3VIL (volume 2)

by Mike Miller

  Is the onrushing storm of dust the shockwave? Or is it the edge of the actual explosion? Your years of watching Hollywood special effects have left you unsure of the science. But you are dead certain on how the phenomenon looks.

  “There’s no time to think about it really, because the blast just runs right through me. It’s really quick, like a ghost racing through you. The force both pummels your body and fries your skin. Strips of flesh are quickly peeled off your body to the bone.”

  You imagine the impact of the detonation simultaneously crushing you and cooking you. There are many different types of pain devouring your body.

  “The brain’s super speed makes it all seem a lot longer. It knows this is the end, so it warps time to drag things out. So everything is all in slow-motion and lasting forever, though really you know you are dying in just a split second.”

  The solemn crowd digests the morbid scene. Each person shows no emotion on the outside, though their tender eyes betray their inner turmoil.

  Nate’s grim façade becomes a grin. “I woke up all scared and confused, like I was just reborn into my jams in bed at night. But I can’t help but start crying my ass off and am still frightened even though I’m awake. My mom came in, and just keeps telling me everything will be all right.” He puffs his cigarette. “Same as how I tell her when I dreamt she was sick.”

  The idea of a nuclear bomb feels antiquated, juvenile. In your childhood, you can recall how it used to be such a big deal. How entire nations would inevitably destroy Earth with them. This would be how the world would end. A war to end all wars.

  But now there is not so much the threat of all the bombs going off. Just one.

  Sometimes a nuke still pops up in the news. Smaller countries desperate for power. The terrorists. Their attacks can pack some surprising scale to their carnage. You know if those maniacs ever got their hands on an a-bomb, there’s no question that they’d detonate it in a heartbeat. They’d be delighted to kill so many people so easily at once.

  Your nightmare is their dream.

  Nate continues. “When you die in your dreams, I don’t know who started that nonsense of you wake up the moment you die too. That’s bullshit, man. You can wake up right then, but I never did.” Nate’s calm tone trembles with frustration and pain. Is he going to cry?

  “No, you can experience death. And be dead for, I dunno, what seems like a while. Until you suddenly wake up, resurrected in reality. The waking-up part is quick.”

  You realize your ranks have thinned. The crowd has spread outwards. Some back away in fright. You see people pretending not to listen, but they are.

  “The other nightmares, shit, those are just kinda crazy adventures. You can almost always realize things are way too crazy to be real, and you wake up. And those really only happen just once. But the big bomb… If you’re like me, you’ll not only dream it, but then you’ll have it again and again for the rest of your life. It’s a curse. Not every day, or even every year. But sooner or later, you will see that bomb go off in the distance. Right before it obliterates you.”

  The silence is thick and heavy. Even the party music seems quieter and frightened.

  Then Dave slyly adds the caveat, “But only in your dreams.”

  Nate corrects him. “In your nightmares.”

  A laugh lets everyone segue on to lesser concerns. It’s never discussed again for the remainder of the party. The conversation moves on to trivial banter about recent movies and gossip.

  Everyone seems more eager to speak, as if they are afraid someone else might reintroduce the nightmare.

  Nate never really speaks up again. Though once the figurehead of the evening, he has now been banished and exiled. You see him smoking outside by himself later in the night, but he does not seem affected by his loneliness. It is as if he is content with things now, having said all that he ever had to say.

  The night wears down. People begin to leave in small groups. You look for Nate once more, but do not see him anywhere.

  You leave.

  On the trip home, you stare off to the dark horizon at the edge of the world. There in the blackness of the night sky, your mind pictures the flash of light like a billion cameras. The crimson mushroom cloud blossoms with dirty speckles of debris. Though you try so hard to stop your imagination, you can’t help but hear the slow, deep rumbling. It grows into a deafening, all-encompassing roar.

  But you know that the sky is just an empty and cloudless void. Everything is peaceful and safe. Watch out before you rear-end the car in front of you.

  You wake up the next day. During the morning coffee and bowl of oatmeal, you think about things. About last night, about the day ahead, about the eternal battle between play versus productivity.

  Then you remember the nightmare. You realize that the weirdo was all wrong. You didn’t have the nightmare. Nor any nightmare. In fact, you slept as soundly as possible, and feel great about a sunshiney day.

  You leave the house humming that new song you just heard on the radio. It’s not that good, but the damn thing is just stuck in your head. You make up your own words to sing the chorus.

  One night, you are in your home, and from the corner of your eye, you see a flash from outside the window. You wonder if you imagined it.

  You walk closer and peer out to the skies. It was a hot and oppressively muggy day. Rain is not possible this time of year, in this climate.

  Right when you’ve given up and are about to turn away, you see the flash again. The entire world turns bright white.

  You hear a low rumble of thunder afterwards. In the middle of summer. Here.

  Staring out the window, you see the lightning bolts dance through the sky. You are happy it is only bad weather.

  Later, you meet Steve for lunch. There’s the usual catch-up conversation involving what’s new with the circle of friends. It’s mostly good news, some bad, some raunchy and shameful rumors and secrets. There’s jokes and philosophy. You wish you did this more often. It’s always a good time with this old friend.

  Once he stops laughing, he turns serious. “Hey,” he says, “I just remembered something, something I wanna tell you about. You remember that party over at Shelly’s, like two months ago?”

  Yeah, you remember.

  “And remember that dude Nate?”

  Of course.

  “He’s vanished. Gone. Nobody knows what happened to him. No one’s seen him since that night. Real weird, huh?”

  Maybe he was killed by a nuclear bomb, you jest.

  But Steve does not laugh. You see his head shiver quickly, possessed by something powerful and grim. “Oh, shit, that’s right. I had one of those nightmares,” Steve confesses. “The nightmare he was talking about. I got killed by an a-bomb.”

  His smile is unhinged. You notice his hair is kinda messy and unkempt. “It really sucked. It was so intense. And it was just... fuckin’ nuts.”

  That’s crazy.

  “Yeah, it is.” Steve buries his gaze into the ground as he relives the experience. He’s still smiling, yet you can see the corners of his mouth gently melting in anguish. “I didn’t really think about what he said back then, you know? And I don’t really remember what else was happening when I had it. But the next thing I know, I was watching this giant fucking explosion zooming towards me. And whoosh!”

  He surfs his hands across the table. He almost knocks over a glass of water.

  “I woke up, and I was all panting and stressing, looking all around to make sure I wasn’t dreaming anymore. I laid back down, but I just kept tripping on it all. I didn’t go back to sleep, and eventually just got up for work.”

  He sighs forcefully, gusting wind from his mouth in relief. When he snaps back to reality, his face is happy. “It was just like that maniac said, man.” Steve laughs, having successfully transformed back into his usual jovial self.

  That’s real crazy, you say.

  On a different lunch with a different friend, you watch Greg devour his club sandwi
ch. His sleeves are rolled up so he will maintain the appearance of power and control back at the office, even though he is a slave to this meal. He voraciously makes love to the food with his teeth.

  To be honest, you’re not really sure why you two even hang out anymore. Just history, you guess. He used to be a great guy. Fun, cool upbeat. But now he’s broken. Crushed beyond repair by his job. His stories are not interesting anymore. His jokes are limp. He needs new material, but only lives in his office now.

  Greg somehow skipped the rest of his youth to become a tired old man, constantly grumbling about everything. He’s still a nice enough guy, but more and more often, he’s a sour buzzkill with his relentless complaining.

  “And Christy’s just been driving me up the wall back home. It’s just-- I’m sorry to bother you with all the stuff.” Bits of food fly from his lips as he speaks. Always multitasking.

  It’s okay, you lie. You’re reminded that he’s still got a good heart, but wish he could shut up with the doom and gloom.

  “Oh, another thing too. I have been having these crazy nightmares. Like, I’m just fighting and scared and running for my life, I dunno, sometimes two, three times a week. Do you think something’s wrong with me?”

  You don’t know. Probably.

  “There’s even milder screwed-up ones where I’m dreaming I’m having a bad day at work, and then I wake up just to have another bad day, right after the bad yesterday I just had. God, could I catch a break?”

  He makes ten times as much as you do, but you do not remind him of that particular, generous break.

  You console him. That’s just too bad, you say.

  “Last night I had one where I was with my family, we were hanging at the beach together on a hot day.”

  That sounds nice.

  “Not really. We were all fighting with each other. Probably over some really dumb shit like money. And then the next thing I know, kaboom, another bomb is blowing up in the distance. It makes us all shut up real quick. I remember looking my mother in the eye, and she--”

  He looks away and sniffles. His voice suddenly becomes soft. “My mom has this look of complete sorrow and horror that just breaks my heart. The way she looks, that’s even worse than what happened next.”

  Wow.

  “Dying, you know… It hurts. A lot. Your whole body melting and ripping apart. The anticipation might be even worse, that fear of death. The knowing that the end is imminent and yet there’s so much unfulfilled life you wanted to live.”

  Ouch.

  “One-hundred-percent pure pain, mentally, physically and emotionally. From every damn direction. And then I get to wake up and be rewarded with another day in hell. Awesome.” He scoffs and shakes his head.

  You ask about how he said “another bomb.”

  He shoves a fistful of fries and ranch into his face, then gulps down the chunk of food. You only have a few fries left together now.

  “Sure, I get blown up all the damn time. Watching TV, processing reports at my piece-of-shit cubicle. One time I was even having an actual good dream. I was with Christy hanging out in this jacuzzi. And it’s the night, and it’s winter. So there’s white snow drifting down all around us in the darkness that’s absolutely gorgeous. We’re at this sweet wood cabin in the middle of nowhere.”

  He smiles. You realize this is one of the rare times you’ve seen him happy in what seems like an eternity.

  “And everything’s so perfect and good, for once in my miserable life. And then blammo! Goddam mushroom cloud sprouting thousands of feet in the air. Sky goes red. After it microwaves me to the bone, it blasts me back awake.”

  That sucks.

  “Well,” he kinda chuckles, “I have to admit, sometimes I don’t mind it. It’s like a nice release. I wake up feeling good where - at least in my nightmares - I feel kinda alive. The blood’s pumping, heart’s rushing. Life or death action. Not like when I wake up and get to push pencils on meaningless shit all day and get yelled at.”

  His expression is pleasant like his voice, yet you can tell something is off. Then you notice that his brown eyes are covered with an extra shiny layer of moisture. They are wet with tears.

  You wonder if he maybe needs some help.

  “And sometimes, especially after a particularly shitty day, I have to say, the death is nice. I just can’t take the bullshit anymore. I see the explosion rocketing towards me, and I smile.” Sniffle. “Because it’s all thankfully coming to an end. It’s nice knowing it’s not my fault, not just me killing myself. But it’s the whole world everywhere ending. So I got nothing to do with it, and can guiltlessly ride the sucker out into the abyss with everyone else.”

  He definitely needs some help.

  “That’s kinda messed up, huh? That dying make me feel good?”

  It’s okay, you lie. Totally not normal.

  Outside the restaurant comes a horrific and deafening boom. You jump in your seat and look franticly out the window.

  A truck has dropped its loading dock on the sidewalk just outside. You are the only person startled by the commotion.

  “I’m sorry to bug you with all this drama. Seriously, I know it’s kinda lame. You’re a good friend for listening to all my crap.”

  When Greg rolls his sleeves back down and asks for the check, you think it’ll be a little while before you ever need to see him again.

  You hear from Greg’s now ex-girlfriend Christy before you even hear again from Greg. She’s finally moved out from his place and into a new spot. She would love to catch up and for you to see the new apartment.

  On the ride over to her chic midtown place, you think about how it is kinda odd that you would end up seeing Christy first since the big breakup. Who knows what Greg is up to? He was such a downer before, you fear his probably suicidal delirium might be contagious.

  While you were never principle friends with Christy, you always got along well. She was always a cool girl to hang with. Very bubbly and friendly, some good jokes here and there. People called her so many things: Christine or Christina, Chris or Tina. You’ve heard some oddball names Greg used to ridicule her with when she tried to get too motherly or caring or righteous. “Jesus Christ-y” or just “Christ.” Maybe this is the turning point where you are better friends with her than with her sour, depressed ex-boyfriend whom you have known far longer.

  She looks good and is so excited to see you. She gives you a big hug at the door.

  The new place isn’t the biggest home, nor in the best part of town. But you’re still envious of it and wished you could live there. You appreciate all the nice touches she’s already made to the space, and especially how much cleaner it is now that she’s rid of her overworked slob.

  When you remark upon her newfound immaculateness, she replies, “I know. Tell me about it.” She rolls her eyes too.

  You begin to wonder if you are a bad person, if you have betrayed your friend by being friendly with his ex. Yet you cannot kid yourself, knowing you’re having a much better time now with Christy than before with Greg.

  Things change. You resolve that you are not a bad person.

  Out on her miniscule balcony - “At least I have a balcony!” - you both enjoy the perfect pleasantness of this beautiful day. You are both crunched together into a pair of chairs which barely fit behind the banister. She’s concocted some lightweight margaritas for you to sip on.

  But whatever her balcony lacks in space, it easily makes up with its spectacular view. Her apartment is several floors higher than the other nearby buildings and houses. You can see for miles, until the city vanishes into an indistinct web of concrete and wood.

  “I’m so happy you came all the way out to visit me,” she sighs happily.

  She raises her glass. You clink them together in a toast.

  You are happy too.

  “I had a rough night last night, so it’s real nice that you stopped by.”

  What’s wrong?

  “I had a real bad nightmare. I’ve been thin
king about it all day.”

  What was it?

  “Well...” as she gathers her thoughts. “It’s so crazy that you came by today of all days because...” Her thoughts are still not gathered. “You remember that party where-- I think you were there. We were all hanging out, and there was this really creepy, gross guy talking about dreams and nightmares?”

  Kinda. From the recesses of your memory, you begin to remember.

  “He was talking about how he knows this nightmare, and that if he tells you about it, then you’re going to have it too?”

  You almost remember this. You envision a strange man with dead eyes looking at you.

  “He said that...” She pauses to study your face. Though her behavior is slightly alarming, you give her a reassuring smile.

  “Gosh, maybe I shouldn’t tell you,” she ponders.

  Now you remember. The bomb. The nightmare. That’s right.

  Christy finishes a sip, shudders in pain from the liquor. “Yes. That’s right.” Heavy sigh. “So last night, I had his nightmare.” Her voice rises in tone a little. “It was so scary. Like, really, really scary.”

  You don’t know what to say. You apologize.

  “No, it’s not your fault,” she laughs. “But... I don’t think I’ve ever had, or at least can remember, any nightmare as scary as that. I was crying so hard, even after I woke up.”

  Do you want to hear more? You don’t tell her to stop.

  Her voice hushes softly. “I don’t know what I was doing. I think just riding in my car or walking somewhere. I thought I was maybe with my family. But when the explosion happened, it was just me staring at it.”

  Some trees begin to sway in the wind. You take a drink and listen.

  “The explosion, it’s so big. It’s like the biggest thing I’ve ever seen. This huge cloud rising straight into the sky. It’s like a hundred miles high or something. I dunno, I’m bad with numbers.”

  She wipes a tear away with her thumb. Her liner bleeds down her cheek.