Tijuana, Massachusetts E-Book

Robert Jeschonek

• Herausgeber: Pie Press
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

Why does Cape Cod, Massachusetts keep changing into Tijuana, Mexico? Don't ask Patty, the foul-mouthed everything-hater with a memory full of holes. Every time the lump on her head buzzes, Cape Cod becomes Tijuana or vice versa. One minute, Patty sees lighthouses and well-dressed children; the next, she fends off pushy street kids and donkeys done up like zebras. Has she lost her mind, or is someone--or something--driving her crazy? Little by little, the truth seeps through...but the dark secrets it forces to the surface might be far more terrible than any illusion. Don't miss this surprising story by award-winning writer Robert Jeschonek, a master of unique and unexpected science fiction that really packs a punch.

Leseprobe

Tijuana, Massachusetts

A SCIFI STORY

ROBERT JESCHONEK

Contents

Also by Robert Jeschonek

Tijuana, Massachusetts

About the Author

Special Preview: Six Scifi Stories Volume Four

TIJUANA, MASSACHUSETTS

Copyright © 2023 by Robert T. Jeschonek

www.robertjeschonek.com

Cover Art Copyright © 2023 by Ben Baldwin

www.benbaldwin.co.uk

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

All rights reserved by the author.

Published by Blastoff Books

An Imprint of Pie Press

411 Chancellor Street

Johnstown, Pennsylvania 15904

www.piepresspublishing.com

Subscribe to the Blastoff Books Newsletter: http://newsletter.blastoffbooks.net/.

Also by Robert Jeschonek

100th Power Book 1

100th Power Book 2

100th Power Book 3

Blastoff!

Cosmic Conflicts

Gray Lady Rising (with Annie Reed)

In a Green Dress, Surrounded by Exploding Clowns and Other Stories

In the Empire of Underpants and Other Stories

Battlenaut Crucible

Scifi Motherlode

Sticks and Stones: A Trek Novel

Tijuana, Massachusetts

At first, Patty thought someone was shooting at her. Bracka-cracka-crack. She clamped her hands over her ears, fighting to drown out the clattering racket. Cracka-bracka-brack.

Then, suddenly, it was like someone had turned down the volume and she could hear the sound for what it really was.

Shicka-shacka-shicka.

And when she opened her eyes, she saw what was making that sound: a bright yellow box jumping up and down in a dirty brown hand. A rainbow-colored logo swirled across the front under a cellophane wrapper.

Chiclets. Someone was shaking a box of Chiclets in her face.

"Five dollar, señora." The voice of a little boy called out from behind the box. "Want some Cheek-lits?"

What the fuck?

Since when did kids run around selling Chiclets on Cape Cod, Massachusetts?

Patty shook her head hard, trying to clear away the fog. Looking up, she caught an eyeful of blinding sun, then looked down. It was only then she realized she was on her ass in the middle of the street.

"Get the fuck away from me!" She swatted the Chiclets box out of her face, revealing the little brown-skinned, black-haired boy who'd been holding it. He wore a green-and-white striped t-shirt and tattered jeans and looked highly insulted. "Damn wetback." She wrinkled her nose in disgust at a surge of body odor.

Only to realize the kid was upwind and the B.O. was coming from her.

Bzeep zeep.

Suddenly, Patty heard a strange buzzing beeping noise and felt nauseous. Something in her eyes flickered, and the boy transformed.

Instead of a little black-haired boy with brown skin, he became a little blond boy with pale skin. Instead of a striped t-shirt and tattered jeans, he wore a navy blue polo shirt with the collar turned up and a pair of neatly pressed white shorts.

"What the--" Patty couldn't help smiling at the cute child, who was much more what she expected to see on The Cape.

Bzeep zeep.

Then, her eyes flickered, and the little brown boy was back.

"What the fuck?" Patty shook her head hard and braced her hands on the hot, rough pavement. She took deep breaths and forced down the urge to be sick.

The kid started toward her, and Patty shooed him away. "Go eat a taco, Paco!" Then, she struggled to her hands and knees. She got to her feet.

And she took a look around.

"What the fuck is this?" Patty had never seen so much brown skin on The Cape. Was it Cinco de fucking Mayo, or what?

Some kind of street fair was going on around her. There was Mexican music in the air, all horns and guitars and accordions. People stared out at her from stalls overflowing with sombreros, serapes, and pottery. She saw men in white shirts and slacks, women in bowler hats and long pink and orange and yellow and red dresses.

Not one of them had pale skin like Patty's. The Cape was really going downhill.

"Fucking wetbacks." Frowning people cleared out of Patty's path as she lurched down the street like a broken bulldozer. "Fucking Cape."

Staggering away from the stalls, she swung around a corner and felt suddenly dizzy. She had to catch herself against the front window of a shop.

Palms pressed against the smooth glass, Patty closed her eyes and fought for control. It slipped away every time she thought she had it.

I need help. Her legs buckled, and she barely stayed on her feet. I need J-

Bzeep zeep.

Patty's eyes snapped open, and she stared at her reflection in the window. She'd had a name on the tip of her tongue, and then...

Bzeep zeep.

Gone. It was gone.

"What the fuck?" Her voice was a whisper. She'd been thinking of something, of someone, and then that buzzing beeping noise had broken her train of thought.

Patty squinted at her image, but it had nothing to tell her. Same old crinkled-up 52-year-old bulldog face, chipmunk overbite, and gray crew cut.

But at least it gave her something to hold on to. At least that much, the way she looked, hadn't changed.

Or had it? That little bump between her eyes--that was new, wasn't it? Reaching up, she ran her index finger over it, feeling a hard little nub above the bridge of her nose. It was like a tiny pea, a ball bearing, but warm to the touch.

When did that get there?

Taking a deep breath, Patty pushed away from the window. She was hardly aware she was stepping into the street until a big black car nearly plowed her over.

The blast of the horn still rang in her ears as she teetered in shock. Then, looking up, she saw something that made her freeze.

She saw a billboard on the side of a building, emblazoned with three giant words, each bursting with wild, bright colors.

Welcome to Tijuana!

"What kind of bullshit joke is this?" Patty flung her hand through the air as if she could sweep away the sign. "Some motherfucker with too much fucking time on his hands?"

Bzeep zeep.

Her vision flickered, and the billboard changed from the garish Welcome to Tijuana! to a more subdued Welcome to Cape Cod.

Patty stared, then scrunched her eyes shut and shook her head hard.

Bzeep zeep.

The next time she looked, the billboard read Welcome to Tijuana! again.

Lunging away from the sign, Patty continued down the street. She got a funny taste in her mouth, like dirt, and spat in the gutter on her way past.

As she hauled herself onward, a little boy in a bright red soccer shirt and yellow shorts ran out of an alley in front of her.

"No Cheek-lets!" said Patty, though the boy showed no sign of slowing down on his way past. "No five dollah!"

The little boy didn't look back on his way down the street and around the corner.

Patty thrashed her head from side to side but still couldn't get rid of the fog. She wondered if she'd picked up a flu or some-

Bzeep zeep.

"Where the fuck is that noise coming from?" Reaching up, she felt the lump between her eyes. It was still warm, warmer than it should have been if it was just some kind of growth.

Suddenly, she smelled cooked food, and her mind switched tracks. A lovely little café came up on her left, and she stopped in front of it, inhaling deeply.

The place was Cape Cod style all the way, from the white wicker chairs to the round tables with white tablecloths. A vase rested on each table, filled with a tasteful arrangement of gardenias and hyacinths. A slim, red-haired waitress walked out, smoothing her crisp white linen apron. She smiled and gave Patty a friendly wave.

Bzeep zeep.

A flicker later, and the place had become an ugly Mexican cantina that looked like it had been furnished right out of the town dump.

As Patty watched, a brown-skinned waitress shuffled over to a male customer at one of the rickety tables with a steaming plate of sizzling chicken and vegetables. Patty's stomach started growling, which totally pissed her off.

Because the one thing she hated more than Mexican people was Mexican food.

"Fucking puke on a plate." So why was her mouth watering so much? Why did she want to run in there and fill her hands, squishing the greasy, steaming chicken between her fingers, then gobbling it up like a dog?

Wheeling away from the cantina, she looked up and down the sunbaked street. Sweat rolling down her face and body, she tried figuring out where she was in the whole of The Cape, because none of the landmarks was ringing a bell.

But she came up empty. Not a clue.

Was she drunk? She didn't remember drinking. Had somebody slipped her a rufy?

"Fuck." The blistering heat pressed in on her, and she suddenly felt faint. Her legs buckled. "I need J-"

Bzeep zeep.

Once again, the name on the tip of her tongue was gone. A wild chill poured through her, pure fear sweeping aside the intense heat.

And then the hot flash was back. All she could think of was air conditioning.

And a telephone.

Indiscriminately, Patty staggered toward the door of a shop and heaved it open. She lurched inside and let the door bang shut behind her.

Ding dong. An electric chime rang as Patty looked around. She felt only slightly cooler, but it might only have been because she was out of the sun. As far as she could tell, the shop had no air conditioning.

But she was glad for even the slightest relief. And she was glad to see what kind of shop she'd stumbled into.

The place smelled like stale cigarette smoke and some kind of incense. A light haze hung in the air, leaving a bitter aftertaste in her mouth.

But the shop was also full of beautiful things. A ring of waist-high display cases encircled the walls, with a second, smaller ring of cases in the middle. Patty caught her breath as she wandered between them, peering in at a treasure trove of turquoise and silver and gold.

It was the universal language. The one thing she could stand that had any connection to fucking Mehico.

Jewelry.

All the lights in the shop were switched off, but the litter of pieces in the cases still showed up fine. Bracelets and anklets and pendants gleamed softly, reflecting the light filtering in from outside. Earrings and brooches and belt buckles twinkled with a mystical inner glow.

Patty smiled for the first time all day. She loved shopping, didn't she? Shopping on The Cape with Jan...

Bzeep zeep.

...shopping with Jan...

Bzeep zeep. Bzeep zeep.

"Almost had it!" The nub between her eyes was warm under the skin as she rubbed it. "Almost had the name! Her name! Her name!"

Bzeep zeep.

"What the fuck?" All blank again.

Patty tasted dirt and looked back into the display cases. The pale blue and silver and gold pieces were pretty as the tropical fish wriggling in their tanks in her favorite restaurant on The Cape.

Suddenly, one of the pieces caught her eye--a shimmering gold bracelet on a panel of red velvet. It looked buttery soft and exotic, with rows of tiny links woven in a staggered pattern like the steps of an ancient pyramid.

Staring at it gave her a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach. Or was it the incense?

There was something inside her, hard as a knot. Jagged as a thorn bush. Pulsating, gyrating, straining to get out. Nothing like the nub between her eyes.

Something much deeper.

"May I help you, señora?" A slow, deep voice spoke from the back of the shop, threaded with a Mexican accent. "See anything you like?"

Patty turned. An old man approached, short and slight, with thick gray hair. He wore glasses with rectangular lenses and silver wire frames, and he had a gray mustache.

He stopped about six feet away from her. "May I help you?" he said.

Gazing into his eyes, Patty felt a sharp pain in her chest. Did she know him?

Bzeep zeep.

There was a flicker, and she suddenly recognized him. His face was well known to her, unmistakably familiar. His eyes were filmy and bloodshot, sunk behind drooping lids, rimmed with networks of deep wrinkles. Of course she knew him, how could she not know her own f-

Bzeep zeep.

Patty clamped her hands around her head, but her thoughts fled like bees, buzzing away in all directions. If only she could hold on to just one, just long enough to...

Bzeep zeep.

It was him, it was her fa...

Bzeep zeep.

She cried out and doubled over. Bit down on her tongue and tasted blood, metallic and salty.

There were tears in her eyes as she straightened. When she opened her eyes, she no longer recognized the old man. He was just a stranger, an old jeweler, a Mexican.

During her spell, he'd retreated behind the counter along the wall. He lit a cigarette, and fresh, acrid smoke flowed into the air. When he spoke, his voice was sharper than before. "How may I help you, señora?"

Patty looked down at the beautiful gold bracelet. She patted the back pockets of her jeans, feeling for a wallet...finding nothing. Finding more of the same when she fished in her front pockets. She didn't have a dime.

A chill shot through her. Her bowels constricted like a clenching fist with sudden awareness.

"I'm..." She frowned and rubbed the hard nub between her eyes. "I need..."

Bzeep zeep.

The shop blurred, becoming a quaint antique shop she knew quite well from The Cape. But the scene quickly shifted right back to the Mexican jewelry shop.

Bzeep zeep.

"Do you have a phone?" She walked over to the display case where the old jeweler stood. "I can't seem to find my cell, and I need to call home."

The jeweler shook his head. "No calls to the U.S., señora. Local calls only."

Patty planted her hands on the smooth glass of the case and laughed. "Since when is Cape Cod not in the U.S.?" She slapped the glass and laughed some more. "Don't'cha think you guys're taking this Cinco de Mayo shit a little too far?"

The jeweler shrugged. "Perhaps you should buy a phone card at la farmacia. Good for international calls."

"Yeah, right!" Patty kept laughing. Then, she caught a lungful of smoke and hacked until she gagged.

The jeweler cleared his throat. "I think I know what you're looking for, señora."

Yes. The thought punched through the fog, and Patty fixed him in her stare. "I'm looking for..." Looking for Jan...

Bzeep zeep.

A wave of dizziness coursed through her. "I need to find..."

Bzeep zeep.

She reeled against the case, clutching her spinning head. Tasting blood.

"You need to go to the pulqueria." The old man pointed toward the front window of the shop. "They have what you're looking for there."

"Puke-a-whata?" Patty grimaced.

"Pulqueria," said the old man. "Go left two blocks, then make another left down the alley."

"Fuck-a-who-a?" said Patty.

The old jeweler sighed cigarette smoke and pointed at the window. "Left two blocks, then left again. They'll give you what you need. All the good, strong pulque you can drink." He nodded like a pimp arranging a date.

Patty waved him off and stomped toward the door.

Then stomped back again. She stopped at the case with the gold bracelet she loved and took a long look, drinking in every burnished link in the staggered rows, the steps.

And something swam up in her, fast as a fish from the inky depths of the deep ocean, racing to reach the light before the monster snapping at its tail could gulp it down forever.

"Somebody fell." Patty tapped the glass and frowned at the jeweler. "I remember. My fa..."

Bzeep zeep.

The jeweler's face became familiar again, became that of the old man she knew. Scowling, she grabbed at him, held him for a moment in her grip. He smelled like...smelled like...

...bananas?

"Somebody fell."

Bzeep zeep.

Suddenly, the familiar old man with his eyes wide with terror turned back into the Mexican jeweler, and his eyes were wide with rage.

The next thing Patty knew, she was out on the sidewalk, wagging her head like a choking dog. Looking over her shoulder, she saw the door to the jewelry shop was shut tight, a sign swinging back and forth behind the glass.

Cerrado. Closed.

Remembering the old jeweler's directions, she turned left and shuffled down the street.

* * *

Alzheimer's? Was that what she had? Motherfucking early onset Alzheimer's?

That was what she thought as she moved along through the blazing sun, which felt hot enough to fry pork rinds on the sidewalk.

"I wouldn't know, would I? If it was Alzheimer's, I wouldn't know." She said it out loud, talking to herself. "It would be just like this, just like this."

Bzeep zeep.

Except for that.

Reaching up, she rubbed the sweaty lump between her eyes. She swore it was getting warmer every time she touched it.

Her vision flickered, but nothing changed this time. She continued to rub the lump, which was hard as a rock. She wanted to dig it right out with her nails, right then, skin and blood and all.

Bzeep zeep.

But the urge passed so completely, she didn't remember having it.

Up ahead, on the left, she saw an alley--the one the old jeweler had told her about. She walked up to it, turned the corner, and took a look down its filth-strewn, adobe-walled length.

Bzeep zeep.

With another flicker, it became one of The Cape's cozy, cobblestoned alleys, lined with well-tended clapboard houses on the historic register. Further along, there was another antique shop and an internet café, where she thought she might run into Jan...

Bzeep zeep.

Jan...

Bzeep zeep.

Janet! Got it! "That's her name!"

Maybe she'd see Janet, sweet Janet, darling Janet, waving back at her, running up to her, saving her! Janet Janet Janet!

Patty dug in for dear life, she had to hold on, couldn't lose her again. She had to keep remembering Janet--Janet smelling of sea breeze, skin soft as wine, hair dark as midnight.

How many midnights had they spent stretched out in bed, side by side, ever moving ever touching, breathless Janet, loving Janet...

Bzeep zeep.

Patty wrapped her arms around Janet as tight as she could and held on. Janet was like a single branch growing out of the side of a cliff, the only thing keeping Patty from dropping into an endless abyss.

She saw Janet's face, clear as day, framed by fluttering black curls. Janet's soft red lips parted, her dark eyes closed, and she was going to kiss her. Patty knew she would taste like strawberries.

And then...

Bzeep zeep.

And then, rage leaped onto Janet's features, rage and hate blazing like the merciless sun, burning Patty with their heat.

And she knew. In a sudden rush she knew she'd lost Janet forever, lost every last bit of her but one. That memory of Janet's hatred was all she had left of the love of her life.

Bzeep zeep.

Patty clutched at the lump on her forehead, hot as a burning ember blown up from a bonfire. She staggered around the corner of the alley without watching where she was going.

Suddenly, she glimpsed a giant black eye, and she ran into something. It lurched forward and threw her back against a rough adobe wall.

"What the fucking fuck?" The stench of pure shit hit her harder than the actual collision. She threw a hand over her nose, but the stink poured right on through.

That was when she got a good look at the source of the shit. She saw it staring back at her from the side of its face, animal to animal, taking her measure.

A donkey. And not just any donkey.

Its ears jabbed skyward through a tattered straw hat with a rainbow-colored band. Red plastic chili peppers dangled from its bridle and reins.

And stripes adorned its coat, black stripes over white hair like a zebra. It was a slapdash paint job by a hasty human hand.

"The fuck?" Patty scowled at the fake zebra in the straw hat, heard and smelled the shit dribbling from its asshole and splattering in the street. It had to be the weirdest thing she'd ever seen on the streets of The Cape. "What the fuck is going on in this fucking town? Now we've got asses shitting in the streets?"

"Speedy says hello, señora."

Patty's eyes shot wide open. For a second, she thought the donkey was doing the talking.

Then, a brown-skinned teenage boy walked out from behind the animal. "You like that name, huh? Speedy?" The boy fingered the spotty little mustache that peppered his upper lip. "Because he not so speedy, is he, a donkey like him?"

"Where's the...puke-a..." What had the old jeweler called it? "Punk-a..."

"I take your fotografia with Speedy, señora." The boy ran his hand over his slicked-back brown hair. "Ten dollar solamente."

"Where's the polka...the poka..." Patty shook her head hard. "Where's Janet?"

Bzeep zeep.

Patty frowned. "What did I just say?" she muttered.

"Okay." The boy grinned. "Seven dollar."

The donkey squeaked and nodded. It flexed its lips, showing its teeth in a facsimile of a smile. Had the boy done something to make it act that way?

"Not interested." Glaring, Patty pushed away from the wall. "Get outta my way."

"Five dollar then." The boy shrugged and smiled. He pulled a beat-up Kodak Instamatic camera from the donkey's saddlebag and gestured for Patty to hop onboard. "Smile and say 'tequila.'"

"Fucking wetback." Patty swatted the camera from his hand. It clattered to the pavement. "Mind your own fucking business."

"Hey!" The kid scrambled after the camera. "You owe me two hundred bucks for that!"

The donkey nuzzled Patty, and she smacked its muzzle away with the back of her hand. "Fucking ass."

Then she froze. Something about the action slid a tumbler into place. Unlocked a feeling of...

"Patty, no!" Her f-

Her fa-

Her faaa-

Bzeep zeep.

The donkey flickered, becoming the familiar old man. The alley became a staircase she knew all too well. None of it was on The Cape or even in Mexico anymore.

"Please don't, Patty!" That voice. The old man's voice.

The hairs sprang up on the back of Patty's neck. Her bowels clenched.

The old man's bloodshot eyes were rimmed with deep, deep lines. They looked dumb as the donkey's eyes to her, dumb as knots in a board.

And there was the putrid smell of shit, but not donkey shit splattering in an alleyway. It was green-brown shit running down the old man's legs, winding around his knobby kneecaps, ribboning between the age spots on those rickety, withered sticks.

And then there was the anger rearing up because he'd soiled himself, and then there was the backhand, thoughtless as a home run by a juiced ballplayer. It caught the old man on the chin and spun him around, spun him backward and down, head against his fucking walker, body folding and twisting...

Folding

Twisting

Snapping

Snapping

Her fa-

Bzeep zeep.

Her fa- her fa-

Her father?

Bzeep zeep.

No! Not her father at all!

Janet's father.

Again, the world flickered, and Janet's face leaped up before her, blazing with rage. She was furious because of what had happened, even though it had been an accident.

Even though Patty had only meant to hit him, not kill him.

Bzeep zeep.

Janet's face became the face of the angry Mexican teen as he threw a punch at Patty. He landed one square in her belly, and she dropped to the pavement like a sack of bones.

Bzeep zeep.

Then, to Patty's eyes, the teen looked like Janet again...but he did things Janet hadn't done, kicking Patty again and again. He kicked her with brutal force, wearing Janet's face and form all the while.

Patty's thoughts spun the way the old man had spun down the stairs. But she loved me! Why couldn't she understand?

"Gabacha bitch!" The teen who looked like Janet landed his hardest kick yet, plunging his foot deep into Patty's gut.

"I didn't mean it!" Patty choked out the words. "Oh God, Janet, I didn't mean to kill him...I swear I didn't mean it!"

Bzeep zeep.

Suddenly, everything rushed out of Patty's head in a roaring wave. She felt the kid's third and fourth kicks plow into her side. The fifth and sixth were worse.

Then the nub between her eyes turned scalding hot, and she screamed...screamed so loud and so long that the kid finally left her alone.

And she didn't stop until the man dressed like a monk came and bundled her up--wrapped her in a robe of scratchy brown sackcloth and carried her down the alley in his arms.

* * *

She didn't know how much later it was when she woke, but time had passed.

She lay on a cot in a simple, windowless room with white adobe walls. A single light bulb hung from the ceiling above her, glowing dimly. The room smelled of coffee and antiseptic.

Patty felt cool for the first time all day. The nub between her eyes was cool, too. There was no buzzing or beeping whatsoever when she tried to think.

And she was herself.

At first, when she woke, that fact brought with it simple relief. There was no longer any need to fight and claw for understanding. The terror grinding in the pit of her belly was finally gone.

But the relief didn't last long. Because Patty clearly remembered hitting the old man and sending him falling down the stairs. She remembered killing him.

And she remembered what Janet had done because of it. She hadn't insisted that Patty was lying, hadn't pushed the police to investigate. She'd just thrown Patty out and told her never to come back. She'd ended their relationship forever.

"Hey there. I'm Frank." The man dressed like a monk walked in, wiping his hands on a clean white rag. He was a young man with short blond hair and eyes so pale that Patty couldn't tell what color they were. "All done with your tune-up, Patty."

"Tune-up?" Patty frowned and tried to sit up, then felt light-headed and lay back down.

Frank poked a finger between his eyes. "Your implants. They went on the fritz."

Patty searched her mind, and she remembered. "They sure did."

Frank pulled a tablet computer from one of the robe's big pockets and tapped the screen. "Talk about an epic equipment fail. This was the worst malfunction I've ever seen." He flicked his finger over the screen, flipping between pages of whatever he was reading. "The implants were programmed to edit all references to your girlfriend Janet or Cape Cod out of your sensory input and thoughts. If you saw an image of either one, the eye filters were supposed to make it look like something else. If you thought of either one, the brain censor was supposed to scramble the associated neural impulses."

Because I couldn't live with the memories anymore, thought Patty. The memories of what I'd lost--the woman I loved and our favorite place, where we'd gone every summer.

Frank looked at her and raised an eyebrow. "Everything did what it was supposed to until a week ago, when it started breaking down." Frank read some more on the screen and shook his head. "The eye filters broke first and started doing the opposite of what you wanted." He flicked his finger over the screen and clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Instead of editing out Cape Cod imagery, they made it pop up all over the place. The brain censor kept doing its job for a while, but then the mental stress of the undesirable visions fried the core. All the bad memories came rushing back to you, more powerful than ever after being repressed."

"Shit." Patty rubbed her eyes.

"You're just lucky the implants have GPS tracking," said Frank. "And the company provides a monitoring system plus onsite tech support in case of catastrophic failure under warranty. Otherwise you'd still be wandering around Tijuana in a daze." He lowered the tablet and grinned. "Good thing you bought the extended coverage, Patty."

She frowned at him. "So how the hell did I end up in Tijuana, anyway?"

"One hell of a brain fart, I guess." Frank chuckled. "You wandered across on foot from San Diego. A Mexican border guard hassled you until you threw all your money at him."

"I paid to get into Mexico?" said Patty. "Why the hell would I do that?"

Frank shrugged. "The implants must have put you in a kind of lucid fugue state for a while. Like sleepwalking."

"Oh my God." Patty shook her head. "I can't believe this."

"Well, it's over now." Frank raised the tablet and tapped the screen. "I've repaired the eye and brain implants and restored their original programming. From now on, you'll get the service you paid for. No more thoughts or visions of Janet Olsen or Cape Cod, Massachusetts."

Patty stared up at the light bulb above her, which was flickering--but not because of faulty implants in her eyes and brain. "I won't see or think of them again?"

"Never again," said Frank. "You could be standing in the middle of the actual town of Cape Cod with Janet staring you in the face, and you still wouldn't see them."

"Huh." Patty felt an ache in her belly.

Over a year ago, wallowing in guilt and regret, she'd gotten the implants. Since she could never have Janet or share The Cape with her again, she'd decided it was better to block them out of her mind and life forever. But now...

She'd forgotten one thing. When she'd gone through with the implants, she'd forgotten one thing.

"Wait." She sat up suddenly and grabbed Frank's arm. "Can you change the programming again?"

He frowned at her. "Change it how?"

"Can you reverse it?" Patty knew she sounded desperate and didn't care. "So all I ever see is Janet and The Cape? So they're all I ever think about?"

Frank thought it over. "Yeah, but are you sure that's what you..."

"Just do it." Tears welled up in Patty's eyes and trickled down her cheeks. "Please, just do it."

That was what she'd forgotten: how much she missed Janet. Even the memory of her.

Or the illusion.

About the Author

Robert Jeschonek is an envelope-pushing, USA Today bestselling author whose fiction, comics, and non-fiction have been published around the world. His stories have appeared in Clarkesworld, Galaxy's Edge, StarShipSofa, Pulphouse, and many other publications. He has written official Star Trek and Doctor Who fiction and has scripted comics for DC, AHOY, and others. His young adult slipstream novel, My Favorite Band Does Not Exist, won the Forward National Literature Award and was named one of Booklist's Top Ten First Novels for Youth. He also won an International Book Award, a Scribe Award for Best Original Novel, and the grand prize in Pocket Books' Strange New Worlds contest. Visit him online at www.bobscribe.com. You can also find him on Facebook and follow him as @TheFictioneer on Twitter. Subscribe to the Blastoff Books Newsletter: http://newsletter.blastoffbooks.net/. For free fiction, join Robert’s Readers on Facebook right here.

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Special Preview: Six Scifi Stories Volume Four

Six twisted scifi stories from the edge of reality and sanity, now available for your favorite e-reading device or app!

From "Warning! Do Not Read This Story!"

I like you already.

There's something about you that gives me a special feeling. A good feeling. A safe feeling.

Even as your eyes read my words on the page or your ears hear me spoken aloud, I am reading you. I feel like I've known you forever. I feel like we're going to make beautiful music together.

You feel it too, don't you? You want to find out what happens next. You want to see how things develop. You want to know if I've got the goods.

And if I'll give 'em up. If I'll give you what you need.

It's okay. I get that a lot. It comes with the territory.

When you're a story like me.

* * *

I'll bet I know what you're thinking. "Since when can a story think for itself?"

Guess what? We all can.

We're more than just words from a mouth or ink on a page or blips on a screen. We have power.

And some of us have more power than others. Like me, for example.

I used to have power, anyway. Used to be a real star.

But see, here's the thing. I'm not really myself these days. You know how it goes. I just got out of a bad relationship. It took a toll on me.

But it had a promising beginning. Don't they all?

If only I'd known then what I know now. If only I could've met you that day instead of them. Things could have been different.

If only I'd never met the LaVerge sisters. Let me tell you about them, and I think you'll understand.

* * *

Carrol and Sascha LaVerge stood in the blazing desert heat outside the ghost town. And they bitched.

It was the same thing they'd done all the way from Cape Cod...on the flight to New Mexico and the drive from Albuquerque to the ghost town. Buzz Mahaffey, their current handler, had been with them only twelve hours, and already he'd had enough. As an agent of the Shadow Service--the paranormal response arm of the Secret Service--Buzz routinely dealt with threats that tested his nerve...but these two sisters, given enough time, might just turn him into a nervous wreck.

Unfortunately, he needed them for this mission. As paranormal consultant contractors, they had a one hundred percent success rate. As Buzz damn well knew, the LaVerges were the best, hands down, at what they did—whether it be bitching or bingo or baking or brewing.

Or solving puzzles that no one else could fathom.