This Book Does Not Exist by Mike Schneider Read Free Book Online Page A

it to come to this.
    The pilot is dying yet the look on his face is unnaturally jovial. Is he really a man or is he some kind of being ?
    He/it blinks. His/its lips tremble.
    I back away, scouring the neighborhood for what might come at me next. I have no hope for peace or regularity. Already my most basic expectations have been abolished. Beyond the aftermath of the plane crash, there are no policeman or firefighters. No rush of paramedics. Everything is still. Everything is quieter than it should be.
    My attention falls back to the pilot, the man or the being. He is breathing but immobile. “Where am I?” I ask. “What is this place?”
    He mumbles something that sounds like “ herrrrr maaadeer ” and follows it with a whistle that slowly bobs into a melody. Abruptly, he cuts the tune off to croak “ herrrrrrrrr , maaaaadeeeeer ” again, this time at a more grotesquely languid clip, before returning to the melody. Afraid that these mad mumblings are a precursor to another attack, I ask him what he’s trying to tell me, but he just continues his pattern of droning then mumbling until finally he stops making noises altogether.
    He ceases to twitch. His eyelids go still.
    Studying the pilot, I sense the dissolution of a presence. A person has left the world. A person has left the world because of what I did.
    An element of myself I didn’t know I had abandons me and something new replaces it. I know it’s there because I feel it bouncing around the pit of my stomach like an anvil rolled with spikes. That I feel this way convinces me the pilot was a man. It convinces me this world, whatever it is, is not a digital simulation or a dream – it is real.
    I hear the door to my parents’ house opening behind me.
    I turn. Hope and shame co-exist inside of me, as I expect to see my dad or my mom or both.
    But my parents do not come out of their house. Geppetto does.
    “You stopped him,” he says. “And you’re still alive. Something positive. Let’s take a walk.”
    “Where?”
    “The incident has to teach you something – or really what would be the point?”
    Geppetto steps off the porch. For an old man, he walks well. Every stride is precise. There is no hurry in his movement, as if he’s carefully allocating his energy. He leads me down the sidewalk and out of the cul-de-sac. Turning onto the street where the plane crashed, I glance back at the carcass of the pilot. It remains inanimate. I can’t say if this is good or bad.
    We walk through the large-scale aeronautical murder scene, up to the remnants of Naomi’s parents’ house. Geppetto navigates around the smoldering aircraft. He waves me over and enters through the breach in the home. Lagging behind, I slip inside after he is out of sight.
    “Over here.”
    I trail the sound of Geppetto’s voice through the den, into the family room. I’ve spent hours with Naomi inside this house, mainly during holidays, but the proverbial smell of nostalgia I anticipate is wiped out by the literal stench of death.
    Geppetto is leaning over a group of bodies covered by wreckage. I can’t determine their identities through the debris, but the clothing indicates two men and two women, couples of different ages – one old and one young. All four are holding hands, as if they knew the plane was coming and they chose to die in communion. My thoughts flash to the plane crash in Phoenix, where Naomi’s brother and sister-in-law live, and my inability to get her parents on the phone. I look away. Geppetto talks.
    “I can’t tell you what will happen from here on out other than to say you clearly need to resolve your separation from Naomi. The incidents my world provides are designed to be illuminating in this regard. Usually, they help people like you and her. Depending on how everything goes. Either way, they formulate a journey. And this is what you both need.”
    “What kind of journey? What do I need to learn?”
    “The rest is for you to figure out, one way or