I sat at the far end of the long dining room table, laid out with a silk runner, our best wine glasses, and a few candles I found in the back of the pantry cabinet. The red wax sticks burned down to the nubs before Mary walked in, heels clicking on the hardwood floor. She cast aside her purse before slumping into her seat. My eyes flitted between the clock, and her.
“Busy day at work?” I asked.
“You know how it gets.” She straightened up a little, ripping the tinfoil wrapping off her plate. A smile crept across her face. “You made my favorite.”
Removing the foil from my own dish, I revealed my entree: seared salmon, with butter-roasted potatoes. “Enjoy.”
Mary raised the fork to her lips. The instant the first morsel touched her tongue, her eyebrow jumped up. Before my absence, I would’ve chalked it up to my imagination. But since I’ve returned, I can spot the signs.
My utensils clattered. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
My wife deflated. “The food tastes a little different from the last time you cooked for me. That’s all.”
My hands balled into fists. I kept my eyes on Mary.
“I’m not used to it. Is this—did you learn a new recipe?”
“The last time? I don’t think I made dinner for you since, well, before.”
“Oh, honey, no. I didn’t mean, I thought you might’ve…” Mary shrank back into her chair.
I stood; I didn’t remember getting up. “Do you know how hard this is for me?”
“Please, I—”
“I’m not him!” I grabbed the end of my plate and hurled the ceramic into the wall. Shards flew across the kitchen. Mary whimpered.
“I worked on this all night, so we can try to be normal. You think I don’t see what you’re doing?” I jabbed my index finger in her direction. “Every time’s the same: hiding at the office as late as you can to avoid me!”
“This is hard for me too; I lived with a monster for a year.” She pulled at her hair. “Every day I look at you, I hate myself for not recognizing it sooner.” Mary buried her head in her hands, sobbing. “When I finally understood, I felt so sick.”
Chunks of food slid down the wallpaper. Guilt tied knots in the pit of my stomach as I watched them plop onto the baseboard. Perhaps heaping the blame solely on her wasn’t fair. My feet carried me around the table, and I touched her shoulder.
She flinched. “I’ll do better, I’ll try harder.”
This problem could not be solved with counseling, gifts, or fancy dinners; I needed to go to the source. “I need to clear my head.” I pulled my hand away, snatched my keychain from the hook in the foyer, and slammed the front door.
The city faded in my rearview mirror as I sped down the freeway. When I saw no other cars, I flicked on my high beams and began looking for the unmarked exit ramp. A solitary chevron marked off a stretch of cracked asphalt that curved away from the parkway in a tight loop. I cut the wheel, staying between the worn lines as the pavement turned to gravel, then dirt. The car rumbled along the old washboard road, rattling my teeth in their sockets. Someone lettered “ASHWOOD FACILITY – EMPLOYEES ONLY – NO TRESPASSING,” on a large white sign just off the path.
Not far beyond, a razor wire topped fence loomed on the horizon, casting long shadows. I slowed, stopping at the modest lookout post with my front bumper a few feet from the reflective stop bar.
The guard pulled open the checkpoint door and motioned for me to roll down my window all the way. “Can I see some I.D.?”
I leaned out into the light emanating from the booth. “Evening, Rick.”
“Caleb? Back again this late?”
I nodded.
“Forget something?”
“Just some unfinished business to tend to.”
“You’re logging a lotta nights since—” he stopped himself. “Well, since you came back to work, anyhow.”
I tapped my fingers on the dash and stared ahead. “I can’t be home now. I don’t expect everyone to understand.” Silent moments trickled between us, undercut by the hum of the idling car engine.
“No, of course.” Rick pushed his spectacles up over the crook of his nose, magnifying his beady eyes. He coughed. “Still gotta see your I.D.”
My knuckles whitened around the wheel. I growled in frustration.
“Sweet mother of Christ, Caleb. Please don’t make this any more awkward; I already feel like an ass for having to ask after all’s happened.” Sweat beaded on his forehead, gleaming in the fluorescents.
Not wanting to make any more of a scene, I sighed and wriggled hand down my jean pocket to tug out my lanyard. “Here.”
“Thank you,” he mumbled. He took the cord from my outstretched hand and ran the badge beneath a scanner. He squinted at the monitor before returning my I.D.
Grinding gears and a humming motor cut through the night air, as a winch pulled back the section of fencing directly in front of my car. The yellow stop arm rose up to let me through, and I zipped down the meandering road to the bottom of the gorge, where the Ashwood compound glowed against a rocky backdrop.
About three dozen cars still stood in the lot, mostly congregated around a central trapezoid-shaped building big enough to house a cruise ship. I pulled into the first parking stall I found, left my keys in the ignition, shoved open the lobby door, and made and made for the elevator. I had to run. There was no way my boss would let me go back and talk to it, willingly.
Footsteps thundered behind me, accompanied by the jingling of equipment on utility belts. More members of the security team emerged from behind support columns and down corridors. They kept their guns holstered but began power walking to out into the cavernous atrium to block my path. My head swiveled side to side, searching for a way around them. While I was distracted, a man ran at me from my right.
He yanked me back. by my arm. “Caleb, what are you doing?” I wheeled around to face my supervisor. His sunken eyes grew wide and worried beneath his wispy brow.
“Doctor Bishop.” I doubled over, panting. I fell out of shape long ago during my confinement.
The clamor of footfalls stopped.
Bishop held up a hand and waived off the reinforcements. “I’ll take things from here,” he told someone over my shoulder. Then to me: “Are you alright?”
“I needed to take care of something. I didn’t realize until I got home.”
“Caleb—” He paused, looking up at the graveyard shifters. They stood in clusters on the higher tiers of the facility, congregating by the railings to observe the spectacle from the catwalks. “We’re all happy to get you back. I admire how much of yourself you put into your work. When you stopped showing up last year, no call or anything; I should’ve known that was not you. If I did more maybe, well—I’m sorry.”
“None of this is your fault,” I said, my voice cracking. “No one else caught on either. All the hints I tried to get out there, and nothing. That’s why it’s so hard.”
Bishop put his hand on my shoulder. “You should talk about this with your wife. I can’t pretend to understand what you’re going through. But you can’t hide out at work.” He glanced again at the onlookers lining the balcony above. “Take a few days off, maybe? Talk things over with her.”
I shook my head. “I’ve got to talk to him.”
The hand fell away from my arm. “Not an option.”
“I know you don’t think I can cope, but if I’m ever going to put this thing to bed, you need to let me down there.” I waived a hand toward the elevators. “I want to be able to look myself in the mirror again.”
“Nothing against you, but the director agrees: the program is too dangerous; the subject has to be terminated.”
“So come with me.”
“Caleb–”
“Please.”
Bishop placed his hands on his hips, pursed his lips, and blew out all the air from his lungs. “Last time you were down there, you went missing. While I’m no therapist, but this feels a little soon, don’t you think?”
“I can’t carry on like this,” I said.
“Okay.” My boss once again took me by the shoulder, leading me toward the lifts. The guards flanking the elevator stepped out of the way to let us pass. One swiped his badge at a security panel, and the doors slid open. I followed Bishop inside.
A tube-shaped concrete corridor awaited us at the depths of B15. Wires and work lights ran across the ceiling, while traction mats covered the surface beneath our feet. No guards stood by down here. Instead, an array of cameras kept vigil over the vault door at the far end of the hall. After providing both his key card and a long passcode, an alarm blared. A hydraulic arm pulled back the thick barrier, revealing an octagonal room. In the center stood a tall cylindrical pod. Inside, on the floor, lay an unconscious woman dressed in lab clothes.
“Interesting.” Bishop stuck his hands in his pockets. “You said this is how the specimen tricked you into letting it out?”
“Exact same way. Course, at the time, we had no idea it could do people. We’d only ever seen it pose as inanimate objects.”
“Hmm.” Bishop wrapped the glass with his knuckle. “Nice try, but not this time. May as well get up and show yourself.”
Spiked tentacles sprouted from the body, growing into a glob the size of a large dog. The form hurled itself at the glass, impacting with a muffled thud. Squirming tendrils bound together to form limbs. Legs and arms took form. Atop the teaming mass, the appendages formed the crude head shape. Half-formed eyeballs stared at me while the rest of the body made corrections – smaller feet, longer fingers – until I faced the splitting image of myself. The being replicated everything down to the clothes I wore.
“My God,” My supervisor muttered.
“Think of how surprised I was the first time,” I said.
“Back so soon?” My double folded his hands behind his back. “I don’t suppose you’re going to let me out again?”
I always detested this. “Why do you have to imitate me?”
“Humans are complicated. Faces are tough, but voices?” My duplicate whistled. “Getting into a new character takes months of observation. You understand better than anyone.”
Understatement of the century.
I pulled up the rolling chair from my old workstation and sat down facing the pod. I logged so many hours down here studying the specimen-23, not realizing it had been studying me as well. The researchers referred to our charge by a different name in conversation: mimic.
“I don’t understand why you’re still mad,” The mimic said. “No responsibilities for months. If anything, I gave you a vacation.”
“You gave me a concussion.” I pointed at the still-broken desk where the creature had slammed my head when I made the mistake of opening the enclosure. “Everyone I love has months of memories with me—memories of things that never happened. Everyone tells me I’m acting different. But the truth is—” I found my face just inches from the wall of the containment tank. I took a breath, and a few steps back. “The truth is, they’re remembering you, not me.”
I watched the corners of my lips pull back into a grotesque grin. The flesh of its cheeks tore back into their tentacular strands.
“Ugh.” Bishop averted his eyes.
“As much as I like having visitors, you can see me any time you like. Check your reflection.” The mimic sneered.
I walked around the containment cell to a red control panel. Thick spools of wire ran from the console, across the room, up the wall, and into the top of the cell. I slammed my palm down on an almost comically large button the size of a half-grapefruit. The room grew dark for a split second.
A bolt of electricity leaped from the top of the chamber to the bottom, passing through the mimic in the process. The creature shrieked at a volume and tone so unnatural, all the hair on my body stood on end. The lightning stopped as soon as I released the button. The lights flickered back to life.
“Are you going to behave, or should I do this again?”
Silence.
“Good.” I pulled the office chair beside the control panel, and sat. “When you had me chained up in that rathole, I had a lot of time to think about what I’d do if our roles were reversed again.” I thought about the sleep deprived days and nights; fire pokers; needles; and pliers; the torture I endured as the mimic squeezed me for every bit of information necessary to be the perfect impostor. My tongue instinctively ran across my back molars – fake veneers replaced during grueling reconstructive surgery. Each gruesome injury was a reminder of a tiny inconsistency I had fed the creature, designed to make my loved ones realize it wasn’t me.
I hit the button again.
The lights flickered, lightning crackled, and the creature screamed once more.
“Caleb, that’s enough,” My supervisor said. But his heart wasn’t in it. I think he knew how much I needed this. I held my hand on the button anther moment before relenting.
“I remember being so relieved when they finally found me,” I said. “The surgeries, the physical therapy, rehab. It was all worth it. I was getting my life back. Only it wasn’t my life anymore. Guess I was a fool for thinking I could just walk back in, like nothing had changed.”
Bishop shuffled a little, wringing his hands.
“Figured they would be so happy to get me back, but I was wrong.” I pressed my palm against the glass. “Now I’m the impostor.”
The mimic moved closer, replicating my slow and deliberate gait. He—it, placed his hand against mine on the opposite side of the glass. “Interesting,” it said.
“Mary, she loved when I took her out. Romantic dates and hobbies we did together; you stole all those moments from me.”
A near-perfect copy of my laugh escaped the mimic’s throat.
“The little things get me. She used to love those little things.” I ran my fingers through my hair, grabbing a fistful, and blinking back tears.
The mimic fell silent.
“I need to know what you did different,” I said. “What did you do to make them prefer you?”
The mimic sneered. “In the early days—that first week I took your place, I was terrified I would be caught. Didn’t know the kind of man you are. You know what your wife did, the first time I bought her flowers?”
I shook my head.
“She cried. Imagine my surprise: the man I was impersonating was such a piece of shit…” the mimic trailed off when he saw my hand hovering over the button again. “But I digress. The truth is, Caleb, I weaned your loved ones off your personality early on. I was a new man. A better man.”
“You want to know what I think?” He leaned in, staring back at me with my own grey eyes. “I think they all knew. Your friends, family—especially Mary. I think they knew I wasn’t you, and they didn’t care.”
I smacked the button again. This time the creature cackled with laughter as it thrashed against the walls of its prison before shriveling back into the primal form. Two sequential beeps informed me no energy remained in the capacitor bank. Red emergency lights kicked on.
The system had been completely drained, and would need to recharge before another shock could be administered.
The mimic quivered in the enclosure, looking like a trampled sea urchin.
“Caleb,” Bishop whispered, “Time to go.”
We stayed silent the entire walk back to the elevator, until the doors slid shut.
“You know, you never told me,” He said slowly, “In the end, what finally made your wife realize what was going on?”
I sighed. “She thought I was having affair, and doing all these nice things out of guilt.” I looked down at my shoes. “She ah, she hired a private investigator to get proof. Followed the mimic back to the warehouse where he was keeping me.” I met Bishop’s eyes. “She never suspected I wasn’t myself. Not even for a minute.”
Bishop remained silent for a long while before we realized the elevator remained still. After he set the lift in motion, he spoke. “You need to go talk to your wife. Tell her about this. There will be new little things for you to share.”
“What if he’s right?” I asked.
“Hmm?”
“What if they really do all like him–that other version of me better? I mean, what does that say about me?”
The question hung in the air for an uncomfortable amount of time, before Bishop broke the silence.
“No one is perfect, Caleb,” He said. “And the ones who try, well, how long can that really last before it stops feeling genuine?”
The doors to the lift slid open. We were on one of the higher floors now. Bishop led me down the corridor to his office. Clear plastic trash bags lined the hall, each stuffed with shredded paper. Workers loaded them into rolling bins, bound for Ashwood’s incinerator.
The office itself was bare, save for his laptop, desk, and chairs. Indents on the carpet were the only indication that filing cabinets had been here.
Bishop sank into his chair and rubbed his eyes.
“Tonight’s really the night?” I asked.
“It really is. Do you feel relieved?”
The question was surprisingly complicated. It didn’t take long after my return — and the mimic’s recapture — for the director to decide our research was too dangerous to continue. All the hard-earned data, notes, and the mimic itself, would be terminated.
“I suppose I’m glad to have seen it one last time,” I admitted. “Get some closure, you know?”
Bishop gave a kind nod. But he didn’t know. How could you?
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw another colleague, Henry, pass the open door. When he spotted me, he backpedaled and stuck his upper body into the office.
He wrapped on the door with his knuckles. “Um, sir?”
“Yes?” Bishop asked.
“I thought you were still down in the lab.”
Bishop shook his head. “Did you see me on the monitors? Might have been another trick from the Mimic.”
“No, I know better than to trust what I see on the cameras,” Henry said. “But right after you went down, Mary came by the front office. Begged me to take her to see you.”
My heart skipped a beat. What the hell was my wife doing here?
“And you just let her down by herself?”
“No—no, I brought with me. Logs showed you were still in the containment chamber. She said she could wait for you to come out. So I—”
“So you left her down there?”
“Y-yes,” Henry stammered.
“But that’s not possible. There’s only one way in and out of the containment room. She would’ve run into us on our way back up,” I said.
“Unless she didn’t want us to see her.” Bishop flipped open the laptop. His fingers hammered down on the keys, logging into the security system. He turned the screen so that all three of us could see. “Here.”
Bishop queued up the security footage, reaching the moment right before the two of us left the chamber, then pressed play. I relieved the moment I tortured the mimic, watching myself hold down the button until the normal lights went offline. As Bishop and I walked out under the red glow of the emergency floor strips, another figure moved across the screen.
After we had left — and before the secure doors could slide shut — a woman skirted into the room. She kept to the shadows. I probably couldn’t have spotted her without the camera’s night vision capabilities. But in the glow of the tank’s control terminal, there was no mistaking my wife’s face.
I watched the mimic rearrange itself into my form once again, placing its palms on the glass of its holding cell. I could see Mary’s lips moving, but the camera did not have sound.
She started exploring the control panel.
I leapt up from my chair. “We have to stop her.”
“Caleb, we can’t.” Bishop tapped the time stamp at the bottom of the frame. “Footage is ten minutes old.”
All three of us watched, powerless, as my wife threw the switch to release the creature from containment. It stepped toward her out of the tank, looming over her for a moment, before pulling the woman I’d married into a tender embrace.