by C. S. Won
“No, no, no, no, no, no . . . what did you do, Adam? What the fuck did you do?”
A chunk of the ceiling tore free behind him and crashed onto the floor. A plume of ash and fire burst into the air. Jae lifted Madeline off the bed, drawing her close to his chest, and moved over to the window, pulling it open. The storm had finally died down, leaving the air cool and bitter. Dark clouds still lingered about, a thick expanse of them still lied flat across the sky, but respite had been afforded to the world. There was no thunder left in the clouds. The only drops of rain came from the trees and homes lathered from the passing storm—water droplets falling from tree branches and rooftops alike.
With gentle care, Jae pushed Madeline through the window, making sure to keep her head steady. He quickly followed, leaving his burning home behind and heading into the cold winds. Stumbling onto the grass with a wet thud, he made his way over to Madeline and picked her up with great care, positioning her on his lap.
The wounds looked so much worse in the dusty winter light than they did in the house. He touched her neck, gently rubbing her cooling skin, and began to shift and move his trembling fingers every which way, hoping to find a pulse. But his search proved fruitless. With quiet desperation, he took her arm and placed two fingers on her wrist, waiting for a sign, anything that might give him a glimmer of hope that she was still alive. Fresh tears bubbled in his eyes. He muttered quiet prayers through clenched teeth, hoping for a miracle, tears streaming down his cheeks as he pleaded and begged for Madeline’s return.
No pulse beat against his fingers.
His sorrow echoed across the sky. He buried his head in Madeline’s hair and screamed again, his anguish muffled against her head. He pulled her in closer and cradled her, kissing her cold forehead, muttering apology after apology. Tears fell onto her face and ran down her pale cheeks. Her hand slid from her lap and fell onto the grass, fingertips dabbed with dried blood. Around her ring finger, her engagement band sparkled in the wet, soggy grass, a dash of vibrancy in an otherwise grey and dreary world.
In the distance, a soft whine rose up, sirens growing louder and louder.
Dreams
Han Yeon opened his eyes and found himself in the midst of devastation.
Smoldering, blackened skyscrapers, hanging over the world at crooked angles, littered the vista in a mass graveyard of ruin. The streets ran red in a river thick with blood. Large piles of the dead stretched as far as the eye could see, their faces frozen in agonizing, eternal pain. A layer of smoke wrapped itself across the sky, a black hand sweeping over the heavens, drowning the sun in a lake of poison. The smell of death lingered in the air.
A street sign titled to its side told Han that he was in Atlanta, but he didn’t need to read the sign to know that. Atlanta was where his dreams always took him, insistent on his destination, and every time he arrived, the picture they presented was always the same—catastrophe on an epic scale. There was no context to the destruction; he did not know how it started, when it started, or who or what was responsible. He only knew the end result, and it was death.
He approached a cluster of dead bodies, melded on top of one another in a singed corpse heap. The burns were thorough in their cleansing, leaving nothing discernible behind. All that remained were sullied, empty husks. He tapped his knuckles against a charred skull. An empty, hollow ring sang with each tap. Han was surprised by how cool the skull felt. These must have been here for a while now. He ran his hands across the other corpses piled around, and they were all cold to the touch. None of this is real. But it feels real enough . . .
He felt a shadow creep up his back, climbing up the length of his spine and over his shoulders. He turned and found himself face-to-face with a darkened figure, a stranger with stark black eyes and a cold, shadowy menace. Even though Han knew he was incorporeal, unnoticed by those around him and incapable of being touched, he was surprised all the same. He stumbled away from the man, falling on his hands in a puddle of congealing blood.
The dark eyes of the stranger glossed over Han and scanned the area in quiet contemplation. The stranger raised his left arm into the air, palm facing upward, and clenched it into a fist. Han stood up and took a defensive step back. For a long, uncertain moment, the stranger did nothing, his fist suspended in the air in what looked like a strange salute. Then a finger unfurled from that fist, sticking straight out at the horizon behind Han, and a roaring explosion boomed at his back. Powerful, harsh winds pushed Han forward, a wave of heat scraping against the scruff of his neck, and the world was suddenly drenched in a bright shade of orange. He turned and saw a small mushroom cloud billowing up against the sky, the apex blooming like a spring flower, its fury echoing against the earth.
Is this what awaits us?
“No.”
Han turned and saw another stranger emerging not too far away over a hill of shattered, broken concrete, struggling to keep to his feet. Blood and bruises covered his body in a mosaic of red and blue, every inch of him covered in wounds. His hair was pulled back from his face, revealing a swollen eye, cut lip, and bloody nose. One arm hung limply at his side; the other clutched at it in support. He was bent over, one knee almost touching the ground, breathing loudly through pressed teeth.
Jae.
But the blood and bruises didn’t seem to matter to his brother. He looked angry, determined. A bright fire burned in his eyes. So strong and powerful was his gaze that it was enough for Han to feel inspired, to feel hope. Jae stepped down from his concrete hill in slow, pained movements, and Han winced at the way his left foot dragged behind his right, a dotted trail of blood following every step. Han wanted to help his brother, but knew he couldn’t. They don’t know I’m here. I’m an observer in my own nightmare, not a participant. I’m a phantom, unable to do anything. Han stepped away from his brother, allowing an open path. Jae moved past him, eyes locked on the stranger. He was focused, attentive, steadfast.
Jae, his breath heavy and ragged, stopped and stood face-to-face with his opponent. They said nothing and did nothing in that moment, eyes locked in a duel of wills. Shadows hid whatever expression the stranger’s face held, concealing what Han could only imagine to be a menacing sneer. Jae’s face was contorted in pain, his right eye black and puffy, the left side of his face blotted purple and blue. He was in no condition to fight. He was a limping, broken mess of wounds and bruises, but injury hid his intentions well, and the next action he took never failed to take Han’s breath away, no matter how many times it replayed in his dreams.
Jae crouched low, stooping quickly and suddenly, and threw his good arm back, hand curled into a tight fist. It flew forward, a battle cry singing from Jae’s throat, and the fist found its way into the darkened figure’s jaw. The blow dug deep, and a sickening crunch rattled from the stranger’s teeth. The darkened figure screamed, clutching at his face with both hands. His feet pulled underneath him, body contorting and twisting as he flew backward into a mountain of disturbed concrete several yards away. Han whooped and pumped a fist into the air, cheering his brother on.
Then came a loud boom, followed by a streaking roar, and Han ducked to the ground, startled by the noise. Overhead, a jet fighter screamed past, soaring across the sky, curving around the shattered skyscrapers in deftly controlled evasive maneuvers. Close behind it was a man, also streaking through the air, keeping pace with the jet as he matched it maneuver for maneuver, his small body almost a black dot against the sky. He darted forward, a sonic boom exploding in his wake. He tore through the jet’s left wing, sending the craft spiraling in a violent twirl, black smoke bleeding out of its wound. It crashed against the side of a charred building, exploding in a pool of twisted metal and fire, a horrific crunch echoing through the air.
More explosions roared around Han. He covered his ears and looked around. A scorching beam shot past him, inches from his face, drilling a smoking hole into nearby concrete. Turning, he saw a group of people running away from a pale, bald man—bright yellow beams erup
ting from the tips of his fingers. One caught a man in the back, piercing right through his stomach, blood spurting out of the hole. The man stumbled to his knees, gasping, clutching at his smoking wound. He fell face first into the pavement when another beam punctured his skull.
And then, as if someone had forgotten to clip the next roll of film into the picture, everything vanished, the erasure quick and sudden. Ruined Atlanta was no more, burning skyscrapers and dusty, red sky washed clean from existence. Han’s brother and his opponent were also gone, their fight scrubbed away. The mayhem around also disappeared, scoured from the continuum. Only Han remained, standing alone in the darkness, surrounded by nothing. Something tugged at his body, unseen hands gripping at his arms and legs, pulling him from his feverish dream and bringing him back to his home. Back to his own time.
Back to the real world.
32.2600 N, 112.9261 W
Han drew in a loud, raspy breath.
He bolted upright from his bed. The oxygen hit his lungs hard and fast, burning his throat, stinging his eyes, and tickling his nose. He clutched at his chest with his left hand, trying to allay his thumping heart, and buried his face into his right, struggling to calm his breathing into a steadier, slower cadence. Sweat laced the ridges of his brow.
Looking around, Han expected to see the ruins of Atlanta, but saw only the familiarity of his small dormitory. The dim light of an overhead lamp baked his room in a warm, comforting light, streaming thin, brown rays off the concrete walls and ceiling. A row of books sat in one corner of the room, propped on top of a glass-plated desk. A metallic sink, with matching toilet, stood idly next to the door.
I’m home, safe and sound. The thought didn’t bring him any joy.
He looked at a clock next to his bed: 2:49 a.m. Han threw his blanket aside and immediately felt his world tilt upside down. He fell out of his bed, stumbling onto his side. Nausea assaulted him, blurring his vision and goose-pricking his skin. He fought hard not to throw up all over the floor. Hundreds of times I’ve dreamed, and hundreds of times my body still can’t get used to it. He crawled over to the toilet and gripped the lid and maneuvered his head over the pool of opaque, blue water staring beneath him. He threw up, his vomit splashing down onto the water in big, messy globs of yellow, orange, and brown. This went on for a couple of minutes, Han hacking and coughing out his dinner, and then spitting out any remaining bits of bile that were caught between his teeth.
He drained the toilet, and watched half-digested chicken and potatoes swirl down the hole in a spiraling eddy. He closed the lid and rested his head against it. His vision was clearing and his heartbeat was slowing. Breathing became much easier; though, it was still a minor labor. A tinge of vomit lingered in the back of his throat, a vile aftertaste that reminded him of ages-old vinegar. Gritting his teeth, he swallowed it down. His stomach protested but soon settled down.
Reaching forward, Han clutched the sink with both hands, cold, clammy skin touching cold porcelain and pulled himself upward. His limbs were weak, as they always were after a dream, and he could feel his legs shaking, muscles sore and lacking strength. He cursed and waited for the pain to subside. My dreams are starting to affect me. Or this one is, at least. I didn’t have much trouble before this one . . . he tried to remember when the dreams began, but his memory was failing him. Was it a year ago? Two, perhaps? The nights had melded together, time fluid and uncategorized, muddling his ability to recollect. Whenever it was, the dreams hadn’t stopped since, repeating every night in an endless loop. He could still smell the blood lingering in the air, the red dust tickling his nostrils, the melted, screaming faces of the dead staring at him with those hollowed out eyes.
He closed his own eyes and forced the image out of his head. He needed to get to his brother and let him know. Whether or not Jae was actually the sword and shield against the impending tide of annihilation, he did not know, but if he kept seeing his brother in his dreams then it had to mean something. Would Donnelly allow him to see his brother, though? Han doubted it. He was their prized prisoner, far too valuable to simply release into the outside world.
The pain in his legs began to subside. He turned on the faucet, cupped his hands together to catch the water, and splashed it onto his face. The water ran cold against his skin, stirring him awake. He palmed another handful and slurped it all in one greedy gulp, swishing it in his mouth before spitting it back out. The water hit the sink hard, sashaying back and forth before succumbing to the pull of the drain.
He turned the faucet off and looked in the mirror. The face staring back looked haggard and beaten, a skull with a thin film of shallow, pale skin stitched over it. Streaks of water ran down the length of his tired face, tracing the outline of his long nose, hugging the bony protrusions of his cheeks. His eyes were wide and alert, but they were bloodshot. Tiny red cracks streaked the white of his eyes. Such a sorry sight. He sighed, his breath fogging the lower half of his reflection. It couldn’t be helped. His dreams never allowed him to stay asleep for long, always stabbing him awake in the middle of the night. It was a curse, prophetic visions masquerading as torture.
“Bad dream?”
A man in a dark suit leaned against the door, arms folded across his chest, jacket pulled back just slightly to offer a peek at the gun holstered at his side. Donnelly Stone. His hair was slicked back, revealing a face full of sharp lines and faint scars. He was as stocky as he was tall, an imposing figure if Han had ever seen one, which made him the perfect warden.
Han said nothing, staring back at his reflection in the mirror.
“What did you see?” Donnelly asked.
Han hung his head, tired of the same old question. “Do you really need to ask? You already know.”
“I need specifics.”
“The specifics haven’t changed.”
“Then give them to me again.”
Han turned away from the mirror, sighing. He didn’t need to ever dream again to recall the details. He knew it all by heart. “Atlanta is destroyed. Death lingers in the air like a pall. Dead bodies litter the ground like discarded waste. A great battle is being waged, with both Evolved and human engaged in a skirmish. Losses are piling up for both sides. It’s difficult to see who’s good and who’s bad, or why they’re fighting, or even who the enemy truly is.” He looked back in the mirror, staring at that scarecrow of a face. “I see my brother in this battle, wounded. He’s fighting against someone I don’t know. What role he plays in this, if any, I’m not sure.”
“This battle you speak of, is it contained only within Atlanta, or does the damage extend far beyond what you—”
“I’ve told you already, I don’t know. My dreams limit me only to Atlanta. I’m not jumping between continents.” Han sighed. “But judging by the damage done, I’d wager that it extends far beyond the city limits. For all I know, the whole world could be steeped in chaos.” He turned to Donnelly. “But does it matter? I’m probably wrong anyways.”
“Why would you say that?”
“You always thought my visions were a farce.”
“I was skeptical, that is true, and so were many others. But after what transpired today, you’ve proven yourself to be an accurate soothsayer. Concerned parties have taken great interest in your dreams now, and a priority has been placed to extrapolate on what you see and know.”
Han curled an eyebrow. “What transpired today? What are you talking—” It only took a moment for him to realize what was being alluded to. “You mean . . .”
Donnelly nodded.
“How do you know? Who told you?”
“Mr. Duffy had a few of my men shadow your brother and Adam after you told me what you saw. He wanted to see how accurate your visions truly were—a test, if you will. Turns out everything you described came to pass.”
“Everything came true? Then that means . . .” Han felt his skin going cold. “Madeline?”
“Killed by Adam, just as you said.”
Han fell to his knees. “And yo
u didn’t stop him? Why? You could have intervened!”
“Why would we do that?”
“Because you could have saved her! She was my brother’s fiancé! She was with child, goddamn it!”
“My men were directed to only observe, not interject. If they had stepped in, then we would have never known if what you saw would come true. Fortunately for us, it did. And now we’ll be better prepared for the future.”
“Fortunately? You cold-hearted bastard, an innocent woman was killed. You could have changed things!”
Donnelly shrugged. “Who are we to interfere with fate?”
“Fate? Fuck you! This was my brother’s fiancé we’re talking about here! She did nothing wrong! She didn’t deserve this!” Han buried his face into his hands. “Oh God, Madeline, I’m so sorry . . .”
“We also recovered Adam’s body.”
Han looked up at him. “You did? Why?”
“We couldn’t afford to let him succumb to his wounds. He’s become valuable.”
“He’s alive?”
Donnelly raised an eyebrow. “Your visions never showed you?”
“It was difficult to tell if Jae killed him or not.”
“Sadly, Jae did kill him.”
Han was speechless.
“Your brother really did a number on him. Adam’s face was nigh unrecognizable.” Donnelly cupped his chin. “Although, I suspect your brother probably thinks he’s still alive.”
“What makes you say that?”
“With his immense strength, he could have easily torn Adam’s head off if he wanted to. But he didn’t. I’m certain he held back, probably in the hopes of keeping Adam alive. Whether he did so consciously or subconsciously, I don’t know, but to be able to show restraint in the face of such overwhelming anger—I have to commend your brother for his control. Truly amazing.”