by Jason Segel
The ogre and I are struck dumb, and Carole rolls her eyes at us. “Yes, ma’am,” she says. “It’s been real fun and all. But as much as I’d love to do a bunch of drugs and take part in an orgy, I really need to get back to the real world. These guys and I never meant to stop in Imra. We were just trying to escape from some bugs. We’re on our way to the Otherworld exit.”
“The exit?” Pomba Gira repeats. She doesn’t seem familiar with the word. “Very well. You and the ogre are free to leave. But this one.” She crackles as she glides over to Arkan, who’s still dangling over Gorog’s shoulder. “Set him down. This one wants to stay in Imra with me.”
“Are you kidding? He can’t even stand up,” Gorog says. But when he puts the knight down, Arkan remains upright on his own. Then his eyes open and fix on the Elemental’s face.
“This is where you belong,” she says.
“I do?” he asks woozily.
“Yes, I can see it,” she whispers. Smoky tendrils of her hair sweep across Arkan’s cheek like a caress.
“Naw, that’s just the booze,” I explain. “He’ll sober up in a minute. He wants to find the exit more than anyone.”
“No,” the Elemental informs me. “That’s not what the red knight is searching for. He knows that the thing he wants more than anything else is gone. I’m the only one who can return it to him.”
The lava has begun to swirl again. And once again, the molten rock takes a female form. Only this time it cools into milky white flesh. Arkan seems to sober up in an instant. The noise that issues from his throat sounds like he’s being strangled, and I see the knight drop to his knees at the feet of our host’s latest creation.
“Oh, God, Emma. I’m so sorry,” he sobs, wrapping his arms around the young woman’s legs. She’s the kind of plump, pretty blonde you’d see on a hot-chocolate box. And I suddenly realize I have seen her before.
It was a big story in northern New Jersey. A couple on their way home from a football game at Rutgers got into a fender bender. The man at the wheel of the first car jumped out and coldcocked the other driver, at which point the injured guy pulled a gun and began firing blindly. One of the bullets grazed the attacker’s spinal cord. Another hit his girlfriend, who was waiting for him in the passenger seat of their car. She died on the spot.
The incident was all over the news, and there were plenty of pictures of the girl who had died—and her boyfriend, an avid supporter of the Rutgers Scarlet Knights who’d gone to the game dressed up like his team’s mascot.
“I heard the ambulance guys talking before I went under. They said you were gone. When I woke up here in purgatory, I looked everywhere for you.”
The girl opens her eyes and smiles down at Arkan and wordlessly smooths his hair with her hand.
Carole’s practically blubbering, and Gorog looks a bit weepy too. I’m almost getting a little verklempt myself. At first I find it heartbreaking to see the two reunited in Otherworld, but then I realize the thing standing in front of us isn’t the dead girl. It’s just a digital doll that looks like Arkan’s lost girlfriend. Maybe that’s enough for him. He clearly thinks he’s been given another chance, and I’m not going to tell him he’s wrong. If it’s that easy to fool him, he deserves to be stuck here.
“Now for you,” Pomba Gira says, turning her attention to me. “I know what you want, too.”
“Campaign finance reform?” I say to break the mood. “Consistent sizing in clothing store chains?” The question draws a blank look from the Elemental. “Okay, okay. Too much to ask. Then how about a glass of ice water?” I say. It’s not really a joke. It’s goddamn hot down here and I’m dying of thirst.
The lava has produced another female, just like I knew it would. As it cools, the skin turns tan, but the hair burns red. I was expecting her to appear, but the sight of Kat still takes my breath away. She looks exactly as I remember her, which makes perfect sense since the disk must have pulled this image out of my memory. The sight drags me in like a tractor beam.
“Who is that?” Gorog whispers to me. “She’s amazing.”
“It’s the girl I came here to find,” I tell him.
“No, it’s not,” Carole hisses in my ear. “It’s one of those NPC things. You know that, right?”
I do. But against all my instincts, I take a step forward. “Hi,” I say.
“Hi, Simon,” she replies. She sounds like Kat. She smells like her. I take her hand, and she feels like Kat too. My heart is pounding, and I’m starting to think I may have been a little too quick to judge Arkan. “We can stay here,” she says. “We don’t have to be apart anymore. Isn’t that what you want?”
Of course it is. More than anything, but that’s not what matters.
“What do you want, Kat?” I ask.
“Just to be with you,” she says and my heart breaks a little. Those are exactly the words I’ve always wanted to hear, but they’re not words the real Kat would say. She’d tell me there was something bigger at stake. Somewhere in Otherworld, she’s on her own mission. I’m not sure what it is, but I know she would never call it off. Even for me.
And that’s the true test, I realize—the one that reveals who’s human and who’s not. Real people rarely do what you wish they would do. But that’s what makes an unexpected kiss behind a high school dumpster so damn magical.
“Thanks, but I’m gonna pass,” I tell Pomba Gira.
The only route out of Imra is an underground passage that’s been chiseled out of the black volcanic rock. Gorog leads the way with his fire, which was an excellent choice of tool. It’s seeing a lot more action than my dagger or Carole’s robe. But even with light to guide us, we’re unable to travel fast enough for my taste. When Pomba Gira conjured the copy of Kat, it was like a mirage taunting a man who’s gotten lost in a desert. My desperation is physical. Every breath I exhale is thick with longing. My hunger oozes from every pore.
“Hey, Simon. You’re not going to believe this.” Carole interrupts my thoughts as soon as we’ve put Imra behind us. I give her less than my full attention. “Back in the real world, I saw Arkan and his girlfriend on the news. I should have recognized his costume straightaway. He was wearing it the night of his accident. I’m pretty sure his full name was Jeremy Arkan. He and his girlfriend lived two towns over from me.”
I stop. I’m listening now. “You live in New Jersey?” I ask. “I thought you were Southern. You’ve got an accent.”
“I grew up in Memphis but I live in Morristown these days,” Carole says.
I start walking again. “Gorog,” I call out, picking up the pace as I hurry toward the ogre. “Where are you from?”
“In real life?” he asks. “Elizabeth, New Jersey.”
I know six people who’ve been given one of the Company’s special disks. All six of those people hail from the small state of New Jersey. At least three—Kat, Brian and West—were diagnosed with an extremely rare condition. In my head I hear Busara asking the question I was unable to answer. What are the odds?
I’m sifting through all the random clues I’ve collected when I run straight into Gorog’s hairy back. There’s a colorful curse on my tongue, but it stays there when I see why he’s come to a sudden stop. There’s a bend in the tunnel ahead, and whatever is just beyond it is issuing an eerie blue light.
“What the hell is that?” Carole whispers.
Finally, a question I can answer. “I think it’s my guide.” I step around Gorog and lead the way forward.
“We get to meet him!” Gorog’s far more excited than he should be. “Oh, man, this is gonna be good.”
Sure enough, the Clay Man is waiting for us around the bend. He’s leaning back against one of the rough rock walls with his eyes closed. The amulet on his chest is glowing. His eyes open as we approach.
“You have companions,” the Clay Man says, making it perfectly clear that he doesn’t approve. If I ever gave a shit, I no longer do.
“Their names are Gorog and Carole,” I say. “I’m t
aking them with me to find the exit.” Neither of them steps forward. Gorog’s excitement has been replaced with wariness, and they both look like they’re on the verge of backing away.
“Don’t worry, he’s not going to hurt you,” I promise them, though I don’t know that for certain.
“You cannot let these avatars slow you down,” the Clay Man says.
“Slow me down?” I’m getting kind of pissed now. “I wouldn’t have made it out of Imra without them. By the way, where the hell were you? I could have used a little guidance back there. Isn’t that supposed to be your job?”
“As I told you, I travel in Otherworld’s liminal spaces,” the Clay Man says. “The wastelands, tunnels and border areas are all open to me, but it is too dangerous for me to enter any of Otherworld’s realms.”
“I don’t understand,” Gorog says. “What are you? Are you one of us or one of them?”
“There is no need for you to understand,” says the Clay Man dismissively.
“Are you one of the Children Simon told us about?” Carole asks.
“Certainly not,” says the Clay Man snippily.
“Yeah, speaking of the Children,” I jump in. “We just had the pleasure of meeting the goat man’s mother. Not to be too graphic, but how the hell is that possible?”
Apparently the Clay Man doesn’t share my dirty mind. “How many times do I have to explain that this world does not operate in the way that yours does?” he lectures me. “Digital DNA can be combined in many different ways. Intercourse is not the only option.”
“You sure seem to know a lot about this stuff,” Carole says. “I’m starting to think you might not be one of those NPC thingies.”
“I am Simon’s guide, nothing more, nothing less. My goal is to keep him alive until his mission has been completed.”
“Okay, fine. But why does Simon get the special attention?” asks Carole. “I mean, he’s a great guy and all, but the rest of us are trying to get out of here alive too.”
Gorog nudges Carole. “I told you,” he says. “Simon gets the special attention because he’s the One.”
“There is no One,” the Clay Man informs him.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Gorog replies, undaunted. “Simon’s not ready for the truth yet. You don’t want to freak him out.”
The Clay Man chooses to ignore the ogre. “Simon, I’ve come to tell you that it’s time to make camp.”
“Here?” Carole scoffs. “In a tunnel?”
The Clay Man acts as though he didn’t hear and continues to speak only to me. “The passage to the next realm is long. You do not have the energy to reach it. You must leave Otherworld temporarily in order to refuel.”
“I’m fine,” I lie. I’m hardly in tip-top shape. “I ate a shitload of buffalo back in Imra. I think I can make it a bit farther. Besides, I thought I was stuck here until I found the exit. How am I supposed to leave?”
“I will help you,” the Clay Man tells me. “I have no choice. You have been in Otherworld for almost forty-eight hours. The detour to Imra was unexpected. You were never meant to be here this long. Your avatar may be healthy, but your real-world body has not received any liquids or nourishment for two days. If you neglect it much longer, your quest will be over before it’s truly begun.”
I don’t care if I’ve been here for two weeks. I’m not leaving Kat behind in this place just to eat a ham sandwich. “I’m telling you, I can keep going.”
“I’m afraid I must stop you,” says the Clay Man. “As I said, I do not have a choice.” He grasps his amulet and disappears. But I go nowhere.
There’s nothing to do but keep on walking, so I start back down the path. Suddenly I’m blinded by a searing white light, and it feels like a piece of flesh is being ripped off the back of my skull. The tunnel is gone and my eyes are desperately trying to focus on a different world. I’m blind and dizzy and completely disoriented.
“Simon!” a female screeches. The voice is extremely familiar, but I can’t place it. “What in the hell is going on? How long have you been here? What did you do to your hair? And oh my God, Simon, is that what I think it is? Oh my God, I can smell it. Get up this instant! Your mattress is totally ruined!”
I’m thrashing around like a fish at the end of a line. Everything around me is wet, and I realize I’ve pissed all over myself. And not just once. The world is coming into focus. I can see my mother standing over my bed, holding my disk in her hand. Her hair is a mess and she’s still in her robe. I catch a glimpse of Louis, our gardener, outside the bedroom door. We lock eyes for a moment before he hurries away.
“What are you doing in here?” I demand. “I thought you were in London.” My throat is so dry I can barely speak. But I manage to snatch my disk from her hand.
“We got back last night! Then I wake up to a text that says you’re in your room and you’re going to die unless I take some device off the back of your head. And I came to your room and couldn’t get in, so I had Louis force the door open. What the hell is that thing you were wearing, Simon?”
“You got a text?” I ask. “From who? Who sent it?” It’s proof that someone IRL is controlling the Clay Man. Whoever it is knows about the disk, obviously. Is it the same person who sent it to me? Does that mean the Clay Man is Martin? Marlow? Or maybe even Todd?
“I don’t know who sent it!” she exclaims, shoving her phone at me. I take it and look down at the text. It says exactly what she told me it said. I don’t recognize the phone number.
“Get out of my room,” I tell her.
“Not until you tell me what’s going on, Simon! Are you on drugs? Do I need to call an ambulance?”
“Get out now,” I repeat, more loudly. I pull myself off the bed. My legs are unsteady and I stumble toward her.
“I’m waking your father up,” she says, rushing out of the room, leaving her phone in my hand.
The last thing I need is a visit from my father and his favorite nine iron. I grab a duffel bag from my closet and stuff it with some clothes, my mom’s phone, two auxiliary batteries and my gear from the Company. I throw on a T-shirt, but there’s no time to change the jeans I’ve got on. I’m still wet, smelly and weak when I drop out of my window and onto the lawn.
—
My father always told me I’d never amount to anything in life if I didn’t stop acting impulsively and start thinking things through. It sucks to admit it, but even complete assholes are right sometimes. I should have had a plan before I hopped out of the window. I have no money, no credit cards. According to my mom’s phone, it’s just after seven a.m. on Saturday morning. Nothing in Brockenhurst is going to be open. My head looks like it was shaved with a blunt machete and my jeans have been marinating in piss for the past two days. I pause on a neighbor’s lawn to guzzle down water from a garden hose. I’m so hungry that I briefly consider breaking into the house to scavenge for food. But I can’t run the risk of getting arrested right now. I have to get back to Otherworld as quickly as possible.
The house’s garage door comes to life and begins to rise. I scuttle behind a bush and watch a Mercedes pull out into the drive. Inside it is a middle-aged couple wearing matching pink polo shirts and gingham sun visors. I suddenly know exactly where I need to go.
—
When I show up at the Brockenhurst Country Club, the front desk attendant appears visibly confused to see me coming up the stairs. I don’t have my wallet with me, but it’s not like I’ll need ID. The kishka works better than any plastic card could. The closer I come, the more difficulty the attendant seems to have closing his mouth. His eyes keep traveling from my haircut to my sopping-wet crotch.
“Morning!” I say, employing my special smile.
His nostrils twitch ever so slightly when my stench hits his nose. “Good morning, Mr. Eaton.”
“When’s my dad’s tee time?” I ask him. My father plays golf at the club every weekend.
“Ten o’clock, sir,” the attendant informs me.
I’ll ne
ed to be long gone by then. “Excellent,” I say. “He asked me to let you know he’d like to buy everyone on the course a cocktail when he hits the ninth hole.”
“Very well, sir,” says the attendant. “And what about you? Is there anything I can help you with today?”
“You can get me a table in the restaurant for breakfast,” I say. “But I gotta wash all this urine off before I sit down to eat. It’s a terrible problem, you know. But what can I do? The condition runs in the family. The old man pisses himself about three times a day.” The attendant’s jaw drops and I give him a wink. “What do you say we keep that entre nous, sport?”
“Of course, sir,” he says. But I can see he’s already feeling for the phone in his pocket.
—
When I reach the locker room, my clothes come off and go straight into the trash. The shower feels like a gift from God. I’d stay in forever if the bacon in the restaurant weren’t calling my name. Out of the shower, I use clippers to even up my new hairdo. Without hair on my head the kishka looks twice as big. I lean over the counter to examine it. When I stand back up, there’s another set of eyes staring back at me in the mirror.
The first thing I notice is that the guy’s wearing pink shorts, which immediately brands him as a total douchebag. The second thing I notice are the bandages on his hands.
“Marlow,” I say. When I turn around, I expect him to bolt. I can tell he’d like to, but he doesn’t. “Looks like somebody got a makeover.”
He cleans up nicely, my little buddy Marlow. All that scraggly hair is gone—along with the black jeans and hoodie. His clothes finally fit that pretty J.Crew face. A face that, as I watch, is gradually losing all its color. It occurs to me that I’ve never seen him at the country club before. Now that I do, I can tell Busara was right. He is a rich kid. This is obviously his natural element.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
I can’t figure out if it’s an admission of guilt or an expression of sympathy. I’ll probably beat the crap out of him either way. “Oh, yeah?” I snarl, and step toward him. “Why don’t we find out how sorry you really are?”