Predict THIS

by Michael D. Britton

Predict THIS

  by

  Michael D. Britton

  * * * *

  Copyright 2012 by Michael D. Britton / Intelligent Life Books

  Alors!

  And you thought your – how you say – “meteorologists” - had a difficult time. Mon couer! Try being the man who is expected to predict all the significant events of human existence!

  It seemed quite innocent at first – I made a simple prediction, it came true. Then every ridiculous superstitious fool in France cast me as some kind of magical prognosticator. “Nostradamus, Nostradamus, when will the harvest be plentiful again? Nostradamus, will my child be born a girl or a boy? Nostradamus, when will the Crown Prince marry?”

  Sacre bleu.

  I never really believed my own so-called prophecies, but I was fascinated by one subject: la mort l’homme – the end of man.

  I threw around a few ideas about how and when it may come to pass – all of which became vérité d'evangile – gospel truth – in the eyes of my followers. They were hungry for such things, so, I gave them their predictions. So vague that they were all right (and all wrong – it is all in the eye of the beholder).

  Before long, I was legendary. I published many works, was close to the Royal Family for a while. And that’s when I met Jean-Claude Dumiére.

  Dumiére was a Royal Physician, but on the side – far from the authoritative eyes of the Church, which would’ve imprisoned him immediately for dabbling in such things – he was a master alchemist.

  Late one night, I paid him a visit in his secret chambers, deep in the bowels of the palace. I was one of the few who knew how to unlock the giant wooden door with its rusting iron hinges. I let myself in, and took a seat in the only chair in the room, a red velvet highback. The room was dimly lit by three hanging chandeliers of six candles each, along with a candelabrum attached to the wall above Dumiére’s work area. The air smelled of sulfur.

  “Nostredame,” he said, turning around from his work. He never would call me by my Latin name. “What brings you to my realm?”

  My white-bearded friend’s dark floor-length cloak made him appear to hover as he stepped toward me.

  I peered at the bubbling test tubes and smoking vials across the top of his long, wooden table. “I have come to call in the favor you owe me.”

  “Anything, dear Doctor.”

  “I want to see the end of man.”

  “And when, exactly, would that be?” he asked. I knew he was joking – he was well aware that I was clueless about it.

  “You know I have no idea how or when humanity will end – even the Savior Himself knows not the hour in which He cometh. But I must be there to see the end. I must.”

  “So you wish to be immortal?” he said, turning to stir one of his solutions with a small rod.

  “Not necessarily,” I said. “I just want a way to be there – to witness it for myself when it comes.”

  “You speak of traveling through time? Such a thing is far beyond my considerable talents, my friend.”

  “Jean Claude, I admit it – I have become obsessed. Perhaps it is my curse for exciting the imaginations of men, making them believe I could see the future.” I pulled at my long beard. “You have potions, spells – a dark knowledge. Surely there is some way.”

  I’d lost my own wife and children to the plague, but my rose pills, developed later, had saved Dumiére’s children from the deadly disease. So Dumiére felt he and his family owed an honorable debt to me. How could he say no?

  “I do have something that may meet your needs,” he said, after some consideration. He walked to a cabinet and pulled out two large bottles. “I’ve noticed you are getting more and more sick, my friend. How long do you think you have?”

  “That is why I have come to you tonight,” I said. “The edema is taking my life – I can feel it. I told Chavigny that I will be dead in the morning. Of course, he believed me.”

  Dumiére chuckled mirthlessly. “But you do think the end – your end – is near.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then take off your robes and lay down on this table,” said Dumiére. “I will help your last prediction come true.”

  “You will kill me?”

  “No, friend. But everyone else will think you dead.”

  I looked at him cautiously.

  “Trust me,” he said as he uncorked one of the bottles. A wisp of steam escaped, and the sulfur smell of the room was replaced by the smell of strong tea leaves.

  I rose from the chair, disrobed, and laid on the table as instructed. He poured some of the contents of the bottle onto a cloth, and began smothering it all over my body. It was cool at first, but then became warm and tingly.

  “It is a salve,” he said, working down my torso to my legs. “It will make you sleep the sleep of death, but your body will not decompose.” He gestured toward the other bottle. “That one has the opposite effect – it will quicken you. It is my solemn promise to you that you will be awakened – revived – when it appears the end of man is truly nigh. If it is not in my lifetime, then my children will do it. Or their children. Through all generations, we will make this our oath.”

  “And you know this stuff works?” I said, starting to get sleepy.

  “I have tested it on many animals,” he said. “And one prisoner.”

  As I faded, I felt a sudden panic. “You will wake me? You will wake me?” I said, half delirious. “You will not let me miss the end?”

  “I promise.”

  #

  “Whu – what?” I mumbled.

  The world was blurry at first.

  A face resolved. Jean-Claude?

  No, he is younger, but he looks like my friend Dumiére.

  “He has awoken!” the man said.

  Another face stood over me now, a woman.

  “How – how long?” I asked. My body was stiff and sore. My skin tingled.

  “Sir, it has been two hundred and twenty three years,” said the man. “I am Pierre Dumiére, and this is my sister, Celeste. Ever since our ancestor, Jean-Claude put you under his spell of sleep, our family has watched over your body, awaiting this day.”

  “Why have you revived me?” I asked, looking at their strange, frilly clothing and big powdery hair. “Is the end of man upon us?” I tried to sit up. I could not lift my bones.

  “We believe it is, Sir. They have lined up all of the aristocracy in the palace square, and they are beheading everyone!” said Celeste. “Surely, this is the end of the world!”

  “Beheading?” I asked, looking around the room at the paintings on the walls and the fine draperies over the windows.

  “It is a revolution,” said Pierre.

  “A revolution?” I said, getting irritated. “You woke me up for this? Do you not understand what a revolution is? Out with the old, in with the new. No more this, but plenty of that. Ah yes, the end is nigh for our royal friends, but that is not the end of all mankind! I am not interested in change! Change is a constant of existence. I am interested in the cessation of change. The elimination of existence!”

  Pierre and Celeste looked at each other. They looked rather mortified. “Uh, yes. We’re so sorry, Sir.”

  “Well, don’t just stand there,” I barked grumpily. “Put me back, put me back! I must sleep again!”

  “All right,” said Pierre. “As you wish.”

  The two of them rubbed me down with the ointment, and I soon drifted off to the blackness that flows between the sands of time.

  #

  I awoke to the sound of lightning and thunder.

  And screaming.

  My eyes opened to see a man in strange attire – a deep blue uniform of some kind, with bras
s buttons, and a rapier at his waist.

  “Tell me the year – the year!” I rasped.

  “Sir, it’s 1862.”

  “Where am I?”

  “Fairfax, Virginia. United States of America.”

  “United States of What?”

  “Sir, my name’s Phillip Dummer. My family came to this land from France seventy years ago when they escaped the revolution. With them, they brought a most unusual piece of cargo – your body. It has remained in our family, with the explicit instruction to revive you with this-here body sauce when the going gets tough. Well, it don’t get much tougher than this.”

  A bomb exploded outside the window to punctuate his point.

  “What is happening?” I asked. I tried to sit up, then remembered that was a mistake.

  “It’s quite possible the world is coming to an end,” said Phillip. “The Rebel Army is at our doorstep.”

  “Phillip,” I said, “you must provide me some context! I do not even know what a reblarmy is!”

  Phillip paced back and forth as he spoke, his black boots scuffing the hardwood floor. “Okay, okay. Um, let’s see. The country is being torn apart. Brother fighting brother. The southern states have broken away. And those explosions you hear – that will be our death.”

  “Our death? Our death? But not everybody’s death,” I said. “What good is that? Are you telling me that this is just another war among men?”

  “Well, uh, I guess,” he said. “But it could very well spell the end of the Union.”

  “The Union,” I spat. “Unless this union of yours encompasses all of mankind, I suggest you put me back to sleep.”

  Phillip shrugged. “Whatever you want, Sir.”

  He started to paste the salve across my body, and as I was slipping away once again, I said (with quite a slur), “Be sure your progeny understand how this works. Only revive me if it is really, really the end . . . ”

  #

  A strange, nasal, disembodied voice floated around me as I awoke.

  “ . . . dark, dark times. In all of human history, never, never before have such sacrifices been made, in the face of such utter evil . . . ”

  Another voice spoke.

  “Turn off that radio! He’s waking up!”

  “Time and place, please,” I said, my throat dry.

  “Uh, it’s August 5th, 1942. New York. My name is George Dummer.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Monsieur. And your friend?”

  “I’m George’s wife, Linda. Hi, Mr. Nostradamus,” she said, extending her hand.

  I took it limply and shook. “Tell me, please, that you have revived me to see the end of man.”

  “Well,” said George, “I’m thinkin’ this may be it – well, pretty soon, anyways. See, they’re winning. Everything’s a mess. The Allies are taking serious casualties. I think it’ll all be over soon. It’s gotta be – this war’s been going on for three years, now.”

  “Another armed conflict between your southern and northern states?” I asked, becoming tired of these false alarms.

  “Oh no, no,” said Linda. “This is a world war. It’s the Germans, the Italians, the Japanese – everybody’s fightin’.”

  “Hmmm,” I said. This sounded more interesting – and, strangely enough, resembled one of my prophecies. Perhaps the end really was nigh. “How many dead?”

  “Oh, I dunno,” said George, “millions. All over the world. I really think this could be it for mankind.”

  “Oh, George,” said Linda, “I think you’ve been listening to the radio a little too much. I just don’t think it’s all over. We’ll survive, one way or another.” She laced her arm through his and hugged him.

  “That is not what I want to hear!” I croaked. “Give me a definitive answer – is mankind doomed, or not?”

  George looked at his wife’s big brown eyes, then back at me. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way, I suppose. We may make it through this. But these are very dark times, Mr. Nostradamus. Just like what you used to write. I’ve got all your books, you know.”

  I sighed.

  “Put me back, please! Put me back to sleep!”

  #

  This time, I found myself propped up in some kind of a chair with large wheels. The room was brightly lit, and smelled like some kind of herbal brew. A window overlooked a vast cityscape. A strange box was before me, with images and sound emanating from it.

  I saw two enormous structures – towers – and they were ablaze. Black smoke poured from them.

  And then one collapsed. An oddly familiar vision.

  Finally, a woman entered the room.

  “Ah, you’re awake,” she said. “I took the liberty of placing you in a wheelchair. Thought you may prefer to greet the world vertically.”

  “You mean, greet the end of the world,” I said, scowling.

  “Welcome to the twenty-first century,” she said, a ring of sarcasm in her voice. “You like cream in your coffee?”

  “Tell me,” I pleaded. “Tell me it is the end.”

  “Well,” said this woman who wore a man’s clothing, “I think we should start with introductions. My name is Josephine Dummer. You can call me Jo. Today’s date is September 11th, 2001. We’re in Hoboken, New Jersey. And,” she said, pointing to the box with images, “you’re looking at the end of the world as we know it.”

  “Jo,” I said, brightening. “Are you sure?”

  “Well,” she said, “I come from a long line of Nostradamus experts. In my family, you had better know your Nostradamus predictions. I’ve done my homework. And, well, according to what you yourself wrote – this is it.”

  I shook my head slowly. “You – you based your decision to awaken me on my own prophecies?”

  “Of course, sir,” she said, looking confused. “How else could I have known when it was the end of the world?”

  I raised my hand to my head and covered my eyes. “You Dummers are fools! Know you nothing? My prophecies! Eh.” I fell silent.

  “What’s wrong? I don’t get it.”

  “No, Mademoiselle, you clearly do not get it. I am beginning to question the wisdom of this exercise. You people always think the sky is falling and the world is ending – every time there is a disturbance in your lives, you think the end is nigh. Fools, all of you.”

  Jo sat in her armchair, her legs curled under her, sipping from a mug. “Well,” she said with a shrug. “You wanna go back to sleep?”

  I stared at the image box as the other great tower fell to the earth, no doubt killing hundreds or even thousands of people within it. The image changed to show bearded men in head scarves dancing in the streets, waving weapons. This world was certainly mad, and certainly heading downhill, but it wasn’t over yet.

  Not while women in men’s clothing sat in their comfortable rooms sipping hot drinks and observing the world though magical image boxes.

  “Very well,” I said.

  #

  “This may be our last chance to do this,” said a man’s voice. “Now we must simply focus on survival – we cannot go on with this family tradition.”

  “You’re right,” said another male voice. “It’s time to consider your family’s debt paid.”

  I opened my eyes and looked around. I appeared to be in a cellar of some sort, lit by candles. I saw two men standing before me, dressed as beggars. They were holding hands.

  “Information,” I said, too weary to speak more.

  “I’m Steve Dummer,” said the man on the left. “And this is my husband Jeff.”

  I blinked.

  Didn’t see that coming.

  He continued. “It’s May 8th, 2017. Late last year, when we had the coldest winter on record – that’s when the riots started. On TV, they were calling it the New Great Depression. Some call it the Uber-Depression. Others are calling it the end of life as we know it.”

  Jeff took over. “It was utter m
ayhem in the streets. And all those rednecks with their illegal guns – oh, it was simply awful.” He clasped Steve’s hand tighter.

  “Kinda wish I had a gun, now, to defend our home” interjected Steve.

  “Yeah, well. Anyway,” continued Jeff, “It was getting pretty bad – no food in the stores, no gas for our cars, everyone out of work. And then it happened.”

  “What? Tell me,” I said.

  Steve spoke again. “The EMP. Oh, that stands for electro-magnetic pulse. It’s a kind of bomb. It was released over several parts of the country at once. Killed everything electronic. No more radio, cars, TV, internet, electrical power. People in hospitals died, everyone went nuts trying to fend for themselves. We’ve been knocked back to the Dark Ages.”

  “Heh, you should feel right at home,” said Jeff.

  “So,” I said, “you two are married? Perhaps the end is near, for surely the human race will become extinct without reproduction.”

  “Um, no,” said Jeff. “You don’t understand.”

  “I’m a doctor,” I said dismissively. “I know how babies are made. Tell me more about the world – you say society has suffered a complete break down?”

  “Yes,” said Steve. “We’ve returned to horse and buggy days. People are starving. Crime is running rampant. It’s a matter of day to day survival now.”

  “Survival?” I bellowed. “SURVIVAL? No, no, no. Not survival. DESTRUCTION! I do not want to see you people collecting scraps of food and killing each other and eating your children! I want to see the end! The very end!”

  I buried my head in my hands and started to weep. Perhaps my quest would never be fulfilled. Was there no end to be seen?

  “Look,” said Steve. “We revived you because we just can’t keep doing this anymore. Chances are, we’ll be too busy ‘eating children’ to worry about you and your stupid quest. So, you have two choices: you can remain awake and watch the world tear itself apart, or we can put you back under – but there won’t be anybody around to wake you up again. Your choice.”

  I growled.

  And made a decision.

  “Place me back in suspension,” I said. “And hide up my body in a safe place, where I will not be damaged and will not be casually found. Leave clear instructions for revival upon my body. I release the Dummers from their oath. I will simply wait until I am found by someone who understands my need and can fulfill it.”