DEAD PACIFICA Part 3

[Fractal Omniscience] commencing…

Searching…

Searching….

The hidden world unfolded to me with only a graze of my consciousness.

[ Fractal Omniscience ] was never a gentle ability of mine. No sweet caress in the brain, no subtle widening of my perception. It hit like a needle of lightning driven straight into the my skull, bright and blinding in its purity. Then, my vision flared out into thousands of branching paths, each one a living thread tied to someone whose name I knew really well or in passing, and someone whose body lingered within eighteen hundred miles of my domain. Reality peeled away from the forest, dissolving into a wash of color and white noise until all I could feel were the spark.

Thoughts.

Fears.

Desires.

Memories.

I've gotten used to seeing humans like this. All of them blooming like cracks on a mirror, enticing me to follow a thread. Come, come this way, my lord. Follow my prayers. Follow my pain. Follow my grief.

I leaned into the fracture and delve further for a specific one.

I flew over Selene Mountain, McLaren Forest, and the glass-black surface of North Cedar Lake. Oregon blurred under me in a streak of hazy lights, forests and rolling hills, buildings high and low, and distant human conversations. Every mind in range was a candle glowing under nightfall, a scattering of lonely islands that made up the world; I felt their heat as I passed, but they weren't who I wanted.

So, I kept going.

South, across the Oregon border.

Down through California.

Toward the electric thrum of Los Angeles.

The city loomed beneath me with its blinding lights, smog, and noise; a hive of humanity vibrating with ambition and vanity. And I pushed deeper and deeper, narrowing the fractal vision into a single branching funnel.

There.

Right there.

Found them.

It was a modern hillside mansion on Studio City, tucked off a quiet, winding road near Fryman Canyon, hidden behind a tall row of Italian cypress and an iron-wrought gate and fences. There were several other mansions along the road, made to feel isolated from each other for privacy only the wealthy could buy. It looked expensive too—$5.1 million dollars to be exact. The entire property exhaled a quiet arrogance of new money. It's all pretend. Half of LA was built on pretending who you were.

This was Dylan Griffin's house.

And there was a party going on tonight.

"Aww, that's a cute house," Demon said, watching from one of the feeds. "Who wants to bet how many skeletons are in his closet?"

Zal perked up. "There are skeletons in his closet? Is he a necromancer of a sort?"

Demon shook his head. "Never mind, Zal. Ignore me. Keep watching."

With Many-Eyes, Oracle guided me from behind the scenes. He had already cracked the surface-level systems around the house: Wi-Fi networks, the interior security cameras, a neighborhood security feed for the next couple of blocks, and even a few poorly protected smart thermostats and the refrigerator, which, weirdly, had an interior camera watching over the food (And for what reason, I did not know). But it gave me a breadcrumb trail straight to Dylan Griffin's front door. I could see everything. Hear everything.

The others were just as eager to see who these delvers were.

Inside, the party was at a full-swing with at least a hundred people wandering about, celebrating Dead Pacifica's success. Voices layered in a messy, human collage: tons of laughter, off-key singing from a room reserved for karaoke, clinking cans of beer, faint traces of somebody's very enthusiastic cologne, someone yelling for more pizza rolls, the hiss of a champagne bottle fighting for its life, and a man screaming as he cannonballed into an infinity pool, spraying everyone else lounging by the edge.

At the main living room, I found Dylan Griffin talking to Retto Kearns and a balding man and a pixie-haired woman of the same age as them.

"Well, I have to give it to you, Dylan—you made the podcast a roaring success," Owen Baldacci, their producer, said with a posh British accent and clapped Dylan's shoulder. He meant it, too. Without Dylan and Retto, his bank account would be on life support by now. "I had my doubts at first, but you proved me wrong. Very wrong. I hope Hell Rock Live will be just as successful."

"Nah, man, it will be. Owen, you have nothing to worry about, alright? You just believe in me, okay?" Dylan raised his drink. "I wasn't kidding when I said we weren't going to hold back our punches given our commentary."

"Ah, you did scare me a few times, thinking you're gonna get sued. Again. You made me sweat talking to our sponsors about—"

"—Ahh! I'm not listening with that shit. Let's not think about the past and let's just think about how we're gonna fucking give them the best show in the decade, yeah? Streamy Awards, anyone?"

Owen smiled. "Ha! I like the sound of that!"

"It's because of Dylan's reputation. It's like the more of a man-child and a raging asshole he is, the more he built up resistance being kicked out of the internet," Heidi Birchall, the assistant producer, said. "He's like a zombie. People throw more money at you when you do dumb stuff."

Dylan flashed a grin and winked at her. "Hey, it helps that I'm a charming zombie."

Heidi rolled her eyes. "Slow down there, Romeo. You're still an asshole."

"And thank God this asshole isn't afraid to say what he wants!" Retto laughed, slurring. "And thanks for making me look like the reasonable one, man." He took a heroic swig of whiskey. "Can't wait to do this another year with you, bro. My main man. My ride-or-die. My bank account."

"Alright, that's enough for you," Owen said, grabbing Retto by the arm. "Let's get you hydrated before your liver crashes."

"What? No, no. I'm not drunk yet."

"You're the most lightweight person I know, Kearns," Owen said, steadying him as Retto wobbled on his feet. "At least have a glass."

"Fine. Hey, Dylan." Retto turned around, swaying. "Owen's my dad now. Did you hear that? He's my daddy. He's gonna get me water. Right, daddy?"

"Okay, please don't call me that."

"My. Daddy. Goo-goo. Da-Da."

"Jesus-fucking-Christ. You really need some wate, Kearns."

"Owen, the pool's right there," Heidi pointed out, deadpan.

"Ah, believe me, it's very tempting."

"Fine, I can walk! Hey, do you prefer I call you mom?" Retto laughed but then accidentally stumbled onto a girl on the way. "Oh! Sorry, sorry! My bad. That's my bad."

Emily Jurek appeared mortified and intercepted them halfway to the kitchen, face pinched in embarrassment. "Sorry, sorry, he gets stupid when he's happy. Come on, babe. Let's go to th bathroom." She shot Owen an apologetic look before guiding Retto away like she'd done it a hundred times.

"Hey, I know you. You're my girlfriend," Retto said.

Emily and Owen dragged Retto to the bathroom.

"He's gonna be fine, right?" Heidi asked.

"He took a peek on that Netflix deal for that potential true-crime Christmas special anthology. They wanted us to host an episode, which I think is a trial run for a full-fledge show," Dylan said. "He has a lot of things to celebrate about for the next coming weeks."

Heidi laughed. "Well, congrats, Dylan! It seems like you and Retto are going places."

"There's always an extra seat for you, you know?"

Heidi laughed again. Dylan smiled and I felt the flutter of it as it warmed his chest. A tiny dopamine swell, and I realized Dylan had a thing for Heidi.

Interesting. I made a mental note for that.

Dylan glanced at Heidi's drink. "Looks like you're gonna be needing another refill."

"Oh, Dylan, it's okay," she said quickly. "I gotta be going soon anyway."

"For real? This early? Nah, no way. The party's just getting started."

"I have an early drive to Sacramento for my cousin's wedding this weekend. I need to be sober."

"Heidi, another drink won't hurt. If this podcast thing didn't pan out, many people have told me I'd make a killing being a bartender. Come on. Let me fix you a drink before you go."

"Dylan…"

"Come on, Heidi. I'll make your favorite drink. I still remember it."

"We're not in college anymore."

"Exactly! We're adults. We can handle our liquor, right? I've seen you drink more than what Retto had and it didn't even faze you."

"That was a long time ago."

"Nope. I wont't take no for an answer. I'm gonna fix you a drink."

"Dylan—wait!"

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Dylan led her toward the bar, where no one was there to hog the counter. Dylan stepped behind it, muscle memory smoothing his movements as he worked quickly and confidently to make her a strawberry mojito with a little showmanship.

He slid the glass toward her with a small flourish. "My lady."

Heidi took a sip. Blinked in pleasant shock. "It's…wow. That's very good."

"You're surprised?"

"Um, I mean, yeah? Dylan, you voluntarily jumped into a sewer with feces in one of your videos."

"That video got me more than two hundred thousand dollars in views. So what?"

"And it got me curious what normal skills or hobbies you have. If you have one and, um, I guess, it's freaking bartending?"

"See? I don't half-ass my skills, ma'am."

Heidi almost spat her drink. "Ma'am?"

"I think that's what bartenders say."

She laughed again—I could taste the sound through Dylan's synapses as his butterflies fluttered. "Well, yeah, I can see it now. Maybe that's your next venture. Opening a bar."

"Oh. That's not a bad idea actually. Some of my friends have made a killing on that front."

"Well, I am your producer. I aim to please."

"Is that so, huh? Well, just tell me what drinks you fancy, and I promise to make them tonight. Just tell me. Consider me your personal bartender."

Then she hesitated—just a beat—but in that beat I saw the whole web of her uncertainty, her guilt, and her desire. "I'm not staying the night, Dylan," she said softly.

Dylan leaned on the counter with his elbow, amused. "Who says anything about staying the night?"

"The drinks, the party, you insisting I stay. No. I'm not staying the night. I know how you play."

"What? Heidi, come on. Look at me. I'm not playing at anything."

Even I could tell he was lying. Heidi, too.

"Oh, really? Sure, Dylan. Sure."

"What? I want to hang out with you. It's been a long while and I thought…"

"You thought?" Heidi raised her eyebrow. "We can't do that again."

"And why not?" Dylan asked, crossing his arms. Heidi took notice of how it made his biceps look bigger.

"For one, I'm your employee," Heidi said.

"That didn't stop you before."

Her eyes flicked away. "I have a boyfriend."

"I thought you guys broke up."

"Yes…we're on a break for a month now…but…you know how it is."

"Which was your decision," Dylan continued. "You're the one who wanted space. For the third time now by the way. You know its very easy just to make it permanent at this point."

"But I can't do that to him. He's your best friend. And he's here." She nodded toward the pool.

I followed Dylan's gaze across the deck. Anton Lozano stood with Megan Adler and Collette Quezada, talking animatedly, relaxed. He laughed at his own joke. Megan smacked his arm playfully. Collette flipped her hair. Anton found his gaze for a brief moment at the bar where Dylan and Heidi were. Then, he peeled his attention away back to the girls in front of him.

"Well, well, well. It looks to me like he's moved on," Dylan said. "Collette has many talents."

Heidi shot him a sharp look. She didn't like that. "Don't be gross."

Dylan raised his hands in surrender. "Hey, don't worry. I haven't slept with her."

"That's not what I meant."

"Sure, sure."

Heidi took another slow sip of the mojito. Stalling. Testing herself against the pull.

"I really can't stay the night," she said softly. Her eyes found Dylan's.

That's when they found themselves in Dylan's bedroom upstairs.

Dylan locked the door with a sharp click.

Heidi didn't protest. She was already on him.

The moment the lock turned, they tore into each other—her nails dragging across his back, through his hair, his hands under her shirt, both of them pulling fabric off in frantic motions as they stumbled onto the bed. They kissed like they're trying to crawl into each other's mouths. She shoved him to the floor and mounted him, breath hot, thighs tightening around him as the world fell away in muffled gasps.

Bored, I rolled my eyes and flew out from the bedroom.

Humans were always a habit of nature. Give them alcohol, some attention, and a little mood lighting, and they'll mate on whatever flat surface was the closest. I drifted across the house like a cold breeze, searching for more minds to spy on. I took notes of the crew members who were also going to be at North Cedar Lake during the livestream, many of them were production assistants, make-up, and support tech.

In the guest bathroom downstairs, Retto knelt over the toilet, puking his guts out.

Kevin "Big Mac" Rangel, the camera tech and the crew's resident teddy bear, recorded all of it with his Blackmagic pocket rig. Big Mac was a mountain of a man of about six-four, massive arms, a pot belly, and a thick black beard that went all the way down the line of his upper sternum. He wore cargo shorts, heavy boots, and a shirt that read: Did Someone Say Pizza Party? With a dancing stick figure wearing a Hawaiian shirt eating a pizza.

"Jesus Christ, babe," Emily hissed, rubbing circles on her boyfriend's back. "You had four drinks."

"Strong ones," Owen muttered, arms crossed. "I don't think he measured them right."

"I thought he only had beer."

Owen smiled. "Oh, sweetheart. Anton gave him a lot more than that, and a little special one." He motioned as if taking a pill.

"Seriously?" Emily rolled her eyes. "Jesus, Retto. Here. Drink some water."

"Nope. Water tastes so gross right now."

"But it's good for you."

Big Mac zoomed in dramatically as Retto dry-heaved, then weakly flipped him off.

"Perfect, Retts," Big Mac said. "This is B-Roll gold."

"Fuck you, Mac."

"Kevin, give him space!" Emily said, but she was also smiling, amused at her boyfriend's antics. "I told you not to drink that much tonight. We're supposed to have brunch with my mom tomorrow. I can't have you going in at Bottega's drunk."

"It's a party. I can't help it, baby. It's a party," he repeated.

"Owen, can you grab me like an icepack from the kitchen?" Emily asked.

"Sure, love. Mac, please leave and get that camera off our faces? Is that the right time right now?"

"Um, dude, you literally gave me orders to film B-roll for the podcast, man."

"What?"

"I'm paid thirty bucks an hour for this party."

"Well, I didn't say film Retto Kearns puking his stomach out on the bathroom toilet. Go find somewhere else interesting to film!"

"Alright, alright. Jeez. I'm going."

Big Mac and Owen stepped back, pivoted, and left the bathroom together as Retto drunkenly kept telling Emily that he loved her.

"I love you, baby. You look so pretty today." Retto pinched Emily's cheeks.

"Ew. Don't touch my hair with that finger!"

Big Mac laughed and pushed open the sliding door; the camera still recording. The group outside cheered when they saw the lens. A few of the partygoers waved, shouted their social handles, or posed with exaggerated duck-faces. He interviewed some of them for some small talk. One girl stuck her tongue out and claimed to be an Instagram model with fifty thousand followers. A muscular guy flexed and talked about his bodybuilding YouTube channel. Warm music continued streaming through the speakers. Laughter bouncing off the walls. The pool glowed blue under underwater LEDs, bodies gathered around it like moths to a flame.

Big Mac narrated in his deep, baritone voice with a mocking Australian accent, "And here, ladies and gents, we observe the migratory patterns of content creators in their natural habitat—drunk, horny, and unaware that their actions will haunt them online forever. All thanks to me. The ever-watchful eye."

He moved past them to where Anton, Megan, and Collette sat at the edge of the pool, their feet dipping in the water. Collette confidently posed for the camera as Big Mac's lens found her.

"Say hi to the nice camera," Big Mac said.

Collette blew a kiss. "Hi, Daddy Mac."

Anton snorted. "Don't flirt with him. He's married."

"So? Doesn't mean he can't enjoy it," Collette said.

Megan slapped her arm. "Stop. You're bad."

"That's no problem, ladies. I am loyal to my woman." Big Mac raised his ring finger, a gold band wrapped around it.

Collette smiled. "Aww. You're adorable."

"Hey, Big Mac! Can you tell us who this freaking guest celebrity Dylan has been teasing all morning?" Megan said.

"Um, who?"

"The psychic. Dylan and Retto has been going on and on about it, but they refused to tell me who it is. I'm getting fucking annoyed."

"Well…maybe I shouldn't."

"Oh! Come on! That's not fair."

Anton pulled out his wallet and took out some loose bills. "Look…I have, let me see…two hundred dollars of loose change in my wallet, and I'll Venmo you two hundred more if you tell us who it is."

Big Mac hesitated. "Ahh…fine. Deal. It's Kurtis Darlington."

All three perked up. "Kurtis-motherfucking-Darlington?"

"Oh, yeah. He's actually the one who wanted to join the show for an appearance, but when Dylan pitched him the idea of the anniversary special, he was down to go to Oregon."

"Um, why?"

Big Mac shrugged. "I don't know. Apparently, Kurtis loved that spooky shit."

"Holy shit. Can't believe you got Darlington of all people." Megan said. "He's not like the most popular and has a sold out Las Vegas residency in the decade for his magic show. I did a collab with him two months ago, which took months to plan by the way, and it was very hard to organize it because of his busy schedule. What else do you know? When is he coming up there?"

Big Mac laughed. "Look, I've told you enough! How about you tell me what're you troublemakers planning to do once we hit Hell Rock? This is for the B-roll."

Anton perked up. "Easy. Tunnel of Love."

Megan blinked. "I thought this is supposed to be a horror show. Wait, did you and Heidi get back together after you cheated on her?"

"For the record, I did not cheat on her."

Collette grinned haughtily. "Really, Lozano? Is shoving your tongue down two women's throats in Aruba not considered cheating nowadays?"

Anton gave Collette the middle finger. "Ha. Ha. Very funny. I'll have you know that we're gonna get back together very soon. I give her another month to cool off before she'll come crawling back to me like always," Anton said.

Megan and Collette shared an amused look.

Anton continued, "And by Tunnel of Love, I meant that creepy amusement park from the nineties—the one that closed down after those two teenagers got murdered in the tunnel? I wanna explore that whole place. The whole park, actually. I also want to go to that mirror maze where three clowns hanged themselves."

Collette nodded approvingly. "Respectably insane. I like that."

Megan lifted her drink. "Well, I wanna see the lake."

"Boring," Anton said. "Super vanilla."

"No, listen," Megan insisted. "There's an urban legend that if you're alone out on the water at night, you can hear a woman singing. Like, right next to you. But you have to be alone for it. I wanna test if that's true or not."

"Sounds safe," Big Mac deadpanned.

Collette tossed her hair. "I want to go to the satanic cabin, especially the ritual chamber. I'm gonna film there."

"Of course, you are. That's the point of the show."

"No. It's for my own thing."

"For ghost-hunting?" Megan asked.

"Again, no." Collette smiled wickedly. "For sex, sweetie."

Big Mac choked on air.

Megan stared at her. "Collette. We're doing a livestream. Is that…appropriate?"

Collette waved it off. "Please. It's in my contract. Dylan wants someone to entice that side of the internet, you know? The ones who only cares about tits, ass, and cleavage—and boom, instant engagement. Why do you think Emily Jurek is in the cast? That woman's got a pretty rack."

"Hurtful. Thanks," Megan said, and looked down at her own chest.

"Oh, sweetie. You might not be gifted on the upper department, but I can't say the same thing for the lower section."

Anton cracked up. Megan tried not to.

"Flattered. You didn't have to say that," Megan said.

"And," Collette continued, lowering her voice theatrically, "I'm doing a private stream of my own. On the exact spot where they did those ritual killings and killed that boy—what was his name? Ah! Mark Castle."

"You're gonna have sex on the ritual table?" Megan asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Correction, not a table. It's a ritual pit. And no one have ever said they've had sex there before. I'll be the first."

"Classy," Anton said sarcastically.

Collette turned to him with a sultry grin. "You could be my lucky man."

He raised his hands. "Nope. I don't do porn. I have sponsors. And I think its common sense that you don't have sex on a satanic chamber or else you'll attract something you don't want. That's just the Catholic guilt in me talking."

"Hey! I have sponsors, too. And besides, it could be an exciting adventure." Collette shrugged and looked at Megan. "And I'm also open to girl-on-girl action."

Megan nearly spit out her drink. "Thank you, but I'd rather talk to the singing ghost in the lake."

Collette gasped dramatically. "Rejected by two people at once? Rude."

"Don't be hard on yourself," Megan laughed.

Big Mac rotated the camera toward himself. "So. Asking for a friend. Are the crew off-limits? I have several people who might want to get in line."

Collette winked, grabbed the hem of her top, and—without hesitation—flashed the camera.

Anton and Megan burst into chaotic laughter.

Big Mac whooped. "Holy shit, girl—okay, okay, that's enough, we're gonna get demonetized!"

But he kept filming anyway.

"These are some interesting people you found, my lord," Mother Gertrude said, watching through the monitors. "Are you sure you wanted a delve this public?"

"They plan to stream their time here," Oracle said. "Do you want me to interrupt their signal when they do? Is that the plan?"

"No," I said. "Don't."

Oracle and Mother Gertrude looked at each other.

Zal cleared his throat. "But that would mean—"

"Exactly. Anyone who's watching will see them die."

The others hesitated to say something.

"What is it? All of you are free to speak your mind in my presence. This is a book club, after all."

Mother Gertrude looked at the others and then spoke for them. "I admit that this is a drastic course of action, my liege. We have been adamant at keeping ourselves hidden for over a year. Once we open that bottle, people will be more than aware of your existence. Of us."

"Not all of us, and not all of me," I said reassuringly. "And besides, I've grown quite a lot. There will be plenty of people online who will argue whether what they see in the stream was even real or not. For us, it's very easy to manipulate the evidence. Their deaths will only bring us more notoriety, drawing in more people. We wouldn't have to rely on urban legends for long."

"Is this another Duncan Scheme, my lord?" Demon asked.

The Duncan Scheme was created by Duke Henry to blame these acts of violence from the scenario to a single perpetrator within the delving party or from fatal car accidents. Sometimes, we would pin these murders to a member (or several members) that was already dead. We've done it to a group of college kids where one of them "turned crazy" and made it look like they murdered the rest of their friends and killed themselves afterwards. We've done it to a married couple who had killed their foster children in the past for cash and fame, and I made the husband looked like he murdered his wife and then himself. And many more. It helped bring some semblance of normalcy to this place, and it helped alleviate the authorities' concerns when they "solved" the case with a neat bow. I couldn't just have all of these delvers disappear without a trace all the time.

Sometimes, bodies just needed to be found.

"It can be," I said to Demon.

"So," Oracle said carefully, "shall I prepare a framing narrative? Write a plausible thread? There are many in that group who could be molded into a scapegoat."

I shook my head. "No need. Dylan Griffin is already doing the job for us."

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