Carole was right about Arkan. The guy’s totally nuts. And his sword really is plastic. When my three new companions passed through the White City’s gates, they were offered a choice of weapon or tool, just as I was. Gorog opted for fire. Carole went with an invisibility cloak. And Arkan chose nothing. The plastic sword apparently came with his knight costume.
He told the others that a weapon “wouldn’t make any difference ’cause we’re already dead.” And as goats were eating their friend, he assured Carole and Gorog that they shouldn’t interfere because “it was all meant to be.”
Yet despite his rather serious mental health issues, Arkan turns out to be quite resourceful. Before sunset, he used his cape as a net and caught fish for our dinner. His helmet became our water bucket and his shield became the skillet on which he sautéed our fish, which—I have to say—were beautifully cooked. The meal filled me up, but somehow it didn’t put an end to my hunger pangs. I hope the food does my avatar some good. Somewhere, beneath the surface, I can feel my body in the real world begging for more.
After dinner, Arkan laid out his theory about this so-called afterlife we’re all sharing. We’re in purgatory, he says—the waiting room between heaven and hell. His belief is so powerful that he might have convinced me if I didn’t know better. I would have set him straight, but Carole caught my eye whenever I opened my mouth. I understand her concern. Arkan’s illusions are all he has left. There’s no telling what could happen if one of us was to destroy them.
Soon the sky is dark and the others are resting. Even in Otherworld, the brain needs to power down several hours every evening. I lie beside the campfire and rest my eyes for a minute. I figure it’s probably a good idea to stay awake in case any more man-eating goats come sniffing around. I don’t plan to sleep, but I do. And in my dream I find Kat.
I’m back in the real world, which somehow seems far less real after a day in Otherworld. I’m looking down at Kat from the hole in the floor at Elmer’s. She’s sitting with her back against the wall, Solo cup in hand, staring into space. It’s the night of the party, but this time there’s no one else around—just the two of us separated by a rotting wooden floor. I can see now what I couldn’t before. She’s neither drunk nor high. She’s thinking. And I know the answers I need are bouncing around in her head.
“She’s a looker,” a man says. “I always had a thing for wild hair like that too. I hope this girl’s worth the trouble. A lot of ’em aren’t, you know.”
The stench hits me before I see its source. The smell is a bouquet of raw sewage, gasoline and a dozen industrial pollutants I couldn’t begin to identify. There’s a man standing beside me. The rancid water streaming off him has gathered in a pool at his feet. The light inside the factory is too dim to make out his features, but his profile is unmistakable. The Kishka has risen from the bottom of Brooklyn’s Gowanus Canal to star in my dream.
“Her name is Kat,” I tell my grandfather, making him the first member of my family who’s ever heard me say her name out loud. “I’m here because she’s in trouble.”
“So was the lady who got me into this mess,” he says, holding his arms out as if to show off the revolting state of his suit. Then he lets them drop. “Wasn’t her fault, though. I was thinking with my kishka. And not this one,” he says, tapping his nose. “The bigger one.” He stops, and I can tell he’s no longer joking. “You know what you’re doing?”
“No clue,” I admit. I haven’t had much time to think things through.
My grandfather pulls a pack of Lucky Strikes from the pocket of his suit. When his Zippo won’t produce a flame and the cigarettes are too wet to light, he tosses everything out the window.
“So let me see if I understand what’s going on,” he says. I’m eager to hear what a gangster from the 1960s makes of Otherworld, but he doesn’t seem very interested in virtual reality. “A bunch of kids got killed at that factory, and the cops are calling it an accident. Then the people who survived get hooked up to some kind of machine and sent away. The machine’s supposed to let them play with bunnies and butterflies, but people end up getting eaten by goats instead. I got this straight?”
“Yeah,” I tell him. “Pretty much.”
My grandfather whistles appreciatively. “If I were a betting man—and believe me, I am—I’d bet that collapse was no accident. Somebody must have wanted those kids out of the way.”
“I know,” I say, though it’s the first time I’ve actually voiced my suspicions. “They were targeted.”
“I know you know,” he tells me. He’s right. I’m not having a conversation with a dead gangster I’ve never met. I’m talking to myself. “Question is—what are you planning to do about it?”
I shrug. “Not much I can do,” I tell him. “I’m out of the way now too.” Someone sent me the disk and I jumped right into Otherworld without thinking. Maybe the person was trying to help me. Maybe they wanted to get rid of me. At this point, it’s impossible to know.
“You followed your gut,” the Kishka says. “You did the right thing.”
“You mean coming here to rescue Kat?”
My grandfather snorts. “You and I both know that girl can take care of herself. She’s been to Otherworld. She knows where she is by now. And half the time in these games, she’s the one saving your ass. That’s not why you need to find her.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“She saw what happened the night of the collapse. She knows what was thrown down to the second floor—and she probably knows who threw it. You want to do something for her? Figure out who put her in the hospital in the first place.”
“How?”
“Are you kidding me? She’s here somewhere. Just find her and ask her.”
I open my eyes. The night is pitch-black. The designers seem to have forgotten to add a moon. There are only stars above. They appear to be laid out in patterns, but as far as I can tell, they don’t match any of the constellations I’ve seen from Earth.
I hear a sniffle and then a muffled sob. One of my new companions is crying. I can’t be positive, but it sounds like Arkan. Maybe he doesn’t like being dead after all.