Fisher of Men

“Jones loves to hike,” is how my friends usually introduce me. “He’s a serious hiker,” is also common. And more accurate. I would not say I love the activity. Driven might be better. Every mountain I see seems to demand a pilgrimage. A fishing line hooks behind my eye and tugs insistently until I relent and put on my boots.

I have the full kit. Camping backpack, hiking sticks, water bladder, sunscreen, granola bars... An enthusiast. Rain, shine, snow. My obsession does not discriminate. I am not resentful. Harmless as compulsions go. I find the hikes refreshing. Meditative. I feel saner once I descend the mountain of the day and return home.

This mountain is coated in the verdurous down of spring. A brisk wind coaxes a feathered sigh from the forest and prompts me to zip up my windbreaker. My hike has been peaceful and invigorating so far. The trails are empty. It’s still early in the season and most hobbyists are probably in their warm apartments.

My map is folded and tucked away in my pack. I prefer to review my route at the start and find my way from memory. My feet have a mind of their own, often taking unnecessary detours. I always make it back eventually. Park rangers are often annoyed at me returning to my car at or just after sunset.

Hiking up this narrow, rocky trail, and stepping around invading roots, my mind wanders. My thoughts drift toward work, shy away and settle on admiring the scenery. I debate whether to dig my camera out of the pack. Suddenly, I am on a graveled path. I slow to a stop with a series of crunches. I deviated from my route an hour ago. Even so, nothing this maintained was on my map. I shrug and follow the path. Its direction seems to continue up the eastern face of the mountain.

I make quick progress along the path, far easier to traverse than the craggy trail I came from. It carries me to a wilder, denser region of the mountain. The canopy closes. The wind in the leaves takes on a lower register. The way forward grows dim. I can deny it no longer. I’m spooked. But the hook that drew me to this mountain now drags me down the ominous path.

The gloom breaks. Sunlight rains down in a clearing. I’m blind until my eyes adjust. The path cuts through a meadow of wildflowers in a leisurely arc and leads to the opposite tree line where the forest pierces the clearing like a claw. And behind that sharp fringe towers a monolith of brutalist architecture. My breath catches, worried I have trespassed. But I had seen no sign, fence, or barbwire. So I approach.

The monolith stands dully in the harsh light. Its grey carapace punctured by inset windows shadowed into portals of darkness. As I draw close and the full building comes into view, I see its base intersects the ground abruptly, like a level designer picked up its virtual geometry and placed it without care whether it blended with the environment.

“Hey!”

I halt, startled, a few steps from the shadow cast by the monolith.

“This is a restricted area!”

I turn to the speaker. He’s tall and thin. Dressed in brown slacks, a white coat, and silver wireframe glasses. He smokes a cigarette. His expression changes from anger to exasperation once he sees my face.

“Christ.“

He draws in a lungful of nicotine and exhales the spent plume through his nostrils.

“Weber, you really need to fix the fence.”

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t give a shit. Jones just showed up. That will keep happening until you do your job.”

I finally see the earpiece the man is speaking to. Then it registers he said my name.

“Do I know you?”

The man chuckles and takes another puff.

“Dr. Fischer! Dr. Fischer.”

The man glances at the figure that issues from the monolith and rolls his eyes.

“Jesus, Jones. Your timing is egregious.”

My hiking sticks drop from my hands and clatter anemically on the gravel path. I feel like I’m about to be sick. The figure is my doppelgänger. The figure has my name.

“Oh, sorry Dr. Fischer.”

“Today is such a mess. Mr. Otto, relieve his torment.”

I look up at the monolith. In one of the windows, a face emerges from its void. My face. Looking down at me with an air of curiosity. Then a couple floors down and to the left, another. And another. And another, and another. My own eyes staring at me.

I hear the crunch of gravel behind me. I feel pinpricks in my back. Then hear brash electronic clicking like some mechanical cicada. I plunge into a merciful darkness.