Virtually Dead

Chapter One

This was Hell. Tombstones canted at odd angles. A Celtic cross with a skull at its centre. A huge, moss-covered tomb with an evolving message. Evil lies ahead. You might die.

Max could hear distant screams. A veil of cobwebs barred his way, a giant spider lurking in the shadows waiting to pounce. A pervasive, ambient sound filled this world, a sound which eventually penetrated the soul, so that if ever it were to be muted the sense of silence would be almost overpowering.

He wasn’t quite sure why he was afraid, after all what could harm him here? But there had been something in the cryptic IM that spooked him. Knowledge of the account that no one should have had. And the attached Landmark to a rendezvous at the Devil’s Labyrinth did not bode well.

Now that he was here, he found himself gripped by a strange, inexplicable sense of apprehension — in the dark, with the sound of water dripping close by, and those voices crying in the far distance. Chilling.

Ancient stone was barely visible in the gloom. A family portrait on the castle wall morphed from a face to a skull. He bumped into the wall in front of him, and a message appeared on his screen. Evil wall says touch me. Max touched it, and in an instant was transported to a room where walls and ceiling were stone carved into skulls. In the centre of the room a real skull lay on the floor. It implored him, Touch me to return. He did as he was bid, and instantly found himself looking down into a river of molten lava. Or was it blood? It was hard to tell. Apart from its dark, red glow, the only light came from a series of flaming torches raised at intervals along the wall. Behind him stood an ancient, arched wooden door. He clicked on it. It dropped like a drawbridge, and he went through the arch into a dark square in which jagged stone pillars pierced the ink black of the starry sky overhead.

He heard a scraping sound and turned to see a shadow moving between gothic arches. He caught the merest glimpse of a pale face. He looked for a tag above it, so that he might identify his stalker. But there was none. And he began to feel more than uncomfortable. He set to Run, and turned and hurried back the way he had come. The sound of footsteps followed in his wake, but he didn’t turn around. A parapet ran above the path of the red river below, and he followed it. Foreboding had now been replaced by fear. Inexplicably, he felt threatened, and knew he should not have come. He stopped and glanced back. There was no one there. And he felt an immediate sense of relief. This was crazy. It was time to leave.

He opened his Inventory, selected The Island in his Landmark folder, double-clicked and was teleported home.

His island rezzed around him. Palm trees swayed gently in the warm breeze, the air filled with the sound of tropical seas washing up on silver sand. Seagulls wheeled overhead and, on the rocky outcrop five hundred yards offshore, seals basked and barked in the midday sunshine. He had moved from one time zone to another, and derived comfort and a sense of security from the daylight and familiarity.

Max loved this island that he had painstakingly created over the last couple of weeks. He loved the sweep of the steeply pitched roof of his Asian house, the red-sailed yachts berthed at the decks and landing stages he had built around his little piece of tropical paradise. Pink and blue balls stood together in couplets, scattered throughout the garden, poseballs for dance animations that he had placed so carefully, even though he had no idea with whom he might dance. He felt utterly at home here. Safe.

He clicked on the door to his house and passed from the terrace to its interior. Large windows on either side looked out on sea views. He had yet to furnish it, and he was looking forward to that with an unexpected relish. He had not anticipated that he would enjoy this world quite so much. It had an addictive quality that had taken him by surprise.

Max was portly, bald, with a small, greying goatee. It was not a look most people would have cultivated for this alternative existence. But Max had wanted to look like himself. A certain vanity, a sense of his own individuality.

A sprinkle of sparkling light around his door told him that someone outside was trying to get in. Someone not on the pass list. And he froze, his brief sense of comfort evaporating like early morning mist to be replaced once more by the foreboding that had stalked him in Hell. He called out.

Maximillian: Who’s there?

There was no response, even although he could almost feel the presence on the other side of the door. He was secure inside. Without a Landmark the intruder could not enter.

Then, to his astonishment, he saw a blue poseball rez in the middle of the floor. He heard a sound like a rattlesnake, and then a figure appeared, latched on to the poseball in a strange squatting position, before standing up and turning toward him. For a moment his heart stopped, and then recognition brought an animated smile to his face, and relief surged through him.

Maximillian: Oh, it’s you. How on earth did you get in?

But his visitor did not reply, simply standing staring at him, arms folded, an animated sway that seemed almost hypnotic. And then, in a single, swift movement one of those folded arms became extended, a gun held pointed at Max’s chest.

And suddenly Max knew that this was no game. That he was in danger, that somehow there was real harm in this. He panicked and tried to teleport out. But instead, he hit the Fly button and began flying around the interior of his house, crashing against the walls and the roof. Bump, bump sound-effects thundered from his speakers. The gun followed him. He knew his assailant was now in Mouselook, targeting him. He tried to find a Landmark that would get him out of here, but he wasn’t thinking straight and seemed to have lost all control, like some damned newbie. He brought up a teleport window, but missed it and double-clicked on the floor, somehow bringing up the Edit window. The house started heaving and lifting all round him. The floor canted at an odd angle. A wall detached itself from the roof and swung outwards. Whole sections of the building buckled and twisted, before finally he hit the Stop Flying button and crashed to the ground, sliding down the angle of the floor. He turned around and found the gun still pointed at him.

He heard the sharp report of it firing. Once. Twice. Three times. He saw gaping holes appear in his body. Blood. So much blood. Where in God’s name was it coming from? How was it possible?

He looked up and saw his attacker, gun holstered, watching him. An animated smile, like a grimace, stretched lips across white, even teeth.

And his screen went black.