What Happened to Lori
Page 33
But before reading that, please review this book on the Internet. Even if you hated it. Especially if you hated it. Heisenberg dealt with uncertainty, but the Streisand Effect is oddly dependable.
Please discuss Lori on social media. Share it with your friends and family.
I only ask that you don’t spoil it for anyone.
Respect your fellow humans. Give them a chance to form their own opinions.
If you insist on writing reviews with spoilers, please clearly mark them as such. If you have theories about what happened to Lori, also forewarn with a spoiler alert.
And if you don’t…
Let’s just say you might want to invest in a good pair of welding goggles.
Four people.
Two women. Two men.
Something extraordinary has happened to them.
They’ll risk everything to get home.
They’ll risk everything for each other.
Spoiler alert: At least one of them won’t make it.
Can you guess who it will be?
WHAT HAPPENED TO LORI – BOOK 2: REVELATIONS
You’re not going to believe it…
CONTENTS
Author Note 4
Epigraph
Author Note 5
Author Note 6
Author Note 7
Author Note 8
Epilogue 1
Author Note 9
Epilogue 2
Author Note 10
Author Note 11
Epilogue 3
AUTHOR NOTE 4
Traditional narrative has a three act structure.
Have you ever wondered why?
People are genetically predisposed to curiosity. You seek questions. You crave answers.
The conflict within a story is a simple device to bombard its audience with questions, the main one being, “What happens next?”
Act one is the set-up, introducing the main characters. Heroes and villains. These characters should
BOOK 1: GENESIS began with act one. The set-up.
If this were presented as a logical argument rather than a story, the set-up would be known as the premise.
A premise asks questions it already knows the answers to, even if those listening aren’t privy to those answers yet. The premise leads to a conclusion.
The question first, then the answer to the question.
But this isn’t logic. This is story.
Between the question part and the answer part there is a long middle part.
The aforementioned conflict.
Act two is conflict. It biggers the amount of time between the premise and conclusion by asking more questions and delaying gratification.
Your gratification.
Call it teasing. Or edging. Or anticipation. But for some reason, the expectation of answers, the suspense of “What happens next?” is somehow even more exciting for people than the answer itself.
Isn’t that odd?
A story is nothing more than: “2 + 3 = I’ll tell you later.”
BOOK 2: REVELATIONS continues act two, adding more questions and conflict, raising the stakes.
It will also resolve that conflict and answer all questions in the third act.
Maybe not in the way you expect. Maybe not even in a way you approve of.
The nuance and subtlety of the first half is superseded by the ham-fisted approach of killing mosquitos with a flamethrower.
Be on the lookout for characters from other JA Konrath books, particularly ORIGIN and the TIMECASTER series.
At the same time, check your expectations and curtail your predictions.
While 2 + 3 = 5, it is also true that 2 + 3 = 4 + 2–1 = 10/2 = a prime = the number of toes you probably have on your left foot.
If you’ve read a lot of fiction, the answers coming up will not be the traditional answers you are expecting.
Of course you’ll find out what happened to Lori. You’ll also learn what will happen to Lori, Fabler, Presley, Grim, Kadir, Doruk, the Watcher, and Jake.
The answers begin right after this Author Note.
Whether or not you like the answers is another story.
Your story.
There can be no story without you. Your reading makes these words exist. Your reading makes the characters come alive in the world you have created in your imagination.
You can make this world disappear if you stop reading.
And some of you will.
In this story—your story—one of the main characters dies.
But can a story character ever really die?
If a character is in your head, that character will always live in that moment.
Consciousness and reality are the same thing.
When you reach the end, some of you will go back and read this part again. To look for clues. To find what I’ve hinted at.
I encourage that.
~/jake: 08-27-2017 13:23 1503840225
READY
10 RUN "WHAT HAPPENED TO LORI: BOOK 2 REVELATIONS"
20 GOTO 10
FABLER ○ August 13, 2014 ○ 11:33pm ○ 1407972798
Lori shrugged off the blanket.
“Can’t sleep?” Fabler turned to look at his wife, her face bathed in a slice of blue moonlight peeking in through the window.
“Can’t turn my brain off. You?”
“Same. Feels like we’ve put life on pause.”
“Yeah.” She sighed. “I’m going to try some chamomile tea. Want a cup?”
“Tastes like hay.”
She smiled. “It doesn’t.”
“It does. And you’ve got a gorgeous smile.”
“You can see me smile in the dark?”
“Your smile lights up the room.”
“You’re an idiot.”
But she reached for him, her hand rubbing his chest. Fabler shifted closer, and Lori wound up under his arm, nestled against him.
He moved in, kissed her. She tasted like sunshine after a week of rain.
“Your breath smells like you ate old socks.”
“They were yours. I couldn’t help myself. They smelled so tasty.”
Lori giggled. “You’re such an idiot.”
“How about I put a pillowcase over my head so my breath doesn’t bother you?”
“How about you let me get my tea so I can get to sleep? I have an open house in the morning.”
Fabler ran his fingers through her hair. “You shouldn’t wear your earrings to bed. You’ll lose them.”
She touched the right one; a gold heart with a ruby inside.
“I love these earrings. Because you picked them out.”
He moved his hand lower. “Your brother helped.”
“You really want me thinking about my brother while you’re touching my boobs?”
“Sorry. Gross. I take it back.”
Lori pulled away.
“Really? Because I mentioned Grim?”
“No. It’s not Grim.”
<
I’ve got an idea what it is.
“You want to talk about it, babe?”
“My period just ended.”
Fabler waited, knowing what came next.
“You know it isn’t time yet, Fabler. We still have two weeks.”
“So? We can do it then, too.”
“Fabler… we should hold off.”
Her words hung there like a crooked painting.
The seconds ticked by, each feeling like a weight added to Fabler’s chest. He eventually broke the silence. “Until you ovulate again.”
Lori didn’t answer.
“You know, honey, we can fool around just to fool around. Because we love each other. Because it feels good. It doesn’t always have to be about basal temperature and urine tests and menstrual cycle tracking.”
“I hate my body.”
“I love your body. All of your body.” He moved his hand between her legs, into her panties.
“I can’t make a baby, Fabler.”
He moved his fingers faster, wanting more than anything to take his wife’s mind off of babies, off ovarian cysts, off sex for procreation, off the future lives they imagined themselves living.
He kissed her bare shoulder. “We’re doing all we can, Lori.”
“We’d be good parents, wouldn’t we?”
“We’d be the best parents ever. You’d be the best mom ever.”
“Jenna if it’s a girl. Grim if it’s a boy.”
“You really want to talk about your brother when I’m touching you like this?”
“You’re right. Gross. Kiss me again, but try not to taste like socks this time.”
“I’ll try.”
Fabler moved on top of her, and felt Lori wrap herself around him, a fit so right, so perfect, that they must have been made for each other.
For ten minutes they were the only two people in the world.
Then, when they finished, Lori scooted her butt up to the headboard and put her legs up on the wall.
“I know it’s thirteen days early. But just in case.”
Fabler kissed her forehead. “I’ll make some tea. You know, that position is kinda sexy.”
She grinned. “Shut up.”
“We may go another round when I come back.”
He slipped on his boxer-briefs and padded out of the bedroom, the wooden floorboards squeaking underneath his bare feet.
They’d discussed it. Fabler hadn’t ever thought of having children until he and Lori got serious, after he mustered out.
Lori wanted that, too. But she’d also said any child would do, and had already begun looking into adoption. According to her, adopting a child was as tough, maybe even tougher, than getting pregnant with polycystic ovary syndrome.
The coffee machine finished making a mug of hot water, and Fabler dropped in one of those awful chamomile tea bags.
The light and the sound hit Fabler like a speeding truck, assaulting his eyes and ears with such force that he immediately ducked for cover behind the kitchen counter, assuming he was under attack.
The light; white, harsh, brighter than staring at the sun, streamed in through the kitchen windows caused head-spinning pain, even with Fabler’s eyelids squeezed shut.
The sound rumbled louder than an F-16 fighter jet, but with a much lower frequency; some cross between a robotic, baritone hum and an otherworldly growl.
Fabler wondered if the universe had just exploded.
Though unbearably glaring, the light had no heat. Sunlight, or even a large spotlight, brought warmth. This light felt like a cool night. It also had the smell of ozone, and a slightly metallic/electric taste, reminding Fabler of being a child and touching his tongue to the terminals of a nine-volt battery on a dare by Grim.
Working from memory, Fabler reached up and tugged open the junk drawer, pawing through screwdrivers and batteries and pens and old magazines, finding a pair of cheap sunglasses he used when mowing the lawn. Fitting them onto his face, they reduced the glare just enough for Fabler to see, though he still had to squint.
He looked around the house.
But the walls weren’t shaking, and two of the kitchen windows were open but Fabler couldn’t detect any breeze.
He screamed her name, and could barely hear himself over the droning, electronic flood of noise that came from everywhere at once.
Fabler headed for the hallway, and the kitchen door slammed in his face.
He reached for the knob.
It refused to turn.
Fabler tried to put his shoulder into it, but he couldn’t generate any force, and bounced off the wood, barely feeling the impact.
He took a few steps away, intending to charge at the door, and noticed his feet seemed lighter. In fact, his whole body weighed a fraction of his normal two hundred pounds. Moving through the air felt like wading through a bog, or pushing against a strong wind.
Rather than let the weirdness of the situation stop him, Fabler focused on solving the problem.
He pulled himself along the kitchen counter, opening the silverware drawer, grabbing a butter knife, then jamming the dull blade between the doorframe and the plate, over the latch. Then he manually forced back the spring and pulled the door open.
In the hallway, Fabler hunkered down low, palming the wood paneling on the walls to drag himself forward, making four points of contact with the floor; two with his feet, and two with his knees.
Even though he met no discernable resistance, Fabler still had to fight his own muscles to move, like in dreams where some unseen danger chased him but he couldn’t run away.
Sweating, straining, grunting, squinting, he finally managed to get to his bedroom door.
Again, the knob wouldn’t turn.
Again, he jammed in the butter knife to open it.
Then he dragged himself into the room, and saw—
“Lori!”
“Fabler!”
His wife wiggled frantically, like a bug suspended on a pin.
And yet she floated in the air, a meter above the bed.
Fabler reached for her, grabbing Lori’s hand, locking his fingers around her wrist, being carried with her as something unseen pulled his wife slowly, inexorably, toward the bedroom window.
Fabler had gotten rid of his collection of firearms, except for a Colt revolver, which he kept in the secret room. It was hidden under the floorboards with his cash reserves from his private contractor days. But even with a gun, how could he attack something that wasn’t there?
Beyond the blinding light and ear-piercing buzz, there was no enemy to engage. No intruders trying to take Lori away. No ropes or wind machines or giant magnets. Nothing to hit. Nothing to shoot.
All Fabler could do was hold on as the unseen force dragged Lori’s head to the window—
—and then through it.
But the glass didn’t break. Lori ghosted right through the solid matter, as if the window were a waterfall.
Fabler’s mind snapped like a dry twig.
But gripping Lori’s hand felt so real. The light, the sound, the feeling of being dragged through the ether—
Then Fabler’s hand vanished into the window. He tried to grab onto the wall, but his hand disappeared through it, ghost-like. As his head, and then his eyes, crossed the glass threshold without anything breaking, Fabler experienced a sensation of being dragged through something thick and viscous, like mud or syrup.
A moment later, he held Lori’s hand outside their home, hovering in their yard, and they viewed the source of the light.
A huge, round cylinder, glowing white, taking up much of his lawn.
Fabler thrashed, not letting go of Lori, but determined to get himself out of this nightmare through sheer will.
They continued to be pulled toward the cylinder, until Lori melted into the wall of light.
Gravity suddenly worked again, and Fabler landed on the ground, hitting hard.
But he wasn’t on his bedroom floor. He laid facedown outside, on his lawn.
The cylinder of light still in front of him.
Lori gone, a sting on his hand prompting Fabler to look at the four bleeding marks left on his palm by her fingernails.