The Rabbit Hole volume 5: Just...Plain...Weird: The Rabbit Hole, #5

By Thomas Wolosz, Curtis Bausse and GD Deckard

Welcome to the Rabbit Hole. On our fifth excursion into the warren of the odd, 37 authors lead us down their own little burrows of strangeness : an army of penguins, music that cures, aliens that communicate through old cartoons, images of the future that save, unwanted visions of the now, and, oh yes, it is raining lawyers. All have one thing in common, they are just…plain…weird.

 

Weird can be funny, weird can be sad, weird can be thoughtful, weird can be mad, but the one thing in common is that weird shares experiences you have, thankfully, never had.

 

Just be careful, all little bunnies are not nice, but they are memorable.

 

A Writers Co-op Production

Cover image adapted from an original design by Ian Bristow

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thomas Wolosz
• Release date: Oct 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215268926

Book preview

The Touch Stand

Lori M. Myers

(previously published July 2020 in Art in the Time of Covid-19 by San Fedele Press)

The sun creeps over the horizon spreading light over the cul-de-sac. I set up my stand: planks of wood secured with screws and nails, a canopy for shade, its stakes shoved into the dirt, and a sign painted in red with the words Touch — $20.

I can feel the eyes of my neighbors, particularly those of Mrs. Applegate and Mr. Donaldson, peering through their levolor blinds, probably shaking their heads at my attempt to give something to the world. They are old enough to remember the great war, when an entire population didn’t think twice about helping the effort, never complaining about their situations, little money, and lots of fear. Now is no different. They should know better than to doubt my intentions. What I’m doing is necessary.

The area is deserted, cars gather dust in driveways, a play swing dangles by a single chain, sways in the breeze and thuds against the metal A-frame. Following many months of stark quiet, any sort of noise is welcome and every morning I make up a bunch of song lyrics which coincide with its high-pitched beat.

I once did a favor for a mean old lady/Who wished her husband dead/She tried all kinds of poisons and knives/But he kept on livin’ instead/Hoo-wee yeah/Hoo-wee yeah/Hoo-wee/Hoo-wee/Hoo-wee

In my head, finger snaps syncopate with the rhythm of the broken swing, and the musical composition I just created couldn’t be more perfect. I never thought of myself as a lyricist, but it’s amazing what one will discover about oneself during these dire times.

A young man waits nearby, but not too close because doing so could mean certain death if you don’t know who’s following the rules. You see, we’ve got to be careful.

Can I help you? I ask, as I take my place behind the stand and remove a metal box from my duffel bag.

He doesn’t move. Just stares at the sign as if he’s reading a multi-page novel and trying to figure out the character’s next move. He looks young, his hair untidy, a bandana around his neck, ready to be put toward another use, such as protection. His shoulders slump against his backpack, and he’s close enough that I notice the dirt beneath his fingernails.

Take your time, I say, attempting to fill up the silence.

Finally, he stares at me with steely blue eyes. You touch?

I point my index finger upwards. That’s what the sign says. I try to sound light and cheery, but that’s hard to do nowadays. It’s even harder when the person you’re trying to cheer looks as if some voracious burden is gnawing at his insides.

Just then Mr. Coleman, tall, lean, with a shock of white hair that contrasts with his dark brown bushy eyebrows, strides towards me. He lives in a modest split level the next street over, sharing a backyard with Mrs. Applegate. The two can never agree on where the line is that separates their properties. It doesn’t matter much anyway.

Good to see you again, Mr. Coleman, I say, meaning every word. My discomfort had been growing with this young man just standing there, saying nothing. So Mr. Coleman’s arrival was a welcome interruption.

Same as last time? I ask.

Same as last time and the time before that and the time before that.

You all washed up and disinfected?

Mr. Coleman and I share a laugh at the interrogation. Now, young lady, you know I am. He grins, his teeth showing slight signs of decay and a gap on the upper left side.

You know what to do, don’t you? I ask.

And you should, too. I don’t have to ask you the same questions, do I?

Out of the metal box, I remove a bottle of special liquid I’d picked up in Belarus where I’d traveled for the last time as the sickness swelled. I extract a dollop onto my palm and spread it, rolling my hands over and around each other, again and again, like some evil character in a movie about to conjure up a devious plan. I repeat again and then again until its clear thickness covers my skin.

Mr. Coleman gazes at the young man with the backpack and it’s obvious the older man is unsure whether to come forward. I don’t want to get ahead of anybody.

You won’t. He’s still trying to make up his mind.

No mind to make up, Mr. Coleman says, then turns toward him. This young lady is saving our souls.

Mr. Coleman steps up to my stand and perches his fingertips on the wooden top. He waits. Closes his eyes. Inhales deeply. I place my hands on his and the sound emanating from his lips is one of relief and perhaps ecstasy. My God. It’s been so long.

There’s a rugged feel to his hands, like sandpaper. The tiny hairs on his knuckles raise up as I stroke them with a light touch, my fingers like dainty spider legs. I enfold my palms over his hands and touch and massage and feel. Mr. Coleman opens his eyes, gazes at the sky above, his lids flutter. I repeat the motion, lifting his hands until my own, in constant motion, are cradling his. I rub his wrists, his arms, his elbows, and his eyes close again.

I barely notice the young man with the backpack. The work transports me to some sort of hypnotic state.

As I finish, I gently place Mr. Coleman’s hands back on the table and take a step back to give him space as he returns to the present. After about a minute, his eyes open and he looks down at his hands, his face flushed as if embarrassed by the intimacy. It’s been such a long time, he says. A long time. I know there’s just so much you can do in these times, but you are a lifesaver.

I’m not much for dramatic scenes; there’s been too much of that already with all the deaths and sickness, but I value Mr. Coleman. He’s been a steady customer for more than a year. I have many steady customers.

See you next week.

I smile, take out my bottle of liquid again because I see solitary beings in the distance heading in my direction. Some I recognize. A few are strangers.

Mr. Coleman reaches into his pocket, but I shake my head. It’s on me today. You’re a regular customer. Cash means little nowadays, but I charge just in case it comes back into fashion.

He begins to protest, then eyes the young man standing there in silence. Let me pay for the first-timer over there. Pleased to do it.

The young man nods then watches as Mr. Coleman places some bills on the table, strolls away and disappears behind the houses. Mrs. Applegate is still staring out her window, this time holding a cup of coffee or tea, a disapproving frown on her face. I wait, not wanting to force this young man to take part in an action we used to take for granted, the caress of skin on skin, the acceptance of an other. I know its importance. Babies curl their hands around a mother’s fingers and that moment of touch calms them. These days we’re not allowed. So I had to set up a stand, hang up a sign, charge a fee.

The young man kicks at the ground to avoid my stare. I try not to display impatience, but I have others on the way and so he better decide soon.

My hands are dirty, he says, as he hides them in his pockets.

I have soap and water. That’s no lie. I have it ready behind the stand, but I can’t spare my special liquid.

I’ll come back.

I hope you do. I think you need it. It’s already paid for.

Yeah. I guess.

He leaves, keeping his distance from the scattered crowd approaching.

It’s going to be a long day.

––––––––

END

Lori M. Myers is an award-winning writer, Pushcart Prize nominee, and Broadway World Award nominee of fiction, creative nonfiction, and plays. Her fiction has appeared in American Writers Review 2019 and 2021, Art in the Time of Covid-19, The Dark Sire, Transcendent, Bad Neighborhood, Dissections Journal, Ginosko Literary Journal, Flora Fiction and others. Lori teaches writing, literature, and playwriting at several colleges in New York and loves sharing her love of the written word with her students. She is the Drama/Nonfiction Editor for the online arts literary journal Masque & Spectacle and is a member of the Dramatists Guild and Westchester Collaborative Theater.

The Bus of Shame

Richard Zaric

7:06. The bus is a few minutes early. Unusual. The downtown bus usually comes around 7:15. Good thing I left early for the bus stop.

Kind of had to. This morning Michelle was still peeved about me coming home at two in the morning with booze on my breath. But I couldn’t leave Mark’s place once he started crying. Him and Avery have been on the rocks for a while now and sometimes he needs a buddy to listen. Yes, I shouldn’t have gotten home that late and should have called. Michelle hates it when I don’t touch base. I’m better off waiting a little at the bus stop than having to dodge icy stares.

I step on the bus. Not the regular driver. This guy has a thick unibrow and pale skin. Is he sick or something? His stylized goatee angles up into his cheeks, like a wrestler from the ‘70s. He hands me a transfer even though I don’t need one. I ram it into my pocket.

The lights behind the interior overhead ads flicker. I catch an odd sulfur smell. Did someone light a match? Strange, the bus looks normal on the outside, but inside the seats look like they are from twenty years ago. Worn. Dirty. Some are ripped and stained. It looks like a new bus had been gutted and its interior replaced with an older one.

None of the passengers on the quarter-filled bus are smiling. Not the typical crowd commuting to work on a Tuesday morning. While I don’t expect to see anyone jumping for joy, their vacant expressions give me the creeps. Some are even scowling, giving me the stink eye. With bloodshot eyes and open sores, a few look unwell, like they should be in a hospital waiting room. There better not be any meth heads. And isn’t it strange that no one has a smartphone?

I grab an empty seat near the back door. The seat squeaks and rattles with every bump on the road. I try to check for messages but my phone’s got no service. How could that be?

A pretty young girl sits across the aisle with a guy that’s even paler than the weird bus driver. He’s maybe in his twenties. Messy, greasy hair, glassy eyes and a droopy jaw. Definitely not a prize.

Damn, the girl looks like a dead ringer for Monica, a flirty girl from university over twenty years ago. Maybe her daughter? I used to stare Monica down when she sat one row in front of me in second-year managerial accounting. I bumped into her at a house party during spring break that year. Both of us drunk, she led me to a bedroom. I ended up knocking her up and convinced her to get an abortion. She wasn’t ready for a kid. Neither was I. No damn way seeing as I had just started dating Michelle.

She turns her head. Hi, Phillips.

I hold my breath. How did this girl know my name? God, she looks just like Monica.

Excuse me?

Don’t play dumb, asshole.

Look, I don’t know...

You’re a dick.

Monica. It’s her. She talked like that, all rough and tough. Always used my last name. It doesn’t look like she’s aged a day.

Made your mess and dropped me like a turd, she says. My folks kicked me out after the abortion. I told you they were really religious and wouldn’t go for it. But you didn’t care. I ended up quitting school ‘cause I had to work. Downhill from there, all thanks to you.

Look, I’m sorry how things ended up. I shake my head and put on a weak smile.

Whatever. She rolls her eyes and nudges the guy beside her. C’mon, this is our stop.

They both get up at the same time. Monica lowers her head and whispers in my ear. He’s our unborn son. That’s what he would have looked like if I had him, but maybe with a bit more colour. I named him after you.

She turns to go to the front of the bus. The guy remains right at her side, almost too close. Then I see why. An umbilical cord is attached between them.

C’mon, Dick, Monica says to him. Stay close. She shoots me one last glare before they step off.

My jaw drops. That’s nuts. I can feel my heart pounding against my ribs.

I could debate whether I was actually cheating on Michelle. I mean, what constitutes going out? We went for coffee and then to a movie a few days later. The following weekend I had my little encounter with Monica. Michelle uses that first coffee shop date as our official going out date, not the time we sat on Garry’s roof drinking warm beer and watching the sun rise. That was a week after the Monica thing.

Still, at the time I felt kind of guilty. Not just for knocking up Monica, but also because of Michelle. Thank God, Michelle never found out.

Before I can dwell on it, someone from the back pipes up. You were just like the rest.

I turn my head slowly toward the back of the bus. Arms crossed, the guy is sitting in the middle seat of the last row. He’s flabby and out of shape, like middle-age grabbed hold of him and never let go.

Trent? I ask in a quiet voice.

He nods. Yeah, only everyone called me Troll. Including you. Trent gets up and walks slowly to the front. "Back in Grade 6 you thought it was mighty funny when everyone bugged me about everything. My clothes. My shoes. My hair. Kids made up crap that I had lice. And you did nothing. Instead, you yucked it up with the rest of ‘em."

He’s right. I’m sorry. We were kids.

Think that matters? All that bullying wrecked my life. I had trouble making friends. Couldn’t get a girlfriend. I still live with my mom. Trent trudges to the front and gets off at the next stop.

My guts twirl around like they’re in a spin cycle. I look down and wallow in my shame. I must have died and the bus is taking me to Hell to account for my sins. But I’m not that bad, am I?

The driver looks back over his shoulder like he’s read my mind. His eyes gleam like smoldering embers. He stares at me while the bus continues down the street. Despite not looking at the road, he somehow keeps the bus centered in the lane, slowing down or stopping when necessary.

One by one, people rise from their seats, blast me for something I’d done to them in the past and then get off when the bus comes to a stop.

A middle-aged guy with a beer gut says it was his parked car I hit when I was drunk fifteen years ago. He missed work the next day and got fired.

An old lady with hollowed cheeks and sunken eyes admonishes me for not giving her a ride home from a store back in the late ‘90s when it was rainy and cold. She lived in an apartment block at the end of our street. She used to bake cookies for our family every Christmas. After the walk in the cold rain she got sick and died two weeks later.

I hardly recognize Mooney, my old buddy from Alberta. Skinny as a rail. The guy used to push 250. He grills me for never calling him after I moved away, especially after he got cancer.

A woman with her guts hanging out from a gash in her belly says she rolled her car on Highway 13. If she’d have seen the DANGEROUS CURVE AHEAD sign I took after Berry’s stag, she might still be alive.

But what about all the good stuff? I coached soccer for something like six years when Aiden played. I volunteered to deliver Christmas hampers. I try to help my neighbours when they need a hand. What about that time I told Phil about that job opening in the warehouse? Now he’s running it. Doesn’t that counteract all those things that I regret? Some of them?

Eventually it’s just me and the creepy bus driver. I always thought I was a pretty decent guy, but not after hearing all the sorrow I’d caused. What happens at the end of the line? No pearly gates, that’s for sure.

The bus comes to a stop. You get off here, the driver says with a sneer.

I try looking out the windows, but everything’s black, like someone had covered them with tinfoil or cardboard. I swallow and get up from my seat. I can hear my heartbeat in my ears with each step I take to the front of the bus. The driver grins. I bet he enjoys this type of thing. He opens the door. Forks of lightning flash in the darkness outside. White mist swirls around the bottom of my legs, its tendrils tugging at me toward the open door.

Just before stepping off, I turn to the driver. Look, I’m really sorry for everything. Some of those things were bad luck and timing. Could have happened to anyone.

Tell that to Old Scratch, Zack Phillips, the driver says through clenched teeth.

I frown. I’m Zeke Phillips.

The driver’s smile vanishes. Really?

Sure. I show him my driver’s license.

He tips up the brim of his hat. Well, I’ll be ... sorry about that. This bus is for Zack Phillips. A mix-up. It happens sometimes. Come to think of it, you’re pretty average. The bus is completely full for some. For others, standing room only. He points to the opened door. You can go.

I turn. Outside the door the bright sun gleams off the bus’s side view mirror. No darkness. No mist. Just the regular bus stop right in front of my office building on a brilliant summer morning.

I glance back into the bus just before the driver closes the door. He gives me a wry smile. Next time get on the 7:15 like you’re supposed to.

A blink later the bus vanishes. I look down the street. Gone. Where did it go? No other nearby pedestrians bat an eye. I shake my head. Must have been a dream. Not the first time I slept all the way to work.

Before stepping into the tower I reach into my pocket and pull out a piece of paper. The timestamp on the bus transfer reads 6:66.

––––––––

End

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Richard Zaric was born in Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada and has lived in various cities in North America before settling back in his home town in 2002. He earned a Bachelor of Commerce (Honours) from the University of Manitoba. His first book, Hiding Scars, is a historical fiction novel and was published in 2018. He is presently pitching his second book, a young adult novel entitled Stealing Amazing Fantasy #15. He also enjoys writing short fiction and likes to experiment with different voices. He is just as likely to read the latest hot literary novel as he is to flip through an old comic book.

Superstition

By James Rumpel

Mary answered the door and found her oldest son, Tim, waiting on the doorstep.

Hi, Mom. Is Tom here?

Mary rolled her eyes. It’s Sunday and the game’s on. Of course he’s here? she snapped.

Is he watching on the little TV in your basement again? asked Tim.

What do you think? replied Mary. She ushered Tim into the house and led him into the living room. A state-of-the-art fifty-five-inch television occupied most of one wall. The Chicago Bears and Green Bay Packers were playing in spectacular high-definition.

Tim shook his head. This is starting to get out of hand.

Tell me about it. Every time there’s a game on TV, he has to watch it downstairs because ‘it’s good luck.’ He’s worn the same shirt to work for two weeks because things are going well. Do you know he’s started eating his food in alphabetical order?

Really?

Yeah. Yesterday he came over for dinner. Halfway through the meal, he got up to go check if ‘baby carrots’ is an official name or they should just be called ‘carrots.’ It took him fifteen minutes to find an answer.

Is it? asked Tim.

Is what?

Is ‘baby carrots’ an official name?

What difference does it make? yelled Mary. The point is these superstitions are getting ridiculous. I’ve tried talking to him, but I can’t get through. Will you please give it a try?

*

Can I talk to you for a second? asked Tim.

Tom sat in the far corner of the unfinished basement, intently staring at a small television set. He didn’t look up. Sure, but stay behind the taped line. No one else can be within fifteen feet of the TV.

You don’t believe that what’s happening in this room has any effect on a football game being played in Chicago, do you?

I’m not taking any chances. The Packers have won five out of seven games since I started sitting down here.

See, they’ve lost twice. Your location didn’t help them win those games.

Tom started to turn toward his brother but stopped halfway and quickly turned back to the screen. Who knows how bad they would have lost those games if I wasn’t down here? Maybe some fan of those teams was doing something to override what I’m doing. I can’t take that chance. There might be a Bear fan eating his pizza crust-first or watching the game while standing on one foot. I need to watch the game from right here.

You’re being crazy, said Tim. He quietly took a step across the tape line.

I’m not hurting anyone down here. Just let me do this.

Tim took another step forward. Mom’s worried sick over you. She says you’re starting to carry these superstitions over to other things. I’m going . . .

A gut-wrenching scream interrupted Tim.

How could he drop that! It was right in his hands! Tom glanced up from the TV. Get back! Look what you did.

Tim scurried back behind the line. You don’t have to yell.

Tom took a deep breath. I’m sorry. It’s just that if the Packers win this game, they’ll be in first place.

You have to do something about these superstitions, insisted Tim. You’re a grown man. I’m making an appointment with a counselor and I’m going to make sure you go.

*

I don’t have to do these superstitions. I just want to, explained Tom. I know that if I don’t sit in the basement the Packers might still win or they might lose if I’m down there. However, I truly believe that they do better when I’m there. I’m just doing my part as a fan.

Dr. Hoffman sat back in her chair. So, what happened yesterday when you watched the game in your mom’s living room like you promised. I see the Packers won. They didn’t need you to watch from the basement.

Tom looked down at his shoes. Well, to be honest, I went down during the third quarter when the Packers fell behind. I thought they could use whatever help I could give them.

Ok, there’s nothing wrong with being a good fan. I get it, said Dr. Hoffman. What about the other things? Are you still wearing the same shirt to work and eating your food alphabetically?

Tom smiled. Not the food. I realized there wasn’t a reason to do that. It was kind of fun to try, but it didn’t have any effect on my life or any sports teams that I follow.

And the shirt?

Well, I’ve had the most productive month of my life since I started wearing that shirt every day. I haven’t had a single service call that didn’t go smoothly. I always have the right parts and I figure out the problem right away. I don’t have to keep wearing it but why would I want to mess with what’s working.

Let’s do this, proposed the doctor. I have an assignment for you. I want you to keep a log of what happens every time you do or do not follow one of your superstitions. Write down if the team you’re cheering for wins or loses and whether or not you were doing your ritual. Same thing with work and anything else.

I can do that, said Tom. I bet it will show that what I’m doing does make a difference.

But you have to promise to not do your thing some of the time. Every experiment needs a control group, continued Dr. Hoffman. You have to see what happens when you don’t give in to superstition. After three weeks send me the results. When you come back next month, we’ll analyze the data to see if your actions affect the outcomes.

I know what you’re doing, said Tom. You’re trying to trick me into not doing my rituals. Okay, I’ll show you. I’ll do what you ask. As long as I get to go in the basement when the Packers play the Vikings. I’m not going to risk them losing that one.

*

Dr. Hoffman took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. I need to inform you of something that happened last week, she began. I’m afraid that my computer was hacked. I don’t know how someone was able to get into the files or what files they looked at. I’m in the process of telling all my patients. I just want you to know that there might be someone out there with details of your case.

Tom thought about Dr. Hoffman’s revelation for a moment. That’s okay. I don’t feel bad about anything we’ve discussed. Do you still have the log of results I sent you? Did you get a chance to look at them?

Yes, but the results aren’t important. What is important is that you have shown that you can watch a game without hiding in the basement.

But my team lost almost every time I did that, said Tom.

How do you know they wouldn’t have lost even if you were down there? The important thing is that you’re getting past the compulsion to do these rituals.

The day I wore a different shirt to work, I had a call that took two hours longer than it should have.

*

Tom pulled his car to the curb and looked back through the rearview mirror. The unmarked police car’s lights flashed red and blue. Tom found it odd that the officers walking toward his car were dressed in black suits and not traditional state trooper uniforms. He rolled down his window and cursed himself for having started the engine before putting on his seatbelt. Bad things always happened when he did that.

Tom Jurycek, said the officer. It was not a question. Step out of the car. You’re coming with us.

You can’t do that? I didn’t do anything wrong? protested Tom. Who are you? You’re not cops.

We have every right to take you in, said the man as he flashed a silver badge. We’re from the ESEA. Don’t worry. Everything will be explained. Don’t make us use force.

Tom considered his options. Eventually, he reached for the ignition to turn off his car but he stopped and undid his seatbelt first.

*

Tom stared at the man behind the desk. The last two days had been a whirlwind of events; his capture, the flight to this unknown location, the physical and psychological tests.

You said that if I cooperated, I would be allowed to go home with financial compensation, he said. I’ve done everything you asked.

Yes, you have, Mr. Jurycek, replied his stern-looking host. We just have to wait on the results of a few of the tests and then we’ll let you go. I’m sorry that we can’t tell you much more about what we do here and why we needed to check you out. As long as you sign and agree to the non-disclosure clause of the contract you will be paid generously. Just remember that we are a very powerful government organization and don’t break your agreement. Somehow the man managed to be both menacing and congenial at the same time.

Now, if you don’t mind. My assistant will escort you to a room where you can wait for your release. He got the attention of a young woman in a black jumpsuit. Agent Gamma, please take Mr. Jurycek to room 13. Introduce him to Ben and let him wait there.

Agent Gamma seemed nice enough. They rode an elevator down to a lower floor and she took the time to explain a few things. Ben is one of our oldest employees. He’s been with us since the ‘70s. Somehow he became convinced that the world would end if he didn’t tap a wooden table three times every three hours. The elevator doors opened and Gamma led Tom down a hallway.

Why are you telling me this? asked Tom. Is this all some sort of elaborate trick to get me to give up my superstitions?

No, not at all, was the agent’s reply. Here we are.

She used a keycard to open the door, revealing a well-furnished apartment. There was a very nice entertainment center that featured a large television. Tom also noticed that the room had at least five different wooden tables scattered all around. A digital clock hung next to the TV. At the moment it read 0:33:28 but it was counting down.

Let me introduce you to Ben, said Agent Gamma. Unfortunately, he’s confined to bed in his old age.

The bedroom was just as nice as the other rooms. Assorted works of art, a flat-screen TV, and another digital clock adorned the walls.

An old man slept in a hospital bed. Intravenous tubes ran from an IV bag into his arm and an oxygen mask covered his mouth and nose. His right hand rested on a wooden table.

Our agency has been supporting Ben and his superstition since we found out about it, explained Agent Gamma. We’ve taken care of his every need and want for almost fifty years. We send a great deal of money to his family. He’s had a good life and, as far as we and he are concerned, he’s saved the world countless times.

Why are you showing me this? What’s it got to do with me? asked Tom.

We just wanted you to know that we believe in superstitions and that we understand that some people, like you and Ben, have abilities. She paused. Well, let’s let Ben sleep. An alarm is going to wake him in a couple of minutes so he can do his job when the clock hits zero. Why don’t you head back to the living room and watch some TV while we wait for your test results. She escorted him out of the bedroom.

*

Tom sat in a recliner, watching a college basketball game, though he found himself constantly glancing at the clock. The timer had run down to eleven minutes. His mind jumped from one question to another. What was going on here? Who were these people? Why weren’t his test results back?

Suddenly, a loud claxon sounded. Tom covered his ears. The noise was loud enough to wake the dead.

Or, maybe it wasn’t. The alarm continued blaring. The clock was down to under five minutes when Tom went into Ben’s room. The man was still laying there, motionless. Tom couldn’t detect even the slightest movement in Ben’s chest.

The alarm got even louder. The clock was down to fifty-eight seconds.

It all made sense now. He understood why he had been brought here. Someone had to take Ben’s place and it had to be him. If he stayed and took over, he’d never see his family. He’d never be able to help the Packers by watching the game from Mom’s basement. Then again, if the world ended, none of that would matter.

The clock read fourteen seconds.

It was silly to think that one guy not tapping the table could end existence. Tom knew that.

The clock read five seconds.

Maybe all these superstitions were just foolishness.

One second.

*

Agent Alpha took his eyes off the monitor and looked at Agent Gamma who was standing next to him.

Well, I guess we’ve got the next fifty years covered, he said.

Gamma nodded. I wasn’t sure if he was going to do it.

I knew he would, replied Alpha. I’ll get started on the paperwork. You can go talk to him. See what he wants and needs. He can call his family and tell them that he is fine and just got a very important government job.

Agent Gamma headed to the door, but she hesitated before opening it. She turned back to Alpha. "Sir. Do you ever wonder if what we’re doing