The Virtual Dead

by E. R. Mason

In the morning, Markman awoke to the waiting game. He stared out the suite windows and wondered what to expect next. There had been no further communications from Rogers, though the Virtual Death 3D contest had been won. Subtle things had already begun to happen. He had been followed on his way home from the convention center, and there was now the uneasy feeling of being watched.

  Breakfast was served in the suite by a short, nervous man in a glaring white, high-collared suit. He wore a hair net and glasses with thick lenses, and he fidgeted around his server cart as though it were the most important event of the day. And despite his own dissatisfaction with the tray arrangement, did not forget to pause for a tip before leaving.

  As Markman sipped coffee, a call came through the hotel switchboard, someone representing Salantist Industries. Mister Otto J. Fishkin, politely explained he was responsible for dispensing Virtual Corporation awards. Could Mr. Julian attend a late afternoon dinner in the hotel's dining room, provided as part of the Virtual Death prize? Markman, pacing restlessly around his suite, waited for the appointment. He searched through the picture windows in an attempt to spot his spotters, the allies and the enemies. He did not find any.

  At three o'clock the plush, high-speed elevator dropped him to the first-floor dining room, an immaculate place with chandeliers and busy kitchen workers still cleaning up from the late lunch crowd. In a far corner, at a table away from the windows, an odd-looking man with a receding hairline and thinning dark blond hair waved aggressively. His face was almond-shaped and pale. It seemed to be unevenly covered with make-up.

  Otto J. Fishkin rose but did not offer his hand as Markman approached. He bowed several times in a way that appeared almost comical. His dark gray suit was fashionable but wrinkled and worn, and his striped tie was poorly knotted. The white dress shirt underneath appeared to be dirty and inside out. He looked as though he had shaved with an electric razor and missed spots. From a distance, he could have been a typical sleepless, overworked executive, but closer examination suggested something was amiss.

  "Mr. Julian, a pleasure to meet you. Please, rest."

  Markman pulled out a chair and sat across from him. There was a twisted smile.

  "You'll be glad to hear I've already ordered for us both. Sustenance is on the way, Mr. Julian."

  "Thank-you, I'm sure it will be fine, whatever it is."

  "Quite a score you turned in yesterday. The highest we've had, quite remarkable!"

  "Some luck there, of course, Mr. Fishkin, is it?"

  "Yes, that's correct. I was a player myself some time back. Don't get the chance now, just too much to do, too much to do. Ah...here's the first food."

  A young, neatly-dressed waiter appeared, balancing a large tray above his head. To Markman's dismay, a plate amply loaded with escargot was placed in front of him. Without further small talk, Fishkin dove into his own plate, chopping and devouring the delicacy as though he were the only person in the room. Markman stabbed at his dead snails with a fork and tried to appear content. When his host had completely devoured the food, and Markman had minced his, the conversation resumed.

  "So, you deal in firearms, Mr. Julian?"

  "Yes, how did you know?"

  "A guess, call it innovation."

  "You mean intuition?"

  "And do you work with the local police in your line of trade, Mr. Julian?"

  "Only to the extent that it's necessary. It keeps the surprise audits to a minimum if you know what I mean. Otherwise, I'd have nothing to do with the bastards."

  "Ah, some distention there. We share a common disrespect I see. I expect you've had trouble with the law."

  "I think you mean dissension, Mr. Fishkin, and yes, I have. Nothing I'd care to discuss. But what does all this have to do with my prize money, if you don't mind my asking?"

  "Oh yes, that. I have it here. Why don't I give it to you?"

  Fishkin leaned over in his chair and pulled a plain black briefcase onto his lap. He snapped it open and drew out a clip of bills, ten one-hundreds. With a jabbing motion, he stuck them out for Markman to take.

  "One thousand dollars, Mr. Julian. You are a most talented competitor. A fine athlete. Ah, the main food."

  The waiter approached the table with a server's cart. Markman tucked the money inside his gray suit jacket, wondering why the award had not come in the form of a cashier's check, and why no signed receipt had been asked for. He happily waved off the plate of uneaten snails. It was quickly replaced by a covered dish. Fishkin smiled a flat smile and quickly discarded his own silver plate cover. Again he attacked the food underneath with ferocity.

  Markman would not have chosen the raw fish. He poked at it with the same fork that had been used to simulate eating the snails and waited for the queer man from Salantist Industries to finish.

  "So, Mr. Julian," said Fishkin, when his plate contained only clutter, and he had generously massaged his mouth with a big red cloth napkin. "Are you familiar with the sport of paint ball?"

  Markman attempted a look of pleasant surprise. "As a matter of fact, I specialize in it. It is a private passion, Mr. Fishkin."

  "Wonderful, wonderful! I should have guessed that also. You certainly are well-clothed for it."

  "Do you mean well suited, Mr. Fishkin?"

  Ignoring the correction, Fishkin dug deeply into several of his pockets, neurotically searching for something. As he did so, he dumped their contents onto the dining table. Markman stared in amazement at the nonsensical collection, a matchbook cover with a beautiful, naked young woman sitting on an anchor holding an arched sign that read, "Kennedy Point Restaurant and Lounge"; several dozen sunflower seeds; unused packets of restaurant honey; several small green leaves of an unidentifiable species. But most peculiar of all, within the mess on the table lay what appeared to be a frosty colored, walnut-sized, raw diamond. Markman stared at it in disbelief and assumed he was mistaken. Finally, the frustrated man pulled a new pack of cigarettes from the inside breast pocket of his suit jacket. He fumbled with the pack, a new one. The cigarettes were so tightly bound that the tired-looking man had to tap them against the ridge of his hand to get a handle on one of the filters. He held a cigarette in his mouth and picked up the stray matches and other items on the table and replaced them in his pocket. He tapped the cigarette on the table and spoke nonchalantly.

  "There is a private sportsman's club we have. It meets on my estate. A perfect place for war games. Would you like to join us?"

  Before Markman could answer, Fishkin rolled the cigarette under his nose, then popped the entire length of it into his mouth and began to chew. He stared across the table as though it were a completely ordinary thing to do.

  "You eat cigarettes?"

  "Yes, yes, I know. It's a bad habit. I'm trying to quit. I'm using filters, however. We meet on Sundays, Mr. Julian, that's tomorrow. Are you interested?"

  "Yes, very."

  "I must warn you; there is a small initiation. We will provide you with an appropriate paintball weapon, or you may bring your own. Is that acceptable?"

  "What is the initiation, exactly?"

  "Oh, nothing elaborate. You must make it from point A to point B without getting mortally splattered, that's all."

  "Name the time and place. I'm looking forward to it."

  "Sunrise, Mr. Julian. I have a map to give you."

  Fishkin rose and patted himself down, finally finding a folded piece of paper in the hip pocket of his suit jacket. He set it on the table, bowed awkwardly several times, and abruptly walked away without speaking. His cadence out of the dining room was jerky and disjointed, and he disappeared through the open doors of the dining room without looking back.

  Markman felt more than uneasy. He exhaled in relief and sat back to consider the incoherent pattern that was forming in the strange case he had inherited. There was the pretty lady at the bottom of the lake who had been deposited there by people paid to be heartless; next the federal agent in the empty room wearing the funny spacesuit, fighting
imaginary adversaries but dying in a very harsh and real way; then the Virtual Death game at the weapons show and it’s obvious, though limited similarities; and now a paintball combat contest arranged by a man who was trying to quit eating filtered cigarettes. It was an absurd set of circumstances that made no sense. More answers were needed, quickly.

  In a phone book in the hotel lobby Markman found a nearby sporting goods store that carried paintball supplies. Goggles and a few other items would be necessary. The sting of a paintball against bare flesh was substantial enough. A hit to the eye could cause irreparable damage. The store was close enough to walk to.

  The early evening atmosphere of the city was pleasant, shadowy alleys and basement stairways withdrew into darkness. The impetuous pace of people and traffic had slowed noticeably. Lights were just coming on in the high rises and decorated shop picture windows.

  With the help of a babbling sporting goods salesman whose New York accent was so strong it was almost like a strange sort of chant, he found the things needed and returned by the street lights to his hotel. He paused in front of the entrance, and tossed a pre-written note into a wire cage wastebasket by the curb, then lit a cigarette and pretended to smoke half of it before gladly stepping it out.

 

  Rogers,

  Going well so far? Something is wrong with Fishkin. Maybe cancer, or mental illness, or something. I visit his place tomorrow. Will try for an unscheduled tour. What is Salantist Industries? --Markman

  Back in the suite, the uneasy feeling returned. He gathered pillows and tucked them into the shape of a man on the enormous bed in the master bedroom. He threw the heavy white bedspread on the floor and covered his fabric sculpture with an amber silk sheet. With an armload of blankets, he made himself a place to sleep in one of the walk-in closets. Through the slats in the sliding door, he watched over the true form of Mr. David Julian, a make believe man who was adequate enough in design to accept real-life bullets.

  But the night remained uneventful, undisturbed by muffled popping sounds, and silk with powder burn and holes. No one had reason, it seemed, to visit Mr. Julian under cover of darkness.

  Yet.