himself. He wanted to stand in the street and scream at the top of his lungs until people ran from him; scared. Until his outburst leeched the fire of disgust from him and polluted the air as it cleansed him. He was in hate with Life. He didn’t want to live in his skin, feel his own mind eaten away by what circumstances had reduced him to. He wasn’t strong enough for this.

Tears blazed angry trails from his eyes. He slumped into the corner of the shelter, staring into the wet, gray blur in front of him. The hollow eyes of the buildings stared back at him. Inside their corridors and offices people with ordinary lives laughed, joked, and smiled while making decent wages. They drove new cars with air conditioning and plush seats. They had homes with coordinated furniture and clean tables and real cooked dinners. Their shelves had specialty coffee and packages of donut gems. Their refrigerators were full, and on weekends, friends would call to make plans. They had people to talk to. They had to schedule alone time on their calendars, like it was something special.

His sigh mixed every dark color of emotion in him. Only when he glanced down at his hands did he see the ink of the wet newspaper swirling onto his fingers and dripping onto his clothes. Exasperated, he tossed the paper to the bench. The stains had already bled through the thighs of his light-colored slacks. They were ruined. The rage in him constricted his throat. Hopeless, he wiped his hands on his pants. It didn’t matter at this point. He was dirty. Life was dirty… he just wanted to be….

Clean, clean, clean.

He’d give anything, if he had anything to give, to be someone else. Start over. Clean slate. Slip into the skin of someone else. Someone strong.

The strange buzzing began again. Like a mosquito trapped in his ear. The sensation of sliding vision accompanied it. His eyes couldn’t latch onto anything in front of him; his field of vision was like binoculars refocusing. The hues changed; the grayness of the rainstorm took on the burnt orange and yellow colors of a desert. He could hear faint traces of... voices?

He gripped the bench, wondering if he was having a seizure. He could feel the solidity of the hard plastic seat in his hand, even though nothing around him felt connected to reality. The throb in his neck came from his racing heart. His torso rocked in time with it. Trying to shake the feeling, he took a deep breath, and stared across the street at the large windows of the office building. The sight caused him to choke on his breath.

Through the distorted mustardy glow of the window, he could see the people within. But something wasn’t right. They were hardly moving. Time seemed to have slowed them so their motion was barely perceptible. The rain had gone slow motion as well. Each individual drop could be viewed in its descent, like a curtain of tumbling crystal beads. The buzzing grew louder in his skull. He was aware of feeling queasy. This was not fun, he thought.

Vibrating there in the reflections of the windows across from him was something else. It appeared vaguely human but for its obscene, unnatural oscillation. The diffused form had the approximate height and shape of something human, but was opaque, and fluid. Where a face and eyes should’ve been was an indistinct mass, writhing like a nest of worms.

It stood there, beyond the window, in the yellow scenery; facing him. Though it had no eyes, Geoff sensed it was staring directly at him. His neck hairs bristled and reared.

A dark smudge, like fog parting, appeared where a mouth should be. Lipless, white, vaporous.

Lightning reflected, zigzagging in the chrome and glass around him. Thunder pealed, sharp and then guttural, rattling everything. It seemed to wrench him from the hallucinatory grip. His intake of air came hard, as if resurfacing from a deep dive. The world was back to normal. Gray, wet and ugly. Heavy with humidity and heat. His clothes were pasted to him, hair stuck to his forehead.

He was still huddled in the corner of the bus stop, his heart a timpani in his chest; pounding in his temples and wrists. There was a metallic taste in his mouth. Had he become epileptic? Or worse? Was he schizo? Losing it? Seeing things… hearing things… imagining all the crazy things crazy people imagine? Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder? It wouldn’t surprise him. His life was a stress disorder from stem to stern. He’d heard of people snapping under the pressures of life. Was this how it happened? One minute they’re fine, the next… just disconnected from everything?

Being insane could definitely be the next step in the downward slide of his existence. Maybe he’d just come completely unglued and lose it altogether. Not know who he was, or remember his name, where he came from, what happened to him. He’d find a shopping cart and wander the streets picking up shiny or pretty things because they made him smile. Live under whatever served as a roof. Eat the discarded remnants of squandered meals left in dumpsters. Would that be so bad? To forget who you were and to aimlessly wander the world free from worry and painful memories? Was he laughing because he would rather be insane than live the life he had? The only thing he had left to lose was his mind. If he had a switch to flip… up to stay as he was... down to lose his mind, which would he choose?

The gloom darkened over the city as thicker clouds moved in. He could see his reflection in the scarred Plexiglass. A pitiful version of Oliver Twist; hollow, tear-swollen eyes in a face drawn by hopelessness; starved and battered. Even he didn’t want to look at himself.

A clean start.

It wasn’t a thought. It was a headline on an ad in the paper he’d discarded on the bench. The words had bled together from the wet, but he could still read them.

Tired of feeling weak, shy, and timid? Want to feel stronger; be the person you were meant to be?

It had his attention. He picked the paper back up. It was now limp like a rag, and he had to hold it with two hands to keep it from tearing.

RLS Pharmaceuticals is conducting a controlled test of a new vitamin supplement created to help the body naturally enhance the biological nutrients and minerals that make you feel strong and in-control. Our supplement is safe, with no known harmful side effects. We are conducting a double-blind study of its effects on volunteer subjects. This is a paid study. If you feel you qualify for….

Geoff read through the rest of the ad quickly. One thing jumped out over everything else: This is a paid study. But it didn’t say how much. A vitamin that could make you feel strong.

His mind was caught up in the promise: Tired of feeling weak, shy and timid… Safe, with no known harmful side effects….

The phone number was smudged into an unrecognizable Rorschach. It didn’t matter. He didn’t have a phone anymore. But he could still make out the address. It was 12940 Bryce….

He looked up, skin prickling. He was seated in a bus stop on Bryce Boulevard and 12940 was the building directly across the street from him. He double-checked the ad with the building address. They were the same.

It was difficult to not think it was more than coincidence. It seemed more like providence.

4.

It took Geoff another ten minutes to decide to enter the building. If that wasn’t proof of timidity in need of a cure, nothing was.

The lobby was marble and sterile. There were no chairs or receptionist’s desk, only a corridor with two sets of elevator doors. The directory of businesses was on the wall in between them. He briefly glanced back to the large window where he’d imagined the eerie figure. Nothing. Just a walkway to another exit. He made his way to the directory and scanned the list. RLS Pharmaceuticals was the only business listed on the ninth floor.

Still, he hesitated. He was soaked, battered, and bruised. They’d probably think him a derelict; only coming in to make a few bucks. But he was curious enough to take a peek. If he felt comfortable, he could go on in. If not, he could always come back later when he’d cleaned up. He stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the ninth floor.

He hoped they didn’t ask any probing health questions. He’d hate to be turned away from something that would give him hope because of two weird hallucinogenic episodes. In all likelihood, he was being a hypochondriac who simply needed to eat more nutritious meals. Maybe a good healthy dose of vitamins was all it would take to remedy his problems.

The elevator doors swished open. He stepped out into the silent corridor. Its entire length was dark marble floors and walls; the ceiling black, lit by recessed lighting spilling dramatic circles of illumination every five feet along the length of the hall. There was no receptionist here, either. No sign of people anywhere. Just huge, artistic chrome letters: RLS, on the wall. There was a bright glass door at the opposite end. He couldn’t decide whether to turn back and return later or….

The elevator doors closed behind him. That decision was made, he thought. He shivered like a wet dog against the chill of the air conditioning. He felt compelled toward the glass door at the end of the corridor and moved in that direction. It was strange, hope and fear battled inside him as he neared the door. The room beyond it glowed Arctic white.

As he reached the entrance, Geoff paused to peer inside. It was as Spartan as the corridor, the only difference being its brilliant illumination. The walls shimmered with light as did the ceiling and floor. There were no chairs, desks, or furniture of any sort. One long white counter ran the length of the room and emitted the same even glow as every other surface in the room. Behind this counter, centered on the wall, were the same chrome letters: RLS. There was nothing else behind the counter, no sign of human activity in the entire place. That made him uncomfortable, he wasn’t certain he’d go any further. The glass door in front of him suddenly slid open, startling him.

Hello? he spoke into the room, remaining in the corridor, firmly behind the threshold.

A modulated female voice spoke from the room. Welcome to RSL Pharmaceuticals. Please come inside.

Nervously, he crossed the doorsill into the white room. The door closed behind him. He was alone in the room.

Please approach the counter, the voice directed him. He looked around. He couldn’t detect any speakers. Computerized automation, he suspected. That made him more comfortable. At least there was no one to actually witness his messy appearance.

The counter’s surface was where the action took place. As he neared it, a video screen sprung to life on its opaque top. It was apparently a brief documentary and explanation of their vitamin supplement line. There was little difference between it and the myriad infomercials one saw on late-night television. An explanation of the company’s history, their high standards for quality, and the new product with its glorious promise. Geoff listened. It all sounded well and good, nonthreatening. He hoped it wasn’t something that promised a treasure and delivered a coin. He needed its promise to be real.

We appreciate that you have elected to take part in our study. We hope that through courageous volunteers such as you, we can prove the phenomenal results of our new vitamin regimen. We know you will be pleased with the results as well.

A document appeared on the screen. It was a waiver. One of those scary documents that one was forced to sign even at a dentist’s office before they could administer a sedative. The typical legal stuff in case something should go wrong to absolve the company of any wrongdoing.

Please read our waiver, and if you agree to the terms place your right palm on the center of the screen, the pleasant voice directed.

Geoff perused the document, but it was all lawyer techno-speak. What he could understand was that there would be compensation for the guinea pig. That was all that mattered to him. After all, they were just vitamins. What was there to fear? He placed his right hand on the screen, and his palm print was automatically scanned and superimposed on the document in gold.

Thank you, Geoff Markham, the voice said, as the screen swallowed the document and returned to its former blank luminescence. Next to this, a hand-shaped depression appeared. Please place your right hand on the surface that has just appeared. This will take a small blood sample. You will feel no discomfort.

Just the announcement caused him psychological, if not physical, discomfort. Even though his instinct was to turn away, he didn’t. He placed his hand into the depression. It felt soft and flesh-like until he felt a slight prick tap each of his fingers.

Thank you, the soft voice said. He withdrew his hand and the depression disappeared into the surface of the desk. He examined his hand. While pin-sized pearls of blood could be seen on each fingertip, there was also a clear, thin layer of something like a liquid bandage that had already dried over each one. The technology of the room was amazing, he thought.

Another seamless partition in the desk opened. Rising from this was an elaborately faceted, bullet-shaped, clear bronze cylinder. It glimmered enticingly in the wall-to-wall light of the room. Through its jewel-like surface, he could see the capsules. The gems that promised the prizes of strength and well-being.

This is Phase One. The first stage of RLS’s vitamin regimen. One capsule should be taken before breakfast each morning, preferably on an empty stomach. We will monitor its effectiveness when you return at the end of each week; after no more than seven days; for another blood test. If you should have any questions, or experience any side effects, all you need do is call RLS Pharmaceuticals and we will immediately assist you.

He was about to announce to the room that he had no phone, when the counter’s surface magically slid open again and a matching bronze-colored cell phone was produced. It shimmered next to the cylinder of Phase One with eye-pleasing coordination. He picked it up and examined it. Its number was imprinted on the back.

The phone is complimentary. It is self-charging and needs no maintenance. RLS Pharmaceuticals’ number has already been programmed into the phone. In the event of an inquiry or matter of urgency, all you need do is press the number one, and a representative will be at your service immediately.

He couldn’t believe his luck. Twenty-four hours ago, he’d been kicked and beaten, essentially for nothing more than a near-empty wallet, a lotto ticket, and his out-of-date cell phone. Now in his hands he held one that put every new phone he’d seen to shame. It was sleek and shiny and beautiful.

We suggest you begin the supplementation first thing tomorrow morning, before eating or drinking, the voice continued. We look forward to seeing you again, Geoff Markham, in seven days.

That announcement had the distinct ring of finality to it. But they had not discussed when and how he was to be paid for his participation.

He cleared his throat and looked around. Excuse me? How am I supposed to get paid for this… um… for what I’m doing? He addressed the room.

The document he’d pressed his palm-signature to reappeared with a paragraph highlighted. He bent and reread it. Amidst the all the legalese, he’d missed it. A payment of two hundred dollars for services rendered will be dispersed at the end of each trial week after blood analysis verification. The duration of the trial may last from twelve weeks to six months and will be determined by the subject’s progress.

He couldn’t believe what he’d just read. Two hundred dollars a week? He’d never been paid that much money for any job in his life. That was almost as good as winning the lottery.

Picking up the cylinder, he looked around the room, breathless. Thank you. Thank you for... um... the privilege. I’ll see you in seven days!

With that, he turned and nearly danced out of the room.

5.

By the time Geoff left the building there was a lull in the thunderstorm. It was still overcast and sticky with humidity but he barely noticed. He stared at the dazzling cylinder in his hand during his rush back to his apartment. The weight of his new phone could be felt in the one dry pocket he had in his slacks. He might be black-eyed and bruised, but that couldn’t take away from the fact that it was the best day of his life.

He could only hope the product was as impressive as its packaging. But he wanted to keep his expectations in check. He didn’t want to be that cowardly lion standing in front of the great and powerful Oz being told he already had something he damned well knew he didn’t. He wanted to feel different, needed this to be the real deal, to deliver the goods. Whether anything in his life altered or not, he wanted to change. That was all that really mattered. He was tired of feeling pointless and scared. He was sick of being a voiceless victim, unable to defend himself.

The combined smells of five meals cooking in surrounding apartments were thick as he entered his building. Climbing the stairs, he could hear the sounds of his fellow tenants going about their lives. The single mom raising the newborn that squalled at all hours. The widowed Polish man who practiced his tuba every evening. The older couple next door to him that watched reruns of television shows from their favorite era, the Fifties. He knew who they all were because he’d seen them. But none had ever spoken to him. They treated him as if he were a shadow. He was used to it.

The inside of his apartment was dark and jungle hot, the air fetid as pond scum. He didn’t have air conditioning and opening the windows provided minimal relief. The overhead lamp flickered, the bulb on its last legs. But none of this could dull his excitement as he sat down at the small breakfast table and examined his prizes. The cell phone was exquisite. He punched the power button and watched the screen bloom with the RLS logo. Surprisingly, it was pre-loaded with game applications. Smiling, he thought it just got better and better. Now he even had entertainment. He hoped that after the trial, they let him keep the phone, but if they didn’t, he’d have enough money to buy another.

He turned his attention to the faceted cylinder, the container of Phase One, they’d called it. The first stage of vitamin supplementation. He held it up to the light to examine it closer. It was beautiful. They’d spared no expense to make their product appealing to the eye. It could rival the decorative bottles of ladies’ perfumes. The lid was at the top of the bullet-shaped bottle and twisted free with an elegant sigh. The protective paper guard was emblazoned with scrolled RLS letters. He peeled it off and looked inside. The smell that came from the bottle was perfume-like. The clear capsules were bronze, matching the color of the bottle. He dumped one out in his palm to look at it more closely.

The capsule was marvelous. Though brown in color due to the gel inside, its clear skin shimmered like a cascading rainbow as it caught the light. He wondered what secrets lay inside it. What newfound combination of elements were in its gel that could offer such a bold promise of wellbeing? He was anxious to get the show on the road. To start the trial. The instructions were to only take the supplement on an empty stomach. Morning seemed a long time to wait.

Then Geoff remembered. He hadn’t eaten anything the entire day. He’d one small cup of coffee but that was more than nine hours before. There was absolutely nothing in his stomach. Nothing prevented him from taking one of the pills immediately. He strode to the sink for a glass of water. He held the capsule up at eye level. Do your magic, buddy, he said, popping it in his mouth and washing it down. It slid down tastelessly and easily.

He knew it was childish to expect some immediate sensation. Like any type of vitamin or medicine, the effects would be cumulative, only becoming noticeable over a period of extended usage. His hopes were on that level though: expecting magic. Sad souls like his lived for hope. He was right; he didn’t feel different. He decided to let the capsule settle in his stomach before opening a can of generic pork and beans for dinner. In the meantime, he’d play with his new phone.

Oddly, the games loaded on the phone were not the standard fare. He’d never seen or heard of any of them, and they all seemed to resemble mental acuity or hand-to-eye coordination tests: puzzles and mazes. He tried a few.

He found the one called Maze intriguing. It wasn’t like anything he’d ever seen before. It was multidimensional and rotated so that the view of the maze never stayed straight on, like the drawn ones he’d done in puzzle books. The 3-D effect, coupled with the rotation, made negotiating through it a visual challenge. Just when you got a clear glimpse of the route that might be the way to the exit, it would rotate, and the perspective changed. It was disorienting and required quick mental adjustments to regain his bearings from a new angle. The rotations were so quick and fluid they caused him momentary dizziness. The game had gripped him with its hypnotic challenge to such an extent that when he finally made his way through and looked up from it, two hours had elapsed. Nighttime city lights shone through his window. The rain had turned to a light mist. He was amazed at how long the challenge had captivated him, but the feeling of accomplishment from having mastered it was worth it. He’d never done anything like it in his life.

He was hungry and warmed the pork and beans for dinner. He ate quietly, listening to the noises from the apartments around him. He recognized the theme music from My Three Sons in the seniors’ apartment next to his. The Polish widower’s tuba could be heard off in the distance. The newborn’s cries were there in the mix, as usual. He wondered what disadvantages in life’s journey brought them all to the same hovel? Lack of money was the underlying factor, but each of them had their own story, had traveled different roads that led them all to the same point. Life wasn’t easy. None of them seemed like bad people. He wasn’t a bad person. But here they all were living on life’s lowest rung. Where had things gone wrong for all of them on the road of life?

The single mother wasn’t very old, still looked to be in her teens. There was no evidence of a man in her life. He’d never seen her leave her apartment except to go grocery shopping, her baby in a stroller. She rarely looked up, wore out-of-date clothes and stress had permanently creased her face. She was conspicuously on her own. Had her road taken her to that one good-looking, but unfeeling bad boy in high school for a one-night fling? Had her parents discarded her as easily as the boy had when she became pregnant? Is that where the road had forked for her and the lanes changed from happy to sad?

He knew the Polish tuba player was a widower because he’d overheard a conversation the man had with his next-door neighbors in the hallway one afternoon. His wife had died of cancer. They had no children.

The couple next door were retirees. He’d noticed they didn’t wear wedding rings. They were pleasant, quiet people. All he knew about them was their choice in television programs, which he heard through the thin walls that separated them.

The Indian couple was the quietest of the bunch. He rarely saw them except for occasional glimpses taking an evening stroll after dinner. The smell of their food cooking made a strong and lasting impression throughout the building. He couldn’t even presume to know what elements of life had brought them to the bleakest part of the city, to a building where tepid water rattled in the hot