Bellevue
“Keep straight,” the robotic voice commanded.
Tom checked his phone for what must have been the hundredth time as he drove through the forest. Shouldn’t take more than thirty minutes now. A weak wind swirled golden leaves over the road, spinning them around in a graceful ballet while waving stripes of blue gleamed through the trees when the car passed a sapphire lake. And all of it was coated in the brazen mantle of dusk. At least it’s beautiful out here.
When the trees disappeared Tom rolled down his window and glanced around at never ending fields, inhaling autumn while some guy sang folk songs on the radio. He drove by some cattle, a barn, a farmhouse here and there, and then a sign.
‘WELCOME TO BELLEVUE
Where it always feels like home’
The road became a street; the fields dotted with large habitations, then, after a minute, two continuous rows of buildings – little shops, little houses – before which people strolled around with little plastic bags in hand, grey jackets on their backs. The street merged into a great place bristling with life where many meandered through the alleys of an outdoor market. Grey jackets everywhere. Tom slowed down as three avenues made their way out of the place and into every side of town. He checked his phone again and took a left and leaned over to look up as he drove under an electric decoration displaying a blue lightning strike flashing on and off. He drove by a drugstore, a deli, and a bar. Blue lighting strikes pinned on the doors, on shop windows, stitched on the matching jackets most of the townspeople wore. Tom lost his smile.
“Fucking Mercer,” he thought out loud.
He knew exactly what that looked like. A town fair, some harvest festival of some kind, the celebration of an historical event. Nothing of interest for Tom.
“He’s gonna hear about this,” Tom said to himself as he checked the streets.
That was his own fault, he knew it. But blaming Mercer felt good, even though he just had to say ‘no’ and that would have been the end of it. Mercer had made a hobby of leading Tom into unsettling situations. The adventures often started the same way. Mercer called, said a few puzzling words ordering Tom to meet him, or left a cryptic message on his phone or in an email. Most of it ended up disappointing –yet entertaining, some were straight-up outrageous but, once in a while there was a gem in there. This time, the few words that started it were only ‘You’ve got to see this’ accompanied with GPS coordinates and a RDV in the little town of Bellevue, Nowhere.
Tom stopped the car as another group of festival goers walked across the street. From there he could clearly see their grey jackets, the blue lightning strike circled on their chest, the marine blue trousers. And they seemed to clearly see him too, several faces staring at him as they passed by, checking his car, his license plate even. They don’t get many foreigners here. He kept driving up the avenue -high-end shops, restaurants- until the view cleared on his right to leave space for one the busiest and gigantic parking lots Tom had ever seen. He slowed down unconsciously and looked at the number of cars – probably twice the population of a town like that. Then he saw the lightning strike again, a titanic piece of metal up in the air, nestled at the top of a Disneyesque castle that popped out of nowhere. As he drove by he saw the matching outfits, hundreds of them, turning their heads and staring at his car. Then he saw the flashes and almost slammed on the brakes. He quickly turned his head to see a group of them, phones in their hands. They’re just taking pictures.
A few streets away, he spotted the ‘No Vacancies’ sign, parked and checked around, but he couldn’t seem to find Mercer’s car. Damn it. Tom took his bag out of the trunk and walked to the entrance as a policeman stepped out and eyed him down. Inside, the lobby was bustling with luggage, footsteps and noises erupting from a nearby room.
“Hello, Sir,” the clerk welcomed him.
“Hi, I have a reservation for two nights.”
“Very well, Sir. What is your name please?”
“Dermott. Tom Dermott.”
The clerk typed a few things on his computer and checked the screen for a moment.
“Are you here for the ceremony?” he tried with a professional smile.
“The ceremony?”
“Oh, the local…,” the clerk snapped out of his computer and examined Tom. “Nevermind. It’s just, most of the folks in town are here for the seminar. It’s the biggest of the year. People are coming in from all over the world.”
“All right. I’ll be sure to check that out. What kind of ceremony is this? A town festival?”
The clerk raised an eyebrow for a split second he immediately seemed to regret.
“Mh. No, Sir. The blue strikes are holding their annual ceremony for new supporters.”
Tom felt as if he had just been impolite but couldn’t imagine a possible reason for it.
“Anyway. Mr. Dermott, you are in room 22 on the second floor. Here,” he turned back to a counter and took out a magnetic card. “Is your room key. And, do you have any luggage you’d like us to bring up for you?”
Tom took the card out of the clerk’s hands. “No, I’m fine, thank you.” He took a step back and stopped midway.
“Just one thing. Do you know if Daniel Mercer already checked in? We are supposed to meet today.”
“Let me see,” the clerk said and did. “Sorry, Sir. Mr. Mercer has not yet checked into the hotel.”
“Thank you.”
“Have a good one.”
Tom entered his room a few minutes later and was pleasantly surprised. The hotel was much more agreeable than expected from such a little town. The elegant silk bedding was promising, just like the oak furniture would welcome his papers and pens in style. Not bad. Except for the flowery paper on the walls. He got to the window and checked the street. The grey jackets milled about everywhere you looked, swarming the sidewalks in small and larger bands. That seminar began to arouse Tom’s interest, moreso than any town festival whatsoever might had. He looked at his phone and figured he could go for a little walk. I got nothing better to do until dinner anyway.
Tom began his tour on the main avenue. He passed by a few little shops with their lightning strikes well in sight, a little group of grey jackets curiously eyeing him out, then a larger one, smoking outside a business office with a great lightning strike carved above the entrance. He saw two policemen hanging out outside their cars next to a park, discussing something loudly. Then Tom stopped, seeing something he didn’t quite like: the small lightning strikes stitched right above their badges. This is not some town tradition. This is something else. And right there he heard the clash of the lens, the click of the photograph. The culprit was on his right, a frail elderly woman in her grey jacket that had stopped in the middle of the crosswalk, her camera in her hands. Tom frowned; annoyed by the idea of a stranger taking his picture, then he became puzzled when the woman just stared into his eyes, in a stance of challenge. She nodded and reached back to her group of other grey jacketed individuals. Great, Mercer got me into a town of loonies. Tom went around town like that for about half an hour, but no other oddities were encountered, except for what was probably the largest supply of matching jackets he had ever seen. He went back to the hotel a little bit confused about the whole thing, but still unable to get what Mercer was seeing in the place.
“Mr. Dermott!” the clerk hailed him as soon as he stepped inside.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Mercer arrived. He’s waiting for you at the bar.”
“That should be about right. Thank you”
Good news, finally. Well… News, anyway. Tom found Mercer being his usual self, drinking at the bar alone looking shady among early diners that glanced at him from time to time.
“Hey! My old friend!”
“You’re late,” Tom said taking the stool next to Mercer.
“Am I?” He asked innocently looking at his watch.
“Ass,” Tom chuckled and ordered a scotch. “So, what the hell are we doing here? And please tell me this is not like that time with the native tribe.”
Mercer pretended to be offended, hand on his heart. “How could have I known it was just a bunch of kids tripping on ecstasy in the woods. It clearly looked different.”
Tom laughed thinking about it. “So?”
Mercer smirked, twisted it into a smile with squinting eyes, clearly very fond of himself. “That is different. Here lies a great story for you, my friend. But don’t be so impatient! Enjoy your drink first.”
Tom did and they chitchatted for a while about the drive, the charm of the little town, then a waiter came to them.
“Your table’s ready, Sir.”
Mercer smiled, nodded to him and stood up, offering Tom to follow him with his hand. They sat, ordered, and when the waiter was gone Mercer grew dimmer.
“Have you noticed anything strange since you came into town?”
Tom snickered. “Well, maybe a little odd, like those god awful jackets but apart from that I have to say it looked like some kind of town festival, nothing more.”
“It does look like that,” Mercer agreed, glanced around and lowered his voice. “Except from the fact that 85% of the town’s population moved out without any apparent reason in the past two years. Or for the hundreds of millions of dollars generated yearly by one local business. Or for the twenty-two suicides,” he said, gesturing quotation marks at the word, “that have been reported over the same period.”
Tom leaned over, elbows on the table. “How do you know about all this?”
Mercer chuckled. “I knew you’d like this one!”
“All right, you got me. I’m all ears, now spit it.”
“Two years ago the writings of a man from this town became popular and began spreading like wildfire around the state, then pretty much everywhere through the internet. I caught up the trend at the beginning and sold them online to foreigners. Though that didn’t last a month because the books were so popular they were translated in dozens of languages and sold everywhere in the world, published by the very same publishing house that is the local business I was telling you about.”
Tom frowned and leaned back, looking outside the reception room at the many many cars. “What kind of writing are we talking about? A life coach that has all the answers to success?”
Mercer bit his lips. “I would have preferred that. A self-proclaimed diva who tells you wearing her 500 bucks handbag is the best way to get under the spotlight is not that dangerous.”
“Fuck. A spiritual guru, then. You’re talking about a cult, aren’t you? What does he do? He pretends he can heal your pain away?”
Mercer looked down, seemingly uneasy. “Well, that’s the problem. It’s more complicated than that. I’ve read all the books, Tom, it’s just a bunch of spiritual sayings and mottos to live a better life. There’s nothing in there to explain how it became such a movement. Two hundred million sales worldwide, hundreds of thousands of disciples coming to this town every month. Everything points to this place. It’s like a goddamn pilgrimage for these people, but I have no idea what makes them do it.”
Tom thought about it for a second, rubbing his hands. “If it’s the guru’s birthplace the meaning of this town is understandable.”
“I’m not arguing that,” Mercer said. “But you’ve seen the little blue strikes on the shops and houses, right?”
“Yeah. You mean the whole town’s converted or something?”
“No, no, no, my friend. They kicked them out!” Mercer whispered loudly, instantly inspecting the room afterwards.
“What do you mean?”
“I told you 85% of the residents moved. Those guys bought everything. They own every shop in town, most of the houses, and this very hotel, by the way. And that’s what I don’t get. People come here after reading a book and decide to stay just like that,” he said snapping his fingers. “Makes no sense.”
“What about those suicides?” Tom asked.
Mercer sighed. “I honestly don’t have any evidence, but when I found out it just seemed way too much for such a little town.”
“The police officers,” Tom said for himself.
“What?”
“I’ve stumbled upon a few today. They have those strikes stitched on their uniforms.”
Mercer’s eyes grew wide. “That is not good news.”
The waiter stepped before them and put their plate down. “Enjoy your meal,” to which they both nodded without a word and the man left.
“All right,” Tom said after a minute of silence.
“What?” Mercer asked.
“You got me, I’m hooked. I want to know everything there is to know.”
Mercer chuckled and got to his plate. They ate and managed to silence the topic for a while as the room got more and more crowded, then when the bill was paid Mercer stood up and reached Tom.
“Let’s take a walk.”
Tom frowned, rubbing his belly. “Right now? I was thinking of crashing early actually.”
“You want to see this,” he simply said and stepped away. Tom followed.
They slowly strolled down the street in silence and crossed path with several groups that stared at them on their way. In the next street they were alone.
“So, what is it?” Tom asked.
“Almost every night something happens around 9 or 10 p.m. I want you to see it, to make up your mind about what it means. I think it’s important, maybe a key aspect of the whole thing.”
“Ok. What is it?”
“There are a few places where it can happen, just follow me until then.”
Tom did, and although he was growing curious by the minute, he felt uneasy as they crossed one street after the other. Roughly twenty minutes in their digestive walk, they both stopped at the loud voices in the residential street. A group of grey jackets stood on the porch of a small house, talking lively to the resident who clearly wanted no business with them.
“Let’s get closer,” Mercer said and swiftly reached the house next door.
“I assure you, Sir, we mean you no harm,” the greyjacket at the head of the group calmly said. “One of our members is living in this house. We simply came to help.”
“What are they doing?” Tom whispered to Mercer.
“Wait and see,” he answered.
“No one here is part of that!” The elderly man shouted. “I’ve told you that last week, I’ve told you that last month. Stop knocking on my door.”
“This is not ours to say,” the other said. “We help each and every of our members, Sir.”
“There is NO ONE here who wants anything to do with your bullshit. Do you understand me?” The man said as he approached his face next to the group’s leader then spat on the ground.
In a flash, two of the group stepped forward and pushed the man aside to get into the house. Tom stood up ready to intervene but Mercer pulled him by the arm hard and locked him tight.
“Don’t.”
The elderly man fell on his ass as the two members were almost inside, when an elderly woman came out of the house holding a hunting rifle in her hands.
“LEAVE OUR PROPERTY RIGHT AWAY OR I’LL SHOOT.”
The group stood still, unmoved, staring at the woman without expression, until the leader turned to the elderly man.
“We will come back,” he said, oblivious to the threat.
“We know what you’re doing! It won’t work!” the man shouted in the night before walking back inside with his wife.
The group turned their heels, walked out the man’s alley, and as they were about to cross the street they saw Mercer and Tom. They stopped and looked at them as both didn’t budge an inch. Then the leader took his phone out of his pocket and the group did the same. They aimed the viewfinder up and down, left and right, and clicked. And left.
Tom was speechless, his heart throbbing, his palms sweaty, not sure as to why he felt like he had been assaulted himself.
“What the fuck was that?” he said out loud.
“That is why 85% of the town belongs to these people,” Mercer answered after taking a long deep breath. “They harassed every former resident until they couldn’t take it anymore and moved away. They are replacing the entire population of this town with their people. You know what I can’t comprehend at all?” he asked shaking his head.
“What?”
“These people were doctors, teachers, office workers. Many are foreigners. They come from incredibly various backgrounds. How in hell do you get these kinds of people to behave like that? Threatening an old man in his own house.”
“Yeah. Most cults take advantage of people’s weaknesses. They pretend like they have the sheltering answers, provide a sense of security. But these people. It’s way beyond brainwashing. This is not the work of a spiritual guru. It’s religious. They think they are accomplishing some kind of purpose.”
Mercer tried a smile that felt wrong. “Yes, I agree. And I think we need to find out what that is.”
Tom nodded. “And what’s up with the pictures anyway? Are they documenting every person that is not one of them?”
“That’s also what I thought. I don’t know why, but I didn’t see any of them take a picture of something else. They also took pictures of every house that is not yet one of theirs.”
Tom looked up and down the street, scratched his face, rubbed his hands, took a step left and right, then when everything in his power was done to cool down he looked at Mercer.
“You sure aced it this time. I think I’m gonna get some sleep.”
“Yeah. Good idea,” Mercer said.
The reception clerk was nowhere to be seen when they walked in, and the restaurant was empty, too, though it was barely ten minutes over ten. They both glared at each other but didn’t state the obvious discomfort they were feeling, and got to their room in silence.
Tom stayed eyes wide opened for a while, aware of every single sound, any hiccup in the roaring silence of the little town. He turned on his side and looked at the night lamp. He pulled the latch, pulled it again, then checked inside the bulb. He got up, stood at the window and examined the street left and right. Not a single soul in sight. He paced round the room, looked into the drawers, the closets, under the bed. He tucked himself again and closed his eyes. I’m being paranoid. He tried to picture anything slightly reassuring, but he couldn’t get it out of his system, he couldn’t stop thinking he was being watched, being recorded, or something worse, until he fell into a dreamless sleep.
Breakfast was apathetic, without an appetite to dive into the plate of pastries. Coffee it is. Though they were likely the only gloomy ones in the room. An ecstatic eagerness was taking over the place, wide grins on every face, lively words pitched from one table to another. Mercer took one last sip.
“Let’s take off,” he said. “We’ve got work to do.”
“Day’s already planned?”
Mercer simply nodded and got up.
They once again walked up the street, busy as hell now, grey jackets everywhere going in the same direction, faces turning on their way. They still stare at us. Tom was uneasy, but for some reason Mercer had a gentle smile on his face for the passersby. They followed along the trail of the disciples until they reached the gigantic edifice and its matching parking lot. The white castle looked childish in a way, cartoonesque towers rising on the four corners of the building, an impressive welcoming party of grey jackets before the great wooden doors. Two long lines of hundreds of people stood before the entrance waiting for something.
“Headquarters?” Tom guessed.
“Something like that,” Mercer said. “From what I managed to learn new members live there for the first few months of their ‘training’. Afterwards most of them buy property around here. Most often than not it’s the company that buys it on their name and stations them.”
“So, they basically lose control over their finances? Another red flag,” Tom said, staring at the hundreds of people grinning wide, walking around hugging each other, laughing out loud. They look like they found their true calling.
“It’s starting,” Mercer said.
And he was right. The excitement exploded in an uproar of cheers and hollers and whistles like the band just entered the stage, but it was only a silhouette walking out of the building. Thirty seconds later the lines began to move forward and were swallowed by the castle one person at a time as security officers checked them before letting them in.
“They’re wearing badges,” Tom noted.
“You know what’s on there,” Mercer gravely said.
Tom looked at all the faces, almost grateful to simply be let inside a building. Indebted, most likely.
“That’s where the suicides happened,” Tom said for himself.
“I kinda think so too. But with those security officers and the force in cahoots I’m guessing you can’t believe those police reports.”
Tom noticed Mercer was still smiling, though he could see it was forced.
“What are we doing here, Mercer?”
Mercer stared into Tom’s eyes and sighed. “I need your help. I’m going in today.”
“What? Are you insane? Let alone the suicides, which is pretty alarming, those people will do anything to protect their secrecy.”
“We need to know what happens in there, Tom. That’s the whole point, right? Why would you document all those things if you want to back off when we find the real deal?”
“That’s not what I’m saying. I know we have to investigate what’s happening here, but this is dangerous. There are other ways.”
“There are none,” Mercer said, a light shining in his eyes, more serious than Tom had ever seen him. “And I need you.”
Tom thought about it for a second, but the only thing that popped into his mind was the flash of the photograph.
“I need someone outside, Tom. Someone who knows where I am and what I’m doing, and who can do something about it. Someone I trust,” Mercer said, emphatic on the ‘trust’.
“Damnit, Mercer. We’ve done some pretty fucked up shit but that deserves the medal.”
“Is that a yes?”
“You’re gonna do it anyway if I say no, right?”
“Yes,” Mercer said.
“Keep your fucking phone handy at all times. I’m calling you in the evening and tonight, got it?”
“I’ll do the best I can. If I’m not there tomorrow you know what to do.”
Tom nodded and took Mercer’s hand in his own. “Don’t do anything stupid,” he said in his ear before Mercer stepped away, waved at him, and reached the end of the waiting line.
Tom ambled alone on his way back, enjoying morning, putting some order in his mind, eager to get to it. I need another coffee. He looked around to see if he could find a shop where he could kill some hours in, but there was nothing to see left or right. The shops were closed on the avenue, iron curtains down, luminescent blue strikes flashing on and off above the doors. The street was empty, too, and the whole town seemed void of any sign of life. No cars on the roads, no faraway honks, no boots knocking on the ground. No sounds at all. Even the birds had fallen silent. Tom felt strange, an uninvited guest whose unwilling host carefully examined his every move. Tom quickened his pace, his heart throbbing, breathing loudly; unable to tell if his biggest wish was to stumble upon another human face or to never see anything from this place ever again. Hell of a town.
Tom took a long deep breath when he saw an employee smoking outside the hotel. He rushed inside as casually as he could manage, asked the clerk for a whole pot of coffee to be brought up and got to his room where he locked himself in. He booted his laptop and ecstatically got to it. He found little about the suicides, not much more about the corporation – except for oddly complacent articles about their contribution to the area – and a few pages about the town’s history; who apparently had none of interest before the Blue Strikes’ implantation. Nonetheless, at noon he was about ten pages in. Then he began to document everything he had seen, everything that happened. The outfits, the shops, the photographs, the castle. That damn castle looks like an attraction. No wonder it makes me feel so sick.
When the sun began to set, Tom decided he had pushed the deed as far back as he could. He took out his phone and dialed.
“You’ve reached Mercer. Leave a message.”
He stared at the screen for a while. He took a few steps around the room, stretched his legs, looked out the window at the day dying over the ghastly street. Maybe they took everyone’s phone for the time of the ceremony. He tried everything he could to be rational, but he had to accept it. For the first time in years he was worried about Mercer.
Mercer had been the oddest, the fearless character he had ever met, and he had been his friend for many years. The duo worked well. Mercer did the groundwork. He used his connections, took the path least travelled, or simply bummed around to find the most unorthodox stories, the wildest experiences, and Tom wrote about it and sold the stories. He’s the one that guided me through the catacombs that day. He’s the one that gave me the urge. An insider’s account of a cult was a great opportunity. But was it worth it?
Tom went down to the lobby to clear his mind. And have some dinner, too. That would be good. When he found himself standing alone in the restaurant area, he concluded that eating in his room would be less disturbing after all. Fifteen minutes after, the clerk mechanically entered the room with the tray, a cardboard smile drawn on his face. Tom wasn’t feeling much of an appetite anymore, but dug into it anyway. The empty plate lying away, he examined his notes once again, trying to get a pattern, a connection, some new idea that might pop up at the sight of a word, a name, a place. Nothing. And it’s giving me a freaking headache.
After a while he didn’t see the point in forcing it anymore and crashed on the bed. A damp hand caressed his forehead for a moment, rested on his chest then on the side of his body. Then the lamps started blinking, the room grew smaller, until all that was left of this town was the floral wallpaper, the buds elegantly sprouting into crimson eyes overseeing the world, scrutinizing Tom’s restless sleep.
The eyes bulged out of the wall, quivered, then quaked in splendid tremor. A thunder of feet broke the ground. Hands hammered down doors. The low growl of a pack moved around, eyeing out its prey.
What are they trampling on? Who?
The rumble moved closer, and Tom realized he wasn’t dreaming anymore. He turned on the lamp, jumped out of bed and staggered to the window, rubbing his eyes with one hand, holding the sheets over his shoulders with the other. The street was dark, but light grew in the distance, as if a world of ice was blazing miles away. And it moved. It moved along with the rumble, and it was going this way. His way.
A blue arrow of light struck a window and bounced back, then another one. The houses up the street gradually lit up, a halo of many whites and blues mirrored in the windows, the facades, slowly polluting the night. Then the faces began to pop under the lights. One, ten, a hundred. The grey-jacketed procession walked down the street in ominous silence, apart from the martial rhythm of their feet on the ground. Tom stood still at the window as the funeral march approached until he realized he was probably the only guest left in the hotel that night. He rushed to the wall and turned off the switch, then crouched back to the window, his head peeking up the wall. The drums of the feet made his heart pound in a tempo twice as fast, but still in rhythm, he noticed. When he saw the face turn to the hotel and stop, Tom felt a single drop of water running down his back. But when he saw a dozen more do the same, he almost crashed to the ground lowering himself as much as he could, staring at the floor, shivering from all his body. He turned his back against the wall and stared at the buds on the floral paper. What do they want? What are they doing?
Then a white blue flash reflected on the wall and answered him. The mad beat of a thousand strikes of pale blue light lit up the room for a full minute, the invasive snaps of the lenses ringing in Tom’s head as if they had been a feet away. Tom pinched his arm as hard as he could to cool himself down, but it didn’t do the trick. They captured it whole. He felt the hotel – and Tom – within the viewfinder, snatching the entire world away from his hands, from his control. The flashes became less frequent, until it became a sporadic occurrence, all the while Tom did his best not to get up to look at the street. When it felt like it was finally over, a loud bang crushed Tom’s hopes. The knock went on three times in a row, and Tom didn’t budge an inch and held his breath. The stranger knocked once more on the door thirty seconds later, and Tom looked around the room at everything, at the lamps, at the desk and the pens, at his luggage. I need something sharp, or something heavy. But thirty seconds more were enough to lift him off the dreadful thought when he heard the footsteps walking away in the hall.
Tom stayed there tucked around himself under the window, looking at the wall. For some reason no other place felt as secure as here, and nothing he could think of could help him think rationally. Except one thing. He took out his phone once more, took three shots before dialing the correct number then called.
“You’ve reached Mercer. Leave a message.”
“God fucking damnit,” Tom whispered to himself.
When his phone’s screen turned off, he realized the town had gone to sleep again. He crouched up halfway, took a peek at the street then stood up. The street was as silent as it could. Just a lovely small town street with its beautifully decorated houses, the local little shops, the spotless sidewalks. The perfect town to raise a family. Of course it is. Tom paced around the room, looked out the window, paced around the room, looked out the window, sat on the side of the bed, paced some more and before long a delightful lilac mitigated the darkest blues as daybreak began to shine above the little town. Tom stared out the window, rubbing his eyes as a few early risers strolled down the street carrying breakfast. He checked his phone and couldn’t believe morning was finally there, yet the thought quickly disappeared when another thought shove it away. Where is he?
Tom took a much deserved shower before reluctantly leaving the room to go into the lobby. The room was already vibrant with activity, guests coming and going, the smell of many wonderful things filling the air.
“Hello, Mr. Dermott,” the clerk said when he saw him standing aloof in the middle of the room. “How was your night?”
“Great, thanks,” Tom answered in a flash.
Haggard and confused, he stepped into the restaurant area and reached the buffet.
“Hey, Tom! Good morning!”
Tom turned around at the voice, and stared straight into Mercer’s eyes sitting at a nearby table, a delighted smile on his face. Tom hurried to him and took a seat, nervously eyeing the other guests on his way. No one is staring.
“What the fuck happened last night?” Tom whispered, leaning over the table. “I was goddamn terrified. What happened to you? I couldn’t reach you.”
“Oh, oh, slow down! Everything’s fine,” Mercer said without a glimpse of anxiety.
“No, nothing’s fine. What the hell was that march through town? I didn’t sleep a minute, Mercer.”
“Settle down,” he said, calmly putting his hand on Tom’s. “It’s okay, alright? Yes, it was one of the strangest nights of my life, but we’re good, Tom. We’ve got everything we wanted.”
“Good, because we’re leaving today. I’m not staying a minute more in this freaking lair for crazy fanatics.”
“Yeah, okay, don’t worry. It’s probably for the best anyway,” Mercer said before taking a bite. “By the way, how’s the work going? Got a good lead?”
“Well, I’ve got a few things,” Tom said watching as Mercer wiped some egg yolk from his chin. “How are you so calm?”
“It was weird, but not that terrifying, you know. You didn’t use to get so overwhelmed by a little adventure,” Mercer said smirking.
“Yeah, if you want,” Tom said, uneasy. “Anyway, let’s get out of here.”
Mercer snorted vocally, displeased to give up his breakfast like that but didn’t say a word. Both went to the lobby and Tom paid as quickly as possible while Mercer spared a few niceties with the clerk. Tom walked out of there first, hurrying to his car with his luggage in hand and the keys in the other one. He reached for the handle and looked back. Mercer was a few steps back, ambling along the walkway before the hotel until he lifted up his head, stared into Tom’s eyes and stopped.
“What are you doing?” Tom shouted.
“Just. Just one thing,” Mercer said lifting his index up.
He took his phone out of his pocket, fumbled on it for some time and aimed the viewfinder at Tom. Tom felt something creeping up his spine. Unable to move, he stood there for an eternity as Mercer took all the time in the world to reach the button. Click. Tom and Mercer stayed motionless, a half-smile eating up Mercer’s face, no words exchanged. Tom opened the door, threw his bag inside the car and sat. He looked at Mercer through the glass, at his unaffected face, his stillness carved into the quiet little town. As Tom was about to give up, Mercer nodded and walked back. Tom turned on the contact and drove out of Bellevue, Nowhere.
I had to do it. There was no other way.
And as he drove away on the small country road, all Tom could think about was the snap of the lens, the click of the photograph.
Noé Varin is a French copywriter and creative writer living in Normandy. He has published short stories in Vine Leaves Literary Journal, Galaxie Rouge and Hellbent Magazine.