They Live

“The donuts are gaining sentience.”

I glance up from my laptop screen with no doubt a bewildered expression, taking in the elderly lady who sat before me, chin leaning on the top of her cane and her adder like eyes staring out onto the small café floor. I hadn’t even noticed her sitting here, but there she was, with a leather cap as weathered and wrinkled as she was, wrinkled hands clamped atop a walking cane and her dark adder eyes staring out with suspicion upon the café floor.

 “Pardon?”

“The donuts, they’ve gained sentience and are taking over this town slowly as we speak. I don’t know exactly how or why, but they’ll have ta take it over my dead body!”

She said all of this is a hissed whispering like tone, but I was sure it was loud enough for others to hear. Yet the other customers sat at their tables, and stood in their lines, expressionless. Even the employees behind the counters hadn’t seemed to notice, with their uniform smiles and attentive eyes.

I swallow, not sure what to say next, then she abruptly raises a hand from her cane.

“I’ve said too much.”

And with that she rose and turned, only to turn and point at me with a crooked finger. “Don’t eat them, ya hear?!” Then with that, she was off. She pushed her way through the line and I heard the jingle jangle of the door chime, and an employee politely hollering, “Thank you come again!”

I sat there, motionless, speechless. Then a smile comes across my face, and I laugh. “Of course, of course this would happen to me!” I have what’s known as a ‘Retailer Worker Face.’ If I walk into a store, people assume I work there and will go up and ask me which aisle to get what. Basically, it means I’m very approachable, and this had lead to some weird and odd encounters.

And of course, this is what happens when I decide to go to the local café for some inspiration. You see, I’ve moved back here, to my home town that is, in order to reconnect with my childhood.

Because I want to be a writer. Right now I’m an accountant. Don’t want to be though. I want to be a writer.

Problem is, I’ve been struggling finding the inspiration or rather, the right words, in order to put onto the page. Back in my current city I live in, I tried numerous different things, I tried changing the location of where I write, I tried switching my laptop for a pen and paper. But nada.

One day, when brainstorming of what to do to fix my current writer’s block, I suddenly remember that I used to write all the time as a teenager. So I figure, why not use all my sick and vacation days saved up, rent an Airbnb, and head back to my hometown to see if I could get the old spark again.

However its turned out to be for naught, and even with that crazy interaction, I was again find myself speechless. Wordless. Leaning back in my chair with my mug of coffee, I chuckle to myself.

That’s when I notice the employee staring at me.

From across the counter, she seems alarmed when I catch her gaze, but then she moves to another employee and whispers something in their ear. The employee catches my gaze and smiles. Reaches for something behind the display case and then makes his way around the counter.

Crap am I getting kicked out? Now that would be the first time. Yet when he moves around the counter, I see he has a fresh donut heaped atop a paper plate, and is coming towards me with a placid warm employee smile.

“Good morning! Don’t mean to disturb you but we noticed you didn’t get to try one of our famous Mr. Buddy Donuts. Here’s one on the house!”

He places the donut and plate on the table and then seems to stand there expectedly. I just smile and say ‘Thanks’. He waits a bit more, as if wanting to share in on my first experience. I cough loudly and turn back to my computer, pulling the plate closer to me while I do so to assure him that ‘yes, indeed I plan on eating this monstrosity’. Yet he lingers there for a moment too long before returning to the counter.

The words on my screen are just gibberish, and I glance down at the donut.

It is in the shape of a donut bar, but it has little stubs on its side and bottom corners. Icy creates a smiley face along the upper top half. I must admit, this seems like the perfect little donut buddy.

Too bad I don’t care for sweets much.

Later that night, I grab some drinks with an old childhood friend I’ve reconnected with since coming back here, Casey. She actually used to be one of my writing buddies back then, but we both obviously went on different career paths. I thought grabbing drinks with her nightly would inspire me to do some work to share with her, but most days it was only making me dread having to hang out because I almost always had nothing to show for it. Except now I was excited to share something that was indeed exciting and would no doubt draw attention away from my lack of writing.

So when she asked ‘How’s the writing coming?’ I quickly responded, “Its coming along-but the craziest thing happened to me today…”

I began to her of the crazy encounter with the elderly lady today, and at the end, I asked her, “That’s crazy right?” and she just stared at me for what seemed like an unnaturally long moment, before bursting into even more unnatural laughter. I saw unnatural because it didn’t felt forced, and because of how her eyes were wide open the entire time and seemed to be…almost frighten.

I laugh along nervously, “Yeah…that’s pretty crazy right?”

“So crazy! SO SO CRAZY! So crazy that you should probably like, never mention this to anyone again!”

I stare at her curiously, but then let it go. “Yeah you’re probably right, no one at the café seemed to notice and people will probably think I’m the crazy one for bringing it up.” I pause for a bit. “But you know, there was that weird encounter with the employee, and before moving back here I heard there was some weird stuff with the owner-“

“HAHA that’s crazy man! So how’s your writing coming?”

I stammered, caught off guard, “Not so great to be honest…hey so what’s Julie been up to?”

After some drinks we parted ways and I went to head back to my Airbnb. At a certain point, I began to feel that someone was following me. I glance behind and see something small tuck its way into an alley.

“It can’t be…” I whisper.

Slowly, I creep towards the alley. Just as I come upon it though, a squirrel darts out from the alley and scares the dickens out of me.

I laugh. “Well, at least my imagination is still going strong.”

I figured that was a good sign for my writing, but alas no words grace my computer’s screen that night. Only streaming reruns.

The next day, at the café, I see on the local news on my computer that a house burned down in the night. When I click on the article, it states that the only known resident was not found within the building and is assumed to be missing or dead. Then I see the picture.

It’s the crazy old woman.

“Jesus…” I whisper.

Something smacks down on my table right next to my laptop, startling me.

“JESUS!”  

Its another Mr. Buddy Donut, pink frosting over the body this time with purple frosting smile and eyes. Gazing up, I see the same employee from yesterday. Still the same uniform smile, but unless its just my imagination, there’s a darkness in his eyes.  

“I saw you left your Mr. Buddy Donut untouched yesterday. I hope there wasn’t anything wrong with it, but just in case, here’s another on the house.”

I stare at him. He stares back. And I swear I can feel Mr. Buddy Donut staring at me too.

“T-Thanks, but actually I was just leaving…” I hurry grab my laptop and move around the employee, only to find all eyes on me. Both the customers and the employees all uniformly move their eyes away and return to their business, almost as if time was frozen for a moment and then suddenly sprang back into motion.

That only makes me rush out the door quicker, but when I take one last look, I see the employee staring at me through the bakery window.

I explain all of this again to Casey over drinks again, or at least, I try to. But she seems wound up, her left eye lid occasionally twitches, and her pupils seem to dart to the side occasionally.

“Hey is something wrong?” I ask.

“No its just maybe you talk too much!”

I’m taken back by her words, and she seems to realize that perhaps they were too harsh.

“You know, because this is a small town, you don’t want to start any pointless rumors! Hatfields and McCoys ya know!!”

I don’t know, but I figure Mr. Buddy Donut discussions are off the table. The rest of the evening is tense, and when I leave the bar that night, I can’t help but feel all eyes are on me.

Walking home that night, I don’t feel as if someone is following me, I KNOW someone is following me. I turn around, and once again see a small little shadow tuck into an alley. I move up, praying to god its just a squirrel once more, but as I get closer, I’m suddenly struck with the overwhelming knowledge that whatever is hiding behind that corner is most certainly not a rodent.

I turn and pick up my pace. And then I start to hear footsteps behind me. I can’t quite place what could be making the sound though, its not the scurrying of an animal, nor is it the heavy footsteps of boots and the echoing clatter of heels. If I was a better writer, I could find the right words to describe them, but now all I can say is that these footsteps are definitely the sound of a donut walking behind me.

I turn sharply to holler, and all I remember last was something blurry coming towards my head, then darkness.

I wake up to the sound of chanting. My vision is blurry, but I see feet standing all around me. I try to move to get up, but realize my hands and feet are bound behind my back. I’m lying face first upon some cold tile. I gaze up and see a crowd of people staring down at me. They are all townsfolk, some of them employees of the café, others are cops and bartenders and friends. I even see Casey in the crowd, her expression just as dry and soulless as the rest. I scream out to her, “Casey help!” But she ignores me. I realize then what they are chanting. “One of us, one of us.”

I squirm to break free but can’t, and then I hear a bubbly voice speak out over the crowd. “You thought yourself clever didn’t you, Mr. Peterson.” It is a deep, bubbly voice, very unnatural. And at its speaking the crowd parts, and I see the familiar display case of the bakery café. And then I see what sits atop of it.

It is a sickly mound of dough, with different toppings and sweets stuck within it. It has no eyes, but a gaping hole for a mouth as it speaks with a sort of sappy sickness.

“You thought you were clever to not eat even a morsel of us. But you talk too much Mr. Peterson, and we have you now.”

“Someone help me!” I cry out to the crowd, but they stare down expressionless.

“They cannot help you Mr. Peterson. For they are me now, and I am them!”

They all raise their fists, “ALL HAIL MR. BUDDY DONUT!”

“What the hell is going on here?”

“What is going on here, Mr. Peterson,” Mr. Buddy Donut continues, “is world peace. For every Mr. Buddy Donut that is eaten, a mind is assimilated. And they become a part of our hive, our family. They become one of us, and with a single mind, there will be no conflict, no violence, no suffering. Our plan start here in this small town, and after getting rid of that crone, you are the last piece to the puzzle. We will then branch out into the rest of the country, and then soon, the entire world.  And now Mr. Peterson, it is time you join us.”

There are squishing noises and from within the mound of dough that is Mr. Buddy Donut, smaller Buddy Donuts begin to pop out. There is about a dozen of them all, fully animated, jumping down off the counter and hobbling over to me. Their little stubby, doughy arms reaching out for my embrace.

I scream again, appealing to the crowd once more. But their chants continue:  

“ALL HAIL MR. BUDDY DONUT!”

“FIRST AMERICA! THEN GREENLAND!”

“THERE CAN BE NO SUFFERING IF THERE IS ONLY MR. BUDDY DONUT!”

“Over my dead body!”

The faces all sharply turn in the crowd, and I even manage to just barely gaze over my shoulder as I see the crazy old lady from before. Once again, I have no idea how she managed to get here, but there she with a cane in one hand and a Molotov Cocktail in the other. She flings it, and it explodes across the doughy mass that is Mr. Buddy Donut. It releases a blood hurdling cry as it is engulfed in an exploding flame that stretches out across the counter and into the walls. The crowd all begins to screech and flee, some hurling themselves out the giant glass window. All the little Mr. Buddy Donuts begin to cry out and scramble around as if they too are on fire.  However at least half a dozen of them come rushing towards me, but the old lady smacks them away with her cane.

I then feel her reach down and my bonds are cut off.

“Follow me if ya want ta live sonny!”

We book it out of the café, barely surviving the human stampede of the others coming out of the café. Slowly, they seem to regain back their consciousness.

It is much later in the night, and I am sitting on the curb with the crazy old lady. Both of us have a blanket over us. The fire truck is here, putting out the blaze that was Mr. Buddy Donut Café. Despite some burns, cuts and bruises, everyone seems to have come to their senses. But in the awkwardness, and the unbelievability of it all, everyone just seems to go their own way home. Casey offers to drive me home after I take a minute to myself.

“Sorry about all this.”

I turn toward the old lady, “S-sorry?”

“For putting ya in harm’s way. I had ta fake my own death in order to make them think I was out of the picture, but I still needed a way to get to the old hive brain, at least that’s what I figured it might’ve been. So I kinda had ta use ya sonny. Sorry about that.”

I shake my head, “In the end you saved me, so thank you.”

She stares at me with her old adder eyes as if trying to size me up, “Yer the Peterson’s boy, ain’t ya?”

“That’s right,” I mutter.

“Your mom was a good lady. Used ta sing with her in choir. Said you had a real talent for writing. You got anything publish.”

“N-no, I don’t…came back here to get inspiration actually, hoping to find the right words to break my block,” I chuckle.

“Oh well, ain’t that the shits! Nothing like almost being assimulated by a cult of evil dough ta get the old creativity gears cranking again eh?”

I stare blankly at her.  

“Ah well, maybe I’ve said too much,” she chuckles.

I figured she was right. And I figured being an accountant actually wasn’t all that bad after all.