by Sean Platt
Sorry, Jonathan — I wanted to track you down, but they were watching me. Threatening me with their eyes. Forcing me to kill them and watch their minions die, then cleaning up afterward and pretending nothing happened.
Jonathan, if he was alive, would understand. And Ephraim would end up feeling like a coward for the rest of his life.
But there might be no other way. Despite his promise to Fiona, Ephraim was turning out to be a hideous secret agent.
When he arrived at the Strand, Ephraim saw nothing but white-sand beaches and a shoreline with enough scoops in it that it looked as if someone had taken a row of bites from the island’s coast. Every villa on the more-elite Strand island had its own crescent of beach, each made private by palm trees and landscaping. Ephraim wondered what Strand accommodations must cost if even Sophie and Altruance hadn’t opted for them. Were guests who booked here allowed to walk the beach? Or would doing so violate the privacy of individual guests, each of whom wanted their scoop’s worth of beach all to themselves?
On the Fête island, Ephraim found even less. The island — particularly in daylight — wasn’t remotely helpful. Nobody, as far as he could see, lived there. Those who visited the party island lived on the other islands, visiting the Fête only when they wanted to get down. A few daytime restaurants and activities were percolating when Ephraim arrived, but they were sad parodies of what they must be when the sun went down and the drugs came out. He thought he’d seen things last night, on his single dose of Scream? A rave on the Fête at midnight would probably make his brain bleed.
But now, closer to noon with the sun high, the Fête’s pleasures were as useless as the Strand’s, Reception’s, and Retreat’s.
He sat on a concrete wall, looking across the blue ocean. Fiona was right; Ephraim had pitched all sorts of reasons why this would work when he’d had his hair on fire about finding Jonathan, nagging Fiona until she agreed to fund his trip. Where were those ideas now? And where was the burning need to find his brother?
He was exhausted.
And guilty, feeling Nolon’s phantom blood on his hands. But the man couldn’t be dead. He’d seen Nolon at breakfast (albeit cleaned up again, without the long hair and stubble), and the body hadn’t been in his front hall when by all rights it should have been.
Maybe he’d killed Nolon’s twin.
And then someone had knocked him out and put him in bed afterward.
And disposed of the body and cleaned the debris while he slept, down to repairing tables and broken windows.
And replacing the carpet, because cleaning it wouldn’t have been nearly enough for all that blood.
Was that what he thought?
Or was a more logical — albeit harder to fathom — explanation. That the fight with Nolon had never happened?
Was this all part of some paranoid Lucky Scream trip, like Altruance suggested?
You saw his face when you described the ghost. Altruance saw something. He’s convinced himself it was a drug-induced nightmare, but he saw what you saw, all right. And all is not well in the paradise, no matter how weird and difficult to explain all of this is.
“I knew I’d find you here,” said a voice.
Ephraim turned. The voice, coming unexpectedly from behind, should have surprised him. But his surprise was apparently all gone.
He turned to see Gus Harmon standing to his rear.
“How did you know you’d find me here?”
“I didn’t, dude. I just thought it’d be more dramatic that way. That’s the kind of thing people say in movies.”
“They do?”
“Well. Not my movies. In my movies they say, ‘I fucked your mom. Do you have any weed?’”
Ephraim laughed. Just a little.
“So, do you?” Gus asked, coming to sit beside Ephraim.
“Do I what?”
“Have any weed.”
“Fresh out.”
“Pfft. Figures. You can buy heroin in there.” He pointed to a hut that looked like a charming gift shop.
“You can?”
“Well, I don’t think it’s normal heroin. I think they changed it somehow, like maybe it doesn’t make you blow hobos after your first fix so you can get more. Maybe it’s a hobo-dick-free version. But yeah, man, heroin. Comes pre-cooked or something, in pre-filled disposable syringes. Or in powder. You can pick your pleasure. But no weed. Why wouldn’t they sell weed? I’ll bet you could grow some great bud on a place like this.”
“You’re probably just not looking in the right places.”
Gus removed a pre-packed pipe from his pocket, took a drag, and handed it to Ephraim, who refused. Apparently, Gus had pot already. The questions about finding more were more of a philosophical wondering.
“Hey, Gus,” Ephraim said.
“Yeah.” Gus had been holding his inhale. The word escaped with smoke. He blew out, away from Ephraim.
“What was it like when you took Lucky Scream?”
“Dunno, dude. A party.”
“Did you see things?”
“It was like I was at a big naked party.”
“I mean like scary things.”
“Yeah. There were some fat people at the naked party. Girls and guys.”
“Never mind.”
Gus seemed to realize that Ephraim was serious. His face became less obtuse. “Yeah, sure. I saw some stuff. I was convinced all these dead people were on the tram with us. But they weren’t that scary. They were just there. Like Jimi Hendrix was standing right beside you. Not like a zombie or anything, like he was rotting, but shit. Jimi is dead. I know that. But when I took that Scream, he was right there on the tram, smoking a blunt. Offering his blunt.”
“Doing drugs makes you see people doing drugs?”
“Why not?”
Ephraim considered the ocean. “Did you lose any time?”
“No, man. I got right back to finding more of that shit the second I checked in.”
“I mean missing time. Holes in your memory. Like you wake up and wonder where the time went.”
“All the time, sure.”
Gus was looking at Ephraim, apparently waiting for the question, not realizing he’d already answered in full. Time loss, for Gus, was apparently par for the course. A sign he was doing things right.
“Why are you here, anyway?” Gus asked. “There’s an ocean on our island, you know.”
“I’m looking for something.”
“What?”
Ephraim couldn’t answer that, obviously. He pointed out across the water. The Denizen, with its massive seaside mansions, was plainly visible across a long expanse of water.
“You ever been there? To the Denizen?”
“It’s only for permanent residents.”
“Why would anyone stay here permanently, do you think?”
Gus gave his chortling laugh. “I’d stay here. You don’t have to do anything but lay on the beach all day, being young forever and shit, getting high and walking on the sand. Partying. No work, no real world, no paparazzi, none of the bullshit.”
“So why don’t you stay?”
“I like the paparazzi. Besides, I’ve gotta work. You have any idea how much money it costs to stay here indefinitely?”
“Do you?”
Gus nodded, inhaling, talking around his smoke. “I asked for their price sheet. Suffice to say I haven’t done enough penis movies to swing it. I think you end up there when you can afford to tell the world to fuck off.” He laughed. “I’ll bet they wouldn’t even have me. Think about the kind of people who’ve vanished and everyone assumes is secretly staying here. Who’s disappeared? I can only think of Vanessa Smyth, that super-hot model. And Rachel Wilhelm, that old lady there were all the rumors about, who everyone thinks might look like her old self again here on Eden — and by ‘old,’ I mean like upper twenties at most. With the big tits. You know who I mean?”
Ephraim nodded. His mother, when she’d been a girl, had said she wanted to look like Rachel Wilhelm
. These days she took “senior” Hollywood roles, but in her time, she’d been gorgeous.
“They wouldn’t want me there. I’m too fat and Jewish.”
There was a long and quiet moment. In it, Ephraim considered telling Gus that he thought his brother Jonathan might be on the Denizen. Not because he was rich and could afford to tell the world to fuck off, but because he’d been hidden away by his old partner Wallace Connolly.
Ephraim had no proof — not even a genuine reason to suspect. If Evermore, who’d employed Jonathan, was responsible for the disappearance, did it mean they’d had him killed? Or was he here among the rich and famous, alive in captivity, doing his high-end work in shackles and chains?
“I’m heading back to the tram,” Gus said, moving to stand. “Enjoy your stay, staring at …” He looked off across the water. “… nothing.”
Ephraim heard an internal buzz, like an insect trapped in his ear. It was coming from his MyLife. It was coming alive with a pop-up message — not a page from Altruance or anyone else, but with an undefined system message.
It read, Go with him.
CHAPTER 23
THIS IS NOT ANOTHER NIGHTMARE
The return trip went quickly. Gus appeared happy to have a companion for the tram ride back to the Retreat and was at his deep-throated giggliest, talking about various off-color topics that Ephraim found hilarious. A wealthy looking couple dripping in jewels were the only other people on the midday tram. They weren't as amused by Gus’s “pooping while stoned” rant as Ephraim wanted to be — and would be if his mind wasn’t so troubled.
Jonathan, missing.
Nolon, dead but not dead.
And the ghost, shredded and bleeding — just another phantasm in Ephraim’s suddenly unreliable mind.
But most of all Ephraim kept seeing the message that had leaped into his field of vision just twenty minutes ago:
Go with him.
There was no record of that message; his MyLife had captured their discussion on the beach but not the pop-up. That was normal; nobody wanted bulletins intruding on their memories. It gave Ephraim a chill. Had the message even happened? Without a way to be sure — and with so many new reasons to doubt his perception — he’d already started to wonder.
When the tram arrived on Retreat and Gus announced that he was heading back to his house, a new pop-up appeared on Ephraim’s MyLife.
Stay with him.
Ephraim stayed. Gus didn’t mind. He told more dick jokes and smoked more weed. They went back to Gus’s place — which, like Altruance’s mansion, was an order of magnitude nicer than even Ephraim’s elegant rental. They sat outside, watching the ocean down the cliff, Gus offering his pipe and Ephraim declining — not because he didn’t want to smoke, but because he didn’t trust himself even without it.
He held onto every second with two trembling hands.
This is real.
This is happening.
This is not another nightmare.
But nothing happened, other than camaraderie. Ephraim again doubted that he’d ever received the messages that had sent him here in the first place.
After an hour, he decided to leave. But the minute Ephraim stood, a new pop-up appeared.
Stay.
So he did.
And when, a half-hour after that, Gus checked the time and told Ephraim he had a mud bath booked on the Reef, another pop-up arrived.
Book one for yourself.
Feeling disoriented, Ephraim had a random thought. Almost funny.
This must be what tech-age psychopaths see. Not visions, but pop-ups. They don’t hear voices; they get texts. From the Devil, telling them to get spa treatments. Or to commit murders.
“Hey, Gus,” Ephraim said. “Mind if I go with you?”
“You want to get a mud bath with me?”
Ephraim shrugged.
“Sounds a little gay.”
Before Ephraim could react, Gus laughed his inappropriate laugh, chortling like bumbling thunder. “Not that mud baths aren’t gay by themselves. Whatever. I’ll give you a hand job and shit.”
“No thanks.”
Ephraim’s Eden app opened inside his visual heads-up display, booking his spa appointment without Ephraim’s effort or permission.
They got back on the tram.
The mud bath facility astonished Ephraim. Spanish tile, the far wall open in a semi-enclosed portico. Through the gap blew a warm ocean breeze, tinged with salt. The view was magical, visible beyond the thin lip of a vanishing-edge pool. The pool’s far side must spill into a lower body of water, because even from inside the portico falling water loudly tickled the air.
Gus popped Ephraim’s temporarily serene mood.
“You’re sure you don’t want a hand job under the mud if we’re going to be gay together anyway?”
Followed by more weed-borne chortles.
Ephraim turned, but it wasn’t Gus’s goofily grinning face that caught his attention.
Beyond Gus, Ephraim saw a MyLife paint line that shouldn’t have been there. He hadn’t asked the device in his eye to draw the yellow trail that only he could see. He hadn’t asked for directions to …
Well, to wherever that paint line wanted him to go.
The line vanished. Blinked back on. Vanished. Then back on again.
It was calling for Ephraim to follow, like Lassie on her way to the well.
CHAPTER 24
NO WAY
“Gus,” Ephraim said. “I need to cancel. I forgot I have another thing.”
But he barely heard his words or saw Gus’s reaction. Ephraim was watching the yellow paint line, trying to see where it went. There was a set of marble stairs just to the right of the infinity pool. Several guests were relaxing between it and a large hot tub, with their heads tilted back onto pillows, eyes closed. What was down that way, beyond the cliff?
“Oh, hey man, I’m sorry,” Gus said, his face reddening. “I’m just joking around. I promise I’ll keep my hands to myself.”
“No, no,” Ephraim said, watching the line. “I know. I just …”
He walked forward without finishing his sentence, dimly aware of Gus standing surprised behind him, wondering what he’d done to offend his friend.
He followed the line down the marble stairs, not gathering so much as a single glance from the bathing guests.
He saw a wide terrace at the bottom — not just the cliff’s edge after all. A terraced, landscaped lawn was fifteen feet lower than the portico, easily a hundred feet wide. There were luxurious wonders down here; perfect tiny gardens, fountains, the waterfall made by the pool spilling from above, its music hypnotic. There were two sitting areas filled with elegant outdoor furniture arranged around fire pits that would be glorious after the sun surrendered to the evening chill.
The paint line led toward a trail at the cliff’s edge, beyond which Ephraim saw a black iron fence like the one he and Altruance had leaped to help the ghost.
If that happened.
There were no guests down here on the lower terrace. With the waterfall behind him and the crashing waves beyond, Ephraim felt as if he might be the world’s only person. It was expansive rather than lonely. The wide-open air and gentle breeze made him feel like he could fly. Or was flying already.
Why am I here? Because someone is leading me?
And with that, Ephraim thought of his …
(… nightmare? … actual morning?)
… and how Nolon (the first Nolon) had wanted Ephraim to go with him.
Accompanying Nolon, after what he thought he’d seen beneath the lawnmower, had felt like a terrible idea. Same for obeying those messages from someone pretending to be Altruance. He’d meant to ask about the strange requests to come over right now, but forgot after breakfast arrived and Sophie began lobbying for his bacon.
Ephraim had felt foolish. None of that had happened.
It was only a nightmare.
But he remembered it all. Nolon’s friendly requests, “Altruan
ce’s” pages, Nolon’s outright demands. As he eyed the paint line projected by parties unknown who’d hijacked his MyLife implant, Ephraim thought of everything.
Following the paint line any farther might not be smart.
Not now that he was all alone down here.
Especially now that he was peeking around a corner and could see where the paint line led.
At the edge of the semicircular terrace, a utilitarian-looking path — crushed limestone rather than smooth tile and polished rock — led to an unadorned door.
The line blinked.
Ephraim stepped forward despite his throbbing heartbeat, now noting a fingerprint lock beside the door.
I don’t have the right fingerprint to open that door.
But then there was a mechanical click, and the fingerprint lock flashed green. The door opened a sliver.
“No way,” Ephraim whispered aloud. “I’m not going in there.”
A new pop-up appeared on Ephraim’s MyLife.
Then grow wings or start swimming.
And, recognizing the phrase, Ephraim thought, Fiona. Fiona is doing this. Somehow. Some way.
Jonathan, Ephraim told himself, trying to steel his courage. You’re here to find Jonathan, no matter what. That’s what you told Fiona. That’s what you said when you were on your knees in her office, crying, begging her to help you find your lost brother.
“No way,” Ephraim repeated.
But despite his fear and trepidation, he clenched his fists against his sides.
And walked through the door.
CHAPTER 25
A JANITOR'S ACCESS
Ephraim quietly closed the door. He panicked. Reached out. Tried the knob. It opened again easily. He exhaled and closed it again, then surveyed his surroundings.
It was a small room — maybe twenty feet square. It looked like a storage area containing a tiny, as-needed office. Unduly dark at first, but after a few minutes, Ephraim’s eyes adjusted. It was bright enough, thanks to some overhead lights.
But why would anyone leave lights on in an empty room?
