Beach House

Parks stared in amazement.

It was larger, but in some ways the strange little beach house resembled a tool shed: four flat walls, a simple slant roof, no rain gutters—a very simple shape and design. There were also ways in which it didn’t resemble a tool shed. Those were most interesting.

Lined side-by-side, vertical wood slats comprised the front wall. All were in various colors, shades, and hues. He tried to fix a stare directly on the building façade, but the discord of color produced an optical illusion that resulted in making Parks dizzy. It appeared as though the slats of the wall were moving; shifting in and out, they rose and fell in mathematical rhythm. They were multicolor waves, hypnotically undulating in a vertical ocean. It was making Parks sick. To avoid passing out as he tried to look the building over, Parks took sideways glances, and then only for seconds at a time.

Off-center to the left, squeezed in among several tiny windows, a squat, and very narrow door faced the street. Dark purple material covered all the windows, blocking any chance of a peek at the interior from the outside. From the street, the door looked to be about four feet tall and no more than one foot wide. Actually, the house, the windows, the doors could’ve been any size; the strange perspective from the street made it hard to judge accurately.

Several bizarre, elongated symbols—seemingly painted at random—were in several places along the slats. The straight and curvy lines of the symbols combined and intersected with each other; many symbols included dots at various places within and around these lines. The colors, condition and style of each symbol differed from the others, which made it seem likely that numerous people had added them to the wall over time. They weren’t tags, but something about them was similar to graffiti. It was more to do with arrangement, rather than design and shape. The symbols, like a similarity in the characters of a foreign language, had a sense of a connection between them. He could tell they gave a message, or were at least part of a message. There was an odd familiarity to them; he felt he should know what they mean. Despite this gut-instinct, the message meant nothing to him.

Covered in well-worn, dry, shake shingles, the roof of the tiny place looked at risk for the first hint of a spark to burst it into flame. A huge weather vane, the tarnished green-copper figure of an enormous sea bird—a heron—stuck several feet up from the roof. The heron bucked wildly in the wind, lifting several of the roof’s shingles with each strong gust. Heron, shingles, and house managed to stay attached to one another, despite the attempts of the ocean gale to tear them apart.

All the fantastic colors and adornments made the house an amazing sight. In comparison to the yard, it seemed visually mundane. In his life, Parks had seen mostly normal yards: grass—long, short or dead—trees, flowerbeds, and maybe some shrubs. The landscaping—if that was the word—would not be found in a normal, or even a normal-freaky yard.

This was the first time he’d ever seen a miniature Japanese maple tree surrounded at the base by fifty or more black and purple dahlias. A thick ring of various-sized, smooth-polished, turquoise stones encircled the tree and flowers. Then, an even thicker ring of polished black stones surrounded the turquoise. White stones, arranged within the black stones, formed symbols similar to the indecipherable ones painted on the house.

Suspended from the numerous branches of a ghost-creepy, white tree—hundreds of cooking pots and pans hung from macramé nets. The tree reminded Parks of the kind in a fantasy movie; something that would reach out and grab at people as they passed. Each piece of the cookware in the tree was home to several unique flowering vines. Bold, mixed colors cascaded—almost poured—from the pots, into a shimmering pool of crystal-clear beads on the ground.

Not a blade of grass was visible anywhere in the yard. Instead, thousands of plants growing from hundreds of planters took up almost every square inch of available space in the under-sized yard. Planters were stacked on top of each other, others packed tightly side by side, and many more hung overhead: from rusted hooks and nails, weathered wood beams, the remaining pole from an old clothesline. Apparently, someone made use of anything capable of supporting twenty-pound hanging bowls of dirt for just that purpose. Flowering plants and vines ruled the yard.

Packed so densely, that any of the plants and flowers should’ve grown successfully didn’t seem possible. The haphazard landscaping made nothing appear well planned, or particularly cared for. But in spite of, or maybe because of the competitive nature in the garden, a very hearty environment had formed. Everything looked amazingly healthy. This vibrant garden overflowed with color and life.

Not just living things filled the area. As if oblivious to the complete lack of available space, every kind of cheesy garden object imaginable somehow squeezed a way in. The number of objects on display was so vast that it seemed to Parks someone would’ve required many life times to collect them all. Moreover, their decayed condition would’ve needed more than an equal number of years to achieve. Ranging from modern objects to the medieval—stone, glass, plastic, ceramic, wood, copper and iron overcrowded the little remaining space not occupied by plants.

A large waterfall, surrounded by golden poppies, presented a disturbing water scene. The water, pouring from a craggy white boulder suspended high in the air, spilled violently into an old wooden trough on the ground. The suspended boulder seemed supported only by its own tower of water, which it simultaneously created and rested upon. At least from the angle he was looking, Parks saw no visible structure to the waterfall other than a floating white boulder, a steady stream of water, and a leaky wooden trough. Disturbing for Parks was that for an instant, if he kept a soft focus out of the corner of his eyes, the white rock appeared to have a face. It was a tired face; droopy eyes stared directly at Parks every time he would sneak a look.

Then, there were the painted garden gnomes. One, with an unsettling grin, rested—lantern in hand—at the foot of an orange-red stone sundial. The lantern aimed into the darkness, casting its light in Parks and Geli’s direction. Parks imagined that if the little gnome was alive, if the grin was real and not painted, the face could equally be showing fear in their approach, or self-satisfaction at having lured them in. The more Parks looked—in the patches of tulips, the shadowed dirt surrounding the heirloom rose bushes, peaking over the tops of crates and buckets—the more of these little clowns of the garden he found. They appeared paused in action, all magically stopped in mid-motion by the arrival of Parks and Geli. It was ridiculous. Parks couldn’t shake the feeling that the little ceramic figures were moving; going about their gnomish chores in extreme slo-mo when he wasn’t looking. But they weren’t moving. They were painted ceramic garden gnomes. It was just another odd feeling that this place gave him. The gnomes were definitely not moving.

Seven handmade windmills spiked from various locations around the yard. They were not real windmills, just very large versions of cheap plastic twirlers; ones every kid knows, and has probably owned at least once in their life. The twelve muslin-covered blades on the windmills all had an identical painted outline of a white rose. The blades spun, stopped, and reversed direction at varying speeds, according to the wind and the windmill’s position in the yard. Oddly, even when the blades were in motion, the outline of a rose stayed; a single white rose that seemed to hover in place at the top, while the blades moved independently in the background. Despite the whimsical nature of the optical illusion, these windmill displays also had disturbing elements to them. A miniature barbed wire fence wrapped the base of each windmill. The gray dirt inside these fences was dry and barren. The windmills twirled over the only spots in the yard where nothing seemed to be capable of living.

If Parks were to describe the place, he would say it looked like a cooking store, garden center, German fairytale and eighteenth century circus had gathered, exploded, and then taken root for a decade or two. When Parks turned to look at Geli, he was surprised to see that her grin was almost at the edge of her face. She seemed to get genuine pleasure from looking at this yard. For the most part, Parks only felt discomfort from looking at the clutter. Clutter was the only description he had for the stuff in this place.

Amanita Muscaria

It wasn’t until they stepped onto the property that Parks noticed any sort of path, or even enough of a break in the mess to provide a way to the house. It’s not that the house was completely blocked; it’s just that there didn’t seem to be an obvious way to approach it from any direction. He couldn’t even find a spot empty enough to walk into the yard—until he just did it.

Parks thinks he’s trampling into the center of a patch of red daisies, but when he looks down, the flowers have mysteriously parted to either side of him. Now that they’re in the yard, Parks notices there are several paths all around. The paths lead directly, and some indirectly, to the small front door of the house.

“Which path do you want to take?” Geli asks.

Her voice seems excited, as though holding expectations of something great to come. Parks, still recovering from the assault on his senses from looking at the place, doesn’t grasp any real sense to her question. He looks again at the paths. None is more than twelve inches from another, and while some might take a few extra seconds to walk, they all end at the door of the house. How to respond to her question—something Geli seems to be expecting—has him stumped.

“This one?” Parks suggestion becomes a question, as he points at a brick path lined by purple and white flowers.

“Oh, really?” Geli’s disappointed. “I took the petunia path just this morning.”

It isn’t clear to Parks if another response is expected, or not. He’d prefer that it not be, because this one aspect of Geli’s personality makes him the least comfortable. No matter which option he ever chooses, his inability (in her mind) to see the obvious merits of the other choice always frustrates her. He can see by her stance that he’ll have to make another selection.

Trying to hide his lack of enthusiasm, Parks points at a cobblestone path. “How about this one?”

“You’re not taking this serious,” she pouts.

“Look,” he says. “You asked me to pick a path—I picked two. Does it really make a difference?”

“I wouldn’t be asking if it didn’t,” Geli says.

“You pick then.”

To Parks’ relief, she agrees. As far as he’s concerned, if it does make a difference—which he can’t see how it will—better not to have a bad choice hanging around his neck for Geli to bring up later. In general, Parks isn’t much of a leader; he prefers others to make choices, which he can then opt to follow or not. He really isn’t even a team type of guy. Except for Geli, he’s mostly preferred to maverick things out on his own. The facts are that Parks doesn’t give a damn which choice she makes, or understand what possible difference it will be. He’s just ready to get this meeting—and the night—over.

“Get ready for a surprise,” Geli says. Then she steps onto a path of reddish wood chips, bordered on either side by clumped groups of red mushrooms with white polka dots. “Amanita muscaria,” she says, pointing to the clumps.

Parks has seen this type of mushroom before, but only in books of fairytales; until tonight, he’s never even thought they were real—maybe they aren’t. As he follows Geli onto the path, stepping in next to her, he isn’t certain anymore that anything is real: the house, the gnomes, the imprisoned windmills, or the dark figure, a person—who Parks notices just at that moment—standing in the shadows on the street.

For a second, his stomach feels queasy. It’s as if an elevator’s suddenly dropped him several hundred feet. The background of city noise, that since leaving the train had constantly surrounded them—is gone. Soft, muffled sounds of a damp forest have replaced the hum of traffic from The Great Highway. The old lady’s house, the neighborhood, everything that had just been there has disappeared from sight. The entire yard is now nothing but dense wood. It’s still dark, but it’s no longer night. Where it can, sunlight pushes through cracks in the branches that create the darkness from high overhead. It’s enough light for Parks to see that the two of them have somehow stepped from the front yard of an assumed lunatic, deep into a forest of giant redwoods. In every direction, as far as he can see, living trees reach far into the sky, rotting trees cover the ground, and tiny foot-high saplings start their own quest toward the heights of the forest ceiling.

He probably wouldn’t have believed her even if she’d said something—about what he should expect—but Parks feels that Geli could have given him a better warning than she did. He’s not even sure what the right words would’ve been, but just telling him to get ready for a surprise—well it wasn’t nearly enough.

Considering the events of the last twenty-four hours, Parks figures that he’s taking the current situation fairly well. A car recently tried to run him down on his skateboard, but he escaped. Then fled from his room at the Slot, seconds before people he didn’t know busted in to kill him. He had to outrun flaming pieces of car missile from an explosion. Finally, he finishes the night by stepping from a residential street in San Francisco into the middle of a dense redwood forest—a forest somehow hidden on the property of an old lady who is supposed to know why someone wants him dead. Considering all this, a break seems reasonable. Parks sits—or rather, drops—onto the trunk of the nearest fallen tree.

Catching his wits up with his breath and elevated heart rate, Parks notices something else; he still hears the ocean. Adjusting for the noise of the forest, he realizes that the sound of the ocean hasn’t changed at all. The ocean is neither nearer nor farther than seconds earlier. To the west, two hundred feet of open road—the Great Highway—and the wide, sandy beach have gone; they’ve transformed into the densely packed forest in which he and Geli are now standing. Parks, Geli, and the ocean haven’t gone anywhere. The rest of the world has left them.

“Isn’t it amazing?” Geli asks.

Fragments

In the turmoil an hour after the explosion, Poppers, angry and barking orders to her own agents, was still battling to bring the local services chiefs—police, fire and rescue—into some sort of manageable control, but no one relinquished authority. It was pointless. But as she could, she answered inquiries, and hoped things might fall into place. Most of all, she wanted to make sure that none of the evidence was gathered by others outside of her own staff. She certainly didn’t want it getting lost in the bowels the city forensics office. The last thing she needed was to have the scene contaminated by local mishandling.

Communication with local authority was always tricky. All she could divulge to them was that the dead were Federal agents and that her office came under the Department of Justice. The specific section of the DoJ it was had to remain classified; that the SFPD captain on the scene didn’t like this answer was tough luck. The captain’s attitude was not that of a smart political beast. His demands for answers were more aggressive and less perceptive than Poppers had ever seen before. He seemed to have no idea how powerless he was in a federal situation such as this. However, she remained diplomatic, feigning concern as she listened to the police captain’s petty issues, and buying the time for her team to clean things up behind his back.

As the passing minutes widened the target’s lead, it seemed to Poppers that the chase would now have escalated to a new level. The torn bits, strewn along the street, of the mutilated men in her command didn’t affect her as much as the dangers she saw for the future. The terrorists were desperate. Both sides were in a race to gain control first. Right now, the law had the numbers and the power; as the terrorists organized, their special capabilities could shift that. Things could quickly move from insurgency to civil war. Poppers was beginning to change her long-held views as well. She was beginning to accept the President’s plan as unavoidable. It would not be enough to kill the threats as they surfaced; the department would actively need to seek them out before the terrorists could.

Advisors to the President had begun to advocate the use of internment camps to separate the Dissimulants from the human population. At first, in part because of her own father’s history with the liberation of the Dachau concentration camp, Poppers had argued against these measures. She believed that if killing off its leaders successfully destroyed the Dissimulant organization, selective rights restrictions could control the bulk of the remaining Dissimulants. Now, Poppers was beginning to see the merits of forced internment. At the least, it was time to bring the nation’s population in on the threat the Dissimulants posed. Of course, until Washington made that decision, she’d continue to skirt the issue with the locals.

Across the way, Agent Ross made eye contact. Poppers stopped nodding her head in false response to the captain’s complaints. She excused herself from the conversation, and went to speak with her agent. The captain looked bothered by the interruption, but overall he was pleased with the impression he felt he’d made on Poppers. Then, turning to rejoin and supervise the investigation of the explosion, he noticed that only his own officers remained on the scene. The federal agents had quietly disappeared.

“We should be able to get a read from the technology of the bomb.” Ross reported to Poppers as they drove back to their headquarters. “It will take some major luck to make an identity though; there were few fragments left at the scene that were large enough for a fingerprint.”

“Let’s find what we can right away,” Poppers said. “I’m positive that explosive didn’t come from here—not now.”

“Are you worried about that captain interfering?” Ross asked.

“Not yet. But we may need to do something about him; nothing drastic, just get him reassigned for awhile.”

“I’ll look into it.” Ross said. “Irish cops, eh?”

“Careful,” Poppers warned. “I’m a quarter Irish.”

Angie

Even though everything about this situation—this place—is like the most bizarre of dreams, there’s no question in Parks’ mind that this is not a dream. Unless he’s crazy, what’s happening to him is real.

He’s now a half-mile into the woods—hiking alone—to meet with the old lady. According to Geli, the old lady insists that Parks come by himself. Geli stays behind. There’s no path this deep into the forest—no real path. Random accessible areas—open spaces free of fallen branches and the other natural debris—offer the only way for Parks to move forward along the forest floor.

The light is weaker here than where he and Geli entered. Parks is barely able to see a hundred feet ahead. The reality of where he is becomes less fantastic, more credible, with each minute. He continues forward—scanning each new patch of ground before stepping onto it. He’s adjusting to things as they are here. None of this seems as strange as it first did. It’s become hard to remember exactly how things were outside of this forest.

Subtle curves to his path make changes in direction practically unnoticeable. For all he can tell, Parks’ current heading is any point on the 360—maybe even returning to the tree trunk where he left Geli. He realizes that in a panic—something like a hurried run—he’d have a hard time finding his way back. This makes the risk of a trap seem even more likely; it’s a possibility to which he’s resigned himself. In his current state of mind, detached from the outside world, the threat doesn’t matter much. If that’s how it turns out, then that’s how it is. Besides being lost and confused, he’s exhausted. It feels as if he’s been in here forever. So, if it is a trap, Parks is just about willing to give in.

A woman appears in the path. She isn’t there earlier—he’s sure of it—but now she’s no more than fifty feet in front of him. It should’ve been a shock for Parks—one second she’s not there; then she is—but he barely considers it at all. To him, her appearance is merely a matter of fact. It’s the old world rules, the world outside this one, that are now harder to accept.

If this is the old lady, she isn’t all that old—definitely not as old as Geli made her sound. Somewhere in her forties—something like that—she’s wearing green work pants, a loose, oversized purple shirt, short black boots, and a floppy straw hat. There’s soil on her clothes, as if she’s just taking a break from gardening.

“Hello Parks,” she says. She has a nice voice—soothing.

“Hello—.” Here he stops himself, not knowing her actual name, and realizing he can’t call her by the one Geli used. His face turns red.

“Call me Angie,” she says, smiling. “I’m sure you were expecting someone older.”

“Not really,” Parks lies. “You just surprised me—I didn’t see you standing there.”

Angie knows the truth. “Geli sees me as ancient,” she says. “I remind her of someone she knows—someone younger—to whom by comparison, I seem like a great-grandmother.”

Parks doesn’t see Angie this way. She’s more like someone’s kooky but favorite aunt, a person to tell the real stuff—maybe not everything—but more than most adults could handle without a lecture. Right away, Parks likes her. “Do you live out here?”

“No,” She laughs. “I’m not a hermit, Parks.”

At this moment, something unusual happens. For a second, Angie seems to leave, not physically—her body stays. Yet somehow, it’s obvious that she’s not there anymore. She’s not sleeping; she’s gone. It’s like waiting for a glitchy DVD to skip a bad sector. She’s frozen right in front of him, and for that second it’s as if he’s absolutely alone.

Then she’s back, continuing as if nothing had occurred. “Actually, I live in a lot of places. This forest is a place I come when I need to think things over.”

She’s pleasant looking; like someone in the middle of a happy life. Definitely not the usual, tight-faced middle-agers who glare through closed car windows at him on his skateboard. Angie has a comfortable way about her—natural. The long, silver-gray hair, which reaches halfway down her back, looks just right for her face. Even her wrinkles, small ones at the corners of her eyes, and a few around her mouth seem a perfect fit.

At first glance, she seems tall, with an upright posture and a confident presence. Only when Parks gets closer can he see that she’s really no larger than Geli. Despite what he’s been through, immediately Angie’s wonderfully warming smile puts Parks at ease. Even his fears of a trap leave him. Feelings of calm, trust and openness take over. Something about Angie is—it’s the same word again—familiar.

With a nod and a motion of her hand, she indicates for Parks to follow her further into the forest. As they walk, she instructs him to listen very carefully to what she has to say. This doesn’t seem a problem for Parks—he loves the sound of her voice. Despite her verbal insistence that they have very little time, she doesn’t actually seem to be all that rushed.

“I imagine that you’re confused right now,” she says. Laughing aloud she adds, “If you’re not, then you should be.”

“Yeah—I am,” he says.

“You’ve been through so very much, and all sooner than expected. I’m sure that you’re ready for a rest. But Parks, we don’t have time for that rest right now.”

There’s urgency in the words. It’s as though she’s anticipating something to happen soon. Not that Parks expects a Crown Vic to come barreling through the redwoods, spitting bullets. If one did, he’s not sure it would surprise him. The way he feels right now, not much of anything would be a surprise. However, except for Geli—waiting somewhere down the path—as far as Parks can tell, Angie and he are alone in the forest.

Angie begins with a guarded introduction. “What I need to tell you is fantastic, hard to believe, and deadly serious. When we’re finished, you’ll better understand—at least something of—what it is that’s happening.”

She pauses.

To Parks, the way she’s tilting her head makes it seem like she’s listening to something. That’s only a guess. He can hear nothing more than the sounds that have surrounded him since entering the forest.

She continues, but now with a monotone voice. It’s as though she’s dismissing the sentence because something else is occupying her mind. “The rest of what you need to know will come later—depending on choices you make.”

Again, she’s gone—only for a moment; returning before he’s barely recognized her absence. Her voice is back to normal. “Right now, the critical thing is for you understand the threat so you won’t be killed.”

The words don’t affect him much. Parks already knows that someone is trying to kill him—it’s why he’s here. While it had him shaking on the train, the power of this place has reduced it all to a simple statement of the situation.

“You’re not alone Parks, we can help you.”

He’s not alone, true; he has a seventeen-year old girl and a middle-aged gardener on his side. This isn’t much comfort for Parks—not against what he saw over the course of the last two nights. He can see she means well; he doesn’t want to hurt her feelings by giving into the temptation of a sarcastic response. He hopes that she just gets to the point soon, so he can figure out what to do next.

“As scary as this may feel right now, it can actually be the beginning of a new life for you.”

What he wants to find out—who’s trying to kill him, how to stop it—has nothing to do with this psychobabble. “Let’s say I’m not finished with my current life yet,” Parks says. “Can you do something to help me save that one?”

The smile on her face disappears. She’s not angry—just serious. “Parks, that life is over.”

Her last comment—the grave expression in her face when she said it—should have him tweaked. The surrealism of this place, and the absurdity of all that’s happened, makes his reaction no different than if she’s told him that he’s wearing his shirt inside out. It hasn’t tweaked him; it’s numbed him. Geli’s warning that the old lady would sound crazy was not exaggeration. She definitely is coming across as intense—even a little nutty. But since everything happening seems nuts, Parks isn’t sure that she is. He decides that he might as well hear her out.

Clarity

“Parks!” Angie sees him drifting. “I really need you to concentrate.”

That last comment—a little bossy—annoys Parks. She sounds too much like Geli. “I’m listening, but how about getting to the point? Maybe start with who’s trying to kill me.”

“Fine. I suppose it’s easiest to say that the government is trying to kill you Parks—or, at least some levels of the government are. Thirty-five agents of a covert department are—were—assigned to your execution. Those killed in the explosion you saw, dropped the number by four—but they’ll be replaced.”

Angie knows about the explosion; confirming to Parks that in some way, she must’ve been involved with it. It’s been only about an hour; there’s no other way for her to know about it. Parks decides not to mention this; letting her do the talking, while he stores the information for later.

Angie asks a question, going back to the night when this all started for Parks. “What happened just before you blacked out on your skateboard?”

Here again, she seems to have information that she can’t possibly know; Parks hasn’t told anyone—including Geli—that he blacked out that night. He considers lying, holding to the original story he gave Geli, but decides instead to play along. If she knows the truth, which seems to be the case, then there’s no point in his denying it. “I thought I was dead meat,” he says.

The answer doesn’t satisfy her. She stares directly and deep into his eyes. “Something else, Parks. What else were you thinking at that very moment?” Despite his height advantage of more than a foot, for this moment, as she asks this, she appears to tower over him.

A renewed sense of dizziness—not as severe as earlier—comes over Parks. Memories start to form in his consciousness. Something, forgotten almost immediately after he got away that night, now returns. It was something simple—a feeling—more than a thought. Parks closes his eyes and draws a long slow breath. As he releases the air, he remembers. “I wanted—no; I needed—to be somewhere else.”

“Good. Where was it? Where did you go?”

“I blacked out.”

“Think about it,” Angie says firmly. “You did go someplace—where?”

“What do you mean?” Even as he asks this, he understands that she’s right. Like having a name on the tip of his tongue, Parks can feel the answer hiding somewhere in his head.

“You can remember this Parks. Think back,” she insists.

He now clearly feels the memory—the thought—that he used to escape. When he came to, he was stumbling on his skateboard—the Crown Vic was skidding across the intersection. In the middle of that, something happened; he knows it now too. Small details return—feelings. Sensory memories from the night—smells, emotion and vision come flooding back to him. Then a flicker; for a second the forest disappears and he’s on his skateboard—the Crown Vic is brushing against the back of his legs. Parks feels himself falling under the car, but just before he does—the memory stops. “A dream,” he whispers. “I had a dream when I blacked out.”

“Where was this dream, Parks? Where were you in the dream?”

Parks closes his eyes. “A town. A place I’ve been before. Not for real though—only in dreams. It was like an old movie: dark, and shadowy. Nothing moved there—everything, including me—frozen. It lasted a second, that’s all. Nothing happened. Then I woke up, fighting to stay balanced on my deck.”

Angie gently touches his shoulder. Her voice is comforting, but the seriousness remains in it. “Listen carefully Parks. I need you to understand that despite what you think, or feel, what you experienced was not a dream.”

He believes her. Something in what she says feels right to him.

“You were in trouble—real trouble. You knew that you needed to be somewhere else to survive. Your mind pulled you away—it physically delivered you to another place.” Angie pauses to gauge his reaction.

Parks shows no obvious reaction at all. She’s explaining something he already knows. That night he felt it; it just didn’t make sense. Her words, here—in this strange forest—are somehow more believable than in the real world. He’s able to know each word almost before she says it. He waits, wanting her to explain more. He needs her to tell him what it means.

“We’re different Parks; you, Geli and I are different from the people trying to kill us. Yes, they’re trying to kill Geli too, and me—and others.”

“What about the people who blew the cars up? Are they terrorists? Are they like us? Are you a terrorist?”

She doesn’t say much to this, only that it’s a complicated situation; one that he’ll understand later. “They’re trying to stop the killings too,” she says. “I just believe they’re going about it the wrong way.” As Parks hears it, she’s implying that she shares their objective, just not their methods.

He doesn’t know why, but Parks is relieved that Angie isn’t directly involved with the explosion. The explosion probably saved his life. The people it killed were trying to kill him. Logically he should be grateful for the explosion. Still, for some reason he doesn’t want her to be involved; it doesn’t seem right for her.

“But you know them?” He asks.

“Yes. Most were friends—one, I was very close to.”

“They’re not friends anymore?”

“I don’t really know, Parks. Our paths are different now.”

The memory upsets Angie—he can see that. She tries to hide this by returning to the previous topic.

“You were right in thinking that you’ve been to that place before,” she says. “Probably many times—when you thought you were asleep. It isn’t sleep. You aren’t dreaming when you’re in this other place—you’re experiencing a real, but different aspect of your life.”

Whether or not he can buy, or even understand what she’s saying, he does know that the Crown Vic was real, and it had tried to kill him. He escaped that somehow. Did he travel to another place? It sounds crazy even to have the words in his head—to consider it at all. It also sounds crazy to say a car passed through his body. Whatever the truth, something weird did happen that night.

“Why that particular place?” He asks. “What does that creepy town have to do with me?”

“This isn’t something I can explain to you right now,” she says.

Parks rolls his eyes. She isn’t exactly willing to explain much to him.

“You just won’t understand it.” The words—the way she says them—don’t seem intended as an insult—just a statement of fact. Then she adds, “There is a way for you to understand everything.”

“How?”

“I’ll explain it to you Parks—it’s the reason I asked Geli to bring you here.”

A chill comes over Parks. Something about this specific moment makes him nervous—as if he’s known all along what he’s about to be told. Yet he doesn’t feel it will necessarily be bad news—only something inevitable.

“But first, I need you to know that in this place to which you go, there’s danger as well as safety, Parks.”

It occurs to Parks that if they were out camping as part of a group, she’d be holding a flashlight, eerily lighting her face from below as she spoke. Words like these were usually just pretence to scare for fun. But that’s not how it feels at all right now—he wishes it were.

“I don’t mean death Parks; the dangers are bigger than death. As you, understand more of this, as these dangers become easier for you to see, they also become harder to avoid. Knowledge will defend you against them, but the other side of that knowledge is that you will realize that these dangers exist.”

The words stir within Parks—connecting to him in some way. He feels shaky. His legs don’t have the strength to support him. It’s not just the words, nor the threats that seem hidden in the words; it’s that he almost understands what her words mean. Somehow, in his head, he knows he should be terrified. Again, it feels to him like he’s been through this before.

Angie can see his reaction, but knows she can’t alter the course now. Her intention isn’t to scare him. These are just things he must understand. She can only present the option—the decision is his alone. This is his moment; the only chance he’ll have to recognize or ignore the Reveal.

Choice

“We have a process to explain things—this new reality—to you, if you’re willing. It’ll help guide abilities within you; ones that you may have suspected, and others you never knew existed. We call this process the Reveal. For everyone who chooses to go through it, it becomes a deeply personal process. It will be for you too, Parks. After the Reveal, the universe you see will change forever.”

Parks has doubts. “Why not just tell me what I need to know now?”

Angie just ignores his question. “I’d like to be the person to guide your Reveal but—” She pauses, considering whether or not to finish. She decides against it. “The reasons I won’t are complicated.”

It seems to Parks like everything is complicated with her explanations. His trust in her is faltering—again. There are no details. It’s the way cults recruit members: just come to a meeting, learn for yourself. It’s an old game; one that Parks knows enough to keep at a distance. He’s learned what he came to find out; maybe it’s time for him to bail. Now, at least he knows who’s trying to kill him even if he doesn’t understand why.

One thing is certain for Parks, he has absolutely no interest in cults—religious or not. But he also figures that Geli’s not likely to join a cult any more than he is. She brought him here. He trusts her. That could be stupid, he realizes; after all, he just met her. Still—he does trust her.

It’s possible that Geli will not know what to believe either. Maybe she’s as reluctant as he is. It could be that she hasn’t even made her decision yet. Is she waiting to find out what he thinks? But in his gut, he knows that for Geli to be undecided is unlikely; she never is. That puts him back to trust, finding out what she thinks, then deciding for himself.

Lost in thought, Parks doesn’t notice Angie’s absence again. It’s only when she returns that he notices. She seems to be recovering from a laugh.

It’s the first time Parks gets it—he’s supposed to understand that she’s going somewhere when she does this. But he wonders if maybe this isn’t just part of the big con. Her body isn’t leaving the forest; she could just be standing still. He has to admit, as a fake—if she is one—Angie is good. She doesn’t even acknowledge her little acts, just picks the conversation up where she left off. But what if they are real?

“The person I’ve asked to be your guide is in many ways better equipped for the task than I can hope to be. His name is Finn, and I think you’ll like him. If you and Geli choose to accept the Reveal, Finn will train you to find the natural abilities within yourselves.”

Geli hasn’t taken the bait, or at least that’s how Angie is making it sound. On the surface, this admission is unlikely for a con. The normal purpose to separating marks—in the way Angie required Parks to come alone—is to make each believe that the other is already going along with the pitch. Angie’s not playing it this way. Once again, Parks gets a feeling that Angie could be on the level.

“These abilities aren’t new,” she continues. “You’ve had them all your life, but kept them suppressed—hidden even from yourself.”

Parks can’t understand what’s happening to him. His emotions keep switching back and forth between trust and mistrust. He feels as though he’s both participating in this conversation and disconnectedly watching it from somewhere else. He wants to reject what she’s saying but he can’t. Uncontrollable feelings inside make him want to trust Angie. An internal sense of belief, enthusiasm at her words, is overcoming his doubts. Something tied to the rhythm of her speech gives him a strong desire to believe. It’s supernatural—spiritual—nothing in which Parks has even a shred of belief.

“He’ll educate you on dangers and guide you to eliminate them. But more importantly, he’ll prepare you to explore and live your potential.” Her voice is soft and speaks only the truth to him.

Parks looks back down the path, thinking he’ll see Geli—hoping she’ll pull him from the moment. She’s not there.

Angie can see what he’s thinking. “Parks, understand that you’ve a choice to accept or not accept the Reveal. Whatever you choose, it is your decision; Geli can’t be a part of this.”

Parks doesn’t see the need for choice. Any doubts looping at the back of his mind bore him. He only wants to listen to Angie.

“You both have the option to return to your previous lives—to proceed, exactly as you would have. How it would’ve happened, the life that you were to have, is just how it will seem to continue.”

He can’t think straight. He wants to fight—regain control, but he craves to accept every word she says.

“For your protection, if you choose against the Reveal, you won’t remember this night as anything more than a dream. You’ll just go on, living what you would call a regular life.”

Whether he’s in some sort of trance—as it feels to him—or something else has him disoriented, questioning is a strain. It sounds crazy—all this garbage. Regular life? As opposed to what exactly? Parks considers turning and taking a rapid hike back down the path; find Geli and ask her directly. He doesn’t do it. Something tells him that she’s not there.

“Okay, what happens if I decide to do this? Do I just disappear?” The spell seems broken, he’s able to think critically—ask questions.

“In a way, perhaps. The world still goes on around you. It’ll just look different—even more dangerous at first.”

“That sounds great,” Parks says.

Angie hears, but ignores, the irony in his comment. “Even if you don’t accept it, the world goes on. The dangers still exist—you just won’t know about them.”

To Parks, this suggests very little actual choice. Whether or not he accepts, someone is still trying to kill him—according to what she’s claiming anyhow.

Angie corrects him on the point, explaining that he’s a threat to the agents trying to kill him, only until he makes his choice. If he chooses not to accept the Reveal, they’ll no longer bother with him. Without the Reveal, he can remain hidden within the shadows of humanity.

“So, if I go back, everything goes back to normal.”

“From your point of view, yes.” Angie carefully chooses her next words—holding back on giving too much detail. “Reality isn’t how, or what you think it is Parks. Instinctively, the mind filters reality to help us cope in the universe—it’s a holdover of the human brain. The universe is much more than humans can see—so much, that it would be impossible for them to function without filtering most of it out.”

Parks hears her next words very clearly. It’s as though every thought in his brain has stopped just so he can. Even the background noise fades away.

“You are not limited by the human brain, Parks. You’re not human—you’re Dissimulant. You can choose to remove those filters forever.”

On some level, what she’s saying makes sense to Parks. It could explain certain things he’s seen—experienced.

“The enemies—our real enemies—are not humans. They’re not even living. They don’t exist in the human world, but just outside it. Their purpose is to lure life away—out to where they are.”

“Did you say they could be filtered out?” Parks asks.

Angie shakes her head. “The filters of the brain stop you from seeing them, but not them from finding you. They skirt the edges of reality until they detect life, then they begin to lure it to the other side”

“So they may never find me?”

“They haven’t found you yet, but they will. Without the Reveal, you’ll never be able to see them coming. Whether or not you choose to see them, they will continue looking for you. Someday, and it could be a long time away, they’ll find you. Then, you will no longer exist.”

“Dead,” Parks says.

“I can’t—,” she interrupts herself. “It’s more than what you think of as dead.”

Angie leaves again, but this time her body goes with her. She flickers away completely before returning to the same spot three seconds later. Parks has to believe that at least this much of her act is real.

“I wish I could tell you that the choice for you is clear, but it isn’t my life to choose. If you’d prefer to stay in hiding, alive but only partially, then deny the Reveal. The end may take a very long time to occur—you could live to be a very old man.”

“What about Geli?”

“I’ve told you Parks, this is a decision you can only make alone. I promise that once your decision is made, Geli’s choice—if different from yours—won’t matter to you at all.”

“You can’t say that,” Parks says. “You don’t know what we mean to each other. Anyway, she must have said yes. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have brought me here.”

“Don’t try to second guess this Parks. Your own logic may misguide you. Geli cares for you; that’s certainly true. She brought you here because you needed the opportunity to accept or deny the Reveal for yourself. It’s possible she brought you here to say yes; it’s also possible she did it so you can say no. Don’t make assumptions about how she decided. Even I have no knowledge of that, and will not, until your decision is clear.”

Parks is frustrated. “I don’t get why you won’t give me real answers.” He wants to trust what Angie is saying; his gut tells him it’s true. He needs more information.

Should he choose to live as a human, then too much information could be dangerous; Angie knows this. This is why anyone denying the Reveal has no other chance to accept. With only this one contact, if Parks denies the Reveal he can forget what has happened. Forgetting is critical for those who choose the other path. Hidden in the shadows, living as humans, it would be terrifying to retain even a little understanding of what exists around them. As it is, Angie feels she may have said too much.

“We need to separate for now Parks; it’s time for you to make your decision. You have all the knowledge you need to take a leap of faith, or to choose not to do so. If you deny the Reveal, we will never speak of this again.” She knows this suggests that even if he doesn’t accept, he might see her again.

That relieves Parks, who doesn’t realize the lie. He doesn’t want to make the decision right now. He’s sure he can charm his way in later—when he decides. It’s not that he’s decided against accepting eventually—he’s just cautious. Maybe he’ll go for it after talking to Geli. For now, he’s ready leave. Letting Angie think he’s ready to decide gives him the opportunity to get away.

“Continue heading along this path,” she tells him. “You will come to the place where you entered. Geli will be gone. While you walk, think your decision over carefully, but don’t stop along the way. By the end of the path, you’ll need to have your mind made up. It has to be before you step back into the yard.”

She pauses, then satisfied that he understands, continues. “If you’ve chosen to accept, you’ll find Finn waiting for you on the street and the Reveal will have begun. If you’ve chosen to deny, Finn won’t be there.”

“What about Geli?” Parks asks.

“You’ll both only know that your decisions matched if you see each other when you return to the yard. If each of you decides differently from the other, you may not see each other for a long time. But remember, it’s your decision Parks.” She turns her back to him and walks away—in the direction from where they just came.

“I couldn’t tell you everything Parks,” she calls back. “Consider the things I didn’t tell you when you make your choice. Don’t be controlled by what you heard—trust what you feel.”

Parks wonders who these people are, and whether he is what they think. A menacing world that exists in dreams, enemies you can‘t see; it means nothing to Parks. What right do they have separating him from Geli, the one person he trusts? His doubt grows. Suspicion and anger replace the warmth and trust he felt earlier. He isn’t interested in any of this stuff and if Geli is—maybe that’s just too bad. He’s determined not to worry about what Geli did or did not decide—and this isn’t easy for him. His emotions are in turmoil. How can he trust what he feels, when he has no idea what his feelings are?

Home

Geli’s bedroom looks like the room of a fourteen year old. More accurately, it’s the room of a seventeen year old, that—years ago—stopped linking her identity to her room’s décor. Too much purple and a fair amount of blue overpower the room. Posters on her wall idolize groups she hasn’t listened to in years. The phone on her nightstand, shaped like a slice of pizza—which she thought was so hilarious when she bought it at a yard sale five years ago—connects pointlessly to the jack in the wall. She has a cell; she never uses the pizza phone anymore. Her room has become a time capsule from 2K4. There’s the old notebook PC, hooked up to her dad’s old printer, both on the—ugh—white desk. Neglected stuffed animals, flopped all around the room, wait patiently for the day when she finally packs them up for good. A micro-stereo—with a dead-battery generic MP3 player in the dock—sits next to her small, square, battery-operated alarm clock. The clock says it’s six-twenty when Geli reappears on her bed.

Geli’s proud; only fifteen minutes ago she disappeared from her home reality to the one in San Francisco; now she’s back again. She’s improved her timing by a lot. An active week in San Francisco; lived out in the time she normally takes for a shower—it’s actually very impressive! Of course, the old lady does it in such a short time that a person would have to be staring in slow-mo just to catch her flicker in and out. Geli knows she has some improving to do to get to that point; but obviously, she’ll get there.

Old lady! She needs to stop calling her that. The name isn’t from disrespect; it’s more of a defense mechanism. The old lady—Angie—understands why Geli says it; only now, it’s starting to bother Geli a little.

Thinking about Angie makes Geli think about Parks, and the conversation going on in the forest. It’s hard to know what he’ll conclude. On numerous occasions, when Geli tried to find any hint that Parks had some awareness—if he’d ever consciously experienced even a simple alternative reality—she failed to learn anything.

Whether he hasn’t a clue about the hidden worlds or anything outside his own daily reality, he’s made it clear he doesn’t believe in things like ghosts or parallel worlds. But Parks often likes to counter things Geli says just to wind her up. It’s hard to know what he really believes, and what he says only for the reaction. Whatever his views are, it’s entertaining for Geli to imagine his reaction as he hears what Angie will have to say. Of course, since Angie knows Parks is clueless, she’ll probably not be as candid with him as she’d been with Geli.

Scaring Geli, is the fact that in this case what Parks believes won’t matter. He’ll have to base his choice on faith, and will have to make that choice today. Angie made this clear when asking Geli to bring Parks to the beach house.

Geli tries to convince herself that Parks will choose correctly. He’s smart—more than he lets on—and has a core of faith in his soul, despite the negative act he puts on. She senses that he feels more to the world than he admits. He’s learned to bury the feelings from himself as much as from anyone else. But she also worries that she’s only seeing what she wants to see. Maybe he won’t believe what Angie tells him—even just enough to make the right choice. He only needs to trust in his instinct—that’s all. He’s lived his life by it so far. Geli’s sure he’ll make the right choice. He has to, so everything can go forward.

Her memory is fading. She’s ready to let it go for now. It’ll be much later when she learns his decision anyway. For the next few hours, there’s dinner, then watching a DVD with her brother and parents. The DVD is some kid-friendly movie from the 70’s that her dad loves. Geli likes the movies her dad picks; even the kid’s stuff is always good. Fluff will be a nice change of pace. According to Angie, after tonight the pace will be rough.

Having now fully adjusted to her shifted location and time, Geli gets up from the bed. Rummaging through her closet, she pulls out a sweatshirt, jeans and clean underwear to change into. The stuff she’s been wearing is pretty rank. In her backpack and suitcase, the odor isn’t any better. Since she’s now substantially improved her timing, and dragging around a suitcase will be a burden on the run, she figures she only needs to bring her backpack on the return to San Francisco. So, she unpacks her gear and stores the battered old suitcase at the back of her closet.

It’s been a full day, with lots of running since she took her last shower. That was in the common bathroom at the Slot, where showers never give much hot water or time. The person before has always just used up the hot water, and someone else is always waiting—rushing you—so they can get in. Geli looks forward to standing under the nice warm spray from her own shower. She grabs her clean clothes and walks to her personal, private and very girlie bathroom.

A Path

“The United States is trying to kill you Parks.” The words are doing some serious loops inside his head since Angie sent him on his way. Now, here Parks stands, in front of the little groups of red and white polka-dotted mushrooms that edge the spot where he and Geli first stepped into the forest. Since leaving Angie, he’s been thinking over the same arguments repeatedly. Parks feels if it weren’t for Geli, there’d be no decision for him to make. Except that he’s ninety-nine percent sure about what Geli’s going to do, Parks can’t find another reason for him to accept the thing that Angie called the Reveal.

He still has no idea why the government would be trying to kill him. Although admittedly, everything that’s been happening lately makes it plausible. Angie said Dissimulants were targets because they were different; it’s true enough that he’s felt different before. He’s had some weird feelings about things that were going to happen—that, and crazy stuff he saw that couldn’t possibly exist. To explain these, he’s always told himself that everyone had these feelings from time to time; like nose picking, they just never talked about it. People know about nose picking and joke about other people picking noses but never talk about picking their own nose. It’s normal to keep some things private. Doing this doesn’t make Parks different—not enough to kill.

Just because Parks has never heard anybody talking about them in the way he’s experienced memories, doesn’t mean they aren’t normal for others to have. Anyway, there’s also the idea of déjà vu. Déjà vu is supposed to be a feeling that you’ve seen or experienced something before, even though you know you are experiencing it for the first time. For Parks, there’s always been such a strong feeling of reality attached to his type of memories; what others describe as déjà vu never really seems an accurate match. His memories are of things he absolutely knows to have occurred—even though a number of them are blatantly impossible. False memories are the obvious and only sane way to explain this sort of thing—false memories planted by the subconscious. Parks never looks for the supernatural explanation. A reasonable explanation, one based in reality, always existed—until today. There’s no reasonable explanation for this forest. There’s nothing reasonable about what he’s contemplating.

Facts—that are all he wants to consider at that moment. Someone, maybe the government, is trying to get to him—probably to kill him. Weird things have been happening all his life, but lately they’re become ridiculously insane. Geli is smart and it looks like she believes in this stuff. At least she seemed to believe in it when they’d talked. Geli wanted Parks to meet Angie, so she must trust her. Parks feels trust for Angie—safe with her as well. He absolutely knows that a car passed right through his body when it should have killed him. No matter how odd it seems, with a single step, he’s gone from the front yard of a beach house in San Francisco to standing deep inside a forest of redwoods. He’s certain that nobody knew about these feelings he’s had all his life. He’s never told anyone about the dreams, the visions, the out of body experiences—not even Geli—not even the six psychiatrists he’d been forced to see. But Angie knew about it; he saw it in her eyes. Her few words described exactly what he’s always felt; that there is always something near to him, even when he was alone.

Minutes earlier, he’d already made up his mind to run—to ignore it all and just step back into the real world. Now, as he’s beginning to take a step, returning to what should be the front yard of the beach house, a new feeling overwhelms Parks. Because belief includes some chance, at least a remote chance of being wrong, it isn’t a simple sense of belief that overcomes him. It isn’t a sense of knowledge or realization either. He doesn’t have any more knowledge about the truth now than he had before. It’s simply faith overtaking him, as he steps forward onto a path he can’t even see.

“I accept,” he whispers.

The forest no longer existed. Once again, Parks was standing on a path in the overloaded front yard of the beach house. The returning traffic noise had multiplied since he’d been away. It felt like less than an hour but it must have been much longer that he’d been in the forest —it was now the middle of the morning. A bright sun was a third of the way across the sky. His eyes fought to adjust to the sudden increase in light.

In the yard, sitting on an iron bench that Parks hadn’t noticed before, were two people. Parks easily recognized one as Geli, and so assumed that the other was Finn. Finn was a little taller then Geli, and several times bigger around.

“Welcome Parks,” Finn’s voice was deep and friendly. “Welcome to the Reveal.”