On the way out I even picked up that door and replaced it in the doorway as best as I could, to be helpful. I’m not proud of it.
And I saw the place the App had taken me.
It looked like a run-down resort made of ruined stone structures and long white plastic tents. Lush, dense jungle bordered everything. An untended lawn carpeted the camp. Paths meandered between various tents and down to the sea.
Because we were up on a hill with a view. The ocean filled the entire horizon: pale, shallow turquoise. Islands adorned the ocean like cupcakes: gray cliffs on the sides, fluffy, lush jungle on top. The breeze came up the hill, smelling of salt, cool and familiar.
Fluffy white anime clouds drifted against a lovely blue sky. The sun was up and it felt like around 11am, the time I’d loved to surf back home. I spun in place and could see the ocean all around; we were on one of those islands ourselves.
I looked up at Dr. Jeff Harrigan, walking beside me and poking at his tablet. I didn’t want to ask him about the islands, the sea, the location. Not anything, not him.
Unfortunately there were people here. Not just the repellent Dr. Jeff, but others. Like me. Packs of roving people, all in the same cheap clothing: cargo shorts, running shoes, white shirt. Like a summer camp. Or a militia. Or a cult.
Everyone was my age, give or take a few years. Young people are the worst.
Varying ethnicities, boys and girls. Strutting young men in groups. Women either in nervous clusters or cold-eyed, hostile squads, holding what might have been spears made from white plastic pipe.
Despite the beautiful sea, the emerald jungle and the loveliness of the entire world here, nobody looked the least bit happy about any of it. They were grim of face, with the occasional flicker of fear or grief slipping past bravado.
“What do you think?” Asked Dr. Jeff Harrigan.
“Very nice.” I could speak clearly now.
He scoffed in his double-chinned throat. “What do you really think? I probably already know, to be fair. Hit me with it anyway.”
“Very nice.”
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He laughed an airy wheeze. “Sure it is.”
We were walking to one of the larger, longer tents. Through its screen windows I could see long plastic tables. Food? “Will any of them go home?”
“It’s certainly possible.” His mouth was droopy and petulant, no more big gray smile. Resignation, I thought. Frustration. His head was raised on its fleshy neck, nose elevated. He was aggrieved, entitled, and owed.
Unhappy. Everyone was. Why was everyone here unhappy?
Because everyone here had been abducted. They’d downloaded the App and clicked “Agree to terms.”
He stopped and faced me before entering the tent. “There it is. Owen’s Eye of Sauron. You’re blasting me with it again, seeing through everything I say.” He shook his head admiringly. “And you love it here, I know that already.” He swept the plastic flap aside and strode in. I got tangled in it a little but followed.
I don’t have an Eye of Sauron. Only Sauron has that, and he’s not known for sharing his stuff. And what did he mean by “again?”
“The food isn’t great,” he said. “It’s pretty lousy, actually. We’re working on it.”
I saw white plastic buffet trays lined up on white plastic tables. The tables looked old and battered. The tent too.
Tall cans of food were stacked behind the tables: Patriot Plus Freeze Dried Beef. Other items of even more dubious quality, with labels that said MRE. Little foil pouches. I didn’t know what MRE was but the food here wasn’t enticing.
“Hungry? Probably not yet,” he said. He turned and gestured at the ten or so other young people sulking at the long tables. He raised his voice: “We really don’t get hungry our first few days, am I right?” He was jovial, chummy.
Nobody looked at him or responded. Just concentrated on the gray paste of their meals. Nobody made eye contact with Dr. Harrigan or me. As I watched, three diners got up, threw their trays into a bin and left the tent, trying not to look like they were fleeing.
“Nobody likes the cookin’,” groused Jeff Harrigan. “You know what? Talk to Sean about what to do next. We need to become food-independent, that’s our goal this time, and I don’t feel like filling you in.” He frowned. The brow foliage sank to just above his unsympathetic eyes. “Just do your thing, Owen, and you’ll be welcome here.”
He held up his tablet computer. A single crack went from upper left, zagged down to the bottom edge. But on the screen was a photo of my face. In the image I looked alarmed.
I had no memory of him taking my picture. The image wasn’t from my cell phone; it hadn’t been taken by the Isekai App. I was in front of a forest, and the forest was burning.
OWEN WALSH, was the label under my urgent, harried face. He grinned again, peering from around the side of his tablet at me, as if this made any sense at all. “See? You’re full of pep and can-do energy!”
Then he spun with a purposeful swirl of his lab coat and swept from the mess tent. People outside saw him coming and gave him a wide berth: fanning out around his path or just disappearing into the jungle altogether.
As he went back up his hill, he had a final message. “Remember, the theme is chaos!” he called out. To me, or to everyone. Nobody responded.
What's happening on this island?
