THOSE WHO SURVIVED
ALM No.95, November 2026
SHORT STORIES
Every morning, I put myself back together.
First I make sure everything is where it should be and more or less working: my arms move, my legs cooperate, my brain comes online bit by bit and reconnects with the rest of my body. Then I fill up the system with coffee, sketch out a plan for the day—and I’m good to go.
Usually, the whole process takes about twenty minutes.
Today I had to do it faster, and I felt like some ancient rattling contraption being pushed to its limit.
At the moment, that contraption was making its way toward its destination. My head was ringing.
Once, people traveled on horseback. Then came cars and motorcycles. Airplanes cut journeys that once took days by train or ship down to a few hours. Then teleportation made almost any journey instantaneous. The technology had only been around a few years, but people were already used to its convenience.
And here was the irony: I was in a hurry and could still be late, because the nearest transfer station was half an hour away on foot, with a ridiculous number of traffic lights on the way. I’d left early, but an accident had closed one street and forced me to detour, while the lights seemed to have it in for me, turning red just as I reached them.
I was stuck at yet another intersection, wishing transfer booths were allowed in private residences. There was probably a good reason—safety, power consumption, something else—the kind of thing that’s easy to appreciate when you’re not in a hurry.
They also said it was good to get out once in a while and get some fresh air. I’d had plenty already—my lungs were burning.
I glanced at my wristband. Just over five minutes left. Then the car my future employer had sent would leave, with me in it or without me. Of course, the second option didn’t appeal to me—it would mean I’d wasted the past two months.
So I had to pick up the pace. If everything went as planned, I would finally sign the contract today. Good position, high salary, excellent benefits—after two months of interviews, the job was practically mine.
The light finally turned green, and I hurried across the street. I turned the corner and ran down the stairs. The station hadn’t changed much since the days when trains still stopped there: old tile, low ceiling, worn floors. Beyond the turnstiles, the tracks had been replaced by a row of transfer-booth doors.
The security guard behind the glass looked up.
“In a hurry?”
“Like the place is on fire,” I said. “Matter of life and death.”
He grinned.
“Then you’re lucky. A couple of booths are free. Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
I tapped my wristband to the turnstile. The fare glowed on the display; I confirmed with my fingerprint and went through.
I tucked my briefcase under my arm, glanced around, and slipped into the nearest empty booth.
The door closed.
I pulled up the city list, found the one I needed, selected the transfer station, and confirmed the route.
A static-like tingle ran over my skin, and I froze as if caught in a vise. The emitters flashed from six directions at once, and the booth filled with a low buzz.
I closed my eyes. The procedure never hurt, but every time it felt as though my entire being was vibrating—not just on the surface, but deep inside, resonating through every cell.
The glow vanished. The buzz died away.
I waited for the final jolt of the transfer. One second, two, three…
Usually, there was no waiting. You closed your eyes here and opened them at another station.
Then red light struck straight through my closed eyelids.
I recoiled instinctively and opened my eyes wide. The light went out and immediately flared again; red strips began blinking around the edges of the booth.
The door remained closed. I pushed it open with my shoulder and stepped outside. Familiar walls, the guard booth, the same guard. I hadn’t gone anywhere.
I checked my wristband. Three minutes. I could still make it if I didn’t waste any more time. The booth next to mine glowed green, inviting me to step inside.
Then the siren began to howl, and booth doors locked with sharp clicks all around the station. The security guard burst out of his booth and looked around wildly. Apparently he understood about as much as I did. Then his expression cleared a little; he pressed a finger to his ear, answered someone briefly, and nodded. His hand went to his holster. The other came up toward me.
“Don’t move!”
Nausea hit me at once, and the floor seemed to shift beneath my feet. Fear had always worked that way on me: my stomach revolted first, and only then did I figure out what exactly had scared me.
Then I saw the gun in the guard’s hand. He was raising it toward me.
My body reacted on its own. I yanked the briefcase from under my arm and, without winding up, threw it straight at him. Caught by surprise, he staggered backward and went down.
I didn’t wait to see what happened next. I turned and ran for the exit.
“Stop!”
I hit the turnstile at full speed and threw my weight against its rotating bars. It resisted for several seconds, then something cracked and I forced my way through. One bar caught my coat sleeve. I yanked, the fabric tore, and the sleeve remained hanging from it.
I was already racing up the stairs.
Outside, my foot slipped on the wet pavement and I landed on both knees in a puddle. There was no time to brush myself off. I jumped up and ran toward the intersection, where a small crowd had gathered at the light.
First thing: blend into the crowd.
The light turned green, and the crowd started across. I crossed with them, head down, and stayed among the pedestrians another block. Then I turned a corner, spotted a shop, and barged inside.
Finally, I had a moment to catch my breath and think about what had happened. Until then, my body had seemed to act on its own.
That was when I remembered the briefcase.
“Damn it!”
Documents, computer—everything was still at the station. More precisely, I had personally thrown the briefcase at a security guard and then run off, leaving it there.
Going back for it held very little appeal, especially after the guard had pointed a gun at me. One thing was clear: the teleportation hadn’t worked. Why was the last thing I cared about.
I was supposed to sign a contract today. After two months of interviews, tests, and waiting for responses, simply failing to show up would be an especially stupid way to lose the job.
I checked the time. The car had probably left by now.
The next transfer station was forty minutes away. Even if I got there, showing up without documents or a computer would be a bad idea. I looked down and added pants soaked to the knees, a splattered shirt, and a coat that had donated one sleeve to the turnstile.
No. Home first.
Clean myself up, grab the backup documents, then contact the company.
No—the last part mattered most. Putting it off would be stupid.
I pulled up the contact on my wristband and called.
Busy.
“Damn it.”
I didn’t try again. I sent a short message as I walked: transfer malfunction, unable to arrive on time, please reschedule for this afternoon.
Now I could only hope two months of interviews wouldn’t go to waste over one faulty booth.
I put the wristband away and left the shop. Home was half an hour away.
I hurried.
#
I was passing a streetlight when an icy burn swept across my back. I looked over my shoulder and realized I hadn’t been mistaken.
A man was walking behind me at a respectful distance. Beige coat, ball cap pulled low, scarf covering his throat. I’d seen him today. More than once.
But where?
The answer came back almost immediately. At the bus stop. Near the bookstore. Maybe by the coffee shop a couple of blocks back.
A shiver ran through me.
I turned sharply toward an underpass, went down the steps, then crossed beneath the street at almost a run. I came up on the other side and ducked into the nearest store. Pressing my cheek to the cool window, I waited.
Less than a minute later, the same man came running out of the underpass. He stopped and looked around.
So I hadn’t imagined it.
I waited until he disappeared around the corner, left the shop, and headed home at a quick pace. A block later, I was nearly running.
My breathing was ragged, blood pounded in my temples, but I didn’t slow down. Home was ten minutes away. Liz was there. I could lock the door, call the police, and finally figure out what the hell was going on.
Familiar streets flashed past. I turned a few times, barely thinking about the route.
About a hundred yards from my building, I stopped abruptly. Something was wrong. I looked around, trying to figure out what.
The street looked normal. A few pedestrians strolled along the sidewalk, cars lined the curb. Mr. Hall came out through the next entrance with his dog. As usual, he waved and headed my way, probably to ask how things were going and tell another dirty joke.
My stomach tightened. Behind Mr. Hall, I spotted a familiar figure. The man from the underpass was approaching slowly.
This time, he wasn’t pretending to be there by accident.
I looked toward the other end of the street. An unmarked black van stood at the corner. Two figures were visible through the windshield, both staring at me.
The doors opened simultaneously, and two men in similar dark jackets got out. One left the van door open.
For some reason, that frightened me the most.
Mr. Hall was right in front of me, holding out his hand.
“Garrett?..”
Something clicked inside me.
I shoved him aside and bolted. He lost his balance and sat down hard on the sidewalk. The leash slipped from his hand, and the dog, apparently deciding some exciting new game had begun, charged straight into the legs of one of my pursuers.
People shouted behind me, and I could hear running footsteps. I didn’t turn around or slow down.
I vaulted the low fence and clipped a trash can with my knee. It crashed onto the pavement with a metallic clang, garbage spilling everywhere. I kicked the second one over deliberately. I wasn’t sure it slowed them down at all, but I desperately hoped it did.
I turned into an alley. It ended at a fence too high to clear at a run. Beside it was a plastic crate—the same one neighborhood kids used to climb over.
I planted a foot on it, pushed off, caught the top of the fence, and hauled myself over. I landed badly and almost rolled my ankle, but stayed upright.
The crate toppled behind me.
I kept running. Another yard, a narrow passage between buildings, one turn, then another. A few minutes later, I barely knew where I was.
Finally I stopped between two buildings beside a row of dumpsters and listened.
No one.
My sides were heaving and I felt sick. I bent double, braced my hands against my ribs, and tried to catch my breath.
Who the hell were these people? And how had they found me?
I’d lost the man in the beige coat at the underpass. He hadn’t seen where I went. I’d turned several times, changed streets—and still, minutes later, he showed up near my home.
So it wasn’t about how good he was at following me.
I straightened and stared at my wrist.
The wristband.
Phone, money, ID, getting around—my entire life was tied to this thing. And, of course, my location.
“Idiot.”
I went offline, though I had no idea whether that would be enough.
Something moved near the next dumpster.
I nearly jumped out of my skin and spun around.
A homeless man sat beside a cardboard box, watching me with interest. He held a half-unwrapped sandwich; a worn coat of some unidentifiable color lay nearby.
He smiled and waved the sandwich.
“Want some?”
I looked at the sandwich. More precisely, at the foil around it. Then at the coat.
That might be exactly what I needed.
I went over and picked up the coat instead.
“Hey! That’s mine!”
He started getting up, slowly and awkwardly, but I was already pulling off my coat and shoving it into his hands. The sandwich hit the ground, and he stared at his new coat in confusion. Even missing a sleeve, mine looked far better than his old, worn one.
All I could do was hope the coat didn’t have lice or anything worse. There was no time to check.
I picked up the half-eaten sandwich, unwrapped it, and handed it back to him.
The foil was all I needed. I wrapped it around the wristband, covered it with the coat sleeve, and walked away.
“Hey, man! Wait!”
I didn’t turn around.
Back on the street, I blended into the crowd. Staying anywhere near home was out of the question, so I started taking detours and moving farther away.
People walked the sidewalks, cars passed by, and no one seemed to pay any attention to me. The coat wasn’t as filthy as it looked and, fortunately, didn’t smell too bad.
There was no sign of anyone following me, although every so often a van passed that looked like the one near my home. None stopped. No one called out.
Apparently the disguise was working. And the foil too.
Eventually I decided I’d gone far enough and covered my tracks.
My stomach growled. I looked around and spotted a small café sign.
Just what I needed.
I went inside.
Sandwiches and hot dogs sat behind the display glass.
I had to call Liz right away. But first I needed to buy something.
I took the foil off the wristband and went back online.
It immediately started vibrating as notifications poured in. I ignored them.
I chose a hot dog, grabbed a bottle of water, and paid at the register. Then I took a table by the window near the exit, with a clear view of the street.
For half a minute I watched pedestrians and passing cars. Nothing suspicious. Apparently I’d really lost them.
But keeping the wristband online for long was risky.
I raised my arm, found Liz, and called.
“Garrett?”
“Liz, I—”
“I’m so happy for you!”
I fell silent.
“What?”
“I saw your picture on social media. You finally got the job!”
Her words stopped me cold.
“I’m making Peking duck for dinner. And don’t you dare tell me I shouldn’t have bothered.”
“Liz, are you all right?”
“Of course. Better than ever.”
At that moment, I heard the doorbell on her end.
Everything inside me went cold.
“Garry, hang on a minute. I’ll get it.”
“Liz, wait—”
But she had already moved away from the wristband.
I heard footsteps, a lock turning, the creak of the door.
I couldn’t breathe. I waited for a scream, for sounds of a struggle.
Instead, I heard Liz’s muffled voice:
“No, he’s not home.”
A pause.
“Haven’t seen him since this morning... Four hours or so... Yes, all right, I’ll tell him... You too.”
The door closed.
Only then did I realize I’d bitten my lip hard enough to draw blood. A salty, metallic taste filled my mouth.
“Garry?”
“Who was that?”
“Two people from Transport Inspection. Asking for you.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. They asked me to let them know when you came back.”
“And you...?”
“I told them you wouldn’t be home until evening. You’re in Los Angeles and said you’d be back in about three hours.”
I went quiet.
“Garrett? Damn it!”
“What happened?”
“I think the duck’s burning. Let’s talk tonight, okay?”
“Wait—”
“And don’t forget to pick up some wine. Our favorite.”
“Liz, I—”
“I really have to go. Love you. See you tonight.”
The call ended.
I stared at the dark screen for a few seconds.
At least they hadn’t harmed Liz.
Now I had to figure out what the hell she had seen on my profile.
I opened the notifications.
Employer’s message came first:
Very funny, Garrett. Don’t joke like that again.
I read it twice.
What the hell?
Next, a payment confirmation:
Payment approved. Best Burgers, LA.
I frowned and checked the time.
Half an hour ago.
Then came another notification: You’ve been tagged in a photo.
I opened the app.
I was in the picture. Or someone who could have been my identical twin. He was sitting at a bar, holding a glass of something foamy in one hand and giving the camera a thumbs-up with the other.
On the bar beside him was a briefcase—the same one I had left at the station that morning.
I zoomed in.
He was wearing my coat. Both sleeves were perfectly intact.
Behind him was a wide window, with hills beyond. Across one of the slopes, huge white letters spelled:
HOLLYWOOD
The caption beneath the photograph read:
Welcome aboard! Garry, our newest team member.
Now I got what Liz had meant.
I got the job.
But if I was still here, then who had walked out of the station in Los Angeles, gotten into the company car, and taken my job?
Who had taken my place? And why had they started hunting me?
“Damn!”
I shut off the wristband and looked out the window.
If Liz was right, the other me wouldn’t be back for a few more hours.
I finished the hot dog and drank the rest of the water. My stomach protested, but I might not get another chance to eat that day.
Staying any longer was dangerous. I had only a couple of minutes to spare. Might as well use them.
I got up and went to the restroom.
At the sink, I studied my reflection.
I looked awful. My pants were still dirty from the fall, my hair was matted with sweat, and the borrowed coat hung loose on me, looking decades old.
I nodded at my reflection, satisfied. Under the circumstances, I looked exactly right.
There was only one thing that didn’t fit.
I took off my tie, rolled it up, and stuffed it into a pocket. Then I mussed my hair and turned up the collar.
It wasn’t much of a disguise, but the man who had left home that morning had looked very different.
Before leaving the restroom, I wrapped the wristband in foil again and pulled the sleeve over it. I wasn’t going to test how well the foil hid it.
Outside the café, I headed for the station.
I didn’t run. The disguise seemed to be working; no one stopped me or even called out, and a homeless man running down the street would draw far more attention.
The station was less than half an hour away, but I took nearly twice that long to get there.
I blended in with pedestrians, changed my route several times, and kept a close eye on my surroundings. Instead of constantly turning my head, I watched reflections in shop windows and advertising displays.
For the first few blocks, everything seemed quiet.
Then I noticed a dark car parked near an intersection. It wasn’t the one I’d seen outside my home, and it looked like a different make, but I turned earlier than planned anyway.
A few streets later, I noticed a man at a bus stop. A bus came, several people got on, but he stayed. He let the next one pass too.
Maybe he was simply waiting for someone.
I didn’t stay to find out.
The closer I got to the station, the less I liked what I saw. No patrols, no cordons—just an ordinary street and ordinary pedestrians. Yet I increasingly felt that not everyone around me was there on ordinary business. Some cast deliberately casual glances around; one man stood at the corner of a building reading a book; another stopped passersby to ask something. Then again, maybe paranoia was getting the better of me.
The entrance itself looked perfectly normal. Hardly surprising. If they were waiting for me, watching the surrounding streets and the station itself would be enough.
Keeping the entrance in sight, I dropped down near some shop’s doorway, pulled the baseball cap low, and pretended to doze. A real masterpiece: Homeless Man in His Natural Habitat.
According to Liz, the other me should be back in an hour or two. I wasn’t sure he’d use this particular station, but it was the closest one to home and the one I used most. If I were in his place, this was where I’d come back.
I still had no idea who was in Los Angeles.
A man with my face, my briefcase, and my coat had managed to get my job, have lunch on my dime, and tell my wife when he’d be home. But whoever he was, he seemed to think much like I did.
All I could do was wait.
Time passed slowly. I watched the station entrance, occasionally glanced at the street, and tried not to let my eyes linger too long on anyone.
People went in and out. Cars stopped at the curb and drove away.
About twenty minutes later, another dark van pulled up near the intersection and stayed there.
Coincidence? Possibly.
After an hour, I began to doubt my assumptions. The other me might have come back through another station or stayed longer in Los Angeles. After all, Liz had said “about three hours,” not given an exact time. I didn’t even know what exactly he’d promised her.
Several times I felt like giving up and leaving.
Each time, my eyes went back to the van by the intersection.
If those people really were waiting for me, then I had probably chosen the right place after all.
It was getting harder and harder to stay focused. My eyes kept drifting from the entrance to passing people and cars, while my thoughts wandered off on their own.
The station doors opened again, and with an effort I looked back at them.
For a second, I found it hard to breathe.
The man who came out wore a coat like mine, except his was intact, with both sleeves. He carried my briefcase.
He took a few steps, stopped, and checked his wristband. Then he took off his coat and draped it over one arm. Underneath was a dark blue business suit that fit perfectly. Of course it did. I’d chosen it myself.
He stood there a few seconds, shifted his weight, and headed toward the intersection.
The driver of the black van turned, nudged his partner, and nodded toward Garrett.
His partner sat up, leaned out the window, and called something.
Garrett stopped and answered briefly.
The man nodded, settled back into his seat, and pulled his ball cap low.
Garrett kept walking.
These people had chased me halfway across the city. They exchanged a few words with the other me and let him go.
To me, we were identical. To them, we weren’t.
I gripped my wrist with my right hand and felt the wristband through the sleeve.
Mine was offline, and to them I had simply disappeared. The other Garrett’s was working—I’d seen him use it a minute ago.
So that was how they told us apart.
The other Garrett was already nearing the light.
Time to move, or I’d lose him.
I followed from the opposite side, careful not to get too close.
A few blocks later, he turned into a small wine shop.
Liz and I had been buying wine there for years.
Through the window I watched the other Garrett say something to the clerk. The clerk laughed, took a bottle from a shelf, and handed it over.
Our favorite. I recognized the label immediately.
Garrett nodded to the clerk and touched the payment terminal.
I stared at his wrist.
Without looking, I slipped my right hand under my left sleeve, found the foil, and pulled it free. I crushed it into a small aluminum ball, shoved it into my pocket, raised the collar, and stepped back into the shadows.
The shop door opened, and the other Garrett finally came out. He carried the briefcase in one hand and a paper bag tucked under his arm.
He looked pleased with himself.
No surprise. His day had clearly gone much better than mine.
I let him get ahead, then followed, slouching slightly and pulling the cap as low as possible.
For a while, I did nothing.
Then I picked up my pace.
“Hey, man.”
He didn’t turn around.
“Hey, wait up.”
Garrett slowed.
“What?”
“Help me out, will you?”
“Sorry, I’m in a hurry.”
He kept walking.
I kept pace with him.
“Come on. Couple of bucks.”
“I hardly ever carry cash.”
I made my voice plaintive.
“I’m starving...”
Garrett said nothing.
I kept beside him, slightly behind.
“Good day, huh?”
“What makes you think that?”
I nodded at the bag.
“Good wine. Nice suit. You look happy.”
He smirked.
“Observant.”
“New job?”
He glanced at me.
“Why new?”
“Tie, briefcase, wine. Either you got a job or a divorce.”
He laughed.
“The first.”
“See? I got a job once too.”
“Congratulations.”
“Little late for that. That day I was walking home happy when some guy asked me for money. I told him to get lost.”
I spread my hands.
“And look where I ended up.”
Garrett smiled again, but this time his gaze lingered on me.
“Listen... Have I seen you somewhere?”
A cold feeling settled in my gut.
I glanced at the bottle in the bag. Getting hit over the head with it was the last thing I needed.
I sighed and shrugged.
“People tell me that a lot. I’m always hanging around here.”
He studied me another second.
“Maybe.”
I lowered my head, sniffed, and wiped my nose on my sleeve.
“So don’t make the same mistake I did. Couple bucks.”
He scratched his chin and stopped.
“All right. Just leave me alone.”
Garrett set the wine beside the briefcase and reached into his pocket.
“God bless you.”
He pulled out a small bill.
I reached for it.
Just then, someone hurried past and bumped my shoulder.
Or maybe I only wanted to remember it that way.
I staggered straight into Garrett.
He instinctively raised an arm to ward me off.
I grabbed it with both hands.
“Careful!”
“Sorry, sorry...”
My body knew what to do.
My fingers had already found the familiar clasp.
I’d worn the same kind of wristband for years.
Click.
Garrett yanked his arm back.
The wristband slipped free and fell onto the sidewalk.
“Damn it!”
“Sorry, man, I’ll get it!”
I dropped to my knees first.
Garrett bent down too, but the briefcase and wine bag were at his feet, so he straightened almost immediately.
I covered the wristband with both hands and bent over it.
From there, it was easy.
A second later, I stood and held the wristband out to him.
“Here.”
Garrett snatched it from me, fastened it around his wrist, and checked the screen.
He frowned.
“Did it turn off or something...?”
“Sorry again,” I said.
I picked the bill up from the pavement and was already backing away.
“Thanks, man.”
“Hey...”
“I’m starving. Can barely stand.”
I shoved the money into my pocket, turned, and walked away quickly.
I didn’t run. I walked as though the only thing that mattered was where to buy a hot dog.
No shouts behind me. No running footsteps.
I kept walking without looking back.
The new wristband weighed pleasantly in my pocket.
For the first time that day, I felt things might still turn out all right.
Now I had to clean myself up, ditch the coat, and get the suit cleaned.
Then buy wine and flowers for Liz.
If I’d done everything right, I could count this as a second birthday.
That was worth celebrating.
#
A month passed.
For the first few days, every sound outside the door made me jump. Whenever a car stopped near the house, I went to the window, expecting a call each time.
No call ever came.
The other Garrett never appeared either.
A few days later, the news reported tighter security at transfer stations.
Liz says I still toss and turn in my sleep and sometimes cry out at night. I don’t remember any of it, but every morning I wake in a cold sweat, my heart pounding.
Then I lie there and slowly put myself back together.
I steady my breathing. Wait for my hands to stop shaking. Put my thoughts in order and make sure everything is where it should be.
My arms move.
My legs cooperate.
My brain gradually reconnects with the rest of my body.
Everything as usual.
Except now I often think about what happened that day.
About the transfer booth.
About the man who walked out of it in Los Angeles.
About what would have happened to me if everything had worked that morning the way it was supposed to.
I don’t have an answer.
Maybe I got the whole thing wrong.
But I’m not going to find out.
I never did start the new job. A week later, I sent in my resignation and decided to look for something closer to home.
Preferably close enough to get there on foot or by car.
Better to put myself back together every morning.
At least then I know exactly who’ll open their eyes.
Max Boganets is a Russian-born writer living in Illinois. He is the author of eleven peer-reviewed scientific papers and writes literary and speculative fiction exploring technology, society, and human identity. "Those Who Survived," published in Adelaide Literary Magazine, is his first literary magazine publication.
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