The Lost 95

By Steven B. Orkin

Andrea Cottrell works alone in a tiny office, isolated from the world in more ways than one. As a result of a freak accident that nearly kills her, she embarks on a mystical, psychedelic journey through time, space, reality, metaphor, grief, and possibility. With the help of a philosophical rabbi, she searches for meaning, hope, truth, and the strength to move on.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steven Orkin
• Release date: Nov 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223194347

Book preview

by

Steven B. Orkin

On the corner of Fourth Avenue and Main Street in downtown Bay Shore, NY is an office building. On the second floor, beside the elevator, are the offices of Vantik Technologies, a sales organization representing half a dozen manufacturers of high-end electronics components. Though the company generates some ten million dollars in annual sales ("Sales, not profit," as its CEO, Michael Tupero, is quick to point out), Vantik is a small firm with only three employees, housed in a modest suite with a main reception area and two small satellite offices. Tupero spends most of his time on the road or working out of his home in the Hamptons. His partner, Jimmy Dee, is based in Massachusetts and only rarely occupies his office. That leaves office manager Andrea Cottrell, who lay unconscious on the floor.

The mail carrier didn’t see her body lying behind the desk, which faces the door. Assuming Andrea had stepped out, he dropped the mail on the chair just inside the entry.

A short while later, UPS came to call. Like the mail carrier, he didn’t bother to fully enter the office. Leaning in from the hallway, seeing no boxes nor kooky goth chick behind the desk, he was back in the elevator before it left the floor.

Outside of phone calls and emails, these two visits frequently constituted the extent of Andrea’s human contact over the course of a given workday, so no one had the slightest idea that anything had happened to her. She could have died on that Friday afternoon, her stiffening corpse undiscovered until Monday, maybe Tuesday, depending on whether Michael came in, or perhaps how soon her decomposing flesh generated a bad enough stench to incite investigation.

This did not occur.

~~~

Andrea stirred, blinking like an old flashlight trying to muster a light, cheek mashed against the plastic carpet protector. Her office chair, turning languidly in the still, stuffy air as if to say, Man, nothing to do around here..., rested near the buff-colored, horizontal filing cabinet. Her slender, black glasses (cat’s-eye specs, her father had called them) lay abandoned on the floor. Dully, she wondered what they were doing there.

Pushing up to a sitting position, legs in a wide V, she grabbed hold of her chair to keep upright. Her thoughts slogged around her head like badly curdled milk as she stared at the black leather boots on her feet, which seemed farther from her body than they should have been. She actually checked to make sure she wasn’t experiencing some freakish final synaptic flare after being chopped in half by a machete or something.

But no, she was all there; physically, anyway. Andrea felt dizzy, brain buzzing like she’d been whacked across the back of the head, but she felt no lump and wasn’t bleeding. She looked at her chair like a rock climber gauging a route up Mount Everest, then clambered into it, exhausted by the effort.

Holy shit, she slurred in sudden realization. Did someone rape me?

Part of her brain wondered where the hell that came from, but likewise conceded it was possible. Even a casual observer casing the various offices on her floor would quickly be able to discern she was alone most of the time. She usually brought her own lunch and rarely left the office outside of an occasional bathroom break or breath of fresh air. She didn’t socialize much and was too awkward to make much conversation when she did. Plus, some found her wardrobe (black, with occasional dabs of crimson), multiple ear and nose piercings, tattoos, pale complexion, darkly-lined eyes, and arrow-straight, raven hair a little off-putting. Not exactly standard office couture.

A year or so before, she’d overheard someone in a nearby office refer to her as ‘the hermit’, and later realized most of the people on the floor called her the same thing. No one had ever said it to her face, and she didn’t think they meant it mean-spiritedly (in most cases), but even so, it hurt her feelings. A little, anyway.

The point was, someone could have slipped a date rape drug into her coffee when she stepped out to the ladies’ room (she didn’t bother to lock the door under such circumstances), waited twenty minutes for it to kick in, and come back for her with virtually no chance of being discovered.

Only, her clothes were all in place (if a little rumpled). Though she had a bad taste in her mouth, it sure as hell wasn’t semen (not that she’d had much experience in that department), and she had no sense she’d been entered anywhere else.

The phone rang and she picked it up before considering she was in no condition to perform customer service.

Vantechnoloshies, she slurred, then tried again. Vant – Vantik – Hello?

Andrea? said a stunned voice. Andrea, are you all right?

Jimmy, the Boston guy.

Heeeey, Jimmmmy. Somethin’ fuckin’ hit me, Jimmy...

You sound drunk, Andrea. Is anyone there with you?

In the back room of her mind, in which she was currently locked, she listened at the door and realized, Yep! He’s right. You sound totally wasted.

Listen, Jimmmmy, she mumbled. Last thing I ‘member... was working... on a ssppread... sheet. Then I woke up on the... the uh... floor. No one raped me though, so that’s good. Tha’s reeaall... good...

Andrea, you need to tell me right now what’s going on! Did you drink your lunch or do you need 911?

"I don’t... feel so good, Jimmy. Can