by Sean Platt
CHAPTER 42
MAKE IT STOP
But the man in glasses was wrong. Ephraim felt plenty.
First, there was the hard rain panic. The airy, vaguely optimistic way he’d been feeling moments earlier was washed away by a tide of crimson terror as the first syringe entered his vein. No IV. Apparently, this was a one-shot procedure, or they’d start the IV after he was out — something that didn’t sound standard at all.
But Ephraim neither knew nor cared once the horrors started.
Panic consumed him. It didn’t blur the world; it sharpened it like a pike.
Ephraim could see, hear, feel, smell, and even taste every bit of his surroundings. He could see every pore on the technician’s neck. He could hear the tiny sounds the wall clock across the room — not the tick of the hands, which was deafening by comparison, but the rubbing gears as they shifted back to neutral after each tick forward.
Colors were discernible by the billions. The dim lights had grown bright, and he could see them as if through a prism, sensing not just the visible spectrum but ultraviolet, infrared, the radio waves and Wi-Fi and solar radiation streaming through the room in every minute.
The technician held down one of Ephraim's hands and shouted for Elle to clamp down on the other. Ephraim could smell the cinnamon tea on her breath, and the ghostly scent of lilac from her morning soap.
He felt the cinch of leather straps that must have been beneath the chair’s arms all along, the edges worn but sharp, their scent full of synthetics.
He could taste the tannins in the air as they flaked away from the leather in airborne molecules.
“Hold him down! Hold his arm!”
But suddenly Ephraim realized this had been a terrible idea.
“I want out. I don’t want to do this.”
“It’s fine, Ephraim,” Elle said in his ear. Her voice was soft — a whisper against the tech’s shouting. “You’ll be fine.”
“Make it stop. Please.”
“It’s just the drug. Your body is fighting it. You’re not yourself right now. You need to focus. Focus on my voice, Ephraim.”
But the panic was already changing.
Its edge had boiled and melted into a paralytic fear.
The room’s vividness faded. The corners turned black as ink.
“Stop it! Tell him to let me go.”
“We can’t stop it now.” Elle shifted around, her face grazing Ephraim’s line of sight. A curtain of blonde, almost white hair. Blue eyes and lightly freckled skin. “I told you this might happen. I told you it might be hell.”
Hell? She never said hell.
“Not like this,” Ephraim said. “It’s not right. Something’s gone wrong.”
“It’s not going wrong. The process affects everyone differently. Just like Lucky Scream.”
“What did you give me? What did he inject me with?”
A shadow in the corner straightened from a crouch, grew wings, then spread them. The creature had a face like a hawk’s, but without skin or feathers. Just bone and red muscle, wet and working. And then it was standing with its monstrous shoulders heaving behind Elle, just another living nightmare.
“Look at me, Ephraim,” Elle said, trying to hold his attention. But why didn’t she want him to see the monster?
The creature came closer. Ephraim’s vision was wrenched sideways, and he glared directly into Elle’s eyes, her hand holding his chin toward her as his neck muscles fought against it.
“Look at me. Breathe.”
He couldn’t make words. He could only make rapid, acid-inducing breaths. They came sharp, like tiny little barks that didn’t quite sustain his lungs.
“Whatever you see? It isn’t real. You don’t need to be afraid, Ephraim. It’s part of the procedure.”
But she was lying. She had to be.
Why wouldn’t they fully sedate him? Knock him out to experience this horror?
For their own safety, they needed to give him a paralytic. None of the others in the Enchanted Forest had been thrashing or fighting.
But maybe that was because he wasn’t going to the Forest for the Tomorrow Gene.
Maybe this was something else, and his gut had been right all along.
Maybe they weren’t going to treat him. Maybe they were going to kill him.
“I’m dying.”
“You’re not dying. It just feels that way. But this is normal. Ephraim? Look at me. I know it’s scary. But this is all part of the procedure. Just try and breathe. Just try and—”
His leg whipped out, struck the technician below the knee. But as Ephraim’s chin came loose from Elle’s grip, he saw that the demon in the corner was gone.
“Hold him!”
Elle shot the man a look. Then her attention was back on Ephraim. She was an oasis in a storm of churning nightmares. Her hair began to lift in an unfelt breeze, then swirl in an unfelt gale. A black cloud shot through with red streaks loomed behind her. In it was the ghost with no face, just staring eyes. In the cloud was Nolon, dead on Ephraim’s floor. And his sister, murdered. His brother, missing. His father, gone. And himself. In the cloud behind Elle, Ephraim saw his own doppelgänger, staring down at him with malevolent eyes.
“Hold my hand,” Elle said. “It’s almost over.”
“Make it stop.”
“You have to ride it out. You have to be brave.”
The technician was gone. So was the chair. Ephraim was falling into a carrion pit with Elle beside him. Still somehow seated. Still unmoving. But falling nonetheless.
“Stay with me, Ephraim.”
“I can’t. I can’t think.”
“Tell me your earliest memory. The earliest thing you can think of.”
“Getting my MyLife implant.”
“Earlier. Tell me about your childhood.”
“My sister. Damaris. She was killed. I couldn’t stop it. Neither could Jonathan. It was a random group. They beat her to death while everyone stood around, watching.”
“What color shirt was she wearing?”
That couldn’t be a real question. It didn’t make sense. First of all, he didn’t remember. Second, Elle hadn’t asked. It was the man in the beard. The one with the severe black eyebrows who’d stopped him on the Reef. The one who’d been watching, now across from him in this delusional creep show.
He was here. He was part of this.
And then he was gone.
“Answer the question, Ephraim.” Elle’s hand was on his chest, her other stroking his hair.
“I don’t know.”
“How many men were there?”
“I don’t remember.”
“What day was it? The date?”
“I … I’m not sure.”
“Did it really happen, Ephraim?”
Ephraim opened his mouth to answer, but someone answered for him.
“Yes. Of course it did.”
Jonathan. His brother. Alive in the fugue of almost-memories. With Elle. And the man with the beard. And someone who he thought might be Papa Friesh, the leader of that cult religion. And the demon. The demon was back with all the others. But there wasn’t a corner because there wasn’t a room. Only fear and darkness.
“So why can’t you remember, Ephraim? You know she died. But why can’t you remember how? Why can’t you remember any of the details?”
“Check your MyLife.” The man with the beard, who was apparently still around, wasn’t making a suggestion. It was almost a condescending joke, like telling a kid he should call Superman to help him.
“That was before his MyLife.” Jonathan turned to the bearded man, grim. “We should call Mercer. He should know about this.”
But was any of it happening? Reality was a wet fish, impossible to hold.
The room swirled. Panic returned.
When it abated, Jonathan and the man with the beard were gone. The technician wasn’t back, but Ephraim could hear him shouting. And he kept saying, Hold him. Hold him. Hold him and calm him down.
“It’s almost over,” Elle whispered in his ear.
“HOLD HIM!”
Elle slid her hand down the plane of his stomach. Beneath his belt. Into his pants. And held him.
CHAPTER 43
RECOVERY
The sun woke him. A beam lanced his face as someone raked back a curtain, making him squint and roll away. Once out of the direct light, Ephraim opened his eyes. He saw a short woman with bright red hair near the window, looking down at her tablet. She was wearing a white lab coat, a stethoscope draped around her neck.
Ephraim felt the bed rebound. Someone had been sitting beside him. Possibly lying down. His eyes focused and he saw a flash of bare Caucasian skin. Then Elle’s back, her shirt untucked, her long legs beneath it. Almost as if she wasn’t wearing shorts. She entered an adjoining bathroom without a word, and after the door was closed, Ephraim turned to the doctor — if that’s what she was — awaiting his attention.
“Good morning,” she said. “I’m Doctor Dennison.”
Ephraim looked around the room. He was on at least a second floor judging by the view. The room was large and lavish even by Eden standards. Through the window, he could see the top of the bronze flame sculpture on top of the main Reception building, far off in the distance. He didn’t have a view of it from his house, and hadn’t noticed it on the tram ride to the Pearl.
“Is this the Pearl?”
She shook her head. “This is the Denizen.”
Ephraim sat up. He immediately regretted it, feeling both dizzy and nauseated. He put a hand to his head as the doctor stepped forward, stopping only once he sighed back down to the sheets.
“Take it easy. You’re recovering.”
“It’s over? I’m through the Tomorrow Gene?”
“You’re through. Elle said you had a rough time at the start.”
Ephraim rubbed his forehead. He looked toward the bathroom, where Elle had vanished. There was something about Elle he almost remembered. Something in what was almost a dream. He tried to focus, letting his eyes close, and saw Elle riding atop him, fully nude, her hair sweaty at the temples, her eyes closed, head tilted back. Grinding against him, moaning with pleasure.
No. That didn’t happen.
But then he saw himself rise, meeting Elle chest to chest. Her hands had wrapped around him. Then there’d been pain, and blood.
He rolled sideways. He saw three long, reddish-brown dried streaks on the sheets beneath him. He winced when he rolled back over them. Scratches down his back, not far from bleeding.
“I guess I did.” Ephraim looked around. “Why am I here?”
“Because you’re finished. Because you’re recovering.”
“But I thought nobody was allowed on the Denizen who wasn’t a permanent resident. Are Altruance and Sophie here?”
“Of course not. They’re recovering on the Pearl.”
He swallowed. This wasn’t right. “Why aren’t they here, too?”
The doctor laughed. “Nobody but permanent residents are allowed on the Denizen.”
“But I’m not—”
“How do you feel?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“Dizziness? Nausea?”
“Some.”
“Elle said you were afraid. Panic worse than normal. That’s why she stayed with you.”
Ephraim looked at the empty bed beside him. The covers were nested as if someone had slept there. “Did we …?”
“Did you what?”
“Elle. Did she …?”
“I don’t understand, Mr. Todd.”
Did she fuck me? Repeatedly. Like an animal. Because the longer I lay here, the more I remember. And dammit if his body didn’t remember, too.
The bathroom door opened. Elle emerged, perfectly composed from hair to shoes. Everything was tucked in. She was smiling her tour-guide smile. She hadn’t been smiling that way when she’d demanded outrageous acts in his fugue memory. But could that be trusted? Probably not. Just like so many other faulty memories.
“Good morning, Sleepyhead,” Elle said.
“Um … hey.”
“Do you felt like you slept? Soundly?”
“I don’t know. Did I sleep?”
Elle’s face pinched as if uncomprehending.
“Or was I otherwise occupied?”
And Elle asked, “Occupied doing what?”
“Mr. Todd,” said Doctor Dennison, “I don’t know if you remember, but we already conducted a battery of tests on you yesterday, both physical and mental. Do you remember that?”
“I … I’m not sure.”
“Your memory will be in and out. That’s to be expected. Is there anything you remember about the past few days?”
“Is that how long it’s been?”
“Five days. Yes, sir. That number is right in the middle of the bell curve from our experience with the Tomorrow Gene. But memory fidelity following the procedure, like adrenaline response going into it, is highly individual. You may be forgetful for another day or two as you shake the last of your meds, and it’s possible you’ll have sudden flashes of things your mind has repressed. Try not to let them overwhelm you if they come. You can’t trust your senses during the procedure. You may remember things that didn’t precisely occur, though variations on that same thing may have happened. It’s as if your memories were tossed into a big bag and then shaken. For instance, you might remember me operating on you even though I didn’t, just because you recall someone operating on you — and quite separately, you remember me. Does that make sense?”
“I was operated on? That’s part of it?”
“It’s complicated. Best not to worry about the details, especially now. Give yourself time to rest. What about people. Do you remember people being here?”
“Here in this room?”
“Anywhere. Do you remember anyone?”
Ephraim looked at Elle.
“Elle was your guide.”
“What does a guide do?”
“What it sounds like,” Elle said. “The guide is there to be your anchor. To help you through it.”
“And they sleep with you.”
Both women reacted with bunched eyebrows.
“In the room, I mean.” But now he was wondering. One more thing to ask Sophie and Altruance about. Both of them were heterosexual as far as he knew, and each had been given an opposite-sex guide. It might be a coincidence. Or it might be something more.
Besides, you can’t trust your memories right now.
“Sometimes. If it suits the guest.” The doctor nodded. “Anyone else? Real or phantoms. We’d like to know what you think you saw, both authentic and ideations.”
“The tech. The man with the round glasses.”
“He was with you, at least in the beginning. What about Mr. Connolly. Do you remember Mr. Connolly’s visit?”
“Wallace Connolly came here?”
“Not here. But to the Pearl, while you were immersed, yes, sir.”
“I don’t remember him.” A shame. Fiona would salivate at the idea of intel straight from the horse’s mouth; he wished he could say he’d seen the legend. Connolly was a recluse these days, appearing only in Eden commercials. It was hard not to be awed by his fame, eager for its touch.
“Do you remember anyone else?”
Ephraim thought. He remembered the man with the black beard, but he felt some reticence about saying so. He had no idea who the man was, why he’d been following Ephraim on the Retreat, or what he might know about Ephraim’s transgressions into the computer system that day on the Reef. It felt like a dog best left sleeping.
“My sister. I thought I saw my sister.” There was more to that, but Ephraim couldn’t quite reach it. Then he did. It wasn’t that his sister had been present; it was that—
“Damaris.”
“Who’s Damaris?”
“She’s my sister.” He corrected himself. “Was my sister. She died a long time ago. Someone was asking me about her.”
&nbs
p; Elle and the doctor exchanged a glance that Ephraim couldn't read. Were they expecting that answer or alarmed by it?
“Who was asking?”
“I …”
(Papa Friesh? Wallace Connolly? The demon that had crouched in the corner?)
We should call Mercer. Mercer should know about this.
“… I don’t remember.”
“Do you think that was real?”
Ephraim shook his head against the pillow. “I don’t know. Maybe. It’s hard to think.”
Elle took his hand, frowning a little.
The doctor made a note. “Don’t strain yourself. Just give us what wants to come and try to accept that the rest will come in time.” She clicked her pen. “Is that all you remember?”
Ephraim thought. After they’d held him down, things had gotten only briefly worse before blessedly becoming better. He’d seen plenty of people after that, and heard and experienced all sorts of strange things.
“My mother, I think. I feel like I saw my mom. Maybe my dad? But I never knew him, not really. So I guess those are false?”
“But not unusual. Many patients report encounters with family. They’re like dreams, but more concrete. Is that it?”
“I think so.”
“Well,” the doctor said, nodding. “Keep taking it easy. If you can remember we had this chat tomorrow, we’re doing fine.”
“How long will I be here?” Ephraim asked.
“That’s not my decision.”
“You haven’t answered my question.” He looked at both Elle and the doctor, willing to hear whoever had the answer. “Why am I on the Denizen? Why am I here, if I’m supposed to be on the Pearl?”
“I’m insulted,” came a deep voice.
Ephraim tried to turn, but nausea beat him down. A chair’s legs squeaked, and he heard footsteps.
“I invite you into my home,” the voice went on, “and you don’t even remember me.”
The doctor and Elle watched the man approach, impassive mannequins to the scene.
Finally, the speaker stepped into view, and Ephraim felt like he’d seen a ghost.
It was Jonathan Todd, large as life.
“I’m insulted, little brother,” he said, “but I love you anyway.”
