Falling Sky

by James Patrick Riser

  Mr. Wasley watched as Ian prepared. As soon as his student’s attention returned, he said, “Let’s get started.”

  Chapter Four

  By the time the war shook society to its very core, it appeared that everyone had forgotten why the nations were so intent on ripping the planet apart. People knew the reasons of course; there were many of them, but most seemed convoluted to Michael. Reports of impending doom, as civilization began to collapse, drowned out his sixteenth birthday. The fallout from the war would eventually make it impossible for humans to live in the cities for much longer. Emigration to space was the most attractive solution to most; it was a persistent pipe dream ever since writers and filmmakers had presented it to the world as a possibility. A small group of politicians even pushed for the move to space without thinking about the constraints: The United States government completely dissolved the space program several years before to free up more funds that could be spent toward winning the war, and the limited number of people who could actually travel into space. The majority of the population would be left in the radioactive dust while the elite (which included the politicians that pushed for the move) would be among the stars, safe, but with nowhere to go.

  Michael learned all of this over the course of several weeks from news programs and televised, one-sided debates. The Six Year War had effectively ended and every nation had lost to a dark cloud of bloodlust. During the first week of the new crisis, Michael wrote a journal to record the experience. It felt important that he did, even though he couldn’t understand exactly why the war had started in the first place. Michael wasn’t particularly politically minded but knew that this might have been the first time when the world actually tried to work together. Destruction of the entire human race became the great unifier.

  After a month, the journal was very long. Michael had already filled up two notebooks. He had just opened his third and written the date when a deafening crash shook his entire house. Before the tremor stilled, Michael was already on his feet and in the living room with his father. “What happened?”

  “I’m not sure,” his father replied as he got up from an armchair: the only piece of furniture in the room besides an old sofa. “Let’s go see.”

  Michael was a couple inches shorter than his father and both wore white tee shirts and faded jeans. Everyone became so preoccupied with recovering from the war’s aftermath, that the desire to dress up was very trivial.

  The pair stepped out the front door into a street obscured by a thick cloud of dust, which hung by the curb for a moment before spreading out to envelop everything. The pair couldn’t see through the deep gray veil for several minutes, which they spent coughing out the grime that managed to get into their lungs. The dust settled and they saw the devastation through tear-streaked vision.

  The block adjacent to theirs had been reduced to a pile of splintered wood, shattered brick and ash. Michael didn’t want to think about the people who might have been in the houses during the collapse. He looked around and saw that the destruction crept over to his own block.

  “It looks like the Dust is still doing its job, even after the war,” his father remarked and wiped the remaining dust from his face.

  “What do you mean?” Michael asked as he followed his father to the curb.

  “The weapons used in the war not only destroyed buildings and whatever else that happened to be caught up in the explosion, they emitted a special kind of dust that spread throughout the cities in their wake,” his father explained without taking his eyes off the massive collection of debris. “This dust weakens the composition of materials, eventually causing them to fall apart. These weakened structures would easily collapse after a second air strike.” He put his arm around his son’s shoulders and they both turned back toward the house. “We need to start moving before our home collapses too.”

  “The world is falling apart,” Michael murmured to himself and then asked out loud, “What is everyone going to do? Are the cities going to be rebuilt eventually?” He wanted information for his journal, so he could try to piece together some hope for the future. Perhaps he could write something that would trick him into thinking that everything would be alright.

  “This dust hangs around for a long time, weakening even new structures. Anything we build would only fall apart again and again until this clears up.” He placed an open hand atop his son’s head, “but we’ll figure something out. I promise.”

  Chapter Five

  “So, the movement underground had to happen. It was nearly impossible to rebuild anything on the surface.” Wasley closed the file folder as the lessons came to an end. “The warring nations didn’t realize they were sabotaging the entire world as they knew it.”

  “I see. How different was life on the surface?” Ian shut off his tablet, closed the old book and slid it back to his instructor.

  “Well, it was much different.” He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, as if delving into the past psychically taxed him. “The crime rate was higher and there wasn’t one part of the sidewalk that didn’t have a crack in it.” A smile broke through the weariness of the man’s expression as he continued, “People littered all the time and traffic jams made everyone late. Even before the dust, the air was already polluted with smog and whatever toxic things our vehicles belched out.” He paused to see that Ian listened intently. The boy’s ivy green eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep but fixated on Wasley all the same. There was a sudden hunger for knowledge of the past he’d never seen before; Ian would usually stare at the coffee table and nod every so often. “Gas prices rose at an alarming rate and the job market was crumbling before our eyes. No one trusted the government and people were committing crimes to support themselves.” Wasley diverted his gaze from Ian’s unmoving expression to the ceiling and narrowed his eyes until his vision became a comfortable blur. “In spite of all of this, people still laughed and smiled. Sometimes I’d see a young man hold open a door for an elderly lady, or someone pull over to help a person stranded on a freeway shoulder. Eventually these acts of kindness became less frequent, but when they did happen it looked so genuine.” Wasley’s eyes fully opened as he managed to pull himself out of the past and back into the moment. “What I’m trying to say is things were real up there.

  Most of the time if someone helped another person, it was because they wanted to. Now, we wake up um-” his voice stammered as he groped for the correct word, “programmed to be in a good mood. While the crime rate has dropped and we all live in a perpetual warm spring day, human emotions seem as fake as the projection of the full moon we see every night. How are we supposed to appreciate that?”

  Ian didn’t answer right away, so Wasley allowed him time to process the historical information embedded into the angry rant. He put his eyeglasses back on and started to pack the folder and text book into his small book bag.

  “I understand what you mean,” Ian said finally. “Sometimes during the day when most people are at work or school I go to the park and lay in the grass. I look up at the sky and try to find gaps, and I find a lot of them.” Ian pushed his hair out of his face and sat up straighter. “I’ve done it so much, now that’s all I can see. We live under a black ceiling. A giant box buried underground.” His nightmare suddenly came to mind: being trapped in a dark box with no escape. Ian cleared his throat, “Mr. Wasley?”

  “Yes?” Wasley had the back pack slung over his shoulder.

  “I think I had a nightmare last night,” Ian revealed with his eyes fixed on the table as he tried to find his reflection in the wood’s shiny finish. He used the image to distract him from the words that came from his mouth, otherwise he would have stopped himself mid-sentence for they sounded so ridiculous. His parents were obviously disturbed by this notion, so how was his instructor going to react?

  “Are you sure about that?” Wasley rose from his seat.

  “Yeah, the more I think about it the more I’m convinced of it.” Ian also rose and stood before his instruct
or.

  “I see,” Wasley said as he looked at the ground, appearing to be deep in thought, “I want to talk more about this when I see you tomorrow. Please wait until then.” He glanced at his watch and nodded. “I have to go.”

  * * * *

  Ian sat back down. “Alright, I’ll see you tomorrow.” He watched his professor open the door and step out. He walked slowly as if his steps were weighed down by the thought of his student having a nightmare; something that was almost unheard of during the last decade. The door closed loudly in the empty house. All noises sounded louder when he was alone.

  Chapter Six

  Ian sat at the kitchen table for some time after his instructor left. He stared at his reflection and replayed the conversation with Mr. Wasley over again in his head. Silently, he mouthed the words he’d spoken during his part of the exchange. I had a nightmare.

  “Is it really that big of a deal?” he asked his reflection. “What does it mean?” The only answer of actual importance that he could think of is that a device that had been functioning without any major setbacks for the past decade may still have some flaws that needed to be corrected. If people found out and started to lose their faith in the machine, then society may fall apart again. The only thing that would make this theory possible, however, is if he wasn’t the only one who had nightmares. There were no news reports, but even Ian wasn’t naïve enough to believe that the city’s massive reporting network was able to catch every story of importance.

  His train of thought was on the verge of derailing because these random thoughts lead him nowhere. He thought of what sparked the evaluation, and realized that it was Wasley’s expression. It had suddenly became stoic, as if stonewalling his features was the only way to prevent a discussion he wasn’t ready to have, or didn’t have time to fully explain. His hurried tone and manner hinted at the latter.

  Ian’s only option was to wait and see. He rose from the table and went into the small office room which contained the family computer. Nearly every household in the city had at least one, some had two. His dad had a tablet: the staple piece of technology for all city officials and most other workers. Ian read in history books that the situation had been similar when big cities thrived on the surface. The internet and online public encyclopedias allowed users to access a large majority of the world’s information; however, the war and the great rebuilding halted a lot of technological progress. Afterward, networks and servers had to be reconstructed from the ground up. It took several years for society to reclaim the wealth of information that had been previously accumulated over a lifetime.

  It took very little energy to power a computer, so most left them on throughout the day and sometimes the night. Ian took a seat in front of the large monitor and placed his hand on the mouse. The screen instantly flickered to life and displayed a welcome screen. He entered his ID and password to gain access to the government search engine. The page presented him with several search options such as newspaper articles, web pages and medical journals. He selected all the options, typed in the word, “nightmare,” and pressed enter. Several entries came up and rather than scrolling through the numerous articles he clicked on the first one: “The Mystery of Dreams and Nightmares.” He scanned through the text until a paragraph caught his eye:

  For the entire existence of the human race, we have been fascinated by dreams and, more specifically, their dark counterparts: Nightmares. Several attempts to explain this phenomenon have been attempted by experts in the field of psychology. Many say that these are a subconscious way of dealing with things that cause us anxiety. The symbolism of certain nightmares can often be deciphered to reveal an issue that the sleeper has yet to deal with. It may be a way for our mind to let us know that there are things that must be confronted, but instead are being avoided for one reason or another. For example, a woman may have a nightmare about drowning in a vast ocean. Every time it seems that she’d be able to stay afloat, an intangible force pushes her back under the waves. The ocean may represent a relationship that the woman in question wants out of; however, she can’t summon the courage to say the necessary words to her partner. This has been a widely accepted theory for some time. Other, less popular theories support the idea that nightmares can actually act as warnings of coming events. When revisiting our aforementioned woman with the nightmare of drowning, this theory could interpret the dream as a warning to stay away from making any large commitments in the future, for she would be drowning in her obligations. Another possibility concerning the meaning of nightmares and even dreams is the idea that they have none. Sometimes, these experiences are so abstract that even the best psychologists would have to strain themselves to find an interpretation. When all things are considered, many personal factors have to be taken into account and there is no simple answer, or maybe no answer at all.

  Ian stopped reading and closed the page. He had a feeling that the other articles would contain similar information and he didn’t have the desire to sift through a massive amount of writing. Putting a hand on the desk, he pushed away from the computer and left the office. As he stood in the kitchen, he remembered the dishes. Repetitive tasks worked well to keep his mind away from things that bothered him. He assumed it worked that way for others, and always imagined unhappy people having very clean homes. Then again, he wouldn’t have known since he only left his house to visit his grandparents during the holidays. They appeared to be happy and their home was clean. He shuffled to the sink; the energy to actually lift his feet felt to be drained by his thoughts and a constant, dreary inner monologue. What was my nightmare trying to say? Should the man’s predictions be taken literally? Does the black box represent my apprehension in social situations? I thought going out to the crowded market on weekends was dealing with it, but maybe I’m not doing it fast or well enough. How does a family of three go through so many dishes in such a short amount of time? He turned the faucet’s small knobs to run warm water. The liquid ran over plates and pots that jutted out of the small sink and reminded him of a waterfall: something that he’d only seen in books or on television. A sudden urge to see real nature seized him, and caused his thoughts to return to his dream where he’d been surrounded by a never ending field of untamed grass painted various shades of green. Dark gray clouds had choked the sky, but still left it bright enough to sting his eyes. He remembered the wind as it sliced through his clothes and flesh, down to his bones.

  He blinked hard to shake away the thoughts. When his vision cleared, he pulled the biggest pot out of the sink and began to fill it with water.

  Chapter Seven

  Ian and his parents ate breakfast the next morning in relative silence. His father made some comments about the news while he fumbled with his tie. “They’re making some improvements to the city’s ventilation system. It’s going to be able to add fragrances to the air. Eventually we’re going to have seasons, like the underground cities in Europe.”

  Ian washed down a bite of a sausage link with a large gulp of milk and nodded. He didn’t know if his father noticed, but felt better when he attempted to show some interest in whatever his father said. “When will people be able to visit those cities again?”

  “I don’t know, son.” He sipped his coffee and closed his tablet. “They’re working on some expressways that connect to other continents by tunneling under the ocean. I hear that it’s as difficult as it sounds.” He smiled thinly. Ian stood up with his plate and cup in hand. “Maybe we can visit one day. I wonder what their cities look like.” He placed the dishes in the sink and noticed how full it was again.

  “I’m sure they’ll be pretty different. When the cities began to migrate underground, all the nations built independently. I’ve always wondered too.” He stepped out of the kitchen and to the front door. “I’ll see you guys when I get home. Are you going to be here for the day, dear?”

  His wife turned from the stove as she untied her apron and draped it over the back of a chair, “No, I have some errands to run and then
I want to visit my father.”

  “Hmm.” His gaze lingered on the door knob. “Alright then. I’ll see you tonight.” He opened the door and looked back at his son and wife for a second before stepping out and closing the door.

  “You’re visiting grandpa again?” Ian asked and then sat back at the table to await the arrival of his instructor. “How is he doing?”

  “Not well,” his mother answered quickly and moved toward her bedroom to get ready. “I’ve got to go, Ian. Be good for Mr. Wasley.”

  Ian nodded and watched his mother leave.

  * * * *

  Ian opened the door at nine AM, before Wasley had a chance to ring the doorbell. “Come in.”

  He walked in. “I hope you didn’t obsess about what we talked about like the time I told you about the animals on the surface.”

  They both headed to their usual spots in the kitchen. The citrus aroma of the lemon dish-soap filled Ian’s nostrils. He decided to let the dishes soak to make the chore a bit easier whenever he got around to it. “I was on the computer all night trying to find pictures of them.”

  “Yeah, you’re not very fun to work with when you don’t have a good night’s sleep.” Wasley sat and lightly hit the table with an open hand. “So, are you ready?”

  “Where’s your back pack?” Ian moved his mother’s apron and placed it on the counter next to the sink before taking his seat. He sighed heavily. “We’re not going to be talking about the usual stuff, are we?”

  “No, we’re not. I want to talk about your nightmare.” Wasley removed his glasses and harshly rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands.

  “So, that’s what it was then?” Ian asked as they both listened to the constant drone of the house’s air conditioning system feebly filling the silence. He imagined that Wasley was running through a large list of different scenarios in his head to start the dialogue, but couldn’t seem to find a proper introduction to the subject. While he waited, Ian traced his reflection with his finger. His nervousness created a layer of perspiration over his hands and fingers, which resulted in a smudged line that vaguely resembled the shape of his face.