CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Alex appreciated that the programmers of Douglas, Nebraska 1871, kept the weather inviting with sunshine and cloudless skies. It compounded the stress alleviation that accompanied transferring to the Lobby.
Per her norm upon entering Douglas, Rosa visited the nearest tailor shop and modified her clothing. With the suffocating attire they started clients with; it became a must for most. For unknown reasons, Alex never changed. He enjoyed staying in character inside each of the worlds he visited, even adopting the dialect when possible.
He had this strange notion that if he did that, the AI’s wouldn’t be able to detect him as an outsider, and he could briefly experience the thrill of living a different life, in a different era.
“How do?” A gentleman said as he strolled by; a lady friend entwined in his arm. The man wore a corduroy suit and top hat, which he pinched in time with his greeting. The lady’s blue bonnet dress ballooned out at the bottom, ruffles bedecked the edges.
Alex nodded a greeting, and the artificial couple returned to their prior conversation.
Folks mulled about the dusty town. A horse drawn cart wheeled hay in one direction. A farmer guided a pair of sows in another.
“All ready?” Rosa said.
He turned toward the sound of her voice, smiled at her choice of clothing: a two-piece bathing suit, white with pink dots, flips-flops, and a pair of low-cut jean shorts.
“Real fitting,” he said with some internal envy. The heat of his five-piece wool suit and hat already coated his body in sweat.
Removing the overcoat, he offered his arm.
She accepted it. A half-mile of comfortable hand holding silence brought them to the country side—far out of earshot of town activity.
Rosa had discovered Douglas in one of the many blogs distributed by Broumgard—probably in the least likely to meet another person section. They first visited it as a semi-joke.
On that day, he followed Rosa while she explored. She appreciated the low attendance of the saloon, the full house at chapel mass, and the friendly business methods at the trading post.
Finally seeing Rosa wowed by the Lobby helped make Douglas, Nebraska 1871 an easy place to like. Life passed in a simple manner. People stayed pleasant, respectful, pious—a contrast to the world they came from.
After diverting from the dirt road, they navigated a game trail through a field of knee-high grass, picked their way between a patch of dense woods, and arrived at their destination.
Miss Bashful was an enormous willow tree whose uniformed branches seemed to shade a full acre of cool earth. A tire swing hung over a clear pond the size and shape of a skating rink. Once the couple selected a spot, half in the sun, Rosa used a voice command to call forth a picnic basket loaded with wine, bread, cheese, blankets, and a pair of towels.
A gaggle of geese swam toward the couple.
Knowing they inhabited a zone of absolute privacy, Alex removed his shirt, shoes, hiked-up his pant leg. He retrieved a loaf of homemade bread from a wicker basket. Tearing off bite-sized chunks, he tossed them to their feathered friends. Unseen fish tugged at the first offerings, while geese hurried and gobbled pieces to the protest of their mates.
Having the picnic area situated, Rosa snatched her own loaf of bread, waded into the water up to her calves, and attempted to toss pieces to the less aggressive birds near the back.
Done with his bread, Alex sidled behind her, kissed her shoulder. “You were right.”
“What this time?” Rosa said playfully, then tossed the remaining half of her loaf, which hit the water and floated like a Viking warship. She turned and wrapped her arms around his waist.
“About coming here, about me needing a break, about how much stress I was under.”
“We’ll get through this, hon.” She kissed him, then again for a greater length of time, parting her mouth. Their tongues blended, his loins swelled.
His excitement grew as she shifted her hips, unbuttoned his breeches. Remembering the look of her freed breasts, the damp panties, brought him to an excitement level eluding him for months.
The crack of a breaking twig in the nearby woods slowed their hunger. Another, larger branch snapped, and they disentangled. They had spent many afternoons with Miss Bashful, all involving sex, and never been interrupted by more than a pair of rambunctious squirrels or chirping blue jays. The disturbed branch sounded too thick for any common fauna.
When considering the possibility of an AI deviating from its flexible loops, he immediately pushed those thoughts aside. No AI stalked them or followed out of curiosity, that anomaly was too improbable.
Another twig snapped, this time closer. Something unexpected approached. Alex remembered his being here violated a court order.
Rosa edged out of the water, and while staring at the patch of forest, asked, “What is that?”
“Some indigenous wildlife maybe?” He hurried to remember if anything dangerous lived in Nebraska. Wolves? Bears?
A series of twigs broke. Leaves rustled as if a branch was being forced aside and then snapped back. Alex heard the distinct sound of footsteps crunching dry earth. All headed in their direction.
Protectively, he moved in front of Rosa.
Programmers installed backdoor slips; little personal touches, all the time. Douglas, Nebraska 1871 represented a perfect world to alter on the sly.
One programmer, unbeknownst to Broumgard, inserted the ability to access thousands of genetics of marijuana in every world he worked on. Maybe whoever designed this bore, added spice in the form of a vampire or Frankenstein.
What about the pain threshold here? In dangerous worlds, the modifier room forced clients to specify their desired level of discomfort. Average worlds tended to mimic reality. Meaning, if a programming nut had tweaked this world, Alex might soon learn what the pains of being ravaged by Man-Bear-Pig.
What exited the woods frightened him deeper than any programmer’s ghastly creation.
Rosa gasped, gripped Alex’s elbow fiercely. The pain receptors were set to normal.
Alex’s knees trembled, struggled to keep him upright. His stomach convulsed, bringing him to the verge of gagging.
“My goodness, I’m glad I finally located you two,” a young and fit Roy Guillen said as he casually brushed prickers from his dingy one-piece set of long johns.
Rosa squeezed tighter.
Alex pulled his elbow free.
Pointing to Rosa’s shorts, Roy asked, “How do you change clothes in this world? There seems to be no command for that.”
After a beat, Roy scrunched his features, inspected Alex’s face, stepped closer.
Alex retreated. His heart boomed. The idea of Roy—a dead man—touching him sparked a carnal desire to attack this abnormality, to grab Rosa by the hand and run, to gouge out his own eyes.
The differing thoughts effectively paralyzed him.
It seemed that when something unreal presented itself, the human mind evoked its own form of error message: muddy fogginess, constricted throat, sweaty palms. Having witnessed numerous dreamed fantasies in the Lobby, he’d exhibited these symptoms before, just never to such a degree.
“What is it you’re gawking at?” Roy asked as he searched each of their faces. “Did I interrupt some hanky-panky.” Relaxing as if he’d solved the riddle, he came over, pinched Alex’s exposed chest.
Alex jerked back, brought his hand to the touched flesh, and blurted, “You’re dead!”
Frowning, Roy cocked his head. “Dead?” To Rosa, “You’re white as a sheet, dear. No need to be embarrassed. I know what married couples do when alone in a beautiful setting.”
“Roy, you’re not alive,” Alex stressed his words to alleviate the tension in his gut. “You died.”
“The Monza wreck?” Roy asked with a scrunch of his face. “Why is that such a problem? I popped into the Lobby, same as always.” He paused for a second, and then spoke with more caution, as if aligning Alex’s confusion with a previous curiosity of his own. “It was a bit different, mind you. Just before I lost control, I felt a tingling, almost like a loading out, and then BANG, the crash. After that, I was in the Lobby. I went back to the Monza race to watch you from the stands, but you had exited. I figured you’d went searching for me, checked the lobby again. Ten minutes had passed,” he shrugged. “I didn’t feel like playing tag all day, so I left a message at Post Office and blazed my own trail.”
“And then what? Has anything unusual happened this past week?” Alex decided if you couldn’t lead a horse to drink, forcefully telling someone they were dead when they stood in front of you might be a touch more complicated. “Try and think.”
“Well, since you’re an inquiring mind,” Roy said. “I went to San Francisco 1968. Many of us original vacationers still gather there. It’s like our clubhouse. I met Prince Hassef and Dr. Finder. We scheduled a Pinochle championship to end the squabble and crown a winner.” Again, he lost himself in thought, as if reliving exact details. After a beat, he continued, “Hassef had planned to log out shortly after we began and swore he would return three days later. So we postponed, returned, but neither of them showed.” Placing a hand under one of Miss Bashful’s branches, he tugged.
“The next day when I was in the lobby part, the numbers looked thin, but who knows…” He paused again, as if sensing a pattern. Apparently unable to decipher its symbolism, he continued, “I spent four or five days with the Mayans, hiking up to see a high priest, intending to do that Smoke Serpent Ritual. Then, I discovered what the process entailed and got the bejesus out of there.” He looked to Alex as if about to elaborate, shook his head. “When I went to the lobby that time, it was a ghost town. I checked my messages, found none, and I came here hoping to bump into you. I’ve been helping out on the Robinson farm over yonder.” He pointed. “After finishing with the lassies, the foreman tells me he saw some strangers heading this way. I hoped it was you two, and here I am.”
Rosa eased around Alex and peered at Roy as if he had sprouted a third eye, “He’s not joking with you. Roy, you passed. We attended your funeral.”
Checking their faces, Roy smiled, “I don’t feel dead.”
“It’s true,” Alex said. His chest lightened. His mind a helium balloon he continually pulled back into his skull. “Major myocardial infarction. Tara and I tried to cover it up, say you died in the guest house, change the rules. Everything backfired, and now this…”
“What is this?” Rosa whispered. “Dear Lord in Heaven, help us.”
“Hmm,” Roy nodded, paced two steps to his right. After a full minute of brooding, he looked up. “So I’m dead out there, but I’m still here?” A sly grin crossed his face. “You know, Alex, I’ve hoped for this. It’s why I panicked during the forty-eight hour breaks.”
A lump formed in Alex’s throat. He wasn’t sure what he anticipated Roy’s reaction to be, but expectance bordering on exuberance inserted a knife twist.
“Your soul may be trapped here?” Rosa said. “Shackled in the chains of mortality. Unable to bask in the glory of the Almighty.”
“No offense, dear, but I’m fine with that. You trap me in an ever-expanding paradise, one that allows my loved ones to spend time with me after I’m dead—a place that lets me plan fishing trips with my unborn great-great-great-grandchildren—I’m one happy man.”
“You don’t get it,” she said a bit quieter.
“What do you mean by, ‘with your loved ones’?” Alex asked. All of this hovered at a 9.9 for insanely problematic. If word leaked… His heart raced at the mere thought.
“You think I don’t have loved ones?” Roy said with a slight edge to his voice. “You think I don’t have the right to say goodbye to my granddaughter? My great-granddaughter? To Charles? You want me to let them continue thinking I just blinked out of existence when I’m alive and well? Is that what you’re suggesting?”
“You’re not alive and well,” Rosa insisted.
Alex breathed two deep breaths, searching for the right words. “I’m telling you we are dealing with a full on investigation by the LOC. The Lobby is currently shut down. Protests are popping up everywhere. If this got out, they could close the Lobby forever.”
“They can’t shut this down,” Roy said flippantly. “You of all people know we have a hundred classified dump sites.”
“If they think it traps your consciousness,” Alex said, “they’ll find a way.”
“It needs to be shut down,” Rosa added.
Alex winced at the thought; discarded her reaction as shock.
“You must bring them to see me, Alex.”
“Bring in people who could spread this?” Alex shook his head. “Did you hear what I just said? Do you still care about us? about Broumgard? about the Lobby itself? Are you so consumed by your own wants you won’t consider what this could do to the world?”
Roy held his gaze for many seconds. Alex marveled at Roy’s youth. Were these handsome features now permanent?
Roy nodded forlornly and meandered a few yards away.
Rosa moved in the opposite direction.
Deep thoughts accompanied the silence.
“Look,” Roy said, “my funeral just passed, which means my granddaughter and her daughter are probably still in town. Charles lives with you. Come back tomorrow, same time, let me say goodbye, just to them, and I’ll be out of your hair-”
“How is this happening?” Rosa said, more to herself. She searched both of their faces. Finding no interest, she wandered around the tree, out of sight.
Roy came closer and lowered his voice. “Do you realize the significance of what’s happened here?”
Alex feared he might be the only one who did.
“Bring them to me and that’ll be it. I guarantee you they’ll never say a peep. I get it. You have to do all you can to keep this a secret. I’m with you. I agree.” Another pause. “What you do is contact Tara and Adisah, get them to bottle this up because if one whisper leaks, it’s all over.” He chuckled, “The whole world, all over.”
Thoughts jammed in Alex’s nerve superhighway. He squinted his eyes tight. “I can’t contact them. I’m under house arrest. My phones are probably tapped.”
Roy stepped even closer. “You could bring Charles. We can figure this out together. Use him to deliver the messages to Adisah and Tara. You know we can trust him.”
Alex’s chest wound tighter. He didn’t want to tell anyone, but he also understood that to contain this secret, he’d first need to share it with others. “I won’t bring Kristen,” he said. “Plus, she left days ago.”
“What about…” Roy nodded to where Rosa had moved behind the tree.
“She’ll be fine,” Alex lied. “I’ll be here tomorrow morning with Charles. We’ll make a plan and stick to it.” Not knowing what else to do, he inspected his friend, and then surprised them both by embracing Roy.
Increasing his grip, with his shock settling, one emotion rose above the rest: gratitude. He appreciated his friend’s return, felt blessed to be gifted one more hug; to hear his voice; to possibly share more laughs. As morbid as it all might be, their relationship could continue.
Keeping those feel-good realities from the rest of the world would be his only goal. Opening a Pandora’s box of this magnitude could destroy everything he’d come to love, just for starters.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The sound of Rosa sobbing nearby welcomed Alex into the real world. Rising to his feet, he pulled back his privacy curtain, intending to seek her out, provide comfort. He caught sight of her shoulder as she exited through the closing door. He considered giving chase, but conjuring nothing useful to say should he reach her, he remained idle.
Truthfully, he didn’t see the same problem Rosa did. Besides extreme paranoia over the Lobby’s future, and knowing they would have to wear magical gloves to keep this quiet, he found the entire turn of events too surreal to be upset. If anything, he saw it in a positive light.
Of course, he’d have to hide those sentiments from his wife. He didn’t even trust himself to discuss the subject with her, for fear she would sense his inner wonder, lighting the wick to an explosive difference of opinions. She held onto a hope their faith in a higher power aligned. He allowed that. If she knew the depth of his doubt, that one separating belief could erode their marriage.
Listlessly, he opened her curtain all the way, until it compressed on the rack. For reasons he couldn’t pinpoint, leaving it as it had been before they entered seemed important. Perhaps for the simple sake of knowing one part of his life could be returned to order.
He surveyed the room with a heavy heart. Landing on the open space beneath the control panel—the two missing server boards—reminded him his life lay in other’s hands.
This additional complication of a dead man living posed an imminent threat to everything.
Opening the door required extra effort, and before he stepped over its threshold, he found Rosa ten feet away, arms crossed, eyes puffy but sharp, focused on him.
“I want that thing out of my house.”
He swallowed the rising lump in his throat. The last thing he needed: another frontal assault.
Creeping toward her, he prepared to placate her worry.
She stepped back and lifted her hands, palms out. “You get it out of here, or I will.”
A snake slithered into the base of his spine and wormed its way through his organs, around his heart, squeezed. For two seconds, he feared a stroke. “Honey, will you calm down. Let’s talk.” The entire house could crumble, his legs could break, he could accidentally chug hydrochloric acid, and as long as his access room remained, he would feel a contentment.
“I am calm,” she said, and then marched into her closet. A minute later she returned in jeans, tying her hair with a scrunchy. “I’m going to see Father Michael.”
He stepped into her path, a dozen feet separated them. “Rosa, I seriously think it might be best if we limit the people who know about this.”
“He’s a priest, Alex.”
A priest who drives an Audi A-8, thought Alex. As distasteful as it was to admit, he celebrated Father Michael’s expensive tastes. They boosted his confidence Tara could stifle that avenue before it became a problem.
Sensing he wasn’t about to object, she whirled toward the door. Before she reached the point where it would automatically open, she faced him. “Get your people. Do whatever you have to, but…” She shook her head and composed her thoughts. “That is no longer some big video game, Alex. It’s sinister.” Stepping toward the door, it opened. “I’ll keep your secret for now, for the good of the world, but I want it out of my house.” She rushed out of the room.
From near the closet, he stared at the walls of the access room. They were camouflaged to blend into the main wall, making them difficult to distinguish. The entire western wall resembled a calm woodland where animals darted and birds fluttered around a gently rippling creek.
Asking Victor to de-tint the entire section, he stood with a view overlooking the rear of the property.
The guest house lay a hundred and fifty feet to the northwest, partially shaded by a trio of thirty foot spruces. It shared none of the modern resemblance to Alex’s home, but Roy and Charles living there made life easiest for all parties.
He couldn’t help but remember how fragile Roy had been when they first took residence. Him surviving all these years equaled an impressive feat. Despite the madness that acknowledging it meant, in some sense, Roy Guillen remained very much alive.
Staring at the dark cedar home, he wondered what Charles was doing at that moment. Sleeping? Reading the New Yorker?
Opening the back, he met a wave of summer heat. Before heading to the stairs, he trudged over to the rail where a gust of wind ruffled his hair and rippled his T-shirt. The guest house had been modeled after the mid-century design of Jay Van Andel’s residence. A man with unscrupulous moral convictions and a deep belief in the teachings of the Bible. In some ways, he found the two-home dichotomy fitting—the ancient versus the modern.
Turning, he made his way toward the steps and steeled himself for the conversation ahead—one about life after death, proof of concept, and the strategy needed to maintain the fabric of society.