Who is Simon Birchfield?

The mornings are not kind. Especially today, thought Simon, as he got out of bed before the sun, cold and shivering and aching in his joints. He was not yet old enough to feel the ache of cold weather in his knees, but nevertheless, he did. He groaned, stretched, and reluctantly slid out of bed.

Simon was not an outgoing person by any means. He was quiet, kept to himself, and did not do anything to draw attention to himself. This morning, he brushed his teeth, washed his face, brushed his hair, and slid on a plain red shirt and a pair of jeans. He found his shoes- worn, faded vans, slipped them on, and went quietly out of his house in the middle of a Virginia suburb.

Simon Birchfield was about to disappear.

He didn't know it yet.

He went his usual route to work, walking through a field and cutting through some yards to avoid walking along the road. He worked at a small mom and pop shop behind a gas station. Officially, he was hired on as a stocker, but he quickly started doing everything. Mopping, stocking, ringing people up, taking out the trash, even helping Mr. Carlton with his accounting and bookkeeping.

Opening was always slow. No one needed anything so early in the morning, so Simon often worked on his homework at this time. He pulled out his calculus assignment from behind the counter, reading through the instructions. Absolute maximums and minimums. Easy work. He grabbed a pen and started writing.

The door jingled. A customer. Simon looked up, nodding his head at the young man that entered. He looked plain. Tan skin. Shaggy hair. He needed a haircut, Simon thought to himself. I need a haircut, he countered in his own mind. He only paid the customer the slightest passing glance before returning to his homework, jotting down answers and working through formulas fluidly.

He kept at least 10% of his attention dedicated to the store. His head was down just low enough that he would see if the kid went towards the door, trying to steal. He was near the school supplies right now, browsing through various pens and pencils.

Back to homework.

The kid finally came to the check out counter after about ten minutes of perusing. He just wanted a two-pack of pens. Good brand, though, Simon thought. Gel pens always wrote so much smoother than ballpoint. He scanned the item and looked up at the kid.

"Your total is $5.99. Cash or credit?"

The kid's eyes met his. Simon got a weird feeling in his stomach. They looked familiar. His face looked so familiar, but he knew no one who looked like that. How strange.

"Um, cash or credit?" he repeated.

"Cash."

The voice sounded exactly like Simon's. It was uncanny, creepy. When Simon looked up again, something changed.

The kid's eyes felt... predatorial. Within an instant, his hands were on Simon's neck, strangling him from across the counter. Simon panicked, hands reaching up, clawing desperately in an attempt to escape.

It didn't work. He saw his vision get crusty, black at the edges. He felt his head lighten. He felt his world go black, his body start to sink. When the kid finally let go, Simon's unconscious body crumpled to the floor, slamming his head against the counter on the way down.

---

The alternate looked at Simon's unconscious body for a moment. Their clothes were different, but similar enough in style that no one would notice. Everything else was already perfect. He had perfected his look over the course of the week.

He walked around the counter, grabbing Simon from under his arms and dragging him out. There were shapeless, faceless figures outside. He dragged the body to them. Good that Simon didn't notice them floating around, waiting for the transaction to finish. The alternate dropped the body down in front of them, turned around, and went back inside. He did not wait to watch what they would do with it. He only heard the crunch, the squelch of muscle and flesh and meat being torn.

He took his place behind the counter. Closing his eyes briefly, he recounted what he saw when he walked into the store. Simon, head resting in one arm, homework sprawled in front of him. He wrote with his left hand. The alternate picked up the pen with his left hand. A tingling sensation went down his arm, and he was able to write. He looked down at the work. Simple patterns completed in convoluted formulas. He stared for a moment, the tingling sensation working its way through his hand and up his spine. He could do the math. He could talk. He could write. He was Simon.

Simon Birchfield.

He'd go through the day as normal. He had been watching Simon for a week, after all. He had to study, had to learn Simon's behaviors, actions, quirks, schedule.

After he made it through the day, he'd finish his goal. Take over their house. One of the faceless figures had been watching the Birchfield mother, learning her behaviors. She'd be their key to the hospital. The father, the key to the accounting firm at the other end of town. The Birchfield's were the perfect patient zero. A hub to the neighborhood, and an unassuming, quiet little starting point.

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A special thank you to The Mandela Catalogue, the inspiration behind this short.