by Jack Worr
“You!—” The robber rushed Mark, got right up in his face and put the gun to his head. He grabbed for the wallet, but Mark moved it out of his reach. “Man I am going to fucking end you.”
“Then do it you little coward. Come on.” Mark leaned into the gun.
“Mark,” Jackson said, warningly. “Come on man, just give it to him.”
“Yeah you raghead, listen to your friend.”
“What did you call me?”
“You heard me. Sand nigger.”
Mark glared at the man. “You’re black you know.”
“Man, I’m not black.” He pulled back the hammer. “Now give it here.”
Mark shook his head, the skin on his forehead creasing as it was kept in place by the barrel. “I fought for you. I regret very few things I’ve done.” He pushed the man away from him. “Fighting for your shitty life is one of them.”
The robber raised the gun, his mouth working. “Man I warned you.” He looked to Jackson. “I warned him.” He raised the gun higher, his head shaking from side to side.
Then a building caught on fire, followed by what sounded like some kind of missile, and all Mark could think, as he dropped to the ground and covered his head, was that he had just been saved by terrorists.
Then everything was chaos and the robbery was forgotten by all involved.
It would be days before any of them recalled what had occurred just minutes, seconds, before that initial impossibility. And one would never remember anything again.
51
Bellevue Hospital. 2nd Floor. Maternity ward.
“Push!” her husband shouted.
“Actually, don’t,” the nurse said. He looked at the soon-to-be father, tried a smile. “That just makes things worse.”
Her husband frowned. “Really? I don’t think so.”
“It’s best to let her do what she feels she should.”
She couldn’t take it. “Shut up, shut up! I’m having a baby.”
“Sorry hun.”
Her next scream shook the floor.
No, that was impossible. The husband attributed the illusion to the stress of the situation. But then glanced around, and saw the others in the room wearing expressions of shock that expressed how he felt.
His wife had not paused her labor, however, and screamed again. This time it didn’t shake anything except already frayed nerves.
Frowns were exchanged all around. They’d all felt it. An earthquake? Odd timing, but not impossible.
In unison, they turned back to look at the wife.
Having previously asked for just this outcome, she was now made uncomfortable enough by the silence to, between heavy breaths, ask, “What?”
Then the screams began, except they weren’t from her.
A delivery room normally doesn’t offer the best views of the hospital, for various reasons, but the husband had been late and the door still stood open, which several of the nurses and the doctor only now noticed, as they all could see the hallways of the hospital filling with people running to the windows. There was even one doctor, gloved hands covered in blood, holding them up in front of him like he was about to go into surgery.
All present hoped he’d left someone with a bloody lip, perhaps a scalp wound at worst, and had not stopped in the middle of a delivery to run to the window and investigate. However the floor he was on didn’t bode well for any of those. What he was in such a rush to look at was what moments before every single radio and television station and most websites were reporting in murky and unsure terms. But the video the TV stations were showing and the websites were linking to spoke for itself. In the face of something like that, many people would snap.
Many did.
The doctor’s bloody scrubs and the screaming nurse running out behind him did nothing to alleviate the concerns of the four people next to the soon-to-be-mother’s hospital bed.
But then fire engulfed the building, windows shattered, and John Tomas Edison was born earlier than anyone had expected, especially him, and they all suddenly had more pressing things to worry about.
52
Floors below and many buildings north, a woman lay dying. No traumatic event had occurred, and she was ready to face death—whether to meet her maker or mere void, she’d availed herself to both possibilities.
Her life had been good and long, and fulfilled.
Looking back now, which she did often and so wasn’t so very special, she couldn’t think of anything she regretted doing. There were a few things she regretted not doing, but she supposed that was the cost of doing business—this business of life. It takes years to learn that the greatest regrets will be the things you don’t do, and by the time that realization dawns, by the time it really sinks in, those events have already occurred, and were likely the cause of the epiphany in the first place.
She looked around the room, her gathered family. It was all very Norman Rockwell. If that master of social commentary had painted vultures instead of dogs.
She frowned. Had he been the one to paint the dogs playing cards? No, she didn’t think so. Oh well, the comparison still stood. She’d earned a few mistakes at her age.
The “loving” vultures gathered around, concern worn plainly—too plainly, as though they were actors in some school play—on their faces. Were all waiting for her to croak, to get their share of her fortune. Not all her family was here, but most were. And there wasn’t one among them she cared a wit for. Well— She coughed, interrupting her thoughts.
When the cough subsided, the concerned vultures perked up, and she knew death was upon her. She smiled, thinking of the transfers she’d made nearly a year ago to this day, in secret, to several charities. The vultures didn’t know the money had been spent, that all this lavishness in which they found themselves was no longer owned by her, but by the charities, who simply let her live here. Let her live out her last days in the surrounds she’d grown used to over the past thirty years.
There was one she cared for. The one family member she didn’t despise, not quite, was her granddaughter. To her, she’d left a simple pendant, to be mailed upon her death.
Her granddaughter was a smart girl. Maybe one day she would figure out what the pendant was for. She thought so. Was glad she wasn’t here. She’d suffered enough, seen enough death at her young age. Far too much, and far too close to home. It wasn’t fair that the reality of life—that it always ended—was forced upon her so soon. But that was another reality of life: it wasn’t fair.
Then she let out her final breath, and wanted her last sight to be of the city skyline she helped to establish—not of the people she helped create.
She let her head roll to the side, past the vultures so she was looking out the huge windows and across the city.
She heard a screech, no doubt one of the vultures, and her eyes widened, smile still on her face, as a great beast burst from the sky. The last thing she saw in this world, was a dragon breathing fire into the night.
53
At the same time, across the city, a much smaller, more discreet event was occurring. No star-sucking void this, but a simple pop, and two men appeared—as if from nowhere.
It had taken them a bit to get back to the Ministry, get hooked up to the machine. But as soon as Mr Grey had disappeared, they had looked at each other, exchanged an unspoken agreement, and rushed back to the Ministry. Not even they, magnificent consuls, were bold enough or dumb enough to enter the Fog.
Consul Ehd was the first through, his partner’s avatar beside him, but without Fredriks’s consciousness loaded yet.
The fact that this dream world was in place again meant Mr Grey was asleep. It was odd that he would be, but Fredriks had said the shot had hit, and so maybe Mr Grey was in a coma.
They had both felt vindicated when he had walked into the main hall of Joffrey Columns, another escapee accompanying him. Their suspicions had been right: he had been interned there. It also strongly suggested he had once been a Builder. That the Ministry
had no record of him was strange, but not unique. Records had been lost before.
His clothes were a matter they hadn’t pieced together yet. It was very strange that he wore the same clothes he did in his dream world, given their oddness and the fact that, based on the available evidence, he had to have been in care for years. But if he had been a Builder, there was probably a way to explain this away.
And so they were allowed back into Mr Grey’s world, despite their unplanned extraction after Fredriks getting shot and inexplicably being injured by the bullet. While it wasn’t surprising that their dream bodies hadn’t been protected, that Fredriks’s real ones had been injured seemed impossible, and so they’d been barred from reentering Mr Grey’s dream until the situation could be analyzed and an explanation put forth.
That was odd too, how he seemed to have but one dream, and was even more cause for further investigation.
But then Mr Grey had escaped, and the dragon had appeared, and it wasn’t hard to convince their superiors the risk was necessary.
And they’d taken precautions this time, were more prepared. But this meant their time was limited. Resisting all physical effects required a lot more computation than letting the dream mechanics work unimpeded.
But Ehd did not worry about this. Now he was back, back in form in his black suit. All traces of stubble were gone from his face, and he was taller and broader and leaner; his features noble—they were, he thought, a reflection of who he really was, on the inside.
And he was going to find Mr Grey, and put him back where he belonged.
He didn’t know for certain if the dragon from the Fog had been Mr Grey’s doing, but it wouldn’t surprise him.
He flexed his hands, feeling the muscles. It felt good. This dream, it felt more real than others. He liked it.
They had materialized on the roof of an impossibly tall building, at the same height as the anomaly their machines had located, exactly thirty-seven meters away—a point of power. A point where the membrane was thin, where they could enter without the dreamer becoming aware of their presence until they were ready for him to be. Ehd was used to the dizzying heights in this dreamscape by now, but it was still astounding that anyone would imagine something like this place.
As he looked across the city at the dragon, he thought, As if we needed any more proof of how much we need Crumble, just look at that. A great beast from the Fog, and now Mr Grey had brought it into his dream. It wasn’t for nothing that dreams were suppressed where Ehd was from.
His partner Fredriks finally stuttered into motion beside him. The wound to his physical body must have been interfering with the transmission for it to have taken so long.
They both silently scanned the city. They normally would know where a dreamer was, if for no other reason than very little world but the dreamer’s immediate surroundings were rendered.
But Mr Grey was different. They had never known where he was, having to rely on his own dream apparitions to give away his location, should he encounter them—the nurse from the hospital being their only success in that regard. They’d been able to get within a few hundred miles of him, but a few hundred miles of highly-populated towns was a lot to search in any reasonable amount of time.
Mr Grey, Ehd thought. Or ‘Mason Grey’ as he seemed to call himself in his dream world. Why ‘Mason’, no one knew. His records had him listed as Mavrek, and both Ehd and Fredriks confirmed the photo on file was of the same man. The man who was supposedly dead.
“He must be close.”
Fredriks nodded. “Yes. Now we just need to figure out in what direction.”
Ehd looked up at the great beast. “Should we worry about that?”
“It’s just scenery for now.”
Ehd nodded. “Until Mr Grey sees us.”
“Yes. Then we take care of it.”
54
White House, 6:02PM.
“What do you mean by a dragon? I’m not up with all the secret project codenames.”
“This is no secret project. At least not ours. There appears to be an actual dragon in the skies of New York City.”
The president was silent for a long moment. Bill wasn’t the type to joke, so instead of asking that futile question, she said, “There’s no such thing as dragons.”
“I’m not going to disagree with the president. I’ll just say to take a look at the video we sent over.”
Someone behind the scenes—namely underpaid aides—had synced this up and someone—an aide—set a laptop down in front of the president, then hit the space bar. A video began playing.
It looked real as shit, the president thought. She said, “Has this been analyzed?”
“Wouldn’t be calling you otherwise. Every tech that’s looked at it says it has no artifacts of being a fake. Then there’s the matter of how many angles it’s been shot from, which are pouring in now. We’re analyzing those as well, but that first one was high-def, and at that resolution, my guys are pretty adept at spotting fakes.”
“How many people have seen it?” She squinted at the screen. “Three hundred? Can we keep this quiet for now?”
“Uh, no. That’s what I thought. Apparently it’s some computer thing. A bug or something—a feature, they called it. We talked to someone at the company, and, as of a minute ago, it had millions of views.”
“Shit. When will we have independent conformation?”
“Drones should be there in less than a minute. We’ll have live video in a minute or so. Madam President, I’d like to scramble fighters.”
“I don’t feel comfortable with that at this stage Bill. It’s one thing to be decisive, another to be rash.”
“I’m only asking because if this is real… If this is an actual dragon…”
Secret Service agents poured into the office.
“Madam President, we have to get you out of here.”
“I’ve got to go Bill.” She sighed. A dragon? What president had to deal with that? But, if it turned out well, it would turn out really well for her. If on the other hand it went even slightly pear… “Fine, air only. No ground troops. And try to get ahold of the governor. I’ll let you know when I get to you know where. No offensive, Bill. Don’t do anything until you hear directly from me.”
“Yes ma’am.”
She hung up, shaking her head. “Where are you taking me now?” she said wearily.
By this far into her term, her agents knew her well, and knew not to respond. They led her out, and to a bunker that could withstand a hell of a lot more than a dragon attack—in theory, at least.
55
“Oh, Mr Grey…” Martynn looked in horror at the sky. “What have you done?”
“I did this?”
Martynn tore his gaze from the beast. “Have you not realized yet what you’re capable of? You found me, brought me here, beyond the Fog. What do you think that means?”
Mason shook his head.
“If you can bring me, then what else can you bring?” He looked up to the sky. “And can you put it back.”
“I don’t understand how you can see it.”
“Why would I not be able to?”
“Mauve. No one can see Mauve.”
“Who or what is that?”
Mason looked around, expecting the creature to appear. But no seven foot fur-covered creature was in evidence. “It’s something that… I don’t know actually. It followed me. I think. That’s what it said.”
Martynn pointed to the sky. “Right now, our concern is that.” He faced Mason. “You must bring it back. Or better, get rid of it.”
“How?”
Martynn shook his head. “You are the one who holds the keys. You control the doors. Find a place, and lock it there. Before it destroys the world.”
56
The president arrived to an already bustling bunker. She knew it was illogical, but it always bothered her that she was never the first to arrive.
Her Secret Service agents led her to a table, around which were
already seated several people. She had to stop herself from apologizing for being late. She wasn’t of course, which was why she had to stop herself. It wouldn’t do to be apologizing for something she hadn’t done. Where would it end?
“Gentlemen,” she said, leaning on the chair back. And they were all gentlemen. Well, they were all men, in any case. “What in the hell, is going on?”
“Um,” the Secretary of State began, standing. “There appears, to, uh, be, uh, a uh… Well, there appears to uh, be uh—”
“For God’s sake!” the president exclaimed “A dragon, yes. We all know that. What else do we know that not all of us know?”
“Uh, we, uh… What?”
The president pulled out her chair and sat. “Let’s start with the military. General?”
“Madam President. We have located the dragon on satellite and have confirmed that it appears to have a heat signature in line with what we would expect.” He frowned. “That is, other than when it shoots fire.”
“Hot fire,” the Chief of Staff, put in.
The general scowled. “Yes, it is. Some type of liquid is our best estimate. Plasma, maybe.” He waved a hand at this, as if anything so scientific couldn’t possibly have any validity.
“So what you’re saying,” the president said slowly, “is that it’s a dragon.”
“Or possibly another reptile.”
“I’m not very good with biology. Remind me what reptiles can fly?”
“Dragons can,” the Chief of Staff put in, helpfully.
“Wow,” the president said. “Who would have guessed?”
“I believe the first mention of dragons in the—”
“Please, Tom, wait your turn.”
“Of course Mr— Uh, Ms, Uh, Ma’am. President.”
The president sighed. This was what she got for not listening to her mother: “You’re supposed to marry the president! Not be him.” Of course, her mom had also said, “You’re supposed to marry the senator, not be him!” and, “You’re supposed to marry the judge, not be him!” and once after a particularly heavy night of drinking, “You’re supposed to screw the stripper, not marry him!” Her husband, Scott, was an actor, and he had once played a dancer. Of ballet. He had never once played a stripper. When she had pointed this out to her mother, her mother had responded cryptically, “I know a package when I see one.”