“Oh,” said Jack. Time travel hadn’t even occurred to him. That someone or something could have interfered with the universe in such a way as to have effectively broken it.
If that were the case, how could it be fixed? Jack knew little of science. A childhood fascination with space exploration and a love of old television shows portraying life on alien planets did not a scientist make.
Fuck. He’d have to find an actual scientist and explain the situation tothem. There was no chance that Jack could solve this on his own.
“Maybe a curse,” the clerk suggested, tapping a finger against her chin. “I think a cursed object could cause something like that. Or aliens.” She lowered her voice. “The greys are everywhere. Never, ever underestimate them.”
Jack’s stomach churned. “The, uh, the greys?”
“Grey aliens.” The shopkeeper gave a long-suffering sigh. “Like these.” She pointed to a book whose cover depicted a figure with long, sticklike limbs, and a bulbous head with nonose and huge eyes. The creature was naked and sexless, bathed in green light.
“Oh,” said Jack. His insides squirmed. He felt oddly like he’d just looked upon someone’s especially perverse fantasy. “I see. Um, why would the aliens do that?”
“To harvest your organs,” said the shopkeeper gleefully. “Or your soul. Or your memories. Accounts vary, and so do the projected reasons.”
“Why not harvest all my organs at once and just incinerate my body? Or chuck it out the airlock?”
“A time loop means they can keep harvesting your organs,” said the shopkeeper pointedly. “As many as they need, and you’d never know it.”
Jack shivered, and the shopkeeper laughed.
“You’d never know. They’d just keep stealing organs.”
“A lovely image,” Jack mumbled. “But who needs my organs?”
“The greys!”
Right then. This conversation was going nowhere. He turned to leave. “Thanks for your help.”
“If you’re looking for a book?—”
But Jack was already gone.
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
“How come you’re still here?”Jack asked Boris. It was after nine p.m. By his calculations, Boris had worked a sixteen-hour shift. Whether or not that was normal for the hospitality industry, Jack couldn’t say, but Boris’s eyes were red and glazed over, his curls flat against the top of his head. By now, he had a five o’clock shadow and twitchy fingers. Still, he flipped through the magazine pages, resigned.
How many fucking magazines did he have back there?
“Boss man’s sick,” said Boris, voice raspy.
“That’s unfortunate.”
“Yeah. Why do you care?”
“Just realized you called me at seven a.m. after I saw you last night. Did you ever go home?”
“None of your business,” said Boris, without heat. He didn’t look up. Just stared at the big-breasted blond and her surfboard, glossy on the magazine paper.
“Just seems rough,” said Jack.
“It’s fine,” said Boris, yawning. “I got the boss’s magazine stash.”
“Oh,” said Jack. “Those aren’t even yours?”
“What’s it matter? I got nothing else to do here. You the magazine police?”
