Humbug (The Unwinding of Ebenezer Scrooge): A Science Fiction Adventure, page 13
A gentle mist fell over him, warm, comforting.
Life is beautiful.
Eb began to weep. He stifled the sobs, the tiny blinking light inside his round spectacles reminding him that he was recording this life moment. He didn’t want to sound like a baby. Instead, his shoulders quaked quietly, his eyes glistened. He made another pass through the forest, the serpentine routes never seeming the same.
He collapsed on a lounger, the cushion swelling around him, and looked into the star-spattered sky.
Nothing could spoil this moment. Not the haters. Not the jealousy. Not the fact that Rick hadn’t called back.
Nothing.
This was ecstasy. Heaven. Nirvana. The end of the road.
He would never want more than this. That was until he walked the paths so much that he memorized them and the trees all started to look the same and the sky was just another sky instead of a magical canvas, at which time he would build something even bigger and even better. And then he would be happy again.
Until then, he never wanted anything else in his life.
For now, the sleep of angels descended upon him. He rolled on his side, and something stuck his hip. Attempting to avoid the fallen branch or stray zipper, he flipped to his other side. The pain wasn’t going away. If it was a pair of pruners, someone was getting sued. He pulled a pokey mess of wire from a crease in the cushion and considered throwing it into a nearby pine.
It had been twisted into tight curls.
He held it by one of four spindly limbs that could’ve been arms and legs. A loop for a head. The proportions were stretched out. He turned the figure by the foot, spinning it like an aberrant ballerina.
A bored electrician, perhaps?
Sleep dusted his eyes. At 11:59 p.m., he pulled off his glasses. The dreaded day was almost over. A word limped from his lips, one that aptly captured his disdain for the frivolous holiday.
He didn’t hear the distant thunder.
“Hello, Ebenezer.”
SEVENTEEN
~
A man stood at the foot of the lounger.
Eb was heavy with exhaustion, cast in concrete repose, helpless in the presence of a stranger. His lips popped, strands of saliva stretching in gasping attempts.
Ropey hair hung over obsidian eyes, a mop of black dreadlocks dancing on the man’s head. His complexion was the color of mulch. His teeth tapped like pearls.
Eb struggled to move.
“Relax,” the dreadlock man said. His voice was deep and scratchy, resonating deeply.
This did not put Eb at ease. Fear tugged at his intestines and stomped the air from his lungs. The dreadlock man’s fingers were long and boney, spidery as they unfurled.
The hands.
The black eyes.
“You,” Eb croaked.
The dreadlock man’s smile grew warmer, spread wider. Somehow, it eased Eb’s strangling panic. The invisible grip loosened. Eb struggled to sit up. Gravity had tripled.
He rubbed his tired face, lips and cheeks dull and slightly rubbery. This couldn’t be happening. It was midnight. Had he learned nothing from the past two Christmases?
“I’m dreaming again,” Eb said.
“Does it matter?”
“You’re not real.”
“And you? Are you real?”
Eb had no answer. If this was a dream, why couldn’t he wake? Why did it feel so real?
Does it matter?
The green scent of the forest was around him. The night sky above, the paved path below. The wire man that was hidden in the cushion was now biting the palm of his hand. Dream or not… this feels real.
The dreadlock man nodded.
The eyes were the same as the thing that had visited him a year ago—the blackness, the bottomless depths—yet his skin was darker.
The dreadlock man moved forward, a graceful step that glided toward Eb, his loose clothing fluttering around a bare foot, the tendons taut and flexing. His hand emerged from a wide sleeve, the fingers once again unfolding. Eb flinched but couldn’t avoid his touch, a cold shiver brushing his cheek.
“No,” Eb chanted. “No, no, no… this is not happening again. You are not real. This is not… not my future.”
His words, however, would not take root. Eb trembled all the same. And laughter bubbled out of the dreadlock man. It started low and built to a roaring cascade that echoed around the invisible dome. His entire body quaked, head thrown back, chin dancing. Eb felt it pulse through him, as if his cold bones were struck with a mallet.
The dreadlock man snapped his teeth.
“You have seen your future,” he said, his voice now as silky as his movement, “yet you have changed nothing.”
“No. No, that was a dream, nothing more. That was not my future.”
“This dome you have built. What is below it?”
It took a moment for Eb to visualize the Great Room over which the Skeye™ dome was built, the wide-open pillared space with golden trim. In the dream, where the deathbed held his body and birds fluttered in a domed ceiling. The great room had a flat ceiling—ornate crown molding and a dual step trey ceiling. It was nothing like the dream.
Unless…
And the dreadlock man laughed again, the moment of realization seizing Eb’s brittle sanity, shaking it into a million tiny pieces. Because if the Great Room ceiling was removed, the Skeye™ dome would be revealed.
That will be where I die.
Did he build Skeye™ dome because of the dream, a self-fulfilling prophecy?
“The future rarely changes behavior,” the dreadlock man said. “No matter the certainty. You know your future, Ebenezer; you know how it will end, you know the dread and discomfort and, more importantly, the regret that will follow, yet you have done nothing to alter your life. You are like so many, Ebenezer. People know the consequences of their habits yet continue to embrace them.”
He pointed a long, accusing finger. “You are no different, Ebenezer Scrooge.”
“I… I don’t smoke.”
“But you only care about now. You don’t care about tomorrow, Ebenezer. You only want what pleases you, regardless of how it affects the world around you, regardless of the tomorrow it creates.”
“This isn’t happening.”
“Therein lies your problem, Ebenezer.”
The dreadlock man began walking through the trees, his voice carrying through the limbs. He would appear in small openings, suddenly upon the path and then gone again. Eb tried to run for it. He would dive into the elevator and scream for the droid. They would lock the doors and never let this dreadlocked horror out.
“Tomorrow is now, Ebenezer.”
Suddenly, he stood in front of Eb, his toes appearing very human from beneath pant legs.
“I demand to know who is doing this to me.”
“Tell me who you are, Ebenezer, and I’ll tell you who I am.”
He tapped his teeth like bouncing pearls.
Last year, the thing had appeared at the stroke of midnight. The ground shook and there were tracks in the snow. Eb had muttered a word. As he had this year.
“Humbug,” he said.
The dreadlock man took a step back, ropes of hair hiding his black eyes. He smiled before turning away, the elongated fingers weaving behind his back. His footsteps fell upon the path silently, veering into the mulched ground, disappearing into the forest.
Cicadas filled the empty space.
“A beautiful creation, Ebenezer,” the deep voice called from the trees. “Quite a vision.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“You believe I have come to hurt you?”
“You aren’t here to help.”
“On the contrary, Ebenezer. You have worked very hard for all of this. I commend you on a job well done. A visionary, you are. Let’s not sidestep the fact that you have achieved amazing feats.” Sticks snapped behind Eb. “And wealth in the process.”
“Is that what this is, a shakedown? You want money?”
Laughter shook the trees.
“What, then? What do you want from me?”
The dreadlock man appeared in a narrow gap. He was at the edge of the Skeye™ dome, the transparent surface turning milky white. He was too close to it.
“You don’t know who you are, Ebenezer.” His voice reverberated in Eb’s chest as if he pressed those long fingers against his sternum. “And you don’t have a clue as to what you’ve done. Tell me what’s out there, can you? Are you aware of the world, what is happening presently? Or are you caught in a tangle of self-centered thoughts, an increasingly sad man creating the reality he wishes to see.” The dreadlock man smiled a knowing smile. “An image he wishes others to see.”
For a moment, a top hat appeared on the dreadlock man.
“Whatever you are, leave me.” Eb pushed off the lounger, strength returning to his body of sand. He took two lumbering steps and pointed, fixed a stony eye—an expression that brought employees into submission, convinced his enemies he was not one to bend to intimidation, a look that produced results.
“Leave me now!”
The dreadlock man folded his hands behind his back. Eb continued the mad charge of a bull protecting his turf. He neared with a roar, fists clenched, a fierce cry that was no bluff.
The dreadlock man began to laugh.
Eb froze on the inside, a cold presence that brought him to one knee. Then he was in the dirt, hands clutching the earth, bones rattling. On the verge of losing consciousness, a blessing he would welcome, to wake up or sleep.
Anything but now.
The laughter had stopped. Eb’s body continued to vibrate. Dreadlock curtains framed the man’s brown face, black eyes like holes.
Teeth tapping like stones.
“You live in a glass house, Ebenezer. Your power is an illusion, these walls nothing more than your projections, no different than dreams. Your reality, self-delusion. You are a child hiding from the world.” He held out a long-fingered hand. “Why am I here, you wonder?”
Eb was pulled quickly to his feet as if he weighed no more than a sparrow. The man’s touch was unpleasant, not cold nor hurtful. Just deeply unwanted.
Quietly, the man walked to the edge of the Skeye™ dome. He dragged his manicured fingernails along the foggy surface, the disturbing sound of a violated chalkboard.
Four deeply etched lines appeared.
“You have confused wealth with value, Ebenezer.”
He passed his left hand over the Skeye™ dome, the cringeworthy fingernails biting into the glass, a crisscross of tracks. The dreadlock man approached Eb, reaching out, fingers curling over Eb’s shoulders.
Fractures sprang from the crisscrossed Xs, crackling ice echoing in the miniature forest. Jagged lines raced to the top of the Skeye™ dome. An icy draft slipped beneath Eb’s robe.
The insect sound effects died.
“I come to show you, Ebenezer.”
A hole blew out the X, an invisible fist punching into a black, snowy world. A vortex inhaled the contents of the Skeye™ dome. Branches twisted, needles and pinecones soared. Eb’s robe fluttered and snapped. The dreadlock man held him steady, frigid hands on his shoulders, black eyes relaxed.
The dreadlocks pulled off his face.
Laughter roared.
They were sucked into the night, tumbling over the edge of the Castle. The ground raced toward them, a painless plunge that would end this dream.
Instead, they were thrown over the horizon, a blur of details below, stars streaking above. Blistering wind scoured his face, squeezed tears from his eyes, pierced his eardrums. Eb could still feel the man’s hands on his shoulders.
And laughter in his bones.
EIGHTEEN
~
Stars twinkled green and blue.
They twined around the branches of a tree and drooped along the eves of a three-story house. An inflated snowman was looking at Eb, the carrot nose pointing to the right while the body listed to the left. Its color alternated beneath the tree—green, blue, green, blue.
“What is this?” The words scratched Eb’s throat.
“The world, Ebenezer.”
“How did you—”
“Watch out.” The dreadlock man pulled him aside.
A pair of headlights came around the curve, splashing festively decorated houses with light. Loose gravel crunched beneath the tires. A minivan eased up the driveway and parked beneath a basketball hoop.
The dashboard lights softly lit the driver’s face.
“Jerri?” Eb said.
She turned toward the back of the van. There was laughter and scrambling. The door almost hit Eb when she opened it. She smelled like the sun and green grass. He’d noticed that about her the day they met at the café, the day they hired her. Here it was in the middle of Christmas and summer was climbing out of the van.
Eb held still, afraid she would freak out when she saw him. But she didn’t notice, didn’t even turn his way.
“When’s the last time you saw her?” the dreadlock man asked.
“Just the other day.”
“That was a projection. I mean really saw her, in the flesh, with your eyes, Ebenezer? When’s the last time you shared a space with her?”
They’d had a meeting two days ago; Eb was talking to her in his projection room. But when had he seen her in the flesh, actually stood in front of her?
Years.
She popped the sliding door open. A young girl waited with arms out, leaping into Jerri’s grasp. They started for the house. The little girl held her tightly, wiggling like an overwound toy.
“Her granddaughter,” the dreadlock man said.
Yes, her granddaughter. Something’s wrong with her.
“MPS,” the dreadlock man said. “Mucopolysaccharidosis if you want the long version. It’s a genetic disorder. She can’t produce certain enzymes and that causes a progressive degeneration of her body. You remember, Ebenezer?”
He didn’t know the details. People were sick all over the world; he couldn’t be expected to remember the particulars. Just that she was sick.
Jerri climbed onto the porch, where a fat Christmas tree sat outside a big window. It was outside the house, not inside. The branches glittered with silvery tinsel and tiny lights, homemade ornaments dangling from the tips—painted tongue depressors, paper-cut snowflakes.
She rang the doorbell.
“This isn’t her house,” the dreadlock man said. “She comes here quite a bit, though, especially this time of year. Every Christmas, in fact.”
The door opened. Shrill sounds of excitement shotgunned out of the house. Christmas music blared. The child climbed out of Jerri’s arms and charged inside. A brigade of children leaped around the house like a spilled barrel of monkeys. Jerri hugged the woman that answered the door.
“Come on.” The dreadlock man tugged Eb’s elbow. “Let’s have a look.”
“What is this?”
“This is now, Ebenezer. This is the world you do not know.”
“How… how can this be? How can we be here? This isn’t possible.”
The dreadlock man crossed the driveway. The Christmas lights turned his cream-colored clothing various colors. Eb was chattering, the soles of his feet cold against the concrete. A draft chilled his thighs.
The dreadlock man went to the window. “There’s a fire inside, Ebenezer.”
Eb slipped on the driveway as he made his escape and crashed. The road bit into his hip, tore his robe open and exposed his lower half. He found his footing and started down the middle of the road, his feet slapping the wet asphalt. Slabs of flesh bounced along his belly and swung from his arms.
He made it exactly one house before his lungs caught fire.
The houses all looked the same—multistoried and bleeding Christmas cheer. Not until Jerri’s van was well out of sight did he stop. He wheezed at the end of a three-car driveway, hands on knees, vomit climbing his esophagus. Icicle lights glittered off the gutters.
A man sat beneath a lamp, his bald head in the window.
Eb limped to the front porch and dry-heaved into the bushes before pulling himself to the door. This wasn’t a dream. Somehow this… this dreadlock man… this thing that haunted him on Christmas Day was transporting him all the way to California.
As crazy as that sounded, it was true. Eb believed it with all his heart. He would hide until morning. Then call the police.
He banged the front door, his fist sounding like the fat end of a baseball bat. The impact rattled his arm. He hit it again. The bald man beneath the lamp turned. Eb fell on his knees.
There was a leaning snowman in the front yard, colored lights blinking across its back. The door opened. Pearly teeth tapped together.
“You’re cold, Ebenezer,” the dreadlock man said.
How is he making this all so vivid? So real? How could I run down the street and end up exactly where I started?
I’m going nowhere.
“Why are you doing this?”
“You need to know the world, Ebenezer.”
Long fingers wrapped around Eb’s arms, numbing his flesh.
A stone hearth was blazing. Eb stood near it, his robe soon toasty. His toes still numb. No one seemed to notice the front door had opened or that two strangers had entered. They were sitting around the storm-wrecked room with mugs of hot chocolate and eggnog among mutilated boxes and shredded wrapping and an avalanche of toys.
Picture books open.
Blankets tossed.
Coats and colorful socks abandoned.
Three girls were destroying the room, one of them Jerri’s granddaughter. Currently, they were consumed with colorful shapes that had been mined from one of the discarded gifts. They breathed through their mouths, eyes focused on leaning stacks and interlocking pieces. They finished building something, squealed and bounced and chucked the pieces against the wall, chased them down and started all over.
The adults were oblivious.
They leaned closely to talk over the rumpus. One of the women was on the phone, a finger in her ear. Occasionally one of the adults would run down a wild throw or corral a wild animal.
