A Dream of Tomorrow
By Don M. Esquibel
Copyright 2020 Don M. Esquibel. All rights reserved.
Published 2020 by Don M. Esquibel.
Contact:
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Twitter: @dmesquibel89
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1: (Morgan)
Chapter 2: (Morgan)
Chapter 3: (Lauren)
Chapter 4: (Morgan)
Chapter 5: (Lauren)
Chapter 6: (Morgan)
Chapter 7: (Lauren)
Chapter 8: (Morgan)
Chapter 9: (Lauren)
Chapter 10: (Morgan)
Chapter 11: (Lauren)
Chapter 12: (Morgan)
Chapter 13: (Lauren)
Chapter 14 (Morgan)
Chapter 15: (Morgan)
Chapter 16: (Lauren)
Chapter 17: (Morgan)
Chapter 18: (Lauren)
Chapter 19: (Morgan)
Chapter 20: (Lauren)
Chapter 21: (Morgan)
Chapter 22: (Lauren)
Chapter 23: (Morgan)
Chapter 24: (Lauren)
Chapter 25: (Morgan)
Chapter 26: (Lauren)
Chapter 27: (Morgan)
Chapter 28: (Lauren)
Chapter 29: (Morgan)
Chapter 30: (Morgan)
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Slowly I pace, quietly circling the quivering man strapped in the middle of the room. Low sobs fill my ears, the sound nearly as sweet as the screams that preceded them. I breathe deep as I come to a stop, the coppery tang of blood so potent I can all but taste it. A small smirk graces my lips. It’s a taste the man and I share.
“You probably used to get good money for one of these didn’t you?” I ask, holding the pliers up to the light. “Yeah, I bet you did. I can just picture it: you tossing and turning after mommy and daddy tucked you in, so excited you couldn’t fall asleep no matter how hard you tried. And then the next morning, reaching under your pillow and finding some bills, your little heart filled with joy because you knew there was magic in this world.”
I lower my voice and lean closer till my face is scant inches away from his. “Sorry to tell you, but this isn’t a fucking fairy tale.” I loosen my grip on the pliers, the bloody tooth it held falling into the lap of its owner.
The man glares at me, his eyes filled with defiance. It’s a look I know well, one that tells me his next words will not be those I want to hear.
“Go to hell,” he snarls, spitting a wad of blood and phlegm at my feet. A week ago I might have laughed, might have felt excited at the prospect of breaking such a strong will. It was little more than a game, then: one I had never lost. But this is different. This is personal. I don’t have the luxury of savoring it.
I don’t speak. My response is in my actions. He struggles against his restraints as the pliers invade his mouth, his head held in place by one of my men. I find purchase and clamp down, twisting and yanking as the man screams in pain. Finally, the tooth comes loose with a bloody pop. I hold out the molar for his inspection before dropping it once more into his lap.
“I respect the fight in you,” I say. “But don’t fool yourself into thinking this is a fight you can win. All men break. You can save yourself a lot of pain and suffering if you would just cooperate.”
The man is overcome with a hacking fit, deep coughs making him nearly double over. After a minute they subside and he spits. When he looks up at me, the defiance still smolders in his eyes.
“Go to hell,” he says.
I sigh, disappointed though I expected no different. I turn my back on him and walk to the table against the far wall. I set down the pliers and select a curved knife, it’s blade thin and wickedly sharp. I hold it up for him to see, the light overhead gleaming against the cold steel.
“Now. Where were we?”
Chapter 1: (Morgan)
Hundreds surround me, their shouts and roars deafening in such close proximity. I weave my way through the press of bodies as more rush to greet us. Faces flash past, both familiar and unknown. Leon points and I search the crowd until my eyes find my parents standing beside his own. We make our way towards them, each of us receiving slaps on the back and brief handshakes before we reach them. I hug my mother and father in turn, both of whom have tears in their eyes which they hastily wipe away. I force myself to suppress a laugh. Graduations have always turned parents to mush. They’re not the only ones whose fingers and sleeves glisten with fallen tears.
“You have no idea how proud you make us,” my mother says.
I smile. “I know mom,” I say.
“You don’t,” my father assures me. “But one day you will.”
My sister appears a moment later. “Congrats, big brother,” she says, drawing me in for a hug. “Told you they would both be in tears,” she adds as my parents greet Leon. “You should have seen dad when they handed you the diploma.”
I laugh. “He always was a softy,” I say.
Emily turns to Leon whose eyes light up as they so often do when they land on her. He pulls her in for a hug and I find myself looking away. It’s then I notice her and I feel my heart twist and swell all at once. I wasn’t sure she would be here. My feet cover the distance between us and I wrap my arms around her in a tight hug.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” I say.
She squeezes me closer. “It’s my favorite nephew’s graduation,” my Aunt Virginia says. “Where else would I be?”
I don’t voice the answer that springs to mind: Home. In bed, lost in a haze of antidepressants. I haven’t seen her out of the house in months—not since we laid my Uncle Joe to rest on a snowy winter day. I remember her standing still as a statue, oblivious to the cold and snow, her grief cloaking her far better than a coat ever could. Worse was the look on her face: blank, lost, heartbroken. It’s a face that hasn’t faded with time, the same face that has greeted me these past months whenever I’ve stopped to visit. I ease my arms around her and find her eyes. She smiles and I find myself matching it. I feel as if I’m seeing her properly for the first time in ages.
“I’m so, so proud of you, Morgan,” she says. “You’re uncle would have been too.”
I feel a pang deep inside me. “I wish he were here,” I say.
She shakes her head and lays her hand against my chest as if she could sense what I just felt. “He is,” she says, patting my chest. “He always will be.”
I swallow a lump in my throat and nod. “You’re right,” I say.
She hugs me once again. “I can’t wait to see what the future has in store for you,” she says. “You’re going to do great things with your life. Your uncle always said so. I never knew the man to be wrong.”
The memory dissolves like the snowflakes falling on the windshield, wiped and scraped away, leaving nothing but cold reality. That world is dead. Just as my aunt is... Just as the boy she spoke to—the boy who looked at the future and saw endless possibilities—who at that moment allowed himself to believe he would do great things with his life. Now when I look to the future all I see is uncertainty; my greatest accomplishment being that I continue to survive. For now at least.
I rest my forehead against the cold window and close my eyes, doing my best to shake the sour thoughts from my mind. Deep breath. In. Out. I open my eyes once more and resume my scouting, watching the treeline and hillsides we pass for any potential threats. My fingers grip the stock of my AR in reassurance, th
e act in itself saying much of the state of things. What a world we live in that one can find comfort in such a violent weapon. And I am comforted by it. I think of the guns and bullets destroyed in the fire and feel grateful not all were lost. It could mean the difference between life and death.
My aunt flashes through my mind again and I have to fight the sting in my eyes. I look in the rearview mirror and find Grace, her eyes closed, head resting on Lauren’s shoulder. She’s a living reminder of how much more could have been taken from us. I watch her sleep, wondering where her mind takes her. Does she dream? Has she ever? I think of the past she and her sister share and feel my heart break for her. I’ve adapted to violence and uncertainty. She was born into it. I want so badly to create a place where she can feel safe and at peace. I want that for all of us, the only thing I can remember wanting since this all started. My eyes flick forward to the vehicle ahead of us. Perhaps we might finally find it.
Anxiety sweeps through me at the thought. Because of Lylette, Byron has agreed to take us to their ranch, but that’s as far as his promise goes. Can’t say I blame him. I know only too well how hard it is to trust others in the world today. I look again in the rearview mirror and spot Frank in the truck trailing us. Amazing how much can change in the course of a single day. I learned that harsh truth in Denver as chaos spread across the world, and I realized just how fragile the line between society and anarchy was. In the months that have followed, I have relearned that truth more times than I can count, but none more consequential than now.
It was Frank who led the attack yesterday that set this whole ordeal in motion. Under his command, the Animas Animals raided the safe house Byron had secured, killing several of his people and capturing several more, Leon and I among them. And though he freed us, and thwarted a second attack that would have seen most of mine and Byron’s people killed or captured, it doesn’t wash the blood from his hands. It certainly doesn’t absolve him in Byron’s eyes. Hell, I’ve known him for half my life, and even I don’t know how to feel about him. This whole situation is messy. Complicated. All I can hope for is that we figure it out together.
“I think this might be the place,” Leon says.
I sit up straighter, more alert as Byron rolls to a stop ahead of us. On the right is a metal gate, chained and padlocked. Lylette hops down from the passenger side and approaches it, feet sinking into the deep snow. She makes quick work of the lock and chain, swinging open the gate a minute later. Byron pulls forward and the rest of our procession follows. Soon as we’re through she locks the gate back up and joins Byron in the lead truck once more.
The drive is long and twisting, thick with trees on either side. No wonder the Animals have yet to find them. The place is as concealed as anyone could hope for. Nearly a mile passes before the trees give way, opening into a wide meadow. At the end of the drive sits a small compound, a white wooden fence encircling the entire area. Several people appear as we approach a second gate, taking cover and leveling their rifles at us. We pull to a stop several yards back and Byron exits the vehicle. Seeing their own, the first responders lower their weapons. One of the men moves forward and I unroll my window, hoping to catch what is said.
“This isn’t exactly low profile,” the man says.
“We didn’t have that luxury,” Byron says.
“Trouble?” he asks.
“Putting it lightly,” Byron explains. “I need to speak to the council. A lot of shit went down they need to be aware of.”
The man looks toward the convoy. “Clearly,” he says. “And them?”
Byron looks over his shoulder a long moment, face thoughtful. “Let them in,” he says. “They are guests until the council decides what is to be done.”
The man nods. “Yes, sir.” Byron returns to his truck as the man unlocks the gate and swings it open. We follow Byron through the gate, passing by outbuildings and corrals, greenhouses and stables. And of course people. Despite the weather, there is a buzz of activity, men and women tending to the necessary tasks to keep the place running. They stare at us warily as we pass, our procession undoubtedly out of the ordinary. Byron comes to a stop beside a sprawling, single-story home, and signals for us to cut the engines.
I exit the vehicle, the cold air acting as a stimulant after the long ride here. I approach Byron, holding up my hand for the others to wait. Lylette walks past, toward the front entrance of the house. Her eyes meet mine and she graces me with a small smile, a gesture meant to put me at ease. It’s a gesture lost as I turn my attention to Byron, his eyes cool, not a hint of reassurance on his stoic face.
“I promised the council would be informed, and so they will be,” he says. He points to what looks like a large garage on the other side of the drive. “One of our bunkhouses. You’re welcome to wait inside. It might take a while.”
“Thank you,” I say. He nods and turns to follow Lylette into the house. The rest of his men stay behind, I notice. Our escorts. Perhaps it’s for the best. Judging by their cold stares, I don’t imagine anything they have to say to the council would be in our favor.
I round up the others and we follow Byron’s men into the garage. Heat washes over me as I enter the cavernous space, a wood stove roaring on the opposite wall. A single man stands before it, his clothes wet and dusted with snow. He turns, a curious smile on his face as he spots us.
“New recruits?” he asks of our escorts.
“Up in the air,” one of them replies. “Byron’s meeting with the council now.”
They exchange a look, an unspoken message passing between them. The man nods and splays out his hands in welcome.
“Guests then,” he says. “Come, warm yourselves.” He beckons us inside, eyes widening as more of us enter. “My. How many do you travel with?”
“Over forty,” I reply.
“Strong number,” he says. “A rare thing today.” He takes in our somber expressions, our collective grief and anxiety easy enough to spot. Just as easy is the division between us—the tension between my family and the surviving Animals. Whatever thoughts he has on the subject he doesn’t voice them. I’m grateful. I’m not exactly in the mood to explain things.
“Not much in terms of comfort, but please, sit wherever you like,” he says. “There’s also some water jugs in the corner. Feel free to help yourselves.” There are words of thanks as people move to fill their bottles and settle down on the cots and benches lining the wall. He beckons our guards over and exchanges a quiet word. A moment later, one of them leaves without a word. The man turns to me as the guard shuts the door behind him.
“Name’s Philip,” he says, extending his hand.
“Morgan,” I reply, quick to accept. “Thank you for your hospitality.”
“You’re welcome,” he says. “Please, sit,” he says, pulling up a chair. I sit across from him on one of the cots, Lauren and Grace beside me. He favors Grace with a warm smile, one that does not hide the pity in his eyes. His gaze shifts about, lingering, I notice, on the children the longest.
“So many of you,” he says. “Have you been together from the beginning?”
He’s fishing for information. Information I am not fool enough to share until the council is notified.
“No,” I answer. “Only recently.”
“How did that come about?” he asks.
A bitter laugh sounds on the cot beside ours. Richard. “It wasn’t by choice,” he says. “And just because we arrived together, doesn’t mean we are.” I cringe as his glare finds one of the Animals, the man returning it in kind. This is neither the time nor the place.
“I think what he means to say is that sometimes we are victims of circumstance,” I interject, casting him a meaningful glance. “Sometimes all we can do is adapt and move forward.” Richard holds my stare a moment, challenge in his eyes. His daughter rests her hand on his forearm, and only then does he look away, letting the issue drop. But there is no gentle hand on the Animal. I recognize him now. I watched him break down after Val b
roke the news that his daughter was killed trying to escape. The last I saw him he had his head buried in his hands, body shaking with deep sobs. He speaks now, and it’s clear his grief has hardened into anger.
“Is that really what you think he meant?” he asks. He shakes his head. “Cause that’s not what it sounded like to me.”
Frank speaks up before the Animal can continue or Richard can reply. “Perhaps you misheard,” he says. The man’s glare is as cold as the ice outside. But finally, he nods.
“Perhaps,” he says. After a tense pause, he leaves for the water jugs even though his bottle is still half full. Once he’s out of earshot Frank turns to Philip.
“My apologies,” he says. “Our situation is...complicated to say the least.”
Philip's eyes move from Richard to the Animal’s retreating form, frowning slightly. “Clearly,” he says. He re-arranges his face into a smile so forced I’d almost prefer a frown. “Well, I must be off. Duties to attend to. Pleasure meeting you all.” He nods, first to us and then our escorts, another significant look passing between them. He exits and I let loose a frustrated breath.
“Not the first impression I hoped for,” I say quietly, resting my head against Lauren’s shoulder.
“It could have been worse,” she says. “I’m surprised it wasn’t actually.”
I laugh though I feel no humor, only a morose sense of agreement. I don’t need to look toward Richard or the Animal to know the tension remains. I can feel it in my bones, the entire room thick with it.
“You’re right,” I say.
Silence settles deep in the room, interrupted only by the occasional cough or shifting body. It’s stopped snowing, the overcast sky a quilted blanket of gray and silver. Time trickles away, my gaze focused on nothing in particular. Try as I might, I can’t stop thinking about the past 24 hours, of the broken home we left behind and the fiery pyre we lit for my aunt. Those flames will have died by now, reduced to a pile of ash and bone. My poor aunt. She deserved so much better. We all did.
Echoes of a Dying World (Book 3): A Dream of Tomorrow Page 1