The Soldier Returns

This month's free story is an old one, to be sure. I was trying my hand at a psychological/action-thriller, and while it came out decent, it didn't turn out to be a form I was all that comfortable with, and I haven't really tried anything like this, since. In any case, it's another "weird" story taking place in the nexus of the weird, Clifton Heights, so I'll let you be the judge!

Publication History:

From the Shadows, February 2008

Strange Days, by Kevin Lucia, April 2015

1.

Route 79

Outside Clifton Heights

6:00 PM

Travis Hart stood alongside the interstate, staring down a gravel driveway, an olive-green duffel bag heavy on his shoulder. One hand holding its shoulder-strap, the other jammed into his jeans pocket, he appraised his new home.

Overgrown lawn. Dirt-stained windows. Crooked screen door banging in the breeze. Sagging porch, bowed roof. He’d expected the battered 1975 Chevy pickup out front. That he’d bought knowing its condition. This, however...

“Needs work my ass,” he mumbled, “needs a damn wrecking ball is more like it.”

He swallowed his anger. He’d bought a house over the phone while in rehab at Fort Williamson. What had he expected?

With that, he headed down the driveway.

Travis had walked the interstate for two hours, duffel over alternating shoulders, boots scuffing warm asphalt. Luckily it was September, the fall sun only sufficient to warm his back. Even so, sweat soaked through his white Army T-shirt.

Fate had reduced him to a pedestrian when his bus broke down in Old Forge. With the estimated repair time an hour, Travis had walked the remaining miles, but he breathed evenly, feeling little fatigue. Walking from Old Forge was nothing compared to “double timing” in the Iraqi desert. He could’ve easily walked further.

He eyed the leaning house. Walking into Clifton Heights, visiting Steve O’Hara’s real estate agency and kicking the guy’s ass seemed an excellent idea.

He stopped at the door and fumbled in his pocket for the key O’Hara mailed him a week ago. Upon finding it, he reached for the lock, but saw the door was ajar. Travis stared and his neck tingled; the way it always had in Iraq. He might be crazy, but he thought something was waiting for him inside.

He had no gun. That was behind him. He just wanted to forget the war and try to live. Regardless, the tendons in his neck tightened as he nudged the door open.

Light fell onto a surprisingly swept floor. Travis tensed, listening closely, but after several seconds, he relaxed. Who’d bother with a washout like him?

He entered and regarded the cabin’s modest furnishings. However much O’Hara had lied about the cabin’s exterior, apparently he’d been truthful in calling it “ready to live”. Everything seemed functional. He stood in the kitchen. The small gas stove and sink looked clean. An ancient but working refrigerator hummed quietly next to them. Turning into an ‘L’, the cabin ran to the dining room/living room where a worn but sturdy-looking sofa was accompanied by two orange recliners and a scarred coffee table. On the opposite wall, sitting on a simple entertainment stand was a television with a VCR resting on top. Stairs in the cabin’s rear led to the bedrooms upstairs.

Travis stood in the kitchen for several minutes. Finally, he closed the door and began to unpack.

*

Night

Travis lurched upright in bed, heart pounding.

A dream.

It was only a dream.

He turned on his bedside lamp, which pierced the darkness with a dim orange light. Nothing there. His breathing slowed. He ran a shaking hand through damp hair. The nightmare had faded, leaving only a vague, hunted sensation.

“Stupid,” he whispered, “this is stupid. There’s nothing out there.”

So what had awakened him?

Travis threw off his covers and walked to the dresser bureau, clad only in boxers. He pulled a T-shirt from the open top drawer and slipped it on. He flipped the outside light switch on the wall, illuminating the campfire area, and stepped onto the porch balcony, into the brisk autumn night.

He saw his dying campfire, plastic lawn chairs around it, piled firewood circling the light’s perimeter...and nothing.

Something.

“Stupid,” Travis muttered. “You’ve been in the desert too long. The forest makes sounds. You know that.”

Depression washed over him.

What did it matter?

He frowned and went back to bed. He lay there until morning, eyes wide open.

*

Several Days Later

Giovanni’s, Hell’s Kitchen, New York

11:30 AM

Joey “The Fats” Fucuneilli licked a thumb and counted sticky twenties and tens. He sat at Giovanni’s polished bar, nursing a tumbler of Knob’s Creek. Hours away from opening, its lights dimmed, Giovanni’s looked subterranean. Like an old-time Prohibition speak-easy or an underground miners’ bar in Montana.

Joey paused and looked at his reflection in the mirror behind rows of whiskey bottles, seeing a jowly fat son of a bitch with black eyes set far back into his head. Greasy hair hugged a fat skull. He’d gotten large and soft, thick muscle forged on the docks years ago now hidden beneath layers of fat. These days, his major exertions were drinking, eating, and “interviewing” new girls for various “positions”.

He didn’t particularly like what he saw.

But what the hell, right? That’s what booze and hookers were for.

He sipped his whiskey and counted his hookers’ earnings. Business had prospered lately, which was good, because Joey Fucuneilli had debts. But hey? Who didn’t, these days?

Creak.

Joey glanced up, saw nothing, and resumed counting.

Something shifted again, loud enough to make Joey turn on his barstool. There, several feet away, a graceful form reclined in a chair. Feet kicked up on a table, hands folded in his lap, the man looked asleep. Apparently Giovanni’s wasn’t empty after all.

The stranger wore a black suit sporting a high, white collar instead of a tie. He looked vaguely priest-like. As a lapsed Catholic, this unnerved Joey. He imagined the stranger had come to perform his last rites.

Everything but the man’s white face and blond hair melted into shadow. Stylish black sunglasses hid his eyes. Subconsciously, Joey wondered if the mook had any eyes.

Joey shook off his unease, narrowed his eyes and did his best to look threatening, which usually wasn’t hard. “Whaddya want, pal? Little early for a drink, yeah?”

The figure didn’t move, only responded flatly, “Hasn’t stopped you.”

Joey’s scowl deepened. “Ah’m good wit’ da owner. Whaddya want?”

The stranger remarked, “Awfully quiet this morning.”

Joey looked around, realizing the stranger was right. Bars were never packed this early, but he’d been coming to Giovanni’s for years. The hardcore drunks were always on hand for their favorite morning drinks. He’d been so busy counting his money he hadn’t noticed. With some dismay, he realized that even Jimmy Giovanni hadn’t shown up yet.

Joey turned back, his gaze spying an object on the stranger’s table. Looked like a KSC Glock 19 – highly illegal – with a tapered silencer screwed onto the muzzle. Though the man’s hands lay folded in his lap, Joey’s stomach twisted.

Death was sitting before him.

Joey licked dry lips. “Tornelli sent ya; din’t he?”

The man shook his head. “Spent all your money in the wrong places, Joey. Now it’s time to pay.”

Joey coughed and his gun-hand twitched. His 40 Caliber Beretta burned against his side, trapped by fat in its shoulder holster. “Tornelli knows I’m good for it,” he rasped as his hand inched across his bulging belly, “tell ‘im I can git half by t’is weekend...”

“It’s gone past Tornelli. That ship’s sailed, I’m afraid.”

Joey thought quickly. “Lissen. You like girls? You’re a good lookin’ fella. I can fix you up with some sweet action...”

“Too late.”

Joey swore and reached for his piece. Before his sweaty fingers touched the holster, the stranger’s hand flashed, snagged the Glock and shot Joey between the eyes; a slight pfffft-pop the silencer’s only sound.

Thrown backwards, Joey fell onto his bar-stool. His fat lodged under the bar’s edge and propped him in a seated position. For a moment, Joey raged inside, but everything quickly faded to black as he went away.

He slumped backwards on his final resting place, the bar-stool he loved so much.

The stranger gave the bar a cursory sweep. He scanned the floor, saw his lone shell casing. He bent over and scooped it up. Standing, he slipped his Glock back into its shoulder holster and headed for the bar’s rear exit. Pulling out a special Blackberry that normal people couldn’t buy, he hit a key labeled confirm.

A picture sprang up - a grainy photo of the now dead Joey, with one word underneath: terminated. He pressed send, put the Blackberry away, pushed through the door leading to the alley and stepped into the morning light.

*

Weeks Later

The Stumble Inn

Clifton Heights

11:30 PM

Travis shivered and spilled his soda. He tried to prevent a mess; but it still slopped onto the table. He swore and grabbed napkins from a battered dispenser to clean the spill before it ran everywhere.

Around him, life continued.

People talked and drank and ate. The air vibrated. Tourists, locals, and college students crowded the bar and discussed politics, religion and sports in no specific order. Men from the lumber mill hung around the big screen television in back and watched football while others stared into their beers. Travis had chosen a distant table. He preferred quiet to company.

The spill mopped up, Travis scowled and flicked the sodden paper towels into a wastebasket next to an old jukebox. He lifted the mug to his lips and sipped what remained. The cold shiver had left a dull headache. He pressed the still-cool glass to his forehead, grunting in mild satisfaction. He closed his eyes and wished he could sleep.

He’d been having more nightmares.

The psych boys had told him to expect this. It was part of leaving active duty, they’d said. The infamous “post-traumatic stress syndrome”. Time would heal, they’d said.

Travis was starting to believe that they were full of shit.

“Excuse me...Travis?”

The pleasant voice cut through his mental fog. Travis looked up at a smiling, familiar face. With just enough bitter-sweet longing to make his heart both hurt and swell, he ventured with a small smile, “Allison? Allison Hazelton?”

A vibrant red-haired beauty straight from old-school pulp magazines smiled, washing away the bitter, leaving the sweet. “I thought that was you,” she said, smiling also. A good sign. “How’ve you been?”

A loaded question. He ignored the itching shrapnel scars on his back and the shadows of his nightmares, lying fabulously. “Great. You?”

Her smile flickered but remained. “Can’t complain. Things’ve been better,” she paused, “but things could always be worse.”

He nodded. Things could always be worse. “So,” he began not-so-fabulously, “what brings you to the Stumble Inn, of all places?”

He nearly winced.

Had he actually said that?

“At the moment, I’m on break. But it won’t be long before Buford yells at me to ‘get my pretty ass in gear’.” She flashed a sardonic smile he remembered well.

Before he could catch himself, Travis blurted, “You work here?”

He suddenly noticed her green apron. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” he added, embarrassed. “I mean...”

She eyed him. “And what do you mean?”

Travis gave up and offered a weak smile. “That I’m an idiot, apparently.”

Her smile softened, green eyes twinkling. “It’s fine. I let you walk into that.” She brushed a red wisp of hair back from her flushed, sweaty face, which he thought was the prettiest thing he’d seen in ages. “Actually, I’m a guidance counselor at the high school. This is a part-time thing.” Her smile tightened. “Money’s been short since mom died and I’ve had some...troubles.”

“I’m sorry,” Travis said.

“Thank you.” She ran a hand through her hair and continued. “You remember my brother Mike?”

Travis thought. “Yeah. He was autistic, wasn’t he?”

A nod. “After mom died, I had trouble paying his bills at the Adult Living Center in Old Forge, so he came to live with me.” She gestured at the surroundings. “Hence the extra job. New mouth to feed, and all that.” She bit her lip, glanced down briefly, saying, “It’s worth it, though. I love him.”

This he remembered, too. “You always did,” he murmured.

She flashed a smile that was probably fake. “Enough about me. What’ve you been doing? Are you back for good, or just passing through?” She eyed him expectantly. “Everyone’s been talking. They say you’re a war hero, or something.”

“Well,” he said, “I’m just working at the mill until I sort some things out.”

She nodded, and the inevitable awkwardness of old lovers set in. Travis waved at the chair opposite him. “Have a seat. Least until your break ends.”

Allison’s face blanched winter white. “I can’t,” she stuttered. She twisted her hands and tugged one finger in particular as she worried a very large ring...a wedding ring.

Hell.

How’d I miss that?

“You’re married,” he said flatly. “I’m sorry,” he scrambled, “I didn’t know...”

Allison bowed, red hair spilling over her face, covering unshed tears. “No,” she mumbled, “it’s not your fault. Besides, I’m not married anymore...well, I’m not divorced either...”

She looked up, green eyes wet. “It’s complicated,” she whispered, “It’s...”

She stopped. Her eyes widened as she muttered, “I’ve gotta go. Sorry.”

Allison scurried away and almost tripped over a chair in the process. He would’ve followed if a heavy hand hadn’t clamped down on his shoulder a second later.

“Probably the greatest thing a man has on Earth,” a deep voice rumbled, “is his God-given wife.”

Travis stiffened. He glanced up, saw the meaty hand on his shoulder, the glint of a Clifton Heights “Class of ‘88” ring, and the man who wore it. He didn’t know whether to laugh or snort.

Mitch Higgins. Former high school sports star. All-County Quarterback. Town hero. And, apparently – judging by the khaki uniform and tin star – Webb County Sheriff.

Higgins’s cold blue eyes followed Allison’s retreat. Smiling, he asked, “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Travis paused, a thousand scenarios forming. None of them ended with him not in handcuffs, so he replied evenly, “Absolutely.”

Higgins looked down and met his gaze. “So you’d agree a husband would do anything to protect that treasure?”

Travis didn’t blink. “Sure.”

County Sheriff Higgins smiled a hyena’s grin. “Good. I’m glad we understand each other.” He squeezed Travis’s shoulder and walked away without another glance.

Travis packed his twisting emotions into one word. “Shit.”

He raised a hand and signaled the nearest waitress for a beer, even though he knew he shouldn’t. Two minutes later an open bottle of Heineken plunked onto his table, and he stared at the icy-cold end of his sobriety.

What the hell?

He grabbed it before he could change his mind.

As he lifted it to his lips, over the bar’s din he heard, then saw, Allison and her husband-maybe-not-husband arguing on the Stumble Inn’s front steps, bathed in the blue-electric glow of a halogen bug-zapper.

He took a sip.

Mitch grabbed Allison’s arm. She jerked free.

He took another sip.

Allison threw her dishrag at Mitch’s feet and fled, leaving the County Sheriff where he stood.

Travis chugged his beer, deciding to screw sobriety, get drunk, and forget about Allison Hazelton.

*

Elsewhere

The stranger dreamed.

He stood in an old house. The air felt thick. His heart pounded, breath thundering in his ears. Before him, a crumbling fireplace. With heavy steps, he moved towards it.

He wasn’t alone.

Something horrible tore at him. He couldn’t breathe.

In the fireplace. Something was trapped in there, trying to get out.

Bricks exploded, flying everywhere. He covered his face, but shards tore at him anyway. Hands thrust outward, followed by a figure scrambling from the ruins, grimy face twisted in rage. It closed the distance and clamped its powerful hands around his throat.

Icy blue eyes locked upon his. The mouth snarled, screaming in rage...

*

With a gasp, the stranger awoke. Slick with perspiration, his chest heaved brokenly. He swallowed bile.

The vision faded.

He grunted, shaking his head. “What the hell was that?”

He sat silently, but no answer came.

The stranger pressed his lips together, filing the vision for later consideration. He slid off the bed and padded barefoot for the shower. He had a full night ahead of him, strange visions regardless.

*

The shower’s hot sprays relaxed his body, but provided his mind little relief. The vision or nightmare or whatever it had been defied analysis. The house seemed familiar, but past that, he’d no idea what it meant. As for the hands reaching from the fireplace and those blue eyes...

He led a violent existence. A few apocalyptic nightmares were to be expected, but this was...different.

His Blackberry trilled. Naked, dripping, he stepped from the shower, exited the bath and crossed the room to the clothes bureau where it lay. He picked it up, flipped it open, and pressed “answer”.

A black and white photo of a weak masculine face appeared, with a name below, and the phrase: Prospero’s Cauldron. Package in top drawer.

He flipped the cell shut, opened the drawer, reached in and found a 3x5 manila envelope taped to the bottom. He tore the envelope open and emptied two things into his hand. One was a promotional matchbook, presumably for a night club. It was black, and read Prospero’s Cauldron in gold script, along with an address. The other was a key. He pocketed the matchbook and turned the key over in his fingers, taking in every edge.

The man’s face from his vision floated before his eyes, then disappeared.

He clenched the key in his fist, determined to exorcise the troubling vision with a successful sanction.

He dressed.

*

As he stepped onto the darkened balcony of Prospero’s Cauldron, his night-vision sunglasses sprang to life and illuminated the loft in a greenish glow. He approached the balcony’s edge, pulled the key out, rubbing it between his fingers. The club pulsed, throbbing with techno-rave.

He knelt and felt along the floor, found the keyhole and opened a trap door. Inside the compartment lay a black briefcase. He withdrew the case and opened it. After inspecting its contents, he assembled the rifle. The muzzle slid into place. With a twist, it locked. Just as smoothly, he attached the stock, and then snapped on a night-vision sight.

Muzzle, stock, sight: locked. He jammed in a lone magazine and chambered a round.

He’d need only one.

Over the balcony’s edge he leaned, hidden by darkness, away from the ceiling spotlights. The music faded, along with all other sounds. He flipped a switch near the trigger. A red dot sprang onto the human mass below and traveled over the crowd toward the bar, seeking its target.

The killer braced the stock against his shoulder and searched patiently. He scanned the throng of people through the night scope, looking for a match.

Something flashed.

His aim swept to a clear spot in the dancing frenzy. A face sprang into view. His trigger finger tensed, and the face changed...

To the man from his vision.

He blinked.

The face was now his only target. He cursed and pulled the trigger.

A fountain of blood.

A slumped body.

Screams.

He tossed the rifle aside and made his way for the club’s roof access. He’d studied blueprints and maps; he’d be buildings away in moments. However, his satisfaction at another completed job paled against a startling thought: because of the vision, he’d almost failed.

He pulled open a door and disappeared into the night.

*

Days Later

Clifton Heights

It was afternoon. Travis sat in a plastic lawn chair and stared into the campfire he’d made behind his cabin. On the ground lay four empty Molson bottles, a full one still sitting in its flimsy six-pack cardboard carrier, a half-finished bottle in his hand.

He took a long hit from the bottle. Swished, swallowed, and stared into the fire. He couldn’t remember why he’d built it, or why he was sitting here. Of course, he couldn’t remember much of this past week, either. When had he run into Allison at the Stumble Inn? Last Friday?

He couldn’t remember.

As far as he knew, he hadn’t stopped drinking since he saw Allison and Higgins fighting.

It was official. He’d fallen off the wagon.

What the hell.

He frowned, suddenly remembering why he’d come out here to drink. He’d woken up sober enough to feel bad about drinking again.

He took another sip. Stupid, really. Why was he drinking? Because of Allison?

No. That was a good cover, but Allison was just another straw on a camel’s back that had been broken months ago. He couldn’t stop dreaming of broken bodies, lost comrades, violence...death.

A quote occurred to him. Something from English class, with Mr. Ellison, at All Saints High. It went something like...Things fall apart, the center cannot hold.

He took another sip. Keats. Yeats. Whitman. Longfellow. Didn’t matter.

The rehab counselors at Fort Williamson had given him a number to call, in case of a relapse. A “bad patch,” they called it.

Well, he was in a “bad patch” now. Certainly reason enough to drink.

He really should call that number.

He grunted. What I should do is drink something stronger.

He staggered upright and knocked over the chair in the process. The beer wasn’t working. He needed to drive down the road to the Quickmart for something more.

He shuffled towards his truck, fishing the keys from his pocket.

*

He drove to the Quickmart in a blur. He’d blinked his eyes and there he was, in the checkout line, forty ounce malt liquor in his hand. There’d been nothing harder, but he couldn’t drive further. He was just sober enough – damn it – to know a longer trip to the liquor store in town, on Main Street, would end in disaster.

Maybe he could get a cab to the Stumble Inn later. He wasn’t sure what day it was, but he knew it wasn’t the weekend. He’d asked around. Allison only worked weekends. Good idea to avoid those nights.

But damn fate never cooperates.

“Travis.”

A soft voice.

Allison.

He managed a turn without falling down and coughed, suddenly self-conscious of the malt liquor. “Hey,” he managed.

“Travis...” Allison reached out; maybe to touch his arm, but she stopped, eyes flicking over his shoulder.

Travis saw the gas station attendant – a thin, black haired man with a jutting nose and quivering lips - watching them. “Like what you see?” He snapped. “Take a picture. You can go home and play with yourself over it.”

The gas attended looked away, but Travis caught an angry glint in his eyes.

The look on Allison’s face – pity, affection – was too much. “You’d better go,” he whispered, “Eyes everywhere.”

“I know,” she whispered, eyes shining. “I just wanted...”

Travis frowned at the bruise under her left eye. “Don’t,” he said. He didn’t want to be curt, but he wouldn’t bring trouble to her. Maybe she’d been punished for talking to him, maybe for something else, but he didn’t want to risk it. He wasn’t worth it.

“I left months ago,” she persisted. “I applied for a divorce, but the paperwork’s stalled. You remember Jarrod Simmons?”

Travis nodded. Of course. Higgins had been All-County quarterback, Simmons an All-Conference receiver.

“He’s the only lawyer in town. He’s stalling, I know it. I’m going to Utica to find a lawyer there...”

“Allison.”

One word. No heat, just emphasis. She stopped mid-sentence, her face blank as he continued. “You should go. I can’t help you.”

She bit her lip, glanced at the attendant. A heartbeat and she nodded, sniffed, and walked away. The door jingled, and she was gone.

Travis faced front. Either he needed to drink some more, or sober up and get the hell out of Dodge.

One of them, at least, was in reach.

*

Two Days Later

The assassin flipped through the air, crushing the man’s neck with a jerk of his feet. He landed flat-footed, stunned by the sudden silence.

He stood still, smelling blood and gunpowder.

The small backroom of Kinney’s Pub was soundproofed for many reasons, but in this case, it had worked against its owners. The soundproofing had silenced snapping limbs perfectly.

He cracked his neck. A man had tagged him with a chair before getting his nose shoved into his brain. Lucky shot.

The stranger shook his head. Not lucky. He’d been distracted. What was happening?

Often, his jobs were discrete, one on one. This had been a bigger, more complex job, but it still should’ve been quick, routine. Just before he made his move, though, every face morphed into one – that face – and he’d lost control, slaughtered them all, with little regard for his instructions.

He breathed heavily. He’d botched the job. He never botched jobs. Ever.

He needed to leave, now. Didn’t matter where he went, but he had to hit the road. Before he could move, though, a name bubbled up from nowhere...

Travis Hart.

It didn’t seem significant...but he knew it, all the same.

The man from his dream. The face he couldn’t escape.

He stepped over corpses and headed for his pre-mapped exit. He flicked open his Blackberry, selected the icon of a small pub, and pressed send. He’d still report the kill and worry about the botched details later. Maybe Mr. Claudius would forgive him. Maybe not.

Either way, he had a name now.

Travis Hart.

*

Next Evening

Clifton Heights

10:30 PM

Travis sat far back in the Stumble Inn, his head throbbing. The handful of aspirin he’d swallowed would kick in soon, but until then, he’d hurt.

He sipped from a glass of water. Hours ago he’d found himself here, drunk, leaning on the bar, thinking that it had to stop, all of it. He needed to collect himself. The drinking had erased almost everything: Allison, Mitch Higgins, his job at the mill (which he had to have been fired from by now), the fucking day of the week, even.

Travis took a long gulp. Swallowed and thought lucidly, perhaps for the first time in weeks, that sobriety sucked.

The Stumble Inn’s screen door banged open, and an angry voice cut the air.

“Hey there, boy. Nice to see you sober, because we need to talk.”

Travis looked up and saw County Sheriff Higgins, flanked by two county deputies. Their hats were off, hands hanging loosely at their sides.

He glanced around the bar, noticed several patrons scurrying outside, others sitting up, taking notice. He sat back in his chair, thinking maybe sobriety wasn’t all that bad after all.

*

Elsewhere

The assassin sat in his booth at a small diner off the interstate, typing into his laptop. Its wireless card was boosted, so even on an empty highway like this he could still connect to his secure Web server.

His waitress had stopped bothering him when she’d realized all he’d wanted was coffee. She didn’t seem too bright, but apparently still sensed he could snap her neck in two minutes if he wanted to.

He checked his inbox. Nothing. Called up his secure database of profiles, searched for Travis Hart and found him on first try. With a click, he pulled up the information.

“Army,” he grunted. “Operation Iraqi Freedom.” He opened the man’s duty file. Infantry, nothing more. Recently discharged, living in Clifton Heights, New York. No red flags or special assignments. Simple solider on a routine tour, given an honorable discharge.

The assassin squinted, something catching his eyes. An entry that read “Military Justice Review Board”. He clicked it. “Hearing dismissed,” he muttered, “due to reasonable doubt. Charges dropped.”

He noticed another entry labeled “Fort Williamson”. He clicked on that, read the account of Hart’s escalating alcoholism. The ID photo matched perfectly. That was him: a waste, a washout.

What the hell?

His Blackberry rang. He glanced at the photo on the computer. Two more rings, and he picked it up. As always, a photo loaded with a name underneath.

The photo matched that on his laptop. The name and place underneath read: Travis Hart, Clifton Heights.

He was efficient. He always followed orders, even when they were to kill a man from his dreams.

He called for his check.

*

Stumble Inn

Clifton Heights

Adrenaline pumped through Travis, sobering him. Higgins and his deputies loomed over his table, close enough so Travis could read their nametags. The left deputy’s read Finch; the right’s Stow.

The Sheriff wasted few words. There was that, at least.

“Smitty at the Quickmart saw you bothering Allison the other day,” he lectured like a disappointed parent. “I thought we had an understanding.”

Travis felt himself grow calm. “She spoke to me, actually.”

Higgins let his façade slip, sneering. “Oh, really? And what would she have to say to you?”

Something played along the edges of Travis’ mind. It felt a little like insanity....and he liked it. A small smile tugged his lips. “Actually, she was apologizing for your sorry ass.”

The sneer faded into an angry scowl. “Watch your mouth, Hart. You’ve had it rough, but sympathy only goes so far around here.”

And with that, Travis got pissed. For the first time since waking up on a sand dune covered in blood and buried under the bodies of his friends and comrades, Travis Hart got pissed off.

But he didn’t show it. He pulled it deep down, loaded his heart with hot, white, blazing rage.

He smiled. “Don’t worry, Sheriff. I didn’t talk to her. I didn’t want to give you an excuse to beat the shit out of her some more.”

Higgins’s face reddened, and for the first time since coming home, Travis felt good.

*

Elsewhere

The assassin pushed his rental car hard. One part of him constructed the details of his mission into a plan, the other questioned it. He was usually briefed by a digital packet, schedules arranged, after which came a confirmation call. He’d never before received a call without instructions.

He knew where to go. He’d found real estate deeds with Hart’s address on the ‘Net. However, he’d received no other instructions, which was outside protocol.

He’d follow orders. He always did, no matter how strange.

Once, he’d been ordered to electrocute someone in their bathtub by tossing a hair dryer into the water. This was no different - except for the visions.

He pushed that from his mind. He’d complete the job in the hopes that killing Travis Hart might make the visions go away.

*

Clifton Heights

The Stumble Inn

Higgins spoke coldly. “You forget yourself. I own Allison.”

Travis smiled wider. “You don’t own shit,” he said.

He saw it before it happened – Higgins going for his gun. Instantly, things changed.

Travis kicked under the table and jammed the opposite chair into Higgins’s knees, hard. The county sheriff cursed and fell.

Travis moved before either deputy blinked.

He flung the table away, pivoted, and crushed Finch’s trachea with a single right-handed blow. He fell with a choked gurgle, a limp meat sack.

He heard Stow swear. Switching feet, he swung his left foot hard. Stow ducked. Travis missed but smoothly pulled his foot back, catching Stow’s neck in the crook of his knee as he rose. Stow’s eyes bulged, face turning red.

Higgins recovered behind him. Travis twisted his hips and snapped Stow’s neck.

Gunmetal scraped leather.

Travis pushed off his right foot into a wind-mill, dropping Stow as he spun. Higgins stood again, Glock clearing its holster.

Travis’s right foot crashed into Higgins’ jaw, whipping the county sheriff’s head around. Blood, spit, and teeth flew.

Higgins fell, still holding his gun. Travis slammed his foot onto Higgins’s gun wrist, crushing bones. Higgins screamed. Travis ground his foot into what was left of Higgins’s wrist.

Higgins screamed more. Spittle flew as his gun clattered to the floor.

Travis bent over, scooped up the gun, pressed the muzzle to the sheriff’s temple, pulling on the trigger...

...and stopped.

Blinking.

Looking at what he’d done.

Travis glanced up and saw bar patrons cowering behind tables, terrified stares locked on him, mouths gaping.

Slowly, he relaxed the trigger, releasing Higgins. The county sheriff’s eyes glazed over, shock settling in as he whimpered and cradled his ruined wrist.

Travis stuffed the Glock into his waistband and walked slowly toward the door at first. He hit it running, sprinting for his truck.

*

Elsewhere

The stranger was almost there.

*

Travis slammed the cabin door open. His mind spun. He’d killed two men, stopped short of killing Higgins, but it’d been there, at his fingertips. His heart pounded and his head hurt. Images strobed against his brain. Pain spiked his temples, made him gasp and clutch his forehead with his free hand.

He had to leave. He had to get out of here right now.

He stepped forward to pack and kicked something. He looked down at a large, crushed paper ball, while something tickled his mind.

Slowly, he bent over, picked up and unrolled the ball. Vouchers. His eyes widened. Tickets. Plane tickets, bus tickets, car rental agreements...with his name on them.

His lips formed city names silently. New York. Los Angeles. Miami. San Antonio. Chicago.

He glanced at the dates; recent ones, since he’d returned from Iraq.

“What the hell?” he whispered.

The cabin door creaked behind him. He dropped the crumpled tickets, spun, and jerked the Glock from his waistband.

*

Here

Now

The stranger cursed as the cabin door creaked open. He was usually so careful.

He slipped into the room, Glock raised too late. His target had already spun, his own gun trained at him. They were deadlocked.

This had never happened before.

The man had a wild look to him. Hair disheveled, face flushed. However, other than the Glock he held, he looked completely ordinary, unimportant.

It didn’t matter. He’d received orders, and he meant to fulfill them.

Still.

“Who are you?” he asked. “Why am I dreaming about you?”

*

Travis felt cold. “I’m no one,” he stammered, gun wavering. “I’m nobody.”

Disbelief. “You have to be. I’m never assigned a nobody.”

Travis frowned. “Assigned? What do you mean? I don’t understand!”

The man shrugged. “No one ever does.” He leveled his Glock, trigger finger tensed.

Travis raised his hand as a poor defense. “No! Wait! Why...why are you dreaming about me?”

The man shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.” He flipped a small switch; a red dot appeared on Travis’ chest.

“No!”

And then, things got stranger.

*

Another man, dressed similar to the first, only with black hair, slipped through the door behind the first. He looked only at Travis, however.

“Help me!” Travis pleaded to the newcomer, afraid he was just another killer.

The man whispered...

“Walking down the stair, I saw a man who wasn't there.”

A great rush filled Travis’s head.

His brain exploded.

Heedless of the killer, he dropped his Glock, bent over, and cried out.

The newcomer smiled.

*

“...saw a man who wasn’t there.”

The stranger felt sick. Heavy. Feverish. Everything became dim, thin, unsubstantial. His gun weighed a thousand pounds. He couldn’t hold it anymore. It fell from his hand, lead weight, and in a surreal moment, it disappeared before hitting the floor.

He held up his hands.

They faded.

He faded.

And was gone.

*

The pain stopped, but his brain still pounded with images. Two split filmstrips merged, becoming whole.

Gaps filled in. He saw himself outside a storage facility in Old Forge, parking his battered Chevy, picking up a Lexus. In his mind, he changed clothes, boarded flights. Spoke to stewardesses, booked rooms.

He spoke to Allison, drank himself asleep. Swapped the Lexus for the Chevy, changed clothes again.

He killed.

He put the Lexus into storage, and walked to his cabin, gunny sack over his shoulder.

One last rush, and then silence.

He straightened. Recognized the cabin, but didn’t. Knew he who was, but didn’t.

He looked at the new man, alone, no stranger next to him because there never was a stranger, there’d only been...

...him.

“Mr. Claudius?” Travis asked flatly.

The man nodded. “Indeed. How do you feel?”

He considered. “I’m not sure.”

Mr. Claudius smiled. “Convergence takes some time.” He paused, inspecting his fingernails. “I’ll fill in the gaps.” He looked up. “Do you know what’s happened?”

Travis frowned. The details were there, but weren’t. “Experiment,” he said finally. “Conditioning. Artificial personality formation.”

Mr. Claudius nodded. “Do you remember why?”

A pause. “To simulate a conditioning breakdown.” Travis frowned. “What’s that mean?”

Mr. Claudius smiled gently. “First things first. Did you volunteer, or were you coerced?”

Travis opened his mouth – and stopped, shocked. “I volunteered.”

“Very good.”

Travis shook his head. “But why? I don’t remember.”

Mr. Claudius clapped his hands once. “It was an experiment, as you say. The practice of mental conditioning has always been widespread in the military.” He waved a hand, walking towards him. “The problem? This conditioning alwaysbreaks down, eventually.”

He faced Travis. “It’s in action movies all the time, yes? Jason Bourne, and such. Mental conditioning works for a time but in the end, it always fails. Hollywood is Hollywood, of course; with all its glitz and glamour – but they say fiction mirrors truth.” He paused. “Or is it vice versa?”

He shrugged. “No matter. Funds were wasted, capable agents lost after their conditioning broke and they either disappeared or needed sanction themselves.”

Travis shook his head. All the pieces still didn’t fit. “Why? What’s the purpose?”

“To create a controlled breakdown. To force a confrontation and give you a choice. We’ve learned that when covert operatives are given a semblance of choice, they perform better, for far longer.”

Travis persisted. “How was I able to be...both?”

“Down-time for both identities served as transition points. When the assassin spent long hours on the road or in diners, Travis Hart was the prime mover. When Travis Hart spent days staring into the campfire or drunk at the local bar, most of the time the assassin was in control, moving about elsewhere.”

Travis nodded. “The dreams? That last confirmation call?”

“All preconditioned cues to initiate the confrontation.”

“What about the Review Board? The charges?”

Mr. Claudius tipped his head. “That’s why you volunteered, to expunge your record.”

Something sour formed in his gut. “Was Allison fake? Clifton Heights, too?”

Mr. Claudius smiled. “No, she’s very real. As is Webb County Sheriff Higgins and his dead deputies, I’m afraid. Which means the state police and Clifton Heights Sheriff Christopher Baker will be responding, soon. Which means you have a choice to make.”

“Choice?”

Mr. Claudius nodded, withdrawing an oblong silver case from his jacket. “Yes. Joey Fuccunelli was evil. He needed to die. Your target at Prospero’s was a known pedophile. The two gangs you dispatched were ruthless drug cartels.” He paused. “You have a chance to rid the world of darkness by dealing darkness. You do, however, have a choice.”

Travis thought. “What if I say no?”

Mr. Claudius nodded, pressed an invisible switch, and the case flipped open, revealing a single syringe of silver fluid. He looked up and grinned. “As always, we can never escape the trappings of Hollywood. In any case, if you decline, you’ll receive this injection. Your covert skills will fade, and you’ll be Travis Hart. Unfortunately, Travis Hart has just killed two officers of the law, and maimed a third. By declining, you’ll no longer be under our protection, or immune to local and state law enforcement.”

“Also,” he added softly, “ordinary Travis Hart will be incarcerated when a recovered, enraged Sheriff Higgins visits Allison with a few friends in tow.”

Travis clenched his fists, teeth grinding. “And if I accept?”

Mr. Claudius snapped the case shut, bent over, and picked up the fallen Glock. He straightened and said, “You stay as you are. In a few days, the convergence will be complete. You can pay Higgins a visit tonight – sanction that wife-beating bastard – and our Cleaners will take care of it. You’ll work at the lumber mill, be Travis Hart, but with a greater purpose, ridding the world of evil on the weekends.” He smiled. “Not a bad part-time gig, all in all.”

He added softly, “And of course, Allison will be safe, and thankful.”

Silence, until Travis rasped, “You’re a bastard.”

Mr. Claudius inclined his head. “That I am. Nevertheless.”

Claudius had lied. There was really no choice.

Travis took the Glock, shoved it into his waistband, and went to find Mitch Higgins.

The cabin fell silent.

Mr. Claudius smiled, pulled his cell phone from his pocket, opened it, and dialed.

“Yes?”

“Project Alpha is a success, for now,” Mr. Claudius reported, walking into the night. “Pull up the file on Amy Richards, from Minnesota. Time to see what she’s made of.”