Gus backed away from the three men, then turned and fled towards the only building that had any color in his featureless world.
“He’s got a gun, get him.” He heard the shouts behind him as he fled across the open ground. A farmhand appeared at the door before him, his relaxed features giving way to sudden surprise when he found himself staring down the muzzle of the pistol as Gus pushed past him into the interior of the building.
He stopped just inside the door, his wavy reflection stretched out at his feet in the surface of the highly polished floor. A door stood to his right and as approaching footsteps came from around the bend in the hallway before him, trapped between them and the pounding footsteps that were fast approaching behind him, he slipped into the room.
Beyond the door, on his right, stood a row of stalls. Gray walls wrapped around toilets to afford the user a degree of privacy. Opposite the stalls was a row of white porcelain sinks and above each was a mirror.
Gus was drawn to the mirror, having never seen himself as much as he could recall, the sound of movement in one of the stalls interrupted him and he spun around with the pistol leveled at the door as a farmhand emerged from within the stall. It was the one he recognized as Brodie and he stepped towards him. His hands spread in a questioning manner as Brodie backed away.
Gus grunted, unable to make any other sound, his hand once more going to the puckered wound on his neck, he could feel the stitches with his fingers.
“Don’t hurt me, please,” Brodie said as he backed away.
From the corner of his eye Gus caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror to his right as Brodie backed towards the door. It drew him like a moth to a flame and with Brodie forgotten he spun around to look at himself in the mirror. What he saw gazing back at him was the same face he’d seen upon his arrival.
Short sandy hair crowning a face that formed a near perfect circle with wide spaced eyes, and a pug nose above a thin mouth.
No!
It couldn’t be, it wasn’t possible, he wasn’t one of them. He had a wife, kids, a home. He had been the assistant manager of a farmers co-op. His finger went to his throat, he fel that puckered wound, the stitches protruding from his flesh. But when he looked in the mirror all he saw was the unblemished skin of his neck.
No!
A commotion at the door drew his attention and he turned to confront several farmhands pushing their way through the door with weapons aimed in his direction. He lifted the pistol and aimed the shaking muzzle at them. Bullets ripped through tender flesh, spinning him around and he fell face first towards the floor, his last thoughts clinging to the notion that it had all been a terrible mistake.
To be continued!
Richard Schiver 
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