Awakening: Dead Forever Book 1

by William Campbell

  “You said to wish you luck.”

  She turns her gaze to the night. A shooting star streaks across the dark sky. And another. A minor meteor shower.

  “So you’re wishing us luck,” I say.

  “Yeah, and a few things for myself.”

  “Oh? What are you wishing for?”

  “Adam, you’re not supposed to tell, or it won’t come true.”

  “It’s okay, you can tell me. I’ll help you make it come true.”

  She hangs her head. “No, I don’t think so.” Hands to her face, she begins to sob.

  I’m not sure what to do when confronted by grief. Cry, too? What good would that do? Whatever troubles her, I’m most likely to blame. I can’t help it, I must comfort her. I reach out and draw her into my arms. With her head against my chest, her tears flow.

  “I’m so sorry, Adam. I’m so ashamed.”

  “Ashamed? Of what?”

  “I should have told you.”

  “Hey, there were many things untold, and still are.”

  “I know, but I also know myself, and why I didn’t tell you.”

  “Why? What is it?”

  She leans back, her stare a mess of tears. “I wanted you, Adam. I’ve always wanted you. I can’t imagine any person I’d rather be around. You’re the best.”

  “Okay, you want to be around me, and you are. So what’s the problem?”

  She pulls free of my embrace. “I didn’t tell you about Chris, I was enjoying your attention too much. I was afraid if I told you, you’d remember everything, then you’d just forget about me.”

  “Forget about you? I could never forget you, Madison. Just because I love Christina doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”

  She turns away, her sorrow dropping toward apathy. “No, Adam, it doesn’t work that way.”

  “What do you mean?” I move to face her.

  “True love is for two people, not three. I may excite you, but you’re in love with Chris. You talk about her like she’s your other half, like she’s your source of life. I’m not that, as much as I want to be.”

  “You are.”

  “No, Adam, it’s not true.”

  “Madison, you and Christina are different people, each with unique qualities, not better, not worse, just different. I love your qualities, and I love hers. Nothing says I can’t love both.”

  Her eyes gloss over. I can’t take it. I can’t see her crying, it’s killing me. I reach out and bring her into my arms. “Please, don’t cry. Everything will be okay.”

  She sniffles, sucking back the tears. “Adam, I love you, and I want you to be happy, but I feel terrible for what I’ve done. Please understand, I only did it because I love you so much, and I want to be near you. But I never meant to hurt you.”

  “You haven’t hurt me. I agree you should have told me sooner, but I understand your reasons. Beyond that, I enjoyed the rest very much.”

  She shifts away, wiping her tears, then she looks at me. “You did?”

  “Of course I did. What do you think? I was dreading every moment? Come on, think about it. Did I look like I wasn’t enjoying myself?”

  “Well, no. I liked it, too. Actually, I liked it a lot.”

  “Okay, so what’s the problem? Today’s a new day, right?”

  That didn’t work. Here come the tears.

  “That’s just it, Adam. Now you’ve remembered Chris and you’re going off to find her. It’s a new day and all the tomorrows you’ll spend with her.”

  Now I understand—it’s a matter of time.

  * * *

  Time is a funny thing. Well, so is a bunch of other stuff, maybe that’s the point. Time puts things where they go. Or more precisely, where we think they should go.

  Music is a good example. Without time, there would be no music. A song would be an instant of noise, every carefully crafted note piled on top of one another, one hideous bwang! But with time, a musician can select specific notes and align them in a desired order.

  In order, that’s part of it. Time dictates a first, a second, and eventually, a last. But the entire concept of something being first and another being last is just a component of the physical existence. Like a rock, which begins as a mountain, and eventually ends up as sand.

  For us, there is no time. We are here now, before, and after. Time only makes things more interesting. Like music, without time, life would be a single instant, every experience, good, bad or otherwise, blurted out all at once. No chance to even know what happened.

  I coax Madison toward the steps leading off the deck and sit us down facing the moonlit ocean. We watch the waves for a time, and her tears dwindle.

  I take her hand in mine. “Madison, what we experienced we will always experience.”

  “We’re not experiencing it now, so how could that be true?”

  “Do you remember us in the garden?”

  “Of course I do. I think about it all the time.”

  “See, just what I mean—all the time. Do you get it?”

  “Get it?” she asks. “No, I don’t get it.”

  “You said you think about it all the time.”

  “So?”

  “That’s the point. You think about the fun we had, all the time. That means you’re thinking about it, which is the same as making it, and you’re doing it all the time.”

  “Adam, that’s stupid. That’s remembering it. It’s not the same.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Well, yes, I am.”

  “Look at it another way. Let me ask you to remember something pleasant.”

  “What?”

  “It doesn’t matter, just something from long ago, way back.”

  She goes silent, then says, “Okay. I remember when I had parents, before the war. My dad taught me how to ride a bike when I was little. I always remember that because I admired him for his patience.”

  “So you remember it. You can see it.”

  “Yes.”

  “Now remember the falling stars tonight, when you made a wish.”

  “What about it?”

  “Just remember it. Hold the picture in your mind, along with the memory of your dad, and learning to ride the bike.”

  “All right,” she says.

  “Now answer this—what is different?”

  “They’re different memories. Is that supposed to mean something?”

  “What happened is different, the content, but think about the structure, the way each looks. Is anything different?”

  “They look like all memories do. Is there a point?”

  “I’m getting there, bear with me. Now imagine a future, a long time from now, when all this war stuff is over. We’re having kids again, and you’re teaching your son how to ride a bike.”

  She smiles, seems to like the idea.

  “Can you see it?” I ask.

  “Yes, I can.”

  “Now hold that picture next to the other memories, the one from long ago, and the stars tonight, then tell me—what is different? The structure, not the content. How each looks.”

  “They look about the same, I guess.”

  “Right. So imagining the future is no different from remembering the past.”

  “No, they are different. One didn’t happen yet.”

  “Not the content, I’m talking about the structure, the way it looks. Something about it is different from now, this very instant, but not different between the past and the future. Do you understand?”

  “Not really. What are you trying to say?”

  “There is no past or future. There is only now, and not now.”

  * * *

  Apparently, my perception of time is not so obvious to everyone else. Even when presented as clearly as possible, others find the concept elusive. But that’s the trick, and design of it, which makes time persist. And that’s one thing time does well—it persists.

  I have only stumbled into this reconciliation, as the mention of children was by no means intentional, but appe
ars to be precisely what brightened her mood.

  “Adam, do you really think we’ll make it through and have kids again?”

  I could be honest, but my own uncertainty is not too comforting. And since comfort keeps the tears away . . .

  “I’m sure of it.”

  She smiles. “I miss children.”

  “Yeah, me too, especially being one. I wouldn’t mind a break from all this serious stuff.”

  Which reminds me, I’m not a kid and have plenty of serious matters to deal with. Something about a diagram. But, a diagram of what? Unclear, though not its importance, and the gnawing dread that without it, I have failed. Worse are the serious thoughts of all we must face. Our next endeavor is fraught with risk, the results of which could lead to triumph, or our doom. The future is a pleasant idea, that tomorrow is waiting for us to arrive. We hunger for it, another day to exist, but waiting in the shadows of doubt are the monsters of failure, and they are hungry, too. One mistake now and we’re all dead forever.

  “Adam, promise me something.”

  Her soothing voice lifts me from a strangling vision in which the future is uncertain.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Promise me you’ll take care of Adam.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can stand the thought of not having you, if that’s how it must be, but I can’t stand the thought of you not having yourself. Please, don’t get caught and let them take you away. Be careful, and always remember, always be Adam.”

  I nudge her chin and make her look at me with those gorgeous dark brown eyes.

  “Madison, no matter what happens, you will always know me, I promise.”

  Chapter 7

  Weaponless, I scramble to seize a shaft of lumber, my only defense. My opponent is not intimidated, wielding a metal club lined with sharp triangles apt to perforate organs. He swings the deadly weapon, I duck and roll, scoop up the timber and deflect his blow. Again he swipes, but my dexterity is unmatched. Before he can strike, I heave the wooden beam and bash his skull. Down he goes, unconscious.

  A wire slaps around my neck and goes taut. I drop the lumber and reach past my shoulders, to the assailant behind, latch onto his jacket and pitch forward, vaulting him over my back and crashing to the floor.

  My jaw is clobbered, slinging my head around to collide with another pounding fist. I swerve to miss the next and return it in kind, then spin to block another attack. The pair throw more punches that fail to strike, overwhelmed as I whirl, parry and jab, fighting back.

  I need to get out of this room. When I pull the door open, another adversary is standing on the other side. Unlike the others, my new opponent is armed with a blast rifle. He sees that I am weaponless, and he gleams with imagined confidence. The trigger clicks, the high-pitched whizzing begins, and glowing energy emerges from the barrel.

  I do not agree.

  “Stop!”

  The radiant energy hangs suspended, twitching and crackling. The floating cloud is fascinating, a swirling mist of shifting color, caught in an aura of sparkling glitter. I plunge a hand into the inert plasma, and rapid vibrations tingle my skin. I draw my fingers in and the energy follows, forming a sphere cradled in my palm. The gift is absolutely beautiful, a rainbow of dazzling elegance, contained inside a compact globe.

  I smile at the man who offered the gift. “Thank you.”

  His eyes fill with fright. Why? What is there to fear?

  I open my palm flat. “I don’t need this. You can have it back.”

  The glowing plasma leaps from my hand and streams back to its source. The beam strikes the man and surrounds his body in sizzling arcs.

  “What’s the problem?” I ask. “It’s just a ball of energy.”

  He has no answer, too busy coping with a convulsing body. As the intensity rises, he becomes less solid, rather an assemblage of tiny particles. Pieces of him begin breaking away, hurled outward by the furious vibrations, leaving the collection he considers to be his body. More and more, until the last trace scatters, the energy dissipates, and the man is gone.

  No wonder he was afraid. There was no need to be, and maybe if he wasn’t, he’d still be here. Then we could play catch with the energy ball. That might have been fun. Oh well, that’s done, and I have work to do. I came here looking for something. A bucket? I was looking for a bucket.

  The hallway leads back to the room where we were working. I enter to find Christina wielding a hose, cleaning the insides of a large machine. She is wearing a chemical-resistant apron, safety goggles, and jumbo-sized green rubber gloves. In one hand she holds the hose, the other an abrasive sponge. The machine has deep tanks that hold liquid, but the fluids have become contaminated, full of crusty remnants and moldy growths. She’s making progress, one tank looks sparkling clean, but water is everywhere, splattered across the wall and collecting in puddles on the floor.

  “Did you find it?” she asks.

  “Find what?”

  “The blue bucket.”

  “Oh yeah, I almost forgot. I looked everywhere, but I couldn’t find it.”

  “Maybe it’s in the kitchen.”

  “That’s a thought. I’ll go check.”

  Past the doorway, I cross the living room, on my way to the kitchen. The home is attractive, older but well kept, doors and windows framed by dark wood, lighter molding above, and plenty of antique furniture. A warm glow shines from the hardwood floor, covered in spots by intricately woven rugs, details rich and plush.

  In the kitchen, I find a crowd of laughing people. Some guy tells a joke and scantily clad young ladies giggle. Others hold drinks, mingle and converse, a few grope each other. Some kind of party. Am I the host? Maybe not. No one seems to notice me.

  I weave between the partygoers and open cabinet doors below the sink. No bucket here, either. Now the people notice me—I can feel them staring. I twist on my heels and rise to face them. Everyone is silent, while their beady eyes bore into me.

  The bucket must be in the garage. Out the back door, I start down the steps, but the way is blocked by more people sipping drinks and enjoying themselves, having their own party alongside the house.

  “Excuse me,” I say to a man blocking the way.

  He turns to me and smiles. “Are you looking for virtue?” He scans a group of ladies between the house and garage, as if searching for one in particular, named Virtue.

  “No, I don’t know her. I’m looking for a bucket.”

  One of the girls asks, “A bucket of virtue?”

  The crowd erupts with hysterical laughter.

  What a bunch of weird people. What the hell is a bucket of virtue?

  But of course—dreaming again.

  Time to wake up.

  * * *

  My first waking vision is the dresser in the corner. My dresser, in my bedroom, where I fell asleep last night. I flip the covers and get out of bed, not all that steady, still half asleep. I should make some coffee.

  In the living room, past the picture window, there is activity outside. The driveway is full of men wearing orange vests and yellow hardhats, stacking equipment against the garage door. Weird enough, but weirder—I don’t have a picture window. And my garage is in the alley. I don’t even have a driveway.

  I crawl onto the sofa under the window and watch the construction workers scurry back and forth to their trucks, hauling wooden barriers, scaffolding, and power tools. Another man follows the workers, armed with a video camera. He points the camera at the window, recording my bewilderment. I get a sense of why he’s doing this—to prove I’m aware of imminent construction and can’t deny it later. Weird.

  I charge outside and chase after the workers. They leave the driveway and move along the sidewalk toward another house. I’m right behind them, they should notice me, but they just keep talking among themselves like I’m invisible. One worker tells another about the next house, explaining how it needs repair, and since the owner isn’t doing it, they will, whether the owner likes
it or not.

  What is this nonsense? I’m still dreaming.

  I wake up again, snug beneath the covers, in my bed, in my bedroom, the same place I woke up last time. Or so I thought. The same dresser is in the corner, just like before, but the dream lingers. I leap out of bed and dash to the living room, to check the driveway. I don’t want to see—

  I can’t see anything. My eyes are open but there’s nothing, it’s all black. Someone is holding my hand. Madison, I think. She guides the way to the bathroom and reassures me that everything will be okay, don’t worry.

  What the hell? I’ve awoken twice now.

  I wake up in bed, the same bed, the same dresser in the corner, the exact same scene all over again. How can this be? A dream within a dream within a dream?

  In the living room, Madison is asleep on the sofa. What is she doing here? Maybe I’m still dreaming. I wiggle her elbow.

  Her groggy eyes flutter open. “Is it time to wake up?”

  “I think so, but I’m not sure.”

  “Why not?”

  “I already have, and twice before now.”

  She rolls on her side, facing the cushion, and pulls a blanket over her. “Well, you know what they say . . .”

  “What?”

  “Third time’s a charm.”

  “Huh?”

  She starts snoring.

  How can I tell if this is a dream? Each time has been completely real, just like now. I could be dreaming this very instant. So I should just wake up. It doesn’t seem to work, everything is still the same. How will I know? There’s no way to be sure. All I can do is move through the experience and see where it leads. If this is a dream, I’ll wake up eventually.

  What I really need is some coffee. I’m still in a daze. In the kitchen, I search the cupboards. There must be a tin here somewhere, there has to be. I know there’s coffee in this house, but I can’t find any.

  “Madison . . .”

  No response, not even the sound of her snoring.

  I go to the living room. “Come on, Madison, wake up. I need coffee. Where is it?”

  What? The sofa is empty. She was here, wasn’t she? Didn’t she talk to me, something about a charm, or was it three charms? Third time’s a charm. Was that a dream? Or is this a dream?