“My hypothesis is that we have here a sort of camouflage that works on the observer end, but as they say, you cannot fool all of the people all of the time. So, the concept is to simply give the organism too many observers, in too many places, viewing it through too many different wavelengths, for it to maintain its subterfuge. To mimic plausible feedback from hundreds of strangers, being read simultaneously by three of us, would simply be too much. That is the hope, anyway.”
John sat at the desk and Marconi moved to the cramped lounge area outside his office where he had set up a laptop that would monitor the feedback in real time. He motioned for me to close the door to the office.
I made eye contact with John and said, “I just want you to know, if it turns out you’re a fake person inserted into my memory, my whole life will make so much more sense.”
“I was just thinking the same thing.”
I locked him in—the door seemed fairly sturdy—and the remaining three of us huddled on an uncomfortable little fold-out sofa so we could all see Marconi’s laptop. The man smelled like cologne and fancy pipe tobacco. The feeds were switched on and
dried vomit cascading down the side of the sofa
I found myself holding my breath.
The laptop screen was split into quadrants, one for each camera feed. We didn’t see what the cameras were capturing—we only saw the scrolling text from the collective feedback from each. That was the idea.
Digital video:
I see a dude sitting in a chair, got long hair, handsome but in a way that makes me want to punch him.
Ultraviolet:
Man sitting in a chair, looks like he’s on heroin.
Sonar:
Either a male or a tall, flat-chested girl, nothin’ weird unless there’s not supposed to be anybody sitting there.
Heat signature:
Shape is like a tall thin male, check around the pelvis area he OH GOD HE HAS AN ERECTION.
And so on. Nearly three hundred messages were posted, split across the four feeds, with little variation aside from people trying too hard to pick out curiosities in the background (“That doctorate doesn’t appear to be from an accredited university”). Marconi, Amy, and I took turns reading the messages out loud, all of us agreeing we were seeing the same text.
We declared that round of testing over. I stuck my head through the doorway and said, “All clear, but the machine does show you have herpes. Also Marconi wants to do a drug test after this is done.”
Amy was next, and strangely, I wasn’t as nervous for her. It honestly wouldn’t matter what they said—they’d be wrong. They might as well tell me the universe doesn’t exist. Amy is my constant, she is the only reason I continue to do any of this. If she’s not real then my life isn’t real and I’m not real and nothing matters anyway. If she’s a monster then I’ll take her home and hug her and we’ll be monsters together.
We locked her in and John took her place on the narrow sofa. He watched the scrolling messages and said, “Marconi, your fans are kind of dicks.” Still, that was as alarming as the revelations got:
Digital video:
Redheaded girl with glasses, pretty eyes but body is nothing special. Is she missing a hand?
Ultraviolet:
Looks like a girl with bad posture. Does she only have one hand?
Heat signature:
Heat pattern looks like a petite girl, nothing weird, one hand doesn’t show up for some reason, did she have it dipped in ice water or something?
Sonar:
See a girl, sitting with her legs crossed, might be cute but I’d need to see the full-color vid.
And there were a few of the obligatory:
Wait, is that who I think it is?
I let out a breath.
It was my turn in the chair.
Four different electronic eyes stared me down. Marconi asked me if I wanted anything and I said no, which really is one of the biggest lies I’ve ever told. He made an adjustment to one of the cameras—viewers asked for a wider view of the background, he said—and then he and John left the room.
Amy, however, closed the door with her still on my side of it. She took a seat in front of the desk and looked right at me.
I said, “A bunch of Marconi fans want your phone number.”
“I look like I slept in a warehouse. Good thing they couldn’t smell me.”
“Honestly, while this is a very clever setup and I can see what Marconi was going for, I don’t see why it would—”
“OH, FUCK!”
From the next room. John, not Marconi.
Amy jumped to her feet, but didn’t make an effort to leave.
I said, “What?”
From the other side of the door, Marconi said, “One moment, please.”
I said, “I am not a monster larva.”
John, sounding like he was pressed up against the door, said, “It doesn’t show that. He changed the setup and it’s, uh…”
“What does it show?”
Marconi said, “Please remain calm.”
“What does it show?”
John said, “You have one in the room with you.”
I was jumping to my feet now, knocking the chair over. “What? Where? Can you see it?”
I stared at Amy.
It can’t be.
“They’re saying it’s that snowman thing.”
I said, “The what?”
I turned and looked at the filthy, misshapen concrete monstrosity, MR. ICEE etched on its chest and
Have I seen it before?
shards of broken memories went spraying across my mind, a dozen contradictory origin stories of this stupid concrete snowman wearing a shawl of bird shit, none of the memories making a bit of sense.
The thing’s misshapen, eroded mouth started moving and out from it came the sound of screams. Small voices, in abject panic—a roomful of children pleading for their mothers, begging for mercy, moaning in pain.
Its mouth grew and the noises grew louder, filling the room, vibrating my skull. Then the snowman exploded into a swirl of panicked and enraged fuckroaches. Amy screamed. The door lock clicked and the door opened—John coming in, completely defeating the purpose of the whole setup.
I batted at the creatures with my hands, and tried frantically to locate the larva itself. They kept getting in front of me, creating images, people.
The swarm formed a face—my face, the Nymph version. I swatted at them, grabbing one of the fuckroaches—it held the shape of my own laughing mouth—and crushed it in my hand. They couldn’t fool me. Not now.
They scattered, then coalesced again. This time as my mother, a face I barely remembered. I smashed it with my fist. The whizzing insects were screeching and crying and laughing in voices from my past, the things sloppily sifting through my mind for something, anything. I heard Jim and Arnie and TJ and Hope and Jennifer and Krissy and Todd and Robert. I heard Molly’s bark. I heard them imitate Amy, making her cry and beg, saying things that made it sound like I was her attacker.
I heard John, and I think it was the real John, say, “It’s behind y—” at the exact moment the larva crashed into my back, knocking me to the floor, sending the fuckroaches scattering once more.
I rolled over just as the maggot raised up a mouth ringed by mandibles, at the center a gulping throat that made a sound like a drunken kiss in the back of a taxi. I tried to fight it off but it thrust is mouth down onto the side of my face, covering one ear. The mandibles bit down and …