"Black Coffee" by James K Bowers

     It was just a cup of black coffee.  No cream.  No sugar.  No fancy artificial flavors.  Steam rose from the dark liquid, weaving lazily upward to invisible oblivion.
     The cafe was nearly deserted, as small town establishments are prone to be when the farmers are in the fields.  The breakfast crowd had vanished and few customers besides a handful of retired “good ol’ boys” were likely to wander in.  Sylvie studied her cup, debating over the safety of a sip.  Probably too hot, she warned herself, as wisps of white steam swirled gently in a delicate dance just above the coffee’s surface.
     The cafe’s solitary waitress — Joanne, if one took the time to ask or read her nametag — busied herself with a damp cloth.  She wiped yet again the counter she had cleaned dozens of times each day over the last three or four decades.  It was automatic.  Well-rehearsed.  It spoke well of the seasoned veteran and gave cause to overlook her slightly rumpled, but unquestionably utilitarian and hideously blue, waitress uniform.  She had, after all, survived dawn’s first onslaught relatively unscathed.  The smear of syrup and a golden drop of egg yolk dried on her apron appeared to be the worst of her wounds.
     Sylvie had no reason to distrust the waitress, but likewise had no reason to trust her.  Joanne had made certain Sylvie’s cup was never quite empty of the hot brew and had been friendly and courteous each time she had toted the coffee pot to Sylvie’s table.  But one never knows.  Not by casual observation.
     They walk among us.
     Sylvie had seen them — had once been captured by them and held prisoner against her will.  The captivity had been stressful enough, but the vile experimentation and intrusive probings had been far too much for Sylvie to bear.  She had escaped, leaving one of her grotesque tentacled captors in a pool of ichor.  After crushing it’s skull, Sylvie had paused over the body but couldn’t tell if he/she/it was still breathing — for that matter, she wasn’t entirely sure they did breathe.  She contented herself in the fact that it was lying motionless on the floor in a slowly expanding blue-green puddle.  That couldn’t possibly have been a good thing for the “squid” and that was good enough for Sylvie.  Then she ran.  She must have.
     Sylvie stared into the mug, into the deep brown liquid, and concentrated on remembering the details of her escape.  It was no use.  Still, she had no recollection of her flight from her captors, no memory of the pursuit that surely must have occurred.  She remembered the dead or dying squid clearly, but then there was that disturbing gap in her memory.  Nothing.  Nothing at all between “dead squid” and “half naked in the wilderness”.  That was what?  Six years ago?  No.  Seven.  She took a tentative sip from the cup.  The coffee was hot, but it had lost it’s ability to scald.  It now merely caused a pleasing numbness of the tongue.  No cream.  No sugar.  No fancy artificial flavors.
     Seven years on the run from the squids.  One never knew when or where a squid would show up.  You could be talking to the pastor after church on Sunday when, out of the corner of your eye, you would catch a glimpse of one.  It would open the car door with a tentacle, momentarily forgetting to maintain it’s disguise.  Or the lady ‘thumping’ the melons for ripeness at the grocery would turn and look at you with those emotionless grey eyes, smiling all the while as if the disguise was working.
     Oh, yes, they walk among us.  They are everywhere.  And Sylvie was certain of that.  But why did no one else seem to notice?  Why did no one care?  Why did they always try to calm her with a patronizing “There, there, my dear... everything is just fine...” and a less than comforting hand on her shoulder?

     The doctor, punctual as he always was, entered Ward Eight on his morning rounds.  He greeted the nurse on duty with a pleasant yet professional, “Hello, Nurse.  Anything unusual to report this fine morning?”  It was a ritual as timeworn as the medical profession itself.
     The nurse looked up from the records she had been updating and replied with equally businesslike charm, “Not much out of the ordinary, Doctor.  Room Three has been burbling incoherently every few minutes since yesterday afternoon.  Room Four was extremely agitated a few hours ago, but the doctor on midnight authorized a sedative and he’s been resting calmly since.  Room Six stares into space; silent as a stone, that one.  Room Nine has been hallucinating again, I think.  Keeps calling me ‘Joanne’ every time I come near and thanking me for something.  She keeps making odd movements as if she’s eating or drinking.  The poor dear.”
     “Hmmmm.  Yes.  She’s the one that was involved with that government project, right?”  the doctor asked, glancing through another patient’s chart.  “Such a shame -- I understand she was once a brilliant scientist.”  He made a show of glancing through the rest of the charts then, continuing the ritual, said, “Walk with me, Nurse?”

     Joanne reappeared from the back waitress station.  Sylvie guessed the man who emerged with Joanne was probably the owner -- clothes were too good to be found under a cook’s apron.  He smiled in Sylvie’s direction, but rather than small town friendliness, Sylvie saw an unsettling curiosity in the man’s pleasantness.  It was disconcerting, and a creeping unease was inching its way into Sylvie’s consciousness.
     She began to wonder if the owner was not at all what he seemed to be.  And Joanne?   Well, maybe she was a squid, too.  Sylvie took another sip of coffee and decided to keep a close but clandestine watch on both of them.  One must always be vigilant.  She slid the cup and saucer back an inch or two on the red and white checkered vinyl.
     Sylvie had hoped they would just go about their business, but instead Joanne was lugging the coffee pot over to warm Sylvie’s cup.  And the owner was strolling right along beside her, still wearing that ludicrous artificial smile.  She briefly considered laying some change on the table and beating a hasty exit.  She could always lie and say she hadn’t been watching the time and was now going to be late for an appointment.  If they weren’t squids, they might be taken aback by such abruptness, and possibly insulted.  On the other hand, if they were squids... well, who knew how they’d react?
     Joanne poured more of the steaming brew into Sylvie’s cup.  The man sat down across from Sylvie as Joanne retreated to a respectful distance.  He was polite enough, and he only talked about innocuous things like the weather.  Only asked harmless questions like, “So, how do you like it here?”  Sylvie was cautious and gave short, simple answers.  She wished he would return to his office, or wherever it was he came from.  He didn’t.  He just kept rambling on as if they had known each other for years.  Sylvie hated it.  Hated the banality.  Hated the forced familiarity.  Hated sitting here listening to what could very well be a squid.  But one never knows.  Not by casual observation.
     Then, finally and much to Sylvie’s relief, the conversation ended and he left her to her cup of coffee.  No cream.  No sugar.  No fancy artificial flavors.

     The doctor and the nurse walked slowly back along the antiseptic white corridor.  Neither spoke at first, both lost in their own thoughts.  The sounds of their footsteps echoed in the sterile hall and mingled with the burblings coming from Room Three.
     They were only a few steps from the nurse’s station when the doctor finally spoke.  “You know, I really have my doubts about using our best telepaths to study those creatures.  After all, who can guess what goes on in an alien mind?  As talented as she was, she just went too deep and it was simply too much for her.”  Then, completing a ritual as timeworn as the medical profession itself, they brushed tentacles and burbled.