Chapter 2

Oliver laments his job and hides from an unexpected visitor

Chapter 2

Cynicism isn’t really a trait in Oliver’s family, at least not a dominant one anyway.

Maybe recessive.  

Oliver wasn’t sure and he didn’t care either. All he knew was that over the last few years he had carefully molded his jaded outlook into an of zenith of nihilism and self-loathing.

His radio turned on with a scratchy fzzt! noise.

“Good morning ladies aaaand gentlemen!” shouted the overzealous voice on the radio “Welcome to the Bithell and Burg Morning Show! I am your host Tommy Bithell and with me as always is my illustrious co-host, Brian Burg.” 

“Happy to be here as always Tommy!” replied the different, but somehow oddly similar voice of Brian. “If you are just joining us you may not have heard the terrible explosion"“

Oliver slammed his fist on his clock radio. He hated waking up to those idiots, but then again he hated waking up to an alarm and didn’t want to wake up to music. He knew where that road ended and he wanted at least one thing in his life that he could enjoy.

Describing a day of work at Howell Park as torturous as it would be a gross understatement.

The park got ahold of him when he was young, well, younger. Back when he started college, back when he had hope he liked to say. Oliver decided to apply for the Howell Park Internship program. Like many poor ideas, he did it for a girl. Everything worked out, and for a while, things were good, great even. But like all good things, it didn’t last long. Things fell apart, the girl moved to another park and Oliver was offered a full-time job.

Flash forward a few years, Oliver has no marketable skills, no degree and no life outside the park. Oliver would later come to realize that was the park’s plan all along. Get’em while they’re young take up all their time and make working there forever their only option.

In all the years he’s worked for Howell Park Oliver has only known one person to make it out and that was Devon. Technically, he didn’t find a new job nor was he fired. He just left. Oliver never really spoke to him after that. Devon was a little weird when he worked at the park. He didn't really talk to anyone, hell, he barely talked to Oliver when he worked there. Whenever he did it was usually about some insane idea that Oliver never listened to. Devon worked down in security, not as a guard or anything, he was way too out of shape for that. Instead, he watched the cameras all day.

It wasn't a very talkative job, perfect for Devon and you got to know all the secrets. So when Devon disappeared Oliver wasn't really surprised that he didn't want to chat on weekends.

Oliver pried himself out of bed and trudged through a sea of dirty clothes. His tiny one-room apartment was filthy, it had been a while since it had been cleaned. At first, he would scrub the place spotless then Oliver realized that there wasn't much point and stopped. He made his way to the fridge and grabbed a Red Bull and the pack of cigarettes he left sitting on top of the microwave. He cracked the energy drink with one hand and lit the cigarette in his mouth with the other and took a long pull off each. After that he threw on what he thought was the least dirty uniform he could find and put on some deodorant, he wasn't a monster after all.

It really didn't matter how old the clothes were, you always smelled like sweat and cookies at end of the day.

As he opened the door he was met with a small package wrapped in brown paper. He didn't think much of it and kicked into his apartment with the back of his heel before locking the door and going on with his day.

It was one of those rare March days, Oliver noticed as he pulled off the freeway, where the park was dead. He had a love-hate relationship with these days. On one hand, the park was empty and he did not have to do anything; on the other, he had nothing to do and the day seemed to take ten times as long. It was as if the universe took pleasure in shitting on the things he enjoyed, Oliver thought.

Oliver drove around to the deserted end of the park and into the massive underground parking structure built below the park. It was the largest underground parking lot Oliver had ever seen, not that he had seen many. It had to be huge, every employee or cast member as Howell liked to call them, in the park used it. The lot funneled everyone into The Tunnels, the underground system of, well, tunnels that snaked underneath the entire park. The Tunnels and the lot connected to it were meant to preserve the illusion of the park. Back when it was built Mitchell Howell wanted to make sure that no one would ever see a cast member or a doppelganger character outside of their respective zones. 

The Tunnels were more than just a way to get around the park it was almost, hell, it was an underground city, built underneath the park away from prying eyes and away from the government at large. Underneath the park was a self-contained ecosystem built on the values of rules of Mitchell Howell. It had everything a Howell Park actor could want: restaurants, shops (Howell themed, naturally), bank and even tiny hospital. If you wanted to, you would never have to leave the park, and some of the more diehards did just that.

Oliver did not have the time, or desire, to spend any longer down there then he had to. He worked at the Captain Ward’s Wild Ride attraction, which was on the other side of the park and meant that he had to take the twenty-minute walk to get to work. A walk that would take five minutes topside, he timed it. 

The ride itself was one of those half rollercoaster, half simulator deals that took a group of five slapped them into a cart in front of a screen and shook them around for five minutes before spitting them out on the other side, dizzy and slightly nauseous. It was inspired by an early property that Howell acquired back in the fifties that was based on a sea shanty from the late 1700s. It has since been revamped, revitalized, reimagined, torn down, built back up, altered for political correctness, and, of course, rebooted ahead of the new movie coming to theaters this fall. 

Oliver could handle the glorified carney act; it was simple, honest work he thought. What he could not handle was the theatrics that went along with the job. Part of the job was running the ride, which mostly involved pressing a few buttons; the other half was acting as if you were not. The ride took place on Captain Ward’s ship, The Queen’s Consort, and those who worked on the ride had to act as if they were part of his crew which meant dressing and acting like a pirate. Everyone needed a costume, character, and accent. The costume had to have flair, the character had to be memorable, and the accent pirate-y. The rules went on for pages and even when Oliver enjoyed working there, he only skimmed a third of it. It was all dense legalese and shockingly clinical for Howell, but that is what you get, Oliver thought, you scratch at the cheery veneer and find the soulless corporation underneath.

Eventually, Oliver settled on a Welsh accent, a standard puffy white shirt, red pantaloons, a pink dew rag and an eye patch.

Oliver walked past the various changing rooms and half-dressed mascots disinterestedly eating lunch or smoking. Howell never gave their performers a decent break; for most of them it came down to two options: A.) take off the costume and wolf (no pun intended) down their lunch or B.) look stupid and savor their precious moments of reprieve. As Oliver made his way to the stairwell that led to his ride, he noticed two Wally Wolfs talking to each other.

“Did you hear the cops found the guy that broke in a few weeks ago?” asked the first.

Oliver walked up to investigate.

“Nah,” replied the second with a mouthful of concession stand burger; they served the same food below and above ground. “when did that happen?”

“What happened?” chimed Oliver.

“You don’t know about the break-in?” said the first Wally, who, Oliver noticed, had a five-o-clock shadow and shaggy greasy hair. “It was in the newsletters.” 

Oliver shook his head. The other Wally smelled distinctly of pot. If people knew who was actually in those costumes they would never let their kids near them.

“Those have been going to my spam folder for a while now.” said Oliver.

Stoner Wally swallowed a mammoth bite of burger, “Yeah, somebody broke into the park.” He took another bite, “higher-ups are being all hush-hush about what was taken,” he took a swig of pop, “must’ve been big.” 

 “People who were at the park when it happened swore they heard gunshots. It was pretty crazy,” added Scruffy Wally.

 “So they caught the guy?”

“Sounds like it;” said the first Wally “word is they’ll settle for prison time outside of court. They don’t want to turn this into a big media spectacle.” 

This was a big deal, thought Oliver; it had been years since even so much as a theft was reported in the park, it just did not happen, either that or it was covered up. Sure, there was the odd surly, drunk parent that was kicked out, but that was part and parcel with owning a theme park.

Oliver made it to his locker just in time to punch in and change. He was right; it was going to be a slow day. The ride was broken up into sections. There was the line manager, Sydney, who made sure people stayed in a neat orderly line. Then there was Felix who controls ride, Howell classified him as “Captain”. After that were the people that ushered the attendees on to and off the ride, they were called “Skippers”. Oliver was a Skipper and spent his day in character showing people to the dingy shaped cart two feet behind them, marveling at every piece of tech he saw, and conveniently ignoring the gift shop bags from other parts of the park. All while hinting that there may be “booty” at the end of the ride.

After about an hour of this Oliver noticed a woman. She would occasionally glance at her phone and back at him, she was trying to hide that fact, but doing a rather bad job at it. When she got to the front of the line she nonchalantly made a B-line for him.

“Erm, excuse me, are you Oliver Wolcott?” she asked.

“Nay, lass” replied Oliver in his pirate voice “N’ere ‘erd o’ one boi tat name. M’name’s Henry Polk, Oi’ve been wit t’Cap’n fer years now.”

“No,” she replied and showed him her phone. On it was an old picture of him and Kassidy, his ex, “this is you. I’m Caroline, a friend of Devon’s, can we talk?”

That was him, he hadn’t seen that picture, or Kassidy in years. There was no way this woman could have known about him and Kassidy, but the idea made him hate her all the same. After she left, Oliver got rid of anything that even remotely reminded him of her. They were just painful memories, better left in the past, or in the fire that he built. Still, Oliver had a few too many strikes against him already and couldn’t risk getting written up again. As much as he hated the job, he needed it to keep his cushy lower middle-class life the way it was.

“Ye best be gettin’ on yer way lass,” said Oliver, letting the accent slip slightly, “you’re going to miss your boat, arr.”

“But…” was all Caroline could get out before Oliver managed to get her into the dingy and send her on her way.

“Fair thee well,” shouted Oliver tonelessly.

Once the dingy was out of sight Oliver let himself relax. There was no way she would be able to get back to him before his shift was over. The other end of the ride led directly into the gift shop and if she wanted to get back to him, she would have to wait in the line again. Once the clock hit five he was gone, and for once The Tunnels worked for him.

Oliver made it back to his apartment and nearly tripped over the box he ignored earlier that morning.

“The f**k…” he said to himself.

He picked up the box and turned it over in his hands. It was a small box, about six inches across and three inches tall. It was wrapped in plain brown paper. No markings. No return address. He shook the box next to his ear, it sounded like there was something inside.

Oliver tossed the box onto his kitchen table, grabbed the pack of cigarettes off the microwave, and lit one up. Then his door began to buzz. He gave it a confused look and blew the spent smoke out the side of his mouth before investigating.

“What?” he said into the intercom. 

“It’s me,” said the scratchy voice on the other end.

“Who the hell are you?”

“…Uh, Caroline, we met at the park,” answered Caroline.

“Why do you know where I live?” he asked

“Lucky guess,” said Caroline “does it matter? Just let me up.”

“Yeah, it kinda does.”

“I know Devon.”

“Don’t care, go away.”

“Something happened and I need your help.” she pleaded.

“Still don’t care,” Oliver replied, flatly.

“He told me to find you,” added Caroline sounding more annoyed by the moment.

“Well, that was stupid of him.” Olive left and went back to the box and opened it. Inside was a what looked like a lighter, and a note. Oliver picked it up and experimentally flipped opened the top and discovered it was a flash drive. He looked at the note; it was from Devon.

Hey Ollie, it’s me.

Betcha didn’t think you’d hear from me again, eh?

If you’re reading this, then, it means I’m dead, or I’ve been captured and am currently being tortured at some black site somewhere. If it’s the latter then, holy s**t! That’s so cool, and please come save me because it probably hurts like a m**********r.

Anyway, long story short, things have gone tits up and I need some serious help. Remember how we use to s**t talk Howell? Turns out I was right, there’s something going down there. Me and a friend of mine have been working on stopping them. You might have met her, her name’s Caroline. I told her to find you.

If you’re anything like you were when I left, you are probably going to be a dick to her. I’m going to need you to suppress that urge, or, at the very least direct it elsewhere. It’s a two person job and I more or less kept her in the dark about most of the job. The fewer people who know she’s involved, the better. In retrospect, I kinda regret it, but what can you do?

In the box, I’ve included a flash drive that has all the info we’ve got on Archie Mills and Howell Park. I’m going to need you to find Caroline and help her out, or if the worst happened, take up the case yourself because we seriously fucked up.

You may have stopped reading a while ago, but listen to me, this is important, and I need your help. Howell is a seriously evil place and we need to stop them before they do some major damage. I don’t know what they're up to and might never know. You’re a good guy and I’m gonna need you to get back out there and help us save the world.

Your Friend from Beyond the Grave,

Devon

P.S. Please disregard if I delivered this in person. I wrote this a while ago and may have forgotten that the letter was in here.