//------------------------------// // Chapter 3 // Story: Words of Power // by Starscribe //------------------------------// Eric was only a few minutes late to work that morning.  Who could blame him—he'd been in an accident the day before, leaving his torso covered with a blossoming bouquet of black bruises. Then instead of getting any rest, he'd stayed up to care for the animal he hit. He thought, anyway. Kent could blame him, as it turned out. He'd barely made it out onto the line, gloves and safety-goggles in place, before Kent came marching down from the breakroom steps, past the three other packaging lines. He ignored the other workers, who recoiled from his steps as he approached. Eric pretended he didn't see him coming, turning to the controls and getting the product flowing. Thousands of identical brown potatoes began bouncing his way, tumbling through the sorter and onto the packaging line. The noise was incredible—even Kent would have a hard time shouting for too long over the din of his line added to all the others. He felt a hand on his shoulder a few seconds later. "Eric. There were get-well doughnuts in the breakroom this morning. Didn't see you." He winced, but didn't turn around. "I'll have mine for lunch, thanks boss. Didn't get a chance to pack one." The man said nothing for a few seconds, looking him over. "And you're sure you don't have... a concussion, internal bleeding, anything you should be worried about?" "Sure," Eric said. Except that I've been seeing and hearing impossible things. Was that even a symptom of concussions? He didn't remember. "Sure as I can be. Wasn't even bleeding after the accident, just bruised from the airbag. The animal got it worse than I did." "Deer?" Kent asked. "I thought you grew up in Livingston. You should know about the deer. It's the right season, just before hunting starts." He nodded without reply, starting the packaging machine. One by one, identical cardboard crates meant for supermarket distribution dropped into place, filled with produce, and rolled away.  "We'll talk at lunch. Adriana down in receivables used to be a nurse. You should let her have a look at you." He didn't wait for Eric's response—despite his words, it wasn't actually a question. But coming from the boss, this was surprisingly understanding.  For a while Eric just worked, trying to settle back into his familiar routine. His last night was a total anomaly of impossible things, but the sun still rose in the morning, his car still drove, and work was still waiting. The dust would clear from all of this in time, and he would be back to his life.  But the longer his shift continued, the more conscious Eric became of his coworkers watching him. They spoke very little from across the factory—no one could leave their station while on duty, and his position at the top of the line meant there was no one else within easy speaking distance. A few shouted in his direction, confirming he'd been in an accident and that he was still doing okay. That was all. But they still stared. Eric wasn't exactly sure why at first. Maybe the factory felt a little cooler than usual—he wasn't sweating after the first hour on shift. Why should that make a difference? Was anyone going to question the hat he'd worn to work? Maybe in some parts of the US people would complain—but this was Montata. Not even Kent had said a word. He didn't really see any problem until near the very end of the shift, when he reached up to dispense the next produce box, swept his hand through the air, and didn't catch the lever. He froze, momentarily baffled by what was suddenly not there. Eric went through that same motion hundreds of times every shift, so much so that he sometimes felt like part of the machinery. How could he miss it? He extended his arm, and found it didn't quite reach comfortably anymore. He was sitting lower in the seat than he should be. Instead of perfectly at eye level, he was inclined slightly up to see the screen. He leaned forward to reach the lever, pulled it, and it responded as usual. Even so, he was counting seconds until the lunch bell, his heart racing in his chest. Something was seriously wrong. It had to be his brain—he couldn't think of any non-fatal accident that could leave him feeling shorter the next day. Something was wrong here. He was out of his seat the second the lunch bell echoed through the room, along with Kent's voice over the speaker. "Thirty minutes, everybody. Make them count." Once this bell came as the handoff between shifts—since the pandemic, there were barely enough employees to fill every line. John from the line over waved him to a growing circle of the other equipment-operators. Instead of a relief to finally have someone to talk to, Eric felt only dread. He bolted for the door, practically sprinting across the factory. As he did, something came free of his right leg, making his steps suddenly uneven. He kept going anyway, so he was the first one to reach the hall. Except there was someone waiting for him. Adriana lingered in the hallway, just behind the painted yellow safety lines. She looked up from her phone as he emerged, mouth hanging open. "Eric? Oh God, you look awful." He didn't slow down to ask what she meant, blazing around the corner. He ignored the men and women's restrooms, going straight to the single handicapped door between them. There were no other stalls inside, just a private space where he could catch his breath and try to figure out what was happening. Only when the door clicked closed could he finally breathe. Eric lifted his goggles, which were barely clinging to his face to begin with. He advanced on the mirror, and felt his other shoe slip off. He stared back into the bathroom mirror, transfixed by what he saw. The face was almost unrecognizable. His hair was simultaneously changing gray in some parts and  bright purple in an alternating pattern. His features were wrong somehow, softer and smaller than he remembered. His eyes definitely shouldn’t look that violet. "What the hell is happening to me?" He touched up against the mirror, with one hand, barely even high enough to reach the glass. Through his work gloves, his fingers felt strange, numb while simultaneously pinching the fabric. He yanked both gloves to the floor, and found only something worse waiting underneath.  Before his eyes, his fingers were fusing together. It should've been agonizing, but he felt no pain. Not physical pain, anyway. His pants finally slipped down to his socks, the belt no longer remotely tight enough to hold them up. At the rate he was going, he wouldn't need them soon anyway—his boxers were already long enough to cover his knees. I'm at least a foot shorter. Eric fumbled to the ground, then dug through his pants with numb fingers. He removed car keys, wallet, and finally his phone. Broken or not, this was his only way to call for help. He set it down on the sink, cradling it carefully. It was already heavily damaged—one more good bump might make an end of the abused machine. He stopped short of actually using it, though. He stopped on his contacts, hesitating over the "911" button always poised on the top of the screen. But what was he supposed to tell them? Help, I'm reliving the plot of Kafka's Metamorphosis in real time! I got into a car accident and now my physical form is melting! It can't be real, he decided. It didn't matter that there were strange feelings across his whole body now. His back ached, and somewhere just about his ass was worse, and now that he stared, he couldn't mistake a thin layer of hair growing on his skin everywhere he looked. It moved slowly, just like everything else. But it had probably been going for hours now. It's not real. It was the only possible conclusion. His accident had damaged his brain—ever since the impact, he'd seen impossible things. Now the damage was getting worse, because he hadn't gone to the hospital.  I need to get help. There had to be a treatment for concussions. At the very least, moving around when his body was so obviously damaged was not a good idea. His shirt slipped off one shoulder, revealing a chest that was several layers of impossible. Short hair, vanishing muscles, and a curious absence of the dark bruises and swelling he'd seen in the shower that morning. This is not how one heals from an accident! A sharp knocking dislodged Eric from his own thoughts, a tentative rapping of knuckles on the metal door. Adriana's voice echoed from the other side, sounding distressed. "Eric, are you in there? John said you weren't in the men's room. If something's wrong, we need to get you to a hospital. Don't let Kent talk you into another shift." He needed the money. But Eric needed to be alive to use that money. "Yeah!" he called back. His voice sounded nothing like it should—too high, almost musical. He coughed, cleared his throat, then spoke as low as he could. "I think... you might be right. Feel like shit." "Sounds like it," she said, growing bolder. But this was Adriana. They'd been at the same factory for the last three years, one of the few at work besides himself who had ambitions beyond the factory. "Open the door, Eric. Whatever's wrong, you're just making it worse by waiting." She was right, obviously. At least his mind wasn't broken enough to see that. She doesn't have a head injury. I can trust whatever she sees, without having to worry that it's distorted.  "Sure, one sec! Let me compose myself." He took one dark look at his jeans, then struggled to lift them back to his waist. His balance faltered as he worked, and he had to clutch the mobility support bar near the toilet to keep from falling. But the problem wasn't with his balance exactly, it was his feet. His socks clung stubbornly, held up by a growing layer of hair—but he couldn't feel his toes anymore. Whatever nightmare was taking place below him was thus confined to his imagination for a little while longer. Less so was the tail emerging from behind him, which was no longer confined to his pants. He felt it before he saw it, a sensation of motion that conformed to no limb he should've had. Except obviously he did have this one, as it swished back and forth, trailing more gray and purple hair along behind it. No—not gray, stark white.  I'm not seeing this, I'm not feeling this. It's all in my head.  "Hurry up!" Adriana urged. "You know we've got the same breaks, right? It's a twenty minute drive to Livingston General, one way." He was feeling it. How could he not feel the comically large ears growing fully above his head now, which moved even as he thought about them. That wasn't human. Nothing about his current condition was human. Finally he had the pants on, his belt tightened to the last loop, or he tried. There was no way he would get that tail into his trousers no matter how much he tried to force it. He must look incredibly silly in reality, a human adult dressed like a child had stolen his father's clothes. Then he reached the door, and unlocked it. That took several seconds on its own, with two oversized fingers that barely moved independently anymore. He stopped with one hand on the handle, but didn't open the door quite yet. "I think I'm hallucinating," he began. "I must be. These symptoms are impossible." "Hallucinations aren't unheard-of for brain injuries," Adriana said. "John and Mike are here too. We'll get you out to my car and off to the emergency room." Eric felt his wallet cry out in silent agony at those two words. A week's wages would vanish in a puff of smoke, if he was lucky. He couldn't even hide his wallet and lie about his name, not when everyone in town knew his face. Well, they knew his real face. Not the one he was imagining. "Move your ass, Eric," John said, without any of Adriana's compassion. "If you pass out in there, I don't have a key. Hurry up." He shoved his shoulder against the heavy metal door, and it swung open. Eric scrambled out into the hall, nearly toppling over his loosening socks as he did so. He stopped directly in front of Adriana, who was now about a head taller than him. A half-dozen of his colleagues gathered in the hall, not just John and Mike. Not a single one made a sound, staring at him with unreadable, dark expressions. "I must be hallucinating," he finished. "I'm seeing things that aren't there. Kinda feels like I'm the one who got hit by my car." Adriana's eyes moved rapidly over his body. She reached out, then touched the silvery horn still emerging from Eric's forehead. It alone hadn't changed size, and was now as long as his head was tall. He could somehow feel warm skin through the hard surface.  She pulled it back quickly, swearing loudly. Someone else joined in. "What the hell are you?"