by Lex Chase
“I helped a… howler? Person?” Benji drew a blank.
Karin sighed and dipped her head. “Patrick likes to give things pet names, as I’m sure you’ve learned by now. A howler is a spirit that’s highly distraught. They cry and yell. And according to Patrick, keep him from his blessed beauty sleep.”
Patrick and Benji had talked to several people, but Benji definitely didn’t remember helping anyone move on. He wasn’t even sure what that meant. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Karin’s expression grew grimmer. “Maybe we should start with what you do know. Did Patrick tell you anything at all?”
Benji shrugged, feeling uncomfortably put on the spot. “He told me I was dead and this is purgatory, and that we can either move on to heaven or hell after we’re done here. That’s about it.”
Her smile was sharp and brittle, like it was costing her a lot of effort to keep on her face. “There’s a good deal more to it than that. Did you ask him any questions about your death?”
He nodded. At least, he’d tried to ask them. Patrick hadn’t been forthcoming with answers, which Benji was learning was par for the course. He divulged amazingly little for someone who rarely shut up.
“And he didn’t answer them, did he?” She groaned out loud when Benji shook his head. “It’s not unusual for you not to remember your death. That will come with time. And I don’t know the details,” she said, holding her hand up when he started to talk. “All I know is that a product from CASA was involved. That’s why you’re here. And as for how you move on, well, you save someone from the same fate.”
Benji puzzled that out as he followed her through the store. She walked fast, and he wondered if that was something she’d done before she’d died or a trait she’d developed after coming to CASA. It was a huge space, but why hurry? They had an eternity, didn’t they? What was the point of rushing anywhere?
They finally came to a stop in front of a familiar BRESIA stepladder. “For example, a new spirit entered our part of CASA a little after three in the afternoon. He was gone before I could fit him in for orientation, which I’d planned to do as soon as the store closed.”
She ran a hand up the smooth dark finish of the stepladder, and she lingered along one of the thin legs, gripping it in a manner that made Benji arch a brow.
He assumed from Karin’s demeanor she didn’t have any flirtatious proclivities toward him. He hadn’t known her long enough to make that judgment call. He swallowed. Patrick had left a hell of an impression on him.
“He was able to leave a little before six in the evening,” she said, and Benji was thankful for her to break the awkward silence. He nodded obediently, indicating he was listening. “Patrick helped him save a young man who would have been killed by this in three years. I imagine the spirit shared his fate. The only thing I know for sure is that this was involved,” she said, patting the top step of the ladder, “and that Patrick helped him by convincing the man to buy some floor grips that would prevent it from slipping out from under him.”
It looked so utterly nonthreatening. Benji couldn’t imagine it or anything else around them killing someone. What had the culprit been for him? He didn’t own the BRESIA, but 90 percent of his apartment was furnished from CASA. Or had been. It wasn’t his anymore. The dead couldn’t own things, could they?
He sat heavily on a stool in the sleekly modern kitchen unit. God, did anyone know he was dead yet? Who would find his body? The school, probably. The vice principal usually went out to check on staff who didn’t show up for work. The worst thing she’d ever found in Benji’s tenure was the PE teacher drunk as a skunk playing croquet in his front yard. He swallowed and looked down at his hands, flexing them. There were still a few stray specks of glitter under his nails. Stuck with him for eternity, probably, just like the god-awful clothes he was wearing.
Except that he could do something about. “How did you do it?” he asked suddenly, his head snapping up. Karin was still leaning against the BRESIA, looking at him with obvious concern.
“Do what?”
“Change,” he said, sweeping his hand in her direction. “Your clothes.”
Her lips dropped open in surprise. She’d probably expected him to have a thousand questions about purgatory and moving on. And before he died, Benji would have. He also would have inquired about the new spirit and made sure he’d actually moved on and wasn’t wandering around the store just as disoriented and bleary as he’d been when Benji had met him. But where had a lifetime of good deeds and compassion gotten him? He’d lived a half-life while he was alive, and now he seemed destined for a half death as well. It was bullshit. And he wasn’t going to just roll over and take it.
“Well, like I said, it’s your choice,” she said.
“And if I decided I didn’t want to be here?”
She inclined her head, her expression kind if a little stretched. “Patrick, Agnes, and I will help you figure out what you need to do to move on—”
“No. What if I decided I didn’t want to be here?” he repeated, slower this time. “You said I could do whatever I wanted. What if what I want isn’t to change my clothes, Karin? What if what I want is to leave?”
Her pasted-on smile faltered. “You can’t leave, Benji.”
The bar stool clattered to the floor as he stood. “I’m leaving.”
He was four aisles away before Karin caught up to him, her usual long strides an outright run this time.
“You can’t,” she said. She reached out and grabbed his wrist when Benji steadfastly ignored her. Her fingers felt warm, but it was nothing like the jolt he got from Agnes. It wasn’t quite the warm molasses feeling he got from touching Patrick, either. So Karin must be something else. Not that it mattered, because he was done. He wasn’t going to stick around and classify the types of dead wandering CASA. He’d wasted his life, and he wasn’t going to waste his afterlife. He had shit to do, and everything he’d ever put off because it was selfish or too expensive was at the top of the list. Ghosts didn’t exactly get charged museum entrance fees or have to pay top dollar for seats at all the concerts he’d skipped.
Benji shook her off. She wasn’t as strong as Agnes. “Thank you for your time, Karin, but I’ve decided not to drink the Kool-Aid. I’m out of here.”
He made it down to the first floor before a slow clap startled him into turning around. Patrick was perched on top of the cart return, watching him with obvious glee. “As far as storm-offs go, I’ll give you a 3.0 for form and a 4.5 for flair for the Kool-Aid line. Inspired, especially since you don’t know how to drink in this form.”
Benji scowled at him and turned back to the doors. “Have a fun afterlife, Patrick,” he muttered. The store wasn’t open yet, and the doors remained stalwartly closed, and Benji cursed himself for not timing things better. Not that he could do much about that, since he had no idea what time it actually was. Or what day it was. Goddammit.
He heard feet hit the floor, and a second later Patrick slung an arm around his shoulders and leaned their heads together. “Karin’s upstairs ferociously reorganizing kitchenwares, and Agnes was so amused that she skipped a stitch a few rows ago and had to unravel and go back to fix it. Impressive, because hardly anyone can throw Agnes off her knitting game,” Patrick said conspiratorially. “So come on, share with the class. Tell Uncle Patrick what you said to Karin. All I got out of her was a demand that I keep you inside.”
Benji slithered out of Patrick’s loose grip. “That! That’s exactly it! You people don’t actually tell me anything! It’s like being stuck in a fortune cookie. ‘You control your destiny, Benji,’” he mimicked. “‘Ultimately only you can decide what you’re wearing, or where you go when you move on, or how long you stay here,’” he continued bitterly.
Patrick nodded knowingly. “You got the open-source speech.”
“The what?”
Patrick made an absent gesture. “Like computer programming. Some things are closed source. You can’t see wh
at makes them tick so you can’t add to them. But open source, everything is out there. ‘In real open source, you have the right to control your destiny.’ Linus Torvalds said that, but it assumes you have access to the code itself. I like to call Karin’s talk about being in control of your destiny and being able to mold things around you her open source speech.”
Benji frowned. “I don’t—”
“Torvalds invented Linux. Do keep up, young Benjamin. And if you don’t know what that is, don’t tell me. I don’t want to live in a world where there are no alternatives to Microsoft.”
Benji managed an almost soundless growl but didn’t respond to Patrick’s nattering. He’d gone from violent anger to despair like he’d never felt before in about two point one seconds. He grabbed the nearest thing he could reach, a stand holding an array of bright yellow bags, and threw it. The bags scattered across the floor, fanning out like flat yellow peacocks. Some sort of two-dimensional, bastardized version of Big Bird.
Did they make Sesame Street episodes about teachers dying? Would his kids be huddled around the TV right now, watching a giant yellow bird singing songs about grief?
His throat was tight with unshed tears, and he hated it. He’d always been taught to keep a stiff upper lip and not give in to big shows of emotion, and it had worked in the past. He’d pack away his disappointment or depression, and later, after he’d had some time to think about it, he’d find that the emotion wasn’t as strong anymore. His hurt over Charles leaving him had been bad, but he’d had a life to keep living. Kids to teach, bills to pay. Mr. Whiskers to feed. Life.
And now he didn’t. There weren’t any mundane tasks to turn to when his emotions got the best of him. There weren’t any more mundane tasks at all, because he was dead and being held hostage in CASA. The thought was so ridiculous that Benji hung his head and started laughing. He was a ghost hostage in what had been one of his favorite places on earth.
Patrick put a hand lightly on his back, and even though he didn’t want to, Benji leaned into it. The heat from Patrick’s palm seemed to fill some of the gaping emptiness in Benji’s chest. He didn’t have any idea how long they stood there, but for once Patrick was silent. They didn’t move as employees started swarming around them. Someone cleaned up the bags Benji had thrown, and he felt guilty about making more work for them.
Patrick didn’t drop his hand until the front doors were unlocked. People must have been lined up outside, because as soon as the store opened, people started flowing in like water, swerving around them with unblinking, unconcerned eyes, like they weren’t even there.
Because they weren’t, Benji realized. It hadn’t really hit home until now that none of the shoppers or employees could see them. They really were ghosts.
The doors opened again, and Benji watched the latest batch of shoppers walk in, their bright shorts and flip-flops a strange counter to the gaping void behind them.
“If you’re really thinking of making a run for it, the basement parking garage is where it’s at,” Patrick said, a wicked smile on his face.
Benji knew better than to trust anything that came out of Patrick’s mouth, but he dutifully followed him down to the garage anyway. He was more than a little shocked when the elevator doors opened onto an actual parking lot and not the starry mass of infinity he’d seen upstairs.
Before he could take a step outside, though, Patrick caught his hand. He nodded toward a far corner, where an old woman sat on a motorized scooter. At first she looked just like a normal customer, but as she came closer Benji realized her skin had a sickly pallor and her eyes were pools of fathomless black.
“Benji, meet the Weople. Weople,” he said, gesturing toward the growing mass of blank-faced people shuffling toward the open elevator, “meet Benji.”
Benji took an instinctive step back, and the doors closed, cutting off the view of the parking lot.
“What the hell is a Weople?”
“Weople are a who, not a what,” Patrick said. He hit the button for the lobby, and Benji braced himself against the wall as the elevator started moving. “They’re wraiths. Wallville People. Weople. They snatch up souls who stray too far from purgatory and take them to hell.”
“Wallville is hell?”
Patrick rolled his eyes. “Didn’t we already go over that forever ago? Keep up, sweetheart. You’re not just here to be ornamental.”
“So, what do we do now?” Benji shivered as he pressed his back to the elevator wall. He hoped to never see those things again. He probably would, which was the bitch of it all.
Patrick clapped his hands, and Benji startled from the sharp echo too deep inside his ears. “You can either sit in a corner and have your little pity party—”
“Or?” Benji asked.
Patrick’s bright smile resembled a hungry shark. “Or you can learn to start living again.”
“Living.” Benji watched Patrick, his amusement waning. “In case you missed it—”
“In case you missed it, we are all matter, mass, and energy. The living are the same matter, mass, and energy.” He waved a hand, as if dismissing the thought. “That’s a lesson for later. Right now the question is, ‘Jasmine, do you trust me?’”
“You’re… serious?” Benji couldn’t help but smirk.
“Wanna ride my magic carpet?”
Chapter Six: PIOMBA
The elevator seemed to ascend slower than usual. The Weople’s pull of dark energy must have been at its peak today. Maybe taking Benji down to the parking garage had not been the wisest of ideas. Patrick shoved his fingers in his pockets and relaxed his shoulders, playing casual.
“How do you do that?” Benji asked as his cheeks flushed to a red not found in nature.
Patrick arched his brows in the most poor pitiful kitten face. “Quote movies?”
“You need to stop that,” Benji squeaked and then cleared his throat. He stood straighter, and Patrick stood straighter in response. Benji wasn’t that much shorter; what he lacked in brawn, he made up for in height. Slight, nonthreatening. A nurturer type.
The flesh on the back of Patrick’s neck tingled, and he felt his lips start to pull into a frown. He cleared his throat to cover it. Benji was right—he did need to stop.
But, unable to resist the verbal banter, Patrick went there anyway. “Stop what?”
The elevator dinged and the doors parted onto the second floor. Saved by the fucking bell. Patrick stepped out, metaphorically and physically dodging Benji’s follow-up comments. He surveyed his surroundings. The office showroom seemed to be a good place to start. It seemed it was shaping up to be a quiet day.
“C’mon.” Patrick gestured for him to follow and started off before Benji could respond, making sure to kill any rejoinder. He knew very well what words would come out of Benji’s mouth. And he knew very well he needed to watch his own. As much as Patrick enjoyed Benji’s companionship, he had no desire to travel down the path that led to feeling and expectations. He clenched his fist as he quickened his pace. Office was waiting, and with it stress relief.
The clop-clop-skip of Benji’s sneakers on the linoleum scurried in a quickened rhythm, and Patrick hurried faster, pulling away.
“Are you guys always in a hurry?” Benji said as he puffed into existence in front of Patrick.
Blinking widely, Patrick leaned back on his heel. He cracked a lopsided grin. “Well done, grasshopper.”
“What?” Benji shook his head. “I didn’t do anything.”
“How are you here?” Patrick asked.
Benji snorted, frustrated. “Are we doing the metaphysical thing again? That’s getting old.”
Patrick chuckled. “No Descartes this time. How are you here? In front of me?”
Benji pointed in the direction of the elevator. “I was trying to catch up. This isn’t a hard question.”
“But you were a good twenty feet away.” Patrick said. He reached out, gripping both sides of Benji’s head. Benji’s lashes fluttered at the contact; Patrick i
gnored the energy transference. “Think, Benji. Think.”
He broke the contact the next second and then cracked his knuckles. He shouldn’t have touched Benji, even in jest.
“I wanted you to stop,” Benji said.
If that wasn’t a loaded statement.
Patrick grinned. “And you teleported to do it.”
Benji crossed his arms and arched a dubious brow. “Like in the comic books?”
Patrick wagged a finger and brightened. “Exactly.”
“Did you do drugs before you died?” Benji asked as Patrick stepped away. “You can tell me. I’m not judging. Because I can’t tell if you dropped too much acid in your day or if you’re just genuinely insane.”
Patrick turned on his heel and then hopped up on the glass PIOMBA desktop. A pair of young women ran their fingers along the glass and through Patrick’s incorporeal thighs.
“You’d have to clean it every day,” one woman said to the other. “And you’d get fingerprints all over it.”
Her shopping companion rolled her eyes. “You’re so obsessed with fingerprints.”
“Don’t buy the desk,” said an older man as he loomed next to Patrick.
Rolling his shoulders and trying to play off the annoyance, Patrick cast a casual glance to the disheveled older man fighting to get the customers’ attention.
“Don’t buy the desk,” the man urgently warned them. “The glass can’t support body weight.”
Patrick tilted his head back as he asked the fluorescent lights to send him patience.
Benji shook his head and took a hesitant step back. “Where did he come from?”
“That guy?” Patrick asked as he cracked his knuckles. “That’s an Impression. And right now he’s infringing upon your tutelage.” He held up a hand toward Benji. “Watch and learn.”
Benji nodded, looking from him to the old man and back again.
Patrick tapped the old man on the elbow. “Can I help you, sir?”
The old man stiffened in surprise. “Oh, yes.” He pointed to one of the young women, her hair a bright Day-Glo green and a ring in her nose. She seemed pretty tame, all things considered. Patrick had seen all types in his day.
