Ambulance

"I haven't told you about this in our previous sessions but I've been having this recurring dream. Nightmare, really. I'm an EMT - which is totally weird given my issues with needles, and well, my, um, general queasiness in the area of bodily fluids, I guess you'd say - and I'm in an ambulance, sirens wailing, on our way to the hospital with a patient and, well, it's me, I mean, the patient, it looks like me, except… It isn't human." Peter Peregrin took a deep breath and waited for his therapist to comment.

"Did you say 'isn't human'?" Dr. Rhodes asked.

"Not human," Peter said.

"Right. Not human." Dr. Rhodes nodded a practiced, thoughtful nod. "Go on."

"So, I bang on the glass partition to get the driver's attention and, well, that's me, too," Peter said. "The driver."

"You're the EMT, the ambulance driver, and the patient, except for the patient not being human, of course, so maybe you are and maybe you aren't," Dr. Rhodes said.

"Yeah, is that weird?" Peter asked.

"Well, 'weird' isn't a clinical term we like to use in the brain business," Dr. Rhodes said, using his hands to make air quotes as he said "brain business." He smiled. "Also, it's a dream so weird is kind of baked in."

"Right," Peter said, finding no  solace or reassurance in Dr. Rhodes' colloquial assessment of the nightmare that had been playing on repeat for more than a week now.

"What happened next?" Dr. Rhodes asked.

"Well, Driver Me was shocked to see EMT Me. We both said - simultaneously - 'Peter, is that you? Are you me? And who is that?' Who is meaning the patient. The Not Human Me."

"Interesting," Dr. Rhodes said.

"Interesting?" Peter asked.

"The Not Human Me, er, You. He looks like you? What is it about him that makes you so sure that he isn't human?"

"Well," Peter said. "He had suffered multiple GSW."

"GSW?" Dr. Rhodes asked.

"Gunshot wounds. I, uh, watch too much TV, I guess. Too much TV with gunshot wounds, anyway. There were maybe twelve or more bullet holes oozing blood. But he's lying on the gurney completely relaxed, breathing easily, he's alert, his pulse strong and steady."

"That sounds unusual but on the scale of Weird to Not Human, I'm still leaning toward Weird," Dr. Rhodes said.

"His blood was green," Peter said.

"I stand corrected," Dr. Rhodes said.

"Then, the bullets start popping up out of the wounds and the wounds close up, like he was the Hulk or something," Peter said.

"Well, except for the green blood, it sounds a little more Wolverine than Hulk to me, but, go on," Dr. Rhodes said.

"What do you mean?" Peter asked.

"Well," Dr. Rhodes said. He took a deep breath and let it out. "Bullets would just bounce off the Hulk's skin so they couldn't pop out of him because they were never in him. Wolverine, on the other hand, could be shot but would then regenerate or heal himself, with the bullets being forced out of his wounds in much the way you saw in your dream."

"Is that important?" Peter asked.

"Probably not," Dr. Rhodes said. "Then what happened?"

"Well, the Not Human Me sat up," Peter began but was interrupted by Dr. Rhodes' watch beep-beep-beeping, cutting him off.

"Oh, well, I'm afraid we're out of time for today," Dr. Rhodes said. 

Dr. Rhodes' waiting room was nearly as spare as his office; abstract and geometric. As Peter was leaving he saw the stunning woman who had the appointment after his. Peter thought she was about his age, plus or minus a few years. She was always well dressed, usually - like today - in a business suit with a jacket and pants. Her short, auburn hair was neatly styled and what little makeup she wore was expertly done. She stood as Peter exited the office and was every inch as tall as Peter. If anything, he felt a little intimidated by her. He took a deep breath, determined to honor the promise he had made to himself to speak to her, forced a smile and said, "We meet again."

"Excuse me?" the woman said, in a supremely detached, uninterested tone.

Peter had learned long ago that explaining a joke never made it funny. "Just saying, um, nothing, really," he said. He paused, wondering if silence was ever anything other than awkward. He had suffered rejection many times before but it had never got easier. "Well, goodbye," he said and left as quickly as possible, relieved to make it to the door without stumbling.

*****

Peter sat at the small table in Starbucks and picked at the crumbs of what had been a chocolate croissant. He went to Starbucks after his sessions with Dr. Rhodes to collect his thoughts, to try to make sense of it, whatever it was that was bothering him. Therapy isn't doing me as much good as butter and chocolate, he thought. 

"We meet again."

Peter looked up to see the stunning woman from Dr. Rhodes' office. He opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. 

"How many of those have you had?"

Peter followed her eyes to his plate of chocolate croissant crumbs. "Just the one," he managed.

"Assuming you came here directly from your appointment with Dr. Rhodes, I have to ask: Just one chocolate croissant in an hour? That's the kind of discipline someone who needs to see a shrink on a daily basis rarely possesses," she smiled just enough to let him know she was kidding.

Peter nodded. "Well, I suppose you would know," he said, returning the smile.

"Touche," the woman said. "I prefer the blueberry scones, myself."

Peter sensed an invitation in the stunning woman's declaration of her preference for blueberry scones. "Would you care to join me?" He stood. "My name is Peter. Peter Peregrin. The first scone is on me."

"Nice to meet you, Peter Peter Peregrin," she said with a smile that twinkled in her eyes. "Grace Dennison. Thank you." She pulled out the chair and sat down.

"Something to drink with your blueberry scone?" Peter asked.

"A chai tea latte would be lovely," Grace said.

When Peter returned, Grace was in her phone which she put, face down on the table as Peter set the tea and pastry in front of her. "Thank you," she said. 

Peter nodded at the phone on the table and said, "Work?"

"Life," Grace answered in a voice that spoke of other attachments. Her answer shattered his nascent romantic fantasy like a stone through a window. She broke off a tiny piece of scone and popped it in her mouth, washing it down with a sip of her tea. "So, tell me Peter Peter Peregrin, who are you, really?"

Peter was struck by the realization that it was a question he was afraid to answer. He took a sip of what was left of his coffee. "It's just Peter Peregrin."

"Of course it is," Grace said. 

"Some jokes get old really fast," Peter said.

"And some jokes are funny every time, Peter Peter," Grace said. "Are you sure your last name isn't Pumpkin Eater?"

"Very funny," Peter said.

"I'm not sure you're being honest with me," Grace said. "I don't think you thought that was funny at all."

Peter nodded. "Okay, Grace Dennison," he said. "Who are you, really?"

"I'm a spy," Grace said.

Peter expected her declaration to be punctuated by a smile but Grace's face was still and serious. He waited for the laugh and the "Just kidding!" punch line but it didn't come.

"I see," Peter said. "Am I in danger?"

"Yes," Grace said. "But not from me."

Peter felt himself drifting. The edges of his vision were blurry but he noticed Grace nodding and turned to see the man at the next table as he got larger and taller. Peter felt the man's shadow engulf him as he heard Grace say, "Get him out of here." Then everything was black and silent.

*****

After seeing his last patient for the day, Dr. Rhodes locked his door and returned to his office. He opened the top desk drawer, removed a small, strawberry red metallic orb about an inch and a half in diameter, and set it on the desktop. He tapped it twice and it emitted a faint, pink glow. "Status 2228.02X21," he began.

"Re: Project Subtext, Subject 109, aka Peter Peregrin. Subject 109 is dangerously close to full illumination. From his first, highly symbolic dreams involving the giant spiders that capture and cocoon him, through his dinner party dreams where everyone speaks French except for him, to the prescient and specifically described  'not human' patient in the recurring ambulance dreams, 109 demonstrates a progression toward a full understanding of exactly what has been happening to him. 

"Recommendation: Initiate 109's termination scenario, immediately."

*****

Peter woke up in what appeared to be the typical, half-finished suburban basement of a typical suburban home. He sat up on the couch where he'd been… sleeping? Passed out? He surveyed the room. Hot water heater in the corner, a rowing machine next to it, fuse box on the far wall, a portable dehumidifier plugged in and humming, shelves filled with boxes of middle American stuff.

"He's awake."

The man's voice startled him. He turned to look to his left and saw the Large Tall Man from Starbucks. His hair was long and tied back and his face was all sharp edges. The pale gray sweatshirt he wore strained to contain his shoulders. Standing next to him was Grace Dennison.

Peter tried to stand up and immediately thought better of it as the room began to swirl around him like an abstract calliope with water heaters instead of plaster horses. He sat down and focused all his energy on not throwing up. "You drugged me."

"I thought you said he wasn't all that smart," the Large Tall Man said.

"A firm grasp of the obvious doesn't require genius," Grace said.

Peter took a deep breath. The room began to slow and finally came to a full stop. "I don't know why you've done this."

"This, Peter Peter?" Grace said.

"Kidnapped me," Peter said.

"His name is Peter Peter?" the Large Tall Man asked. "I'd never forgive my parents for something like that."

"You must have the wrong guy. I'm not rich," Peter said. "I'm not famous. I don't know anything. I'm a line cook at the Olive Garden on the mall. I'm literally nobody." Someone was pounding a drum in his head. "And it's not Peter Peter! It's just Peter!"

Grace laughed. "Funny every time."

A splash of cymbals joined the drumming. "If you're going to kill me, why don't you just get it over with!" 

Peter instantly regretted his outburst. It was a line from a TV show or a movie, but which one? Why did he care which one? It was something the hero played by Brad Pitt would say, not something he would say. 

Grace laughed again, louder and longer this time. "Kill you?"

"We saved your life," the Large Tall Man said.

"Saved my life? From what? Who?" Were those trombones blaring in his frontal lobe? "What are you talking about? What is going on?"

"He's not ready," the Large Tall Man said.

"We don't have time to wait," Grace said.

The Large Tall Man nodded. "Okay," he said.

"Dr. Rhodes is not who you think he is," Grace said. "You're not his patient; you're his crash test dummy. You're an abductee, Peter."

"Dr. Rhodes is an alien," the Large Tall Man said.

"You were first taken on May 6, 2016. And again on April 20, 2018. And again December 7, 2019. And most recently on October 12, 2021. They've been studying you," Grace said.

"And the others, of course," the Large Tall Man said. 

"Our current intelligence assessment is that they're gathering intelligence, preparing for a full scale invasion," Grace said.

"This isn't happening," Peter mumbled.

"It is happening and I think you know what we're saying is true. I think you're starting to realize the truth about what happened to you. What's still happening to you," Grace said and paused. "The alien in the ambulance is Dr. Rhodes," she said.

"I don't - Wait! How do you know about my dream?" Peter asked.

Grace smiled. "I'm a spy," she said. "Don't you remember?"

Peter wasn't sure what to believe. Maybe this, too, was a dream? "It doesn't make sense," he said. "Why would aliens abduct me of all people. I mean, I don't know anything about the military or defense policies or anything. I'm not even that good of a cook, for God's sake."

"You're near-sighted, a little overweight, with a family medical history that is less than promising," Grace said. "You're pre-diabetic and you have an incipient drinking problem. Using alcohol to drown out that little voice in your head is not an uncommon reaction among abductees, though I think you had a head start before you were taken."

"I have been thinking about cutting back on the vodka," Peter said. "Wait! How do you - Oh, right. Spy. But you're hardly making the case for alien invaders abducting me, of all people."

"You think the people running the world are different from you," Grace said. "They aren't. Not in the most important, elemental aspects of being human." 

"Most of them have drinking problems, too. Well, all manner of substance abuse, really," the Large Tall Man said.

"People are people," Grace said. "As difficult as it is for most of us to accept that."

Peter felt his head splitting open. "So. What? Aliens abducting me is just a case of my dumb, fucked up luck?" 

"You said it yourself," the Large Tall Man said. "You're nobody."

"Both parents dead. No siblings. No wife or girlfriend," Grace said.

"No husband or boyfriend," the Large Tall Man said with a sly smile and a wink at Peter.

"That's sweet but you're really, really not my type," Peter said.

"No significant romantic entanglements," Grace said. The Large Tall Man nodded his approval. Grace continued. "No children. No friends. Your neighbors don't know your first name and only know your last name because you put it on your mailbox."

"It would be sad if not for the big picture," the Large Tall Man said.

"Big picture?" Peter asked.

"The extinction level event of an alien invasion," the Large Tall Man said.

"Your nobody status makes it much easier to dispose of you in the event you become aware - as you have begun to - of what's actually happening," Grace said.

"It isn't an ambulance," the Large Tall Man said. "It's an alien spacecraft."

"In the meantime, the aliens have been learning from you and dozens of other abductees what it is that makes humans tick, how we think, our emotional and intellectual frameworks, and from that, what techniques they could use to manipulate us. To foment unrest and distrust in our public institutions. To make us believe we're oppressed, imprisoned, ready to see them not as conquerors but as liberators," Grace said.

"Then why don't they just get FaceBook accounts?" Peter asked.

"You're assuming Zuckerberg is human," Grace said. "He isn't. Not any more, anyway."

"If he ever was," the Large Tall Man said.

"I still don't get it," Peter said.

"You are a veritable petri dish of paranoia," the Large Tall Man said. 

"I was going to go with cornucopia," Grace said to the Large Tall Man, "but I appreciate the alliteration."

Look who's talking, Peter thought. His head had stopped throbbing and his stomach had settled. The stairs that led up and out of the basement were blocked by the Large Tall Man. There was a bulkhead door off to his right but he still wasn't sure if he could stand up without falling on his face, let alone make a run for it. 

"And this is how you get me, the petri dish of paranoia, to trust you?" Peter asked. "By abducting the abductee? Am I the only one seeing the irony in all of this?"

"Tough times," the Large Tall Man said. "Tough choices."

"We had to act," Grace said. "Dr. Rhodes was going to kill you."

"And eat you," the Large Tall Man said.

Peter took a chance and stood up. So far, so good, he thought, as the floor remained steadfastly under his feet this time. "I don't mean to be ungrateful and I'm touched by your concern for my well being so thanks and all but I really should be going now."

The Large Tall Man and Grace exchanged a look.

"You were right," the Large Tall Man said. "He isn't very bright, is he?"

"There's no going back to your previous life," Grace said. "You can leave, but, if you do, you'll be killed."

"And eaten," the Large Tall Man said.

"You seem disturbingly fixated on the post mortem dinner menu aspect of whatever it is that this is," Peter said.

"I missed lunch," the Large Tall Man said.

Peter nodded. "So, how do I know you aren't aliens, yourself? In league with Dr. Rhodes. And all this theater is just part of, well, I have no idea what this is."

Grace nodded at the Large Tall Man who produced a knife, and deftly used the point of the blade to prick his finger. He showed the crimson bubble on his fingertip to Peter. "Red blood."

"I think I'm going to be sick," Peter said, looking away, bending over slightly, covering his eyes with his right hand.

"Really?" the Large Tall Man said. "The mere sight of blood makes you sick? Oh, boy!" 

"It's called vasovagal syncope," Peter said, struggling to maintain consciousness as he spoke. "It's an actual thing. I suppose you make fun of people in wheelchairs, too."

"Wow. Really? You want to compare your plight to that of someone confined to a wheelchair? You really are quite the snowflake, aren't you?" The Large Tall Man turned to Grace and said, "What isn't wrong with this guy? Are you sure he can help? Maybe he's a catch and release."

"He'd be dead in a day," Grace said. "Besides, we could use a cook."

"We could use a five star Michelin chef," the Large Tall Man said. "Not a line cook - and a not very good one by his own admission - working at a faux Italian restaurant chain."

His nausea abated, Peter said, "Shouldn't the military be handling this? Doesn't the Pentagon have an 800 number we can call or something?"

"Who do you think I'm spying for?" Grace said.

"There are no civilians when it comes to fighting a war to save the planet," the Large Tall Man said. "Kind of obvious but apparently you need to hear it."

"Think of us as the underground," Grace said.

This has got to be a dream, Peter thought. He slapped himself hard, nearly losing his balance.

"This ain't 'The Matrix'," the Large Tall Man said. "And while you are kind of cute you are definitely not Keanu Reeves."

"Like I said before," Peter said, rubbing his jaw, "Really, really not my type. No offense. I mean, like Grace said. People are people."

The Large Tall Man shrugged. "Your loss."

"Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater," Grace said. "Are you in or are you out?"

Peter took a deep breath. "I'm no hero."

"You could be," Grace said. 

"It's a choice," the Large Tall Man said. "Not a birthright."

A choice? Peter thought. Had he ever made a choice in his entire life? Other than doing what he thought others wanted him to do? And what had come of that? He felt as if his life was a leaf floating on a slowly rolling river, spinning in an eddy, going nowhere even as the river flowed onward to the sea.

"Look at it this way," Grace said. "You'll be dead, either way."

"You never worked in sales, did you?" Peter said.

"How about this?" Grace said. "You might get a high school named after you. Or maybe even a battleship."

"I thought battleships were named after states," Peter said.

"A destroyer, then," Grace said. "Or a submarine."

"A bridge," the Large Tall Man said. "An airport. A government building. The possibilities are endless. Not literally endless, of course. Metaphorically endless."

"How's that for a sales pitch?" Grace said.

Peter found himself wishing his parents had named him Achilles, or Hercules, or Perceval, or anything that hinted at something heroic inside himself, something that sounded better than Peter Peregrin Middle School.

Peter took a deep breath and made his choice. "Where do we start?" 

The Large Tall Man patted his stomach. "I'm starving. How about supper?"