And we're back. If you're listening through the back catalog, just a heads up that we have a new sequel series. Don't tell Alice out right now. It is an entirely separate story from the first series, other than that it takes place after the end of the first series and has some of the same characters. If you enjoy our show and you have the means, I would really love you to support our Patreon. It's the main way we are able to pay the small artistic team that makes this show. And it gets you all sorts of stuff, including episodes ad free and a week early bonus episodes between every main one, director's notes on every episode, right with me sessions with Joseph Fink and a bunch more. You can also hop onto our store page in the Depeche Codes shop and get yourself some Alice isn't dead merch. Finally, I have a new podcast called The Best Worst with Night Veil's Make Bash Winner, in which we watch the IMDb viewer best and worst rated episodes of classic TV shows. I genuinely think it's really fun and an interesting show and I'd love more people to listen to it, so check out The Best Worst wherever you get your podcasts. Okay, thank you. So, I'm going to be talking about my first story. Less triumphant, less self-righteous. Because in my first story, Alice was the one who did wrong, vanishing from my life, leaving behind only mourning and memory. And I was the one who found her and forgave. That was my first story and it's the easier one to tell. But... Come on, buddy. Drive your special car. There you go. Sorry, I won't car traffic jam ahead of me. This time I'm the one leaving her. Not forever. I hope not even for long. But a lie is a lie and it always will have been a lie for the rest of my life. I'm not saying it's wrong because I think I have to do it. I'm only saying that I'm going to have to learn to live with it. A couple years after everything ended, I'd settled deep into the slow spin of domestic life. My phone rang and I picked it up. I don't know why. No one picks up the phone anymore, but I did. And there was a voice I knew somehow, although I couldn't quite place it. It was a voice I trusted. She said a lot of things that didn't make sense and then... Alice, I'm sorry. But first and last, the voice gave me a warning. And something in the way she said it made me think I had better pay attention. She said, don't tell Alice. A voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice Alice isn't dead, don't tell Alice. By Joseph Fink, performed by Jessica Nicole, music and sound design by Disparition. Part one, chapter one. Oh, and one more thing. I'm back out here. Some anonymous road up through remote northern Nevada. Car this time, not a truck. Told Alice it was a business trip, that the new job required them. That I kind of didn't mind because I had been missing the travel. I don't know if that part was a lie or not. Did I miss this? There's a sign for something called horse canyon in 800 feet. Tempting, but I'll have to pass. And some place called Dog Creek. Naming must be real easy out here. Just an animal in a geographical feature. Snake Ridge. Ostrich pond. Anteater drainage ditch. I saw the sign for the Rocky View Inn, Motel, Bar and Cafe. That's where the voice on the phone told me to go. Fear filled the pit of my stomach as I pulled into the lot. Anxiety, my old friend. Or is it anxiety when the fear is warranted? The heat was like a thrown punch when I opened the car door. I staggered a little. The walk from the car to the bar was a struggle, and then I walked into the freezing AC inside, and it was like dunking my head under ice water. But like in a good way. Place was mostly empty. There was a Latino man in the corner. Dusty work shirt, sleeves pulled up on burly arms. A cowboy hat pulled low over his face. And there was a woman behind the counter. Age somewhere between 40 and 60. The woman winked hello. Names Lexi. What can I get you? What do you have? I said. Lexi laughed. Anything you want long as it's a hamburger hot dog or fries? A hamburger sounds great. It didn't actually. I'd been on the road long enough eating in places like this that I'd started to dream of green vegetables. The magic food that allows your bowels to finally get back to moving. But I'd take it. She went into the kitchen. The man in the corner was disquietingly still. I found myself watching him carefully for signs of life and thought I saw breathing. If he wanted to keep to himself, that was fine by me. I wanted the same. Lexi came back with a burger that had not only onions, but lettuce and tomato. It was so much nicer than I expected from whatever kitchen this relic of a bar must have had. I took a big bite. Holy shit. I said. Yeah, I know. Lexi said. Take pride in what she do or don't do it. That's what my mom always told me. She was a mess and a liar. But you know, steal those lessons stick with you. I know what you mean. I said. I nodded to the man in the corner. He okay? Oh, he's always here. Lexi said, I wouldn't worry about it. That's when the woman from the phone walked in. I only had heard her voice, but I knew it was her at one glance. Don't ask me to explain. Some things resist explanation. A box truck with one side missing parked perpendicular just off the road. Empty. Hundreds of black birds forming a scrawl across the sky, flying off to somewhere that isn't here. The woman was real thin, clothes loose on her. Like she lost a lot of weight way too fast. Cancer is what I immediately thought of. But who knows? She had a hat pulled low over her face. Dark glasses. Like a celebrity trying and failing to be inconspicuous. Can I get you anything? Asked Lexi, walking up. And then she saw the woman's face and she went pale. Retreated to the far end of the bar, made herself busy with bottles and dishes. I looked at the woman. She didn't look at me. There was nothing inherently threatening about her. But I've learned that appearances don't mean shit. Oh, and one more thing. The woman said suddenly, like it was the next line in a conversation we'd been having. You aren't going to like what comes after America. I'll bet, I replied. Leonard Cohen said that. The woman muttered. Wasn't he Canadian? I said. Did you tell Alice? The woman asked. Why in the world would I follow orders from a stranger on the phone? I don't know you. And she's the love of my life. My loyalty is clear. I tapped out a wonky little rhythm on the bar top with my fingernails. But no, I didn't tell her. I can't explain. Other than what you said felt real. Real in a way that nothing has since. I trailed off and waved my hand to indicate a series of events that upended everything I had understood about the world. Extraordinary things are only supposed to happen to a person once in their life. If that. I had no interest in being struck by lightning twice. The woman nodded. Good, she said. This would be a lot more difficult if you had. It was bad enough involving you, but we felt we had no choice. Who is we exactly? I said. Not expecting a straight answer. And she didn't even attempt a crooked one, so. Is this about Thistle? Are they back? I asked. I had come all this way. Might as well get the worst of it over. Clear delineated lines between arid desert and irrigated farmland. Brown to green. Sharp divisions like the squares of a Rothko. The writer William T. Volman, he called the landscape of the American desert a Rothko's landscape. Here is what the landscape has looked like for a thousand years. And then here it is with the water we have taken from somewhere far away and carried to this land. Brown to green. Death to life. A single straight line. Is this about Thistle? And she actually laughed. A surprised laugh. Like when a kid tells you a joke that's way cleverer than you expected from their age. No. Thistle is gone for a good while, she said. Longer than I will live, or you. You and your crew did good there. Suppose that's why your name came up for this one. I got lucky, I said. Coin flip and I would have died instead. And it was true. I had been brave. I had been resourceful. I had been stubborn. But most of all I had been lucky. Lucky is the best thing to be, the woman said. So if it's not Thistle, I said, then what is it? The woman examined the far corners of the bar. The jukebox that only allowed song selection from some app. Because everything works from some app now. The bathroom signs with cute illustrations of a cowboy and a cowgirl. Honestly, we don't know, she said. If we knew that, we could take care of it ourselves, maybe. But this is beyond us. She grabbed a napkin off the bar, stamped with the name of the Rocky View Inn. Scribble down some numbers. Coordinates, I realized. She shoved it toward me. Go here, take a look. I can't tell you what to do after that. You'll have to make that call for yourself. She got up, started heading for the exit. Hey, I said. She stopped but didn't turn. Why did you tell me not to tell Alice? She stood still for a moment, deciding whether to answer. Then she did, in a voice that sounded different. She was terrified, I realized. And her fear made my stomach tighten. Because this did not seem like a woman who scared easy. You can't tell her, she said. Her voice a tight rasp. Promise me you won't. I can't promise anything. I'm sorry. She nodded, stood a second, then disappeared back out the door. How much do I owe you? I called to Lexi. But she wasn't there. Probably ducked back to restock something. Or maybe to avoid the woman, who she seemed to know and want nothing to do with. There was a heavy stillness in the bar. I glanced over at the man in the corner. His shoulders were shaking like he was laughing, but he wasn't making any noise. I didn't like this. And one thing I've learned is that you can always just get up and leave. And so I did. The heat and light outside made me stoop. Like it was something heavy dropped on me. I scurried to my car and then looked back. I was only a little surprised to see that the windows of the bar were boarded up. The sign by the highway was missing letters. At least one of the motel rooms out back had its door kicked in by someone seeking shelter. This place hadn't been open in years. I crossed the parking lot again, despite the heat. Tried to look around the edges of the boards. I could see, faintly in the darkness, the long sweep of the bar. Covered in plastic sheeting and dust. There were no bar stools, no tables. Only the smell of old paint and sealed spaces. Of course, I'm back out on these roads all right. I plugged the coordinates into my phone and it was a spot in the deep desert a few hours to the northeast. I was so excited to see what was going on. I was so excited to see what was going on. I was so excited to see what was going on. I was so excited to see what was going on. I was so excited to see what was going on. I was so excited to see what was going on. I was so excited to see what was going on. I was so excited to see what was going on. I was so excited to see what was going on. And it was a spot in the deep desert a few hours to the northeast. A primitive track off a tiny road, off a slightly less tiny road, off a lonely stretch of a barely used highway near a lithium mine. I'm not sure I knew lithium was mine. So I'm learning new things every day. The drive there is a blur of road stretching in front of me tediously. Like a song I can't get out of my head. I've gotten out of the habit of transit. I've stayed in one place. I've let the years pass through me, living them day by day. But things like hours and days don't matter to a long drive. Here there is only distance while time itself stands still. And somewhere between two hours and two thousand years, I turn onto the tiny road. Graves road says the sign. The graves of whom? Just someone's last name probably. Hopefully. My little car bounces on the poorly maintained asphalt. And I find myself missing the immovable object that was my truck. Yeah, okay, it was a nightmare to drive in cities. And every time I had to change a lane, I panicked a little, no matter how many times I did it. But also, it was a fortress. I drove in it. I slept in it. I cooked in it. I lived in it. And it was the boundary between me and America. Now there is no boundary. Only the poor sound of insulation of a cheaply made car, the best I can afford. Then comes the next turn off. This one has no name, although there is a little yellow triangle to mark the turn. This road is not just poorly maintained. It is never maintained. I think it's possible that no one has driven on this road since the day it was laid. The asphalt is cracking in the heat, crumbling away back into desert. Under the asphalt, the sand. The road abruptly ends. Not at any particular place. I haven't seen a single thing someone might need to access along its entire length. No, the asphalt just ends. Perfectly square. And then the scraggle of landscape takes over. An orderly handover. I must have missed the next road. I do a laborious three-point turn, which is humiliating because of the I used to maneuver a vehicle so much bigger than this one. I drive back slowly, watching both sides of the road, searching for what I missed. And then I see it. A bit of dirt more level than the other dirt. Not a road or a track or a path, but just a suggestion. That someone else once went this way. And so you could too. If you were foolish enough. I am nothing if not a fool. And so I turn and bump my way painfully across the rough terrain. My car was designed for supermarket parking lots and weekend trips to wine country. It was not meant for this kind of exploration. But to my surprise, it holds up. And faithfully gets me to where I'm going. I've been given no indication of what I was looking for. But she told me I'd know it when I saw it. And boy do I. I get out of the car. In front of me is a sweep of flat nothing. Grey dirt and a few weeds so tough and prickly, they could grow on the moon. And they basically are. A slow incline up to some mountains so unimpressive and remote that possibly no one has ever bothered to name them. That's the first thing I see. But I see something else. There is a highway winding its way through a thick forest. Up ahead, a town. A town. Neat brick buildings and something quaint but industrial. A mill maybe. I see the glitter of water in a river next to the highway. I can smell only slightly the deep murk of fresh water. I do not see this forest road instead of the desert landscape. It is on top of it. It is what it's like. If you have a brain that thinks visually, which I was so surprised to learn some people don't, then picture this. Picture yourself peeling an orange. See your fingers on the peel. See the fruit as the peel is removed. But also keep your eyes open. Look at what is in front of you. You are simultaneously seeing the orange being peeled and you are seeing the real world around you. That's what it's like. I am seeing the real landscape and I am seeing this highway. Not flashing back and forth, not superimposed, but like a vivid image of the mind on top of the world my eyes see. This is wondrous and it is wrong. There is something so wrong about this that I have to breathe very slowly to stop myself from vomiting the hamburger from that dead bar onto the gray dirt. It's like the two landscapes are struggling against each other. It's like one of them will someday win and the other one will collapse. Here is what the woman, whoever she was, wanted me to see. This impossible simultaneous America. A highway that is and isn't. Don't tell Alice, they said. And I am glad I had it. I'm glad she isn't confronting the same terrible impossibility that I had. I'm glad she isn't confronting the same terrible impossibility that I am. I get in the car. There was never any question as to what I was going to do next. My body was just waiting for my brain to catch up to the decision. I start the car. I turn it toward the simultaneous landscape. And carefully, I switch my conception of which one is real. Now the gray dirt and the weeds are what I am imagining. And the highway by the river is real. I start the car. This shouldn't work. This can't work. This won't work. I press the gas and I drive onto the highway by the river. I look in the rear view and the desert is gone. My God. Are Are you squeamish about horror movies but kinda wanna know what happens? Or are you a horror lover who likes thoughtful conversation about your favorite genre? Join me, Jeffrey Kramer and my friend from Welcome to Night Vale, Cecil Baldwin, for our weekly podcast, Random Number Generator Horror Podcast Number 9, where we watch and discuss horror movies in a random order. Fine, here's the short version, Random Horror 9 Wherever You Get Your Podcasts, Boo!
