Gwendy’s Final Task

“Okay. Make it as soon as possible. Using it today gave me a very creepy feeling. And some very creepy ideas.” Some of them had been violent, and strangely sexual.

“I understand.” Charlotte paused. “The Great Pyramid. Holy fuck.” Then she was gone, saying goodbye no more than she’d said hello.

Gwendy tossed her phone aside and returned her gaze to the screen. Now the chyron read 6 KILLED IN COLLAPSE. They had been young adventurers from Sweden who had broken out of lockdown to explore the pyramid on their own and had been crushed under tons of limestone blocks. To Gwendy it was relearning an old lesson. No matter how careful you were, no matter how good your intentions, the button box always extracted its due.

In blood.

22

THE VIDEO CONFERENCE IS a big hit, a real smasheroo. No slip-ups, no Brain Freezes, and Gwendy actually manages to have fun. In fact, the entire flight crew has a good time, culminating in a rowdy, impromptu toast—vacuum-sealed pouches of orange juice, apple juice, and lemonade raised high in the air—saluting Senator Peterson for a job well done. Even Gareth Winston, who is grasping a fruit juice pouch in each of his meaty palms, looks almost happy for her. Or maybe, Gwendy thinks with a certain mean enjoyment, he finally managed to move his bowels.

“Okay, everyone,” Kathy Lundgren calls out. “Time to get back to work. We have less than twelve hours until we join our Chinese friends at MF-1.”

“May we never see them,” David Graves grumbles, and Kathy swats him playfully on the shoulder as he floats by.

Gwendy watches as the others begin to stroke their way back to their flight chairs. “Thank you all again! That was an unexpected and much appreciated surprise!”

Gwendy still feels pretty terrific, but the buzz is starting to fade. If her memory is correct—and that’s obviously a big if nowadays—the chocolate high used to last much longer. Days instead of hours. But then again, it’s been more than 25 years since she last ate one, so how much does she really remember? Added to that, she’s 64 now. Not quite a geezer, but getting there. Or do only men get to be geezers? Maybe she’s almost a geezerette.

Either way, she’s not complaining. She’s thrilled, in fact. Not to mention relieved. The first video conference is behind her. It will only get easier from here on out, now that she knows what to do. And perhaps best of all? Gwendy remembered their names—every last one of the other nine crew members. Plus she remembered their job titles and onboard duties and any other number of details she’d long ago misplaced.

She grabs the iPad from beneath her seat and swipes her way into her secure email account. Scanning the dozens of notices in her mailbox, she stops on an email from Progressive Insurance. It’s time-coded from earlier in the day. She opens it.

The email is two pages long and is signed (electronically, of course) by a Progressive Representative by the name of Frederick Lynn. She skims its contents. The insurance company is currently working on an estimate of the damage to her house. It has been secured with heavy plastic sheeting and wooden framework where necessary. The power has been turned off and the remaining items in the refrigerator and freezer removed. The Castle Rock Sheriff’s Department as well as the Maine State Police will be keeping an eye on it, in case of thieves or ordinary garden-variety souvenir hunters. Also, her neighbors—Ed and Lorraine Henderson—promise to keep a close watch.

The insurance company doesn’t expect to hear back from Ms. Peterson until her return from outer space (Mr. Freddy Lynn actually uses those exact words, which brings another smile to Gwendy’s face), but they need to ask one important question: does Mrs. Peterson have any pets that may have gotten loose during the fire? They found no food or water dishes, but it’s standard procedure to ask. After that, there’s a lot of technical policy information she has little interest in reading.

Gwendy thanks God that Brigette has Pippa the sausage-dog and hits the REPLY button. She types, “No pets. Thanks for all you’re doing.” And hits SEND.

I’ve just sent my first email from outer space, she thinks incredulously.

She refreshes the mailbox screen and scrolls until she finds an email from Norris Ridgewick. It’s shorter than the insurance letter, but just barely.

April 17, 2026

Dear Gwendy,