by Sean Platt
Boricio waited for Rose to finish saying it was terrific before he cut in with the truth that it was really sorta awful, his story drawn with just enough color to relax Veronica more than she already was, and soften Rose’s shoulders with the promise that her beaux was at his articulate best.
“So, how long are you in town?”
“A week,” they said together.
“Boricio wanted to see the sights,” Rose said. “He’s never been.”
Of course, Boricio had been up and down the West Coast, suckling the state’s titties from north to south. He learned to leave fry-cooking behind and become a chef out in Napa, though he didn’t stay long, moving to Houston and then New Orleans shortly after that. But Rose didn’t know that side of Boricio, or most sides for that matter. Not that he wouldn’t be happy to tell her; Boricio loved to let his insides outside to play, but he’d never loved anyone before, and was still circling the animal, inhaling its scent and trying to figure it for what it was. If he breathed out half of what brewed inside him, Rose would’ve run screaming already.
“I’m just a passenger,” Boricio said. “Here to keep Rose entertained.”
“So modest,” Veronica said. “Rose tells me you’re a fountain of ideas, and that The Billfold’s final draft wouldn’t exist if it wasn’t for you.”
“I do tend to ramble,” he said.
“He’s a genius.” Rose said as a well-coiffed gentleman gently set a sculpted, silver basket of bread at the table’s center. She grabbed a piece of bread from the basket, buttered it, passed it to Boricio, then buttered one for herself.
“Don’t believe a word, Ms. Veronica Barrow, my genius ain’t nothing. Rose is a tremendous listener, and knows how to find a hog in the codswallop. I never shut up, and she never muffles her curious nature. I just give her plenty of codswallop to sift through.” Boricio wrapped his arm around Rose. “You’ve gotta admire a brain like that, someone always hungry to know why. Most folks you meet are too busy waiting for their turn to talk, myself included. Rose is always happy getting another turn to listen.”
Veronica laughed, her look knowing. “That is true,” she said.
They circled this and that and about a dozen other topics until Boricio finally got to the hog. “So, the Maris Brothers,” he said, swallowing his bread. “Aren’t they a part of that whack job Designers cult?”
“This is Hollywood,” Veronica said, “Everyone’s part of some weird thing or another. Don’t let that put you off.”
Rose had her mouth half open, but Boricio cut in front of her, not because Rose couldn’t speak for herself, or because he didn’t want to hear what she had to say, but because that was precisely why she had asked him to come to lunch, and California, in the first place.
“So why the Maris Brothers?” he asked.
“Because they’re the best fit for The Billfold.”
“You make a beautiful echo, Ms. Veronica Barrow,” Boricio smiled. “But isn’t that exactly the same thing you said about Epic Media? And that was before we booked our tickets to come meet you. So what’s changed in six short days?”
“Nothing, really, except that now I know the Maris Brothers are interested. They weren’t on my radar before, not because they weren’t right, but because they don’t take pitches. Don’t get me wrong, Epic Media is a great fit. Perfect for you, really. And short term, absolutely the right thing, more than anyone in Hollywood. I promise. But the Maris Brothers are something else entirely.”
“So, why the sudden interest if they don’t like pitches?”
“I wasn’t pitching. I was just talking about your project, as one friend to another. I adore The Billfold,” she turned to Rose, her eyes earnest, “more than anything I’ve ever repped, and I’ve been at this a while. I’m sure Jared could see it in my eyes.”
“He the tall one or the fat one?” Boricio asked.
“The fat one,” Veronica admitted, though Boricio could tell she didn’t like the insult’s taste on her tongue.
Rose held her quiet, looking over at Boricio with her bright enough with appreciation that he felt compelled to continue. “So, what makes you think these brothers can make a better movie with a fraction of the budget, and why do you think less money is better for Rose?”
Veronica sighed. “I know this is a hard argument. And I’ll even admit that it would be difficult to convince me if I was sitting on your side of the table. But these brothers know their stuff. They’re already legends on set, and they’ve only made two pictures. Considering Dappled was shot for under a million, looked like 20, and grossed over 100 domestic, and then they topped that with Wormhole, which tripled every number, they’ve already proved themselves the better bet, at least as I see it. Long term, there’s no question who you want making your movie. Right now, today, Epic will change your life more. Definitely. They’ll give you seven figures for your script, and that’s the best deal you’ll get in Hollywood. Your movie will get made and it will make money. It will probably do OK critically, and you might eke by with a 65 percent on Rotten Tomatoes. But your next project will be a tougher sell. The Maris Brothers, on the other hand, will hit it out of the park, and your follow-up, Insanity, which already sounds fantastic, by the way, will be firmly in a seller’s market.”
Boricio squinted his eyes at Veronica while listening to Rose’s heart make a thumpity thump beside him. He chewed on her words, each sounding like perfect sense to him, as he considered Rose’s reaction. The breath in her chest said it made sense to her, though she’d be juggling he loves me, he loves me nots with the thought of turning down a right now paycheck.
The table filled with food as Boricio deftly changed the subject, saying they’d need to think on it. The meal was good enough, but not great, which thoroughly disappointed Boricio, shocked to find conversation beating the food. But he was pleased that he liked Veronica as much as he did. She was sparky, and could hold her side of a volley, but what Boricio liked most — what truly mattered — was that she showed respect to Rose and seemed to have her eye on his lady’s best interests.
Veronica wanted to pick up the check, but Boricio covered it on his way to the restroom. It’s what Rose wanted, and Boricio approved. He liked owing no one anything for anything ever. After the meal, Veronica profusely thanked them for their time, and again apologized for the last-minute change.
They said goodbye at the table, then Boricio took Rose by the hand and led her to an outside terrace where they looked over a koi pond and onto the boulevard.
“So, are you going with the Brothers or the sure thing?”
Rose wrinkled her nose. “What do you think I should do?” She looked at him, her eyes large and wanting. Rose had come to trust Boricio so much and in such a short time. It was an odd weight to carry, and half the time Boricio half expected to drop it.
“I think you have to do what’s best for you.”
“And what do you think that is?”
Boricio hesitated, shifting on his feet. He still wasn’t used to his words or opinion mattering, and found himself continuously surprised that Rose seemed so reliant on both. He took her hands and squeezed them tight, loving her with every part the Boy Wonder had taken to fixing. “Stand upright, speak thy thoughts, declare the truth thou hast, that all may share; be bold, proclaim it everywhere: They only live who dare.”
“Is that Voltaire?”
“Probably,” Boricio said. “Point is you need to be bold because if you’re not, you lose. Even in a tinkle fairyland full of phonies and weirdos and cults, it’s best to know the game you’re gonna play, so you can spin the dice or roll the wheel or do whatever the fuck you’ve gotta do to make the house go home and hand you your bags of cash on their way out the door.”
“You’re mixing your metaphors,” Rose laughed.
Boricio laughed with her. “Do what’s best for you, Rose. Do that the right way and you’ll get what you deserve. Then you can keep on doing what’s best for you for the rest of your life.”
> “What’s best for us,” she corrected.
He felt punched in the gut with what felt like a smile. “What’s best for us,” Boricio repeated, squeezing her hands tighter. “Sometimes you have to dribble down court with fuckers you’d love to see fall, but you keep on dribbling. Let’s meet the Brothers and hear what they have to say. I can’t see any harm in that.”
Her smile spread wider. “OK, I’ll call Veronica. The Maris Brothers it is.”
“Well, yee-fucking-haw,” Boricio laughed.
Rose called Veronica. Two seconds after the third ring, Boricio heard her squealing like a happy hog. He leaned over the terrace and looked out toward the restaurant’s entrance and the fool passing out his periwinkle fliers. Boricio thought of Brother Rei, and the bullshit he sold back at the compound. He wondered if Tweety Bird was sipping Kool-Aid, too, or whether he was one of the assholes brewing it: another predator feeding on fears and false hopes.
Either way, no periwinkle flier-passing motherfucker could ever know shit about real predators, not like Boricio. The thought smeared a sudden, impossible-to-bury smile, wide across his face.
He couldn’t wait for his alone time. They were in a new town, far from home; Boricio could finally play.
It had been far too long since his last purge.
* * * *
CHAPTER 3 — Brent Foster
Clifton, New Jersey
September 2013
Brent Foster woke up to the sound of barking dogs — upstairs again.
Fucking Chihuahuas!
Every time Frank or Nancy left the house, for even a minute, and then came back, all five dogs went totally nuts.
Brent pulled the pillow down harder over his head, desperate to drown the incessant yapping. He glanced into the darkness over at the alarm clock’s soft-blue light. It was noon on a Thursday, but it wasn’t as if he had anywhere to be, or anyone to tend to. Gina had seen to that, sure enough. Brent did, however, have two freelance articles he needed to finish — one on tech stocks, and the other on car insurance. Both paid about half of absolute shit, and neither article held a flicker of interest, but since his job at the paper was now a soured memory, he had to take anything he could find to pay for his basement room, rented from the old couple in Clifton, New Jersey.
Brent had been living in a goddamned basement ever since his life had gone to hell, which felt like forever ago.
Forever since he’d come back from the other world.
Forever since Gina had looked at him like he wasn’t crazy.
Brent wished he’d never told Gina the truth. Because the truth seemed more like a fabrication than the lie Sullivan later helped him design for the rest of the world — that he’d blacked out and couldn’t remember his many missing months. Despite his cover story, Brent lost everything.
His job was no longer there — cutbacks at the paper, sorry.
Gina, not knowing if he’d just up and left or had been murdered, found comfort in the arms of another: Jack Howard, a former friend of his at the paper — sorry, it just happened.
If that was all that had happened, Brent might have recovered. He would have. If he had accepted his losses, he might still have his son, Ben, in his life.
But Brent got drunk and loathsome, feeling sorry for himself. That was when he made things worse than he could have ever imagined.
He went to his apartment — the one he lost — and picked a fight with Jack. He sent his old friend to the hospital and himself to jail. No matter how many awful things Brent saw in the other world, none matched the horror of his reflection — standing over Jack, his shirt smeared in the same red that dripped from his fists — etching a memory through his son’s watering eyes.
Ben was terrified of his father because his father was suddenly a monster.
Jack dropped the charges against Brent — attempted murder, which could’ve kept him in jail for a long time — but only after Brent agreed to a divorce without shared custody rights to his son.
This is how his world unraveled.
This is how Brent wound up living in someone else’s house, feeling like he had moved into his parents’ basement.
As the dogs started a fresh round of barking, Brent found himself wishing he’d never returned from the other world, even if it was being overtaken by aliens and quickly destroyed. There was nothing left for him here in this world. Even empty, the other was better.
Sullivan promised assistance, said he’d help Brent get on his feet — just give him some time. But Brent could think of nothing he or anyone could do to fix the mess he’d gotten himself into. Some holes were too deep to climb from.
Brent looked at the clock again. If he started typing, he could probably finish the articles by 6, which would give him plenty of time to go meet Kevin Vaughn, one of his only remaining friends, and hang out like they said they might.
Get up, get your work done.
Brent pulled the pillow tighter over his ears instead, then started snoring.
**
He woke at 9:41 p.m., startled by the length of his slumber. He clicked on his nightstand lamp and found his iPhone.
Brent checked his messages: Kevin had texted him three times, first asking if they were still getting together, and at last, 20 minutes ago, saying, OK, he’d catch him next time — he was headed to his fiancée’s, Felicia’s.
Brent tossed the phone on his bed and sighed as he looked around the room. The walls seemed even closer than normal. The ceiling hung lower.
I have to get the hell out of here.
Brent grabbed his clothes and headed upstairs for a shower. Fortunately, Frank and Nancy were already in bed. While he wanted company, and the Torrelinis were kind, he needed to get out of the basement, if only for a few hours.
He showered, grabbed his helmet, and headed off on his scooter, unsure where he was going, but glad it was somewhere.
**
Brent wound up driving back and forth outside his old apartment building in Manhattan, wondering what the hell he was doing there so late at night. He looked up at Ben’s darkened window. He wished like hell he could go knock on the door and ask Gina if he could see his son and kiss him goodnight.
The pain of being so close to, and yet so far away from, Ben was a quiet murder to his soul. And as the grief deepened its twist in his gut, Brent felt the old anger stirring. The kind of anger that landed him in jail; the kind that cost him his son and the life that went with him.
I better get out of here.
As Brent began to turn around and head back toward home, he spotted a familiar face walking along the street — Stan, one of the 215ers who had died on the other world.
How the hell?
Brent squeezed his brakes, and the scooter lurched to a sudden stop. Stan, who was carrying a paper grocery bag in both hands, looked back.
“Stan!” Brent shouted, waving his hand.
Stan looked at him curiously, as if trying to identify the dumbass on a scooter. Brent took off his helmet, “It’s me, Brent Foster!”
Stan shook his head, turned around, and quickened his pace as he headed toward the apartment building entrance.
“Wait!” Brent called out, but Stan ignored him, and raced inside.
Brent pulled up to the curb and was about to get off his scooter and run in after Stan, but then saw the big, giant doorman standing just inside the doorway talking to him as Stan pointed outside.
Brent wasn’t sure what Stan was saying, but his instincts kicked in, and he decided he’d better get the hell away from the building before someone called the cops, and he had to explain why he was driving past his ex-wife’s house late at night.
And why he was packing an unlicensed gun in a holster under his coat.
As Brent drove back to his house, he couldn’t stop wondering how it was possible that Stan was still alive.
He heard the man get torn apart by aliens. He and Melora had both died.
Then he remembered something that he hadn’t thought about
since Oct. 15.
Stan and Melora had showed him a video from one of the many cameras the 215ers had secretly placed in their neighbors’ apartments. The videos had showed people vanishing in black smoke. It had seemed, at the time, that most of the population had vanished in a similar fashion.
However, as Brent later discovered from Ed Keenan, the people of Earth hadn’t vanished. The vanishings only took place only on the other world. A lot of people died, but many more just disappeared to who knows where.
Brent, Ed, and the others he’d fought the aliens with, hadn’t vanished, though. They’d been yanked over.
So it was possible that the Stan, Melora, and Luis he’d met on Oct. 15 hadn’t come over from Earth along with him. They were native to that world. How else could they have video recordings of people who vanished if they themselves had vanished? The cameras wouldn’t have come with them.
Brent felt as if a light bulb had come on in his head, which suddenly explained everything. Well, maybe not everything, but it did give him hope that the Stan, Melora, and Luis of this world might still be alive.
Brent’s heart raced with possibility.
Were the Stan, Melora, and Luis of this world also 215ers who had prophesied The Event? And if they were, could they help him find proof he wasn’t crazy? Proof he could show Gina? He could never win her back, not after all that had happened. But how could she deny him visitation with his son if he could prove it was all real, that he wasn’t crazy?
Not even Gina could be that cruel.
Suddenly, and for the first time in forever, Brent felt purpose.
He raced home, eager to hatch a plan to connect with the 215ers, and reclaim his life.
* * * *
CHAPTER 4 — Luca Harding
September 2013
Las Orillas, California
Luca turned his entire body away from his bedroom window and its open blinds. It was too bright outside, and the last place on Earth he wanted to be today was school.
