mostly void, partially stars

by eg1701

Summary:

Marlon Turner finds himself stationed in a tiny desert town while he recovers from a war injury.

Not a single thing is as it seems.

Notes:

I’d be lying if I said this wasn’t inspired by the sims 4 strangerville

Title is from night vale lol

Chapter 1

Glancing around the small trailer, Marlon thinks that it could probably be worse.

He could be dead. He was almost dead. That’s what the doctors told him when he woke up in an antiseptic smelling army hospital. He can’t quite remember what the doctors looked like, just their white coats. Some artery in your leg. The bullet was the only thing keeping him from bleeding out. The bone totally shattered.

Wincing, he sets his last box down on the desk. The air smells like sand and heat. But the AC appears to be working as the trailer is cool. It’s nothing special. A cot. A sink. A desk made of plastic that gets hot on the sun.

It will do. He does not want to live in army housing anymore. Besides, Pelican Town has no base, just army barracks and he is done sharing a room.

The trailer was cheap. It’s close enough to the lab he’s supposed to work security at. It will suffice.

He takes things out of the box at random. He’d won a medal for his injury but looking at it makes him feel sick, so he chucks it in the nightstand. The books go on the desk. He tosses a pillow onto the bed. His t-shirt clings to his back from the heat. Goddamn, how does anybody get used to the heat?

Marlon wipes his brow with the back of his hand. He stands in front of the AC for a few minutes, taking deep breaths. The dog tags on his neck feel especially heavy in the heat.

There is no food here yet, so he’ll have to venture into town. He’s always hated new places. You have to learn the habits of new people. Find new places to buy your things. A new bar to get drunk at.

His captain told him that his injury changed him. Maybe it did. Wouldn’t a near death experience do that? People say they see a tunnel of light or the afterlife or some bullshit like that. Marlon doesn’t remember seeing anything at all. He remembers the front and a searing pain and then he doesn’t remember anything until the hospital lights. He doesn’t feel like going out anymore. The idea of going to bed with someone is almost appalling.

Sometimes he thinks that he did die and that’s why everything feels so strange. Why he feels like something is wrong with him. He’s dead and only pretending to be alive, like a ghost who hasn’t realized it’s time to move on.

With a frustrated snarl, he grabs his cane—he doesn’t need it so much anymore, but his doctors get annoyed when he leaves it behind, and by the end of the night he’s usually grateful he listened—he stalks out of the trailer.

There is a small yard, with patches of dying, brown grass. It crunches under his feet like the leaves in the fall back East. The sun is starting to slip below the horizon, splashing the sky with brilliant reds and oranges. His stomach grumbles. He’s pretty sure he hasn’t eaten since breakfast.

*****

The bar is not crowded, but it’s not empty either. There are a few military types who nod or salute depending on their rank. He sometimes forgets that he’s an officer and it takes a minute to realize that he’s the one they’re saluting at.

The bar has music playing though he doesn’t know where. There’s a mustached man perhaps his age behind the counter, pouring a drink for a blonde woman. Marlon sits on one of the barstools. The floor is a little sticky, but the food smells good, and the beer is cheap. That’s all that matters.

“New here?” A voice behind him asks. He nearly jumps out of his seat. That’s new too, since the injury. He never used to get scared. Now the slightest noise can set him on edge. Perhaps he expects it to be another bullet, this time striking him in the neck, the head, the heart.

“Oh,” Marlon looks the man up and down, “Yes.”

“I’m the mayor,” he says, sticking out a hand. He is maybe a little younger than Marlon. Do they have mayors that young? Though the population of Pelican Town is so small, there’s probably not a lot of options for mayor, “We get a lot of you people in town.”

“You people?”

“Military,” the mayor continues. He slips his thumbs under his suspenders, “Good, solid folk. I wasn’t accepted into the army myself. Though I tried.”

“Alright,” Marlon says. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to say. He would have given anything to have been disqualified from service. He doesn’t need the mayor to sheepishly explain his own lack of a uniform. Sometimes people do that. Marlon doesn’t understand. It’s not his war. They just make him fight it, “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Will you work at the lab?” The mayor puts an elbow on the bar top and waves the bartender over, “It’s all very hush hush.”

“I’m not a scientist,” Marlon says. The bartender pours them both beers, in icy glasses. The mayor clinks them together, “I just do security. I’m on desk duty until my leg is better.”

The mayor looks down, as if hoping to see the injury through Marlon’s pant leg. Some people are so eager to see how he’s hurt himself fighting an empire he’s never been too, for a reason he still doesn’t understand.

“All very hush hush,” the mayor says again.

“I don’t have the clearance,” Marlon says, “And obviously I couldn’t tell you anything even if I did. It’s too secret.”

The mayor looks at Marlon as if he’s struck him. Marlon figured this was common sense so he doesn’t really understand why the mayor is so upset.

“Welcome to my town,” the mayor says, “I’m Lewis.”

“Okay,” Marlon says.

*****

The food at the bar is good. He eats alone, in silence and by the time he’s done, it’s dark out. The only lights are little spots from distant houses and the little street lamps that do very little against the void above him.

He treks back home thinking about the people he’s met—they were all mostly nice, but their faces are starting to melt together in his brain. Maybe he should have taken notes.

The desert gets cold at night and he thinks he should have brought his jacket. At least he’ll be home soon. The trailer isn’t far.

It’s a cloudless night, but a new moon, so all he can see when he looks up are the stars. The constellations seem unfamiliar, as if the sky is somehow different here than it is back East. Like they’ve gotten new stars since he was a little boy, and his mother would take him to the country to see the stars. Too much light in the city too.

Too much of a lot of things in the city.

“Excuse me?”

He whips around, squinting in the dark. It’s just a man. What else was he expecting? Why is his heart racing?

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. You left your cane.”

“Oh,” Marlon accepts it. The wood feels cold in his hand, “Thank you. I don’t need it that much anymore.”

“That’s good,” the man says. He has on a flannel shirt, though Marlon can’t make out the colors in the dark, and jeans. The clothes are a little dusty. Marlon thinks everything out here is a little dusty, “I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself. You didn’t seem like you wanted to make friends.”

“I think your mayor just pissed me off.”

The man laughs and the sound seems to echo around them.

“Yeah. He does that. My name is Gil. It’s a pleasure to meet you though this town isn’t really worth moving to.”

“Well,” Marlon shrugs, “They moved me here.”

“That’s usually the reason.”

“I’m Marlon.”

“I know. I heard you in the bar introduce yourself to Gus.”

“Oh.”

“Why are you here?” Marlon asks. He isn’t sure what he means.

“Why am I in Pelican Town?” Gil shakes his head, “Because I was born here and I’m going to die here. Or why am I standing here still? I don’t know. It’s not always safe to walk around at night by yourself. Especially when you’re new in town.”

“I think I’m alright,” Marlon touches the holster on his waist. He doesn’t like shooting that gun. Doesn’t like the metallic scent, the sound that echoes around his head.

“You know how to use that?” Gil raises an eyebrow.

“Yes.”

“Good. Then you can walk me home. It’s on your way.”

“How do you know where I live?” Marlon asks.

“You’re the only new man in town. Everybody knows where you live.”

Chapter 2

Marlon doesn’t know exactly what to think but Gil doesn’t seem to want to have a conversation. They walk in silence. Marlon keeps his hand loosely on the butt of his gun, Gil’s words burning into his mind. Maybe it was some trick. Just hazing the new guy. What’s the worst thing out her?

Gil doesn’t really seem like he was joking.

An animal howls in the distance. They both look over towards the sound.

“Coyote probably,” Gil says, “They mostly leave people alone. You just have to leave them alone in return.”

In the distance, past the howls, there’s a dome of light. Marlon squints to try and make it out. The light seems eerily green.

“Is that the lab?” He asks, pointing.

“Yeah. When do you start?”

“Monday,” Marlon replies, “Do you know anything about it?”

Gil shrugs, “My dad worked there.”

“He was in the army?”

Gil nods, “Yeah. He’s dead now.”

“I’m sorry,” Marlon replies. Usually people like to hear that. Usually they are not like Marlon who plans to buy a bottle of champagne the day his father finally dies. It’ll be a celebration.

“Thank you,” Gil says, “This is me.”

Marlon did not realize they’d still been walking. Gil lives in a tiny little house, maybe five minutes from the trailer. Marlon probably walked by this very place that evening. The paint is chipping and the windows are dirty. A metal mailbox, slightly askew reads NICHOLSON in letters that have been repainted many times. The front porch is made of wood, and flowers Marlon doesn’t recognize pop out of the dirt by the steps.

“Goodnight,” Gil says, “Thank you for the walk. Lucky you didn’t have to use that gun.”

“I’m not usually so lucky,” Marlon holds up his cane to illustrate his point, “Almost bled out. There’s an artery in your leg.”

If he thinks about the injury for too long he gets a headache. He thinks it’s probably some kind of trauma response. So he just doesn’t think about it.

“Femoral, I think,” Gil says, climbing the two steps to his house backwards, so he can meet Marlon’s eye. Something about his gaze is as hard as the noonday sun,“I don’t know. I’m no doctor. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

It’s a strange conversation. Marlon stands and watches Gil unlock his door. Watches the light flip on inside. The shutters close.

He keeps his hand on his gun and walks home fast.

*****

In the middle of the night, Marlon wakes up with a gasp. He can’t remember what he was dreaming about, only that it was dark. He thinks he can taste blood. Maybe he bit his lip.

The shadows are unfamiliar. He sits up, peeling off his shirt. It’s nearly soaked. Maybe the AC isn’t working. The heat seems to cling to him. How does anybody sleep?

The window above the bed refuses to open. Maybe that’s good. Something in his gut doesn’t want the window open while he sleeps. Gil’s words frightened him a little bit. He knows he’s just tired and his leg hurts—maybe that’s what woke him up— and he’s being silly.

Still he doesn’t want to open the window.

Marlon flips on the nearest light, which casts a gloomy glow across the place. He stands up and works his way over to sink and gets a glass of water. It’s cooler over here. The AC works, just not very well, so he opens the freezer and lets the icy air waft out for a bit.

He thinks about Gil and that tiny house out there in the sand. He’s alone too. Marlon thinks he’s very attractive. A pile of black hair, and sharp eyes. He’s very beautiful, sort of like the desert itself. Beautiful but you had to be careful. The desert was smarter than you.

Maybe this is a good sign. He hasn’t been interested in anybody in so long. Hasn’t felt like so much as a single date. He wasn’t real, after all. If he can find Gil attractive then maybe he’s starting to get back to his old self. He used to be, what his army friends lovingly called, a bit of a flirt. He knew that was putting it mildly. He doesn’t even know where his old friends are anymore.

He shuts the freezer and flips on the radio. It’s a tiny, battery operated thing. He hasn’t got a TV. Most of the channels are static but he manages to find one playing classical music. The sound makes him feel better and he downs the water and replaces it with a half a glass of scotch.

He should have gotten Gil’s telephone number. Maybe he can go over there tomorrow and ask. Gil is the only person he met tonight that he actually wants to see again. Despite all the nice new people at the bar, Gil seems to be the only person who somehow understands it all.

Marlon knows he doesn’t get it, so maybe Gil can explain it.

*****

Marlon is up with the sun. He stretches and decides he feels well enough for a light walk. It’s always easier in the morning. He’s supposed to exercise.

He pulls on a pair of shorts—it is already hot— he forgoes the shirt, ties his sneakers and tests his leg. It should be alright for a while. He might pay for it tonight but that was a later problem.

Standing in the yard, Marlon holds one hand up against the sun. He can see the heat already radiating off the sidewalk. He finishes warming up and starts off very slowly. The pain isn’t too bad. The rubber of his sneakers practically bounces off the concrete.

Though he doesn’t know the neighborhood well, he recognizes sights from his move in and his walk to town last night. There’s a few houses splattered around. A pick up truck in one of the driveways with peeling red paint. A stop sign is at the end of the street though Marlon doubts there’s enough traffic to even justify it.

The streets are silent this early. No coyotes.

His feet gave a different idea of where he’s going than his head. He’d only planned to do a few laps of the neighborhood, get his heart rate up, try to stretch his muscles. But suddenly he’s standing in Gil’s front lawn, wishing desperately he’d worn a shirt. What would Gil say if he looked out the window and saw the new man standing shirtless in his yard?

“What is wrong with me,” Marlon mutters. He straightens Gil’s mailbox, but it doesn’t stick. The metal creaks and Marlon hurried away before Gil can hear anything and get up.

Upset at himself he heads back home. There’s boxes to unpack. And he has to go grocery shopping. And maybe write to his father.

Well, maybe not that.

*****

When it seems like it’s late enough in the morning, Marlon makes the trek to the grocery store. If it can even be called that. It’s half the size of the shops he’s used to, but he doesn’t really need anything special. He puts things in his cart without really paying much attention.

The shop is cold, so much so that it feels a little bit like stepping into a freezer. It’s sleek, with shiny shelves and floors. A black haired man stands behind the counter and smiles. Marlon is the only person in the store. He smiles back.

A carton of milk. Eggs. A box of cereal. A box of pasta. A tin of coffee. He’s no chef. And he’ll probably do most of his eating at the lab. There’s probably a cafeteria. He just has to sustain himself. Soon enough they'll give him something new to do, or he'll die and then it won't matter what the army wants of him.

While a red headed girl rings him up, he examines the bulletin board. There are posters of yard sales that happened months ago. Someone offers guitar lessons. Someone else offers to walk dogs. A business card details a woman who does fortune telling. A handwritten poster asks for paranormal and unexplained experiences. There are tabs with a phone number scrawled on them, presumably to report such experiences.

Marlon stares at it for a while, until the girl clears her throat and tells him what he owes. He mutters and apology and dumps all of his change into the collection box set up on the counter.

On his way out, he grabs one of the tabs with the phone number. He shoves it into his pocket.

Chapter 3

When he gets home, Marlon unpacks his groceries, and dials the number on the slip of paper. He has no idea why he’s doing that, because he’s pretty sure he has no paranormal experiences to report to some random person. Even if he did, it is probably something he’d keep to himself.

But he sits down on the cot, dials the number, and holds the phone against his ear.

“Hello?”

“Gil?”

“Oh. Hi Marlon.”

“I uh, I got your number from the grocery store.”

“Oh. Yeah,” Gil says. Nothing about this conversation seems strange to him. Perhaps he gets a lot of phone calls from his flyer. Somehow that doesn’t seem so strange in a place like this, “Did you have something you wanted to report?”

“I don’t know,” Marlon says, stretching his legs out in front of him. Something flashes in his memory, something cold and sterile. Storm clouds are starting to gather on the horizon. He wonders what desert rains are like. He’s pretty sure he’s never been to a desert before, But anything to break the heat must be good, “I just took the number.”

“That’s alright. I meant to give you my number last night anyway, in case you needed anything,” Gil says, “It works out. Did- I mean, do you want to tell me anything?”

“I have a lot of stuff to unbox,” Marlon kicks absentmindedly at a box stuffed with papers, “But I guess I can spare an hour or so.”

“Sure,” Gil replies, “Sometimes people get to talking. It helps. Come by whenever. Do you remember the way to my house?”

“Yes,” Marlon says, “There’s not many around here.”

Gil laughs, “That’s true. I have beer in the fridge.”

“Sold. See you soon.”

*****

Marlon knocks politely on Gil’s door, waits, and Gil swings it open. It’s nearly noon, still a little early to drink, but a cold beer sounds good right about now. He follows Gil inside, pretending not to be nosy as he observes the house. There’s books everywhere, scribbled papers on the table. The walls have pictures of a man who must be Gil’s father. They look very much alike. Marlon’s been told he looks like his father, which hurts to hear every time. He wishes he took after his mother.

Gil has on a green t-shirt and a pair of jeans. His hair is combed back, and Marlon’s stomach flips over a little bit. My, but he is handsome.

“I know I look like a lunatic conspiracy theorist,” Gil says as Marlon lowers himself into a kitchen chair. The room is small, the furniture old, and the refrigerator hums. Gil removes two beer bottles, smacks the fridge on the side to quiet it, and sits down, “But I’m not a lunatic.”

“I didn’t think you were,” Marlon says. He politely pushes over a pile of paperwork he knows for a fact is confidential because he recognizes the stamps on them. Whatever, “It’s a nice house. Was it your father’s?”

“Everything I have was my father’s, even my name. Only I’m a junior and he was a senior.”

Gil cracks open both bottles swiftly with his keys, and slides Marlon’s across the table. The bottle is already sweating, and Marlon wraps both hands around the glass.

“Do you mind if I record this conversation?” Gil asks. He motions towards a clunky tape recorder on the counter.

“Sure. Little old-fashioned?”

“I don’t trust computers,” Gil says, very seriously. Marlon assumes it is supposed to be a joke, but no part of Gil implies that he’s joking. He grabs the recorder, sets it on the table between them, and presses record. It clicks, and Marlon’s heart skips a beat.

“What am I supposed to say?” Marlon asks.

“Whatever you want to.”

Marlon takes a long sip of the beer, then sighs.

“After I got shot,” he begins, glancing out the window above the stove. The dark clouds are getting closer, “I remember the bullet. And I remember one of my friends-- he was a medic, so he was tending to me, telling me that I wasn’t going to die or anything, even though I know that you can easily bleed out. He was telling me I was fine. It was his birthday in a few days, and he was joking that the best present I could get him was not dying on his watch.”

Gil crosses his arms, and leans back in the chair. It’s encouragement to continue.

“I don’t remember anything else until I woke up. It was an army hospital-- a nice one too, it must have been farther away from the front. It was all white and clean. I remember when I woke up they asked me a bunch of questions. My name and rank, I guess, but I was on so many painkillers I don’t remember anything they asked me, just that they sounded disappointed with whatever I said.”

“Maybe they wanted you to stand up or something,” Gil suggests.

“Yeah. I always figured they wanted me to get moving so I didn’t get a blood clot or whatever. Aren’t you supposed to move after surgery? Anyway, I asked them how long I’d been asleep. My captain was there, and he told me it had only been about a week but that wasn’t true. I knew it wasn’t true. Freddie’s birthday was August 24th, so a week would have been early September. It was almost December. I mean, there was snow on the ground outside.”

“What’d they say when you brought that up?” Gil leans forward, the story clearly piquing his interest.

“They told me I had my dates mixed up. That was alright, they said, because I was on morphine or whatever, but it had only been a week. Everybody I asked. The nurses, the orderlies. I even asked the janitor,” A headache starts to blossom across his temple. He winces, pinches the bridge of his nose and continues, “When I was recovered enough, they sent me here. I wasn’t even allowed back to say goodbye. I know what I know. If I was unconscious for two months, why didn’t they just tell me? Why would it matter? I lost a lot of blood, it wouldn’t have been that strange. It’s like I lost two whole months of my life and nobody wants to admit to it.”

“Are you alright? You look pale?”

Marlon waves a hand, “I get a headache if I think about it or try to figure it out. So I usually just don’t. I think it’s some kind of way for my brain to cope with everything.”

Gil nods thoughtfully, and clicks off the tape recorder.

“It’s not exactly paranormal,” Marlon points out. He feels a little bit stupid telling Gil this story.

“No, but it’s sure as hell unexplained.”

*****

The storm starts later that afternoon. It doesn’t rain-- Gil told him sometimes it’s too hot and the rain evaporates before it reaches the ground-- but lightning cracks across the sky, and thunder reverberates around his head. He wishes it would rain. The desert is so different from anywhere he’s ever lived. And it’s not like he’s homesick exactly. Home hasn’t been Zuzu City since his mother died, and he’d be hard pressed to call the frontlines home.

But this isn’t home either.

It’s back to the bar for dinner because the groceries are making him feel slightly depressed, and sitting alone in the trailer is only making that worse. At least at the bar there will be other people. Maybe once he starts at the lab he can make some new friends.

The storm is not a deterrent, perhaps because it’s not actually raining. The bar is still busy. He orders and finds a small table, hoping that no one will join him.

Someone does. There’s a man, a little younger than him, Marlon thinks, or at least not as tired, in army fatigues, with a lab coat thrown over one arm. He pushes his glasses up.

“Are you Lieutenant Turner?”

“Uh huh,” Marlon says.

“And you’re going to work security at the lab?”

“Uh huh.” God, when did he get so unfriendly?

“Great. My name is Gunther,” he sits down, and slams a folder onto the table, “I work in the lab too.”

“I figured,” Marlon says, “Is there something you need?”

Gunther leans forward. It looks like he’s trying to grow a beard but is sort of bad at it. Marlon thinks he might be fond of the kid.

“This is all secret,” Gunther says. He carefully slides the folder across the table, and looks around. No one seems to be paying attention, “I have to tell somebody. And you haven’t had a chance to get indoctrinated.”

“What?”

“I gotta go,” Gunther says. He jumps up, and slips through the crowd so fast, Marlon barely has time to figure out what’s happened. He tucks the folder away, and finishes his dinner.

Chapter 4

The thunder continues through the night. It rumbles in the distance and Marlon gives up on sleeping around two. It’s just not happening tonight it seems.

Occasionally lightning flashes, illuminating the night outside his window. If he looks too long, everything looks like a shadow, like something lurking in the distance waiting to strike.

Best not to look.

He flips on the little light on the desk and opens up the folder Gunther had given him at the bar. It was an extremely strange interaction. He wonders if it’s some kind of test. Like he’s supposed to deliver it to his commanding officer and prove his loyalty.

But there was something in the kid’s eyes that looked like real fear. This was serious.

“Well fuck it,” Marlon says. He flips through the papers. Most of it is redacted and no more than big chunks of black ink. It tells him nothing except there’s a lot he’s not supposed to know.

There are official stamps all over everything, signatures of various officers and government officials. And his own name.

Marlon thinks his heart stops beating for just a moment. These files are about him. He can’t figure out the information details but it’s about him. That much is obvious. They’re not even trying to hide that.

Quickly he shoves the papers away from him.

The phone rings, the shrill sound cutting through the night.

“Hello?” He puts a hand over his heart, like that might calm it down. No one answers him. All he can hear is a faint sound, sort of like a beeping. He hangs up and throws the phone across the trailer. He’s spooked himself now. Maybe this is all some messed up dream.

The only person in town who has his phone number is Gil—well, the army must, but he doubts very much that the army makes a habit of calling you at two in the morning just to stay silent on the line.

Still, why would Gil be calling him?

“You need to get a grip,” Marlon says. He shuts the light back off, and returns to his cot, folding his hands over his chest. He stares at the ceiling. There’s a water stain he hasn’t noticed before. He has visions of men in white coats standing over him, their faces half hidden behind surgical masks.

He doesn’t sleep for the rest of the night.

*****

“You look tired,” Gil says. He’d banged on the front door before seven, ignoring all of Marlon’s shouts that he was asleep. It is Sunday. He starts at the lab tomorrow.

“Storm kept me up,” Marlon lies, “Come in if you want. I can make coffee.”

“I didn’t mean to wake you up,” Gil says. He does not make any move to come inside, “I just- well I wanted to talk to you.”

“I have a phone,” Marlon says.

“But who else might listen in?”

“You weren’t lying about the conspiracy theorist thing,” Marlon sighs, “Do you want coffee?”

“Sure.”

“What did you want to talk about?” Marlon asks. Gil looks for a place to sit and decides on the desk chair. He crosses one leg over the other. Marlon thinks about the classified documents he has in his house, then decides he doesn’t really care enough to remove them.

“You’re going to work at the lab tomorrow,” Gil says. He says it as if he’s confirming Marlon’s execution date tomorrow.

“Yes.”

“That lab is what killed my father.”

The words seem to fall to the floor in front of them both, demanding to be dealt with. Marlon doesn’t say anything as he makes the coffee or pours it into cups.

“Milk or sugar?” He asks.

“No, thank you.”

Marlon hands over the mug, sits down on the cot, and nods for Gil to continue.

“He was a scientist. Did secret government work after he was too old for the front lines. He was working there when I was born,” Gil says, “There was only so much he would tell me of course. Sometimes when I was very young he’d take me to the labs. I remember it all like I’m seeing it happen to someone else. Like the little boy sitting behind the desk isn’t me. He just happens to look like me. How strange that is.”

“Was there an accident of some sort?” Marlon asks.

“That’s what they say,” Gil swallows and sets the coffee down on the desk, “Some men in suits came to the house a few years ago to tell me that there’d been some kind of fire and my father was killed. They had faces I’m sure but I don’t remember them. I know they were lying to me because a few weeks before, Dad had started to get paranoid. He started saying that if anything happened to him, it was because of what he knew. He insisted on it. He repeated it over and over again.”

“What did he know?”

Gil shrugs, “He never told me. I’m not allowed inside the lab. All of my phone calls and letters go unanswered. It’s like he never existed. If I wasn’t here, he never would have.”

“What do you want me to do?” Marlon asks.

“Not die, mostly. You seem good. I’d hate for you to vanish as well.”

“Did your father know a young scientist named Gunther?”

“I don’t think so. Why?”

“Nevermind. Thank you for the warning. I- well there’s nothing I can do about any of this. I go where they tell me since no one would let me dodge the draft. And believe me I tried.”

Gil offers a sympathetic smile, “I shouldn’t have even told you that. I have to go, Marlon.”

“You didn’t finish your coffee.”

Something howls outside. They both look out the window but all there is to see is desert.

“Coyotes?” Marlon asks. He offers a smile, tries to put Gil’s mind at ease. It doesn’t appear to work.

“Sure. I’ll talk to you later.”

It only occurs to Marlon after Gil is gone that perhaps he should have brought up the paperwork Gunther had given him.

Too late now.

*****

Sunday bleeds into Monday and Marlon dresses in his uniform, drives his truck out to the lab, and presents himself for his first day. He feels like his uniform is too tight or something. But it must just be the fact that he’s still not exactly the same person he used to be.

The lab is more run down than he’d been expecting. The tile is cracked and the paint is chipping in places. The desks are worn and the appliances in the kitchen—and it’s a kitchen not a cafeteria— are at least a decade old. An older man in a lab coat shoves keycards and identification paperwork into his hands.

“My name is Major Joyce,” he says. Very no nonsense. Marlon’s familiar with that, “Go and sit in the kitchen while I make a phone call and then I’ll give you a tour of the lab and go over your duties.”

“Yes sir,” Marlon frowns. He remembers to salute, though the major doesn’t seem to care one way or the other.

He heads into the kitchen and sits down at the first table. Gunther rushes over.

“Hey,” Marlon says. This is not the place to talk about the paperwork. In fact, there’s probably no place for that, “First day.”

“Did you-”

“Yes. But that’s for later,” Marlon gives him a pointed look, “Thank you.”

“Oh, right,” Gunther sits down, holding his cup of coffee like it’s a lifesaver. Well, they’ve all got their things. But Gunther needs to keep his mouth shut if he knows what’s good for him. Marlon isn’t sure if this facility murdered Gil’s father, he’s pretty sure it’s a very real possibility. Gunther can’t be twenty five. It’d be a shame if something happened to him.

“Why don’t you join me for a drink tonight,” Marlon says. Gunther is unable to sit still. If there is some big conspiracy theory where people who look too deep are killed off, Gunther seems like the perfect candidate, “We can talk then. I’m still getting used to the town and I have no friends.”

“Alright,” Gunther says finally. It’s very obvious that he’s eager to get involved in this, but Marlon’s been around this for a while. Being over eager is a good way to end up dead-- apparently even more so here than on the front lines.

“Great.”

Major Joyce returns, and summons him to the tour.

“It’s a simple task,” the major says. Marlon keeps a polite few steps behind him. His boots seem to echo around the lab. Plenty of the doors are locked with elaborate pin pads, and card scanners. Major Joyce informs him he has no access to these. His job is to stay here-- sometimes nights, sometimes during the day-- and make sure no one unauthorized gets inside of the building. In addition, he’s meant to respond to any calls any of the scientists or army folk in the lower levels make with concerns.

“Is breaking and entering a big concern?” he asks, glancing into a window. It is completely tinted, and if there’s any life in there, he can’t see it.

“No,” Major Joyce says, and then does not elaborate. He shows Marlon the amenities, introduces him to some people whose names he doesn’t really bother to remember. Marlon has a brief vision of late night, cheesy horror flicks. The excessively frightening looking butler tells the foolish, soon-to-be traumatized main characters that it’s not locked to keep something out. It’s locked to keep something in.

But that’s just a movie. This is real life.

Marlon wishes it was anybody else’s life but his own. But he’s never been lucky enough for that.

Chapter 5

Despite the fact that Marlon did not invite Gil to the bar, he’s waiting there. Marlon has noticed Gil’s habit of being exactly where he’s needed. They order drinks, and wait for Gunther.

“Lab didn’t kill me,” Marlon points out.

“Yet,” Gil replies, which isn’t very optimistic, “Who’s the kid we’re meeting?”

“Gunther. He’s a scientist in the lab.” Marlon chews over the idea of telling Gil about the files, but frankly he’s not even sure he believes it. Maybe it’s not true. Maybe it’s all some kind of fucked up trick. Like they’re looking for an excuse to haul him into a court martial.

“Oh.”

They fall into silence. Usually Marlon doesn’t like silence-- or rather, once upon a time he didn’t. It was too eerie, too full of horrible possibilities. But now, everything in this desert is silence. He didn’t know the world was capable of being so quiet. So he’s got to get used to it.

The silence with Gil isn’t bad though. Gil examines his beer bottle thoughtfully, and Marlon thinks that the silence with Gil is probably the best kind. He doesn’t mind it at all. Gil’s presence is reassuring somehow. Like they could just exist in silence with each other forever and that would be alright.

“Sorry I’m late,” Gunther hurries over from the door, looking distinctly frazzled. His eyes settle on Gil, and he opens and closes his mouth a few times, deciding what to say, “Should we talk about this in front of civilians?”

“Oh you’re talking about me,” Gil laughs, “I’m not a civilian.”

“Then what are you?” Gunther raises an eyebrow. He still hasn’t sat down, half frozen pulling a chair out to sit down. Marlon can tell his brain is working overtime to figure out what he’s supposed to do.

“An interested third party.”

“It’s fine kid,” Marlon says, “Just sit down.”

After a few more moments of hesitation, Gunther decides that Marlon’s orders matter more than any confidentiality of the information. It ought to make him feel proud, but Marlon’s never been thrilled to be in any position of authority. The army drafted him, and then kept promoting him, no matter what he said.

“Do you want a beer?” Gil asks.

“No, thank you, I don’t drink. Marlon, did you see the labs today? On your tour?”

Marlon nods, “Some of them. It’s a straightforward job. I have to admit, there’s nothing really indicative of anything… unnatural going on in those labs. But I believe that it is.”

He steals a glance at Gil, who, to his surprise, is already looking at him. Gil seems like a reasonable man. He must have cause to hate them so much.

“So what do we do?” Gunther asks.

“Nothing yet,” Gil says, “There’s nothing to do until we all know more information. Now, Lewis is coming over Marlon, would you like to deal with it?”

“Fuck,” Marlon takes a long sip of his beer and flashes a smile at Lewis that he’s certain looks like he’s in pain, “Lewis. Drop this subject.”

“Well, you’re settling into Pelican Town,” Lewis says, looking over the three at the table. Marlon has a feeling that Lewis thinks he’s already slipped out of his grasp. Whatever model citizen he was hoping to mold Marlon into, it’s too late. That’s fine. He really doesn’t like Lewis. And he doesn’t think Lewis likes Gil at all.

“Sure,” Marlon says, “Whatever you say.”

*****

Without either of them asking for it, Marlon walks Gil back home. They say goodbye to Gunther outside of the bar, and head out into the night. It’s so much cooler at night than during the day.

“I’m glad you’re not dead,” Gil says, as casually as one comments on the weather.

“Well it’s only been a day,” Marlon points out.

Gil laughs. Oh, that’s such a lovely sound, “I guess that’s true.”

“I want to talk to you about something.”

“Shoot.”

Marlon stops walking. He’s tired from all the walking today-- he wishes he wasn't as stubborn as he was about looking after his physical health. Gil stops next to him, hands in his jeans pockets, and waits politely for Marlon to talk.

“I think they might have done something to me,” Marlon says. It feels weird to say it, and the words seem to land in the sand with a heavy thud. Now that it’s out there, he can’t take it back.

“Who?”

“I don’t know. The army maybe. Gunther gave me a bunch of redacted files full of my name. I think in those months I lost, they did something to me. It would explain why I don’t feel like the same man.”

Gil considers this thoughtfully, “If it helps, I like this man that you are.”

“It only helps a little bit.”

“Do you know what they did?”

Marlon shakes his head, “I don’t think whatever they were trying to do worked. I think that’s why they tossed me into the middle of nowhere. They want to try again with somebody else.”

A coyote howls in the distance. Marlon finds the sound almost comforting. The past few days have been so strange. It’s like he’s existing in some other place, far away from real life. Maybe he really did die. If he’s dead, then Gil is probably an angel. Or at least his guide to the afterlife. Absent-mindedly he pinches himself. It hurts. Not a dream at least.

“Do you want to come in for a nightcap?” Gil asks. They can see his little house in the distance, “I think I have some stuff. You working tomorrow?”

“Not until the evening. Yes. I’ll take a drink.”

“Good.”

“Are you afraid?”

“Of what?” Gil asks. The moonlight seems to light up his eyes.

“I don’t know.”

“Yeah. Maybe I am.”

*****

Gil mixes drinks while they sit in the kitchen, then methodically shuts all of the shutters and blinds in the house. It seems like a ritual for him, and Marlon watches in silence.

“I don’t know what’s out there,” Gil says. It’s meant to be a joke, but there’s an undercurrent of truth and maybe fear in his words, “I make sure to shut them every night.”

“Coyotes,” Marlon nods thoughtfully.

“Yeah,” Gil sits down across from him, and wraps both hands around his glass. Both the drinks are sweating on the table, leaving little water rings behind, “I hate this town.”

“Why? Because of the lab?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Dad had big plans to move after his retirement.”

“What about your mother?” Marlon asks. He has visions of his own mother, and her soft smile, the way she’d sing in the kitchen. The casket at the funeral.

“I don’t know,” Gil shrugs, “She left when I was a kid. We have a few pictures, but I don’t really remember her. Dad tried to cushion the blow, but I think she left because she didn’t want to live in Pelican Town anymore. She’d tied herself here with a husband and a son and she needed to leave.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Gil shakes his head, “It was for the best. Dad and I were close.”

“If I can find anything out-”

“I didn’t tell you because I want you to figure out what happened,” Gil says, “I told you because I needed to tell someone and there’s something about you that I trust. That’s all.”

“You don’t even know me,” Marlon points out.

“I don’t know. I feel like I’ve known you all my life.”

Marlon doesn’t know what to say to that. He thinks he might feel it too, but he’s not going to say that, not going to admit to that. It feels too soon, too dangerous. One day you tell someone how much they mean to you, the next they’re dead, bleeding out in your arms. He’s seen people die on the front lines, held friends while they gasped for air. He won’t condemn Gil to that.
Instead, he takes a sip of his drink.

Chapter 6

Marlon did not intend to fall asleep on Gil’s sofa, but he certainly did. It was too late to walk back, he was tired, and everything was so strange. The shutters are open when he wakes up, and the sun is streaming into the living room. Gil’s in the kitchen, humming while he makes breakfast. The room smells like coffee.

“Good morning,” Gil calls. Marlon sits up and a blanket falls to the ground. Gil must have covered him up last night, “Do you want some coffee?”

“Please.”

For a long while both of them are silent. The coffee is produced and they sit in the living room. Gil’s TV mostly picks up static no matter how hard he smacks it. The static is somehow worse than if it didn’t work at all.

“I’d like you to meet somebody,” he finally says. Marlon’s coffee is almost all gone and the heat outside has already begun to bleed into the house. Marlon keeps thinking he sees shapes in the static. Ghosts in the machine.

“Who?”

“A friend of my father’s. He looks in on me sometimes,” Gil looks down at his coffee. He makes a face, as if he’s offended by the fact that someone thinks he needs looking after, at his age, but Marlon thinks it’s nice, “When’s your next day off?”

“Thursday.”

“Thursday then,” Gil says. Not a question. Marlon wasn’t going to say no anyway, “Did you sleep well?”

Marlon nods. He doesn’t remember dreaming which he views as a good night's sleep regardless of the quality of the rest.

“Thanks for letting me sleep here.”

“Of course,” Gil frowns, as if there was no other option, “It was late.”

*****

The work remains uneventful so either the scientists are doing an excellent job and hiding things, or this is all just some conspiracy theory with no merit. There’s something there, his instincts tell him, but he has trouble trusting those after everything that’s happened.

Marlon doesn’t know which is worse. His leg still hurts. His memory is still missing. And Gil’s father is still dead.

When Thursday comes, Gil is at his door just after sunrise, carrying two travel mugs of coffee. Marlon had been expecting him, and opened the door before Gil could even knock.

“So who’s this guy?” Marlon asks, stepping out into the day, “Did he work at the lab?”

Gil shakes his head, “No. He doesn’t believe in the military.”

“I don’t either. The draft board didn’t care.”

“Assholes,” Gil chuckles. The sound makes Marlon smile, despite his exhaustion.

“What do I call this guy?”

“Rasmodius.”

“Tough name.”

Gil chuckles, “I’m pretty sure it’s an alias. You’ll see when you meet him.”

Marlon has no idea what that could possibly mean until he’s standing in Rasmodius’s front room. The man has hair so dark it is almost purple. It might even be purple. The house is chock full of what Marlon is almost certain is military tech. He thinks he should care about how he got it, but he doesn’t.

“This is Marlon,” Rasmodius says, eyeing him up and down. Marlon had not introduced himself, but he assumes Gil told the man his name, “Come into the kitchen, both of you.”

Despite the heat outside, the kitchen has an old fashioned fireplace, where something is boiling over it. Soup maybe. Marlon is already sweating in his t-shirt. His dog tags are almost hot to the touch. It’s still early, but the sun doesn’t care.

They crowd around a kitchen table that wobbles at the slightest touch.

“Are you two lovers?” Rasmodius asks. Marlon thinks that’s a hell of a way to start a conversation. It’s almost funny, but it’s too hot to laugh.

“Jesus Christ,” Gil replies, “What’s wrong with you?”

“Not yet then,” Rasmodius mutters, so softly, Marlon thinks he must be mistaken. If Gil heard anything, he doesn’t show it, “What did you wish to discuss?”

“Marlon has a security job in the lab,” Gil says. Obviously he’s used to Rasmodius’s fairly intrusive questions, because Marlon would have walked out if it was him.

“You’re army?”

Marlon nods.

“Sorry to hear that,” Rasmodius says casually, “And what are you proposing?”

“We all know they’re hiding something,” Gil replies. He hadn’t discussed with Marlon what they were going to discuss, and frankly, Marlon hadn’t asked.

He has a feeling in his stomach that he’d follow Gil to the ends of the Earth. It’s not rooted in anything, exactly, it’s just a feeling he has that he accepts. Like breathing, it comes naturally to him. It hadn’t even been much of a surprise.

“So you want Marlon to play spy,” Rasmodius sighs, “A dangerou proposition. What does Marlon have to say about that?”

“I’ll do it,” Marlon replies, thinking about the time he’s lost, and the headaches he gets when he thinks about it. They’re hiding things from him too, “Of course I will. Maybe we can find out what happened to Gil’s father.”

Gil does look a little surprised at Marlon’s insistence but he beams bright and wide.

“It will take time,” Rasmodius says, “Let me consider things. For now, do as you have been. Would you like breakfast?”

“Sure,” Marlon says, “Thanks.”

*****

“Did he ask us if we were lovers or did I imagine that?” Marlon asks, as he and Gil start their trek back. Rasmodius had insisted they stay for breakfast, insisted they take leftover breakfast home, and insisted they come back next week to discuss the plan.

“You didn’t imagine it,” Gil replies, a little sheepishly, “I’m sorry. He doesn’t have a filter.”

“It’s alright, I’ve been asked worse things in life. My father’s favorite question was what the hell is wrong with you?”

“Still. He doesn’t know how to be a human sometimes.”

“Well what is he?”

Gil shrugs, “Who can tell.”

Marlon is only half sure that was a joke. They head back to Marlon’s trailer, where they snack on the breakfast leftovers, watch a TV that doesn’t just show static-- it’s way too small, but it’s all that fits-- and Gil sits close to him on the sofa. Marlon knows that’s only because the sofa is small, and there’s only so much room, but he is acutely aware of Gil’s nearness. Of the feeling of Gil’s leg pressed to it.

The show on TV is black and white, and Marlon can’t figure out what it is. But it’s at least entertaining.

“It’s nice your TV set works,” Gil says, “I think mine is haunted.”

“What do you think is in that lab?” Marlon asks.

Gil pokes at his plate with his fork, “Whatever I say will make me sound like a lunatic.”

“Gil, that’s the farthest thing from my mind.”

“Aliens probably,” Gil shrugs, “I think I see things in the sky sometimes. I don’t know. Lewis thinks I’m crazy.”

“Lewis is a fucking asshole.”

Gil laughs, “Thanks.”

Chapter 7

The lights in the lab go out just before midnight three days later. Marlon only heaves a sigh, collects his flashlight and goes to see if they’ve tripped a fuse or something.

It’s so hot, the circuits are always getting overloaded. He really doesn’t think much of it.

Except when the power went out, all the fancy locks stopped working. And now it’s just a flimsy backup lock keeping most of the doors closed. Marlon is certain he could pick them if he tried.

And he could try. There’s plenty of paper clips around. He’s got a credit card in his pocket. Hell, if he got desperate he could probably just break the lock with the butt of his standard army gun.

He tries a few doors, but they’re all unlocked which means there’s nothing important behind them. It’s mostly storage for broken chairs, extra beakers, and empty filing cabinets.

The very last thing he remembers is testing the door of one of the labs on the ground floor. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if it opened or what might be there, but he didn’t exactly care. He wanted answers.

When he wakes up again, he’s at the desk, hunched over like he’s been asleep and Gunther is shaking him.

“Marlon? Are you alright?”

There is sunlight shining through the windows and Marlon has an awful headache.

“The power went out,” Marlon says, “I- I went to investigate. What happened?”

“You’d have to tell me,” Gunther frowns, “You have a bruise on your face. Did someone hit you?”

“I have no idea what happened.”

He is getting so sick of missing memories.

“It’s after six. You should go home and get some sleep.”

“I guess so,” Marlon says.

*****

Marlon doesn’t go home. He goes to Gil’s. The shutters are open so he assumes Gil is awake.

He knocks on the door and waits for Gil to open it. His headache is now a dull throb and the sunlight is making it worse.

“Marlon- what happened to you? Come in, I’ll get you something cold to help the bruise.”

Marlon lets himself be ushered inside and to the kitchen table. He lets Gil press a bag of frozen peas to his face. He can’t remember the last time someone did something like this for him. Perhaps his mother when he was young.

“Did someone hit you?” Gil asks.

“I don’t know. I don’t remember. I was investigating last night after the power went out and then I woke up at the front security desk this morning.”

“God,” Gil shakes his head, “I’m glad you’re alright. I don’t think your nose is broken. But it’s a hell of a black eye you got there.”

“Do you have anything I can take for my headache?”

“Oh, sure. Hold this. I’m sure I have something in the bathroom.”

Gil heads off and Marlon presses the bag to his face. Gil’s house is so much more comforting than his trailer. Maybe it’s the loneliness though he’s never noticed it before.

“Here Marlon,” Gil kneels down by the chair and offers a bottle of aspirin and a glass of water. Marlon downs them both, “That’ll help. You want some breakfast?”

“No. I’m not very hungry.” His stomach flips over at the very idea and he hopes he won’t be sick all over Gil’s kitchen tile.

“Why don’t you go on into the bedroom and get a few hours of sleep? The bed is much better than the sofa.”

Sleeping in Gil’s bed feels so intimate but he’s tired and his head hurts so he agrees, and Gil leads him to the bedroom.

It’s not very big, but it's inviting. There’s a big blue quilt folded at the foot of the bed. A map of the country hangs on the wall. Books are piled on the dresser and the nightstand and a single framed photo of Gil and a man who just be his father sits on the nightstand.

“I’ll be in the kitchen,” Gil says, “Just shout if you need anything. Sleep tight.”

“Thanks,” Marlon says softly. He sits down in the bed, “You- thanks.”

“It’s not a problem.”

The pillow smells like Gil- like the desert and sunshine and something Marlon can’t place. He hugs the pillow against his chest, and closes his eyes.

*****

The lab is stark white. Clinical. Sterile. Marlon hates places like this because they remind him of the hospital where his mother died. Everything had been so bright.

This hospital however is not the one in Zuzu where his mother had been after the accident. This is an army hospital. He knows that by the uniforms of the nurses and the stripes the doctors wear.

Besides, when he looks down he has on his army fatigues. They’re green and wrinkled and one of the legs is absolutely soaked in blood.

“Excuse me?” He asks the nearest nurse, but she walks past as if she doesn’t not hear him. Her heels click on the white floor and he lets his hand fall to his side.

He remembers his hallway. This is where his room was. 407. That had been it. He scans the numbers and comes across it.

When he pushes it open there and so many people crammed in here. Nurses, doctors. People in lab coats with clipboards and tape recorders. Army types in their hats, with scowls on their faces as if they would rather be anywhere else at this moment.

Marlon tries to slip through to see the bed but he is unable to.

“You’ll have to try again,” one of the doctors says, “You’re doing this on purpose.”

“This is a waste,” one of the army officers says. A general, Marlon thinks, but he’d never been bothered to learn the ranks by their insignias. The man’s face just looks like he’s seen it in the paper and you usually have to be high up or die for that to happen, “A million dollars and what have you given us? A slew of casualties and a couple of mediocre test subjects.”

“Science is an art,” one of the people in lab coats says. It’s a woman with blonde hair, tied in a very tight bun at the nape of her neck. She has thick rimmed glasses and a maroon skirt on, “The subject has shown immense promise. We just need more time.”

“He’s going to get killed,” a doctor pipes up but no one seems to pay him much mind. Lives, it seems, are a necessary price to pay for whatever they are doing.

Marlon pushes through the crowd but an invisible force keeps him back. He isn’t sure why. He knows who’s in that bed.

He knows it’s himself.

“Two more weeks,” the general says, “Then I’m pulling the plug on this.”

Marlon feels like someone has just kicked him in the chest.

*****

Marlon gasps awake and for a moment assumes he is back in the hospital.

But the man leaning over him is not a doctor. It’s Gil.

“Are you alright?” Gil asks, “You were shouting in your sleep.”

He isn’t sure what he could have been saying because Marlon is almost certain he’s forgotten how to talk.

“How’s your headache?”

“It’s alright.”

Gil does not seem convinced, “I made some coffee I thought that might help. But you look awfully pale. What did you dream about?”

“They did something to me in that hospital. They were all talking about it. Calling me a test project. The military was paying for it. But I wasn’t showing results.”

“Marlon-”

“What if I died out there on the field,” Marlon says. His voice is softer than a whisper, and he stares at the ceiling, in order to avoid looking at Gil in the eye, “What if they put me back together from nothing, like fucking Frankenstien? What if I didn’t come back right, that’s why I can’t remember all that time, why I didn’t work for whatever they wanted.”

“For what it’s worth,” Gil says, “I like this version of you, Frankenstein or not.”

“Thanks.”

“Is there anything I can do to help you?” Gil asks. He sounds very genuine, and Marlon doesn’t know how to feel about that.

“I don’t think so.”

“Try to get some more sleep then.”

Chapter 8

Though Marlon thought it might be awkward, Gil does not mention the nightmare when Marlon stumbles into the kitchen. Gil is scribbling in a notebook, with piles of papers and photos in front of him.

“Hey,” Marlon says. His mouth feels dry, and though his headache is mostly gone, the sleep was less than restful.

Gil looks up and smiles, “Want some lunch? It’s after noon?”

“Let’s go out. The saloon’s open and frankly I haven’t been shopping in a while.”

Marlon agrees, and they head out into the desert together. The sun is just as blazing hot as it always is. Marlon doesn’t know what he’s going to do when he goes back to the lab. Is anyone going to mention what happened last night? Or is it just something he shouldn’t question?

The saloon isn’t too busy this early. Gus is behind the bar, and waves politely. He’s a little young to be working at a bar, but he supposes it’s a family business, and he doesn’t actually serve the alcohol.

“What about Gunther?” Gil asks.

“What about him?”

“Did you tell him about this?”

“He was there when I left in the morning,” Marlon replies. He holds his soda in his hands, letting the condensation drip down onto the wood. It’s too early for a beer, though it might help his headache, “I don’t know if I want to drag the kid into all of this.”

“He’s not that much younger than we are,” Gil points out.

“Look,” Marlon leans forward a little bit. He’s always had a hard time discussing things like this, ever since his mother died. His father is like an iron vault. Nothing in, nothing out, Marlon knows it’s futile to show any emotion but a quiet seriousness, and polite indifference to the world, “I wanted to thank you for what you said after my nightmare.”

Gil shrugs, “I meant it. You don’t have to thank me.”

“Well,” Marlon shrugs.

“Your face is really bruised,” Gil says, perhaps as uncomfortable with the emotion as Marlon is, “We should put some more ice on it. My father used to put aloe vera on my bruises.”

“I thought that was only for burns.”

Gil shrugs, “We can give it a try. I have a plant in the kitchen.”

There’s something strange about Gil’s care. It doesn’t seem forced, it seems very natural. Why wouldn’t Gil want to tend to him? Marlon doesn't know why he’d want to, but there’s no hesitation in his voice.

“Thanks,” Marlon swallows. His mouth still feels dry.

“Are you okay?”

Marlon nods, “I guess I’m just still tired. And I’m a little worried about heading back to the lab. Now that they’ve hit me-- I don’t know. It just feels like every day is getting closer to something, like we’re all hurdling towards some big explosion but nobody knows what it is.”

Gil’s brow burrows but he doesn’t say anything at all.

*****

For nearly a month, nothing happens.

He goes to work, and there’s no more blackouts. The bruise on his face heals-- he doesn’t know if the aloe helped or not, but Gil had been diligent in tending to him-- and if any new information comes out, Marlon can’t find it. Gunther doesn’t mention it. Rasmodious answers the phone but tells them both not to worry.

That’s somehow more worrying.

None of the officers at the lab look him in the eye, which isn’t exactly new. He hadn’t actually seen anything when the power had gone out, so obviously he’s not a real threat. He isn’t sure if he should be offended or not. His head still hurts if he thinks too much about it.

He and Gil spend pretty much all his free time together. Gil works at the table, while Marlon flips through the paranormal magazines, or the books with obscure titles about things Marlon’s never even heard of. Sometimes he watches daytime television, or naps on the sofa.

Sometimes he and Gil watch movies together late at night, and Gil sits so close to him that Marlon can hear him breathing. He wants very badly to reach out and close the distance between them.

But he can’t find the courage to do it.

“Do you really think this could be some alien bullshit?” Marlon asks. It’s nearly midnight, and the only source of light is the shitty movie on the TV. Gil had, as always, gone around the house and shut all the blinds before it got too dark out.

“Maybe,” Gil shrugs. There’s a blanket over the two of them, but there’s still too much space between them, “I don’t know. It wouldn’t be the weirdest thing that’s ever happened. And it would explain things.”

“You think they’re little green men from Mars?” Marlon asks.

“I don’t know,” Gil frowns, “I think they’re probably highly advanced. Why do you ask?”

“Guess I’m just curious what they used to mess around my head.”

“Marlon?”

“Yeah?”

Gil reaches forward and turns down the television. It’s not like they were really watching the movie anyway.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Marlon nods, “Anything.”

“Have you ever been in love before?”

This is not the kind of question Marlon was expecting. He’d been anticipating more alien questions, or maybe something about his missing memories. Gil’s question takes him by surprise, that’s for sure.

“No,” Marlon swallows, “No I haven’t been. I’ve had plenty of fun, but nothing serious.”

“Oh,” Gil nods, “Alright.”

“Why?”

“No reason.”

“Well,” Marlon begins. He reaches over and downs the last of his drink, “I think I could be in love. But it’s complicated, so I try not to think about it too much. He- well, it’s just complicated.”

Gil nods, “Yeah. Complicated. I’m pretty tired. Do you want me to walk you home? You can have the sofa if you want.”

“I think I’ll finish the movie,” Marlon says, feeling like he’s somehow said the wrong thing. Gil nods, and heads to the bedroom without another word.

Chapter 9

Things are strange between the two of them, and Marlon has no idea how to fix it. He wasn’t going to confess anything to Gil that night, because he wasn’t sure how he felt, and he certainly didn’t want to make things weird.

Things, however, got weird anyway. The conversation between the two of them is stilted, like they’re strangers. Rasmodius delivers useless information to Gil’s front door, and Marlon wonders if they’ve reached a dead end. Nothing is happening and it seems as if nothing will.

He knows he’s made a mistake, but how to fix it?

It’s finally the height of summer. Marlon’s taken to working in his front garden-- if one can even call it that. There’s a few pots and some plants he works very hard to keep alive. Since he’s too embarrassed to go over to Gil’s, he’s found himself spending a lot of time alone.

He’s never had much of a green thumb. But at least he hasn’t killed any of the plants.

Marlon hears the squeak of the fence and looks up. He wipes sweat off his forehead with the back of his arm.

“Marlon,” Rasmodius says.

“Hey.”

“Are you and Gilbert having some sort of argument?”

Marlon frowns, “I don’t really see how that’s got anything to do with you.”

Rasmodius looks mildly amused by Marlon’s stubbornness, “I thought we’d all work together to sort out this little problem. But I see that may not be the case. What’s happened?”

Marlon shoves his spade into the dirt, “Come inside. It’s hot out.”

The two of them enter the trailer, and Marlon cracks open two beers. He’s not sure if Rasmodius drinks beer, but it’s the coldest drink he has. Rasmodius perches himself on the sofa like he’s never sat on one before and doesn’t know what to do, and Marlon leans against the fridge, letting the cold radiating off of it leech into his body.

“Gil and I are fine,” Marlon says, which isn’t exactly true. Sure, they’re not fighting or anything, but things are far from fine. He misses his friend so bad that it hurts. But he doesn’t know what to say. Can you even remain friends with someone you’re falling in love with?

“No,” Rasmodius shakes his head, “Try again.”

Marlon isn’t sure how to respond to that. He takes a sip of the beer, and frowns. He’d definitely overexerted himself in the heat this morning, and there’s a dull ache in his leg that will get worse if it doesn’t take it easy.

“I’m really not big on spilling my guts to strangers,” Marlon says. He’s not good at making friends. He used to be, sure, he had plenty of friends in the army, but they had vanished from his life and he’d realized that he doesn’t know how to make any more.

He’d been happy with Gil and now there’s a Gil sized space in his life he doesn’t know how to fill.

“Pretend I’m not a stranger,” Rasmodius says, leaning forward a bit, “Pretend you’ve known me forever.”

“Gil scares me a little bit,” Marlon watches the condensation drip down the glass bottle, “Because I feel something for him that I haven’t ever felt before. It feels like I’ve been shouting into a void about everything in my life, and the words were just vanishing. Now somebody’s actually hearing them, and what’s even worse is they’re talking back to me.”

“Is this a bad thing?”

“Whatever happened to me fucked me up,” Marlon says, “Gil deserves something better than that. He’s had enough heartache.”

“So if you’ll forgive me for being blunt, the problem here is you have feelings for Gilbert that make you feel safe and secure and this is a problem?”

“Yeah,” Marlon sighs, “Have you ever been in love?”

“I was married once.”

Marlon has to admit this fact surprises him a bit. But then again, nothing should. He’s never met anybody like Rasmodius before.

“What do you really think happened to you when you were in that army hospital?”

“I think that the army has some alien tech or something, and they wanted to try it out on me,” Marlon says. He’s never been asked this question like this before, and he finds that the answers comes to him a lot easier than he expected, “I think they used me as an experiment and whatever result they were hoping for didn’t work, so they shipped me out here because it was easier than just killing me and answering the questions about that. Not that my father would have cared much if I was dead.”

Rasmodius nods slowly, “Come with me. I was hoping to do this with the both of you, but Gilbert isn’t home. I expected him to be here.”

“No,” Marlon says softly.

*****

Rasmodius leads him through the desert.

At first, Marlon assumes that he’s taking him out there to kill him. Obviously Marlon has learned too much, and Rasmodius is actually a secret government agent assigned to him. The assumption doesn’t bother him as much as it should, but he’d hate to die without making up with Gil.

This is not what happens however. He and Rasmodius drive out into the desert, and finally stop about forty five minutes outside of town. The heat isn’t much better, but at least the clouds have started to roll in.

“You were on to something with your ideas about alien technology,” Rasmodius says. Marlon hops out of the truck, ignoring the jolt of pain when his feet hit the sand, “The lab out here is full of it. Alien technology, weapons, even aliens themselves.”

“And how do you know that?” Marlon asks.

“I’m going to show you. I know you want answers for what happened to you. I think this is the way to get them.”

“What about Gil?” Marlon asks. He doesn’t feel right doing this without Gil. Regardless of everything else, Gil’s been there for him in a way that no one else ever has.

“I think this is something you’d like to do yourself. We can go and find Gilbert when we’re done.”

Marlon crosses his arms over his chest.

“Come along Marlon. There’s work to be done.”

*****

Once, Marlon might have been shocked at the sight in front of him, but these days, his life is so strange, that he doesn’t really even react.

The room is full of tech that Marlon has never seen before.

It’s, well, it’s alien.

Even if there wasn’t an honest to God alien standing here, Marlon would have called the room alien.

“Don’t panic,” the man—the alien—says, “I only want to talk. And I’m not responsible for anything that’s happened to you.”

Marlon feels a little light headed. He sits down on the nearest sofa and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“So where did you come from?” Marlon asks.

The man is humanoid but his skin is bright blue, like the sky in the summer. He has on a pair of oversized dark sunglasses, Marlon has no idea what color his eyes are—if he even has them.

“Oh, you know,” the man glances upward. Marlon wishes very badly he had a drink.