Dispocalypse

by M. A. Rothman

  There will come a time when a child of man will be sacrificed at the altar of the apocalypse, and she will be reborn.

  Into this poisoned world will step forth the first of a new people. Once again, a dreamwalker will walk the Earth. Only she will be able to complete the pact and see the creation of an Asherah completed. A second hope to a world that has fallen from grace.

  Willow frowned at the writing. What could it mean? And how did it get under the floor of the old supply shed?

  She unfolded the second scrap, it was some form of brittle yellowed paper and her eyes widened as she scanned the strange words written with impossibly precise print that no human could have produced.

  The Dakota-639 genetic mutation has exhibited a sensitivity to what might be things outside our own dimension. Actual access to things that brane cosmology only hinted at. Proof of the multiverse. Imagine if someone with such a sensitivity could project their thoughts across that barrier. They could literally walk across time and space in their dreams. AgriMed Genetics has a responsibility to pursue this further.

  Willow had no idea what any of that meant.

  A shiver ran through her as stared at the writing, and she quickly hid the scraps back in the wall and pressed the loose board back into place.

  She stared at the wall as if she could still see the scraps hidden within, and the spidery handwriting that spelled out “dreamwalker” floated in her mind’s eye.

  What could it mean?

  Her stomach growled, and she tore herself from the mystery, pushed those thoughts aside and went to the kitchen. She was greeted with the smells of smoke and bacon. John was stirring the contents of a kettle that rested on the central hearth.

  “Grab a chair,” Brad said. “I’m just done with the werebit.”

  Willow sat at the big wooden table, and Brad served her a plate of fried meat. She grabbed a piece and chewed thoughtfully. Though it might have smelled like bacon, it tasted nothing like it. It was more like a spiced smoked chicken in crispy strip form.

  What her brother had said finally registered. The meat was made from something called a werebit. She pictured a white-furred rabbit with gargantuan fangs, giant black eyes, and a nasty disposition.

  Why had she been expecting bacon? That was a thing from that other world.

  The world where her parents were still alive.

  And Grandpa Lin. She could see him now, puttering around with the chickens and teaching her taekwondo. He had called her his “flower.”

  She had no grandparents in the real world. They’d disappeared during the chaos of a Dominion crackdown before Willow was even born. Her father’s hollow voice when he spoke of them was heartbreaking, and she’d never asked about them again.

  She sobbed, and Brad sat next to her, putting his hand on her back. “Are you okay?”

  “No.”

  John sat on the other side of her. “What’s wrong, sis?”

  “You guys are going to think I’m crazy, but while I was unconscious, I was dreaming the entire time—and now I have all sorts of memories from that dream. Vivid memories—as real as if these things actually happened. Even though some of them aren’t even possible. I can picture every detail: a doorknob, a car, a plane, a television.” She tapped the side of her head. “Something’s wrong up here. It’s confusing the hell out of me. It’s scaring me.”

  Her brothers wrinkled their foreheads with concern.

  Willow’s skin tingled, and suddenly a new wave of nausea hit her. John grabbed a bucket just in time, and Willow heaved up the fried werebit.

  As her stomach continued convulsing, the room tilted. She grabbed Brad’s arm and barely managed to utter, “I don’t feel so good.”

  She fell into his arms, and the world turned black once again.

  A New Time and Place

  Willow hugged her belly, struggling with an upset stomach and lots of confusion. Brad looped his arm over her shoulders, holding her steady as he whispered, “You’ll be fine. The Lord Governor’s son should be out of here soon.”

  They stood outside their home, looking down the dirt road that led through the middle of New Memphis. Many of the other citizens of the frontier town also lined the street, gathered there to see off Karl Vanden-Plas.

  The clip-clop of heavy horses sounded as a dozen of the Steel Fist drove a wedge of warhorses down the street. They thought nothing of knocking people to the side, reminding Willow of how little the Dominion thought of its citizens. Two months ago, when soldiers just like these had been sent to enforce a mandatory dusk-to-dawn curfew, dozens of people were killed, mowed down like stalks of wheat.

  Mom had been one of those stalks.

  If the Dominion’s soldiers did their jobs properly, wildlings would never have attacked her, she wouldn’t be struggling with crazy memories of another life, and Mom and Dad would still be alive.

  Of course, Willow couldn’t say that aloud—it would be treasonous. But at the moment, seeing the Steel Fist approach, she wanted only to reach for a bow. She was as good with a bow and arrow as her brothers, perhaps better. And they were already immeasurably better than almost anyone else.

  She spotted the red-robed son of the governor, and it dawned on her that he was probably the reason why the wildlings had been able to attack her, and kill her father, at Yawning Deep. Because the patrols that should have been there were instead occupied with protecting him.

  Willow swallowed the bile that rose in her throat.

  Suddenly she felt wrong—unsteady. Her vision wavered, her knees buckled… and her mind separated from her body once again.

  She looked on from above as her brothers caught her collapsing body. But up here she merely hovered, perfectly still.

  “Willow,” John whispered in her unconscious body’s ear. “Hey sis, wake up!”

  Karl Vanden-Plas, the heir to the title of Lord Governor, trotted past on a large white stallion, flanked by a wall of the Steel Fist. It was the first time she had ever seen the man, and his image did not match his reputation. He was said to be the epitome of handsome and gallant, a veritable younger twin of the Lord Governor himself. But instead darkness cloaked him from head to toe, shrouding the details of his face, giving off an oily sensation that would have made her want to retch, were she still in her body.

  One of the soldiers stopped in front of John and Brad, who were holding Willow up. Her head was slumped forward. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m sorry, sir.” John used the same tone of voice he used when dealing with a customer. “My sister was overwhelmed by the presence of our Lord Governor’s son and swooned. We meant no disrespect.”

  The soldier smirked, gave the briefest of nods, then continued onward with the procession.

  The love Willow felt for her brothers was immeasurable, and she knew they felt the same for her. They’d do anything for each other—even lie to the Dominion soldiers.

  Their very existence was a godsend. At twenty-two, they were considered adults, and thus were permitted to care for Willow until she finished her senior year at the Academy and completed the Choosing ceremony. If not for that… then an orphaned girl, as she now was, would be dragged off to who knew where.

  The streets began to clear, and Willow tried to return to her body. Moving as close to her body as she could, she imagined drifting back into it. Her vision wavered, and with a gasp, she felt the pain of her brothers holding her under her arms.

  “Willow?” Brad said. “You’re back with us now?”

  Willow gathered her feet under her. “I’m fine.”

  They re-entered the house, and John waved her toward a chair. “Sis, let’s talk.”

  They all took seats, their chairs pulled together until their knees were practically touching.

  John leaned forward. “Willow, are you okay? Back in the woods, after the attack, you were mumbling something about dying. Is that what’s got you so messed up?”

  She bit her lower lip, and her throat thickened with worry. My brothers will
think I’ve gone crazy if I tell them everything that happened…

  Brad gave her an understanding nod. “We’re family. Anything you say remains only with us.”

  She swallowed. “I told you before about my vivid dreams. But it was more than dreams. It was like I fell into someone else’s mind—except it wasn’t someone else… it was me, in another world. A different me. And there were different versions of you two as well. The three of us were farmers.”

  “You took a big hit on the noggin,” Brad said. “It’s not a surprise that you had strange dreams.”

  “That’s the thing: I don’t think they were dreams. When the attack happened, I left my body. I flew past our town, past the Forbidding, even past the poisoned ocean. I passed through a barrier, and… I know it’s crazy, but I was in another world. There was a girl there who looked like me—who really was me, I think—and I just sort of got sucked into her. And now I’ve got all of her memories. And I’m having a tough time sorting out which memories are mine and which are hers.”

  Willow tilted her head toward the table, which still had a plate of fried werebit on it. “Take that meat for example. When you say the word werebit, I think of a rabbit with fangs, horns, and white fur. I’m starting to doubt what I know and don’t know. It’s all really confusing.”

  Brad shook his head. “What’s a rabbit?”

  “It’s…” Willow sighed. “I guess that’s from the other world.”

  John tapped the side of Willow’s head. “Baby sis, those wildlings might have knocked a few things loose up there. But listen to me: you can’t tell anyone else about this, even if it was just a dream. You can never tell who is a Dominion agent, and who isn’t.”

  “I know. I didn’t even want to tell you.”

  John smiled. “I’m glad you did. Why don’t we take things one step at a time. Like reminding you what a werebit is.” He took on a professorial tone. “Werebits are one of the few things that come out of the Forbidding that are safe to eat. They’re nasty little things that ruin crops, but the three of us have been hunting them at the edges of the radiation zone for years.”

  Willow softly play-kicked his shin. “I haven’t forgotten what a werebit is, or anything else. It’s still all there. It’s just that now I’ve got a whole other set of memories on top of the first, and it’s hard to tell which is…”

  She trailed off as his words hit her. Radiation zone.

  “The Great War…” she said.

  She recalled the ominous blinding light from her dream.

  But the Great War was over five hundred years ago. The long winter was now over, the Starving Times a distant memory, and crops had been growing in the farmlands now for almost fifty years.

  Willow tried to push away the doomsday images. Tomorrow would be the first day of her senior year—the year of her Choosing ceremony. She would graduate from Northeast High School in Kansas City.

  No. What? She would graduate from the Academy.

  Two worlds. Two memories.

  Willow’s head pounded. “I’m so confused!”

  John stood. “I think I know how to help you, baby sis.” He looked at Brad. “Let’s reacquaint Willow with our shop and wander a bit through New Memphis. Show her some familiar things, get some fresh air. That should help realign things up in your head.”

  Brad took Willow by the hand and steered her toward the door. “After we visit the shop, we can stop by the market and get any last-minute things you need for school.”

  This early on a Sunday morning, the streets were quiet. Most of the shops weren’t open yet. Willow remembered a time when most of these shops didn’t even exist. New Memphis was a growing town, and even now it was considered the outermost edge of civilization. This was where hunters and troops gathered to reclaim the wilds for use by the Dominion. And of course, hunters and troops needed supplies, which meant merchants, like Willow and her family.

  A wooden sign reading “Park Family Bows” hung in front of their shop, and inside, the air was thick with the scents of fresh-cut wood and sour glue. They ignited memories of long hours working in the store and practicing her archery skills.

  “It’s about time you came out of your room and visited the shop,” Brad said. “What has it been, six weeks? We’ve done some new stuff you’d probably get a kick out of.” He handed her an arrow. “Notice anything unusual?”

  It felt good holding the arrow in her hand. She looked down the shaft, ensuring it was perfectly straight, then flicked the fletching at the back. It was made of sturdy goose feathers, which would keep the arrow stable in flight. But she didn’t see anything unusual.

  She looked up at her brother. “Give me a hint.”

  He tapped the middle of the arrow. “Test its weight and flexibility.”

  She hefted the arrow on her open palm. It was light for its size, though only an experienced fletcher would notice. She then grabbed it by its ends and put a little pressure on the shaft, expecting it to bend. It didn’t.

  “What the …”

  Brad grinned. “I was playing with new ways of drying our bow stock quicker, and I accidentally let some flames lick some of the wood for the arrows. This is the results. Not only did it dry it out, making it lighter, it actually stiffened the wood.” He nodded to a basket with the remnants of several shattered arrows. “Most were too stiff, but I think I have the recipe down for tempering the wood so it keeps its strength and stays true.”

  Willow studied the arrow with new appreciation. Arrows with too much flexibility could become inaccurate. This new technique could be an important discovery was for the family business.

  “Have you shot any of them?” she asked. “How’d they do?”

  “Greater distance than anything I’ve ever shot. And more accurate.” Brad beamed.

  She tapped the sharpened end of the shaft. It looked like it had been scorched by a flame, giving the wooden tip a glass-like sheen. “Flame-treated the tip too?”

  He nodded. “That made it much harder. Penetrates better.”

  John had taken a seat at his own workbench and was grinding something in a mortar. “I ran some tests. Brad’s arrows penetrate nearly as well as the metal arrowheads the Dominion soldiers use. I just wish we could acquire a license to make arrowheads of our own.”

  Metal was a controlled substance in the Dominion. Nothing that could be used as a weapon could be made from metal—unless it was for the private soldiers employed by the Dominion. And the Dominion had its own blacksmiths and fletchers to service their troops.

  The Academy taught everyone that the Dominion did this to protect the people. Willow figured they did it because they were afraid of the people. But she would never voice such thoughts aloud. Dominion spies could be anywhere. And the Dominion dealt harshly with those who defied its iron-fisted control. Willow once saw a store burnt to the ground and its occupants carted away, never to be seen again, simply because they tried to sell goods without a license.

  A foul odor wafted over from John’s workbench—it reminded Willow of spoiled milk. She walked over and watched as he spread a paste—that was clearly the source of the odor—on a strip of wood.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  John laid the strip of wood down on another strip, clamped them together, and let the excess paste ooze out the sides. “While Brad’s been improving our arrows, I’ve practically reinvented how a bow can be made.” He wiped off the white goop with his finger and showed it to her. “It’s a glue made from cheese and quicklime. It smells horrendous, but it binds nearly anything together. And once it’s dry, it’s impervious to the weather.”

  “But why glue the pieces of wood together? Why not just keep it one solid piece?”

  John winked as he finished wiping the edges of the wood. “These are two different kinds of wood. By combining them, each can lend its unique strengths to the bow. This top layer of hickory can withstand high tension, while this Osage orange wood can withstand a good deal of compression. The end res
ult is greater strength and flexibility. I already made a small prototype, and it worked better than I expected. This’ll be the first full-sized one. I’m telling you, we’ll make a killing once people realize how much better our products are than the rest.”

  She had to admit, she was impressed at what her brothers had achieved in such a short time. Seeing their quality craftsmanship, she could almost dismiss the memories of their bodies being well-fed and strong—and the nagging belief that their lives were supposed to be something else entirely.

  “I can’t wait until you’re done with the Choosing,” Brad said. “We could use your help in picking out raw materials from the marketplace.”

  “He’s right,” John said. He set aside the strips of wood and placed the mortar in a barrel of water. “We spend more time looking for materials than actually making product. We’d have gotten an apprentice, but we only have a license to take on one, so…”

  Brad kissed the top of Willow’s head. “So of course we’re holding it for you. We can’t let our baby sister apprentice at some other shop.”

  The shop door opened, and Melanie, Willow’s best friend, poked her head in. At the sight of her mop of curly red hair, some of the tightness in Willow’s chest loosened.

  Melanie erupted with a toothy smile. “You are here! Aren’t you excited? We’re finally seniors! Are you packed for the Academy yet, or are you procrastinating as usual?”

  Willow couldn’t help but smile as her friend bounced up and down on the balls of her feet, barely able to contain herself.

  “Willow is recovering from being sick,” John said, “and she’s having some problems focusing. Maybe you can help her snap out of it.”

  Willow put her hands on her hips and frowned. “I’m fine.”

  Melanie grabbed Willow’s arm. “Oh, you poor thing. You come with me.” As she pulled her toward the door, she shouted over her shoulder, “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure she’s packed and ready to go!”