R³, page 6
It must now be close to six o’clock as the clouds have that pink streak, common during summer evenings. I spent the last two hours sitting on the rocky shore, pondering of the above-mentioned events and losing myself in the beauty of the bubble and its light refraction game.
Note from editor: the two following pages were hard to salvage. By the looks of it, the author had attempted to draw the bubble or the basin itself, but humidity or possibly even damage by his own hand, left only but a blob of charcoal-like smudges. [Pandora Publisher]
October 17, 1591
I have found myself lost. After walking downstream for what must have been two miles, I stopped and set camp. On any other occasion, I would have had no problem enduring a few more miles, but this was unfamiliar territory. Even with the river by my side as my guide, I knew I had lost my bearings. I didn’t recognize my surroundings and I did not want to run into a wild animal come sunset. That night, I fell asleep with ease.
Morning birds made sure I was awake and ready to continue my journey by sunrise. It was around noon, when I concluded I was irrevocably lost. After walking another five to seven miles, I realized I should have reached the village by now, but it was nowhere to be found—nor were there any signs of my initial track towards the basin.
Perhaps I would never find my village. Perhaps I, in fact, did not make the right choice when exiting the lake. Perhaps I exited somewhere else, somewhere new, somewhere where giant bubbles levitate above water surfaces for no apparent reason. Except that makes no sense. The thought of that frightens me. How could I even entertain such magical possibilities? I must not let my mind deceive me. I must continue.
U.S. DEPARTMENT OF INTELLIGENCE
Report: AXZU, Worldwide Blackout Incident, March 14, 21**
Dated: April 1, 21**
Archive Number: ZUY-12364400____C
Name of the Civilian: [name deleted]
Age: 24
Occupation: Student
Interviewer: Lieut. Michael Jones
I was on the toilet between third and fourth period. That’s when I usually have to go. Something to do with ingesting too much coffee on an empty stomach. I don’t really remember nodding off, man. It was as fast as... how do they say? It happened in the blink of an eye, that fast. I didn’t feel groggy or anything along the likes, I just got up, finished my business and flushed, same as usual. Except it was dark when I walked out. That’s what threw me off. I couldn’t even entertain the possibility of having nodded off—I would’ve known—,besides, I had consumed a ridiculous amount of coffee. There was no way I would’ve been going to sleep anytime soon. I thought, the aliens are coming! It was either that or some sort of government experiment, breaking the sky or something. But I tried to be realistic, so I concluded it must be an eclipse. Or something along the likes.
Then I got to class, and everyone was looking around, confused, asking questions. Maybe they hadn’t heard about the eclipse. Prof. [name deleted] was trying to calm down a few of the girls, but he didn’t seem to be having a good grip of the situation either. A few minutes later, he clumsily announced class was cancelled, and left in a frenzy, jacket half on. I had to ask what was up to one of the other guys. He told me we had lost five hours. I wasn’t really sure what he meant until he pointed at the clock on the wall. Yeah, he was right. No wonder the Prof. was panicking. What in the world had happened? Do you guys know?
Were you feeling any different after the incident? Any symptoms? Peculiarities?
Not particularly. I wasn’t able to get any decent shut-eye the first night, but that’s because my nerves were on edge. After that, things gradually fell back on track; people went on with their lives and less and less individuals brought the event up. Even the news stopped talking about it. It felt as if they were scared or something.
So nothing unusual with your sleep? Nothing at all?
Well, I’m not sure how to put this...
Do your best.
But like... my sleep, feels... empty. I hope you don’t think I’m crazy but I don’t know how else to explain it. It feels different. My body isn’t tired when I wake up in the morning, but it almost feels as if my brain had been unplugged during all those hours, and time had suddenly disappeared. I don’t know, I guess that doesn’t make any sense...
Have you had any dreams since the incident?
Dreams? Now that you mention it, no I haven’t. Like I said, sleep was an off switch with no timeline, no dreams, no nothing. Is that happening to everyone else too?
We can’t answer that. Has anyone been around you while you slept? Or have you been around anyone sleeping?
No, I don’t think so. If I’m trying to sleep with someone, we are not usually sleeping, get what I’m saying? Ha ha ha, so no, not really.
Thank you.
Why? Is there something wrong with me?
Chapter 10: They’re looking for you.
They’re looking for you.
“Mr. Hammond?”
I’m standing there, holding the door open for the two dicks in suits. If I didn’t know any better, I would say they never left. They somehow managed to grow roots outside my apartment door, waiting until Isaac’s ghosts—or whatever that was—stepped out to say “hello”.
“Mr. Hammond?” the fat one repeats.
“Yes?” I finally spit out.
“We hate to disturb you again,” he lies, “but as you may know, your building manager is still missing.”
“Oh, is he?” I lie.
“Yes, he is.”
We all lie.
When I realize both their faces are mine. Not that they resemble mine, but that they are in fact mine. It’s as if someone had magically cloned me in the last fifteen seconds, dressed my doubles in suits and conveniently positioned them outside my apartment; all part of an elaborate prank. Except they don’t notice, only I do. Yet I’m not surprised. I’m not surprised to find myself facing myself, staring down at myself, lying at myself. A copy of a copy of a copy stuck in an endless loop of repeating probabilities.
“Maybe he left,” I tell my copies.
“Excuse me? Left where?” asks the one copy that used to be a tall man.
“Like on vacation.”
“Did he mention he was taking a vacation?”
“No.”
“Did he hint on taking a vacation? Leaving town?”
“No.”
“Is this based on a hunch of yours?” the one that used to be fat asks, very much irritated.
“He looked like he needed one. I don’t know. I’m not a cop. Isn’t that your job?” My copies exchange frustrated glances. Then bam, their faces are back to normal—back to their own average, forgettable faces.
“Thank you once again, Mr. Hammond.”
I slam the door shut before they walk away.
I never get any mail, but when I do it’s the usual garbage: bills, bills, bills, all past due. Every single one of them as if on cue. At least I got rent taken care off, I think as Isaac slurps his soup at the table.
“They’re looking for you,” I joke. He can’t hear me. Or has decided to ignore me. “Should I tell them to stop looking? That they’ll never find you?”
A fork randomly levitates and smashes against the wall, as if pulled by a giant magnet. Perhaps that’s his way of saying “fuck off”. He’s been known to be a moody prick.
I stare at the fork closely as it continues to vibrate due to magnetic tension, releasing a soft but lingering hum. What in the world is going on?
As soon as I try to snap it off the wall, a tiny shock speeds through my right arm, pushing me back a few feet.
Ouch.
The tips of my right hand’s fingers are covered in deep black ash. I scrape some off and smell it. It smells like nothing.
Slowly, zigzagging strings of pure electricity grow out of my ashy fingertips, stretching out elegantly as would recently planted seeds, bursting through the soil, reaching out for the sun.
Chapter 10.5: The poster girl for dreaming.
THE POSTER GIRL FOR DREAMING
October 24, 1591
Last night I had quite an unusual dream. For days my sleep has been light and rather dreamless, which is not often the case. It’s common for me to sleep deeply, and have rather elaborate dreams. I knew the new environment would have some effect on my mind. It was expected to disturb my sleep pattern. However, I was able to recall one dream.
I found myself walking in an open field blanketed with pure white snow. The deep blue sky was clear, having no cloud in sight. No mountains or distinctive landmarks were discernible in a distance; only pure, spotless white. In fact, it was so vast, you could see the slight curve where sky met field on the horizon. This could’ve been the North Pole. It was hard to tell if there was dirt or water under the layer of ice. I walked a mile or so, before I found myself surrounded by a small patch of crystal cacti. Whether they were frozen or something else, I didn’t know, but their geometry was more familiar to the crystal family than to ice. These bodies refracted light into a breathtaking spectacle. They resembled crystallized stalactites protruding from the ice block I stood on. Whether or not there were actual cacti inside was a mystery, but they resembled them in shape and pattern.
A distant roar echoing throughout the sky caused me to turn. The blue sky was now gone, replaced by thick dark clouds, swarmed with playful lightning bolts pulsating inside, soaking up energy, ready to attack. Wind and storm had materialized, literally out of thin air. Seeking for cover was pointless; there was no shelter visible within a five-mile radius. I decided to make my way out of the crystal-cacti field, as to avoid attracting any lightning. These crystals may or may not be conduits.
I had made it a few yards away from the storm and crystal field, when I turned, out of pure curiosity, to watch the up-coming events—whatever those could possibly be—unfold. That’s when I saw her, the woman with fiery hair. She stood in the middle of the crystal field, looking up at the storm, unnerved by its proximity. Her white gown flapped wildly, but she did not seem to care about the mighty winds. No matter how much I yelled or waved my arms, she was not able to hear me—that or she had decided to ignore me. Her eyes were fixed on the loaded clouds. After concluding she could not hear me, due to the gushing winds overpowering any other sound, I ran back towards the crystal field waving my arms up and down. Once I was less than twenty feet away, she turned in response to one of my cries. I immediately stopped, relieved. In retrospect, perhaps she only turned so I would stop running, to keep me from harm’s way, as if she had known, somehow, that two seconds later a streak of light of walloping force would tear through the clouds and pierce through her body, knocking it five feet away.
I rapidly made way to her inanimate self, fearing lightning would strike again. The wind had mitigated to a level of stillness, revealing the roundness of her abdomen under her gown. This woman had to be at least eight months pregnant. Her eyes fluttered open as her lips parted and words weightlessly floated out.
When I woke up I instantly felt the words leaving my memory, laggardly withering, recoiling into the dark pits of my mind, refusing to come out to the light. And as the day went by, so did the vivid memory of my dream, but I shall not worry; as I’m sure it will come back to me in passed time.
Steady footsteps approach the dark cavern, triggering the young man to rapidly pocket his book. A few seconds later, a man in his fifties with a white robe, a blue bowtie and glasses enters the room. His studious but friendly face reviews the data on the capsule’s monitor and compares it with the notes on his clipboard. This scientist is new. The young man has never seen him down there before, at least not during his prolonged shifts. Perhaps the smelly, pudgy man got transferred, the young man hopes. The old scientist enters the sphere leaving the door open behind him.
“You can come in,” he says from inside.
The young man peeks his head inside the white vault, hesitant, unsure if this is some kind of test.
The old scientist inputs a code into the touch screen by the capsule, causing the top section to slide open, leaving only a thick layer of glass between its contents and the outside world. The smelly, pudgy man had never been this friendly to him, not to mention inviting.
“Any update, Bill?” the scientist asks, in a gentle but firm voice.
The young man with rosy cheeks shakes his head from side to side, avoiding any eye contact. “How do you know my name?”
“It’s on your name tag,” he says with a smile. “I’m Dr. Walker. Keep a close eye on her for me, will you? She’s very important to us.”
Seemingly satisfied, Dr. Walker leaves. Young Bill waits a beat and then peeks out the door, making sure he’s gone. Distant footsteps gradually fade into silence. He has been left alone once again, but this time inside the ominous white sphere inside the vast dark cavern; a concentrate of light trapped inside an ocean of darkness.
Young Bill approaches the incubator observing its contents for the first time: a beauty with blazing hair, in deep sleep. He’s seen her on TV. He’s seen her on commercials. The world knows her face. The face of R³. The poster girl for dreaming.
Nina. Why is she here?
Wires jut out of her forehead and chest. Tubes protrude from the back of her neck and arms. This incubator is feeding her; helping her breathe; keeping her alive.
How long has she been in here? There is no way of telling. Her life-support capsule is deceiving, as it is also draining her—her life is hanging by a thread.
The substance flowing out of her body and into these tubes is helping entire populations regain a sliver of what they lost after the incident, young Bill thinks. She is the Holy Grail, and Bill isn’t strong enough to resist such delicious temptation. He hasn’t dreamt since he was twelve. R³ never compared to the true experience. It was too processed, too watered-down, nothing like the real thing. But now, he has found the source. Raw. Pure. He could smell the possibilities, causing every bone in his body to quiver with titillation.
Not wasting another minute, he rapidly unplugs an IV, replacing it with a small, empty test tube. The tube instantly fills with a glowing yellowish serum. Nina’s unseen eyes flutter rapidly.
This violates all protocol, but when faced with the genesis, the fountain of dreams, rules crumble into oblivion.
The security, the elevators, the underground facility; it all makes sense. They are attempting to protect the most treasured faculty human lives currently lack: dreaming. He can get fired for this. Face serious jail time. Even get killed, but it is all worth it.
Once the tube is full—all ten milliliters –, young Bill replaces the IV and turns to her, giving this god-like creature one last look: no motion, only deep, uncharted sleep.
He wonders what she is dreaming about? The feral worlds housed inside her subconscious. Untamed. Free.
He corks the tube and leaves.
In the middle of the night, parked in an empty lot, young Bill jumps into the back of his van, rolls up his sleeve and lays on a make-shift bed. He drains the glowing, yellowish serum out of the test tube with a syringe, and injects it directly into his bloodstream. The moment it hits his system, Bill begins to twitch violently, letting out a painful groan. His eyes tighten shut, as tiny, fluid specks of light flicker over the vault of his eyelids. Cell-like. They float around other microorganisms of various sizes. There’s one main cell pulsating to his heartbeat. The liquid around it suddenly perforates the membrane—violated—, quickly intertwining with the cell’s contents.
Young Bill tries to relax but he can’t control it. Every muscle group contracts as the fluid consumes his body. Suddenly his eyes shoot to the back of his head and he collapses. He stops moving.
Air lightly wheezes out of his relaxed jaw.
Images flip like a slide show through the visual innards of his brain.
An indescribable level of joy overpowers Bill’s pleasure core, as Nina, on a swing, laughs hysterically, full of life. Her untamable hair breezes in and out of her face, as she runs up a meadow, with knee-high sunflowers swaying at her every move. She drops on her back, in a fit of melodic giggles, orgasmic music to Bill’s ears.
Back in the van, young Bill starts convulsing. Memory lane takes a sharp turn as a doctor examines Nina’s vitals. There’s something wrong. Her skin is flushed, her face is gaunt. Her kaleidoscopic eyes tear up in fear, as the color slowly fades out of them. A large capsule envelops her like an embryo. Droning hums reverb inside her ears, forcing electrical stimuli into her delicate brain. Bright lights—flash, flash, flash—rupture her dilated pupils. She can’t breathe. The capsule rapidly collapses around her, victim to an intense claustrophobia attack. The doctors monitor her every move, unnerved, standing in a chamber labeled Under Observation. She slams her tiny hands and feet against the inner walls, but the smooth, white fiberglass secures her in.
Young Bill convulses. His face rapidly pixelates; pieces shift like a live jigsaw puzzle, turning and flipping, shooting and swirling like intertwining constellations of light, slowly morphing into John Hammond’s face. His head bangs violently on the van’s floor, over and over again. A heartbeat later, a dry exhale wheezes out of his lips as young Bill’s face switches back to normal. His body stops moving. His eyes fall into deep sleep. His breathing returns to normal. Yet he is far from normality.
THE YEAR OF THE NOW
