The Resurrection Pact (Winston Casey Chronicles Book 1)

by Jay Smith

  If you build an entire medieval village inside a football stadium six stories high and a full-size castle at one side rising three times as high – you are a rich, eccentric bastard and I love you.

  It bent my brain until I found a clear sense of scale in people walking a cobblestone path about fifty feet down from my overlook and another pair of dots jogging near the outer wall of the distant castle. Amanda kept talking about how the place took a "Disney level" of design and engineering and how there was a "network of tunnels beneath the ground to facilitate quiet maintenance and care of the facility" and all I kept thinking was "This is effing awesome!"

  The walkway around the outer wall was built into a mountainside rising to a massive skylight. When it rained outside, the gantries crossing the sky would also bring rain to the village below. The run off filled the stream running down the center to a large wading pool at the end opposite the castle. The castle itself rose beyond the roof and loomed over the entire field. I imagined the sun slowly crossing over the roof, extending a shadow of the castle's high tower over the village and surrounding forests to the wading pool harbor.

  If I closed my eyes, I would swear to being outside. The wind shifted and the air took me back to fall in the woods, the smell of the fallen leaves and even the slightest scent of wood smoke. In the distance, laughter and lapping of water on the harbor front. The sound of distant birds crossing the sky – even if I couldn't see any. The interior of this facility might have been scooped up out of central Europe in the 1300s. In its way, it was pure Vegas – an illusion so immersive you forget the real world.

  Another five minutes passed before Huan returned.

  "Thoughts? Questions?"

  "It's really cool. The attention to detail is astounding."

  "Yes. I don't know the numbers, but we imported tons of dirt and trees from the areas that inspired Alan's words. The village houses are the same type of wood as the trees. The stones are hand carved. The castle is a masterpiece or art and engineering. The interior is state-of-the-art steel and glass, but the exterior is real Caen limestone from a private quarry in Normandy, France. The tower at the top is a restaurant – the highest in Vegas."

  "People don't actually live here in those houses, do they?"

  "Some do, actually. That castle is part hotel, part condominium. The Lords and Ladies are there with a great view of the kingdom."

  "You live here, too?"

  "Of course."

  Of course. "Can't wait to see it up close."

  "I'm very sorry, but I am needed elsewhere so we must suspend this delightful tour for now. I'll assign you a guide to continue your orientation later. Will you return with me to the offices, please?

  I left the observation area a little dazed and confused by the insane amount of sensory input.

  On the way, she spoke to the air in front of her, forcing me to keep up so I could hear: "You'll be happy to know that I ran your situation past our legal team and they see no reason to delay or contest your right to Lord Parque's estate."

  "His…estate?"

  She rolled her eyes. "You try my patience, Mr. Casey. I have more papers for you to look over and sign."

  I followed her back into the offices of the Peppermint Casino. This time we stopped in her office; a plush and expensive affair of black iron and reclaimed antique wood. Every piece of furniture looked like it was made from some kind of torture device. Every chair but Huan's was designed to be uncomfortable. A nearby black rubber couch seemed to be the only other exception. The art on her redwood paneled walls could be best described as framed blood splatters. None of the black hardcovers on her bookshelf had titles. There were no family pictures or hints to her real life. The desk was clean and flat as an exam table.

  The silent lawyers handed her a stack of papers and leaned close to whisper secrets in her ear.

  ~

  As I try to describe Ni Huan, I struggle with finding one thing about her that defines her beyond her stubborn refusal to be defined. She had as many faces as the number of people she knew. If you got too close to what lurked under the wig, make-up and the corsetry, she would change just enough to keep you wondering which was real or her fascinating yet confounding character.

  She went by her "game name" because of what she called "nerd pervs". She was a popular face of Aeternus Online and its half-a million active subscribers. She was my first "contact request" online, which was weird because my Magic Book chimed while Huan was still in a huddle with the creepy dudes in suits.

  The system was easy to navigate and my message center offered a look at Huan's online avatar. It looked much like the woman I had just met standing on a dressing disk displaying her full body, posing at rest. She represented a colorful and domineering personality in a dress as complicated and regal as it was sexy. The message indicated she was the spokesperson for Lord Bunting-upon-Stropf, billed as Lord of The Realm. She was also listed as "collared" to him, in small print at the bottom of the page in a section marked "mature content."

  Huan pulled my attention from her online profile to her real self by handing me a folder of documents. "No doubt you'll want your lawyer to look at these. It contains the assets in-world and out that belonged to Grant Parker including a body of game inventory that we cannot itemize because of encryption or other security measures. They are not part of the overall valuation, but appears as 'mass inventory' on the spreadsheet."

  The suits were gone.

  She saw my expression and replied, "That means nothing to you right now. You've been offered a meager allowance pending the final agreement, so I suggest you take some time and read all the big words you can understand. Have a nice steak lunch, see a show, whatever it is a man like you does, then call my number at the bottom of page four to conclude our enchanting discussions."

  I had scanned the Abstract and Summary pages and looked at a number at the bottom of the last page that could not possibly be correct or, if so, could not be any kind of "inheritance."

  "Is this..? That can't…"

  "You'll also be pleased to know we've upgraded you to one of our executive suites. We've made arrangements to move your belongings from the shithole you're staying. With your permission, of course."

  "Uh…sure?"

  Something clacked onto the desktop. It was a resort voucher card.

  "The resort has extended you $5,000 in per diem credit. Get some clothes, some groceries and maybe a real haircut."

  "Five-thousand…?" I picked up the card and considered my options.

  "Yes. I've effectively blown your mind. You'll get a text when your rooms are ready. Good day, Mr. Casey. Enjoy your fortune while it lasts."

  Chapter Nine

  I took another walk to figure out what just happened. Beyond the naval battle and the live magic show employing chainsaws on a high wire, I passed through a gauntlet of costumed characters holding court on the street and taking photos with the tourists. They didn't seem to be working as a unit and most of the costumes were slightly discolored or worn, incomplete or thrown together. As a doughy Spongebob Squarepants tucked a tourist's bills into his mouth I understood them to be street performers. The women on the strip – three Wonder Women, several Catwomen and Black Widows, and Disney princesses – strolled around in off-the-rack "sexy" Halloween costumes with wigs attracting all kinds of male attention. The male characters took more liberties with their costumes. The Hulk, for example, ran out of green paint half way down his legs and wore green sunglasses with blinking yellow lights for eyes. The kids loved the experience as they dueled with Sith Lords and struck heroic poses with the countless Batmen lurking around a desert garden park. I high-fived Dracula and accepted a hug from Winnie the Pooh before I turned the corner smiling big and almost forgetting why I went that way.

  My phone buzzed. An unknown caller texted:

  MEET 4 LUNCH? EXCELSIOR! 30 MIN?

  I texted back:MEET WHOM?

  Seconds later, the reply:GAME ON, WINSTON!

  Me:MEET WHERE?<
br />
  Again, the reply appears seconds later:EXCELSIOR!

  ~

  Excelsior! turned out to be a theme restaurant across the street from the crowd of street performers. The digital shingle hung over the door flashing between comic starburst patterns and the windows displayed various super hero images and symbols with such speed and ferocity that Alexander the Large might confuse it for a de-sensitization program.

  Inside, the place felt just slightly more legit than the panhandling heroes across the street. Clearly a TG Fudbusters abandoned this location at some point allowing a start-up theme company to come in, create a menu, and create a super hero themed dining experience that was still a work in progress. The place was busy with tourists enjoying the many props and costumes on display around the restaurant. The center of attraction was a mannequin display featuring Chris Reeves' costume from Superman 3, an Adam West-era Batman unitard, and Wonder Woman's bodice and hot pants (minus the belt and tiara for some reason).

  I looked around for someone I recognized and suspected my guest would find me. Doctor Strange at the host podium informed me no one was looking for me by name and seated me in a section dedicated to The Avengers while I waited for my party.

  And I waited.

  It would have made sense to staff the Avengers section with Avengers, but I guess they were short-staffed because a very friendly Black Canary – very much a DC Comics heroine – asked for my drink order. She was the far end of fifty holding on to a tone, tanned frame and could tell me everything about each version of her heroine because, as she said, "That's my job, honey."

  And I waited.

  Through a drink order and an appetizer. I checked my phone every few minutes but of course saw nothing. Every time someone entered my section they caught my disturbing gaze. But over almost an hour passed before I gave up and ordered.

  Working out my next steps over dry chicken and watery rice at The Excelsior! Bar and Grill it occurred to me how much I missed Parker. He would have loved a comic book themed restaurant. I sat at a booth under a bright red shadow box containing stunt man Dale Van Sickel's star-spangled jersey worn in the 1944 Captain America serials. The blue was deep navy and the red a medium gray, another example of Hollywood trickery.

  Parker would have loved it. For a moment, I put Parker across from me in the booth next to Nadeim so I could ask them all the questions, see them interact, and get to know them a little better. That made me smile until Claire intruded on the fantasy complaining about the chicken and server's insistence on calling us "honey".

  A slightly pudgy Deadpool cleared my empty plate and a highly-detailed Silver Age Black Canary asked if I wanted to see a dessert menu and apologized for my being stood up. I declined, thanked her, and paid the check, informing Lois Lane at the register that I enjoyed my experience among the relics and tchotchkes of comicdom.

  I wondered if she had an opinion about the display over her shoulder framing a photo of George Reeves next to a pair of bullet casings from the gun he used to kill himself.

  ~

  Another "first" I enjoyed in Vegas was having a gun pointed at me by a woman in a motorcycle helmet topped by tall cat ears.

  I had decided to go back to my hotel, maybe play some slots or fuck around some more. The traffic pattern looped me around and back in front of Excelsior! before getting me stuck in traffic. There were more tourists touring and even more costumed performers. I didn't notice the one at my passenger window until she tapped on the door with the barrel of her gun.

  It didn't frighten me. I remember thinking of the helmet "that can't be practical, just for wind resistance." The black leather catsuit fit her curves making it the second thing I paid attention to, assuming the gun was just a way to get my attention so she could hand me a flier for some new indy comic or an album launch, maybe a gentleman's club like the hundreds of other shills along the strip.

  I rolled down my window and she pointed the Glock at me. I made note that it wasn't "peace bonded" with a regulation red barrel striping that most cities require for public performers, especially those in masks and cat-themed motorcycle helmets. "That's a rough tactic, isn't it? I mean with gun violence in this country you might run into someone with a real…"

  She reached inside the car, unlocked the door and opened it, all while keeping the barrel of the pistol pointed at me. An instant later, there was an armed woman in a black leather suit and an oversized yellow motorcycle helmet shaped like a cat's head sitting next to me in my rental. She dropped her small backpack at her feet.

  She smelled like a fire at a discount tobacconist shop. Up close and personal, I understood the pistol was real and, more importantly, in a very shaky shooting hand.

  She opened the visor on the helmet

  "Drive," Carla growled.

  "Where am I driving?"

  "North. Take the freeway. Follow the signs. Go." She seemed nervous even with the visor back down, looking up and around for birds of prey that might dive at the car. I realized she was looking for cameras. There were enough out but they were pointed at Superman facing off against a tough-looking eight-year-old in a Spider-Man t-shirt or taking ass shots of a female bodybuilder in runny green paint and a purple leotard.

  "Seriously? A gun?"

  She put the gun in a small pocket in the front of her bag. "Better?" She mumbled through the helmet like I was a little coward for fearing Death's remote control pointed at me.

  "Yes. The fuck you doing pointing shit at me?"

  She unclasped the hooks and latches holding the helmet on her head. "Did you cash in the chip? Is that why they were showing you around in there?"

  "Is that why you're stalking me dressed like … whatever the hell that is?"

  She said the name of the character but I didn't catch it. I didn't even reach.

  She continued, "I wasn't stalking you. You were stalking me! I was working."

  "Excelsior!?" It was right up the street.

  "Since I got kicked out of Aeternus, I've been taking jobs where I can get them."

  A crossplayer in a fantastic 80s version of X-Men's Storm knocked on the passenger window and waved at Carla. "Hey girl!"

  "Fucking DRIVE," she ordered.

  I followed orders and headed for the Vegas Freeway northbound. Congestion on The Strip made it a slow go, but Carla didn't seem to mind so long as she was away from the Peppermint.

  "How much did you get from the chip?"

  Not that it mattered, but I indulged her with some lies. "Five grand and a free rental."

  She pulled off the helmet and flashed me a look of abject terror. "Five THOUSAND?! Are you effing insane? Are you screwing with me right now?"

  "It's a voucher for play or whatever I want around the hotel. Why? Is that bad?"

  If she looked through the gift basket in the back seat – the one clearly marked "WELCOME TO AETERNUS!" – she would have discovered about five grand in electronics, books, and gift cards.

  "Fucking hell. You are such an idiot. I always thought you were useless without Parker thinking for you but this…jesus please us." She rolled her eyes and groaned like a dog with chocolate in its belly. "Do you have ANY idea how much that chip was worth? ANY? Oh my god, Winston!"

  "I know. I'm fucking terrible," I said.

  The strip was gridlocked while construction equipment moved through the intersection ahead. I realized I had no idea where my hotel was or how to get there and suddenly felt cut off from anything that made sense with an armed crazy person deprived of fortune. Grant Parker, as a man or spirit, appeared to have abandoned me for the day. "That fucker should be here. This was a two-man operation."

  "Then why would he put the casino chip in a safety deposit box for you to find? Winston…" Her tone shifted to that of a big sister schooling her little brother on the facts of life. "He never planned to come along."

  "How did you know I'd be at the bank when I was? Did Parker send you?"

  "I got a call from a message service telling me you were on
your way to Vegas. I figured you would go right for the box. Parker made sure I knew you would be there."

  A chorus of car horns inspired me to keep up with traffic now heading through the intersection. I looked for the freeway signs and spotted I-15 and the LV Freeway ahead on the right.

  Carla muttered. "Parker owed me that chip for what he put me through."

  "Look, I don't know if this is because Park isn't here to direct his little adventure, but I'm just not up for playing right now." I edged the car into a line of impatient assholes competing for a spot off the strip and caught Carla's disgusted look.

  "What are you talking about, Winston?"

  "Whatever this is, I've got too much shit going on – my marriage is ending, I made a stupid choice to come out here and I'll probably lose my job over it. I don't want to play this game anymore."

  "This is my life we're talking about. You flushed it. If you lose your job over five grand, then you deserve it." She unzipped the top of her catsuit part way just as I checked the passenger side mirror. The sight of her tanned cleavage dotted with sweat almost put me into the side of an airport shuttle. It swerved, apparently more afraid of an impact than I, letting me merge into the lane.

  Carla said, "God I wish I had a cigarette."

  I wanted to suggest she smoke her stinking catsuit. "Who else is playing? Huan? She is a great villain."

  "She's a monster. They all are. Parker got me into Aeternus, he put me to work and then I wound up in sick little movies and dancing for fat computer nerds and gamer creeps. When I told them I wouldn't do anymore of the hard stuff, they kicked me out. I'm blacklisted. I'm broke. I am in debt up to my…" She exhaled hard like none of it mattered and slapped her hand down on a thigh. "Parker called me a few weeks before he died and said you were coming out to collect his legacy chip and that you and I should split the take. So, I guess you owe me twenty-five hundred."

  We took the next exit. Even if Carla she wanted to kill me, there were hundreds of people around us in colorful, wheeled boxes and her outfit wouldn't help distract people from us.