by Ryan Rinsler
As he sat there, looking at his bare feet, he was reminded of his first experience in Pure Reality, when he’d seen Red’s bare feet for the first time. I know now why it felt so real, he thought, the level of detail at the time astounding him. It looked real because it was. His scars were real, his nails trimmed because he looked after them long before I turned up. He breathed a sigh of despair, a lump forming in his throat as he thought about how his time there ended.
He lay back on the bed and closed his eyes.
How many more people are dying because of this game? he wondered. How many more lives are being destroyed by these people who enter their worlds with no apparent consequences for their actions?
His body responded with a cold sweat, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end the more he thought of the possibilities of what could have happened in the past. Murderous rampages, paths of destruction waged at no expense other than the lives of everyone involved in that world, the player waking up safe in their bed the next day ready to carry on their lives, with no stain on their conscience. If only they knew. He was split between two thoughts — tell the world and expose the truth, putting himself and everyone else in danger, or let it lie and continue with his mission. It was obvious really, but it felt more than uncomfortable lying there, in that pod, knowing that right then, right at that second there were people in the Pure Reality booths unknowingly taking the lives of real, innocent people. It was almost as unfair on the players as it was on the people on the other side, being led unknowingly to a path of genuine homicide, rather than a guilt-free, simulated game experience.
But why? Why not tell people the reality of it?
He couldn’t help but answer his own question immediately. If the same laws applied there as they did here, there would be no point in playing. If it weren’t for the lack of repercussion for their actions, the draw would be vastly diminished. Sure, you could live the life of a rock star or your favorite actor, but the real pull of the simulation was to live a life without limits, without restriction.
Without consequence.
The consequences of his actions during his time as Red played on his mind as he lay there in the dark, unable to fall asleep as thoughts raced through is brain and pounded in his head.
Looking for a distraction he glanced in the direction of the bedside shelf for his BlackBook, and as he realized he no longer had one a flutter of frustration rippled through his body, followed immediately by one of shame. I don’t need it, he thought defiantly, yet aiming to convince more than remind himself. As the minutes and hours drifted by, he snoozed lightly, his dreams fading in and out, surreal images and words forming in his eyes as he turned in his bed.
When the morning finally came he was up and out by the truck before the sun was fully over the horizon. He was tired but ready. This was where it would begin, the start of whatever was to come, here in Bakersfield. As Matt staggered from the building and wandered to the truck, scuffing his feet on the asphalt as he walked, Connor knew there was no turning back. He knew the board was set and the pieces moving, and that his life was changed beyond repair.
But is it? he thought. Maybe this is my life being repaired.
Whatever it was, whatever the outcome of this venture, this would be his new life. Right now he was in transition — he was opening himself up to who he needed to be. Back at the ranch, Jacob had told him to look at everything Aaron Voss — his alternative-self — had become, and work to be the opposite of that. But Connor felt differently — Voss was a narcissist, a brutal dictator, and although the way these traits were manifested had led to a world seemingly under siege, should Connor wish to help defeat him he would need to rise up to that level. He would need to channel that desire, that passion to succeed, then use it against himself. Aaron Voss was a leader, a winner, a man who would take no prisoners and stop at nothing to make the world into a place that fit his vision. Connor knew he had this in him, deep down, tucked away behind his apathetic veneer – he just needed to dig for it and drag it to the surface.
7
Connor and Matt stood at the side of the road. The midday sun blazed down on their squinting eyes, the crickets seemingly unaffected by the blistering heat as they played in unison across the miles upon miles of grape vines and farmland of Bakersfield. The road on which they stood was relatively empty, straight as far as the horizon in both directions with the odd truck and car passing every few minutes, billowing dust around their feet from the hard, dry ground.
They stood facing a house, or more a complex. There was a small, wooden house to the left, no bigger than a two-bedroom trailer, a closed shed to the right, and a single dilapidated car in the driveway, as aged as its surroundings.
“I don’t want to go in now,” said Connor, his nerves getting the better of him.
“What are you afraid of?”
He didn’t know. Maybe the awkwardness, maybe the danger of meeting someone unpredictable. Maybe he was just being a pussy. “After you, cowboy.”
“This is your gig, man. After you.”
Connor stepped forward reluctantly and made his way toward the house with Matt a few steps behind him. There appeared to be signs of life — old food left on the porch, fresh tire tracks in the driveway. The area was a mess, with old tires and car parts littering the ground, an old greenhouse, smashed and useless, and a rusty chain tied to the porch with an empty dog collar on the end. He glanced at Matt, who flicked his eyebrows warily.
Connor shrugged. We’ve come too far to pussy out at the door.
He stepped up onto the porch, the thud of his heels on the dry wood echoing around the courtyard. He pulled back the fly screen and gave two hard knocks on the pale blue door, then stepped back.
Nothing.
He looked at Matt, who shrugged.
“What now?” he whispered.
Matt shrugged again.
Connor looked around. The car in the driveway suggested someone was home, but the whole place was silent. “Maybe he’s sleeping.”
“Should we come back?” asked Matt.
“Maybe.”
All of a sudden they heard the crackling of another car pulling in the driveway. Connor’s stomach churned with nerves, the fact they were on someone else’s property in the middle of nowhere, about to surprise them at their front door making him anxious. I should’ve brought one of Jacob’s guns.
As the old pickup approached he stepped down from the porch and onto the driveway, smiling as the car came to a standstill. After a few moments, the heavy driver door creaked open and out stepped a short woman, certainly over sixty, her mottled dress matching her unkempt hair. She looked at them over the top of her glasses as she pulled out some groceries and, with a heave, slammed the car door shut.
“Are you with the EPA?” she croaked, her eyes betraying a nervousness.
“Um, no ma’am,” said Connor, stepping forward.
“Because if you are you fellas already came around here not more than a month ago and we already sent for our documentation.”
“We’re not with the EPA, ma’am.”
“Well, whoever you are you need to get outta here before my husband gets home.”
This took Connor by surprise. “Why, ummm… what?”
“Just get outta here,” she snapped, walking toward the house. “Please!”
“Look, ma’am,” said Connor, more confused than concerned, “We’re just trying to find somebody.”
The woman turned to them sharply. “Whoever it is ain’t here, so get the hell outta here!”
As she said it Connor saw another pickup truck turn into the driveway much faster than hers, the tires kicking up dust, stones crackling and pinging, being fired into the air as it approached at speed.
“This doesn’t look good,” said Matt casually.
“Go!” shouted the woman as she fumbled with her house keys. Connor looked at Matt, whose face was uncharacteristically concerned.
“Bro, let’s get outta here.”
/> The truck came to an abrupt halt, and a tall, burly man burst out, slamming the door behind him. His heavy footsteps thundered on the dirt as he marched toward them, and as he got closer the two of them took a few steps back.
“We’re just looking for our friend,” said Connor, raising his hands slightly.
He came to a halt, then, with his finger and thumb, stroked the thick mustache of his bushy grey and ginger beard. His raging eyes glared at the two of them, then at his wife who was now stood in the open doorway of the house, his dirty cap covering thick, dirty, greying hair, and his torn, stained shirt lying heavily on his large rounded shoulders.
“You best come inside,” he mumbled, barely coherently. His eyes didn’t move as he talked, still fixed on theirs, his words fighting their way through his beard.
“I, umm, no we’d better go,” stammered Connor.
The man stroked his mustache again, and with a smile, he looked at Connor. “See, I don’t ‘member askin’.”
Connor looked at Matt, whose face was ashen. He shook his head quickly but as inconspicuously as possible, his eyes almost bursting from their sockets.
“We’re not from the EPA!” burst Matt. The man slowly turned to look at him.
“I don’t care where y’all from, y’all’s comin’ inside and we’re gon’ have ourselves a little chit-chat.” He looked toward the house, where his wife still stood nervously at the door, then back to Connor. “Jus’ you.”
As they approached the house the woman backed inside nervously. “Woman,” he said, “That snowflake flinches y’all holler, ya hear?” She nodded quickly. “Sit,” he said, pointing to a small dining table with two chairs. The room was dark and old, the open kitchen part of the dining room, which was also part of the lounge. The yellowing curtains cast a drab amber hue on the room which heightened the stuffiness. It was like the inside of an old trailer he’d once seen in a movie.
“Look, sir, ther—”
“Sit.”
Connor walked over to the chair obediently and sat down. The man took a beer from the fridge and sat down in front of him. The chair creaked and cracked as he rested his weight, his huge arms laying on the table as thick as Connor’s thighs. He said nothing, his narrow eyes peering over his bulging red cheeks just looking him up and down, his head tilted slightly.
Connor took a deep breath.
“Y’all looks like a city type.”
“I’m actually from Col—”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass where y’all’s from. Look like a city type t’me.” He took a swig of his beer. “Got money?”
“Hundred dollars or so.”
He laughed and shook his head as he swallowed with a loud gulp. “Not in your goddamn wallet. Ya got money?”
Connor sat motionless. After a pause, the man chuckled to himself. “Y’all got money.”
“Can you help us find our friend?”
“Not many houses round here, pretty lonesome,” he said. “Bet there ain’t no-one knows you’re here, neither.”
Connor’s breathing began to quicken, a flash of cold hitting his neck like a bucket of ice water, his heart now pumping so hard he was struggling to keep a steady breathing pattern. This man could bash their heads in there and then and no one would even know about it for weeks. “I have GPS on my car so, yeah people know I’m here,” he said, as calmly as possible but accidentally letting a slight tremor of fear alter his voice.
“That so?” he said, smiling and looking out of the window. “GPS.”
“I’m not sure what’s going on here but there’s no reason for you to threaten me.”
The man leaned forward menacingly. “What ch’all say?”
Connor’s hands were shaking, his palms sweaty. “We’ve done nothing wrong, we just came here looking for our friend.”
He leaned back again. For what seemed like minutes there was no sound other than the wheeze of his lungs as he inhaled and exhaled awkwardly. “Buried the last guy that came out here.”
He’s after money. “Yeah? What did he do?” he asked confidently.
The man burst out laughing dramatically. “Cried like a lil’ girl’s what he did!”
Connor grit his teeth, his erratic breathing getting quicker.
“Came round here with papers ‘n what not, pokin’s nose in where he ain’t supposed to. Th’ain’t nobody round here, see? Ain’t no one can do shit.”
“So what do you want?”
He looked out of the window and stared at Matt. Connor glanced between the two of them waiting for the answer, which took forever to come. “Your friend don’t look quite so rich as you.”
“Is it money you want?” he replied quickly.
The man turned his attention to Connor once more and looked him up and down slowly. Eventually, he smiled. “Little pretty boy like you comin’ all the way out here.”
“I’ll give you my hundred dollars if you’ll just let us leave.”
He pulled a confused expression. “Ain’t nobody says you can’t leave.”
“You mean I can go?”
“Why don’t ya get up ‘n find out now?”
Connor pushed his chair out slowly, and just as he put his weight on his feet he felt a hand on his shoulder pushing him back down into his seat. He looked up and saw the woman smiling down at him.
“Who wants tea?”
“What you doin’ woman?” the man shouted. “Who’s watchin’ his lover?”
“He ain’t goin’ nowhere,” she answered. “Not without his friend here.”
Connor looked out of the open door and saw Matt sitting on the edge of the porch, legs swinging like a child on a school bench, blissfully unaware of the tense conversation unfolding between the two of them. “No tea for me thanks,” he said. “I need to get going.”
“I’ll make you tea,” she said, ignoring Connor’s request and stepping into the kitchen with a hop.
“What’s your name?” Connor asked.
“The only question’s gonna be asked ‘cross this table’s what kinda deal we gonna make for you two to walk outta here.”
“Deal?”
“Ya know, deal,” he said, rubbing his fingers together.
“How much do you want?”
“Three fiddy.”
Connor snorted. “Three hundred and fifty thousand?”
He suddenly became animated. “Y’all got a problem with that, city boy?” he shouted.
“OK,” he replied quickly. He had no intention of paying anything — his intention was to placate him and get it sorted out once they escape that place.
“Each.”
“What?”
“Y’all wanna walk outta here you gotta pay three fiddy each.”
“There’s no way, we don’t have that kind of money,” he lied. He was no longer bartering for his life, he was simply trying to bring the value down so his intention to pay was more convincing. As soon as a figure was put into the air, the threat on his life seemed empty, shallow, leverage playing on Connor’s weak demeanor. His confidence began to grow.
“Y’all transfer seven hundred right now, then when it clears y’all can go.”
“That’ll take hours, plus I don’t have a BlackBook.”
“Hours we got.”
“No, we really need to be heading off.”
The man leaned forward. “Y’all ain’t goin’ nowhere.” His light blue eyes glistened as he spoke, his smug smile betraying a self-confidence that Connor could not ignore.
He took an intake of breath, and at that moment the hand pressed down on his shoulder again as the woman placed a cup of tea on the table in front of him. As she drew a small silver spoon from the pocket of her stained dress, she fumbled and dropped it to the floor. They both reacted quickly and reached to pick it up, and as their hands all but met she dropped a tiny, folded piece of paper next to the spoon. Connor paused, his hand hovering above the spoon and the paper.
Do I pick this up?
“Thank you,” she said,
standing up again, leaving both items behind. Connor snatched at them both and sat up, nodding his head to the woman and stirring his tea, casually concealing the note within his closed fist. The man watched intently as his wife returned to the kitchen, then reverted his gaze back to Connor.
“Y’all’s got a name?”
The man was controlling the conversation. Back when he was training for his position at Midland Real Estate, Connor took part in an assertiveness course, intended to help salespeople and managers actively dictate a conversation without the third party becoming aware. As intimidating as the man was, he knew he was on the wrong side of this manipulation and needed to respond.
“How long have you lived here?”
The man laughed to himself. “I know you city types, comin’ round here buyin’ up land for real estate, buildin’ offices n’ what-not. Ain’t nothin’ for sale around here.”
“I’m not buying anything, we’re just looking for someone.”
“You with the EPA? Cos if you’re with the EPA you gotta tell me n’ show me your I.D.”
“We’re not with the EPA,” he replied. He pointed to Matt through the broken fly screen. “Does he look like he’s with the EPA?”
“I guess not. So it looks like you just gotta pay me what I want then y’all can get on your way.”
Connor inconspicuously unfurled the piece of paper under the table, then, rubbing his leg as he looked down as if to appear as though he was thinking, he read it. Scribbled in pencil, he could only just make out what the note said.
