A Remembered Kind of Dream

by Rei Rosenquist

  Oh. Fuck.

  I know what the storm is turning into.

  “Besto-bree!” I bellow.

  Only, the word is choked down in my throat, and what comes out sounds like “gross.”

  Jak tries to call back only it comes out like a laugh at another camp-style wordplay joke.

  Boots, who looks greyer than sun-bleached concrete, goes into shock and curls up into a ball. Bird charges out of the room at full tilt. A surprising clip for someone I’ve never seen run. Those long legs obviously help. Bird is at least two heads taller than Boots, who’s a whole head taller than me. So, if anyone should run – it makes sense that it’s Bird.

  Not sure what Bird is running for, but sure.

  A bird is the guide to survival huh?

  Ha.

  The rest of us huddle, curl, twist, press together, and try to cover up anything we can.

  The thing about a besto-bree – an asbestos breeze – is that those fine sandy particles carried feather-light on the air are like invisible shards of glass. Back in the industrial days of humanity, this stuff was used for all kinds of insulated things. Then, the world went belly up. And with it, all that industry.

  As it turns out, there was loads of asbestos already on lines of facs all over the world. Processed, broken down, ready to go. So, when the facs stopped dead – well, you can imagine what happened. That featherweight stuff just wafted off into the air; set free for good. Pockets of it travel the surface of the planet until all those tiny particles find something to lodge themselves into. And the thing is, there’s so much of it that eventually, whatever the clouds hit get full up and the rest of the threads bounce off, make more clouds, and keep cruising the earth.

  I’ve seen bodies after an asbestos breeze. "Completely lacerated" is an understatement. Almost petrified, a mottled crusty red husk of meat packed full of glittery white and blue.

  That explains the “aura” I saw earlier. Not some spiritual magic hoo-ha, but the first telltale hints of the asbestos clouds coming. The glint and glitter of the air becoming filled with the tiny particles. They're so small, those sharp shards of death, that they can catch levels of light the human eye misses entirely.

  It's been said that anyone who sees lights right before they die has died of a besto-bree.

  If I’d been more tuned into reality and less hung up on survivalist woo-hoo, I’d have noticed the besto-bree sooner. That would have given us at least twenty seconds. And in a storm like this, you need all the time you can get.

  Bird charges up to me and grabs my arm.

  "You have anything that can help?”

  I mentally run through the inventory of my pack.

  “Yes,” I say, reach for my bag, and curl fingers around a box with two cubes in it. “I have heat sounders.”

  Heat sounders are converted government-built air burners. Their sole function is to super-heat the air in a closed space. Originally, the burners were created as torture devices – a last ditch war effort before the world ended. But then the world did end, and burners got reallocated as survival devices. Like the engines and their biodiesel. Like gas masks and infrared night sight goggles.

  Funny how that happened. The stuff we killed each other with becomes the ways we scrape by and don't quite die.

  In the case of the burners, some tech genius in some high castle somewhere found out that the blue asbestos – Crocodile (crocidolite, fibrous form of riebeckite; found in south Africa, Australia, Bolivia) – couldn’t withstand heat. One blast and it kind of melts into a gas that your body expels easily. Some richies in the same high castle paid for the conversion, and the device – once reimagined – became widespread thanks to greed. Because what gains a higher price when you are about to die: a tool for war or one designed for your individual survival?

  I came upon mine by a fluke: a simple barter right before coming upon this gang’s engines in the middle of nowhere. Someone a few kilometers away had a bunch. Too many this wayward drifter said. They were being weighed down with useless gear. Hadn’t seen a besto-bree in ages. Still the wanderer said I might find use for them. I traded for equally useless gear weighing me down: crystals, rocks and stones I’d collected. Pretty shit, yes, but not of much use. But like this wanderer – I had learned early in my travels that collecting useless junk tends to turn into a big help, sooner or later.

  And here we are caught in a besto-bree with just what we need.

  What are the odds?

  Good enough to still not be magic hoo-ha. That's what.

  “Here.”

  I hold up the two small grey cubes. They hardly weigh anything and look like even less. Matte grey, semi-plastic casing. That’s it. There’s no on/off button because all you do is set them on a flat immobile surface and don’t pick them up for a count of thirty. They self activate in case of emergencies or something.

  I have no idea what that feature is all about. But it’s how they were designed. So, I set them down and everyone crawls in close. None of us even know how they actually work. Pure technological magic.

  “Count to thirty?” I say, choking on blood caught in my throat.

  ...twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty.

  The air fills with a small growl that grows into a wailing scream in a matter of breaths. Then, another sound – strange, sharp, uneven. Less a sound; more a breaking of the air. And then, it gets hot. Insanely hot. So hot our huddle has to break apart, our bodies falling outward. I think my skin is melting off. The air is smoking. Everything burns and hurts.

  And then, as quick as it came – it’s gone. All of it. And we all lay there on the ground, stunned. Struck mute and dumb. The numbness of my body is tangible. A weight I’m bearing up – wondering if I’m dead or alive.

  I can breathe easier, and that blood-slickened gritty feeling is all gone. So is the foul taste and sickening smell of imminent death. A gentle constant hum buzzes through my body all the way to my bones and guts. Even though the air has cooled, I can still feel the hot vibration twisting its way inside me, breaking things up, splicing and slicing.

  Worse than the asbestos, I think – and then, it’s gone.

  My breathing is heavy but easy. I feel lungfuls of clean, sweet air fill each side of my chest cavity. I breathe out loudly and hear the sound echoed three times on all sides of me. I sit up at about the same time Bird and Jak do. Boots doesn't move, steeping in a ring of petrified blood that looks almost like the rings of old wood.

  The three of us look at one another.

  “That was awful,” Jak says the obvious.

  “But we didn’t die,” I say.

  Bird shakes their head, and I look down at Boots.

  Boots is a boiled, burnt and steaming baked-blood pudding mess. The gore is too much for me. I want to bear witness, but I can't. I turn away, feeling nauseous and guilty.

  "You were right," Bird says into the silence. "About cutting them off. I shouldn't have."

  "What other choice did we have?" Jak snaps, angry. At me? At Bird? At all of reality?

  I don't ask because I don't want to know.

  Jak moves through the grimy gore and puts a hand on Boot's shoulder. In the beam of Bird's light, I watch Jak whisper words I don't know. They aren't in either Common Yu or Japogues. I assume it's Boot's native tongue. Some dark, streetwise tongue from City Fall.

  As Jak mutters, my palm scar starts itching wildly. I check for asbestos that didn't burn out. Can't see anything, but that doesn't mean the microfibers aren't there. The itch turns to a burn. This damned thing never stops bothering me at the most inconvenient times. I bite my nails into my own skin, drawing blood that trickles onto the ground and wets Boots dried-up life force in tiny droplets. Insignificant rain on the massive blackened desert that won't bring life back.

  “What now?” Bird asks.

  "Let's rest for the night," I say with resolution, recalling Jak's advice.

  Jak stands to give me a frown. "In this room?"

  "We'll find another."
>
  "Where exactly?" Jak snaps.

  I sit up, eyes narrowed, irritated. “O-okay. We won't. Then, what do you suggest we do?”

  Jak stares at me, face a stone-cold concrete wall.

  I know that face. Seen it on myself in warped gasmask reflections more than once. May be a stupid thing to think right when I’m pulling major douchebag ranks on Jak, but, maybe we aren’t so incompatible, after all.

  When my original crew back down south decided they’d had it and were going to communally off themselves. I put that face on. I didn’t care why they wanted out. It was a waste – all that life burned up for no reason. The leader, Hope Fact, came to get me, and all I said was “No.” When pressed, I explained that I wouldn’t drink the crude oil. I wouldn’t lie down. I wouldn’t light my own funeral pyre.

  I wasn’t done. Not yet.

  Hope Fact said nothing but waited, as if in the quiet of my own despair I’d change my mind. Instead, in brittle silence, my decision solidified. Without another word, I went back to my hovel, packed my back sack, and left. When the first rush of harsh southern wind slapped me across the face, I didn’t cry. I kept that face on – my stone cold concrete mask – and I kept walking. I can still smell the scent of their ash on the wind as it chased me north for days.

  “I’m not trying to tell us what to do, Jak. I'm backing down.”

  “You never stepped up.”

  Those words shouldn't hurt, but they do. That’s exactly what Hope Fact said when I left. The words on that wind that mingled with the ash: “You never stepped up.”

  There’s no way Jak could know that, but it doesn’t make the words cut any less. The rage that bubbles up can’t be controlled. I fly off the handle, pick up the cube I’ve used to save us, and lob it at Jak’s chest.

  What I want to say is: stop repeating Hope Fact’s condemnation. I left that shit behind me. I walked away. And if that wasn’t stepping up – not to the commune but to the world – I don’t know what is.

  But Jak doesn't know my ugly past. They only know a childish version of me and one awkward body tangle that led to separation instead of love like we were led to believe.

  "Take that back,” I say more calmly.

  “No take backs in life, Ark. None."

  Jak and I stare at each other, eyes sparking like the flint of fires.

  "Come on, you two," Bird cuts in. "We need a plan."

  In Bird's voice, I hear the old dead Survivalist. And I'm reminded of a mantra of camp.

  Our survival is more important than our inevitable rage at the situation.

  I swallow my rage and with it down goes my pride, too. I bow my head at Jak and mutter, "I'm sorry. I'll do whatever we agree is best."

  Jak sighs heavily, taking pause too. "No. You're right. There’s no need to rush into the darkness. It’ll come regardless.”

  We make eye contact in the bright stripe of Bird's tiny light.

  Jak's face has softened. Blind rage faded into a soft warmth. The kind to keep night watch beside instead of the kind that burns down a world. And more than safe, I feel – aligned. Like all I want is for my eyes to reflect the same.

  "Let's go," Bird says into our mutual silence.

  We leave Boots' body behind and find another room. We lean side by side against the dank, wet concrete; all our legs outstretched toward the door with our backs flat against the wall. Sitting like this, I notice Bird is the tallest, and Jak on the opposite side of Bird is exactly the same height as me. Chills go up my spine because I can’t help but think how fitting this is – the two of us here like this. Equal but far apart. Our bodies are like stout and sturdy book ends to this sudden and unlikely story.

  The words “safe” and “haven” come to mind.

  But, as I close my eyes for sleep, I push them as far away as possible.

  Because there is no Safe Haven.

  It's a lie.

  In the morning, I’ll take my little gang to the place that proves it.

  ~~~

  We come to the edge of the lake around dusk. The long edge of water shimmering in the growing half-light is magical – a horizon that goes on forever in silvery ripples. No wonder the humans of old thought the edge of the world was a lip you could slip off of. A cliff with only space and vacuum beyond it. I mean, I assume that's what they thought. To be clear, I have no idea what humans past dreamed reality looked like. I only know they were mostly wrong.

  Here, proof positive of their wrongness.

  Jak and Bird stand on either side of me, staring wide eyed at what they must think is a mirage. Bird speaks first in a low whisper.

  “What is it?”

  “The edge of the world,” I say, being both factitious and honest.

  “The world's not flat,” Jak snarks back, hearing only the first most obvious meaning.

  “Oh, I know,” I go on and point at that glittering, guttering edge of light turning purple and orange as I speak. “What you see out there is the edge of what is left of civilization. The old world. The past.”

  Bird asks, “Water?”

  “Heavy water,” I explain. “Dirty water. We can't go in.”

  “I have a device that can,” Jak says and pulls something from a nap sack that, until now, has just been a part of Jak's wild enby attire. An accessory not worth noticing.

  “A robot companion,” I say in awe.

  I can't remember the last time I saw a functioning one. Not since the great EMP storms down South.

  Jak sets the robotic companion down gently onto the dusty ground. It moves into a cross-legged position like it's sentient and knows what sitting on the ground is all about. Taking a load off. I can't help but notice the robot companion's shoulders sag in what I can only think is relief.

  “It can test the water and send livefeed.”

  “To?”

  Jak frowns. “Anything with bluetooth.”

  I snort and laugh.

  Bluetooth technology is older than me. It was way outdated before even the first series of wars. And that was our great-grandparents' world in which kids drove bluetooth drones directly into “terrorists” homes and shot entire families up. A world covered in the blood of innocents at the hands of gamer kids conscripted as armies fighting bravely for their countries.

  A big bloody mess after which so many manners of life across the globe went extinct, and Bluetooth went with it.

  “What about this?” Bird asks, digging in a bag.

  They hold up a white and blue sphere that says "Airpod Receiver" in blocky black text.

  Another relic of the past. Airpods were the wave of the future before the nukes rained down. Airpod was going to connect the world. The galaxy. The universe. Who knows how. The market didn't exist long enough to find out.

  “What's it do?” I ask now that I'm face to face with one for the first time.

  “Reads code,” Bird says.

  “Is it reverse compatible?” Jak asks, and the words sound like that look. Careful. On edge. I don't turn to make eye contact.

  “Dunno. Turn the Bluetooth on.”

  “I don't know how,” Jak admits.

  Movement catches my eye and I look down. The robot companion has stood up and put a tiny metallic hand in the air. Like a child of the old world trying to interrupt adults. Nowadays, "kids" and "adults" don't exist. Everyone fights right alongside everyone else to survive. Tooth and nail, blood and bone. Everyone looks out for their own, young or old. The apocalypse– it turns out – doesn't allow for childhood.

  But this little robot, sentient or not, has been taught to mirror respect.

  Bird picks the device up by its bobble head and presses what looks like a slit of a mouth against a dirt crusted ear. After a minute, Bird sets the device back down, smiling.

  “Bluetooth should connect to the Airpod according to Olive.”

  “Olive?” I accidentally say out loud.

  Bird just points at the robot.

  “It has a name?”

  “They,” Jak c
orrects me.

  I laugh at the return of our old joke about the super intelligence, but then Jak gives me a sidelong glance and I realize they aren't smiling. They mean it.

  “Olive isn't a drone,” Jak snaps like I've insulted a good friend.

  “I've never seen a robot fully functioning autonomously. Drones and toys, that's what I know. Not something I would call by a name.”

  “You have; you just don't remember.”

  My brow knits up. “What are you talking about?”

  “The Survivalist."

  I wrack my brain, trying to conjure up the image of a small free-thinking robotic thing wandering around, but all I draw is a blank. “Nope.”

  “Yes. Your memories were blocked by a robot similar to this.”

  “Blocked?"

  I don't want to believe Jak, but I already do. Because blocked memories would explain what's wrong with my head. And being robotically cut off from what I should know -- probably maps and things the Survivalist taught me about the end of the world -- explains why I've been wandering the world aimlessly.

  I've been looking for the self a robot took away.

  "Why?" I ask in a dark grunt. "Why would someone do that?"

  Jak holds out their wrist. They have a bracelet that I can see now is a device that matches the robot, Olive's design.

  “You were being protected by the Survivalist. Until the right time. Until you could do something with the knowledge. Bound, your memories say, right? Bound to me.”

  “You believe that shit?” I scoff.

  Jak scoffs back. “Come on. You really think the Survivalist meant we were some kind of spirit bond? Magic woo-wo and hoo-ha? Spirit souls? Tied together? Give me a break. That was a hint. You and I, Ark, we were given all the tools by the Survivalist, and at just the right time, we were supposed to figure it out for ourselves. But something went wrong and our memories got zapped. Bird found me half-dead after I wandered all the way into the extreme North trying to find...something. I didn't know what. Just like you. Wandering. Lost. You and I are looking for the same thing -- something we only make together.

  “The oracle said: The answer to hope is to get the Ark and unlock the wound clock -- no matter what.”