Ashes of Foreverland (24 page)

She wouldn't tell him where she had been or what happened. She told him to set the GPS. The wolves stood across the meadow and watched them drive out of the wilderness forever.

Toward New York City.

––––––––

T
o have everything,

Is to have nothing.

The opposite is true.

––––––––

J
onathan sat at a round table.

The man across from him was overweight and sweating. His eyes were set too close. He stared at Jonathan, unblinking, as his fingers rapped against the desktop like the tips of ten-penny nails.

Monitors were mounted side by side. Video, which Jonathan could only assume was streaming from other labs, was on display with bar graphs and dynamic charts and scrolling numbers.

The door opened. Neither Jonathan nor Beady-eyes looked up, holding each other's gaze. A man in a gray suit, jacket open, leaned over the table, red tie dangling. Beady-eyes spun in his chair and the two proceeded to whisper, occasionally looking over the table.

Jonathan waited patiently while Beady-eyes pointed at the screens and pecked at various keyboards. The suit stood back, arms folded, and watched. Beady-eyes turned his small eyes back on Jonathan.

The suit pulled up a chair.

“Mr. Deer.” He sighed. “This is all very complicated.”

“I understand.”

“I'm sure you do.” That was sincere. “You understand there is no room for error in what we're doing? We can't estimate, not one single item. Vagary will leave the result up to chance, and neither you nor we have the right to guess at what you want us to do. You understand?”

“Of course.”

“So when you say you want to use your memory, we have a problem.”

“I didn't say memory.”

Beady-eye's knuckles whitened, fingers interlaced like a wrecking ball.

“I'm capable of carrying the data,” Jonathan said.

“For two hundred and four fabrications?”

“I've given you the physical specs for each one.”

“But not the personalities.”

Jonathan nodded slowly. “I don't have them yet.”

“And you want to start production without them?”

“I'll have them.”

“Timing is critical, Mr. Deer.”

“I understand.”

“I don't think you do.” Beady-eyes pounded the table. “When fabrication is finished, there has to be a personality matrix uploaded immediately. If you're late or there's a problem, you'll stand by and watch them rot.”

Obviously, Beady-eyes had seen this before.

“I understand the timing,” he said. “And I'll be there.”

The suit and Beady-eyes argued some more. In the end, they couldn't stop Jonathan. He'd paid for the service, their bosses accepted. Jonathan would make the delivery.

Or die trying.

Upstate New York

D
rip. Drip. Drip.

Liquid sunlight dripped onto a desert in steady, even strokes. Like a clock. A metronome.

A heartbeat.

The beat measured the seconds of the day. But it wasn't sand that caught each golden drop. It fell into Alex.

Heavy, heavy Alex.

She floated in a dream, not knowing it was a dream—a nowhere of sweetness—until she neared the surface, close enough to taste real life.

Her eyelashes cracked.

She stared at a popcorn ceiling. Up there in the catacombs of her misty mind was her name, but she couldn't see past the fluffy grit, the swirly texture. It was just a ceiling.

There was no name.

There was a warm place beneath the covers. She reached under the downy comforter, expecting to feel a dark spot spreading across her midsection where she had wet the bed. She was nude, but dry. Her bladder, full.

The blinds in the window were dark. She began drifting beneath the surface again where nothing mattered, where her dreams would cradle her in a warm embrace.

What's my name?

When the bedroom door opened, she didn't recognize Samuel at first. It took a few seconds to recognize her spouse, then a few more to remember his name. He appeared fuzzy. Even after she blinked several times, he still appeared to be a double image out of focus.

“Hungry?” He placed a tray on the dresser.

He had gone away for a few weeks.

She seemed to remember a sudden business trip and complications, something to do with the government and CIA, top secret service that required his anonymity. He texted and emailed, but didn't have the service to call.

But now he was here, every day. He appeared when she woke up, always with food and a smile. Steam rose from a teacup; the scent of chamomile mixing with her body odor rising from beneath the covers. It wasn't a bad smell, but it made her wonder when she showered last.

Samuel sat on the bed; his musky scent, his manly allure pushed into her senses. He took her hand and massaged her fingers one at a time, kneaded her palms, rubbed her arms until her eyes began to roll. She smiled. It was impossible not to.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“It's about that time.”

She looked around.
Where are the clocks?

“I got to pee.”

“Want a pan?”

“What?”

“Joking.”

Samuel made shushing sounds, rubbing and stroking and caressing. If there wasn't pressure in her midsection, she'd have pulled him under the covers and let him do things to her.

She peeled herself away and urinated in the bathroom for what seemed like hours. Her head, resting on her knees, was a sandbag. Thoughts and memories trickled through the fog, things she should be doing but no longer wanted to.

There were interviews and drafts to write, chapters to edit. Deadlines to meet.
It could wait. It could all wait. Even
, she thought while flushing,
personal hygiene
.

Samuel was under the covers. His shoulders were bare and bronze; muscles bunched along his arms. She slid next to him, fell into his embrace and forgot about those deadlines.

Life was too damn good.

——————————————

S
amuel was gone.

Sunlight cut between the blinds.

That side of the house faced west, which meant it was afternoon. Judging by the angle and length of the dusty sunbeams, it was late. Had she slept an entire day?

It was impossible to know.

She wrapped a robe around her nudity and bent a single blind. It was clear and sunny, the window chilled. A school bus rolled down the street, followed by laughter.

A pang of guilt struck her.
Or is it sadness? Or both?

Somewhere in the endless blue sky, thunder rumbled.

The bed is new
.

She couldn't remember ever sleeping in a king with comforters that thick. And she slept right in the middle, like it was all hers. She couldn't remember falling asleep, just remembered the rhythm of Samuel's embrace. Now it was mid-afternoon and there were things to do, but the thought of sitting at the computer, of punching those keys and staring at the screen was empty. She wanted to sleep, to sink deep into the mattress and into a dream where nothing hurt, and nothing bothered her.

Pots and pans rang downstairs. Samuel was cooking.

The front room was spotless. All the shelves had been dusted, the carpet cleaned, the throw pillows just the way she liked them. Samuel was stirring a warm pot of stew. She loved stew on a lazy winter day.

“Don't you have to work?” she asked.

“Working at home.” He sampled the pot and stirred. “Skyping a conference a bit later. Thought we could watch a movie tonight.”

The laptop was on the kitchen table, a background photo of Alex on the screen, her eyes closed, a slight smile. She couldn't remember that picture—maybe Samuel took it while she was sleeping.

It was strange to see contentment on her. Her photos were always intense, all business, get the job done. Even their wedding photos, like she was imitating joy.

A bad actor pretending to be happy.

But that picture on the computer—that was the real deal. She felt it in her toes.

A ten.

“Where you going?” he asked.

She had her hand on the back door. There was a little blank spot between staring at the laptop and going to the door. She couldn't remember that short little walk.

“Getting some fresh air,” she said.

The leaves had fallen, but Samuel had picked them up. The flower beds had been put to sleep, the grass neatly trimmed. A squirrel or something squabbled in the bushes.

She pulled her robe closed, but the winter air rushed up her legs. It felt clean, the deck boards hard on her feet. She took a long deep breath through her nostrils and closed her eyes.

Somewhere a child laughed.

It wasn't far away. There were kids in the neighborhood, but this sounded like it was right in front of her. The backyard, though, was quiet, still and empty. A wave of voices passed overhead, like a speaker mounted on a passing drone—those fragmented pieces of language all mixed together like a pot of stew.

Thunder rumbled in a blue sky.

Her toes had become stiff. She wandered deeper into the backyard, walking like a monk, thinking about Tyler Ballard. She had never gotten around to transcribing her notes. It was probably the best interview she'd ever done. At the very least, the most revealing. And yet, she couldn't bring herself to pick up where she left off.

Not the best interview...the most satisfying.

She couldn't quite put her finger on it, though.
What had been so gratifying? Was it what he said?
But as she dragged her feet across the lawn, she couldn't remember anything he said.

Or was it the way he said it?

A door slammed.

Alex was on the driveway, the concrete colder and harder than the grass. Her knees were sufficiently numb, her fingers and nose aching. A brown truck had pulled up to the curb.

UPS.

The deliveryman stepped out of the open door. He rushed up the driveway with long strides just short of a trot with a box under his arm. It was wrapped in brown paper. He smiled at Alex.

“Bit cold today,” he said.

There was writing on the box.

She didn't have to sign for it. He just handed it to her.

Her name was on the front. It was written in green ink.
Alessandra Diosa
.

“You're going to freeze.” He took the box away. But it wasn't the UPS guy. Samuel put his arm around her. The truck was gone. How long had she been standing there?

Long enough that she couldn't feel her lips.

They went inside. They ate stew. They watched a movie. Later, they made love.

When Alex woke late the next day, she tried to remember her name and the day. She eventually did. But she never saw the package addressed in green ink again.

Never even remembered it.

She just wanted to sleep.

ADMAX Penitentiary, Colorado

A
headlight.

One bright locomotive.

Tyler was on the tracks. He tried to move, to look away, blink, but it only got brighter, only got closer. The ground didn't shake; the wind didn't blow.

Everything was silent.

The light went away and came back twice. It was after the second time he saw shapes. They emerged from the glow like Polaroid snapshots. A white coat.

A white man in a white coat.

The good doctor.

He put the silver pen in his white coat and stepped back.

Tyler saw spots. Tears rolled down his cheeks. His forehead was inflated and hard like the shell of a tortoise. His pulse thumped just above his eyebrows.

Sensation came back to his hands and feet first. His whole body vibrated with pins and needles, the kind that felt like a giant hand squeezing a lemon.

More tears.

Someone else was in the room. Tyler could feel him without turning. Gramm was off to the side, his arms folded, observing the good doctor. Tyler remained a solid object mounted on the examination table, but his mind was expanding like a net, capturing Gramm's thoughts like minnows. There were too many to make sense, silvery flashes that darted about in the ethereal mindspace.

But Tyler's mindnet went beyond the room.

It went out to the prison yard, where inmates squared up on the basketball court, walked the track or read books. He heard them all simultaneously.

Hundreds of them.

They chattered like the roar of a sporting event, the crash of a waterfall, a thunderstorm smashing across a flat rock. He covered his ears—

“You had a stroke.”

Tyler turned his head. Gramm was near the doorway.

“Wheh?” Tyler slurred the word.

“Almost three months ago.”

Three months?

“The good doctor saved you. I thought we lost you.” Emotion strained the last couple of words. Gramm cleared his throat. “He maximized your biomite content and injected you with a new strain to repair the damage and restore your identity.”

Tyler closed his eyes, working his finger and thumb around the bridge of his nose. Too much, it was too much. He closed his mind, withdrew until he only heard his own thoughts.

“Whah...” He worked his tongue and lips. “What happened?”

“A clot had formed around the stent.” Gramm paused. “The good doctor thinks.”

“Thinks?”

“That was the biofeedback. It was a miracle we saved you.”

Again, the emotion in Gramm's voice.

They couldn't take Tyler out of the prison. If a doctor besides the good doctor were to see Tyler, the entire operation would be compromised.

Tyler agreed.

“From what we understand, the clot formed from overuse. Your last session was extremely long and stressful. And when we began to lose the basement network...”

Tyler lifted his head too quickly. Stars flitted through his eyesight. Memories reported for recall. He had just seen Alessandra for the interview, then went to the basement, where his carefully selected network of volunteers—all wired into Foreverland, all lending Tyler their minds to support the cause—began to fail.