Virtually Dead

Chapter Thirty-Six

It was dark when he landed on the stretch of beach opposite The Blackhouse. The empty sandy wastes all around shimmered silver under the moonlight, and the big, square block of The Blackhouse itself stood out against a starry sky. Even from here he could see that there were lights inside, the flickering flames of dozens of torches lining the interior walls throwing dancing shadows out of huge windows into the night.

Chas waded through the water channel that separated him from the neighbouring parcel and approached the huge metal doors of The Blackhouse with caution. The red eyes of the carved devil heads glowed in the dark and seemed to be fixed upon him as he got nearer.

Just inside, the same pool of blood lay shimmering on the floor, shockingly vivid in the flitting half light of the torches, the same bloody claw marks leading off into darkness. He hesitated here. The last time he had come, they had watched him from the inside. Some concealed camera, perhaps. The devil eyes that held him in their gaze, transmitting his image to the hidden eyes within.

He knew that those eyes would be watching him now, aware of his approach. There was still time for him to TP away. Still time to log out of SL and go to the police, tell them what he knew, place himself at the mercy of the California justice system, and ask for police protection from the mob. But somehow the thought failed to inspire him with confidence. He needed to face Angel down, to force a confrontation himself. To get to the truth and survive to tell it.

He turned up the volume on his laptop, anxious to hear the least sound that might betray another presence, and advanced into the corridor that led around the side of the building to the main arena. It got darker here. And up ahead, where the passage curved away out of sight, he could see only the faintest of feeble flickering. But as he moved forward, the air became filled with the crackling of flames, which got louder as he passed successive torches, and he was guided by their light, finally, to the vast floorspace of the main hall, which opened up before him. He saw the stage on the far side, where he had sat for his group session. Moonlight fell in through all the windows and lay in silver slabs across the floor. The blood spill in the centre of the arena glimmered in the dead light of the moon, vapour rising from it like smoke. And there, with the mist swirling around her feet, blood on the floor reflecting on her pale witch’s face, stood Angel, multiple shadows cavorting about her like demented ghosts. She held her oxblood book of spells in the crook of her arm, as before, and wore the same long, purple gown, its plunging neckline divided by her opal pendant. She wore a curious half-smile on her face, red lips almost black in this strange light, and her eyes burned in the glow of the torches.

Angel: Hello, Chas. I’m so glad you could make it.

Chas: What is it you wanted to speak about, Angel?

Angel: Well, I didn’t want to talk in open chat, or even in IM. Nothing much seems very secure in SL these days. Too many people writing spy software, creating gadgets to follow an AV and record his conversation. Too many ways of being observed without knowing it. And most of the poor souls who inhabit this wonderful virtual world of ours haven’t the least idea of what is really going on. They’re all too busy shopping or having sex. And what a waste of an extraordinary technology that is.

She took several steps toward him, and he felt himself flinch, almost involuntarily.

Angel: I wanted this communication to take place between just you and me, Chas. I didn’t want any chance of it being overheard. So I’ve prepared a notecard.

The offer of a notecard from Angel Catchpole appeared. He accepted it, and the notecard opened up. He looked at it for several seconds in some consternation. It was entitled A Sorry Tale and was completely blank.

Chas: I don’t understand.

Angel: What’s not to understand, Chas? Read it.

Chas: It’s blank, Angel.

Angel: Nonsense. I’m looking at a copy of it right here.

A beep on his radar alerted Chas to another presence. He saw the name Dark Daley appear on his list.

Dark: I’m afraid he’s right, Angel.

They both turned to see Dark descending the stairs from the upper level. He was, as before, bare-chested, his nipple ring glinting in the reflected moonlight. He wore black jeans and studded biker boots. His shock of brown hair seemed darker than Chas remembered it, shot through now with silver.

Angel: What are you doing here, Dark? You don’t have an appointment.

Dark: I didn’t think I’d need an appointment, Doctor Catchpole. I thought you might be interested, finally, to hear about my deepest, darkest fantasies. That’s why I erased your little notecard. I can’t let you go sharing too much with strangers.

Angel: What are you talking about, Dark? How could you do that?

Dark: It’s easy when you know how, my little Angel. Easy, too, to kill when you get a taste for it. A simple transition from fantasy to reality. The act played out in the imagination to the act carried out in fact.

Chas was caught off-guard by the speed with which the Super Gun appeared in Dark’s hand, his arm extended straight ahead of him, his head tipped slightly to one side, one eye closed to line up his target — Chas.

Dark: Just like this.

He swivelled through ninety degrees and fired three times. Each shot blew a ragged hole in Angel’s AV. Chas felt something strike him, and his own AV staggered back. He glanced down to see blood and fragments of AV flesh on his shirt and pants.

Angel stood for a moment in what seemed like shocked disbelief. Most of her chest and stomach were gone. And then she simply folded up, almost dissolving in a bloody pile on the floor, her book of spells still clutched in the crook of her arm.

An IM flashed up in Chas’ dialogue box.

Chas awoke, startled, from his shock.

Dark turned toward Chas, his mouth stretched open in grotesque facsimile of a smile.

Dark: Never could stand the bitch. Too fucking smug by half. And you, my friend, know way too much for your own good. Or mine.

A million thought fragments searched for a glimmer of light in the dark recesses of Chas’ mind before one of them sent a blinding reflection arrowing back through his consciousness. The white cherub clutched in Janey’s hand. Not Angel or Angela, but Angeloz. Luis LA Angeloz. The skinny half of Laurel and Hardy. Hadn’t they seen his AV in Second Life? Phat Botha. Wasn’t it possible he had a second account? An alt. Chas looked at Dark afresh, and the gun pointing straight at him. “Stanley?”

For a moment it seemed as if Dark had frozen. “What?”

And in that moment, Chas double-clicked the first LM his cursor landed on in his Inventory, and he teleported out of the Blackhouse before Dark could pull the trigger.

As the grim brick and brownstone buildings rezzed around him, Chas realised he was back where most of his SL adventure had begun. In Crack Town, Carnal City, where Doobie had trapped and killed the griefer, Tommy Tattoo. He knew that Dark could only be a matter of seconds behind him. He clicked into Run mode and started running down the street. Past Dura’s Play Lounge and Carnal Street Urban Building supplies, and Urban Grims offensive textures.

On the corner, a police car was pulled up on the sidewalk, and an officer was handcuffing a young thug against the wall. A scrawl of graffiti read Fight apathy — or don’t. He heard the report of gunfire echoing along the street as the brick wall ahead of him splintered under the impact of a bullet. He glanced back. Dark was pursuing him at a run. He knew, from his brief experience how hard it was to hit a moving target. The secret would be to keep moving.

He passed a prostitute touting for business.

Becka Cale: Five hundred for an hour, Chas. What do you say?

But he didn’t stop, even to turn her down.

He ran past the Bad Art store and turned left at the end of the street as another shot rang out. A butcher with a bloody white smock stood outside his store, a meat cleaver in his hand. He was holding up a string of sausages and grinning, as if he thought Chas might be interested in buying. Ahead, a single-decked bus was burning at the side of the road, and beyond it mist swirled around the headstones in the Carnal City cemetery.

Chas veered away from the cemetery gates and found himself in what seemed to be a dead-end yard. He panicked, aware that Dark was only just behind him. Then he spotted a narrow, concealed exit that led out between tall buildings, and he ran through it and into a maze of passages that zigzagged between meshed off courtyards. The walls were very nearly obliterated by graffiti. He passed Strangled and Strangle animations. Ahead was Le Baron 24-hour store, selling “kinky accessories and more”.

Chas turned right, still afraid to look back. And suddenly the landscape seemed familiar. He ran straight up the street and turned left on to a bridge spanning a river of chemical green sludge. This was where Doobie had finally caught up with Tommy Tattoo. At the end of the street stood the Carnal City Police Department.

In a momentary but absolute failure of logic, Chas thought that he might find safety there. He glanced behind him to see Dark turning the corner, and when he turned back, found himself confronted by two bizarrely deformed AVs. Badwolf Lilliehook was a punk, with his right leg impossibly stretched and extended well above his head, his right arm growing out of his thigh. Ariel Kyle was a white-faced demon with a long, thin neck and both legs doubled over above her head. They looked like they had been pulled through a machine and mangled beyond any recognisable human shape.

Badwolf: Hi, Chas.

He sounded friendly enough. Chas stopped dead. Uncertain whether they posed any threat or not.

Chas: Hi. I guess you guys are into the deformed look.

Ariel: This is how we get off. Normal toon sex iz boring.

Almost before her words had registered onscreen she exploded, like a watermelon dropped from a great height. Blood spattered everywhere as the shot from the Super Gun echoed around the street.

Badwolf: Jesus Christ!

Chas took off again, running to the end of the street, straight for the precinct office of the Carnal City police.

A hooker in a short black skirt and thigh-length red boots called to him at the door as it slid open and he ran inside. But he didn’t stop to read her text.

There was no one behind the desk. He ran past a wall of wanted posters and a map of Carnal city and turned through open steel doors into the cell area. Several role-playing prisoners lounged behind bars, drinking from beer cans. They looked up as he came in. Chas was panicking now. He was painting himself into a corner with no way out.

He ran down the hall and through the only door at the end of it, finding himself in a small, square interview room with scarred green walls. There was a plain black table with two chairs at either side of it. A blackboard on the wall was scrawled over in yellow chalk. Witness. Photos. F/prints. Fluids. Weapons. The door slammed shut behind him. He was trapped. He cursed himself. There was no way out.

An IM chinged into his dialogue box.

He opened up his Inventory and clicked on the Landmark folder, then tried to turn at the sound of the door opening. The movement of his arrow key shut down his Inventory, and there was no time to open it again before he saw Dark standing in the doorway, the Super Gun pointing straight at him. It was all a question, he knew, of whether he could find the Quit key, before Dark clicked his mouse and fired the shot.

But there was no competition. Dark fired. Once. Twice. Three times. Chas felt the impact of the bullets. His AV reacted, thrown backwards as each one struck him, until the third propelled him against the wall. There was, of course, no pain. Just a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, as his screen turned first red, then black, and his SL software crashed.