The Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy 2015 by Joe Hill Read Free Book Online Page B

which has a pretty decent Wi-Fi connection but, weirdly, no toilets. At least three drug deals have happened in the seat next to me, and in between deals the guy is singing this one part of a song out loud that I recognize from somewhere. I think it might be Paula Cole?
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    Update #2 • Jun 26, 2015
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    Still Here
    Oh, yeah, it’s definitely Paula Cole. It’s that weird chanting part of “Where Have All the Cowboys Gone?” Just that part. Over and over. This is why I don’t do drugs.
    I’m assuming Olive has no idea I’m coming because there’s no reception in the land of the dead, but I have been texting her every hour on the hour anyway, just to cover my bases. I haven’t told her why I’m coming, because I can’t tell her that our parents are dead via text message. I mean, I
could
, but despite what she thinks about me I’m not a monster. I just keep writing “Need to talk to you, v. important.” But Olive has no sense of what’s important and what isn’t. Even if she got the messages, she’s probably all “Oh man, Ursula’s just having one of those days,” which is something I overheard her telling our mother once, just because I was upset that she didn’t want to be my maid of honor. Not that it mattered in the end, with the wedding being called off, but it was upsetting nonetheless.
    I’m so fucking tired.
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    Update #3 • Jun 27, 2015
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    Past Midnight
    I wake up and the bus is parked at the depot. I’ve probably been here for hours. I’d been dreaming about Olive. While I was sleeping my face had been pressed against the window, with my mouth hanging open.
    I walk two miles to the elementary school playground. I get a blister and do the last half-mile limping and barefoot. Then I have to pee, and since I don’t know what the restroom situation is in the land of the dead, I squat in some bushes. As I do so, I wonder if my sister is also peeing in a semipublic place. (If the land of the dead can be considered public at all, I guess.)
    There is another woman standing here, burning her sage and drawing sigils on the pavement. She doesn’t look like she’s chasing a wayward family member; she looks like she’s ready to party. She has a lot of eyeliner on. I feel angry at her, like she’s Olive. She says something and the portal slides open, like the door of a minivan but wreathed in smoke. I look away—it feels rude to stare.
    Then she’s gone, and it’s dark once again. I draw the sigil and arrange the ingredients according to my notes. I say the spell, the unfamiliar syllables catching behind my teeth.
    When my portal opens, a faceless creature is standing there. It’s tall and roughly shaped, like a dust storm or a swarm of gnats. There are dimples where its eyes should be, but I feel like it’s watching me anyway. It takes my credit card, holds it for a moment, and then hands it back.
    Olive, backers—please keep in mind that I’m still paying off my student loans.
    Oh, I also got a comment on this page from Olive.
Three
comments. I guess she does have reception. Olive, I’m coming anyway, kid. You can’t stop me. I may not be the best older sister in the world, but I can do this.
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    Update #4 • Jun 27, 2015
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    This Is the Land of the Dead
    This is what they don’t tell you about the land of the dead: it looks and smells like some approximation of your entire life, but in muted colors and shifting scents—sunscreen, then smoke, then raspberry shaving cream. When I step through the portal I see layers of images shimmering in front of me: the street where I grew up, my current bedroom, my ex-fiancé’s house, my college dorm, all in grays and creams and beiges. They undulate back and forth, as if the land of the dead is trying to decide which is the most comforting, and settles on our childhood street. It smells like cedar and