The Eye of the Bedlam Bride — Chapter no 50

[ 50 ]

nd <Note added by Crawler Drakea. 22Edition> If you get the chance, don’t hesitate. Not for one second.

THE TRIP NORTH WAS EERIE. THERE WERE NO MOBS. NOT MANY MEMORY ghosts, either. It was past midnight on Christmas morning, and traffic was light on the single lane highway. It was cold enough that I really shouldn’t be doing this without pants, but it wasn’t freezing. A light drizzle occasionally started and stopped, making everything slick. I’d had to circle around the occasional pileup, but I didn’t see a single, physical moving car on the roadway. I still had to be careful of the occasional memory ghost. Most of the ghosts in vehicles had lost all of their clothes when the car they were riding in crashed, but there were sporadically people with helmets and glasses zipping by, and if I got hit by one of them, it’d knock me clean off the motorcycle.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the disappearance of the members of the Open Intellect Pacifist Network. What did that mean?

Once I reached the southern edge of town, I stopped at a closed gas station, broke down the door, and grabbed a map from the holder. I sat at the counter and munched on some beef jerky as I tried to figure out where I needed to go. I found it quickly. It was only a few blocks away, and I was early.

Donut occasionally messaged me, but she was clearly having fun. They were singing Christmas carols, and everybody was getting progressively

more blitzed as the night wore on. Katia, thankfully, was remaining sober. As long as I continually assured Donut I was okay, she didn’t seem to mind I’d gone out. She asked me if I wanted to come back inside and wear a Santa suit for the kids, and I begged off. She didn’t realize how far I’d gone.

I tried to remember what I’d been doing around this time, just this past Christmas morning. Bea had been back in Yakima with her parents. She was going to drive back later in the day and get ready to leave for her Bahamas trip. I’d been off work for almost a week and had spent the evening playing video games with Donut on my lap. I’d ordered takeout for dinner, and Donut had stolen a wonton from my plate.

I hadn’t felt lonely at the time. The thought never even entered my mind, but this sudden sense of loss washed over me. What had Asher been doing? I thought of Mr. Roth, my landlord, asleep in the basement apartment, also alone. I never thought about him before this. I’d never given it a single thought. I thought of Mrs. Parsons, my neighbor on the first floor. Her husband had been dead for years. She’d been alone, too.

I didn’t feel loss for the person I was at the time, but for me, now, here. I was here, alone, and I finally understood what the difference was. I didn’t want to be alone. I regretted not bringing someone with me.

Goddamn you, Louis.

“It’s not really Christmas. Fuck.”

My voice sounded hollow in the dark room.

A noise caught my attention. There was a dog here, in the gas station, passed out in the back corner. I hadn’t even noticed him. A memory ghost. It was an elderly bloodhound, and he was sleeping on his side in a bed that had a little sign over it that read “Lightning Lou.” He had two bowls of food, plenty of water, and there was a doggy door against the wall behind him which led to a small, fenced yard.

Still… how could they just leave him here? There wasn’t a house or apartment attached to the gas station. There was a sign on the door saying it would be closed on Christmas. They just left him here. A guard dog.

I reached down and tried to pet him, but my hand went right through his head, and I accidentally dislodged his collar, which jingled as it fell off his neck. The dog sighed heavily in his sleep, unaware that the world would end

in just over a week.

“Merry Christmas, buddy,” I said.

The shelter was a graffiti-covered building in an industrial area of town, surrounded by what appeared to be fruit-packing plants. It was about four in the morning, and I still had a few hours before the breakfast. I pulled up on the motorcycle and searched the map for threats. There was nothing. I cast Ping. Nothing. I cast Tripper, looking for traps. Nothing. My new Find Crawler skill was only level 5, but that, too, had the area empty. I truly was alone.

I received a fan box notification. My views were absolutely spiked.

I walked the perimeter of the building, looking for clues about what I was supposed to see or find here. There was a single entrance with a light on with a Christmas wreath hanging from it. The same flyer from my sponsor box was taped to the glass door. As I passed, I saw a single man inside behind a desk, a memory ghost leaning back in a chair watching something on his phone. He was wearing a Christmas hat. The shelter was otherwise dark.

I made a second circuit of the building, looking more closely at the graffiti. It was just the usual stuff. Gang squiggles that I couldn’t read. The occasional swear. More than one penis. A note that said “The staff here sux cock.” A pretty good rendition of Piglet from Winnie the Pooh, though someone had sprayed a peace symbol over Piglet’s face.

And then, I saw it. I stopped in my tracks.

It was just three sentences. It said, “Look for me at breakfast every morning. I wear the red hat with the flaps. Coffee then speech.”

That was it. It was written in red, runny spray paint. Some of the letters were covered by later artists, including the words “Sniff Vagina” for some reason. The words blended in with every other squiggle on the wall, and it was something I’d never even give heed to.

Except for the fact it was written in Syndicate Standard, not English.

I reached up and put my hands against the words. It’d been here for a long time.

I moved to the front door of the shelter and tried to open it, but it was locked. There was a doorbell here, but I didn’t want to wait for anyone else to come by. I kicked the glass door, and it shattered, the sound shockingly loud.

I went past the man at the counter, who was watching some anime about boxing on his phone.

I moved into a large room filled with sleeping men on rows and rows of cots.

I’d only spent one night of my life in a homeless shelter. It was in Seattle, th the night after my 18birthday.

The heavy scent of Lysol filled the room, and I was shocked at how familiar the room felt. There were no women or children here. Each cot contained a sleeping man under a gray blanket, and at the foot of each cot was a plastic storage tub, all duct-taped closed with a signature on the seal.

Men snored and slept restlessly.

Only a small portion of them looked like how one would expect a homeless person would look. One guy was in an actual suit. Several appeared to be in their late teens.

Christmas decorations covered the walls. A massive cross dominated a wall, too. Beyond them was another room with closed double doors, but with a light on. I could hear the activity beyond. I could smell it, too, mixed in with the heavy disinfectant. There were people within, cooking breakfast for the homeless crowd.

I thought of Chris and Brandon and Yolanda and the rest of the staff of the Meadowlark Adult Care community. I thought of Imani, who’d just sent out a mass message saying she still couldn’t find the token.

I looked over the sleeping men, trying to see someone with a red hat. All were memory ghosts. There was nobody I could tell.

I moved to a corner, and I sat down to wait.

I was nodded awake by an announcement coming over a loudspeaker. A song. It was “Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer” again. I’d fallen asleep.

“Oh, fuck,” I muttered, diving into my messages. If Donut had messaged me and couldn’t get a hold of me… But I relaxed. Her last few notes didn’t require a response. The last one had come in about an hour and a half earlier: Donut: EGGNOG IS DISGUSZITI. BLECH.

Donut: I found his hat on the ground after the party. I have it. He

was a jerk, but I kinda like it.

Donut: SECRET ASIAN MAN SONG LYRICS.

Donut: SANTA.

A few minutes after that, I’d received a pair of messages from Mordecai

and then another from Katia.

Mordecai: Where are you?

About five minutes passed and then: Mordecai: Be careful, kid.

Katia: I don’t know what you’re up to, but be careful.

And then Louis sent a message soon after that.

Louis: Donut is passed out drunk in the main room. Apparently this was the first time she’d drank since she got her player killer skull?

Mordecai said he was worried about you and then one of the fish people zapped into the room. Zev, I think, and she talked quietly with Mordecai and Katia before disappearing. I didn’t tell them you’d asked me about Homestead. I don’t know what’s going on, but I hope you’re okay.

There was also a message from Zev.

Zev: Just an FYI, I told your teammates that you’re out on a short quest and nobody really knows what it’s about, which is the truth, and to not bother you. I said you’re safe and that there are no mobs or hazards near you, which also appears to be true. The AI is particularly insistent that we do not interfere with whatever this is and not to interfere with the feed, either. This last part is causing some dispute, but then the AI leaked our internal debates out into the main feed, which as you can imagine is making everybody even more curious, but it’s also caused the Syndicate council—the real council—to go into a tizzy. A few members are here, on planet, and they’ve been locked out of the discussions.

Everything is a mess. This obviously has something to do with the Residuals, which means it’s probably going to be a stupid non-event. But it’s still curious.

I read the message a few times and composed a reply to Zev.

Carl: What the hell is a Residual?

Zev: I am forbidden from telling you. I think you’re about to find out.

It was 6 AM, and all around me, men were getting up, lining up for a group of bathrooms. They were sliding their plastic containers against the wall while someone gathered up all the cots. I pulled myself up and continued to watch. The rise of chatter filled the room. The smell of food was now overwhelming, and my stomach rumbled. Christmas music continued to play on the loudspeaker. Other than the music and the decorations, there was no indication whatsoever that this day was any different than any other.

I’d dreamt of Odette. Of her speech to me the other day. Never stare into the blinding eye of the Bedlam Bride.

I watched as the men worked together to put all the cots away and then bring out a line of tables, preparing for breakfast.

I saw him, then. The man with the red hat, and my heart started to race.

He appeared to be about 70 years old. He had Asian features, which made him stand out amongst the white, black, and Hispanic men. He was dressed in several layers of flannel, and upon his head was a bright-red trapper hat. I watched him help set up a long table.

The double doors to the kitchen opened, and somebody yelled, “Coffee’s on. Food in fifteen.” A line started to form.

The Christmas songs on the loudspeaker stopped and were replaced by a preacher, who started to drone on about the meaning of Christmas. It was obviously a recording, and one of the workers lowered the volume on the sermon as the men started talking loudly amongst themselves as they lined up. I stood and approached the man in the red hat, who’d moved to his plastic tub against the wall. He ripped off the duct-tape seal and pulled a blue IKEA bag from the depths, and then produced what appeared to be a handful of sugar packets. He shoved everything back into the bin. He turned and got into line with the rest of the men. I watched the man disappear into the back room.

This area was part of the whole memory, so anything I picked up now would disappear the moment the floor collapsed. I didn’t care. I grabbed the man’s plastic tub, and I took it into my inventory.

Before I could sort through anything in the bin, the man reappeared from the line to the kitchen, holding a Styrofoam cup. He sat, dumped the sugar packets in the coffee, sipped it, and put the cup down.

“It is time,” the man said, speaking loudly. He had a deep, raspy voice.

An American accent, and he was speaking in English. He turned and looked directly at me. He took a drink of coffee and sighed, making eye contact.

“Nothing like coffee to wake your ass up.”

He took another sip and smacked his lips.

“Hello, crawler,” he said.