by D. S. Murphy
PROPHET OF DOOM
D.S. MURPHY
Copyright © 2017 by Derek Murphy
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Urban Epics
Portland, OR
www.UrbanEpics.com
0
The first time I saw the future I lost hope.
It wasn’t just that the future sucked; that civilization had gone and ruined itself; that we’d altered our own DNA and devolved into predatory monsters that fed on the few remaining survivors. That was all awful enough, but it was more than that. I remember being young and thinking, when I grow up, I’ll have a nice big house. I’ll get an exciting, interesting job. I’ll meet the man of my dreams and we’ll fall in love and stay together forever.
But that all disappeared the first time I tripped twenty years into the future and found the houses burned, the handsome boys dead, and the daily battle for survival a constant vocation. Nobody asked little girls what they wanted to be when they grew up anymore. Nobody wanted to draw attention to the fact that most of them wouldn’t live that long.
At least I had it better than they did. When my trip was over, I would get to go back. Back to the normalcy of 2017. Back to iPhones and Twitter and buying so much food it went bad before you could eat it. Back to laughing over foamy cappuccinos and iced lattes at the mall, window shopping and flirting with hot guys (not that I ever did that, mind you—but I always wanted to). And I still could. That was the point. Unlike everybody else, for whom 2017 was 20 years ago, long before humanity was destroyed, it was my reality. At least, it was some of the time.
But after seeing the future; after struggling to make it to the end of the day; after my first kill—none of those other things were the least bit enjoyable. All I could think when I got back to the real world, is how can I stop what’s coming?
1
“How’d you ever talk me into this?” I muttered from the passenger seat of Crys’s mom’s Ford Aerostar, a green van she’d finally gotten access to when she passed her driver’s license test a few weeks ago. Butterflies gnawed at my stomach as she pulled up to the curb and turned off the engine.
“Are you crazy? A party at Brett Peters’ house? You know what I had to do to get us invited?” She flicked back her dark, curly hair, and checked her eyeliner in the rearview mirror.
I didn’t know, but I could imagine. Crys had always been the more experienced between us. This year she was dating Cody Myers, a hot senior on the soccer team.
Crys and I had been inseparable since third grade, so I was considered cool by association, kind of, in that most of the popular seniors tolerated my sophomoric presence. At least when Crys was around—she knew how to flirt and keep a conversation flying. Ten seconds around me and conversation would usually dry up. Crys said I was like a stone. With moss on it.
“There will probably be alcohol at this party,” Crys said. “You don’t have to have any. But if you do, drink slowly,” she glared at me meaningfully.
“I’m never going to live this down, am I?” I said. Crys had stolen some vodka from her dad’s liquor cabinet for her birthday, and we stayed in and made screwdrivers. It was fun until I threw up all over her mom’s azaleas.
“At least I made it outside,” I crossed my arms.
“I don’t want to have to babysit you or take you home early. Stay sharp, stay in control. But also, loosen up. Have fun. You need a boyfriend, so we can double-date.” Crys had been saying that for years. She’d had a boyfriend since I met her in 2nd grade. She’d gone through dozens of them since, but she always seemed to be in a relationship. Unlike me, who was perpetually single.
I could see Brett’s house down the street. Not that I knew what his house looks like. Because I’ve never, like, crept around outside like a stalker. I swear. I’d been to parties before, but mostly lame ones, with cake and Doritos and Coke, where we watched movies or played board games. Last year there had even been a party where the parents weren’t home, and we played spin the bottle. I made out with three different boys—the extent of my interaction with the opposite sex. But I didn’t like any of them, so I’d just viewed it as practice.
Practice for Brett Peters.
And now I was opening the sliding door, getting out of the van, smoothing down my sweater and my straight blond hair, and turning red like an apple, something I always did when I was terrified. I’d had a crush on Brett since sixth grade. Then he’d moved up to high school and left me behind—not that he had any idea who I was.
Now I was a sophomore. He was a senior and next year he’d be going off to college. That meant, if we had any chance of being together, it had to happen this year. At least that’s the argument Crys used when she was talking me into this party, even though we’d be two years younger than everyone else.
“You sure he won’t mind me crashing?” I whispered. I tugged at the sleeves of my sweater, something I did when I was nervous. Somehow covering more skin made me feel less vulnerable.
“Cody said it was cool,” Crys said.
“Cool if you could bring me?” I said. “Did you ask him if Alicia could come, or if you could bring a friend?” My heart pounded as Crys knocked on the door. Brett opened the door, wearing jeans and a flannel shirt.
“Hey guys,” he said, looking right at me and smiling. He had perfect, tan skin, olive green eyes, and golden hair that always looked carefully sculpted in place. His smile was both charming and authentic. He looked like an old fashioned gentleman, but with a hint of a smirk that said he was no angel.
He gestured us inside but my knees felt wobbly so I hesitated. Crys gave me a shove and I stumbled inside. The house was trying to go for “rustic charm” and had been built to look sort of farmish on the inside and out, but the high ceilings and polished gleam on everything suggested wealth. That wasn’t a surprise, everybody knew that Brett’s dad had some kind of corporate job.
That’s one of the things I always liked about Brett—he didn’t flaunt his money and he wasn’t a jerk to poorer students the way some rich kids were. He was just himself, and he got along with everybody. You couldn’t help like him after having a conversation with him—even the teachers adored him. Or so I’d gathered, listening to other girls swoon over him in the restrooms at school. He hadn’t said so much as “hi” to me personally. But that didn’t mean I didn’t know him.
I followed Crys inside towards the music and voices. There were at least twenty kids in the living room, and more in the kitchen and outside on the patio. There was a pool out back and some people were swimming. We grabbed a hard apple cider and some popcorn and found a place to sit for a while. Then Cody came by and whispered something to Crys.
“I’ll be back in a little while, okay?” she said, squeezing my hand. Then she ditched me like a third wheel.
An hour later, I was still alone. Well, kind of alone. A senior named Dave had been talking to me for thirty minutes, asking me questions about drama, history, books. David’s eyebrows looked like a long fuzzy caterpillar. I gave terse answers and avoided eye contact, my arms crossed in front of me as I leaned against the wall. I was hoping he’d get the hint and leave me alone, but he kept at it. Sometimes he would tease or make jokes, and I smiled politely, but with that edge that says I’m listening to you, but I’m not enjoying myself.
Part of me was pissed at Crys for dragging me to a party and then abandoning me. My eyes kept looking for Brett but I hadn’t seen him in a long time.
And then I’d feel bad for a moment, because I wasn’t more friendly or because I should let Crys have a good time. Why couldn’t I just relax and enjoy myself? I took a long sip of my cider.
“So what do your parents do?” Dave asked, trying to breathe life into the failing conversation.
“My mom died when I was nine,” I said.
“Oh that… sucks,” he said.
I didn’t wait for the next question, which experience had told me would inevitably be “how did she die?” Not exactly small talk. Dave was confusing intimate conversation with intimacy, and probably thought if he got me to open up to him, he’d have a better shot of getting into my pants.
That was unfair, I censored myself. I try not to prejudge or assume things about people. I stop myself if I can, though I find myself doing it a lot. But then Dave proved my first guess right. He leaned in to kiss me, somehow thinking my vulnerability gave him permission. I stumbled backwards, crashing against the wall and spilling cider all over myself. Awesome.
“Excuse me,” I pushed past him, “I have to go to the bathroom.”
Once free I headed upstairs as if I knew where I was going. I needed some breathing space. I found the bathroom and tried to wash off the cider. I dried my clothes with toilet paper. The sweater was fine, but there were big wet spots on my jeans now. It looked like I’d peed my pants. I tied my sweater around my waist and checked myself out in the mirror. Mascara brings out my round blue eyes, which sometimes hide behind the tips of my bangs. But other than that I’m pretty plain: my skin is pale and pasty, my face is a little too squarish, instead of the slim and smooth oval shape that models always have. And my mouth is too small for my face. Under the sweater I was wearing a tight green rock t-shirt, hip-hugging jeans that flared a little at the bottom, and a pair of black Converse all stars.
I stalled, not at all eager to rejoin the party. I may or may not have smelled the soap and shampoo in the shower to see if I could discover what gave Brett his irresistible smell. I found a bottle of cologne and tried to pick out the individual scents: blackberry, pear, ginger, rosemary and sandalwood. Then someone started banging on the bathroom door.
“Just a minute,” I yelled. I gave my reflection a last glance before leaving the bathroom. When I pulled the door open I almost ran into Courtney Elsweed, captain of the senior volleyball team, and just about the most popular girl in our school. Not to mention Brett’s new girlfriend, though I hadn’t verified the rumors with my own eyes. She scowled at me.
“I’ve been waiting for five minutes. What are you even doing here, anyway? This is a senior party,” she said, storming past me and slamming the door.
Out in the dark hall, alone, I decided to find Crys and tell her I was going home. I crept around upstairs until I heard voices coming from one room. Lots of voices, laughing, so it probably wasn’t an orgy. I pushed the door open. The room was dark and filled with smoke. I almost stumbled on the circle of bodies sitting on the ground. Brett and some of his friends sat on the floor, passing a bong. Crys was sitting next to Cody, with a big grin on her face.
“You can come in if you want,” Brett said, “but can you decide quickly and shut the door?”
***
I was tempted to run away and hide somewhere, but anger at Crys drove me forward. I squeezed into the circle next to her.
“Nice of you to tell me where you were,” I whispered, crossing my arms and frowning at her.
“I didn’t think you’d be into this,” she shrugged.
She had a point. In Middle School I was president of the Drug Awareness group; we worked with the local police to warn kids away from using drugs. In high school however, my stance had mellowed. I knew Crys smoked pot sometimes, and most of the other kids I knew had tried harder stuff. They didn’t go crazy, or jump out of windows, or steal and lie to their families. I realized that most of the stories I’d been told had been inflated.
That didn’t mean I was eager to try it myself. I still considered smoking and drinking to be pretty stupid; in my opinion they made you idiotic, accident prone and potentially dead, if you used them long enough.
The bong had made it around the circle and was passed to me. To my side, Crys reached for it, but I took it into my hands.
“You don’t have to smoke if you don’t want to,” Brett said.
If anything was going to happen with Brett, it would be tonight. Getting his attention might warrant a bold move. I held out my hand for the lighter and tried to remember what I’d seen everyone else do.
I held the flame up to the small bowl of purplish green dried leaves, and watched them begin to glow and burn, tossing out rolls of thick white smoke. Then I sucked in the smoke and tried to hold it in as long as I could—which was only a couple of seconds before I started coughing violently. The others laughed, but before I could feel embarrassed, Brett smiled at me.
“That’s totally normal, it happens to everyone the first time,” he said.
“It’s good, actually,” Cody said, “coughing will get you higher.”
I passed the bong to Crys and smiled coyly at Brett, who was nodding his approval. Crys gave me a half hug before preparing the bong for another hit.
My lungs burned, and I felt like I had tar on the inside of my throat. But after a few minutes, my anxiety dissolved. Then I started to feel really good.
I don’t know if it was the weed, or just that I was sitting in a room with my best friend and the coolest seniors at my school, doing something against the rules. In Brett Peters’ room, no less. I looked around, soaking it in. He had a bookshelf, with some of the books from English class and then a few others that surprised me. Romantic poets? I looked over and caught his eye, and flashed him a wide smile. He gave me a knowing look and smiled back.
That’s when the room went pink.
It started out low, like waves of pink and orange flame moving up the walls from the ground. Then it crept in, closer, wrapping around the furniture, and slowly crawling over the arms and legs of my classmates. By the time it started to wrap around their heads like a thick pink fog, blurring and distorting their features, my smile was gone and my eyes were open wide.
This isn’t just pot.
Pot wasn’t supposed to be hallucinogenic. Maybe they mixed it with something else. Maybe this was a practical joke of some kind. Be cool. Crys wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me. I took a deep breath and steeled myself for an adventure.
No matter what happens, none of this is real.
The bodies and limbs and faces around me disappeared. Then the furniture started moving around. A hole appeared in the ceiling, through which I could see stars. A dark stain spread down the wall. The furniture rusted, fell over and broke apart. Then a thick layer of dust covered everything in the room, turning it ash gray. When the flames stopped dancing and my vision returned to normal, I was still in Brett’s room. I could see the walls in the dim light, and even one of the posters he had hanging, though it was ripped now. Someone had smashed up the desk to remove the drawers. And I was completely alone: so alone that I could hear my heart pounding and feel the hairs on my arms stand on end.
I pinched myself, hard, and felt the pain radiating up my arm. Goosebumps covered my body.
I cupped my hands over my ears, testing them out. They seemed to be functioning normally, but I couldn’t hear Cody joking around or Crys laughing. There was a slight whistling noise from the breeze passing through the layers of ripped installation from the open section of the ceiling. But the thing that scared me the worst was the smell of earthy moss and cat urine. I don’t remember ever smelling things in my dreams.
This isn’t real.
I reached out beside me and tried to find Crys, but my hand came down on bits of broken glass and a layer of dead leaves and dirt. I stood up cautiously, expecting my body to be off balance. I didn’t want to make a fool of myself by acting weird. The other kids could probably see me, even if I couldn’t see them. But my depth perception and movement seemed fi
ne. I put my arms out to my sides, then brought my index finger in and touched my nose. As far as I could tell, I was totally normal.
Nobody cried out as I made my way across the room. Two of the shelves were broken and had dumped their contents on the floor. The third held a handful of items. A plastic baseball trophy from 2009. The top of it—a golden figurine of a player swinging a bat—had broken off and fallen. I picked it up from the floor. There was a model of a sports car with one door missing. The paint was chipped and what may have once been red was a patchy orange color. There was also a thick book.
I picked it up and blew off the layer of dust. A yearbook. I flipped through it and recognized some faces. Then I checked the cover.
ELLISVILLE HIGH SCHOOL, 2016-2017
That’s this school year. This yearbook shouldn’t be out for months.
I wondered if Brett got an early copy somehow. I opened the book again and looked through more closely. When I got to the full page photo spread in the middle, I froze. It was me, wearing a formal dress and laughing. Next to me was Brett in a Tux, with his arm around me. The caption said, Prom Queen and King.
That would have been more surprising if I hadn’t already had dreams of this kind before. But never as vivid as this one. I could feel the canvas texture of the book in my hand. A chilly breeze made me shiver in the darkness. My sweater was still around my waist so I shrugged it on.
I heard the hoot of an owl outside. It was creepy, but not terrifying. I’ve had lucid dreams before, as well as a few bouts of night terrors when I was younger, but this was new territory. I tried to rationalize it. Obviously this is some kind of wish fulfillment, my subconscious creating a fiction based on my desires. It was triggered by smoking. But I’m probably fine, and safe. Just keep calm.
On an impulse, I tore the picture of Brett and me out of the book and stuffed it in my pocket. Then I flipped to the back and looked through the photos of my classmates. Most of them looked like I expected them to. One girl, Brandi Thompson, was wearing braces, though I don’t think she really has them. Another, Jennifer Crawford, had a ridiculous bowl cut. I’d always seen her with long brown hair.