Alone

    

   “We are all alone, born alone, die alone, and ... in spite of our company, we were alone the whole way. This is what makes your self-respect so important, and I don't see how you can respect yourself if you must look in the hearts and minds of others for your happiness.”

― Hunter S. Thompson,

Saturday

“Fifteen years is not a long enough time for our employees, like Terry here, to learn how much we appreciate them and their loyalty, dedication, and work ethic.” John Elkins places a hand on Terry Boland's shoulder and gently encourages him to stand. “Or, in Terry’s case, his friendship.” 

Terry rises, feeling preposterous, but also glad that Plastronics treats its employees so well. He reflects, as his knees pop, that his time here has been the best work of his life and that he has grown from the youthful idiot he was when they hired him.

John offers him a firm handshake, grasping Terry’s elbow with his other hand, and Terry feels a moment of real gratitude. 

After the dinner and the excellent chess pie, Terry shakes hands all around; regional managers, VP, Plastronics president Alajandro Vasquez, a raft of lawyers and accountants, assistants, and public information officers, and then heads to his truck. Along with a plaque, a raise, a bonus, and a piece of one-of-a-kind pottery, he is nursing a dull headache from all the handshaking and hugs. He goes home, undresses, and lies in bed, unable to sleep. His heart is full. He knows that there are people out there who hate their jobs, but he isn’t one of them.

On Monday, he will start the first day of his last years of work at Plastronics, then he will retire and get a final dinner in his honor. In the meantime, he is happy to be back to what he jokingly calls ‘the grind’.

Sunday

When Belinda was alive, she did laundry on Sundays. Terry does his whenever he needs to, so Sundays are usually spent doing whatever he wants to do. Today, he mows the yard early, before the churchgoers can complain that his old-fashioned mower disturbs their services. Then, he showers and walks to the farmer’s market and buys honeydew and some green beans, and a frozen sealed steak from the beef guy. He walks back home and passes the Amish furniture place that has Adirondack chairs made of composite timber painted all colors. He’s not sure what makes them Amish. The store has the last newspaper dispenser in town out front, and he inserts one seventy-five in quarters and gets a too-thin paper from it. The Sunday edition of the Tattler used to be an entire day’s worth of reading. These days, he’s lucky if he’s not finished with it in ten minutes.

He walks home, somehow blissfully unaware that the streets are quieter than usual for a Sunday. Few cars, no pedestrians or joggers. He might have been the only shopper at the farmer’s market, and many of the stalls were empty. No other early morning lawn maintenance. He is aware of this, but doesn’t think about it directly. It is warming up fast by the time he gets home, and so, he steps inside, kicks off his walking shoes, and heads to the screened-in porch with a fresh cup of coffee after putting away his groceries. When the phone rings, he sets his paper aside, unaware of its headline, and goes to answer the phone. The news that his friend and former coworker, Clint Walker, is in the hospital with complications from a stroke shatters him and renders the quiet morning into splinters. Clint, not yet seventy, has never had any health issues. Marlene, Clint’s wife, says that the doctors are worried. Terry showers and puts on clean clothes, and spends the rest of the day at the hospital with his friend.

When he gets home, he is exhausted and sets his alarm early enough to get his work things ready in the morning, and goes to bed. The Sunday Tattler lies unread in the screened-in porch.

Monday

Clint’s health is in jeopardy, the doctors say, and Terry is feeling a little down when he arrives at work. He is looking forward to seeing the other members of his team. They will have heard about Clint and will want to know how he is doing. Since Belind’s passing, Terry will get the solidarity from them that most people get from their families. He knows this, but, just like Saturday night, he is very grateful for that fact.

As always, Liz Mendez is at her desk. Terry smiles at her. “Good morning, Lizzie,” he says. She glances up at him for a second and then looks down at her desk. “Hey,” she says. Terry is struck by this unusual reaction and assumes that it is about Clint. 

“You heard, then,” he says. Again, Liz looks up at him, her dark eyes betray no emotion, just dull acknowledgement. 

“Yes,” she says. 

“Are you okay?” Terry goes over to her desk, readying himself for the girl to come around her desk and bury herself against his side, tears and sobs shaking her.

“Yes,” she says and turns one of the pages in a requisition file on her desk and continues to read it. For a moment, Terry is tempted to ask if she’s sure, but then decides not to. Something in her manner makes him feel like this would be a bad idea.

“Well, if you need to talk, I’m here. I’m sure that Marlene would love for you to visit after work. We could get a group together.”

“Okay,” she says, not looking up. Terry almost wants to shout at her, but decides that wouldn’t be professional. He goes to his cubicle and sets his work things down, settles in, and turns on his computer.

Mable Dawkins, who was particularly effusive at Saturday’s staff recognition event, comes in, sets her things down, and gets to work without so much as a hello. Terry sends a hello over the cubicles to her. “Heeeeelllllloooooooo Mable!” Mable stops, looks across the large room at him, smiles blandly, nods, glances at Liz, who gives her a strange look, and then goes back to work. 

Terry has the distinct sense that something is off, as if they know something he is unaware of. It is a feeling he’s too familiar with. Before he came to Plastronics, he had something of a drinking problem and often behaved badly, both at work and after. When he worked for WeaverCorp, he was well-known for his antics, and though people were always polite to him, they gave him a wide berth, he knew, because he was rarely fully sober and liable to say horrible things that he thought were funny, but were often more than hurtful. 

Toward the end of his time there, he would come in feeling insecure, unable to remember the day before or how he might have acted. After he stopped drinking and got help, he understood just how horrible he had been in those days. To Belinda more than anyone, but also to his work colleagues.

These days, that feeling was rare. He behaved now as a matter of principle, though he always double checked, and if he did say something that caused his coworkers pain, he dealt with it immediately or as soon as they were ready.

He hadn’t had anything to drink on Saturday night, but he now wonders if he said or did something that upset his crew without intending it.

At ten, Liz comes by with that week’s shipping and receiving schedules and requisition orders. She doesn’t say a word to him, but sets the papers in the bin on his desk and then goes back to her desk. Terry thinks it's better not to call her back. He decides to go to the warehouse and see the Johns. John Archer and Johnny O’Neal, who are in charge of the loading and unloading and the forklift crew.

He walks into the warehouse and takes his hard hat from a row of wooden hooks along the wall by the door. Compared to the office, the room is open, airy, with three storeys of shelving across many rows. A few forklifts zoom around, getting the first load of the day ready. Terry sees John Archer over by the loading dock talking to the inventory manager, Chris Jenkins. He walks over to them. Both men look up and see him coming, and they share a look between them, and then John Archer turns his body so that his face cannot be seen. Terry watches him lean in to Chris and whisper something. Chris looks right at Terry and then back at John and nods and walks away, without ever waving or smiling. Again, Terry gets a feeling in his stomach as though he’s done something horribly wrong and no one will tell him. The feeling is so strong that he almost stops and goes back to his office, but decides after a beat and a breath that he’s overreacting and continues toward John.

“How’s the order?” Terry skips the usual greetings, feeling disrupted by the weirdness that he still thinks is all in his head.

“Okay,” John says. He doesn’t look at Terry, but turns to the loading bay. “Charter is en route. Be here in about forty-five.”

“Here’s an updated order they just called in,” Terry holds out the sheet he has for John to take. John looks at it, but doesn’t take it. “What’s this?”

Terry laughs. “Look, I know it’s not protocol, but apparently they are overpurchasing in case they run out. We’ve got the inventory in the system. Verify it with O’Neal, but make sure it’s on the truck when Charter leaves.” This isn’t like him, he thinks. He’s not an order-giver. People are smart enough to think on their own. Why is he doing this?

John Archer looks at the paper and then finally takes it. He doesn’t respond, but just walks away. Terry, already upset by the way he feels and the weirdness in the place, decides he’s fed up and walks over to Johnny O’Neal, who is looking at the pile of things on the dock and checking them with the inventory list.

“Top of the morning,” Terry says, as he usually does. He hears the tone in his voice. The sound of a man desperate for the people he considers his family to just show a little kindness. Johnny says nothing, but just keeps on looking at his clipboard. “Look,” Terry says, trying hard to get the man to look at him, “Charter has asked for a double order. They just called it in. I told Archer, but he’s in a mood. Can you make sure it’s here? The truck won’t be here for about forty minutes.”

Johnny O’Neal looks over at Terry and nods. “Double. Okay.” He nods again and holds up two fingers, and then goes back to his clipboard.

By lunchtime, Terry Boland is so frustrated that he cannot focus on his work. Everyone is acting so strangely. It is beyond upsetting. He knows that he doesn’t have the luxury of anger, so he decides to take a half day and spend the rest of it with Clint at the hospital. He shoots an email to the team, walks by John Elkins’s office on the way out. His assistant, Margo Hawkins, is sipping a Diet Coke and nibbling on popcorn from a bag. 

“Hey Margo, I’m heading out. Weird day. The shipment to Charter is on the way. Everyone’s fine, I’m just going to go see Clint. Will you let John know?”

“Okay,” Margo says, and continues to eat her popcorn. She never looks at Terry.

He goes to his truck, gets in, and starts it. As he pulls out of the parking lot, he sees both Johns, Liz, Mable, and John Elkins standing by the staff outdoor eating area in a small circle. As he drives away, they all turn to stare at him. He doesn’t notice that more than half of the parking lot is empty.

After visiting Clint, who has lapsed into unconsciousness, Terry goes home. He is tired, frustrated, upset, and worried. Sleep stays far away from him until deep into the small hours.

Tuesday

Terry wakes from a dream in which everyone around him is wearing black face masks and actively ignoring him. He sees Belinda and runs to her, but by the time he gets to her, her face is obscured, and he cannot get her to acknowledge him. His clock tells him it is three, so he tries to calm himself to get back to sleep, but after thirty minutes, he gives up and gets up. 

He showers, gets his lunch ready, and decides to go by Rick’s Diner for breakfast before work. Rick is usually there early. Rick, whom Terry knows from the A.A. meeting they both attend together on Thursdays, will help him see things more rationally.

When he arrives, he notices that Rick’s is closed and dark. Rick’s truck is not in the lot. He decides to run by McDonald’s to grab a biscuit, but they are closed, too. It’s six in the morning, but there are no cars on the roads, no school buses, no delivery trucks. He takes a shortcut through Brewer Falls, a neighborhood on the outskirts of town close to Plastronics' property, and sees that all the houses are dark, cars and trucks in driveways, or on the street, but no one is driving. As he passes by the Meadow Lane Municipal Baseball parks, he sees a large group of people all huddled together near home base. He assumes they are having an early-morning prayer meeting and drives on.

When he gets to Plastronics, the security gate is closed, and Mark Kennerman isn’t in his booth, sipping his fancy dessert coffee. Terry hops out and unlocks the padlock on the gate with his manager's key and pulls it open. He drives through and pulls up to the building where his crew’s offices are. The office entrance door is locked, but he sees the team’s cars in the lot. He unlocks it and goes inside. The building is dark. He hits the switches by the door, and fluorescent lights flicker on. No one is here. Everything is quiet and dark. No computers hum, no streaming music playing quietly over the speaker system. 

He walks to the warehouse door and finds it also dark. The loading dock door is open, though, and he walks toward it, hoping that no one is holding his team hostage and just waiting for some haphazard worker to walk in and shoot them.

The sodium vapor lights are on and light the area outside the dock with a mixture of early morning and coppery light. On the ground by the loading bay, standing in a large circular group, are everyone that Terry knows from Plastronics. They are standing huddled together, in a way that makes him think of a crowd of rubber-neckers at the scene of a stabbing. Their heads are down, arms hanging limply by their sides. Just like at the baseball fields. 

Terry feels a sudden and powerful urge to run to his truck, to get out and away. He starts to turn, panic rising in him, but a sound from the group of people stops him. 

“Terrence,” the voice says. It’s not one voice, Terry realizes, it is many. “Terrence, we want you to join us,” the strange unison voice says.

“No one calls me Terrence,” he says, surprised to hear the sharp edge in his own voice. It is silent for a long time, and he starts to turn away again, but the voice rises again. He can hear the combined movements, the sounds of many mouths moving, many breaths taken all at once, and it pushes the panic in his chest to a terrible pitch.

“You are what we call you. What we tell you. What we make you. You are one of us.”

“Like hell,” Terry shouts and really does move away, back into the warehouse and away from this nightmare group. His mind fills with visions from his dream, many covered faces of people he knows, and he tries to shake it away. He starts to contemplate what is going on, but he shakes that away, too. If he can get to his truck, he thinks, he can get out and onto the highway and drive away.

He hears something behind him. He turns to look, knowing that this is the worst idea of his life, but unable to control the urge. The group has fanned out, streaming up the steps on both sides of the loading dock and reforming in a shadowy clump. Each individual’s movements are creepily choreographed as if the thing is one entity. Some part of him understands that this is exactly what this is. He rushes away from it and hears the sounds of running feet and the susurrations of the group's clothes moving together.

Terry Boland makes a desperate dash for the warehouse door and gets through, locking it from the outside before the group crashes against it. He sprints through the offices, past his own desk, and out through the main doors to the staff parking lot. He leaps into his truck, slams the door, and starts and drives the truck toward the gate. He cannot remember if he locked the gate behind him, but soon enough sees that he didn’t and careens through, then brakes and hops out.

He runs to the gate, his knees screaming in protest, pulls it shut, and padlocks it as the group of his former coworkers streams out of the parked cars and hits the gate in a clump that smashes some of them against it. He sees Liz’s face, staring dully, and then feels the panic anew as her eyes and the eyes of the others on this side of the group, all rotate toward him in one sickening movement. The bodies and faces of many other people he knows are pressing against her and themselves in an attempt to push through the gate. Lizzie’s face is crushed against the diamond chainlink, and it is cutting her forehead and cheeks in perfect diamonds. Again, the group speaks. 

“Come to us, Terrance. You’re one of us, now.”

Terry ignores it, but fights a sudden and keen urge to save Lizzie from the group. Some part of him whispers that he can help her, separate her from this thing that has assimilated her. Lizzie, who was like a niece to him, no, like a daughter he never had. Lizzie, who brought him cake on his birthday and gave the best side hugs and always remembered the anniversary of his date of sobriety, and who quietly handed him an extra donut on the days the bosses bought them. He tells her that he’s sorry and then runs to his truck, gets in, and drives away.

Wednesday

Terry Boland is driving. The highways are empty. He sees no people; no clumps as he’s now calling them. The radio is just dead air. It’s just him and the highway, and he drives, unsure of where he’s going or why. In the back of his truck is a bag of winter clothes, food, and his rifles. On the seat beside him is the Sunday edition of the Tattler that he grabbed for some reason from the screened-in porch before he left his home for the last time. Its headline shows all that Terry will ever know about what is happening. He glances down at it as he speeds along, unable to believe what it says, even after all he’s seen. 

He thinks about Lizzie, about Margo, the Johns, Mark and John Elkins, and Trevor Charles and Rick G. from Rick’s Diner and Clint and Marlene and everyone he’s ever known. His mind fills with the sounds and the strange, unison voice of that monstrous group of people he used to know, and he shudders and reaches over to flip the paper face down, unwilling to look at those bold, black words in the headline anymore. He drives on, wondering if he’s the last one, if he’s truly alone.

That evening, he pulls into a rest stop. Like everything else, it is empty. He tries to get some sleep. He curls up with his rifle by him and hopes that he doesn’t see anyone else. Later, he wakes and steps out of the cab of his truck, and walks over to the edge of the grass sward by the highway. He’s not heard anything except the sounds of night animals, but he listens anyway. He thought he heard a rumor of something in his restless sleep. 

Just at the edge of his hearing, there is a sound like water rushing over large rocks in a stream. He wonders if there is a stream or waterfall near this rest stop. Something deep in his mind tells him he already knows what it is. 

He takes several steps closer to the highway. The tall grass wets his jeans with dew. Far back down the highway, the way he came, he sees something like mist or shadow, moving quickly toward him. Sour panic, which has become his best friend, now rises again in his chest.

He turns and walks quickly back to his truck, takes a jerry can and a road flare out of the bed, and goes back to the highway. The idea hit him while he was driving, when the silent monotony raised in his mind the unavoidable question, what if the clump was getting ever bigger and following him?

He walks out into the highway and pours a line of kerosene across the two lanes. A cloud clears the moon, and silver-white light shines down on the highway and the group moving toward him, unhurriedly and yet steadily.

He goes back to his truck, drives down the exit ramp, and then pops the truck in reverse to the wet line. He can see individual shapes in the horde as it moves along.

He strikes the flare, waits for it to reach its full, blazing red light, then tosses it onto the wet road. The line flares, and Terry pops the truck in drive and squeals down the road. 

Two miles down, he stops and pulls over, waiting patiently, and gazing into his mirrors. 

What he sees is enough to make his guts turn to water. Behind him, in the reflection of his rearview, he sees the dark clump of people walking toward him still, but now he sees that some of them are smoking, and others are actively on fire. His nostrils fill with the acrid scent of human hair and skin burning.

“Oh, God,” Terry says out loud as he closes his windows and drives on, speeding, screaming, tears rolling down his face.

“Oh, God,” Terry Boland says. 

“Oh, God, I’m alone.”

Thinking of Richard Matheson and Rod Serling.