Follow the Leader

by Adam Brinklow

The phone rang.

Every night.

At one o'clock in the morning.

Patrick would spend hours simply staring at the receiver, waiting. Even though he knew that The Call wouldn't come until one o'clock, even though he wanted to do nothing more than to leave, to run from that house and never look back and to never have to talk to The Voice On The Other End Of The Line, he merely sat, and waited. Maybe he was afraid of what would happen if he didn't answer, or maybe he just couldn't imagine what to do with himself without The Call.

He couldn't remember much of anything about his life before The Calls started. His memory was shot. A few snippets here and there, names and faces would drift in and out, but for the most part it was just one continuous blur. All that he could ever remember and all he could ever think about was The Voice At The Other End Of The Line, and what it might make him do next. He had no other life to speak of. No friends, no family, not even a job. How he paid the rent or kept food in the house was beyond him. His home was barren and empty. Just his chair, the table, and most importantly, the phone. He didn't know how old he was, or how long he had been wearing these clothes, or even what he had done last night. All he knew was that he was expecting a call.

It was the one thing he could rely on, the only constant. It was the anchor. It gave him meaning, purpose, definition. It was food to the starving, sight to the blind, wine to a parched throat. If The Calls ever stopped coming, Patrick wasn't sure he could keep going. He would just sit by the phone, day and night, until he starved to death. He hated it. But he loved it too. It was all he had. It was him.

So when the phone rang a 1:00 AM, he swiftly and dutifully answered it. His hands moved of their own accord, lifting the receiver up so he could speak timidly into the mouthpiece. "Hello?"

"Good morning Patrick. Right on time." The Voice was toneless, shapeless, featureless, unidentifiable in the sense that nothing about it could possibly be remembered. As soon as he hung up, Patrick would forget what it had sounded like. The only recollection he would have was of words with no voice, sound with no noise.

"Yes sir," he muttered, "Right on time sir."

"You did the job last night?"

"Yes sir."

"You're sure? You didn't leave things half-finished this time, did you?"

"No. No sir. Everything was all done, just like you said, sir," he droned mechanically. Words came unbidden to his lips. Everything was involuntary, preprogrammed, standard issue. He couldn't remember a thing about last night. It tugged at the back of his mind. A hospital? Something about...a package... and...a fire? No. Nothing. Whatever had happened was over and done. Those where the rules. Do your job, tell no one, remember nothing. Follow the rules, follow your orders, follow the leader and the big kids won't push you down.

"Good. I'm glad I can trust you Patrick. You've been very helpful."

"Yes sir, very helpful sir."

"Just a few more favors and I'll leave you alone."

"Yes, a few more." A lie. He had been hearing that since...since when?

"Listen closely, Patrick, because tonight's assignment is very important. The most important thing you've done in your entire life. I want you to follow my instructions exactly, do you understand?"

"Of course."

"Good. Here's how it works Patrick..."

The Voice On The Other End Of The Line whispered into his ear, whispered dark and secret things, things so horrible that no one should ever have to hear them, things he was glad he would forget in the morning. They filled up all the empty corners of Patrick's mind. He had a job now, he had a duty, a reason to get up and go out into the world. Strange and horrible as it was, it was him. He would obey. He didn't have a choice. Did he?

"...and leave when no one's watching. That's important Patrick! Make sure no one sees you! Can you do that for me Patrick?"

He froze. He was supposed to answer. What should he say? What did he always say? He opened his mouth, and no sound came out.

"Patrick, are you there? Answer me!"

"I'm here, I'm here!" he stammered. "I, I just- I can't-", something was wrong, very, very wrong. Something about, about this, this conversation? This life?

"Who are you?" He blurted the question out, horrified.

"What? What are you saying? How do you know-?"

"I don't, I can't, I-", he babbled uncontrollably. It was beyond his power to stop now. Words, phrases, thoughts, emotions, and memories. God help him, for one, brief, agonizing moment, he remembered everything. "YOU!" he shrieked, his body convulsing in horror, "I know you, I know what you did!"

"Patrick, wait-!"

"NO! No, I remember it! You did it, and you made me do it too! All those people! Why, why would you...why would I...why-?" Why what? What had just happened? What was he saying?

"Patrick, listen to me! Can you hear me!"

"Yes," he muttered weakly.

"None of those things are real Patrick. It's all a dream. I'm your friend Patrick, you remember?"

"Yes. Friend."

"Your only friend, your dear friend."

"Dear, dear friend." He was sobbing now.

"You're important, Patrick. I don't know what I would do without you."

"Yes." Follow the rules, follow your orders, follow the leader.

"Good. Now, you've got a lot of work to do. Go to it Patrick. I'm counting on you."

"Counting on me. Yes sir." Follow.

"Oh, and Patrick?"

"Yes?"

"I'll be in touch."

© Adam Brinklow 2001