Doppelgangers, by Terrance Riverdarb

Terry hated crowds.

As he forced his way through the large gathering on Pigeon Street, all he thought about was how sweaty and noisy the people around him were. He didn’t trust a single one of them either; he clutched onto his camera for dear life with his right hand, using his left to feebly push his way through the crowd. Occasionally he would get pushed aside, or stopped in his tracks by a savvier crowd-traveler, but as soon as he regained his bearings he would start out again.

Finally, the end of the crowd—a long metal-rail barrier—was in sight and after a few bumps he was there.

“Hey,” Someone complained as he squeezed onto the front line. He adjusted his glasses as he nodded apologetically in their direction, before focusing again on what he was being paid to do.

It was the Fiddleton Parade; an annual event which commemorated an old war if Terry remembered correctly. Every year, hundreds of exhibitions of historic tanks and memorials of war heroes would march, or float, down Pigeon Street. It was always led by the National Marching Band and watched by hundreds of thousands of people. And every year, the Prime Minister himself would ride atop one of the tanks, usually the tallest and most glamorous.

This year was no different at all, as Terry deduced. He was stuck with the same job in fact, of taking the Prime Minister’s photograph atop the tallest, most glamorous rubber tank for the Weekly Beekon. He held the camera’s viewfinder to his eye and started zooming. He always found it useful to preemptively zoom and focus while taking such important photographs. It meant more time for when the Prime Minister actually came into range. That meant he got to take more shots, and more shots meant more chances to get it right.

He was just in the process of focusing when he saw something across the street that made his heart stop: him. At first he thought he must have been looking into some kind of mirror, but then he realized that this other version of himself—although wearing glasses—carried no camera. The outfit was different as well, but at the same time still something he would wear. The thing that made his heart start to beat again, and fast, was that this other him appeared to be staring right at him. His photographer’s instinct kicked in and his finger pressed down on the camera’s shutter button. He could hear the shutter clicking continuously as it opened and closed, again and again and again; it seemed to be in rhythm with his heart.

Before long they were cut off; a large tank passed along and Terry could no longer see the other side of the street. He reluctantly released the shutter button and waited for the tank to pass, and when it did, the other him was gone. He glanced up and down the other side of the street in a panic. He wasn’t sure why, but he did feel afraid.

It was in his fear that he made a snap decision. He retracted his lens and backed away from the rail, turning into the gathering again. This time, as he tore through, he didn’t yield to the crowd, but it yielded to him. He broke away at last on an entirely different street. He glanced up at the tall high-rise building about two blocks away. It was one of the modern ones; glittering with steel and glass to the very top. It was the home of the Weekly Beekon, but more importantly, his destination. He ran along into the quiet streets that led to it. His goal was simple; get back there and show them what he had taken. After that, they could help him make sense of it all at least. He tried not to think too much of it, putting more his focus instead on keeping his legs moving.

He darted into an alley that cut behind the Beekon’s building; he was close. But as he neared the end, he forced himself to a complete halt. There it was, the other him…waiting for him. For a moment he wondered if it was all an elaborate trick that his mind was playing on him. Perhaps all the dust in his mother’s basement was finally getting to him. But he didn’t waste time thinking about it, because the other him started running in his direction…and the other him looked murderous.

He wheeled around and started to run again. The other him wasn’t so close behind; he could still get away. But as he ran he heard a loud grunt of focused effort behind him, and in a flash he saw something float overhead, and its shadow—both at the same time. And now the other him was right in front of him, so close that he never managed to stop; and so he crashed and tumbled.

The other him was very real, and towered over him with a wicked grin. Terry cowered as the other him leaned over with arms outstretched, its wicked grin now unnaturally wide. So much he longed for the sweat and clamor of the crowd, so much he longed for the redundancy of the of the parade. The other him grabbed his neck and twisted hard, and a loud snap echoed through the empty ally.

The only him let the body fall, and then reached down and pried the camera from Terry’s lifeless fingers. He turned it over and under as though searching for something, and then chuckled in satisfaction as he found it. He opened the tiny hatch and removed the camera’s memory card, and then, between his fingers, reduced it to tens of little plastic chips. And, as if in an act of mockery or superiority, he wore the camera.