Augmented Zeality: ZPOCALYPTO - A World of GAMELAND Series, #11

By Saul Tanpepper

EPISODE 11

Government is imposing evermore restrictive requirements for implant control, while Arc, Media, and just about everyone else is acting like everything's normal. As Jessie and the others try to navigate the treacherous post-Gameland waters, and the mystery of her mother's disappearance deepens, one thing finally becomes very clear: going back is the only way to bring an end to the misery afflicting them all. But doing so will pit old friends against one another in a battle of life and death.

The ZPOCALYPTO series consists of the following:
EP01: Hacked Into the Game
EP02: Failsafe Codex
EP03: Deadman's Gambit
EP04: Sunder the Hollowmen (includes the prequel "Golgotha")
EP05: Prometheus Mode (includes the companion title "Velveteen")
EP06: Every Dead Player
EP07: Cheat Protocol
EP08: Jacker's Exploit
EP09: Live Another Play
EP10: Return To The Arcade (includes supplemental material "Infected" pt 1)
EP11: Augmented Zeality
EP12: Reckoning The Dead
EP13: Glitch In The Script
EP14: Open-World Spawn (includes supplemental material "Infected" pt 2)
A Dark and Sure Descent (companion title)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brinestone Press
• Release date: Nov 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223522133

Saul Tanpepper

Subscribe for new releases & exclusive deals/giveaways: tinyletter.com/SWTanpepper Saul Tanpepper is the specfic pen name of author Ken J. Howe, a PhD molecular biologist and former Army medic and trauma specialist.  Titles include: The post-apocalyptic series GAMELAND (recommended reading order): - Golgotha (prequel, optional) - Episodes 1-4 - Velveteen (standalone novella, optional) - Episodes 5-8 - Infected: Hacked Files From the Gameland Archive (insights for the avid GAMELAND fan) - Jessie's Game #1: Signs of Life - A Dark and Sure Descent - Jessie's Game #2: Dead Reckoning Post-apocalyptic series BUNKER 12 - Contain - Books 2-4 (coming soon) International medical thriller serial THE FLENSE (a BUNKER 12 companion series) - CHINA: Books 1-3 - ICELAND: Book 1-3 - AFRICA: Books 1-3 - TBA Short story collections: Shorting the Undead & Other Horrors Insomnia: Paranormal Tales, Science Fiction, and Horror Visit him at tanpepperwrites.com

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Evans home has stood empty barely three weeks, and yet it’s already begun to acquire that characteristic look of neglect so common among abandoned houses. Mister Evans’ well-tended tiny postcard patch of grass — barely large enough to host a lounge chair — is wilted and crumbly from lack of water. The nasturtiums standing guard to either side of the front door have long since shriveled down to mud-colored skeletons. Their leaves have all fallen off, shed like dandruff onto the shoulders of their terra cotta pots. A thin film of dust has begun to adhere to the front windows of the house.

Eric stands on the walk and regards the scene with a sense of foreboding. He’d come here expecting to find answers, so everything feels suspicious. There’s the screen door hanging slightly open. It’s probably been broken forever. Like every other house on the block, this one, when you look closely enough beneath the picture-perfect surface, has actually been falling apart for years.

A pair of elementary school age girls walk past on the sidewalk behind him, their heads bowed together and their quiet giggles drawing his attention. They don’t seem to notice him standing there on the burnt lawn.

Excuse me, he calls over. He makes sure not to approach them out of fear he’ll frighten them away. It’s the type of neighborhood where random men are viewed with caution.

The girls glance warily over and keep walking.

Do you live on this street?

We’re not supposed to talk to strangers, one of them says. The declaration hangs in the air, both warning and acknowledgment. She says it loud enough to draw the attention of anyone who might happen to be out and about within a three-house radius.

It’s okay, he says, and pulls out his badge. I’m a police officer. Here, see?

My mom says anybody can get one of those easily on the black streams.

The other girl urgently shushes her. Familiarity with the black streams might be considered in certain circles to be an admission to using them.

Eric doesn’t respond to the assertion. To deny it would only make him all the more sketchy. He knows that fake badges are easily obtained. Carrying one gives him no legitimacy.

He puts the shield away. I just have a question about the people who live here.

The girls stop. They’re right at the edge of the property, as if a single step over that invisible line will secure their escape, should they need it. They’re clearly torn between wanting to walk away and the worry of what he might do if they ignore him.

Did you know them?

They’re gone, one of the girls bravely replies.

The other nervously whispers her friend’s name — Gemma, Eric thinks — and Gemma whispers back that it’s okay to talk about it. The second girl reaches for her friend’s hand for reassurance.

Have you seen anyone around since then? Anyone who didn’t seem to belong?

Like you?

He smiles. Sure, like me.

The police came a bunch of days ago, Gemma replies. She’s braver now, now that Eric has remained on the lawn and not tried to come any closer.

The police?

"Only they looked like police. You don’t."

He glances down at himself. He’s not in uniform and isn’t carrying his EM pistol.

Both also obtainable on the black streams.

Have you seen anyone else besides the police? he asks.

Gemma shrugs. No.

And how about you? Eric asks the other girl. She still refuses to make eye contact and instead stares toward the adjacent property. She’s one step away. That’s all she needs and she’ll be safe from this stranger who says he’s a cop but doesn’t look like one and is asking about the creepy empty house. Anxiety is written all over her face and infused into her posture. She anxiously elbows Gemma. Eric suppresses a sad smile.

She hasn’t seen anything, either, Gemma says. Isn’t that right, Nina?

It’s empty, Nina mumbles.

We haven’t seen anyone Gemma adds, with finality.

He watches them go. They look back only once, upon reaching the corner several houses away. Then, satisfied that he’s not going to come after them, they hurry on across the street. When they turn the next corner, they’re still clutching each other’s hand and haven’t resumed their chitchat.

He’s not surprised to find the Evanses’ front door locked tight. He swings the screen door shut and tries to make it stick. But it just pops open again. He steps off the porch and begins to make his way toward the backyard by way of the narrow driveway. His shoes crunch on the gravel. It sounds unnaturally loud in the hot, still, expectant air.

A freestanding garage occupies the back corner. He makes a mental note to check it afterward.

The Evanses sudden disappearance from Greenwich within hours of the kids’ return without Ashley had been more than suspicious, like they had something more to fear than the possible legal consequences of their daughter’s involvement. Eric knows it’s possible they’d simply fled out of grief and a desire to get away before the story seekers and gossipmongers flocked to their door. It seemed inevitable that the break-in would eventually become public knowledge.

But it hadn’t. Outside of his law-enforcement circle, he hadn’t heard a single peep anywhere, certainly nothing on the black streams. Arc’s lawyers and the spin doctors must’ve worked overtime to suppress the story. They own Media and use it to great effect to achieve whatever their need happens to be at the moment. They had apparently decided that there’s nothing to be gained by word of a breach getting out. No charges were filed. And his own department had been ordered to pretend it never happened. The whole break-in and all that had come of it, including some of NCD’s ongoing investigations into spies within Arc’s employ, were mothballed. Ashley’s and Jake’s deaths were swept under the rug.

Even though it was a relief to him personally, given his sister’s involvement, it was also professionally frustrating. Under threat of discharge from the force, Harrick had instructed anyone who knew anything about any of it to keep mum and to carry on as if nothing had happened. She even hinted that the consequences would go beyond losing one’s job. They were not to speak to anyone about the deaths of two teenagers inside the arcade, nor were they to even speculate as to whether there might be any connection between them and what was happening in South Manhattan and elsewhere. Orders that Eric had no doubt came from Arc by way of Mayor Davenport.

Jessie would not have to explain her part in the break-in and the deaths of her two friends, and he wouldn’t be made to answer for the deaths of his grandfather and the Marines whom he had accompanied in his disastrous failed attempt to rescue the kids.

But it doesn’t mean it’s all just gone. He knows it’ll forever hang over their heads, like Damocles’ sword.

He tests each of the windows he can reach, but finds them all locked tight.

Where have the Evanses gone to? Why did they leave?

A tall wooden fence wraps around the backyard. The driveway gate is latched shut from the inside. A wire had once poked through a hole drilled in one panel to permit a person to release it from the outside, but it’s missing. He sticks his eye to the hole and peeks through.

The grass here is considerably greener than in the front yard, undoubtedly the beneficiary of an illegal automatic watering system. He can only glimpse a narrow slice of the yard and a section of the walkway. The back porch is too far around the corner for him to see.

He jiggles the gate, hoping it’ll pop free, but it doesn’t, and he’s not tall enough to reach over and undo the latch. From here, there’s a narrow view to the street, which is empty at the moment. He could climb over and no one would see him, but he’s not about to do anything that physical, not with a cracked rib. He needs a more creative solution. He spies an old tire leaning against the garage and figures it’ll do the trick, so he rolls it over.

Standing atop the tire and leaning over the fence to reach the latch, he spots evidence that someone has been here recently— the grass is trodden down in places. The trail leads from the far corner of the yard and heads toward the house. He’s lucky to catch it in just the right light. If he had come earlier, the shadows would be different, and he might not have noticed it at all. He releases the latch and climbs back down off the tire.

After letting himself into the yard, he tracks to where the trail starts. A section of the fence in the back corner has been pried away. The opening is hidden from sight behind a curtain of ivy. He shoulders his way through the growth and finds the boards tossed haphazardly down the slope. Eight feet below is the trail that runs parallel to this arm of Rockwood Creek. Peeking over the tops of the trees to the right are the highest girders of the iron bridge spanning Yale Drive, a block and a half away. He turns back toward the house.

The sun is behind him now, and it reflects off the windows so that the rooms inside appear to be burning. The steps and railing of the back porch are awash in light, but everything deeper in is cast in shadow. An involuntary chills passes through him.

Even more than his four years of experience on the job, the two he spent in the Marines have honed his instinct for sensing when something’s amiss. And right now, alarm bells are ringing inside his head. Safely securing a site requires patience and caution, discipline and diligence. He’d done combat stints in China and Mexico, where the local armies relied heavily on buried mines to take out Omegas. He’s confident there are no tripwires here or buried ordnance. Nevertheless, he scans the yard with an eye trained to picked out booby traps. He spots something halfway across the lawn, something that doesn’t look right.

Without blinking or looking away from that one particular swatch of grass, he makes his way to it. The object is nestled inches down in the growth. It’s a small baggie. Zoners, he mutters to himself, identifying them by their color. The bag is open, and the pills have soaked up the dew and grown fat and misshapen.

He doesn’t know what it means, if anything. Maybe it’s nothing. Then again, they had to have been dropped recently, at least after the last rain a couple days before and long after the Evanses left.

Just kids, he concludes, tossing it back to the ground. Kids looking for a place to party.

They must be the ones who pried the fence apart and left the footprints in the grass.

He turns back toward the house, his forehead wrinkling with concern. He quickly and quietly makes his way up the back steps.

There’s a window beside the door and he approaches it from the side. He glances quickly in, then rolls past it. He comes to a stop with his opposite shoulder pressed against the doorjamb beside the knob. Another quick glance and his brain processes an empty hallway. No lights on inside. Barren walls, bare floor. Not even an area rug to protect the soft wood.

The door yields against his push and slips open with the faintest of creaks. The part of the jamb around the deadbolt is splintered. Bits of the old, dry wood have fallen to the floor, where there are dried muddy footprints. His nerves are firing on all cylinders now. Several feet in, he sees a small, dark spot on the bare tile. There’s another farther on, and more beyond that. Blood trail, he thinks. He scrapes a little of it away with a splinter of wood. Then he wets his finger and rubs it. The shavings turn red. He estimates the blood is at least a couple days old.

But he still doesn’t know what any of this means.

The next dark spot he sees isn’t blood, but a small brown button. It appears to be from a shirt. But who’s?

Nobody’s. Buttons are common. And brown is a common color.

He searches the downstairs room by room, his every sense sharpened. His eyes scan for the slightest movement, his ears pricked for the faintest sound. The air is cool and stale. It smells... unspent. He clears the upstairs next. Most of the rooms are completely empty. One bedroom — Ashley’s, he guesses — contains a couple boxes. They appear to have been hastily and haphazardly packed. They’re filled with the trinkets of the girl’s youth— childish knickknacks and, oddly, a ceramic bowl with the ashy remains of old photographs and papers.

He sets this to one side and continues searching. He finds nothing to suggest the house is being used by kids seeking a little privacy.

He locates the basement door in the kitchen and, after steeling himself, pops it open. A cool draft wafts up into his face. The air is even staler than the rest of the house. It smells heavily of old packed dirt and mold and moisture, the age-old tincture of eau-de-cellar. But there’s something else underneath it, something that doesn’t belong. It smells of something dying or already dead.

He locates the light switch and flicks it on and sees that he’s not alone.

There’s a body at the bottom of the stairs.

Chapter 2

The car rolls to a stop beside me and the door pops open.

Excuse me, Miss Daniels?

I look over, blinking numbly and barely registering that it’s the cops. I’ve been in a daze since leaving school a half hour before, when I got notice that I’ve been invited to The Game. So now, the first thing that comes to mind seeing who’s following me is that Siennah Davenport called her father, who then called Eric’s boss, and now the police want to arrest me for assaulting Greenwich’s precious little princess.

I keep walking.

Miss Daniels, can you stop for a moment?

One of the officers gets out, even as the car keeps rolling to stay with me. I recognize him as one of the two men who apparently have made it their life’s purpose to harass me. They’ve dropped by the house multiple times, both before the Gameland fiasco and after.

Hank, I remember. That’s the name of the younger, thinner one. Hank Gilfoy.

The older, fatter cop, the one driving the patrol car, his name’s Al Castle. They’re both dickheads.

Can you come with us, please?

What’s this about?

You know what this is about. And they know you know.

Gilfoy opens the back door of the sedan and gestures for me to get in.

I’m not going anywhere with you, I say, feigning bravado. Not until you tell me why and where you’re taking me.

A new thought crosses my mind: What if this isn’t about Siennah? What if it’s Citizen Registration and they’ve come to put me into isolation?

We’ll explain on the way.

No! Absolutely not!

Gilfoy rolls his eyes. We need to take you to the hospital. Your brother is waiting for you there.

Eric? Why is he at the hospital?

Please, Miss Daniels, just get in the car.

I’m not going into isolation! I still have time!

Gilfoy’s face tightens with confusion.

I consider running. Will they shoot me if I try? I don’t want to test that theory.

Leave her! Castle shouts out the window. We’re not ArcGig drivers, for crissake. Let her find her own way to the hospital then.

Please, Gilfoy says to me, and gestures again to the back seat.

After a moment’s hesitation, I get in. Castle’s willingness to let me go is what convinces me I’m not going to be taken into custody. I slide over onto the hard, plastic seat. It smells of body odor and disinfectant spray.

You okay back there? Gilfoy asks through the wire grill.

I’m surprised to hear what sounds like concern in his voice. I tell myself he could be faking it. Just another twist on the good cop, bad cop motif: uncaring cop, sympathetic cop. I’m fine. Is my brother hurt?

Gilfoy shakes the back of his head at me. Our boss asked us to find you — as a courtesy to him — and bring you to him.

Courtesy, Castle chuffs. So we’re a fucking taxi service now.

It’s about your mother, Gilfoy says, ignoring his partner’s jibe.

I jerk upright in surprise. Mom? What about her? Did you find her?

Your brother did. She’s—

He stops himself and glances over at Castle, who doesn’t offer his partner any guidance. His eyes are glued to the road. His face is stoic. He’s chewing on something — gum, I assume — and is pretending to be focused only on driving.

Your brother asked that we take you straight to see her, Gilfoy finishes. And before you ask about her, let me just say that we don’t know anything.

So don’t waste your breath, Castle firmly adds.

The two men exchange looks then, and I get the feeling they’re lying. I could try to wheedle more information out of them, but I already know they’re not going to budge.

I try to ping Eric, but he doesn’t connect.

We pull into the NO PARKING zone at the