Vs Reality

by Blake Northcott

  Minutes later, the tower is being filmed by every tourist and resident in the downtown area. A skyscraper, spilling water from every one of its windows like a lawn sprinkler sitting on its axis, has the entire city transfixed. The streams intensify as if someone is increasing the water pressure from an unseen valve.

  And then it bursts.

  The sound is like mountain being dropped from orbit, and it’s audible through all five boroughs. Anyone not witnessing the disaster assumed they’d felt a mild earthquake, but those watching could see the source of the tremor: millions of gallons of water and fifty thousand tons of brick falling from the sky, crumbling to the foundation. Tidal waves ravage the streets for blocks in every direction; cars tumble through storefronts, trees are torn from their roots, and people cling helplessly to anything bolted down before they’re washed away, helpless against the force of the current.

  While citizens and news crews alike focus on the carnage unfolding at ground level, few bother to film something even more incredible: fifty stories above street level, water pours from an opening. It’s an open faucet; a waterfall without a river to feed it. ‘Like a gash torn in the fabric of reality,’ a New York Times editorial would later describe it, though the journalist’s photographic evidence would be dismissed as a hoax before his eventual dismissal.

  As the gash narrows of its own accord the flow subsides, reducing the waterfall to a drip. The portal twists away with a spark, vanishing.

  Chapter Thirty-One – Mendacious

  Paris, France (7ème arrondissement)

  August 27, 2011

  8:58 pm, Central European Time

  Brodie finishes off a bottle of wine, gripping it with one hand, chugging it like a beer. After a resounding belch he tosses the bottle on the hardwood floor. It rattles and rolls beneath the table.

  “Hey jackass!” Paige shouts, clipping Brodie’s shoulder with sharp backhand, causing him to wince and lean away. “This isn’t New York and we don’t have maid service seven days a week. You can’t just throw your crap everywhere because I’m the one who ends up cleaning up after you.”

  The apartment’s narrow living room is charming; exposed brick walls, threadbare pillows piled onto Bridgewater sofas, and a window that offers a stunning view of the city’s skyline. And within minutes, thanks to Brodie and Jens, the quaint sitting area had been reduced to a neglected frat house.

  “Well we are in France…” Brodie stretches out, kicking his feet onto the coffee table. “If I make a big enough mess will you put on one of those French maid outfits before you tidy up?”

  “Nice,” Jens says with a chuckle, bumping fists with Brodie.

  Paige lowers her glasses and glares at her new roommate. “So is this going to be a thing now? You and Cole are just going to follow us everywhere like a couple of stray cats?”

  “Pretty much,” Jens replies with a shrug.

  Paige lets out an audible groan before taking a final swig from her own bottle. “Brodie, you should have let me hit the pavement.” She reaches for the television remote and turns up the volume. “Now shut the hell up for a few minutes, it’s about to start.”

  A glittering blue graphic of a globe bisected by a bold number ‘1’ rotates onto the screen, signaling the onset of a newscast. “Good afternoon on this beautiful day in New York City. I’m April Andrews, and thank you for watching WorldOne, the premiere twenty-four hour, interactive news network.” April assumes a slightly more somber tone than usual, lowering her voice, and resisting the urge to smile like she’s parading across the stage of a beauty pageant. “As we reported yesterday, a building collapsed in Manhattan. Luckily, peacekeepers arrived in time, and were able to evacuate all of the tenants. But the cause of this collapse, which was first thought to be the result of a broken water main combined with an architectural flaw in the building, turned out to be false. The Mayor of New York City is live at the scene to make a public statement about the cause of this disaster. James J. Kerrigan is about to take the podium.”

  Always one to make a dramatic entrance, Mayor Kerrigan takes his place at a large wooden dais in front of a dozen microphones, strategically placed with the rubble of the disaster site in plain view. A legion of reporters and photographers snap pictures and scream questions from the press area as Kerrigan straightens his bright blue tie and carefully adjusts the American flag pin on the lapel of his jacket.

  “Settle down, folks,” Kerrigan says in his unmistakable southern drawl. “There will be plenty of time for questions later.” He takes a lingering sip of water from a plastic bottle.

  As if under hypnotic suggestion, the rabble of reporters silence themselves and take their seats, patiently awaiting Kerrigan’s next words.

  “Thank you. First of all, I want to address the rumors that have been all over the internet. This building behind me did not fall because of a plumbing accident, a building code violation, or anything else of that nature. The truth is that it was destroyed by an international terrorist group.”

  Kerrigan takes another sip of water and clears his throat, giving the reporters a moment to gasp and whisper among themselves.

  “This was a clear message sent from a group of people who call themselves the ‘Global Liberty Initiative’. And their message was this: Americans are not safe, not even in the comfort of their own homes. They want us to know that they can strike anywhere, at any time. Thankfully I have a number of well-placed informants who tipped me off to their heinous plot. I was able to deploy peacekeepers and a SWAT team who descended on the building, successfully evacuating every tenant before the explosion.

  “We were able to capture the leader of this terror group – a man known only as Govinda. And as much as I’d like to tell you that this is the end, and that folks can sleep peacefully at night, I’m not able to offer any such assurances. An attack on New York City is an attack on the entire nation, and if they have their way, it won’t be the last.

  “The good news,” Kerrigan continues, “is that we were able to interrogate Govinda, and he gave us some very valuable information. He revealed that two of his American contacts are sisters – a sleeper cell, if you will – living right here in New York City. Their names are Dia and Paige Davenport.” As he continues to speak, outdated pictures appear on the screen side-by-side. Dia’s hair is shorter and Paige is missing the purple streak in her bangs, but there they are. And now the world has seen them.

  Paige’s wine bottle clatters on the hardwood floor and she bolts upright, fumbling for the remote. She jams her thumb into the remote until the volume bar hits ‘max’.

  “If you see either of these criminals,” Kerrigan continues, wagging a patronizing finger, “do not approach them. We have to assume that they’re armed and extremely dangerous. Report any sightings to your local authorities immediately so they can be dealt with by our highly-trained peacekeepers. These terrorists appear to have fled the country, and we have several international agencies looking for them at the moment. But that leads us to another problem, and it’s something the American folks need to know. The New World Council is making it nearly impossible to prevent these types of attacks. Open borders allow people to travel too freely. Strict gun laws prevent folks from defending their homes. And by disallowing military strikes in some countries, we aren’t able to send the clear, powerful messages that we ought to be sending. Countries that give aid and comfort to terror groups need to be put in their place, and unfortunately, many of them are part of the New World Council. So after careful consideration, I ask the President of the United States to make this critical decision: end America’s involvement with the New World Council, and do it today. For all our sakes, let us return to the values that our founding fathers intended. As Americans we need to protect ourselves, our borders, and our way of life; this can’t be done while we’re being strangled by the strict laws and regulations of this single world government. It was a noble experiment…” he steps away from the podium, motioning to the pile of rubble behind him, flash
bulbs popping like fireworks. “…but as you can see, it was an experiment that failed.”

  Paige sags into the couch, gazing blankly at the screen. “This is only the beginning,” she whispers, shaking her head in disbelief. “This is just the first thread being pulled, but it’s not going to stop. Kerrigan is going to keep yanking until everything unravels.” She turns off the television and shuffles to the window, places her palms on the frame and stares out into the distance. The final rays of light are receding into the sky and darkness is shrouding the city.

  A long minute ticks by, one painful second at a time.

  “Paige,” Jens finally says, trying to fill the deafening gulf of silence. “What are you going to tell Dia?”

  “The truth,” she says flatly. “First the bad news, and then the really bad news.”

  Brodie’s face is etched with concern. “Okay…but if the United States branding us all terrorists is the bad news, then what’s the really bad news?”

  Chapter Thirty-Two – Plan C

  Paris, France

  August 27, 2011

  9:07 pm, Central European Time

  As the sun retreats from The City of Lights the Eiffel Tower begins to glitter in the distance; flashes of brilliance travel across the iconic iron latticework like hyperkinetic fireflies – a routine sight for the locals, no doubt, but a dazzling display for the tourists. Cole is hypnotized. If he lived in Paris for a year he’d want to sit here every night at dusk, experiencing the same show.

  He hears footsteps at his back, clacking across the rooftop patio.

  Dia takes a seat next to him on the wide stone ledge. She lets one leg dangle over the edge, the other hugged to her chest. “So this is where heroes come to celebrate after they save the day.” She smiles to one side, dimpling her cheek.

  “I don’t know who your real estate agent is, but they’re doing a bang-up job.” The summer air is thick, like lukewarm bathwater. Cole unzips his hoodie and peels it from his sweat-slicked arms, revealing a black tank top underneath.

  “What can I say? I love a view.” Her raven hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun, stabbed through with chopsticks. She reaches out and trails a finger along Cole’s intricate tattoo; starting at his bicep, outlining the coiling snake down his forearm. Muse or not, the body art now appears to be a permanent fixture, as well as his significantly brawnier physique.

  The night is silent except for the sound of a couple chatting at a sidewalk café across the street, eight stories down. Their voices are muffled and distant.

  Cole wipes sweat-drenched palms against his shorts; partly because of the humidity, partly because of nerves. “So…uh, what’s going on with you?” His muscular form comes with an incredible array of benefits – charm, wit and humor not being among them, apparently. If Jens were here he’d tell him to ‘stop spitting bad game’, whatever the hell that means.

  She rolls her shoulders, straightening her posture. “I made a decision and I wanted you to be the first to know.” Her voice rings through with a quiet confidence.

  He lets out a short sigh, relieved she’s chosen a topic of conversation.

  “Now that Govinda is gone I want to stop running,” she announces. “I know we need to make sure The Basement is closed for good; I’m totally on board with that and I know we still have a ton of work to do – but we have contacts all over the world who can help us. We don’t need to do it alone.”

  “All right,” he says, nodding. “Sounds like a good start.”

  “And that means no more cutting myself…” she pauses and draws in a shaky breath. “And no more Muse.”

  “Wow, I’m impressed. Going cold turkey is a bold move. And what about Plan B?” He mimes a tiny stabbing motion, as if jabbing his cephalic vein with a syringe.

  She shakes her head. “I thought I’d make my own plan. No superpower-inducing stimulants required: I’m calling it ‘Plan C’.”

  “You have me intrigued, Miss Davenport,” he says, suppressing a smile. “Can you give me some details about this elaborate plan you’ve devised?”

  She shrugs, lazily dragging a finger across her collarbone. A rill of sweat rolls down her low-cut top. “It’s not all that elaborate, really. I thought I’d just try being a regular person for a while.”

  “Regular, huh? That sounds pretty boring. Are you sure you can handle it?”

  “After the last couple days I could use a little boredom,” she admits. “Tearing apart the fabric of the universe definitely feels good, but I think I’ll do something a little more low-key this evening.”

  Donovan lets out a laugh. “What’s considered ‘low-key’ for Dia: a sword fight in a burning building?”

  “I was kind of thinking ‘dinner and a movie’.” She moistens her lips with a tiny flick of her tongue, cheeks flushed.

  He turns back to the light show on the horizon. “Well I know a couple of marginally reliable dating sites, so if you’re looking to hook up—”

  She seizes his face with warm hands, cupping his chin, twisting his face to meet hers. Their lips meet. Suddenly they’re standing, eyes closed, her arms draped loosely around his neck, his locked around her waist.

  A blissful, timeless wave washes over them. They’re swept away with the tide, breathless and consumed and intoxicated like no one else in the universe matters; like that very moment in time is all that exists. He can almost feel the energy swelling from inside her, burning like a Roman candle, penetrating to his core.

  Their lids drift open in unison. Her chestnut eyes are now sparkling sapphires; her hair glittering platinum, billowing in a sudden flap of wind. She brushes some flyaway strands from her face and her eyes widen at the pigment. She’d manifested without realizing it.

  They stare at each other for a long minute – bodies entwined, minds reeling – before they finally realize where they are: floating twenty feet above the rooftop terrace.

  “Whoa,” Dia lets out a wide-grinned chuckle, gazing down at the building below. Her eyes flick back to meet Cole’s. “Now this is totally watershed.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three – Flashback

  New York City

  August 26, 2011

  6:28 am, Eastern Daylight Time

  Paige takes a few steps towards Heinreich, hands just inches from his forehead. The glow of purple electricity is reflecting in the whites of his eyes, which are growing wide and panicked. “All right,” she says with a hint of forced enthusiasm, “Here we go. Let’s tear back the curtain and see who’s pulling the levers.”

  She presses her fingertips into the giant’s temples. Her pupils dilate, then vanish. Her eyes fade to milky-white opals, staring blankly into nothingness.

  A ghostly calmness takes hold of Heinreich, stiffening his body yet simultaneously relaxing his features; the tightness disappears from his strained face and his eyelids are once again heavy with sedation. He’s almost welcoming Paige to extract pictures and sound from the deepest realms of his consciousness.

  She makes contact with his memory. She’s inside.

  Her mind falls from the edge of an endless cliff, tumbling into an ocean of infinite possibilities. Heinreich struggles inwardly, a futile effort to stave off her influence, but his mental thrashing is pointless. Like a drowning victim trapped beneath a sheet of ice who succumbs to the frozen water filling his lungs, he eventually lets go and gives in to the inevitable.

  Her eyes become Heinreich’s eyes, his heartbeat becomes hers. She traces his steps through the dark recesses of The Basement.

  She sees the people they’ve collected trapped in containment cells; transparent cubes stacked one atop the other, piled impossibly high. She can hear their screams, feel the pain etched in their strained voices. Heinreich is apathetic, striding past without more than a casual sidelong glance.

  He steps to a small panel on the wall and taps a touch screen, like he’s deleting files from a desktop trash bin. It’s what Govinda had instructed, and he’d obeyed without question. The command is ca
rried out and the screams are silenced. With some bizarre, terrifying technology that the world won’t see for centuries, every prisoner disappears into a cloud of blue mist, leaving only their clothes and shoes behind. They’d been erased.

  His memory jumps forward, leaping to a clandestine New World Council meeting that was held in the endless desert expanse of The Backyard.

  Shielded from the sun by a canopy is a stately dining table, covered with an immaculate white tablecloth. Seated around are a dozen foreign dignitaries, some of whom Paige recognizes from newscasts; the Prime Minister of Canada, The Princess of Monaco, The King of Thailand, the Emperor of Japan, and others she couldn’t quite place. Solid gold place settings have been prepared for each guest, and courses of chicken and beef are being served to each leader by an attentive wait staff, but no one so much as touches a utensil. They’re here for business and nothing else; the food is being served merely as a formality.

  At one end of the table sits Govinda, flanked by his two most senior Collectors: Goto and Heinreich.

  At the opposite end sits New York City Mayor James J. Kerrigan, and an imposing five-star General representing the United States.

  The General is clad in his full military uniform, including a green jacket that’s barely visible beneath the dozens of pins and medals he’s earned over his last thirty-five years of service. His clean-shaven face reveals a detailed history of battle scars, including one particularly sinister groove that starts at the center of his forehead, and arcs down through his eyebrow.

  “You’ve done a serviceable job so far,” The General says without even a trace of emotion. “You’ve been able to retrieve every potential with minimal blowback, but as you’re well aware, the drug continues to spread.”

  “I’ve narrowed my search to New York City,” Govinda replies, “so I can assure you we’re getting closer.”