6155 - part one
By J Lopez. Based upon characters created by Suzuki Koji.
This story follows the events in Ring 2, and incorporates background information from the novels Ring and Rasen.
Ring and Ring 2 (c) Ring/Rasen Committee. The novels Ring and Rasen are (c) Suzuki Koji
Before reading this story, please refer to the Rasen manga translation at http://www.theringworld.com/scripts.php
All dialogue and situations in this story are original. The timeframe is late January 1998, before Andou and Takayama Ryuji meet at the seashore (the movies keep a timeline similar to the novels, but change the year from 1991 to 1997).
Note: The term "weeklies" is used to refer to the thick, sensationalist magazines of Japan published once a week.
---
MONDAY
It was the sound of slightly labored breathing that told the man to look up from his notes. His head raised slowly, eyes taking in a powder blue button-down shirt (paisley tie ill-chosen to match), a squat, leathery wreck of a chin, a wide-lipped mouth slightly agape, and finally the nose and eyes of a man he held in something just short of contempt.
Ota.
Ota the lackey, whose sighting, rather than a work in progress, usually signaled some errand being run on behalf of the network execs. No doubt he and his kind could be found clinging to the underbelly of almost any major society, but Japan--where lifetime employment made promotion as much a matter of time served as time spent in servitude--seemed to provide especially fertile ground.
"Oguri wants to see you in his office," Ota intoned. The voice was flat and disinterested, the eyes twin graphite-ringed holes punched through newsprint. The man at the desk looked into those eyes, tried to read them.
As if in response, Ota's mouth curled up into a crooked pig's tail of a smile.
"Now, Yoshino."
The man stood, reached for a sport coat slung over the back of his chair. Pinned to the jacket's left breast pocket was a laminated rectangular badge that read Yoshino Kenzou, PRESS.
XXX
"You wanted to see me?"
Yoshino, right hand still on the knob, leaned half-in, half-out of the doorway to Oguri's office. Oguri himself was seated, elbows up on a boxy, unassuming desk. The desk had one of those flat, cardboard-thick organizers--the kind with the clock, calculator and notepad built into it--taking up the entire surface. Atop that sat a heavy, slightly tarnished brass plaque with the inscription "Oguri, Director of Programming." Yoshino regarded the plaque, wondering idly what his boss's first name was. So far as he knew, the man had always gone simply by "Oguri."
"Close the door behind you, would you?" the programming director asked.
Yoshino came the rest of the way in, pushing the heavy door shut behind him. Oguri gestured for him to have a seat but said nothing. He appeared to be gathering his thoughts.
"Yoshino," he finally spoke up, "you're the person to have known Asakawa the longest, am I right?"
Yoshino nodded once, slowly. "Ten years at least, back when she was still doing the weeklies." He smiled sadly. "She used to call me her mentor."
"We're all sorry, of course, about what happened..."
Another silence.
"Do you know what Asakawa was working on before the accident?" Oguri finally asked. Yoshino tried his best not to look startled.
"I know it had something to do with modern urban folklore, but she never let me in on the particulars."
Oguri kept his gaze directly on him, waiting for more. Yoshino found himself squirming under the intense scrutiny.
"She had me show her some file footage one time, of these teenagers that died in, uh, an automobile accident. I don't know what the connection was, to be honest. Other than that..."
"Perhaps you know that Asakawa wasn't working alone; she had Okazaki digging up data for her as well. Which raises the question," Oguri leaned forward in his chair, the hard leather of it creaking in protest, "Why would Asakawa ask Okazaki for help, and not you, her friend and mentor?" The tone was accusatory, impossible to miss. Yoshino shrugged noncommittally.
"If she was trying to keep something secret...well, she probably knew I'd ask too many questions. Okazaki, he'd do what he was told. He was still just an intern."
"Yes, he was. And now he's dead. As is Asakawa, -and- her ex-husband."
There was an uncomfortable silence as the two men regarded one another, each scanning for clues in the other's demeanor. Yoshino, for his part, still had no idea what this was about, but he had no intention of playing into whatever Oguri was up to.
With a sudden loud sigh Oguri relaxed, leaned back in his chair. His eyes had softened and he appeared to have reached some internal decision.
"Alright Yoshino, here it is: Last October, Asakawa came into my office with a story about a cursed videotape."
Yoshino felt his body stiffen.
Cursed...
"She said she'd seen the video for herself, and that she'd be dead within the week if she couldn't find a way to break the curse. I'm sure you noticed how absent Asakawa was those last seven days."
Yoshino nodded slightly.
"Well, it's because we had a deal--she takes the week, does what she needs to do, and in return once it's all over with she comes back and brings me a story. But now," Oguri gestured angrily, "she's dead, anyone that worked on the story with her is dead, and we still know squat. You can't even turn on a TV anymore without hearing about this 'Asakawa Curse' crap."
"What do you want me to do?" Yoshino asked quietly.
"I need you to find out what really happened, and I need it fast. Not only is this shit killing our PR, I'm starting to hear rumors about some nutjob trying to sell the 'secret Asakawa diaries' or something to the weeklies. And I don't have to tell you that we do not need that kind of press."
Oguri looked squarely at the veteran reporter. "Get the story, Yoshino. Find out what happened to Asakawa. And do -not- let those diaries get out."
"'Sir." Yoshino stood from his chair, was halfway to the door when Oguri's voice called out from behind.
"Oh, one more thing. Ever heard of a guy named Andou Mitsuo?"
Yoshino turned slowly to look back at his boss. He shook his head.
"Nope. Sorry."
XXX
It was far from crowded on the southbound train, but Yoshino felt like standing. He held onto the fat, plastic ring suspended from the ceiling, gazed distractedly at the caricature of himself reflected in the plexiglass window. A man in a gray business suit, arms folded over his paunch, sat to Yoshino's right, reeking of alcohol. The man's head bobbed in tune with the rhythm of the train, clickCLACK clickCLACK.
Yoshino's mind began to wonder, and he remembered the first time he met Andou Mitsuo.
XXX
Asakawa had been missing for days. No one knew where she was. Some people had finally gone to check on her at her apartment, and what they found was a wreck--clothes strewn about, television smashed, the burnt remains of a videotape in the bathtub. But both she and her son Yoichi were gone.
Pressure started to mount at the office to find out what had happened; she was, after all, one of their own. Asakawa's desk had been raided for clues, the files on her computer checked, yet no one was any closer to an answer.
But Yoshino knew one more place to look.
He went into Asakawa's computer, bringing up the Search For Files or Folders option. He knew the name of a file Asakawa sometimes used to store sensitive information, but wasn't sure exactly where she hid it. He typed in the filename "Yoichi" and pressed Enter.
Filenames skittered by at the bottom of the screen as the computer scanned its contents. Long seconds passed, and finally the search ended as the computer located the requested file. Yoshino double-clicked on it, praying that he would find something useful.
The file, he saw, contained nine documents with different dates, all bearing the same title:
ring1 ring2 ring3 ring4 ring5 ring6 ring7 ring8 ring9
10/2 10/4 10/7 10/12 10/15 10/17 10/19 10/20 10/21
Yoshino opened the first of the documents, scanned a few lines.
"The hell...?"
The document was a complete record of what Asakawa had been working on. Everything. Hands trembling, Yoshino pulled open the top drawer to Asakawa's desk, fished around for a blank floppy. He found one, snapped it into the A: drive and saved the file to disk. After verifying the save, Yoshino right-clicked the file icon on Asakawa's computer.
He clicked Yes on the option to delete the file.
Yoshino took the floppy from the computer and dropped it into his briefcase. He closed all the windows on Asakawa's computer, got up from the chair and forced himself not to run toward the exit.
It wasn't until he'd gotten home and read through the file while nervously chain-smoking his way through a pack of Seven Stars that he decided he'd need an outside opinion. This stuff about viruses and rates of infection was too far outside his range of knowledge. He'd need to talk to an expert, but who could he trust to keep it quiet, let alone not simply dismiss him outright?
It was then Yoshino remembered something he'd seen in the paper, about how the person who'd performed the autopsy on Takayama Ryuji had actually known him. He went to the website of the Daily Yomiuri, scanning the headlines for the past week until finding what he was looking for: "Noted Mathematician Dies Suddenly. No Evidence of Foul Play, Say Doctors."
Yoshino clicked on the file, running his eyes over the contents until finally coming up with the name of the pathologist in charge, one Andou Mitsuo.
Yeah, here it was.
Mitsuo, who had actually been an associate of Prof. Takayama at university, agreed to perform the autopsy despite the obvious difficulties involved. "I consider Professor Takayama to have been a good friend," Mitsuo was quoted as saying. "It's the least I could do to honor his memory."
Yoshino jotted down the name of the doctor, as well as the university at whose medical department he was employed.
He'd called Andou the very same day. He remembered that on the phone Andou had sounded distant, agreeing to meet with him almost distractedly. The two had met at one of the university's lecture halls, in between classes when the building was practically empty.
"The contents of the report are...fantastical to say the least," Yoshino had said, handing the report over to Andou, a thin young man in his mid-thirties with swollen, tired-looking eyes, "but what it has to say is worth the read."
XXX
It had been days since Yoshino had heard anything from Andou, and he was starting to get worried. He wasn't naive enough to take Asakawa's report at face value, but something was definitely going on, and the guy he'd been relying on for some answers had suddenly vanished.
Yoshino felt himself breaking into a sweat. He gripped the plastic ring of the handle tighter, watching the rhythmic bobbing of the drunken man's head and wondering where Andou had disappeared to.
XXX
The sudden ring of the telephone shattered his concentration, making him almost jump in his chair. Yoshino, who had exited the train and gotten home some two and a half hours ago, stood and walked over to the phone. The tiny desk he had been sitting at was taken up by an IBM laptop and a few scattered, handwritten notes. Yoshino picked up the cordless phone, pressed the SPEAK button.
"Hello?"
There was no reply at first, just the static of a bad connection and the humming of cars in the background. The person on the other end was calling from a payphone.
"Is this Yoshino Kenzou?" a man's voice finally asked. Yoshino scowled, not recognizing the voice.
"Yes, who's this?"
Brief pause.
"My name is Miyashita. I'm a friend of Andou Mitsuo."
Yoshino's mind raced. He changed the phone excitedly over to his other hand.
"Andou? Where is he? I've been trying to reach him for days."
"He's missing. His wife, too."
More static.
"Look, I need to talk to you, and I don't want to stay in one place too long. I feel like I'm being followed. Can you meet?"
"Sure. Where are you?" Yoshino grabbed a pen and a sheet of scrap paper.
"Get on the JR line to Shibuya and take the West exit. There's a Dai-Ichi Kangyou building right across from the station, and in the rear of that is another building called the Horo-yoi. Go to the second floor. I'll be waiting for you at a bar called Delete. You got that?"
"Yeah," Yoshino said, finishing the last of his notes.
There was a soft click as Miyashita, wordlessly, hung up the phone. Yoshino palmed the note and walked over to get his jacket.
XXX
The heavy cast iron door swung smoothly outwards, the bulk of it almost hitting Yoshino in the shoulder. He took a step forward, ducked to narrowly avoid bashing his head on a chunk of something shaped to look like rock. The rock motif continued through the doorway and into the bar itself, which had been crafted into an artificial cavern. The absolute bare minimum of lighting in the bar added to the effect. Yoshino took a few halting steps forward, letting his eyes adjust.
The bar was cramped, little more than the size of his living room. A tiny dance floor already half-full with three or four swaying bodies occupied the center of the room, and an L-shaped counter lay off to the right. A TV sat on the far end of the counter playing some American TV show he vaguely recognized. Millennium?
Yoshino took a few more steps, making out now the series of small, square tables lining the walls. He scanned the smoke-filled darkness, finally picking out a lone figure sitting in the far corner of the bar. The figure met his gaze, waved for him to come over. It was a man in his late thirties, with thinning hair and thick, boxy glasses.
"Mr. Yoshino, thank you for coming," the man said.
"How did you know it was me?"
Miyashita chuckled slightly. "Take a look around you." Yoshino did so, his eyes adjusted enough now to observe a clientele made up entirely of people in their teens and early twenties, pierced, hairsprayed and tattooed. He smiled in return.
"Guess we don't exactly blend in, huh?" He took a chair opposite Miyashita, who was reaching out for his drink. The man raised his glass, a lukewarm pint with the barest fingernail-thin layer of head on it, and took a disinterested sip before turning his attention back to Yoshino.
"That report you gave Andou," he began. "How many copies are there?"
Yoshino narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Why?"
"Because it's important, goddammit!" Miyashita spat venomously, his body trembling in anger. Yoshino regarded him in wide-eyed surprise, debating for a moment whether to just get up and leave. Miyashita picked up his mug, slammed the tepid drink in one swallow, and turned back to Yoshino. His eyes drooped heavily and were outlined by dark circles.
"I'm sorry," Miyashita began apologetically. "I feel like I haven't slept in days... Please, believe me when I say that many, many people's lives are at stake. I need to know many copies of that report there are."
Yoshino regarded him a moment longer, finally relenting. "The master file was on Asakawa's computer. I downloaded it to a floppy and took it home, where I made one hard copy that I gave to Andou."
"And what happened to the floppy?"
Yoshino shrugged. "The file must have gotten corrupted. After I gave the copy to Andou I tried printing out another one, but I couldn't even open the file. I threw the floppy away."
"So you didn't save the report to your computer?"
"No. Look, are you going to tell me what this is about?"
Miyashita sighed shakily. "Have you read the report yourself?"
"Yes."
"Jesus. So you've had the dreams."
"What?"
"The dreams, man! Of Hakone, of the well."
Yoshino frowned. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Miyashita put a hand to his forehead, rubbed it as if pained. "Haven't had any dreams...all right, let's skip that for now. The deaths of Asakawa, her ex-husband, her parents, her co-worker..."
"Okazaki."
"Right, Okazaki, and her niece--the tabloids are having a field day with it. The 'Asakawa curse' is big news. It's -the- hot topic right now. If someone were to get hold of the report, sell it off to the press as the 'lost Asakawa notes,' the secret to the curse..." Miyashita paused a moment, looking Yoshino square in the eyes. "I'm sure it'd be worth a lot of money. But I am telling you, if that report gets out, thousands of people are going to die. Tens of thousands."
"I'm still not following you."
"All right. You've read the report, which says that people who watch the video get infected with a virus, and that the virus kills the host after exactly seven days."
Yoshino nodded.
"The thing is, the video isn't the only way that the virus can spread. That report... Andou and I suspected that Asakawa didn't write it herself. We think that she was -made- to write it--by the virus. And reading that report is enough to infect you just the same as if you'd watched the video."
Miyashita reached again for his beer, saw that there was nothing left.
"The tape kills you in seven days," he continued. "The report seems to take longer, we're not sure why. But if you read it, make no mistake--the virus is in you. The same way that it's in me."
Yoshino said nothing for long moments, looking down at the table and tapping his fingernails on its cracked, peeling surface. He finally began to shake his head.
"Look, I didn't know what to make of that report when I got it, which was why I turned it over to you guys in the first place. But this...OK, maybe I could buy that 30 years ago some kid made a 'video virus' using her psychic powers. Maybe. But who in their right mind would believe that you could catch a virus just by -reading- about it? The idea's insulting."
Miyashita opened his mouth to rebuke, but Yoshino had already cut him off.
"Besides, you guys autopsied some of the victims, Takayama Ryuji for one. You should've been able to get samples of the virus."
"Yes, we--"
"Then why don't you just make an antidote using those samples?"
"You think I haven't tried that?!" Miyashita cried, livid again. "You think I haven't been sleeping most nights at the university so I can come up with something before my time runs out? I've tried batch after batch of antidote but nothing works, all right? Nothing! The compound breaks down every time."
There was another long silence as the men regarded each other angrily across the table. It was Miyashita who finally spoke up again.
"Right before Andou disappeared, he told me that the virus had been using us all along; that no one could be safe, even if you showed the video to someone else. The ones that don't die get changed somehow. The virus...impregnates them."
Yoshino said nothing.
"OK. You don't believe me, fine. The virus hasn't affected you yet the way it did me and Andou. But I guarantee you, it will. And when it does, when you're ready to believe, I want you to get back in touch with me." Miyashita reached into his billfold, pulled out a business card that he handed over to the reporter.
"Until then, for God's sake, don't let that report get published."
Yoshino reached out, taking the card almost reluctantly. He stood from his chair, was about to walk to the exit when he turned to ask Miyashita a final question.
"On the phone, you said that you thought you were being followed. By who?"
Miyashita fidgeted in his seat, pawed at his empty glass again.
"I don't know. I think it was some girl."
XXX
Yoshino put his key in the lock, heard the loud CLACK of the latch popping. He entered his apartment and began removing his shoes, the heavy cast-iron door closing slowly shut behind him. He flipped a switch, the fluorescent light flicking and spitting in crazy lightning flashes before finally catching, and entered the tiny, plasti-tiled kitchen. A quick scan of the refrigerator revealed two bottles of Kirin Lager and a tallboy of cheapy Kirin Tanrei. He grabbed the Tanrei, popping it open and taking a few loud sips before noticing a steady LED blink out of the corner of his eye.
The answering machine.
He walked over to the kitchen counter and pushed PLAY.
"Yoshino," the voice on the machine began, "it's Iida from Weekly Friday. I ran the idea by my boss, and he's very interested. He's also willing to meet your price of 200,000 yen. I'm headed home right now, so give me a call at the office first thing tomorrow, OK? Talk to you later. Bye."
Yoshino reached out and pressed the Delete button. There was a long high-pitched beep, followed by a cheery-sounding woman's voice.
"Deleted," the voice chimed assuringly.
Sighing, Yoshino walked out of the kitchen and into the living room. He took a seat at the desk, regarded his laptop for a moment. The screen saver was on, a metallic 3D text that bounced around the screen declaring POSSESS IN LOOP!!!!! He jiggled the mouse back and forth, the screen saver disappearing to reveal the word processing program he had left open.
Yoshino pulled open the top drawer to his desk, reaching under loose scraps of paper and a few volumes of Tomie manga until his fingers finally touched the hard plastic they sought. He pulled the plastic free, held it before his face. It was a 3.5 floppy disk, unlabeled, which Yoshino promptly slid into the laptop. He accessed the disk, the laptop whirring loudly as it brought up a document which he stared at, unmoving, for long moments.
The title, in bold 14-point font, read:
THE RING
By Asakawa Reiko
XXX
TUESDAY
Darkness clawed his eyes, and the air was heavy with the gaseous stench of decay. Yoshino staggered forward, hands outstretched, foul water splashing against his thighs. With a dull slap his hands encountered solid rock, fingertips spidering to explore its slick, mildewy surface. There were chinks in the rock at regular intervals.
A wall of brick.
Sudden fierce light shone down from above, temporarily blinding him. His legs tottered unsteadily a moment, regaining momentum as his eyes began to make out the cramped circumference of his surroundings.
He was inside a well.
He glanced upward at the source of the intruding light, hand shielding his eyes in mock salute. Through trembling fingers he could see the vaguest of outlines inside the circle of light.
It was a man, looking down at him.
And suddenly Yoshino felt the unmistakable sensation of someone standing directly behind him.
He turned to look but was stopped by a pair of arms slipping around his waist, seductive at first but turning in moments to iron bands encircling his chest and squeezing the air from his lungs. He felt the softness of a pair of breasts press into his back, and then was pulled forcefully into the embrace of a body that raged with wild, feverish heat. A face leaned forward, whispered its hot, heavy breath into his ear.
"Now -I- am saved," it rasped triumphantly.
Yoshino's eyes flew open. He watched limbs from which he felt strangely disassociated thrash at the bedsheets, ripping and kicking at them until finally becoming untangled. The last cobwebs of dream lethargy melted away and Yoshino sat up, found that he was gasping. His body was covered in sweat, and his swollen lungs sucked in air greedily.
"Jesus..." he whispered into the empty darkness. He glanced over at the clock in time to see 5:29 become 5:30 and the alarm begin to sound.
XXX
1:05 P.M.
"Irasshai!" the man behind the counter yelled. The door closed with a tinkle as three customers, a rough-looking teen with bleach blonde hair followed by an attractive, twenty-something girl in sunglasses leading a young boy by the hand, entered the shop and took a seat. The restaurant specialized in te-uchi soba, a handmade buckwheat noodle served in broth with a variety of toppings, and the man behind the counter was the owner and head chef. His name was Takamasa, but most people just called him "Taka."
Taka stood currently with his arms extended, stretching a quantity of long, thin dough into an elaborate cat's cradle of raw pasta. He shot a glance over at the customers and, having confirmed his audience, threw the noodles down onto the counter where they kicked up an impressive cloud of flour. He stole another look at the customers--that teen looked like just another punk, but my Lord the girl was pretty--and picked up a well-worn kitchen knife, began expertly slicing the dough into perfectly shaped noodles.
On the wall behind Taka a television was tuned to The Wide, one of several TV tabloids that dominated the midday airwaves the way that soap operas dominated those of America. The sound was down low, but the current vogue of extensive graphics and titling to emphasize tension made volume almost unnecessary.
"Tokyo Toorima: will it worsen before it gets better?!" the graphic in the upper right corner, referred to as a Chyron in the industry, asked menacingly. "Toorima," made up of the characters for "passing demon," were assailants whose method of attack was to slash randomly at passersby. A growing problem in the larger cities, but great stuff for the ratings.
The short, dark blue curtains dividing the restaurant from the kitchen parted as a smiling grandmother of a waitress emerged. She walked up to the customers, gave a little bow before setting a glass of water each on the table before them.
"Irasshaimase," she said, using the polite form of the word for "welcome." She reached into a low-slung apron at her hips and withdrew a pencil and notepad.
"Are you ready to order?"
The girl raised her eyes from her menu, looked questioningly over at the boy.
"Do you know what you want?"
"Yeah," the boy replied softly. "Tempura soba."
"Tempura soba," the waitress repeated, scratching onto her pad. She turned to the girl.
"And for you?"
"Me, too," the girl replied absently, already handing over her menu. The waitress received it, reaching out next to take the boy's. As their eyes met she flashed him a small smile...and stopped. The boy had rebuked her smile, was staring motionless at her with eyes wide and unblinking. The waitress suddenly shivered.
She had the discomforting feeling that the boy was looking -through- her.
Slightly rattled now, the waitress began scurrying off to report their orders.
"Hey!" the bleached teen yelled, annoyed at having been forgotten. "Bring me a yaki-soba."
The waitress, never once halting her stride, waved over her shoulder to show her acknowledgment.
"Jesus," the teen breathed, slapping his menu down onto the table. He looked over at the young boy.
"What'd you do to her, man?"
The boy gave no indication he had heard. His attention was already focused on the television, where seven or so people were sitting around a crescent-shaped table and shaking their heads sadly. It was customary for the tabloids to cut back to the studio after each segment and get commentary from the guests, to inject a little "human angle" into the story.
The table fell into silence for several minutes as the three customers regarded the program with varying degrees of interest. The teen, clearly bored, sighed loudly and set his right cheek onto his palm, his other hand toying idly with the condiments.
Onscreen, the camera cut suddenly to focus on one of the commentators, a pretty young thing with her hair dyed brown and curled into little ringlets. "Douzo!" she said happily while gesturing palm-upwards to the screen, the sign to move on to the next story.
Drums thundered and bass growled as the scene cut to the now oft-used file photo of the late Asakawa Reiko. Spiky, jagged letters crawled across the screen.
"The Asakawa Curse!!" the letters read, swelling menacingly while in the background Asakawa's photo faded from color to monochrome, finally turning black altogether.
Cut to a young, high-pitched reporter holding a thin wand of a microphone and pacing in front of an apartment complex. Her voice came fast and excited.
"I'm standing here in front of the apartment where the late Asakawa Reiko..."
The boy at the table stiffened in his chair, his features icy. Noticing this, the blonde-haired teen reached over and patted the boy reassuringly on the shoulder.
"It'll be OK, man," he whispered.
The boy slowly turned his head, looking first at the teen and then over at the girl. As their eyes met the girl removed her glasses, setting them onto the table.
"How much farther?" she asked lightly.
The boy gave no reply, simply turned to look across the room. The girl followed his gaze--which fell on the man behind the counter. Feeling the girl's eyes on him Taka began twirling his knife, slicing up noodles with pizzazz. The girl looked back across the table, her eyes wide.
"Him?" she asked incredulously. The boy nodded.
"Are you sure?"
Just then the curtain to the kitchen parted again, and their waitress emerged balancing a wide tray of steaming noodles. She approached the table with rushed, jerking steps, setting the dishes wordlessly in front of them and departing as quickly as possible. The teen picked up a pair of chopsticks, began tearing into his yaki-soba while the girl picked up her own pair and silently said grace. Her careful, refined manners were worlds away from the teen, who slurped the hot noodles loudly through pursed lips.
"These RULE!" he growled around a mouthful.
The boy was the last to begin eating, taking small bites while glancing occasionally over at the owner. Taka noticed this, looked curiously over at their table.
Something about them...
The owner halted in his slicing, set his knife onto the counter. He walked over to their table, flour-caked hands tugging absently at his apron.
"How is everything?" he asked, coming to rest behind and to the left of the pretty girl with the short hair.
"Very good, thank you," the girl replied politely.
The teen, absorbed in his food, merely grunted something unintelligible while the boy turned his head up to face the owner. Their eyes stayed fixed for long moments, the boy finally turning his attention back to his noodles while Taka's eyes began to widen in surprise.
"What?!" Taka demanded, voice hitching nervously. The boy blew on his noodles and sucked in a mouthful.
"I said they were good," he mumbled in between slurps.
Taka ran a hand nervously through his thinning hair. His mouth opened and then closed again as his jaw fought to keep up with the frenzied race of activity in his mind. Sensing his apprehension the girl set down her chopsticks, turned to face him.
"My name is Mai," she began by way of introduction. She gestured towards the boy. "This is Yoichi, and this--" she indicated the spiky blonde teen, "--is Shun." Shun gave a little mock salute and grinned.
The shopkeeper frowned, still not comprehending. Yoichi looked up at him, and this time there was no mistake as the boy's voice rang, clear and loud, in his mind.
'We need your help, Taka. To stop her.
The girl with one eye.'
XXX
2:17 P.M.
Yoshino, now at his desk, sat twirling the eraser end of a pencil in his mouth. The eraser was long since gone, its metal housing on the way to being chewed completely flat. The reporter's gaze flitted around the room, taking in the traffic of harried-looking colleagues rushing to meet deadlines.
Banks of soulless, fluorescent lights mounted on the ceiling.
His shoes.
Yoshino looked back to the computer screen. On it was the voiceover script for this week's "NNB Reports," a lighthearted ditty about a family of mice living inside the walls of a Tokyo kitchen and the havoc they wreaked upon the house's human inhabitants. Yoshino was usually able to bang out treacle like this in no time flat, but today he was finding it impossible to concentrate.
Because of the dream.
That damn Miyashita, putting thoughts in my head. Thoughts of the well in Hakone.
Hakone...
Yoshino leaned forward, reached for the phone.
"Operator," a voice answered pleasantly after he'd punched in a few numbers.
"Yes, I'd like a listing in Izu, please, on Oshima Island."
"What name, sir?"
"I'm looking for a business, actually, by the name of 'Yamamura Villa.'"
There was a brief pause as the operator searched her database.
"Please hold for the number," she piped up shortly.
Yoshino scribbled down the number and promptly hung up. A moment later the receiver was again in hand, tones sounding as Yoshino punched in the 10-digit sequence.
"Yamamura Villa," a woman answered in a soft, polite voice.
"Yes, good morning. My name is Yoshino Kenzou, from NNB TV. I'm looking for a mister--" Yoshino paused, fishing in his memory for a name from the Asakawa report. He found it a moment later, continuing, "--Yamamura Takashi. Would he happen to be in?"
There was a long silence from the other end, broken finally by that elegant voice saying:
"I'm sorry, sir. Mr. Takashi has passed away."
Yoshino froze, his mind suddenly numb.
Passed...
"I, uh, I'm sorry," he stammered, setting the receiver clumsily back in its cradle.
Passed...
It's just a coincidence. That's all.
Yoshino reached out for the receiver again, punched in a few numbers.
"Information, what city please?"
"Tokyo. I'd like the number for Takano Mai." There was a moment of silence from the operator, during which Yoshino could hear the clicking of keys being punched, the muffled chatter of a roomful of operators dispensing information.
"I'm sorry, sir," his operator spoke up. "I'm showing multiple listings. Would you happen to know what area in Tokyo?"
Yoshino scowled, angry with himself. Idiot.
"No. But let me get a different listing please, for K University. The mathematics department." Yoshino grabbed his tooth-ravaged pencil, scratched out the number already being recited in a stilted, computerized voice. He hung up the phone, waited a moment, and then dialed the number to the university. Two, three times it rang, finally answered on the fourth by a nasal, bored-sounding voice.
"Mathematics," it said simply.
"Yes," Yoshino began, "I'm looking for a teacher's aide by the name of Takano Mai. Is she available?"
There was a moment's silence. When the voice came back it didn't sound bored anymore.
"Ms. Takano is no longer at this office," it said sharply.
"Would you happen to know--"
"I wouldn't," the voice interrupted. "She came in about a month and a half ago and just collected her things, not a word of explanation. She hasn't been heard from since."
Yoshino mumbled a word of thanks, hung up the phone dazedly.
Asakawa. Ryuji. Okazaki. Yamamura Takashi.
The chain of events that began with the death of four high school students was still in effect, and showed no signs of slowing down.
If anything, the circle appeared to be widening.
And Andou and Takano Mai, the only ones with any knowledge of what was going on, had both disappeared.
XXX
9:54 P.M.
Taka sat on the woven-straw tatami floor of his Okayama apartment, deep in conversation. To his right sat Mai, cross-legged, while in the far corner Shun slumped with his back against the wall, eyes glued to a phone book-sized comic called 'Young Jump.' The three sat in Taka's living room, a bare bones arrangement consisting of a small television and a few zabuton cushions. A sliding door behind Mai and to the right of the television separated the living room from the bedroom, where Yoichi slept soundly inside a futon kept on hand just for guests. The door to the bedroom was open slightly, a crack of about two centimeters through which Shun occasionally peered, glancing protectively over at the boy.
"But, how did you find me?" Taka asked Mai, his voice equal parts embarrassment and boyish excitement.
"It's Yoichi," she replied."He just...knows somehow."
"How many of us are there?
Mai shrugged. "There can't be many. We've come west from Tokyo, hitting every major city along the way. So far Shun is the only other one we've found."
At mention of his name Shun looked up briefly from his comic. He gave a little grin, focused his attention back downwards again. Taka voiced his next question tentatively.
"Have you always been able to...?"
Mai shook her head. "Last year, I lost someone...dear to me. When he died, it was like--" Mai searched for words, putting a hand to her chest, "--I could feel part of him -enter- me. Changing me. After that, I started being able to know what people around me were thinking, see things that they couldn't. I'm nowhere near as sensitive as he was, though. Sometimes, I think it came close to pushing him over the edge. It destroyed his marriage. It stopped him from ever wanting to touch me..."
Mai's voice trailed off as, lost in thought, her eyes fell to the tatami. Taka shifted uncomfortably, the silence beginning to grow heavy. He glanced over at Shun.
"So," he called out to the teen. "What can you do?"
Shun looked up, flicked his eyes casually over to the TV. It immediately flickered into life, startling both Mai and Taka as Tamori, a semi-popular television host, appeared onscreen and began cracking one-liners. Shun snorted.
"Damn, I hate that guy."
The screen jittered, became distorted as the chatter of the audience warped crazily like an audio tape being slowed down and sped up again. Mai flicked an angry glance across the room.
"Shun..." she said, her tone reprimanding.
The teen, eyes a parody of innocence, gave an absent wave of his hand. The screen immediately went dark. Taka turned to look incredulously over at Shun, who merely gave him a small shrug.
"That's nuthin' compared to what -he- can do," Shun said, the tilt of his head indicating Yoichi over in the next room.
"How about you, old timer?" the teen continued. "What do you do?"
Taka shifted uncomfortably.
"I... know things about people. I can get inside their memories, see what's happened to them. And what's going to happen, sometimes." Taka gave a little laugh. "I'm not like you, though. I have to -touch- people in order for it to work."
Mai looked up, her eyes wide.
Like Ryuji...
She fixed her gaze steadily on the older man as slowly she raised her right hand, fingers spread wide. Taka regarded her questioningly.
"Is it OK?" he asked.
Mai swallowed, nodded once.
Taka reached out, hesitatingly at first but then clamping down tightly as his fingers interlocked with Mai's. Immediately the man's perception shifted, the color bleeding out of his surroundings as a monochrome rush of memories flooded his mind.
Here was Mai as a young girl, her eyes fastened onto a book as behind her a trio of boys stood and wagered which of them would be the first to plant a kiss on those flushed, pink cheeks.
Flash forward to a Mai in her early twenties, hands clasped nervously in front of her as she called out to a stern-faced, bearded man seated in front of the station.
"Don't you find it difficult to concentrate with all these people around?" she asked. The man looked up at her, a cynical little smile on his face. At the sight of him a name popped unbidden into Taka's mind.
Ryuji...
Flash forward. Muffled footsteps, the metronome in cotton pounding of a heart gorged with anxiety.
"Professor?" a voice called out brokenly. Mai's voice.
Tortured gasp as the body of Takayama Ryuji, his skin pale, mouth twisted into a silent scream of terror, swung into view. The corpse lay sprawled on the living room floor, outlined by a few sheets of looseleaf paper that had been knocked off of the desk. On the desk itself sat a telephone, the receiver off its hook and dangling crazily off one side.
Mai shrieked, stumbled clumsily backwards toward the front door. The hard metal of it hit her solidly in the back, bringing a fresh yelp of surprise. Her breath came quick, panicked.
Taka, firmly inside the vision, threw a concerned look at Mai before turning his attention back to the corpse. He took a few steps forward, stopping to peer intently at the twisted piteousness of it. Taka scratched the back of his head absently. Obvious physical abnormalities aside, something about the body bugged him, didn't seem quite right. He stooped over the body and stretched a hand out towards its greying skin.
The corpse suddenly flickered into life, head turning jerkily to regard the older man with angry, bloodshot eyes. Taka took a single surprised step backwards as the cadaver shuddered, a gurgled cough rising from the back of its throat. Laboriously, the lips mouthed out a short string of monosyllables.
"Six...one...five...five..."
Taka kept his gaze steady, determined not to appear shaken. The corpse of Takayama Ryuji flashed him a weak smile.
And then the room was gone, swallowed up in a sudden flash of bright orange flame. Taka, disoriented, threw his gaze to either direction, taking in his surroundings. He stood on a vast beach, its shoreline extending unbroken as far as he could see. The light had an unnatural, filtered quality that made everything look hazy while still being strong enough to hurt the eyes. Taka turned to examine the beach from the opposite direction--and froze, impaled by a jagged icicle of dread.
The area of the beach behind him was choked with thousands upon thousands of human corpses. They were in varying states of decay, some so fresh as to merely appear sleeping, others gaseous and beginning to rot. To the right of the shore a series of dunes radiated outward in gentle slopes. Atop the closest of these, looking down at her handiwork, stood a half-human creature the sight of which made Taka's heart jackknife and the muscles in his face twitch in the beginnings of a scream.
The creature wore a long, white dress that hung loosely on its gaunt frame. A pair of arms dangled at its side but a second, smaller set of hands was at its waist as if the creature were being held from behind. Its long hair billowed, all features obscured save for a single eye--swollen, engorged on blood and hate--that stared wide and unblinking.
Taka felt his mind threatening to give. He locked his hands into his hair and pulled, head shaking from side to side as he whispered urgently under his breath.
"Let go let go let go let go let--"
There was a flash of hot light as, back in his apartment, Taka wrenched his hand free of Mai's, breaking their psychic connection. The two fell limp and exhausted onto the tatami. Taka's chest suddenly tightened, and he gave a few wracking coughs before turning to look over at Mai. The girl remained prone, her eyes glassy with fear.
"What the hell -was- that?" the man demanded. "Has that ever happened to you before?" Mai shook her head numbly, grunting as she pushed herself up into a sitting position. Taka put a hand to his forehead and rubbed.
Was the vision on the beach some sort of message? A warning?
The scene in the apartment, Mai finding Takayama Ryuji's body--that at least had been an actual memory.
Ryuji.
Taka looked over at Mai, into those wide, doe-like eyes.
She still loves him.
My God, she doesn't know.
"You saw it, huh?" Shun suddenly piped up, breaking the older man's train of thought. "The eye."
Taka looked across the room over at the teen, nodded once.
"Yup."
Shun turned his attention back to his comic.
"I hate that fuckin' bitch," the teen spat under his breath. Taka waited a few moments before turning back to Mai, his face serious.
"Can she be stopped?" he asked quietly, the creature's name tasting like poison on his lips before even spoken. "Sadako."
Mai was silent for so long he began to doubt if she had heard. He was about to ask again when suddenly she spoke up.
"Honestly?" Mai began, her voice faltering. "We don't know."
XXX
11:02 P.M.
Miyashita, his vision blurred from lack of sleep, squinted down the oversized barrel of a microscope, watching the reaction of the Ring Virus to his latest batch of antidote. He watched the compound approach the twisted horseshoe-shaped virus, saw it rub against the virus's cell walls.
Penetrate, damn you.
The compound pushed forward...and abruptly collapsed, falling in on itself.
Failure.
Miyashita put his face to his hands and began to sob.
END OF PART ONE
