Doppelganger (2 page)

It took me about three days to get out of the mountains. It wasn't hard at first, because in the woods I could still walk during the day. But as the trees began to thin out and I started coming across fields and the occasional house, I had to be more careful. By the time I hit the first town, I was pretty much forced to walk at night and find some place to lay low before the sun came up. It wouldn't have been so bad if I'd been able to sleep, but I was always on edge. I was still in my natural form. If I got caught, who knows what they'd do to me. After all, I'd seen
E.T
.

Of course, there was a way out of this predicament. And when I came across a man stumbling drunk down a backstreet at two in the morning, or spied a boy on his lonely way home from school, I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel the urge. It's a strange feeling, like hunger, only deeper, a sort of inner clenching that comes in waves and leaves longing in its wake. But I wasn't ready yet to assume a form. That's what I told myself, at least.

I couldn't figure out what my problem was. I mean,
after all, I was a doppelganger. I was supposed to follow through on the urges. And it wasn't as if I hadn't been trained. My mother had taught me all the tricks, all the signs to look for, the right way to go about making a proper kill. So what was I waiting for? Maybe my mother was right. Maybe watching too much TV had spoiled me. It was the news, I think, that did it. All those sad stories of human failings or plain old bad luck. I couldn't help it, I just felt sorry for them.

I remember once—I'd say I was around ten or eleven—seeing two parents being interviewed on the local news. They were both crying, taking turns breaking down. Their daughter had disappeared. They showed her picture on the screen—a pretty girl, about my age, with dark pigtails and green eyes.

“They should just be glad they don't have to feed her anymore,” I heard a little voice say. I whirled around to see the girl standing there in real life, right behind me. Her clothes and hair were different from the picture, but it was her. I jumped back, almost knocking the TV over, but the girl just giggled and shook her head.

“There's a whole pile of schoolbooks in here,” she said, throwing a loaded backpack onto the floor between us. “Since you finished the other ones, I figured you could start working on these. She looks to be about your age, after all.”

I nodded but couldn't look her in the eyes. I just took the textbooks out of the pack and began studying them, not wanting to seem ungrateful. Later I realized it wasn't my mother I felt I owed—it was that girl's frantic parents, and the little girl herself. Her form hung around the house
for the next two weeks, cooking my meals and splitting wood.

Deep down I knew I would've been in trouble, even without the TV. My squeamishness went way back. When I was younger, I had trouble killing even the smallest of creatures. It didn't matter if it was a squirrel, a hen, or even a cricket that my mother caught for me, I always resisted, holding out until I didn't have a choice. The worst was when she brought home a puppy. I'd seen dog food commercials on TV and was excited to have a pet. She let me play with it three whole days before making me strangle it.

Still, in spite of my hesitation, I knew I'd have to pick a mark sooner or later. The urges would only get stronger, and I couldn't hide from the world forever. Food wasn't really a problem—doppelgangers are hardy creatures. We can go a long time without eating and can gobble down almost anything. Worms, insects, grubs—it doesn't matter. But shacking up behind a Dumpster every night is no way to live. Besides, part of me was eager to prove myself, to show my mother she was wrong. I wasn't weak. I could take care of myself.

 

I reached the city a week later, following the lights as they got brighter each night until they finally blotted out the stars. Fall was coming, and the air was getting colder. By the time I reached the outskirts of the city, I was feeling pretty low. For the first time, I missed the comfort of my cabin. And the trees, too—spires of fir softer and warmer than these city towers—that had stood between the other mountains and me. I longed for my TV most of all and kept thinking of the shows I watched. All those characters
who had joined me every week or every day—it sort of caught me off guard how much I missed them. I found myself thinking about them, worrying about the difficult spots I'd left them in, the problems that dogged them from episode to episode. And now they were all gone. Actually, they were still out there, going on without me. I was the one left alone.

At my lowest point, I even missed my mother. At least she'd been someone to talk to. I was in a train yard at the edge of the city. It was late. Most of the windows in the nearby skyscrapers were dark. There was a full moon out, and I was shivering from the cold snap as I wandered between the glowing boxcars scattered along the tracks. I'd started thinking about her, wondering where she was now, what she might look like, when I saw a light ahead and made my way toward it. Soon I could make out a group of men in the distance. From where I stood, peeking around the corner of a coal car, I could barely tell the four of them apart. They were wrapped up pretty tight against the cold, standing around a barrel fire, like four bundles of rags, passing bottles around, talking loudly. They seemed pretty lit.

I wanted some of that fire. I remember thinking they might just be drunk enough for me to put in a late-night appearance, maybe even scare them off, when I heard a loud cough behind me and nearly jumped out of my skin. I ducked into the shadows and looked around. The cough had come from right behind me, but there was no one in sight.

I heard it again. This time it came in a long spasm, and I realized the sound was coming from a nearby boxcar, its
door ajar. Sticking to the shadows, I sidled up to the door. I could hear rattled breathing coming from inside and someone mumbling to himself. The noise made me shiver worse than the cold.

I stole a glance inside. The moon shining into the car illuminated a figure lying on a pile of blankets against the far wall. It was an old man. I could see his beard, a white blaze in the moonlight. He coughed again, even more fiercely. His whole body stiffened and shuddered with the effort, as if every muscle was working to get out whatever was filling his lungs. This was the closest I'd ever been to a human. It was an awful sight.

But I was curious. I paused in the doorway and took a look back. There was no sign of anyone. Either the men at the fire hadn't heard the coughing or didn't care.

I pulled myself up into the car and plopped down next to the old man, shifting so that the light could still shine down on his face. The stench in the car was overwhelming.

“That you, Ridge?” he rasped. His face was covered with sweat.

“No,” I said.

He blinked and looked over at me, his eyes widening for a second. My back was to the moon, so he couldn't have seen more than my silhouette, but it was enough.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Nobody,” I said. “Just me.”

“What are you?” he asked. He didn't sound afraid. “Are you an angel?”

“Something like that.”

He nodded. It was weird. It was like he had been expecting me or something. It was then that I realized what
I was there for, why I'd climbed in there to begin with. The old man had figured it out before me.

“I'm in a bad way,” he moaned.

“So it seems,” I said.

“Hand me my bottle, will you?” he asked, and gestured toward the corner of the car. He started coughing so bad he could barely get his words out. “It's in that bag there,” he said.

I went over and poked around the shadows until I found the shopping bag with the bottle in it. I pulled it out and brought it over to him. For a moment he just rested it on his chest, pointing it at the sky. Its curved glass reflected the bright square of the boxcar's open door, a window for the moon. The bottle was empty but for a small bit at the bottom.

“Been saving this,” he said. “It's the good stuff.”

He was wheezing pretty heavily. Then he glanced my way. “Got no regrets,” he said. “'Course I got no family nor no money, neither. But I got no regrets.”

“That's good,” I said. I suddenly didn't want to look at him.

He struggled to pull himself up until he rested on one elbow, and then unscrewed the cap. I had never smelled anything like it before. To this day I still can't stand the smell of whiskey.

“Cheers,” he said, raising the bottle to me.

“Cheers,” I whispered.

He tipped the bottle and emptied it in one swig, then sank back to the floor, gasping. “Better.”

Though the rattle in his chest didn't diminish, his breaths came slower and he seemed to relax a bit. He'd
closed his eyes and I thought he'd fallen asleep when I heard him say something. I told him I hadn't caught what he'd said, so he said it again, and this time I leaned way down so that even breathing through my mouth I could smell the rotten, boozy odor of his breath.

“Mercy,” he whispered.

I won't describe what happened next.

I can hardly recall it anyway. I just remember being surprised at the strength with which the old man kicked out before it was over and the grip he had on my arms. Most of all I remember thinking over and over again,
Please don't open your eyes
.

Then he was gone. Moving back to where I'd been sitting earlier, I watched the light play over his body. He looked better in death.

It hit me all at once. I could feel myself stiffen, overwhelmed both by the rush of killing and my revulsion at the deed, and I shuddered the way he had at the end. I felt disgusting and full, like I'd just eaten too much of something sickly sweet.

“There you go,” I said to her, even though my mother wasn't there. Good thing, probably. But I could still hear her voice in my head—“
Well, he was just about dead anyway. Where's the challenge in that? And he practically wanted you to. You did him a favor.
” I don't know, maybe it was what I wanted to hear right then.

I reached over and placed my hands on his chest the way she'd taught me. Soon enough I could feel him drawing into me. I gasped. I didn't think it would hurt that much. It was worse than any pain I'd felt before—like my whole skin was on fire, like a part of me was being torn
away, though really it was just rearranging. It didn't take long. A lot less than the actual killing part.

I looked down at my worn hands, the nails dirty and cracked, then picked up the bottle and turned to face the moon. There he was in the glass, his scraggly face staring back at me, wrapped around the bottle's curve like a label.

Voices called out and I ducked back inside, pressing into the darkened corner of the car.

“Loamer!” they cried. A minute later, one of the men from the fire poked his head in.

“There he is,” he said. He climbed in and went over to the old man. “Come on, Loamer. Get your ass up.”

Another man stood outside and peered in. “He sleeping?”

The first man prodded him a little with his foot. “Nope. Old geezer's kicked the bucket.”

“I get his stuff,” said the man looking in.

“Screw you, Myers. I found him first.”

“Yeah, well, I loaned him five bucks last week and he never paid me back, so call it collateral.”

It went on like this for several minutes before they finally agreed to split the old man's belongings. Watching them go through his stuff, I could feel myself grow more and more nervous—I had no idea what I'd do if they saw me. But it wasn't just that. I needed the old man's clothes, and I was afraid they'd take everything.

Fortunately they didn't bother with Loamer's clothing—it must have stunk too much even for them. I breathed a sigh of relief as they left, then crept from the shadows and dressed myself in the remaining rags as quickly as I could before covering the old man with a blanket. It
didn't seem right leaving him all naked like that, dead or not. I was about to cover his face, when something around his neck caught the moonlight.

I'm surprised the two bums missed it. I took the necklace off and held it up to the light. Attached to the chain was a tiny medallion with the picture of a robed man on the front with a halo over his head. “Saint Jude” was engraved on the back in small letters. I didn't know who that was, but it was kind of cool. I put it around my own neck—a memento of my first time.

The coast was clear, so I dropped out of the boxcar and began stumbling down the tracks, surprised at how stiff my legs felt. I was a bit numb from what I'd just done, but that wasn't the reason I was lame. Though the change is mostly skin deep, you still take on a little bit of the person you become. And here I was, a sixteen-year-old doppelganger in prime shape suddenly with an old man's body—it took a bit of getting used to.

After everything that had happened, I was tired and sick. Sick of myself and sick of this place. So an hour later, when the first train came along and I spotted an empty boxcar, I hopped on board. As I watched the city fade and the stars come back, I felt a strange kind of relief. I'd gotten it out of the way, and maybe I'd even helped the old man by doing it. Most of all I was just relieved to stop moving, to finally sleep and let the rocking train decide my destination for me.

For the next couple of weeks, I rode the trains, bumming my way across the country. It wasn't bad. I saw some pretty interesting places. Eventually the mountains shrank to a tiny row of bumps on the horizon, and I crossed the plains and saw fields of wheat ready for harvest, rolling out from the tracks like golden sheets of silk. Then the plains ended and the land turned green and hilly, dotted with farms and the occasional town.

Every few days I'd hop off the train and head into a new town. It took me a while to work up the courage the first time. I had to keep reminding myself who I was—or rather, who I looked like. Though I felt bad about what I'd done to the old man, it was nice to walk out in the open and pass people on the street. 'Course, looking the way I did, they still gave me nasty glances, but at least they didn't run away in horror or try to capture me.

It's funny—some of them actually helped me. I was sitting near a street corner the afternoon of my first excursion, back against a building, just watching people go by
and minding my own business, when someone dropped a dollar at my feet. I remember picking it up and looking at it sort of confused. I almost jumped up and ran after the guy to return it. But then another person did the same thing, and some others threw some coins down. Before long I had more than ten bucks. Then there were people who called me names and said all sorts of rotten things. One person did both—first he called me a filthy beggar, then he gave me a five-dollar bill. Humans can be strange.

After a while I had enough money to buy some food. I found a grocery store and stocked up on candy bars and cans of tuna. I even bought some beans. My mother always fixed me beans from a can, to the point where I swore I'd never eat beans again when I was on my own, but for some reason I missed them. Since the old man had nothing left for supplies after his friends had gotten through with him, I bought a new spoon, a can opener, and a lighter with the last of the money. Then I hit the road again, catching another train out of town.

And that's how I ended up in Bakersville. It was the fourth town I stopped in, and as far as I could see, it looked like all the others—the same kind of main street with the same kinds of stores, parks, churches, same everything. It was a warm afternoon, and I was on the corner, doing my best to look down and out, which wasn't too hard. I had the whole thing down to an art at this point and was raking in the dough, when these three guys wearing football jackets came by and stopped to check me out. The one on the left was short with curly brown hair. The name stitched on his jacket was Josh. The one on the right was taller and blond. His name was Steve. The kid in the
middle had black hair combed back and a sharp nose. That was Chris. He was a good-looking guy—like the kind I used to see on soap operas—but there was an edge to him, as if there was a storm brewing behind his eyes. I sensed trouble.

“Hey, Chris,” Steve sneered, “since when do we have beggars in town?”

“Since never,” said Chris.

“Man, I can smell him from here,” Josh said.

“Spare some change?” I murmured, and held out my hand. I could see it was shaking a little.

“Get a job,” Chris snarled.

I'd seen jocks on TV before. These three didn't seem much different from them, maybe a little meaner. But I knew they liked to joke around and give each other a hard time.

“Sure,” I said. “Just tell me where your mother lives and I'll be right over.”

Looking back, I guess it was a stupid thing to say. But at the time, I was just trying to get along, maybe draw a laugh. Jocks are always talking about each other's mothers.

It sort of worked—the other two laughed. Unfortunately, Chris didn't.

“You stupid old bastard,” Chris snarled, and took a step toward me. Both his friends grabbed him by the arms and yanked him back.

“Forget it, Parker. Come on,” Josh said, nodding toward the corner.

Shaking his friends off, Chris scowled at me for a second. Then he glanced both ways down the sidewalk and, seeing no one nearby, turned back and spit on me.

It hit me on the arm. I looked down at it and did nothing. But as my heart started to pound, I could feel a little prickle along the back of my neck where the hairs were standing up.

As they walked away, Chris looked back and glared, then the three turned the corner. I was glad to see them go.

 

I forgot all about Chris and his pals until they showed up later that night. I'd made my way out of town to a deserted meadow off the tracks. I had a little fire going and was trying to enjoy my beans. But it was hard—I was starting to feel a bit at odds with my form, sort of itchy and a bit ragged around the edges. I mean, it wasn't horrible or anything, but it just depressed me because I had no idea how much time I had before it would get too uncomfortable to bear. And when it did, I'd be right back where I started.

I was in the middle of eating when I heard their voices on the tracks. I glanced up and saw them coming out of the dark. I knew who they were right off—their jackets gave them away.

“Well, look who it is,” Steve shouted.

“So this is where bums go at night,” Josh pitched in.

Chris didn't say anything. He just smiled when he saw me. As they drew in toward the light, I could see he was carrying a bottle. It looked just like the one the old man had owned and was just as empty. Between the bottle and their weaving, I knew I was in for a rough time. I thought about making a run for it, but I figured I didn't have a chance outrunning the three of them.

They walked up to the fire and surrounded me. For a minute they didn't say anything. I could see the other two
looking over at Chris. It was like they were trying to decide what to do. Whatever it was, I was sure it involved kicking my ass.

“You guys want some beans?” I asked, and held out the can with the spoon in it. I wasn't sure if being friendly would work, but I didn't know what else to say.

Chris kicked the can out my hand.
So much for that
, I thought.

“Shut up,” he said. “Don't talk.”

Steve threw the rest of the wood I'd gathered on the fire. The clearing darkened. Then Chris poured what was left in the bottle onto the fire. There was a
whoosh!
as the flames leaped up, and for a moment everyone froze, squinting at the light.

“Hey, what are you doing!” Josh hollered. “What a waste.”

“Shut up,” Chris snarled back.

“I'll buy you some more if you want,” I offered, rubbing my hand.

“I can get it whenever I want,” Chris said, whirling around to face me. “And I told you to shut up.”

He chucked the bottle. I saw it spinning at my head and turned so that it merely glanced off my shoulder. They all laughed.

I shrank into myself as they closed in, but a part of me was starting to get pissed off. I could feel my heart begin pounding the way it had back in town when Chris had spit on me. Still, I didn't want any trouble. I just wanted them to go away.

“Why are you doing this?” I said, looking up into each of their faces. “I'm nobody.”

“That's right,” Chris said. “You are nobody. A useless piece of shit. So who cares?”

He pushed me backward, then gave me a kick. I rolled over onto my stomach. Then Steve joined in, and pretty soon the two were taking turns kicking me while Josh stood back and watched. I tried crawling away, tried pleading with them to stop, but they just hollered and laughed and kept on going. It didn't really hurt that much, at least not at first. But toward the end, they started kicking harder. Then came the big blow.

I remember seeing Chris come at me with the bottle, but before I could react, Steve nailed me in the side with a good one and I got distracted. The next thing I knew, I felt a shock and heard the sound of breaking glass. I collapsed and sort of went limp for a moment, trying to remember where I was and what was going on. Finally I managed to open my eyes a crack and saw the fire burning, and it all came back to me.

“Dude, you killed him,” Josh said. He sounded scared.

“No, look. He's still breathing,” Steve said, but he sounded just as scared.

“Hardheaded bastard,” I heard Chris say.

“Good thing,” Steve said. “Come on, let's get back to the car.”

“Yeah, I'm bored,” Josh said. “Let's go, Parker. It's getting late.”

“What are you talking about?” Chris said. “We're just getting started.”

“Funny,” Josh said. “I'm out of here. Coming?”

“Yeah,” I heard Steve say.

“Don't be a pussy, Josh.”

“Screw you, Chris,” Josh said. “You're whacked.”

Chris laughed. “Go ahead,” he said. “I'll catch up with you guys in a few minutes.”

I turned to watch Steve and Josh head back toward the tracks. A minute later they disappeared into the darkness. Chris and I were alone.

I managed to push myself back up. I was feeling a bit spinny and there was a pretty good lump rising on the back of my head, but nothing seemed broken. As for Chris, he just sort of paced back and forth in front of me, glaring.

“You got what you came for,” I gasped. “Go back with your friends and leave me alone.”

“Take it back,” he said.

“Take what back?”

“What you said today. About my mother.”

It took me a moment to remember what he was talking about. “All right,” I said. “I take it back. I'm sorry.”

I figured maybe now he'd go, but he just started pacing faster and breathing sort of funny, like he was huffing through his cheeks or something. It kind of creeped me out.

“No, really,” I said. “I shouldn't have said it. I'm sorry.”

He crouched down and stared into the fire. He wouldn't look at me. It seemed like he was calming down, like maybe I could talk to him.

“You're right about not talking about someone's mother,” I said. “I just wasn't thinking. If you knew my mother, you'd probably understand,” I tried joking. “You close to your mother?”

“Not really,” he muttered.

“Or maybe your father?” I offered. “I never knew my father.”

He stood up and loomed over me. “What the hell do you care? You don't know the first thing about my family.”

“Okay, okay,” I said, raising my hands. His shoulders sank a bit as he turned away. “You know, you shouldn't be so mean,” I said to him. “Maybe people would like you better.”

“People like me,” he snapped. “Everyone likes me.”

I found that hard to believe, but I wasn't about to argue with him. “Then what are you so pissed off about?” I asked.

He bent down and picked up a shard of glass from the broken bottle, almost losing his balance as he stood back up. “Because the world's a crappy place,” he said, looking down at the shard.

He kept on going, his voice rising. “A crappy place, filled with crappy people like you.”

I could tell he was getting pretty hot, but I wasn't in the mood to try to soothe him anymore. My head was really starting to pound, and all his talk just made it beat harder.

“And what about you?” I said, pulling myself to my feet. “I'd include you in that category.”

“Yeah, me too,” he said, advancing on me. I could see the hate returning in his eyes, only this time it wasn't for me. But as I watched his fists clench, I wondered if it even mattered. “I'm as crappy as they come. The worst.”

“Why?” I said. “Is that what you want?”

“What I want?” he asked, his face crinkling in disbelief. “What does that have to do with anything?”

He tossed the shard aside and stepped up to me, so that I could smell the whiskey on his breath. My stomach churned as I thought of the old man again. I pictured him
right there before me, gasping out his last moments. His final word echoing in my head.

“Mercy.”

I must have said it out loud. There was a brief look of shock on Chris's face. Then the storm in those eyes erupted. It was as if it enraged him that I dared make such a request, that I dared ask for something like that from him. Without a word he hauled off and punched me in the face, and suddenly I was falling back again. I had barely hit the ground when he jumped on top of me and began punching me over and over again, screaming.

Just like back in the boxcar, everything became a blur. I remember the blows—heavy, with a viciousness the previous beating had lacked. I remember just wanting him to stop, and trying to tell him so through the pain. Then something in me snapped. I grabbed his falling fist with one hand, his throat with the other, and the next thing I knew, we'd flipped over and I was on top of him. The old, withered flesh of my arms started to ripple and melt away as I squeezed harder and harder, with both hands on his throat, no longer a weak old man. His eyes widened as the shell of my adopted form fell away for good—a look of incomprehension that slipped into pure, unadulterated fear, then slipped further, at last, into nothing.

When it was over, I rolled off him onto my back and just lay there next to him, panting.

The fire had died down some, and the dark had crept in closer by the time I sat up. Seeing Chris staring at the sky with his mouth still open, I could feel my heart start to pound all over again. That same sweet sickness as before filled me, and my stomach heaved.

“You idiot,” I muttered, staring down at him. “You stupid idiot.”

I just kept saying it over and over again, every time I looked at him. For the first time in years, I wanted to cry. But I didn't. I guess doppelgangers don't have the ducts for it.

I looked down at my body. There it was—the familiar gray skin, the floppy feet. I'd lost Loamer for good.

Kneeling down beside Chris, I knew what I had to do, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. Once again my mother's voice sounded in my head.
“Well, for God's sake, don't waste him. Make a go of it this time. You've already got the hard part out of the way. Just follow through for once.”