Depths (4 page)

He moved slowly and deliberately, taking his time,
probably not expecting there to be an on-call night-shift security
guard. Most likely assuming any surveillance would be from
unmonitored closed-circuit cameras, which wouldn't be reviewed
until after whatever crime he was about to commit was long done and
over with, and he was far away. If the owner of the store had any
common sense, that would have been the case but no, I was the lucky
one to be on shift while a robbery was taking place inside a copy
machine store.

Was he armed? I couldn't tell. He could be stashing
a handgun in his pocket, a switchblade maybe?

Adrenaline pumped through my body. I had no idea
what to do. Should I wait until he's done and call the police? Go
and tell him to get the hell out? I had no weapons except a night
stick and pepper spray. With trembling hands, I checked to make
sure both were in their respective holsters on my belt. They
were.

The roar of the machines was unbearable, even from
inside my office, but he kept moseying about, casually flicking on
more machines, and it looked like he was actually reading the
descriptions on them.

More confused now than anything, I kept watching
him, wanting something to plug my ears. He just ambled about taking
his time, calm and composed, not in the slightest rush, but always
keeping his face turned away from the cameras. How did he know
where they were?

I wouldn't call myself a brave
person but I didn't consider myself a coward. But in this case I
figured the best course of action was to sit and wait. I checked
windows 1 and 2 again to look for a car
—
surely he must have drove something
if he
’
s going to steal a copy
machine
—
that I could describe to the
police but I saw none.

And how the hell did he even get in? I would've
heard glass breaking and the doors were locked. If he could pick a
lock then why would he be trying to break into a copy machine
store, apparently not even to steal money, but instead going for a
copy machine? It made no sense.

That goddamn racket
…
It was too much, and yet he was oblivious to it,
exploring all corners of the sales floor, until he finally
stopped.

He stood in the middle of an aisle
towards the front corner of the store opposite of my office, only
this time he wasn't looking at a machine. He stood there motionless
for quite some time before he started shifting around, nervousness
maybe? Realizing he might be being watched? I could only see the
back of his head so I couldn
’
t tell. Very
deliberately, he turned around, staring directly into the camera on
window 5 and my heart stopped.

He flashed a smile and nodded his head, daring
whoever was watching to come out and face him. Only I was looking
at my own face on window 5. An empty stare and sinister smile
straight into the camera. I slapped my face to make sure I wasn't
seeing things. It stung and he was still there and hadn't moved at
all. Just staring and smiling.

Stunned, I watched myself, my
doppelg
ä
nger, turn to look again at
another copy machine. I didn't know what model it was, but it was
bigger than most of the other ones in the store. He turned it on, a
new instrument in the infernal orchestra, screaming in fury over
the pulsing beat of the other machines, and lifted the lid laying
his lower right arm on the glass. Letting the lid rest on top, he
pushed the
“
Copy
”
button.

The page printed and he set it on
top of the machine next to him on his right. He then laid the upper
section of his arm on the glass and pressed the
“
Copy
”
button, once
again taking the page and laying it on top of the other page when
it had finished. He repeated this with his left arm, his head and
face, even lying on top of the machine to copy his chest, waist,
upper and lower legs and finally his feet, setting each new page on
top of the last.

Transfixed by this bizarre
behavior, I couldn't help but stare. I hadn't the slightest clue as
to what the hell was going on. The blare of the mechanical
concerto
combined with
the flashing lights of the copiers made it impossible to
concentrate.

After he finished copying his
feet, he picked up his stack of papers and straightened them
neatly. He picked up the pages with his freshly made copies of each
foot, blew on them and shook th
em out
, almost like someone would
shake clothes after taking them out of the dryer. He glanced back
at the camera a final time, as if to make sure I was still
watching, and then turned his back to me, blocking my view
of
…
Whatever he was doing.

Thoroughly confused now, but no longer afraid, I
rose from my little office chair and composed myself. My eyes had
to be playing tricks on me. There was clearly someone in the store
but it wasn't possible to be watching myself do it.

Not. Possible.

I started towards the door to get
into the store room but stopped. He was staring into the camera
again. No smile this time though. Malevolent, cold eyes replaced
the once hollow stare and toothy smile. Fresh apprehension grew
from the pit of my stomach, radiating through the rest of my body,
as I put my hand on the door knob and slowly twisted. I glanced one
last time at my monitor; he hadn't moved. That stoic,
cold stare
burned through the screen, chilling me to my core. He
was
daring
me to
come out.

The store room was dimly lit by only one flickering
light on the ceiling and the toxic green glow of buttons on the
machines. Twisted, dancing shadows cavorted around the room,
off-beat with the rhythmic din of copiers. The never-ending
movement and strobing light manifested dread and anxiety in the pit
of my stomach.

I crept through the maze of copy
machines, trying to keep my eyes focused on my
doppelg
ä
nger
through the flickering light and army of shadows.
My eyes needed to readjust each time the bulb flashed on. I tried
to work my way as carefully as possible through the aisles,
unsuccessfully attempting to avoid knocking into anything in the
unsteady light, lest I make a sound and give away my position.
Realizing the tactic wasn't working so well, I popped the clasp on
my holster and gripped my nightstick.

He kept his back to me, his figure swelling and
shrinking with every pulse of light. His shadow doubled and
multiplied, casting his figure all throughout the room, copulating
with the other jagged shadows that encircled me.

I was close, in the same aisle as
him, maybe twenty-five feet away. I unholstered my nightstick,
drawing closer
…
Closer. His arms were a
blur, frantically trying to complete whatever hellish task he was
attempting, shaking papers out, bending down like he was stacking
something.

As I closed in, fifteen feet away
at most, he abruptly stopped. I was sure he could hear my heart
frantically trying to escape from my ribcage. With
h
is back still facing
me,
he held out the last copy he made. His
unforgivingly cold grimace, made all the more grotesque by the
rough uneven photocopy, stained the page.

The lights flicked off again, my
stomach dropped and I instinctively raised my nightstick, expecting
him to rush at me in the dark. The lights flicked back on and I was
met again with his frigid stare. My own face looking back at me,
and without breaking eye contact, he blew a breath onto the page
and shook it out. He then raised his right arm and plunged his
hand
into
the
paper.

His arm slid into the sheet,
changing into the same black and white gradient as the copy itself
as he reached in. He grasped the top of his copied head by the
hair.
Grasped
it,
like the image inside was a solid object, and pulled ever so
gently.

The now blank piece of paper fluttered to the ground
as he held his own duplicated head, now in color, in his hand. Dark
medium-length brown hair, strong jaw line, long thin nose. An exact
duplicate, eyes rolled back in their sockets, mouth agape.

I now realized what he had been doing the whole
time.

My nightstick dropped from my hand and my legs
locked in place. With a smirk, he stepped to the side, revealing a
headless body exactly the same size and stature as my own. He
gently rested the head on the neck of the body, my body, and
adjusted it as one would a crooked picture frame.

Satisfied it was in place, he clapped his hands once
and the duplicate snapped to life. It rolled its neck and I could
hear the bones cracking. It stretched out, fresh joints popping and
aligning themselves into place. The eyes opened and looked around,
finally coming to rest on me. The duplicate looked exactly like my
imposter and I except for one thing: the eyes were brown. The
duplicate looked at me for a moment before mechanically turning
away towards another copy machine, and began to repeat the same
process as the first imposter had. The imposter watched for a
moment and looked back at me with satisfaction in his eyes, the
symphony swelling as a new machine joined the orchestra.

The pages stacked up as the duplicate copied each
part of its body at a dizzying pace. When it was finished it
organized the papers neatly and took the page with its foot copied
on it, blew on it, shook it out and reached into the page to pull
the foot out and sat it on the floor. It continued with this ritual
until a new duplicate was made, exactly the same as its
predecessor, only about a foot shorter.

Clap!

It too jolted to life, looked about and moved onto
another copy machine, its predecessor already starting on a new
duplicate.

All I could do was watch,
petrified, as more and more of me emerged from the papers, each one
slightly different from the last. Before long there were dozens,
each moving onto a new copy machine and multiplying by the minute.
My doppelg
ä
nger simply observed the
process, surveying the duplicate
’
s work
like a manager while the hectic
sonata
of scurrying footsteps
multiplied, a scattered fusion-jazz tempo of clunking and
stomping.

The lights flickered off once more, the room
illuminated by only the cancerous-green glow of buttons. The
hurried footsteps had stopped, melding into a synchronized march as
the duplicates lined up around me.

The lights flashed back on I was greeted with the
sight of hordes of duplicates, each more twisted and distorted than
the last, frozen in place with all eyes fixed on me. Some had
blonde hair, some black and one even had red hair. Some were
taller, others shorter. Some with rounder noses some with hooked
bird-beak noses. It seemed that as the copies progressed, a copy of
a copy of a copy, that they became more and more warped. Some were
even missing eyes, ears and mouths. The heads became oddly shaped,
elongated or squashed, but regardless of how each one appeared,
they were all looking towards me.

The true
doppelg
ä
nger emerged from the ranks and
stood front and center, just feet away. I could have reached out to
touch him if I hadn't been paralyzed.

He took one step towards me and my
legs buckled from under me while
my vision faded slowly to black.
Crumpled on the floor, in my last moments of consciousness, I
could make out the original imposter crouching over my body,
staring soullessly into my eyes.

“
Sir?
Hello
? Sir?
”

I snapped awake as something nudged me on the
shoulder. I was propped against the wall in an awkward position and
had an awful kink in my neck. I opened my eyes, my fuzzy vision
slowly coming back into focus.

“
Sir?
”

I looked towards the voice. My imposter stood
staring at me, black holes where the eyes used to be. He lent
towards me and smiled.

I jumped backwards, knocking my head on the wall.
Wincing, I opened my eyes again and saw the baker from the doughnut
shop, gawking at me with his arms raised up in defense, startled by
my jolting away from him. My imposter was nowhere in sight.

“
Sir, are you alright? You've been
out for awhile.
”

Shit! How long had I been out? Was I late?

“
What time is it?
”
I asked of him.

“
About 3:30,
”
he responded, looking down at his watch, still clearly
bewildered.

I jumped from my seat and rushed
out of the doughnut shop and got into my car. I grabbed my phone
from my pocket and started the engine with my other hand. I had
five missed calls and one voice mail from
her
. I squealed through the parking
lot and onto the street, trying to e
ntering in my voice mail password
and nearly getting hit by an oncoming suburban merging
in
to my left lane.

“
One unheard message. To listen to
your messages, please press one...
”

I really would like to see the person who does the
voice for those recordings, just to see if she looks as annoying as
she sounds.

“
Hey, you haven't answered the
last five times I've called you. Is everything OK? Call me back
when you get this. I won't be able to see you today since
it
’s so late but maybe we can reschedule?
Just call me when you get this,
”
she
paused a moment before continuing,
“
I'm
starting to worry about you.
”