by Sarah Noffke
I pull my face up and stare at the boy in front of me. He’s still cradling his hand. “Damn, you got a hard face,” he says with a sneer.
“And you’ve got a weak punch,” I say.
He then lunges forward and throws a punch into my ribs. I double over as much as I can with the two pricks holding me against the wall.
“You watch your mouth,” the boy says, jumping up on his toes, feeling victorious assaulting a pinned man.
I raise myself upright, but remain still otherwise.
“The wanker isn’t even fighting us,” the boy holding my right wrist says.
He’s right. It must strike them oddly, as it does me. The urge to use mind control on these gits is incredibly persuasive. I could get into the heads of these buffoons and make them fight each other to the death, but that would feed the monster. I think he’s almost starved to death and there’s no way I want to bring him back. And really, what does it matter? These prats aren’t really going to hurt me. They’re just kids who are hyped up on power. I’ve been there. Trey would say this is my karma. Why run from it when it follows me around?
“The wanker is probably scared shitless,” the other boy holding me says.
I close my eyes and resign to this godforsaken moment. When I open them it’s because I feel hands reaching into my jean pockets.
“Take my wallet but watch my balls, would you?” I say to the boy in front of me.
“Sorry, but I can’t resist, pops,” he says and knees me in the groin hard. Then his friends release me and they dart away as I double over in pain and frustration.
The little run-in with the bloody buggers in the alleyway cost me more than just a tenner, which is all I had in my wallet. I’m going to be six minutes late to work. I turn the corner to the station and realize I should have been paying better notice to my surroundings. My aching balls happened to be soaking up my full attention. But now I realize there’s a great commotion at the station entrance. I blink rapidly and notice there’s smoke pouring through the crowd.
Smoke? Why is there smoke coming up from the Underground entrance?
Then a rush of panicked people brush past me. Some screaming. Some crying. All of them delirious. And one touches me.
There’s been another bomb. Group X has struck again, I hear the person think.
I walk almost in a daze as too many thoughts compete for real estate in my head at once. A deafening number of sirens ring through the air. The authorities move in, pushing the crowd of overly emotional people back. I flash my Underground staff badge to civilians and bobbies, and it actually gives me clearance to keep moving through the growing crowd. I haven’t awoken from my shock, but I’m starting to gain a clear stream of thoughts as I push forward.
“The bomb went off just a few minutes ago,” I hear a woman say to a paramedic. I don’t look at her, but hone in on her testimony as I move forward, getting closer to the entrance. “It rocked the ground up here like a small earthquake. People were shouting and yelling down below.”
I move until I can’t make out the woman’s voice anymore. And then my ears pick up on another conversation. “They’re saying there are people stuck down there. The ceiling crashed in. Apparently the bomb went off just beside the ticketing office.”
I actually whip around at this and the woman who was speaking looks at me oddly.
Ticketing office? The booth where I work? Where I was supposed to be?
Something is needling my mind, like it’s trying to get my attention in this disastrous moment. Possessed by a weird force, I turn my gaze away and keep moving closer to the Underground entrance. Compelled. Magnetized. Something keeps pulling me to the wreckage, although there’s nothing but devastation there. Maybe I’m compelled by the strange idea that three teenage punks are responsible for saving my life. I was supposed to be down there.
Almost all realities state that I was supposed to be one of Group X’s victims, except the reality that I’m living. And still my mind keeps hitting a brick wall. Why? Why was I late when I’m never late? Why on this day? What is going on in this strange life of mine? Everything seems to have such odd timing lately and I’m not sure why. Why do I keep getting pushed into near collisions with Dahlia? Or joined up with a person like Jane? Or why am I stalled on a day when I would have been at the epicenter of an explosion? I’m supposed to have free choice and the ability to live my life the way I want to now, but strangely I don’t feel like I do. Increasingly I feel like a pawn.
The paramedics are starting to carry people out of the Underground entrance now. Most victims have on oxygen masks or have bloody gashes in their heads or are laid out on stretchers. I stop moving forward and assist a bobby who is trying to move the crowd back. There are so many people being brought up to the surface all at once.
A herd of frantic victims swarms to the surface and behind them more and more. The tube would have been packed with people. It’s rush hour. My mind has a hard time assembling the idea of a bomb going off on the platform during rush hour. It would have been bloody chaos. A blood bath. Metal and concrete and bodies all fighting for a space when the detonation happened. My stomach curdles with revulsion. And yet, I all but signed the papers on this kind of thing happening by not taking the job to stop it. What am I so angry about? I don’t have any right to be repulsed by this. I knew this kind of thing was going to happen and yet I’m shocked by the aftermath of the tragedy unfolding around me.
Just then a dead man’s body is brought up, carried between two other men. Their faces are flushed and sweaty when they lay the man down at a paramedic’s feet.
“There’s a hundred more like him,” one says to the medic.
I narrow my eyes at the man, like he’s done something wrong by surviving a catastrophe and stating a fact about what remains.
I knew more people were going to die from Group X’s acts. I surrendered to it. And I’d seen the reports about the attacks in the news. But seeing the reports and watching the outcome are two different things. And knowing I was six minutes away from being blown to bits makes a new reality sink in. I’ve only ever cared about myself. Ever. And to know that the acts of a group I could have stopped almost killed me hits a tender place not protected by armor. I could have died. I was supposed to. And it would have been my fault. It would have been justified.
More bodies are being pulled up the stairs. Dead bodies. Women. Children. Men. Old. Young. Some half breathing. Some being rushed for care. Some already with masks on. Some burned. Some looking past the verge of shock. And then a man carries a limp figure in his arms. He lays her with the bodies. The ones that no longer breathe. The ones that are meant to be catalogued and sent to the morgue. But I recognize this one. And I know I’m not mistaken. She would have been on her way home from the pub. She’d been stopping by my booth every day this week. Her shift over, mine beginning. There next to another dozen dead bodies lies Jane’s.
I almost kick out. Kick out at the crowd in front of me. Kick out like I’m having a tantrum. Jane is dead. I know it by looking at her. I know it by where they’ve sorted her body. To the pile that doesn’t need immediate attention. And yet, I want to rush to her. Check her pulse myself. Slap her cheek and tell her to quit trying to get attention. But I don’t. I stand frozen. A stupid witness to this tragedy. I was supposed to be there. Actually, I would have been so completely blown to shit that there wouldn’t be a body. And yet, here I stand, watching.
What does it even mean that the female version of me, who has lived my parallel life, is dead by an act I could have stopped? What am I missing? I throw my head up to the sky and look at the gray clouds with conviction. What do you fucking want from me? I ask God.
More smoke spills from the tunnel and a horde of people rush out of it.
“There’s about to be another explosion,” a guy yells, running up from the stairs. “A generator is about to blow.”
We part, making way for the paramedics and other people trying to get out of the Underground. E
verything is chaos. Too much commotion and too much going on. And then there’s a small quake and a gust of hot wind rushes out of the entrance. It’s followed by people and smoke and debris. My eyes burn from the smoke and the dust. I move to make way for the shift of disoriented people and then I realize something is stuck to my foot. It’s nothing. Just rubbish, but I bend over and pull it off anyway. My heart skips into my stomach when I pull off a shred of the half-seared poster of Dahlia. It’s only a piece of her face, charred and burned at the edges, but I recognize her features. I’d recognize them anywhere. It must have been blown up from the Underground. And it somehow found its way under my foot.
Again I’m feeling like a pawn in God’s war, but I don’t know what he wants from me. I’m a monster who’s trying to rid the world of me by living simply. And yet I’ve felt more pushed and directed in the last few weeks than at any other time in my life. It’s like as soon as I came up from under the surface of the water, from the Institute, God started trying to direct my path. Doesn’t he understand that I can’t live a life as a Dream Traveler? That I can’t use my skills? That I can’t have Dahlia? All of that is too much for me. It’s enough to break me and make me break the world. I’m too powerful to be what I am. I need to be fucking left alone.
A man sprints up from the Underground, tears streaming from his face. Another rush of people hurry up from the Underground. This time a woman is half carrying a man who hardly has his feet under him. They collapse at the top. “David,” she shrieks, when the man topples over. She’s on top of him at once. “Wake up. Wake up,” she says, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Please, someone help him! Please!” she says, her voice trembling. Help rushes over, but they soon shake their head and retreat to other cases that can be saved. The woman crumples onto the man, the one she clearly loves and has lost.
Everything in front of me seems to be playing out with a strange reverence to it. I want to look away and yet I feel like there are so many hidden meanings to this all. I hate hidden meanings though. But I stay glued here. Watching.
“What kind of monster does this sort of thing?” I hear a woman say behind me.
“I don’t know,” her companion says, “but it’s going to take an act of God to save us from it.”
A breeze with too much force to be classified as such then rips down the street. I take this as my cue and allow it to push me out of the crowd and down the street. I walk a great distance before I’m away from crying people and sirens and dying victims. Every single event I just witnessed plays across my mind, every single detail as it actually was, thanks to my photographic memory. The crowds of people. Jane’s body. Dahlia’s half-burned poster. The dead man and the grieving woman.
Today I was supposed to die. Just like when I was born. And yet, I’ve lived both times. I could have been Jane. I was supposed to die, just as she had today. Our lives did follow a symmetry. And now all I can think about is how I left Dahlia all those years ago thinking I’d outlive her, and yet I’m not guaranteed one hundred years, it’s just the odds. And today the odds weren’t in Jane’s favor. People die. Old. Young. Middling. Dream Traveler. I can die too. But I was so afraid to live without Dahlia. Afraid I’d outlive her. However, since I left Oregon I’ve been too afraid to live at all. Hell, even when I was confined at the Institute I lived a quiet military-style life. All regimen. No pleasure.
And I didn’t want to help Trey because I thought it didn’t matter but if I did then Jane wouldn’t be dead. I can’t save the world but I can save people who matter to other people. Maybe if the Lucidites would have been formed a long time ago then they would have seen Jimmy’s accident and saved him. What I didn’t realize before is that it’s not about the whole, it’s about the individual.
Lately I’ve felt that God was trying to push me. And it’s angered me because I resented him for ever allowing me to live. I resented him for giving me too much power. For most of my life I’ve hated God for putting a monster inside me. But is it possible that I’ve viewed my life all wrong? I thought I was a mistake created by God, but maybe the reason I didn’t die at birth or today is because I was made as an instrument to be used by God. He is clearly trying to get his handle on me, like a critical tool necessary for an important project. The signs have been everywhere. So much so, I thought at times I could hear God screaming.
I stop walking and stare up. “All right, what do you want from me, big guy?” I say, appearing to talk to myself.
For the second time today, something sticks to the bottom of my shoe. There is much debris from the explosion, even down a block where I stand. I kneel over and peel a small scrap of paper from the bottom of my loafer. It’s a fortune from a Chinese cookie. It reads:
“You cannot run from who you are.”
“How did the Chinese score the job as your fucking messenger, God?” I say to the sky.
How long had I been running? I ran away from Peavey. I ran away from Dahlia. I ran away from my enemies. From my problems. I ran away from my work at the Institute. And now I was running away from my powers. I had seen a reason each time for running, but what would my life look like if I took everything I ran from and threw it all together? What if for the first time ever I decompartmentalized my life? A fear so real it prickles the back of my throat soars through me. I’d be forced to really live without walls. I’d be forced to live on an edge where things might actually be good and every day I’d risk having it ripped away. Nothing lasts forever. Everything is fleeting. And yet, that’s the very reason that life has meaning. When things cost effort to gain and are finite they are of value.
I cast a glance at the scene at my back. There are more people now. Swarms of frantic people. Screaming mothers who have just realized they’ve lost their children. Crying children who have lost their parents. Grieving people who have watched a stranger pass away in their arms. Life is fleeting, but it doesn’t mean it isn’t worth preserving.
I pull my mobile out of my pocket and dial Trey. He picks up after one ring.
“Ren?” he says, concern heavy in his voice. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I say. “Send me all the information on Antonio. I’m going after the fucker.”
“You’ve changed your mind?” Trey asks in disbelief.
“Yes.”
“Why? I thought you didn’t want to use your powers anymore.”
“Antonio is a monster and the only thing that will bring him down is another monster,” I say, and for the first time in all my life I feel a strange pride in who I am. I feel accepting of my powers and how very flawed they make me.
“Good,” Trey says with relief. “Thank you. Just this last assignment and I’ll leave you alone.”
“Don’t leave me alone,” I say. “It’s not what I need. I want to be a full-time agent. But I’m going to need something to help me keep my life in perspective first. I need something to give me balance.”
“Oh, well, I’ll help if I can,” Trey says.
“You can’t, but I know who can,” I say. “I’ll see you tomorrow, after the job is done. I’ve got to go now.” I shut off the phone and head to my flat.
Chapter Thirty-One
I change into one of my old suits. As I suspected it fits perfectly. I then dream travel to Los Angeles and generate my body. Everything I do now is centered on the hopes that Dahlia still lives in her old house. It’s nestled in the Santa Monica Mountains. I helped her pick it out. If she doesn’t live there then I’m going to have to wait until God puts her in front of me somehow.
I’ve tried not to love her all these years. I abandoned Dahlia because I was afraid to lose her. And in actuality I love her more now than ever. All I did was kill her prematurely in my heart and life. At least my parents had fifty years. But I pushed her out of my life because I was a coward. I kept thinking I’d find a Dream Traveler who was better than her. Someone who could withstand the long lifespan with me. But I was wrong. Because a long lifetime with someone else was nothing compared to
the few short years I could have had with Dahlia. And now I’ve wasted them. I might have lost them all by this point. God keeps trying to throw Dahlia in front of me. Well, it’s time I take matters into my own hands before we rush into one another thereby knocking each other out.
The taxi lets me off at a windy road. Her monstrosity of a mansion is gated and guarded heavily. This kind of security has kept Dahlia safe from crazy fans, but it can’t keep me out. I could have probably had the guard at the gate call her and she might have let me in; instead I make him pass out. He withstood my hypnosis for fifteen seconds before collapsing in his guard seat. I encounter six more guards and I don’t even break a sweat getting past them. A portrait of Dahlia with her parents that hangs over the mantel informs me that this is in fact still her residence. And the number of guards stationed throughout the property confirms that she is home. I sense she is home actually. I feel like I’m still connected to her. I hope I am.
I take down the last guard by her private wing and he falls with a thud on the polished marble. I probably could have caught him, but I didn’t want to wrinkle my suit. He actually looked like he recognized me, which was relieving. I’m more nervous than if I was facing Chase or Allouette when I walk up to the double doors where I know Dahlia resides. I don’t knock, but a half a minute later she pulls them back. Did she sense me here? Her face morphs into something priceless. She can’t believe I’m here. If I’m reading this right, then she’s ecstatic about it and never ever going to admit it. And Dahlia is somehow more gorgeous than she was almost two decades ago. She’s soft and angular and also hard with her pensive stare. She’s wearing silk pajamas and I can’t fight what they’re smoothness stirs in me. I can’t fight what her long flowing brown hair does to my resolve. I’m tired of fighting what Dahlia does to me.