COSMIC EGG INC.

By MORROW ANDREWS

What happens when those who created the fabric of reality suddenly appear?

College student Peter Kane is about to find out.

While on Long Island's famed East End during a break from classes, Peter is attacked by a mysterious assailant with both the skills and appearance of something straight out of a video game. After he somehow survives the attack, Peter is approached by an enigmatic stranger who reveals Peter has been selected to play a game, the stakes of which are no less than the fate of the world.

Peter soon realizes that merely winning the game won't be enough to save the world—he must wrestle control away from those who control everything. And if he can't figure out how to accomplish that seemingly impossible feat, his reality doesn't stand a chance at surviving.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350907568

Book preview

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Cosmic Egg Inc.

©2023 Morrow Andrews

Cosmic Egg Inc. is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

ISBN 979-8-35090-755-1

eBook 979-8-35090-756-8

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

June 25, 2016

Peter Kane stepped out of the Corolla and looked at the wall of carefully manicured privet hedges lining the property’s edge.

The famed Long Island Hamptons’ crisp ocean air filled his lungs as he slung his backpack over his shoulder and made his way to the home’s entrance. Nelson, the caretaker of the luxury estate, greeted him at the front door and told him the fridge was stocked and his room ready.

Peter thanked him, then climbed the spiral floating staircase and made his way down the hallway to the third bedroom on the right—the same room he’d always stayed in. The early afternoon sunlight flooded the floor’s birch planks.

He laid his backpack down and wondered if his father and sister had landed yet.

Hello, Pete.

The greeting surprised him. He didn’t think anyone other than Nelson was home. He wondered if it was his dad’s boss, Myles Green, the venture capital billionaire who owned the home.

It wasn’t.

An older man stood in the doorway. You don’t know me, do you? the man asked as he straightened his perfectly tailored blazer.

The man looked familiar, but Peter couldn’t place him.

You can call me Martin.

Friend of the Greens? Peter asked.

Guess you can say that, Martin said. But that has nothing to do with why I’m here, Pete. I need you to do something. He walked toward the window and opened the terrace doors, then pointed toward the beach. You see that light?

Beyond the infinity pool and flawlessly mowed lawn, a wide orange spotlight shot up with a brightness usually only seen at night.

You’ve got to go down there and stand inside it. There was a sudden urgency in Martin’s tone. And you’ve got to do it now.

Pretty sure you’ve got the wrong guy, Peter said as he peered over at the beam of light, wondering if it was coming from some kind of drone or balloon.

"Trust me. I don’t. I know exactly who you are, Pete. You’re a college sophomore at Stony Brook living with your aunt for the summer. Your dad’s the driver for the man who owns this place."

Peter was about to ask how he knew that when his back suddenly exploded with pain. He craned his neck around to look at what had caused the sudden pain.

An arrow was sticking out!

Motion at the doorway caught his eye. He turned to find a masked man in an orange gi with a crossbow aimed straight at him.

What the fuck? Peter shouted as he yanked the arrow out and swiftly backpedaled onto the small terrace, slamming the door shut as his heart raced.

What the hell is going on?

Through the door’s glass pane, he could see the crazed man, and his crossbow, heading straight for him. Peter turned and hopped over the railing, falling from the small second-story balcony and tumbling onto the soft grass. He looked up at the terrace.

The crazed ninja was already there, about to jump as well.

Peter’s eyes went wide with panic as he watched the man land. He had a fleeting thought of running but knew the backyard’s open space would make him a sitting duck. Instead, he pounced and tackled the man. A few arrows spilled from the quiver on the man’s back as a knee struck Peter in the jaw, knocking him over. But Peter couldn’t dwell on the pain. He scrambled to the arrows, grabbed the closest one and thrust it deep into his attacker’s shoulder. Then he snatched another and jammed it hard into the man’s thigh.

The light, Pete, Martin shouted from the second-floor terrace. You still have to get to the light.

Peter ignored him and furiously dug into his pocket for his phone. He had to call the cops. He stopped when he heard the patio door slide open. Another masked man was walking out. Same orange outfit. Crossbow in hand.

Fuck.

Peter turned and sprinted but stumbled after he passed the pool. An arrow whizzed by as he fell. He stayed low and rolled down the sloped lawn, his face tucked into his arms. An arrow plunged into his left biceps as he neared the bottom. He yanked it out and staggered toward the beach. The roll down the hill had disoriented him, making him feel as if he’d just played a game of dizzy bat. He kept stumbling until he fell into a thick wall of hedges where he stayed on all fours and shuffled deeper into the dense brush behind them.

He watched the ninja slow when he got to the walkway leading to the beach. Peter stowed away the insanity of what was happening and tried to come up with some type of plan.

But he had nothing.

The ninja scampered further down, canvassing the rows of bushes, then unleashed another arrow. It sliced through some leaves and dug into the sand. He shot another, which missed Peter as well, but did hit something solid. Peter turned to see what it was.

At the edge of where the bushes met the beach was a boogie board, an arrow sticking out.

Peter scampered over and grabbed the wide Styrofoam board as another arrow flew by and barely missed his head. He darted out from the thicket with the board in front and ran right at the man, arrows plunging into the Styrofoam. Peter didn’t stop until he slammed the board straight into the man, continuing his push with a furious rage, not letting up until they tumbled into the sand.

A brilliant flash of orange washed over everything he saw.

Then his view went completely dark.

CHAPTER TWO

The pain was gone.

So were the psycho ninjas trying to kill him.

His surroundings—the beach, the sky, the water—had an orange tint.

He realized where he had to be; inside the light Martin had shown him.

Peter looked around at his back. No arrow. No blood. Same with his biceps.

He lifted himself and dusted off the sand, then stepped out of the light so his vision was no longer shaded. He scanned the bizarre glowing orange cylinder of light shooting up to the sky. It was about five or so feet in diameter, maybe a bit less. It had the same orange tint as the ninjas.

He bent down to get a better idea of where it was coming from, but there were no bulbs or wires, just sand. He kicked around the sand searching for something hard underneath, but there was just more sand. He went down on his knees and started to dig deeper, scooping out layer after layer. When he hit the hard stuff—the muddy bottom—he scooped out the muck. Still, he didn’t find anything. No hardware, no spotlight—nothing but the orange light that continued to shine from whatever new bottom he’d create.

Gazing up at the sky again to see if it was coming from something above, he saw nothing. He looked around the beach. There was no one. He headed back to the walkway, trying to sort out what the hell had just happened.

A voice yelled out after he reached the first few wooden planks.

Up here, Pete, Martin called from the backyard patio. Great job.

Peter eased up the path, looking around, wondering where the next attack would be coming from.

Martin was sitting at the patio table with an ear-to-ear smile. Sit down. He pointed to the chair across from him. You can relax now.

What the hell is going on?

Martin pointed at the chair again and said he’d explain. Peter didn’t know what to do. His mind was still in shock, his nerves frayed. What he’d just experienced was impossible.

It’s okay, Martin said, still with a wide grin. No more ninjas. I promise.

Peter slowly slipped into the chair. Am I drugged? Is that it? Am I hallucinating?

Martin shook his head. That was real, Pete. You weren’t hallucinating.

How could any of that have been real? I just had an arrow sticking out of me—two, actually—and now I don’t have a scratch.

Martin chuckled. You know, I have to admit, I honestly didn’t think you had a prayer. Martin quickly raised his palms. Don’t get me wrong; that’s not a knock against you. Not at all. But even the best soldiers in the world wouldn’t be worth a damn if they weren’t convinced they needed to head for the light. His smile widened. But you pulled it off on the first go-around. Damn, did you pull it off. You should be proud of yourself.

Peter just stared at him, trying to piece things together, trying to make some sense of what was happening. He couldn’t.

I’ve been thinking about how to explain things to you, and trust me, it isn’t easy. Martin eased back in his chair. I mean, I was given some ideas, some stuff to work with, but . . . I don’t know; I’m thinking maybe it’s best if you just trust me.

Trust him?

And you should know from the start that this is all new and weird for me too. Hell, Martin said, looking down at his own chest, I’m not even used to this thing yet.

What thing?

This, Martin said, pointing at himself. What you see.

What the fuck are you talking about?

Watch the language, Pete.

Language? Are you fucking kidding me? I nearly just got killed. Or maybe I was killed. I don’t even know. And you’re worried about my language?

Okay, you’re right. Let’s just move on, Martin said, then looked over to the side, like he was checking something. Let me start by filling you in on that orange egg on your forearm.

Peter turned his right hand over. On his wrist was an oval about two inches long with a slight orange glow. He touched it, feeling to see if the skin was raised like a scar. It wasn’t. It felt the same as if it wasn’t there. But the glow . . . It was like a light shining from underneath his skin.

That’s what’ll keep you alive no matter what happens to you, Martin said.

Peter looked up. None of what the man was saying made sense.

You’ll still feel pain up until you actually die, but when you do die, Martin said, you’ll instantly appear over there as if nothing had happened. He pointed over to the beach where the orange light was shining.

As he listened, Peter replayed the events from when he arrived at the house to when he woke from whatever hallucination he’d been having. He hadn’t drunk or eaten anything since leaving his aunt’s house. But could someone have slipped him something when he was out the night before? He’d gone out with his cousin but only had water because he was driving—and because he saw the bouncer’s doubting gaze when checking his fake ID.

Now listen, because this is important. The reason you need to stay alive no matter what is because you, Peter Kane, need to save the world.

Peter massaged his brow, trying to clear whatever cobwebs had to be clouding his thoughts. This is ridiculous.

It is. It’s insane. And I’m under no delusion that I’ll be able to convince you otherwise, Martin said. I get that. But it’s also the truth.

The truth? Peter scoffed. You’re saying I can die and come back to life. How can that even be remotely possible? And why the hell would anyone need me to save the world? Who the hell am I?

Martin folded his hands and leaned them over the table. Why not you?

Because I’m nobody. Nobody special. He rubbed his forehead again. Jesus, I haven’t even picked a major yet.

You’re far from nobody, Pete, Martin said. I know who you are, and I know you—

How? Peter interrupted. How do you know me?

Martin exhaled as he leaned back. This is tougher than I thought. He gazed at Peter. "I mean, look at you. You’re you. You’re really . . . you. And you’re right. You’re absolutely right. Why on earth are you going to believe anything I’m saying?"

Peter thought back to the intro psych class he’d taken, racking his brain to come up with some kind of explanation for what was happening. He wished he hadn’t just crammed for each exam the night before.

Maybe you won’t believe me. Maybe you’ll just have to keep going through it, Martin continued. Just keep responding to what’s being thrown at you. Like you just did.

Martin peered to his left again.

Okay, so I thought it’d be best to have what I’ve been told is the only AI guide available for this thing that can actually be physically present. It’ll help you realize that all of this isn’t just in your head. But in order to access him, you’ll need to do one of these, Martin said, still studying what appeared to be nothing but the air in front of him. You’ve got a few options. Kobayashi challenge, ski slalom—

Options for what?

Martin didn’t respond, just kept his gaze on whatever it was he could apparently see but Peter couldn’t. That won’t work, though. You’ll never eat that many hot dogs so quickly. And that one won’t either. You’ve only skied a few times, he said, more in a thinking-out-loud manner than a dialogue with Peter. These are harder than I thought they’d be. His eyes continued to scroll down some kind of invisible list. I probably should’ve just picked one of the storyline guides and skipped these. He turned back toward Peter. But you need a guide. They’re the ones who do the tasks with you. I can only watch during those, I can’t interact. I also have time restrictions with you, so we need to get this going quickly.

You’re looking at me like I should have any clue as to what you’re talking about.

Martin smiled. Sorry. Just trying to make sure I get you set up. He looked back at whatever he’d been looking at before. This one seems doable. No real special skill needed.

Needed for what?

To get the guide, Martin said, then slipped his hand inside his blazer’s inner pocket.

Peter froze when he saw what Martin pulled out.

A handgun.

I know, Martin said. It’s disturbing. But for some reason, it’s the trigger they decided to use. I think it’s more of a symbolic gesture. And like I said before, as long as you have that orange egg on your wrist, you can’t die. Just don’t panic when you get there. I’m not sure if you’ve ever seen the movie, but all you have to—

Peter didn’t wait to find out what Martin was going to say next. He grabbed the table’s edge and flipped it up. Martin was jolted back as Peter ran toward the sliding glass doors. He ignored Martin’s shouts for him to stop and kept running.

As he slowed to slide the door open, he tensed, waiting for a bullet to pierce right through him, but there were no shots. He yelled for Nelson as he ran through the living room, but no one answered back.

Fumbling for his car keys as he ran out the front door, he made a beeline down the driveway toward the recessed nook where his Corolla sat. Nelson was off to his right clipping the hedges, not looking Peter’s way.

He slipped the key into the ignition, but the cylinder wouldn’t turn. He tried again. It still wouldn’t budge. He cursed, wishing he had a push button start.

He scanned up the driveway toward the house. No sign of Martin. He turned back to Nelson. The caretaker was still in the same position, but he wasn’t clipping hedges. He wasn’t doing anything. He was just standing there, in the exact same position, not moving at all.

Peter jumped out and called to him. Nelson didn’t answer, didn’t move. He continued to stay in the same position, not moving a muscle. Frozen like a statute.

Remember what I said about the orange egg, Pete.

Peter turned. Martin was right behind him, gun still in his hand. Peter backpedaled.

As long as you have that egg, this can’t kill you, Martin said, waving the gun. Nothing can.

Peter turned and ran down the driveway. Stay the hell away from me, he yelled. He again tensed, waiting for the bullet that never came.

He made it all the way down the driveway to the street . . . only to find Martin already in the middle of the road, calmly waiting for him. This time, his gun was pointed at Peter.

Peter ran back toward the house, yelling at a still stationary Nelson to call the police. Then his thigh exploded. He tumbled to the ground, his leg pulsating with pain. He looked up and found Martin standing over him, gun still drawn.

Trust me, Pete; this isn’t easy. But we need that guide.

Peter had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. All he could do was try to reason with the man. I’m telling you—you’ve got the wrong guy, he begged as he clutched his thigh, feeling the blood seep through his fingers.

I definitely don’t.

Peter stared at the gun aimed at his head. Don’t do this. I’m not who you think I am. I can’t be.

You are, Pete, Martin said, his eyes soft. And it’s too late to turn back now.

He pulled the trigger.

CHAPTER THREE

His ability to wonder if he was dead made Peter realize he wasn’t.

His eyes were closed, so he didn’t know where he was, but the wind was stiffer, colder. And the sound he heard wasn’t that of waves violently crashing against a beach but lapping up against something solid in choppy, thumping thuds. He was also moving. Swaying.

He opened his eyes and confirmed what the rest of his senses were telling him—he was on a boat. And like when he woke on the beach, his wounds were gone.

He looked around. The boat seemed to be a fishing boat in disarray, with items randomly strewn all over the deck. He looked at the horizon, wondering if he could get a sense as to where he was, but saw nothing beyond the endless ocean and its placid ripples.

He peered through the cabin’s window, but there was no one inside. He yelled out, asking if anyone was around, but heard nothing back but the sound of waves rapping up against the boat’s hull. The smell of the ocean air filling his lungs was more pungent than it had been by the beach. He peered at the sky. No clouds. Which was different than what he’d seen when he’d arrived at Myles’s place.

What did that mean?

He had no idea but knew he had to be hallucinating in some way. There was no other rational explanation. He walked around the bobbing deck, seeing nothing but random debris, a few buckets of chum, some large fishing poles—the type of things you’d expect to see on a fishing boat.

He went inside the cabin to try the radio, but it was damaged. Not working. So he went back outside into the fresh air rather than remain in the cabin’s musty quarters.

He glanced at his forearm. The orange egg was still there.

Despite his apparent rapid slide into insanity, his thoughts remained clear, logical. So logical that he began to dissect what could be occurring, wondering if there was a connection between his apparent breakdown and going back to Myles’s house for the first time since his mother died.

Could that be what was triggering things?

He sat down against the cabin, facing the long narrow perch at the tip of the bow.

He had without a doubt been suppressing some feelings. He knew that. Hell, more than some, he’d been suppressing all of his feelings. It was why he’d chosen to work at a youth shelter for the summer while staying with his aunt. He didn’t want to go back home to New York City—Manhattan. He didn’t want to be around those memories. He wanted the suburbs of Long Island to be his home again. The real Long Island, not a place for the elite like the Hamptons. He’d been waiting for that ever since his parents moved away and especially since the night of Brett’s party.

Maybe that had been the trigger to what was happening, he thought. The night Brett and his trust fund friends couldn’t help but make fun of a shy overweight kid, and the night Peter chose to not let it go even though he didn’t even know the kid.

Who the fuck are you to tell us what to do? he remembered Brett’s douchebag buddy Tyler telling him when Peter told them to stop picking on the kid. I’m not even sure why you’re here.

Peter told him to fuck off.

Tyler laughed. Witty retort.

Peter told him to fuck off again as his anger grew, but his mind remained stuck in neutral when it came to what else to say.

"That’s all you got? Nothing else? Maybe if your dad isn’t busy driving around one of the Greens, you can give him a call