The Trenchcoat Man

Claire hadn’t felt comfortable sleeping in her apartment on Sunday night. Between the weird vibes from Pastor Sullivan to seeing, once again, the man in the trenchcoat, she just wasn’t sure if she could handle being alone. Not to mention that she still had no idea where she was, this was not her world, and it was just as screwed up as the one she came from. But Eric was still alive here, and that was something she could hold on to.

Staying in Julie’s apartment downstairs was also a stroke of luck, as the bus to work showed up before dawn. Bleary-eyed, Claire stood on the sidewalk with coffee in hand when the bus pulled up. With the conservation of fuel mandate in effect for the war effort, the government had at least given leave to use public transportation. The ruddy yellow paint of the school bus seemed to be just holding on, and the rims were so rusty she feared they may just fall apart on the ride. Even the seats were more uncomfortable than a school bus’s typically are, Claire having to immediately adjust herself when she sat to prevent a spring from going up her ass.

The girls seemed to have no trouble though, as they were awake and ready to go for school. Julie had explained that it certainly wasn’t school as it was before the war; it was more like Little House on the Prairie. But at least there was some sort of education and proper use of time for the children.

It was after that explanation that Julie seemed to fully catch on to what was happening with Claire. “Are you the Claire I knew? I just can’t believe that you’d wake up one morning and forget everything that’s happened in the last few months. I understand stress and all… but somethin’s not right.”

How am I supposed to answer that when I don’t even know what’s happening? Claire stared out the window, eyes locked on the sidewalk passing quickly by. Then she saw him, the trenchcoat man, almost camouflaged against the gray brick of the old abandoned Catholic school. Her eye flared wide at the sight of him, the uncomfortable vibrations surged through her like an electrical shock.

“God damn it, Claire! Answer my question!” Julie screamed in her ear.

Claire’s head snapped around as though it was spring-loaded, her eyes as big as saucers. All conversation in the bus instantly stopped as the other passengers looked in their direction. Julie’s eyes were no less big, and as quickly as the vibration swept through Claire, it was gone along with Julie’s anger.

“Oh my gosh, Claire, I’m sorry. I have no idea what came over me, I just felt so… so angry.”

“Believe me, Julie, somehow it makes perfect sense. I just don’t know how yet.” She looked Julie in the eyes and saw them soften, and she felt a pang of sadness for her. A single mother of four (though she remembered five) who was kind and soft-spoken suddenly having a momentary fit of rage. The hair on Claire’s arms stood on end in anticipation of what she was about to say.

“I don’t think I am, Julie. This isn’t my world, and I don’t know what happened to mine. In my world, Eric is dead, and so is John Friedman, and you’re a stranger with five kids. I don’t know how it happened, or what the hell happened… but I’m here. And I have no idea what to do.”

She continued to look at Julie, a lump growing in her throat.

“Then what happened to my Claire?” her expression quizzical and worried.

Claire swung her head from side to side and looked down at the seat in front of her. “I don’t know, Julie. But if I had to guess, I would say that she’s dead… somewhere.”

Julie placed a hand on Claire’s shoulder, her touch was more reassuring than she expected it to be. “I’ll take care of you here, then, until you’re ready to face this world as the Claire who is no longer here.” Then her face turned quizzical again, “Did you say John Friedman?”

“Yeah, I did. Why?”

“Was he an asshole in your world, too?”

“Oh yeah, a big asshole. And my ex-boyfriend,” Claire said before she closed her eyes and drew a deep, silent breath.

“Well, I didn’t know him until after the war started.”

A cross expression bloomed on Claire’s face and whispered loudly, “Where is he?”

“You’ll see…”

And she did see, when the bus pulled up to the furntiure plant, Fell’s. As the bus pulled into the security entrance, there stood John Friedman, rifle in hand, its strap slung over one shoulder of his black buttondown shirt. He also wore black jeans that looked like a relic of the 1980s, but he almost pulled off the security guard look. Claire bent close to Julie and said, “Apparently, he has that sutpid look in every world.” And they giggled silently to each other.

When the bus started pulling through the open gate, Claire dared to look in John’s direction as they passed. He spotted her immediately his face twisted into one of pure hatred. Her smile disappeared just as quickly, and something told her that he knew. She dared not hold his glance as the bus made it past him, but she could feel his cold glare on her back. She shivered…

Fell’s furniture plant had almost immediately been taken over by the federal government after the war broke out. It didn’t take but a week, and most of the large furniture machines had been removed from the floor and replaced by others. The wide open floor plan allowed for it to be a versatile place able to manufacture different products based on the needs of war. Mostly, though, the plant’s focus was producing small arms munitions and some larger caliber shells. If only they knew who they had standing guard at the gate, then they may go back to making furniture, she thought.

The strokes of luck that came with this new world kept coming for Claire, as her machine was right next to Julie’s. It’s no wonder that we’ve become friends. It took Julie a couple of hours of running both machines, but she was able to effectively teach Claire how to do her job. It was a bit mind-numbing, and that made Claire thankful that it wasn’t too loud to talk. Most of the talk was Julie ‘informing’ Claire of the gossip of the Valley. She was stunned by how many people weren’t there any longer. Having lived there her entire life, while Claire wasn’t friends with everybody, she knew more than she didn’t know. But Julie was speaking of people she’d never heard of. It seemed that, when the war first started, the Valley’s residents had become as torn as any bordertown described in the Civil War. Those that were on the side of the government fled to Philadelphia and New Jersey shore, and it had taken several weeks of fighting before the rebellious residents were driven far afield to the north and east.

The active front extended from Easton and Bethlehem through Allentown, Reading, and down into Lancaster in a sweeping arc. The fighting, according to Julie, had been sporadic over the last few weeks, and the two sides seemed content to settle in for the upcoming winter. Julie thanked their lucky stars that the nights had been, for the most part, quiet since Labor Day. “Trying to sleep with the constant rumblings was nearly impossible,” she lamented.

Lunchtime arrived swiftly, and the machines were put into standby mode as the workers made their way to the dining hall. There was no aroma of hot food, and Claire was let down when she was handed the nondescript box, with bold, black stenciling on it, that was to be her meal. Military rations… She had heard Eric talk about it, having had his experience with it during his time in the Navy. He had told her that the rations “weren’t bad”, but she never bought it. What else could she expect from a government-run facility, though, in the middle of a war?

The rest of the day passed just as quickly. Just as Claire was about to shutdown her machine, though, a commotion erupted from the far side of the facility floor.

“- I will kick your ass, you piece of shit!”

She heard another voice, but she couldn’t make out the words. It wasn’t really necessary, as she could imagine that those words were anything but kind. Metal crashed to the floor and echoed throughout, and other voices joined in with the first two to try and break up the fight. There, in a dark corner, she spotted him… the trenchcoat man. He stood there looking right at her, even from that distance she knew it for a fact. The eerie vibrations subtly returned in her belly. She spun on her heels, her eyes rolling and a heavy sigh escaping her lips.

Julie noticed and walked over to her. “What’s wrong?”

“Look into the far corner and tell me what you see.”

“I see nothin’,” came her curious reply.

“The corner where the fight is?”

“Nope… nothin’ there. What am I supposed to see?”

Claire spun around again and peered into the corner where he had been. It was empty. She also noticed the two men, who were fighting just a moment ago, giving each other a friendly embrace and shaking their heads back and forth in shame for the incident. Her eyes then darted from place to place on the floor, and she saw nothing. Who the fuck is this guy?! What does he want from me?!

“Don’t worry about it, Julie. I don’t know what I saw.” Yes, I do, she thought to herself, simultaneously.

They took their seats on the bus, and Claire was, once again, subject to a venomous look from John, still at his post at the gate. She grunted loudly in her head, worried about having to worry about John Friedman and the trenchcoat man. Recalling her thoughts from lunch, Claire had felt hopeful that, despite this place not being her home, she could make it so. But now she felt like she was in deep shit. She turned to Julie, quietly sitting next to her, and waited a moment before speaking.

“I keep seeing a guy in a trenchcoat and hat. I think I first saw him in my old world, but I can’t be sure. But I’ve seen him several times now… here. I don’t know who he is, and I couldn’t even guess.”

“What?... A man in a trenchcoat?” Julie’s brow furrowed deeply, and her eyes looked into nowhere as if thinking. “I’ve never seen a man in trenchcoat around here,” her head moivng back and forth in agreement with her words.

“I think he’s here for me. I think I’m in danger, Julie,” Claire’s voice thick with fear.

“But why, Claire? What could you possibly have that he wants?” Julie’s eyes had refocused and stared directly into Claire’s.

“I don’t know… but he’s following me. Do you have any guns at home?”

Julie raised her eyebrows in shock. “Oh, heavens no! Not with four girls!” Claire dropped her gaze to the floor, and Julie continued, “ But you do. In your upstairs room. You… well, the other you, told me that Eric had left several guns up there for you to use. Just in case.”

Claire closed her eyes and smiled. Thank you, babe!

As soon as they arrived home, with Julie’s girls in tow, Claire ran up to the upstairs room and found the guns. A shotgun, two rifles, and a pistol sat dusty in the corner on an old fold-up chair. Four boxes of ammunition sat on the floor beside the chair. She loaded each gun, stuck the pistol in the back of her jeans, grabbed the two rifles, and headed downstairs to Julie’s place. Claire convinced Julie to let her stay downstairs with her and the kids by using the argument of protecting her and the girls from an unknown danger. Of course, she meant it, but it also gave herself some peace from the fear that was invading her thoughts. She didn’t want to be alone until she figured this out.

Their walk to dinner was longer on that night, as Julie chose the Pennsburg Diner. Claire smiled happily at the idea, as that place was always one of her favorites, both now and all through her life. She didn’t bother to ask out loud, but she hoped to herself that she would be able to get her coconut shrimp. Fat chance during a war, sweetheart! retorted her inner voice. Snickering to herself, she pulled the jacket a little tighter around her in the cool October evening. The bulge of the pistol tightened against her as she pulled the jacket about her, and she grinned. Let that bastard sneak up on me now.

Shrimp were not on the menu, but Claire was able to get her next favorite, the sloppy hot turkey sandwich with gravy on the fries! Dinner and the remainder of the evening went on without a hitch, but then the three o’clock hour rolled around. She sat up from a dream that she couldn’t remember, her heart racing and the vibrations rolling through her body again. Without thinking, she grabbed the gun from under her pillow and pointed it to the window to her right. There he was, face hidden in the shadow of the fedora on his head, but she could see with her mind’s eye the solemn expression on his face.

Get out of here! she thought at him and cocked the hammer on the pistol. She blinked and he was gone. Uncocking the pistol, she placed it in her lap and stared at the floor, a feeling of relief washing over her.

* * *

Tuesday dawned unseasonably cold and overcast. It almost felt supernatural, as though Mother Nature wasn’t in control of the weather on this day. Claire awoke with a second set of eyes peering out the back of her head. She was on edge, and she was scared. What would happen if the trenchcoat man got his hands on her? What was his purpose of stalking her? And crowding in with those thoughts were the looks of anger and vengeance thrown at her by John Friedman. In her last world he tried to kill her, would he do the same thing here? Count on it…

Even Julie seemed nervous, her eyes constantly glancing down at Claire’s waist where the pistol was hidden. The ride to the plant was thankfully uneventful, but the same couldn’t be said of the workday itself. Several more fights broke out on the plant floor, and each time Claire had a line of sight to the ruckus, she could swear she saw all or part of the trenchcoat man. What power did this man have to cause such anger in people?

Shortly after lunch Claire’s machine broke down. Walking along with the technician was Pastor Sullivan, and he had anything but the serene visage from two days ago. As the technician gave the machine the once over, Martin laid into Claire like a parent to a problem child. In the beginning, Claire just kept quiet, letting Supervisor Sullivan do his duty. Then, out of nowhere, his speech became profanity-ridden, and his expression became hateful, not just angry.

“You lazy bitch! We need this ammo for the heroes on the lines fighting for you! And you can’t even run your machine correctly! Get your head out of your ass!”

“Now wait just a damn minute, Marty, I-”

And he backhanded her across the face with a force she had feared on Sunday that he had. The blow doubled her over, and it redoubled her already raging anger. She turned her face towards his, a fire behind her eyes. Martin saw this and lifted a fist in the air, ready to strike. In a motion as smooth as butter, Claire stood and pulled the pistol, the barrel levelled right between the man’s eyes.

“Give me a reason,” she hissed, and cocked the gun for the second time in ten hours.

Martin lowered his clenched fist, his fear as transparent as a window. Whatever temporary psychosis had come over him disappeared, and Claire took that instant to tilt her head and look behind him. There she watched the trenchcoat man disappear from sight like Martin’s anger just had. And as the sideways grin spread on her face, she heard a deep voice whisper in her head, “Not him.” It was his voice.

Claire returned her look to Martin and lowered the pistol. Both he and Julie let out an audible sigh. “Claire, I’m sorry… I have-”

“Save it, Marty. It’s not your fault.”

She walked away, leaving Julie to console Pastor Sullivan’s damaged reputation. Walking with purpose, Claire had no idea where she was really going, she only knew that she wanted to find a bathroom. She made her way through the steel doors that led to the lunchroom and down the hallway. To the left she she saw the door with the “Women” sign hanging above it. She felt numb… this world was very familiar, yet it was so different from the world she knew that she didn’t want to leave it. Yes, things had gone to shit for the country and there was a war on. Yes, her fiancé/boyfriend was on the front lines. But this world seemed like a decent place. Her numbness told her that she wasn’t long for it.

She pushed on the door and made her way through. The next instant her forehead was cracking the mirror above the sink. She recoiled, her hand going to the blood flowing from her forehead. A fist to her gut and she was on her knees, gasping for air and hoping her lunch wouldn’t come up to get in the way of it. Watching the drops of blood splash on the floor, she focused on the deep red to prevent her worsening tunnel vision from closing her mind off completely. Behind the rush of blood pumping past her ear drums she heard a guttural laugh. She remembered it from three nights ago… John Friedman.

“Don’t you… ever… stop?” she asked through her heavy breathing.

His laugh only got louder as he pulled her to her feet by the clump of hair balled up in his fist.

John pulled her ear close to his mouth, “You deserve pain, and I’m in the mood to give it. Pucker up, sweetheart!”

He threw her across the bathroom, her vision a blur of sinks and toilet stalls. Claire’s body bounded across the floor and was stopped only by the wall. The pain she felt in her lower back was the pistol that she had forgotten in the chaos. Its unforgiving bulge was a blessing to her in that moment as she heard the click and clack of John’s rifle being locked and loaded. She didn’t want to, but now she knew that she’d actually have to kill somebody. Claire flushed in fear at the thought of it, and John saw it, too.

“Don’t worry, Claire, I’m not going to kill you… yet. One bullet for each limb, and that still leaves ten. The final bullet will kill you, I promise you that.”

There was no doubt in her mind that John had every intention of following through on that torture. She felt the blood continue to drip down her face, and she used it to focus her mind. One swift move, even if it wasn’t perfect, and she would be out of the way before John could pull the trigger, then she could pull hers.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl, every detail of everything vivid to Claire’s eyes. The confusion it would leave in her mind was the surprise. She spun to the right, rather awkward as she was sitting up against the wall, and heard John’s rifle go off. In the spray of mortar and ceramic tile she pulled the pistol from her waist and fired a shot through John’s knee, forcing him to the ground in a scream of agony. As he screamed Claire saw the bathroom door behind him splinter and break as another man barged in. It was the man with the red eyes, and she watched as he grabbed John by the hair and and tore out his throat through the back of his neck. It wasn’t pretty.

Son of a bitch! screamed Dean Winchester from the back of Claire’s mind. The man with the red eyes looked in her dead in the eyes while she escaped through the bathroom’s other door beside her. Claire took no notice of the people behind her as she fled down the hallway and out of the plant. She ran across the parking lot as fast as her legs could take her as the sound of the police sirens got closer. By the time she reached Water Street her lungs were burning. She bounded across the street and dove over the guard rail and through the bushes, feeling each small branch dig into her skin. Claire lay still. She could tell by the distance of the police siren that they were using the entrance further down the road, but she wanted to be cautious anyway.

Once the siren cutoff, she quickly got to her feet and went to the creek to wash her face. The water was cold causing a shiver to run through her body. Claire’s mind began to clear, and she began thinking about her next course of action.

“You should have killed him, Claire,” came the British voice from the other side of the creek.

The trenchcoat man. She stood in a flash and brandished the pistol.

“Who are you?”

“That doesn’t matter right now, Claire. You should have killed him.”

He stood deep enough in the shadows such that the added shadow of his fedora blanked out his face. The trenchcoat man’s hands remained calmly in his pockets as he stared down Claire and her gun.

“What the hell is going on here? What happened to my world? Why am I here?” she stretched her arm towards the trenchcoat man in a threatening manner. It had no impact.

“All in good time. All you need to know is that, if you see John Friedman again, you must kill him!”

“Why?!” she screamed at him.

A blink and the trenchcoat man was gone… again. Claire raised the gun to the clouded sky and gave a silent scream. Son of a bitch! yelled Dean again.

The short trek was mildly treacherous through the woods as she followed Water Street south. Staying under cover as best she could, Claire made her way across the intersection at State Street and turned east and arrived in Colonial Village not long after. Peering through the tree line at the police kiosk, she was able to calm herself a bit. The kiosk lay in ruins, as did many homes in the complex itself. She eyed one that was familiar to her. Claire hurried to Julie’s old home and ran through the doorway that once held the sliding glass door.

The home was damp. The cabinet doors in the kitchen sat open, some hanging askew on a single hinge. Animal feces littered the linoleum floor and the carpet in the living room, but it seemed more of a bathroom for the animals, not a home. The carpet itself was tatooed with the muddied paw prints of those animals, its original color having long since disappeared. Claire smiled to herself as she saw the front door still locked. Though open to the outside, the home wasn’t entirely cold because of this. After months of sitting idle, it was still in decent shape. She made her away to second floor, the stairway wall and hallway still decorated with photos of Julie and her kids. The master bedroom on the left was too open for her to hide in safely, so she made her way to the back bedroom. Gun at the ready, she searched the room for squatters and dangerous animals. Finding none, she grabbed a blanket from the top bunk and hunkered down in the closet, pulling the doors closed as much as she could.

As sleep took her, Claire heard the voice of the trenchcoat man in her head, “You can’t stay in this world, Claire. You don’t belong here.”