Naked Truth

Pete Hammond huddled in a doorway across the street from the hotel, watching the to-and-fro of pedestrians and cars. Pulling up the collar of his jacket, remembering the old party game question his friends would ask: “Would you streak across a stage in front of everyone you knew for a million dollars?”

Those were the terms. Not running starkers in front of total strangers, people you could forget and would never see again. It had to be a room full of people you know—friends, family, associates. People you would be too embarrassed to be seen in front of again.

He would bravely claim, “Sure,” but always knew in his heart he could never do such a thing. Not in front of people he knew.

Until today. In a matter of moments, he would strip down to the altogethers. Dart across the busy street, in and out of the passersby, into the hotel ballroom across the street. Past the dinner tables hosting the scientific community, under the very noses of those who'd dismissed him, had dismissed his work. Up the stairs to the stage, just as Professor Benjamin Felker would be reaching the podium to receive yet another odious award.

Then, in front of a roomful of witnesses, naked to the world, Hammond would kill the old man.

He had not yet decided how he'd do it. Grab a steak knife as he passed the circular tables? Or maybe he'd bludgeon the old man with the award itself.

Yes, that brought a certain sense of poetry to the moment. Bash in the old man’s head with his own stolen award. In front of the assembled scientific community. In front of the world. The ceremony was usually relegated to a paragraph on the back page of the daily paper. If that. This would make the front page.

So, not only would Hammond be performing a sort of cosmic duty, he would be performing a greater act of publicity than the entire scientific establishment had ever conceived.

Would you streak across the stage in front of all of your friends and associates? For a million dollars? Maybe not. To prove a point? Of course.

Hammond held his breath a few moments, huddled in the doorway of the closed jewelry store. Out of business, no reason for anyone to pay much attention to the man standing here.

He watched the passersby a few more seconds, still gauging his nerve. Then, determining that no one much cared what happened in this doorway, Hammond unsnapped the wrist on the left sleeve of his overcoat. Undid the button on the left sleeve of his shirt.

Feeling in his pocket for the syringe, he pulled it out, popped the cap. Pressed out the air with a squirt, then rolled up his sleeves.

Stuck the needle in his arm. Injected the serum into his vein.

Felt the liquid energy coursing through his blood and bone and sinew.

It was a rush of power, a rush of pure, naked power. A man with this power could rule the world! Why had he waited so long?

His hands already starting to fade, he doffed the coat and began unbuttoning the shirt. His flesh continuing to fade—soon his facial features would be unrecognizable—he began pushing off his pants and underwear.

He thought of the animals on which he'd tested the process. The rat, the chicken, the dog, the monkey. The animal tests had been remarkable, but Felker had refused to start human testing yet.

It is enough for us to tamper with Creation, the old man had said, we want to be careful before we play God.

The hat surely now floating on a milky, dissolving figure, Hammond flipped it off and threw it down to the concrete. The sky seemed darker. Was it getting cloudy?

Hammond looked to his left, into the store window. Could not see himself. At all.

The clouds must have bunched up around the sun. No matter. The darkness would only make it easier to wreak havoc.

He thought of the brass award that would be engraved for Professor Felker. How it might feel as he shifted the weight in invisible hands. How the room would gasp at the sight of the floating trophy. How the room would recoil in horror as the floating junk proceeded to batter the old man to death.

Hammond took a tentative step out from under the overhang, into the weather. He thought of how it would feel, whacking the man in the head with his own award, again and again, blood flowing freely, down his face on the brass, on the stage.

Visibility should be better than this. Why was it so dark this time of day?

Wobbly, padding out onto the sidewalk, Hammond felt the first whump as an unsuspecting pedestrian walked into him. As the man fell down—was he disappearing, too?—Hammond also tumbled to the pavement.

He was losing his sight. What was happening?

A sharp heel stabbed his hand. He shouted, and smacked himself in the face. He could not see his own hand, could not judge the distance. He was invisible. No one could see him.

But they were turning invisible, too. He blinked violently, concentrating on the patch of sidewalk in front of his face. He stared, trying to force his eyes to focus. The strain made his eyes ache.

He was going blind.

Hammond started to laugh, a crazed, unsettled laugh. It started low in his throat, gurgling outward. He felt a kick to his leg, heard another pedestrian hit pavement. He could hear the growing unrest around him, a crowd of bystanders confused and frightened by the strange unseen lump of flesh on the sidewalk hampering their walks, by the strange laugh floating from nowhere.

He processed. Analyzed. Realized.

As the invisibility serum altered his metabolism, his state of being, his very cellular structure, his eyes had turned invisible, too.

No eyes, no way to process light. No way to refract. No way to see.

He had turned invisible, and so had the world.

At the first pelting of the rain, Hammond began crawling, hoping he was inching toward the safety of the recessed doorway and his clothing.

Naked, shivering, soaking wet, Hammond scraped across the sidewalk and felt the concrete suddenly drop. Oh, no, the curb.

He felt another sharp kick in the ribs, heard someone else tumbling, felt himself shoved into the street.

Hammond heard shouting, traffic, cars, horns, squealing tires. A truck swerving to avoid the pedestrian suddenly ejected into the street by an invisible lump.

Hammond never saw the truck.

The truck driver never saw him.

Stupid Felker.