Sleeping World

by K M Frost

  Several yards away, a cluster of five men watched us with chilling grins.

  One of the men shouted above the sound of the hungry flames. “It’s rude to rain on a person’s parade!” His voice was hard and loud. “Now, we went to a lot of work to get this fire started, and we don’t think it’s very charitable of you to be trying to put it out.”

  I glanced uncertainly at the other people who had been fighting the flames, but they were as scared and unsure as I was.

  The man continued in his booming voice. “Charity’s a mighty fine thing. We think you people could use a bit more of it.”

  Another man joined in with a gleeful grin. “Since you obviously don’t have much.”

  Before I could think, the men tore into the crowd and the screams resumed, full-force.

  I just stood there, holding my bucket. I felt a strange disconnection with the moment, like I wasn’t really there.

  I watched as the men ripped ruthlessly through the chaos, using only their bare hands to subdue the people in their path.

  A dozen people went down—two dozen, more?

  I lost count as the men plowed forward, moving closer to me and leaving a trail of bodies behind them.

  And I couldn’t move.

  A hand closed around my arm and I screamed. I whirled on the spot and it took a second to recognize the face above me.

  “Dad?”

  My dad tugged on my arm, his face set in a grim expression.

  I glanced toward the sounds of brutality and terror, but Dad tugged me away before I could see anything.

  My fingers were numb, and when Dad tugged me after him the bucket clattered from my grip. Luckily the volume of the crowd was so deafening even I barely heard it hit the ground.

  No one noticed us as we slunk around the back of the Counseling Center, putting the stone building firmly between us and the violence.

  I was breathing hard and couldn’t stop my hands from shaking. “What’s going on?” My voice cracked.

  Dad met my eyes briefly, then crept to the far corner of the building to peer around it. “I don’t know. These people showed up out of nowhere.” He ducked behind the wall again and turned to face me. “No one knows where they came from or what they want. It’s like they materialized overnight . . .”

  I was too freaked out to pay much attention to what he was saying.

  After a moment he shook himself from his thoughts and peeked around the building again. “Okay, Jonas.” His voice was calm—almost like he was used to situations like this. He looked me right in the eye. “We’re going to run, alright?”

  I think I might have whimpered or made some other pathetic sound, but I managed a shaky nod.

  Dad looked at me seriously; his gaze didn’t falter. “It’s important you get home, Jonas. No matter what, keep running. Don’t stop for anything. When you get home, tell Mom to lock the door and then the three of you need to stay in the kitchen, alright?”

  I was in shock, but I noticed he’d left himself out of the plan.

  I tried to block out the screams and cruel laughter from the other side of the Counseling Center—not far enough away—and met Dad’s eyes accusatorily. “What about you?”

  Dad’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes turned sad. “I’m going to distract them so they won’t notice you running. That way they won’t follow you home.”

  I was already shaking my head long before he had finished. “We can both make it.”

  I latched onto his arm in case he tried to bolt.

  He sighed and looked at me with something close to a grimace. “Jonas—”

  “No, Dad. We have to stay together. Mom would say the same thing, and you know it.”

  He opened his mouth to argue, but I could see he knew I was right. He pressed his lips together and I tightened my hold on his arm, just in case.

  Finally he blew out his breath. “Alright, Jonas. I’ll come with you. But,” his blue eyes turned stern, “if I fall behind, you will keep running. Got it?”

  I nodded, determined to not let him fall behind.

  He nodded back, and then peered again around the building. He didn’t move for a long minute, and when he suddenly hissed, “Now!” it took me a second to get my feet moving.

  We darted out from behind the building and I kept my eyes on the road. I heard horrible things behind us, but I did not look back. I ran faster than my legs had ever carried me—even when I’d been running from Entities—because this time my family was in danger.

  The run home was a giant blur, but we made it back to the house safely, and it didn’t look like anyone had followed us.

  Dad and I burst through the front door, scaring Mom half to death. She opened her mouth to scold us, but when she saw our expressions the words died in her mouth.

  Dad locked the door and then dragged the kitchen table in front of it.

  “Gemma. You and Jonas need to block up all the windows. Use whatever you have to. Just make sure the fortifications are sturdy.”

  I watched Mom’s face and realized I must’ve looked just like that—shocked, terrified, and anxious.

  “Dylan.” Mom’s voice was soft, a question and a protest, but then Dad walked right up to her and grabbed her shoulders steadily.

  He didn’t say anything, but after a few seconds Mom nodded and took a breath, visibly shaking herself out of her stupor.

  She reached her hand out to me. “Come on, Jonas.”

  I followed her down the hall and into Ellie’s room. We searched quickly around the room and decided our best option was the dresser. Luckily it was tall, and when we pushed it in front of the window it covered almost the entire thing.

  Mom ran out briefly and came back with a heavy wooden box filled with potatoes. I helped her heft it on top of the dresser to cover the rest of the window.

  Next we went to my room and did a similar thing, though with mine we put my waist-high bookcase on top of the dresser.

  In Mom and Dad’s room we had to get creative with chairs from the kitchen, but we still managed to block the entire window.

  Then we went back to the kitchen, where Dad had recruited Ellie’s help (I hadn’t even seen her in the rush to block up the windows). They had been busy fortifying the front door, and it was now blocked by the other two kitchen chairs, the table, and an assortment of odds and ends.

  Our house looked like a makeshift war bunker, like we’d learned about in History of the World.

  Once everything was secure, Dad asked Ellie and me to help Mom with dinner.

  I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until he made the suggestion, and I was eager to get the food cooking and have something to do.

  While we cooked, Dad wandered around the house, double-checking our fortifications, and gathering a small arsenal of weapons: his razor from the bathroom, knifes from the kitchen, and anything else he could find.

  Once he was satisfied the defenses would hold, we gathered on the floor in the corner of the kitchen for dinner. Dad kept the weapons close, and though he never relaxed, he looked confident.

  I had the oddest feeling he’d done things like this before. But that was ridiculous.

  Then I remembered when we’d found the crate of guns in the Reality Dreams. I’d seen a strange mental image of a man holding a gun. He’d looked familiar, and now I knew why.

  The man holding the gun was my dad.

  He’d looked so different in the blurry memory, I hadn’t recognized him. He’d been younger—maybe ten years or so—and he’d worn a uniform. I realized now the other gunmen had been wearing the same uniform.

  I looked at my dad now. He was older than that foggy memory, but he had the same expression on his face, the same set to his shoulders.

  “Did you ever fight in a war?” My question broke the silence, but I didn’t remember deciding to ask it.

  Everyone’s eyes turned to me.

  Dad laughed. “Do I look that old?”

  I frowned and turned to Mom. She wouldn’t l
augh at me. But even she had a small smile on her face. It was fragile and faint, but it was a smile.

  “Jonas, what kind of question is that?” She sounded tired, but amused.

  Dad looked at me with raised eyebrows. “Don’t you ever listen in your History classes?”

  I knew better than to answer that question.

  Mom rubbed my shoulder. “Jonas. There hasn’t been a war in lots of years.”

  Dad pointed a stern finger at me, though his eyes were teasing. “And before you start making calculations, I wasn’t even born when the last war was going on. Heck, I’m not sure my dad was alive back then.”

  I was curious now. “When was the last war?”

  I knew it’d been a long time (I wasn’t that stupid), but though I racked my brain, I couldn’t remember ever hearing exactly how long we’d been without war.

  Dad frowned thoughtfully. “Hmm . . . It’s been a while . . .”

  Mom was frowning too. “It’s been so long, it’s hard to remember exactly . . .”

  Watching my parents, I felt a cold tingle on the back of my neck, like I was seeing something important. But I had no idea what.

  Then the moment passed and Dad smiled. “Oh well, that’s the nice thing about Completing school—you don’t have to remember anything you learned anymore!”

  “Dylan!” Mom tried to scold, but a chuckle escaped.

  Dad gave me and Ellie a wink.

  For a second it felt like old times. Then there was a scream nearby, cut short suddenly.

  We all looked toward the sound and a shiver rushed through me as I remembered the men from earlier.

  Dad listened to the silence for a few heartbeats, and then urged us to finish our dinner.

  When we were done, I helped Mom with the dishes. But rather than our usual cheerful banter, the only sound in the house was the clinking of the dishes as they were washed, dried, and put away.

  When the kitchen was clean again (aside from the disarray of the fortifications), Dad told us to get ready for bed.

  Before I could get too worried about sleeping in my room all alone, he announced we would all be sleeping in the kitchen.

  We changed into pajamas (well, Ellie and I did), and then we brought an assortment of pillows and blankets from the bedrooms and arranged them in the sheltered corner where we’d eaten.

  Dad told us all to get some sleep and promised he would keep us safe. I didn’t want to leave him to defend the house on his own, and honestly I was sure I was too wired to sleep at all, but when I laid my head on my pillow, my eyes snapped shut and I was out.

  Chapter 12

  I am groggy and sore, and it takes me a few minutes to work my eyelids open, despite the noise around me. I can hear muted conversation, but it sounds far away, and I can’t make out any words.

  Finally I force myself to open my eyes and I blink at the bright light of the Clinic.

  On the far side of the room Rick and Leah talking as they weave through the sleeping. I can’t see Stewart anywhere, but I’m sure he’s around. A quick look shows me Abby’s still asleep.

  First, I check on Ellie, and then Mom and Dad—they’re all still breathing. I hadn’t realized I was anxious until I saw their breaths.

  It’s weird being here, away from all the terrors of the day. I don’t exactly feel safe, but I’m less paranoid.

  Pushing away the memories, I make my way toward Leah and Rick. When I get closer, they stop talking. Rick meets my eye for a moment and then looks away. Leah ignores me, her attention focused wholly on the paper in her hand, probably the list of people on this row.

  I feel kind of awkward, but I wave. “Hey.”

  I have no idea what to say to Leah. I want to apologize, but the words aren’t coming.

  Rick returns my wave. “Hey.”

  Leah doesn’t say anything, just moves on to the next body, farther away from me.

  I turn away from her and look at Rick. “What’s up?”

  “Not much. I’ve been working with the computer, but I still can’t get a lot out of it. I know it’s regulating something, but I have no idea what it is or what it’s for.”

  I frown a little, and then glance around at the sleeping. “Could it have something to do with these people?”

  “Yeah, I think that might be it.” There’s a note of sarcasm in his voice I don’t appreciate.

  “But what?”

  Rick sobers and shrugs. “I dunno.”

  We’re quiet for a minute, just thinking, and then Rick straightens. “I should get back to the computer, see if I can find out anything else.”

  I watch him go, equal parts relieved and dismayed. His absence gives me a chance to talk to Leah, which is both good and bad.

  I watch her move a few beds down, still pointedly ignoring me.

  I take a deep breath, hoping it will help, and then walk over to her. “Hey.”

  She’s silent, and I wonder if she’ll pretend to ignore me even now. Then she shifts to the next sleeper and mutters “Hey.”

  I follow her to the next bed and resist the urge to fidget. “Did you hear about the fire?”

  She nods without looking up and moves to the next body.

  “Did you know it wasn’t an accident?”

  Another nod. Move to the next bed.

  “Pretty crazy, huh?” I still feel really awkward, but my determination is rising with each second. I will get a response from her. “I mean, arson, in the middle of Capernia? It’s like something out of a History lesson.”

  This time she doesn’t even nod, just moves on.

  I scratch the side of my neck and try to think of something else to say.

  Unexpectedly she speaks, though she doesn’t look up from her perusal of the sleeping. “You know, you don’t have to pretend.”

  “Pretend what?”

  She moves to the next bed. “You don’t have to act like you want to talk to me.”

  “What do you mean? Of course I want to talk to you. You’re my fr . . .” My voice trails off and she finally turns to look at me.

  “No. I’m not anymore.” Her face is fierce, and her eyes are ringed with red—I’m not sure if it’s from sorrow or anger.

  I open my mouth to say something, to contradict her or defend myself, but nothing comes out and she turns away.

  “Leah!” I blurt.

  She pauses but doesn’t turn.

  “I’m sorry, okay? I was having a bad day and I took it out on you. I didn’t mean it.”

  She’s silent for two breaths, and then she says softly, “Yes, you did.”

  I roll back on my heels, feeling like I’ve been slapped.

  Leah sets the list on the bed beside her and walks away, past the sleeping and away from me.

  I watch her go and regret and hopelessness settle in. I try to tell myself she’ll be more reasonable once she calms down, but I have my doubts. I realize for the first time I may never be able to get her back.

  Exhausted and kind of depressed, I turn and work my way back to the middle of the cavernous room.

  Abby’s awake now, but she’s not reading like usual. She’s watching me and she’s frowning. Then I remember I’d promised to meet her after school today. One look at her face tells me she’s not very happy.

  Before she can tear into me, I raise my hands. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come over today. I forgot I had a Counseling session after school. Then there was the fire . . .”

  Abby’s still frowning, but she looks surprised. “Oh, don’t worry about it. When I heard what’d happened in town, I was glad you didn’t come. I wouldn’t want you to be walking around with men like that outside.”

  I’m relieved she isn’t mad at me, and I take a step closer. “Do you know who the men were, or where they came from?”

  “No. I don’t think anyone knows where they came from, or why they’re so barbaric. When we heard what had happened . . .” Her voice trails off with a shiver, and I remember the terrible things I’d seen and heard.


  Abby’s eyes are a little dazed. “We boarded up our windows and my parents went to the water house (where they store water for emergencies). There were a lot of people there, all terrified, and they decided to take turns keeping watch tonight.”

  I nod. “Yeah. We boarded up our house and stayed in the kitchen. My dad seemed to know exactly what to do . . .” I remember the foggy memory of my dad holding a gun and I frown.

  “Are you okay?” Abby’s voice brings me out of my thoughts. “Is your family okay?”

  “Yeah. They’re fine. I was just thinking . . .”

  She watches me expectantly, and I decide it couldn’t hurt to tell her.

  “When we found the guns a couple nights ago I had this weird . . . I think it was a memory, but I don’t remember it ever happening.” I rub my forehead, feeling a headache coming on. “I saw my dad holding a gun. He had some kind of uniform, and there were other people with the same uniform, all holding guns. I know my dad has never seen a gun, let alone held one, but the memory seems familiar.” I sigh. “It’s hard to explain. It’s just . . . my dad was so confident today when he was fortifying our house and making weapons. I got the feeling he knew what he was doing. But that doesn’t make any sense . . .”

  After a minute, Abby speaks quietly, almost like she’s talking to herself. “How can you have a memory you don’t remember? Maybe . . .”

  “Have you . . . had memories, too?”

  “I think so.” She’s still for a moment, then she shakes herself and looks up at me. “You said the Reality Dreams—right here—is real, and our lives in Capernia are fake somehow.”

  I nod.

  “What if these memories we don’t remember . . . What if they’re memories from here? Memories from before?”

  “You mean, like from our life before Capernia?”

  She nods. “What if something happened to make us forget, and that’s why we believe the lie so completely?”

  I stare at the sleeping all around us. “But what could have happened to make everyone forget? And why are they all asleep in the first place?”

  Abby shakes her head. “I don’t know. Maybe there’s something else in these books.” She immediately grabs one and opens it.