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“Cleo, if you receive this message, I am dead.”
The faint buzzing of the tape continues. A low hum that makes the voice coming from the audio player seem almost robotic in nature.
“I hope that you never have to hear this. I wish that we had never had to separate,” a wry laugh echoes, tinged with that faint electronic outline that hadn’t existed in his voice, not in person. “It was a dumb idea. You told me as much. But we were so desperate…”
A pale finger stretches out, clicking the pause button on the player.
There is a knocking at the door. It is ignored.
The blinds have been drawn, broken and tangled as they are. They're rolled down regretfully over the grimy window, off-white plastic covering the glass panes. The glass is warm to the touch.
The floorboards creak minutely. There is nowhere to stand where they won’t. The aged wood is bowing and warped, rotted in some places, damp and crumbling. The small television set is resting carefully in the centre of the room, on a metal stand with rusted screws and dented legs.
The only light in the room comes from the screen, which glitters with the black-and-white static that haunts her dreams. It cannot be turned off. She will not turn it off.
Underneath, a tape has been carefully inserted into an audio player.
There are two people in the room. Neither is the recorder.
A click.
The tape resumes.
“I hope, if you’re listening to this, that you’re safe. That he’s safe, too. That was the plan, but I guess I’ve learned by now that my plans never work out—” The audio recording fizzles with the sound of muffled coughing. The voice returns, hoarse. “I think I’m closing in on the end now. It’s a shame. I really thought— well, we did such a good job staying alive for so long.”
A tapping noise, not from the audio tape. A finger drumming nervously on the metal stand. No rhythm to the noise. It replaces the sharp knocks that are now drumming on the window, having moved from the door.
“Probably a little gross to record my own death,” the recorder says musingly, “but you never really had an issue with gruesome stuff. I hope that extends to my unfortunate demise, as well. Nevertheless, I want this to be running when I… well, when I kick it. Hopefully, Beef manages to get this tape to you— he knows what’s happening.”
A pause. The knocking grows louder.
“I want you to know that I’m dead. For sure. I need you to have the proof. Beef probably could have just written out a note to you, but we all know you’re a skeptic— and there’s no room for doubt these days, like you said. I trust that you’ll relay the news to Bdubs. And maybe burn this tape, if you ever get the chance.”
The tapping pauses. The knocking does not.
“I mean, you’ll probably get sick of hearing my voice eventually. They do a good job at replicating it. I really thought that was— you, when I opened the door. I was stupid. You would have called me stupid.”
A sharp intake of breath from the audio player. In the room, it is deathly silent. The knocking has stopped.
“I wanted to write Bdubs a note, but I didn’t know what to write in it. And I think, honestly, that he would have hated it.” There’s a choked laugh, a hint of irony in his next words: “He probably would have refused to read it. Either way, I had no idea how to write it. I mean, how do you start a letter like that? ‘Hey Bdubs, I’m dead, just so you know! Love, Etho!’”
Another sharp breath. This time, not from the tape recording.
“It’s all stupid anyway. I hope you guys made it to the safe place. If you see X, tell him I said hello. And that I’m sorry I never managed to fix up his radio system. Probably would have saved lives if I did, but, well.”
A shuffling noise over the speaker. A sharp gasp of pain, as the recorder seems to adjust his position. There’s a fuzzy, repetitive noise in the background now— that sounds vaguely like dripping.
“So, the last words of Etho Slab. I’m not sure what to say. I’m sorry, first of all. You warned me it was a bad idea to split up. You were right. You’re usually right, you know? I know that you joke about that, but you truly are. I see the doubt you have in making decisions, but I wish you’d do it more.”
A scarred hand hovers over the eject tape button. It does not press it.
“I miss you and Bdubs. I’ve known, from the start of this damn thing, that I would die alone. It’s still not easy. I feel like this entire time, I’ve been glued to you two. And you guys made it easy, what with Bdubs’ jokes and your own sarcastic brand of humour. I miss— I will miss you guys. I hope you find a better life, with that safe haven.
It’s been hard, wandering this stupid country with all of its abandoned buildings, but it was easier with you guys. And Cleo, you’re so confident— you had me believing we truly would make it out. The voices that called from beyond the doors, from around the corners— they were loud, but you were louder.
These doppelgangers that hunt us, that plague this world, that killed us by the millions— they’re good. They’re so scarily good at what they do. But you two, you and Bdubs— well, I loved you guys. You had me believing that I would know whether it was fake or real. You can’t fake love, you know?”
The hand is frozen, palm flickering with the static glow of the screen. The knocking has returned.
“It was desperation that had me opening that door in the end, that let their claws tear into me. And you know what? You don’t have to feel all that guilty about it, nor does Bdubs. Because the fact that they had your faces as they ripped apart my organs? It was comforting. They left, and I’m alone now, with nothing but this dumb tape recorder and my own blood leaking onto the floor. But…. It’s okay. As long as you guys are safe.
They’re damn realistic. Your hair… your eyes… well, enough for me to pretend it really was you, tearing me to shreds. Made me feel better.
So I guess those are my final words,” the voice is trailing off, words slurring together. “My vision is… what’s that word… blanking? Blacking out? I don’t know.”
A brief pause, interjected only by that staticky fuzz.
“Alright, I’m hitting the save button. Love you, Cleo. Tell Bdubs too. And… Good luck. Next time you see me… It’s not… me.”
A click. The player whines as the tape ejects.
It is grasped in two fingers, held gingerly before it is slipped back into the pocket it had been held in. The breast pocket of a shirt, right over a heart. It joins a letter, carefully folded. Stained with blood.
Cleo straightens, pulling her gaze from the television to the windows of the cabin she stands in. The damp smell of mildew and rot has long since filled her lungs. It is night outside, and there is no light visible between those cracks in the broken shutters. Barring, of course, the whites of two pairs of eyes, reflecting from the television inside.
There’s a puddle of brown hair on the floor, sticky with blood. It’s clumped together in some places, and the blood trail leads to the door, where Cleo had desperately dragged Bdubs into the room. The door is barricaded with the single chair in the room, wedged under the handle.
Blood still leaks from the deep scratches in Bdubs’ torso, but he’s face down. Cleo tries his best not to keep looking at him.
He’s no longer breathing.
Outside, two faces look through the gaps in the torn blinds. One red eye, glinting in the faint static light. One milky white.
A pair of large brown eyes. If she lifts Bdubs’ head from the floor, his would match exactly. Except now, his eyes are cloudy and still, and the ones outside are alert. Watching her.
In her pockets, a letter. From False, describing a safe haven that could be reached. Still a day away on foot from this cabin. The same haven she and Bdubs had desperately been trying to reach before they were overtaken.
Before Etho’s voice had rung out from the woods. Before Cleo had foolishly, dumbly hesitated. Before Bdubs had cried out, and—
Well, it’s just Cleo now.
She’s taken Bdubs pocket watch, and it hangs around her neck now, the way it used to hang around his. Beef had had a gift for her, as well, from Etho— a strip of fabric, black, with a metal plate. The one he tied around his head. It’s wrapped around her forearm now.
The doppelgangers continue to tap on the window outside. They will not flee with the rising sun, nor will they shrink back at the sight of a weapon— they will hunt her until she’s nothing but ribbons of flesh. And when they have done that, they will grow her own ginger hair, her emerald eyes, and their voices will drop into her pitch and cadence. They will take her face, her identity, and she will be nothing but flesh lying on the damp forest floor.
She drives a fist through the audio player, relishing in the way that it crumples, despite the lancing pain through her knuckles. She’ll be bleeding, but it won’t stand out as it drips onto the floor. The dark puddle there will hardly grow. It’s far too big for it to significantly change.
The doppelganger's eyes follow her as she steps towards the door, watching as she nears the wedged chair. One opens its mouth, and Etho’s voice rings out. This time, it has none of that electronic buzz. It’s real.
“Cleo. Finally. We thought we were being left for dead out here!”
Cleo just glares at it. She dares not open her mouth. She reaches for the gun nestled under her cloak.
“It’s nighttime, Cleo,” Bdubs says. Bdubs is dead on the floor behind her. “I just want to sleep.”
Me too, Bdubs, Cleo does not say. Cleo aims her gun calmly. This will not be the first time she has killed Etho. She has shot him seven times since he sent her and Bdubs away, promising to ‘meet them in a few minutes.’ Since he had failed to successfully divert their pursuers, or, more accurately, had successfully made himself into a diversion— she had killed him seven times.
She hadn’t been able to look Beef in the eye as he handed her the tape, wrapped in that stupid headband. He hadn’t looked up at her, either, as he breathed the dreaded death sentence of his friend. Of her friend. They had split, quietly. Bdubs had been the one to speak to him, in a lowered voice with shaky hands.
Beef was gone, now. Where to, Cleo didn’t know. It was safer these days not to talk to people, not to spend too long with others. It left you vulnerable when they inevitably died. She had broken that rule twice, and only twice.
Now, as she aims the gun, she figures she’s lying in the bed she made.
Her hands are sticky with the blood of her friends, and she’ll spend the next day swimming in it— assuming she makes it to the safe haven. If not, she supposes she’ll join them— alive only in the twisted memories of these creatures. Perhaps, she considers, it’s not as bad as it seems.
And as she pulls the trigger, once, twice— all Cleo hears is static.