Displacement

You bolt awake, a loud rapping somewhere nearby bringing you out of a coma-like sleep. A pillow lies cool beneath your head, and it takes you a minute to drag the heavy comforters off of your body. There’s another knock, and then you hear a voice saying something about fresh towels. Confused, you stand up, making your way around a swaying room to find the door.

“Hi, good morning,” a small woman says, before dropping a stack of white linens into a yellow mop bucket. She emits a small gasp, backing up against the wall behind her. She’s staring at your face, horrified.

You reach up, feeling past the scruff of beard to something wet on your cheek. Above it, a deep cut that smarts when you touch it. This must be a hotel, and there must be a bathroom. Closing the door on the frightened maid, you stumble over the sink to look into the mirror. A dirty, banged-up man stares back at you. His lip is swollen, and his left eye oozes out something green. He looks like he just lost a fight with a Tyrannosaurus Rex.

But who is he?

Who are you?

A quick survey of the room reveals a large leather briefcase. Your fingers hesitate over the combination lock, and then you punch in the code. Although you have no memory of this case or any such code, it’s the right one. The briefcase unlatches, and you quickly search its contents. A 9 mm, fully loaded. A manila envelope containing five wads of cash- hundreds, bound with red rubberbands; and a dozen or so passports and correlating IDs, all with your face on them. You don’t recognize any of the names.

Before you realize what you’re doing, you’ve successfully triggered and opened the briefcase’s secret compartment. There, in the dark, you find a small black notebook. Your eyes blur over the red letters, and when you finally focus, you see it. Names and addresses. Pages upon pages of names and addresses. The first three have been checked off. You figure you’ll start there.

You tell the taxi driver to keep the engine running. The eggshell white house doesn’t look especially ominous, but you never know. In fact, you don’t know much of anything at all. You approach the house with great trepidation, and before you can knock, the door is opened to you.

“What are you doing here?” The woman smiles through her teeth, crossing her arms over a satin dress.

“What? Where?” You speak aloud for the first time since awakening that morning, and your voice is foreign. You clear your throat and try again. “Do you know me?”

She peers at you, her eyes growing smaller and smaller every second. “Just a minute,” she says, going back inside. You stare after her until she disappears into a door off the long hallway. Nervousness courses through your veins, and an alarm blares inside of your head. You’re sprinting down the front steps when a bullet whizzes past your ear. It misses you by a hair.

“Go go go!” You scream at the taxi driver, even though you’re only halfway inside the cab. The man remains unfazed- either because this is New York, or because his blaring earphones have kept him unaware. Bullets ping off the rear end of the yellow car, and you’re certain you should have remained asleep.

The next house on the list is over an hour away. As the vehicle approaches, you see a tall, iron-wrought gate and wonder how you’ll be able to observe the residence according to your quickly made plan. As luck would have it, one of the house’s residents stands sentinel outside. You order the driver to pass them by, as not to draw unwanted attention.

“Dude,” he says, pulling out an earbud. “Wasn’t that Derek McGuire?”

“Who’s Derek McGuire?”

“A big-time stockbroker,” the cabman replies. “He was on the cover of Forbes Magazine. But I heard he went crazy. Just last week. Fired all his staff, even his security. Looks like he’s his own security now.”

You process this, having no former knowledge of it. Even still, you know it’s true. The man you drove past had a blank look in his eye, and the outline of a weapon in his jacket. Nervous breakdown? Paranoia?

“You are good for this, right?” The cabbie gestures to the climbing numbers on the meter.

You discreetly count the money in the briefcase, finding twenty grand there. You rack your brain, hoping to come up with an answer- an explanation for what has transpired over the course of the morning. There’s something there, but you simply cannot reach it. It’s as if someone installed a series of firewalls in your mind. Thinking only makes your head ache more; you cannot crack them. You peel off several hundreds and hand them through the scratched, plastic divider. The driver keeps his mouth shut for the rest of the ride.

“Do you know these people?” he asks upon our arrival to the next address. It’s an unassuming little dwelling, a far cry from the McGuire house. A young girl with flowing auburn hair sits on the front porch, reading.

“Who is she?” you question.

“She’s Samuel Oconee’s daughter,” he tells you. At your blank look, he expounds. “He’s a bioengineer. My girl is obsessed with him. She thinks he’s going to save the world one day.”

The young woman appears harmless, and so you venture out to meet her. “Hello,” you say hesitantly. “Maybe you can help me.”

“Agent Hammond?”

Hammond. Miles Hammond. It’s the fourth name in the book. Is that who you are? An agent? What kind of agent? You flash back to the IDs, the passports, the names all attached to your face. FBI? You decide to play along. “Good morning,” you say, like you know exactly who you are, and you’re not confused at all.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, shutting her book, which you can now see is a manual of some sort.

“Why shouldn’t I be here?” you counter, crossing your arms over your blood-stained shirt.

Now she stands. Up close, you notice the same cold, inanimate expression that Derek McGuire possessed, as well as the woman before him. “Because,” she hisses, “they’ve already replaced the original. Someone will be looking for you.”

You have difficulty hiding the confusion on your face, and it isn’t overlooked. The young woman narrows her eyes. “Who are you?”

“Miles Hammond,” you quickly maintain before reciting the address for the aforementioned agent that you’ve somehow memorized.

In one swift movement, Oconee Junior pulls a gun from her boot and has it trained on you. “Which one are you?” she demands, as you slowly raise your hands in surrender.

“Which one are you?” you return, floundering and desperately hoping to tread water. Sweat trickles down the back of your neck- you dare not reach up to wipe it away. Her eyes meet yours and hold them for long, long seconds. You hear it before you feel it. A loud ‘pop’ as a shot is fired, and a piercing pain reaches your ears, followed by a flaming ache in your upper arm.

This time you came prepared. Before the dangerous girl can re-cock her weapon, you have yours pointed at her head. “Don’t try anything,” you warn her.

She smirks. “Don’t think you’re the first clone to go rogue. They’ll catch up with you.”

The gun in your hand begins to shake, but you steady it. “Who says I’m a clone?” For the first time, the young lady looks uneasy. She twitches, but before she can make the fatal mistake of lifting her firearm, you take another step toward her. “Thank you,” you say, removing the weapon from her hands. You keep your eyes on her as long as you can- down the walkway and even as you climb inside the cab.

Racing thoughts fence inside your mind, competing for front space as you urge the taxi driver to drive as fast as he possibly can, regardless of speed limits or laws. You finally know something. The woman at the first house you visited, Derek McGuire, and Samuel Oconee’s daughter have all been replaced with clones. That means Miles Hammond, the fourth name on the list, is you in some aspect. A clone gone rogue or an original that escaped. This leads to more questions. Escaped from where? Cloned by whom?

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to find an answer in the blank spots of your brain. Still no luck. You must rely on logic.

Why does anyone do anything? For money or for access, of course.

Derek McGuire. Multi-millionaire. Money. Samuel Oconee, bioengineer. His daughter. Access.

It’s all coming together.

Showing up at Hammond’s residence could be too dangerous, and a massive waste of time. You’ve taken the next name on the list. You leap up the stone steps, ignoring the pulsing ache in your arm and the blood dripping down your limb. You bang at the door, knowing you could already be too late.

A middle-aged man in a plaid tie opens the screen door. He gives your appearance a quick once-over. Concern softens his face. “Can I help you?”

“Is there a Valerie Pattison here?” you ask, gulping for breath.

“Valerie?” the man repeats. “She’s my daughter.” As if on cue, a little girl with big, bouncy curls enters your view. She’s wearing a pink princess dress, complete with lace and frills. The man chuckles, discreetly blocking her from the door. “Are you wearing that dress again, honey?”

From behind him, you hear the little girl answer. “It’s my favorite.”

The pain in your head spikes, and you close your eyes against it. That dress. That pink color. You know it from somewhere. It fills your head, and the forming memory almost brings you to your knees. “Your daughter,” you manage. “She’s in danger.”

Now the man steps outside and shuts the door behind him. “What are you talking about?” He takes out his cellphone. “I’m calling the police.”

“No, no, don’t do that!” You don’t know who these people are- you have no idea the power they hold. “Look at me,” you plead with him. “The same people who did this are on their way here right now.”

His eyes flit to the street, but he still lifts the phone to his ear. “Listen,” he says. “My late wife’s father, he’s a senator. You don’t want to be jammed up by his people.”

Valerie Pattison, granddaughter of a senator. Money and access.

“Her name is on a list!” you scream. You wrench the little black notebook from your pocket and shake it in his face. “Get her out of here!”

But the man isn’t paying attention to you anymore. He’s focused on something behind you. When you turn, you see it. A black van slowly driving past, and a flash of pink ducking down into the backseat.

“They’ll be back,” you tell him.

There’s a look of fear mixed with appreciation in his eye. He runs to collect his little girl, and as they flee their home, you look down at that black book again.

You may not have your memories, but you have the better part of twenty grand, two guns, and a loyal cabbie. You might not ever know who you are, but you know exactly what you have to do.