Falling Sky

by James Patrick Riser

  Without being guided by thought, his hand reached into the pocket of his jeans and produced the folded piece of paper with the directions. He glanced at the words, written in all capital letters, and then in front of him to make sure he didn’t run into anyone. The crowd challenged him to keep a certain pace so he wouldn’t disrupt the flow of their travel. About halfway down the block he managed to regain control of his breathing, but the invisible needles that constantly poked the back of his neck multiplied until his whole body tingled with an overwhelming, hot sensation. The knot in his stomach began to throb and intensify the feeling with each beat.

  He looked up again and noticed that he walked between two groups of people deeply engaged in separate conversations. He tried to catch snippets of their exchanges.

  “Who is -” one said.

  “Weird. Where’s he -” Another, he didn’t know whom, said.

  In a quick gesture, he tightened the grip on the paper and brought it to his face. He quietly whispered the directions to himself to drown out the conversations, which he couldn’t help but suspect centered on him. Kids are not usually seen outside walking around during a school day.

  “32nd block, 4th suite, The Sub Terr Cafe.” He stole an upward glance and read a bright blue sign supported by two poles jutting from the corners of the sidewalk: 32ND BLOCK. His heart skipped a beat and the needles grated across his skin in increasing tempo. After he passed under the blue sign, he looked left and right but couldn’t locate the suite numbers. His harsh breathing returned. It’s too late to count the buildings. I need to get off of the street. Despite the weakness in his knees, Ian managed to make a sharp right turn and neatly exit himself from the moving crowd into a shaded alcove. A set of unmarked double doors stood before him. A din of soft voices beyond beckoned him away from the fast-paced madness of the sidewalk, and drove away any further hesitation. He took a step forward and the doors slid open.

  Whether it was fate or just a stroke of dumb luck, he walked inside his intended location. The small cafe contained an unoccupied stage and a collection of small tables. Thankfully, only a couple of them were occupied. Most of the patrons held their own tablets and dressed in bright colors, many of them with light facial hair similar to Wasley’s. The words: Sub Terr hung above the stage, painted in muted orange. Ian took a seat at the back table and tried not to attract any attention, however no one looked up. The clock above a counter in the corner of the room read nine thirty. The person behind the register, a tall man with a goatee, was absorbed in a paper book lying open on the counter. The entire group of customers appeared to be detached from reality.

  In the corner opposite of the register stood a small book shelf crammed with old paper books. Ian slid off of his chair and approached. It would be a few hours before Prophet would arrive.

  Chapter Nine

  “How long have you been here?” A man in a black beret asked as he seated himself in front of Ian.

  He looked up with a start and closed the book he held. The title read: Before the Great Collapse: A Journal by Anonymous. He put it on the table and the man reached for it.

  “Oh, good book. It was written by one of us.” The man stroked his clean shaven chin while flipping through the pages. “It can tell us a lot about the times before.”

  “Who?” Ian said, dumbly. “Anonymous?” The word slipped out before he could catch it. The man had intruded into his presence seemingly out of nowhere and Ian hadn’t had a chance to sort out his thoughts.

  The man smiled and shook his head. “We’ll meet under the heavens…”

  The sentence struck a chord deep within Ian as his insides suddenly became cold as ice. The man nodded toward Ian expectantly. He knew the response but couldn’t get his tongue to work at first, but suddenly blurted out, “…before the sky cracks,” a bit too loudly. The cashier and a couple of the other patrons lifted their heads and looked toward Ian’s direction.

  The man chucked softly. “I’m Prophet.”

  Ian nodded as he felt a wave of heat wash across his face.

  “Okay, then. Do you know what you’re getting into? Do you want to help us?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ian said and quickly looked around to see if anyone still stared, however, they had already returned to their reading. He also noticed

  that some more tables had filled up.

  “Didn’t your teacher tell you what this was all about?”

  Ian shook his head.

  “As I figured. He loves to tell stories, but seems to leave some important things out.” He also gave the room a quick glance. “I can’t say much because they’re always watching, but think about this: Phineas is real and your nightmares do mean something.”

  “Okay.”

  “Is that all you have to say, really?” His brow furrowed. “I can’t believe that he had me take time out of my schedule to talk to you personally.”

  “He said that he wanted me to get out of the house.”

  “Yeah, I know about your problem and it’s pretty sad I think. People are everywhere. Get used to it.” The man removed his black jacket to reveal the red, long-sleeved, plaid shirt he wore underneath. A number of bracelets adorned his wrists. “Anyway, are you going to help us?”

  “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

  “That doesn’t really matter. Let me put it this way, do you want the world to be real again? Do you like the fake sky and trees?”

  Ian thought of the hateful trees. “No.”

  “No to what? Be specific. You really don’t talk to people, do you?”

  Ian felt his face redden again. “I hate the trees.”

  “That’s what I needed to know. The reason that this cafe is called Sub Terr is because it is trying to state a fact that everyone seems to want to ignore. We live in a subterranean city, but most people would rather accept life under a false sky and pretend everything is as it should be. It’s not. As far as what you have to do, you’ll find out later.” Prophet rose from the chair. “Stay here for a while and when you leave, don’t go home.”

  “Where am I supposed to go?” Ian spoke louder than he intended again.

  “That’s not my problem.” He turned and faced the stage.

  “Excuse me, everyone,” a voice said from the front of the cafe. The cashier stood on the stage and talked into a small microphone. “Let’s welcome, once again, the poetry of Prophet.”

  Prophet made his way up the small stage steps and retrieved the microphone from the cashier. “Thank you.” A couple of people looked up from their books. “This poem is called Finding Our Way.”

  Ian tried to listen to Prophet’s words but found he couldn’t concentrate on anything other than his next move.

  Ian spent about an hour in the cafe. Prophet finished his poems, stepped offstage and walked toward the exit without acknowledging him. He noticed that other people began to head for the exit as well; Ian joined them. Night had fallen and the sidewalks were almost empty. He walked across the concrete into the grass, stopped under a tree and reached up toward its leaves. A group of them separated from the branches as his hand tightened into an angry fist. The crushed vegetation brought a smile to his face that quickly disappeared when something wrapped around his throat with iron strength and pulled him away from the tree.

  Ian dug his nails into what felt like solid muscle. His lungs filled with air as a prelude to a scream, but something clamped onto his face and silenced him. It smelt faintly of sweat and sweet soap.

  “You’re going to have to come with us.”

  His lips tried desperately to form words, but the pressure on his face steadily increased.

  “You have to be quiet now.” With that, the back of Ian’s head exploded with pain and his vision flashed red. Slowly, darkness flooded his senses. The last thing he saw was a tree no longer symmetrical. The leaves had long drifted and settled on the sidewalk below.

  Chapter Ten

  Moonlight burst through the barred w
indows and created a complex design on the floor through inlaid mesh. A gray table and two chairs sat between Ian and the featureless black door. He rested against the wall with his knees drawn up to his chest. As he took deep breaths his shadow swelled with anxiety and deflated in the next moment. No one had returned to check in on him since he’d been placed in the cell. Thankfully, the city’s days and nights were so evenly programmed it would be easy to keep track of the time. The moon marked his first night of captivity. A pitiful moan of defeat issued from his lips and echoed throughout the small room. When the sound dissipated the thick door swung open and two men stepped inside.

  “Have a seat,” the first man spat through a tightly clenched jaw. The muscles in his sunken cheeks twitched.

  “No, thank you.” Ian’s reply came quietly, and sounded pathetic in his own ears.

  “Seat him,” the man told the other, taller person who entered after him.

  The second man wore a black suit complete with leather gloves. He closed the door behind him and turned his bulk of hardened muscle in Ian’s direction. Ian immediately sprung up and took a seat on one of the hard backed chairs.

  “That’s better. Keep your eye on him, Dante.”

  Dante nodded and stood in the corner of the room with his arms folded across his barrel chest. The first man took a seat across from Ian and forced a thin smile through pursed lips.

  “My name is Ellis, and this is Dante,” he nodded his head in the brute’s direction, and then advised; “Don’t piss off Dante.”

  Ian lowered his head and stared at the table. He couldn’t find his reflection in its dull surface and suddenly felt very alone. The coldness of the room encouraged a shiver to race over his flesh. “Why am I here?” he asked in a barely audible mutter.

  “You’re here because you hate peace and order. You want to destroy the city and everything that I--everyone has worked for.”

  Ian’s head snapped up and found Ellis’s glowing hazel eyes. He observed the man’s hair line, which receded high on his head. Ellis’s large forehead gleamed in the moonlight as it splashed across part of his face. The same, small smile still played along his almost nonexistent lips. “What? I don’t want to do any of those things.”

  “Sure,” Ellis said sarcastically, “that’s why you’re associating yourself with that wretched group of rebels, talking about nightmares.”

  “I didn’t know who they were. I just wanted to talk about a dream I had.” Ian leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his heaving chest.

  “That establishment is a known hangout for dissenters.” Ellis leaned in closer and the moonlight pushed away any remaining darkness from his face. His flesh appeared to be pulled taut over his skull and created a horrid visage that caused Ian to shudder inwardly. “The people I’m talking about are those who’ve stopping using their devices and are claiming that the resulting nightmares contain some kind of prophecies.”

  Ian became aware of every bead of sweat that formed on his body. He felt their individual trails run down his forehead and increase the chill of the room. “I had my dream when the Somnium was on.”

  “That’s impossible,” Ellis replied. “The Somnium prevents any nightmares and has for years. The people making these ridiculous claims are not using their devices. There are several groups of these wackos throughout the world. Our European division has reported an increase in such activity.” The man leaned back and stroked his cleanshaven chin. “Of course you’d already know that since you’re a part of this conspiracy.”

  “I am not. I know what I experienced and I know what I saw when I woke up.” The entire time, Ian imagined himself quietly staring at the table as if another part of him spoke. The truth became embodied in his words and wouldn’t allow him to stay silent. “There are people having the same dreams -” He stopped himself and let a thin smile spread across his lips. “Nightmares. They mean something, even if it’s only the fact that the Somnium will eventually stop working.” With that, the smile disappeared and Ian allowed his gaze to drop back down to the table. A warm sensation cascaded over his being, as he tried to figure out exactly who he had become during the exchange. His mind revisited the kitchen table where he held a conversation with his own reflection. The illusion’s demeanor didn’t correspond with his own, but encompassed his desires. A thought lingered on the edge of his perception, but the situation wouldn’t allow him to chase it.

  “Is that all you have to say?” Ian nodded.

  “Alright. Just so you know, the world’s seismologists haven’t predicted any earthquakes that will be happening in the near future. See you soon.” Ellis immediately rose from his chair and almost toppled it.

  Dante opened the door with a special key card that slid in between the door and the frame. He stepped aside and let Ellis exit first. Before exiting, he glanced back at Ian and let a smile crack his stoic facade.

  Ian didn’t have a chance to return the expression. The door slammed closed and their footsteps faded away.

  * * * *

  Ian lifted his head from the table and wiped the drool away from his lower lip and chin. Sunlight illuminated the room, but its walls still retained a dark color. He stretched and felt the small bones in his back creak and the bones in his wrist pop. When he stood on his feet, he had to use the table to support himself. After limping around the table Ian was able to stand on his own. He stood under the barred window and looked up. He had to narrow his eyes to properly see the sky’s brilliant blue. For a fraction of a second a black, hairline crack broke through the illusion and Ian saw it, like always. Something clicked behind him, and he turned to see Dante with a silver tray balanced on his open palm.

  “Here’s your breakfast,” he said without emotion. In the light, Ian fully appreciated the mountain of muscle. A head with a square, chiseled jawline sat upon a neck that ran thick with veins. His face bore many lines of worry under dull brown eyes and at the corners of his full, pale lips. “I recommend you eat fast, you’re expecting a visitor.”

  “Ellis?” The name left a bitter taste on his tongue.

  “No. He’s much too busy with another rebel that was caught last night.”

  Ian’s heart stopped for a moment, as did his breathing and perhaps some other essential functions that he wasn’t aware of. It took a couple of seconds for him to find his lungs. “Who did he catch?”

  “I can’t say.” Dante let the tray drop to the table. The action dislodged an orange from one of the tray’s indentations. The fruit rolled off the edge of the table and landed on the concrete floor with a muted thud.

  Ian approached the table. He knew he shouldn’t have stayed for the poetry. He should have gone home and told his mother everything.

  Dante’s stern expression lingered on Ian for a moment and the pair locked eyes. Dante abruptly turned toward the door, inserted the card and exited. Alone again, Ian thought as he retrieved the orange from the floor. Upon examination, the fruit looked undamaged save for a small scrape on its bottom. He turned it over, and his eyes followed the scrape to the other side. Ian realized the indentation didn’t come from the fall. Rather, the skin had been purposely defaced. Perhaps by someone’s thumbnail. Several lines on the orange formed the words, “The sky cracks.” Ian blinked hard and the words remained. He sat limply on the chair and began to peel as he stared on the door. Dante’s brief smile came to mind, and Ian assumed the man had carved the message into the orange’s flesh. He allowed a smile to touch the corners of his mouth and leaned back in the chair. The orange’s sweetness burst into his mouth as he took a bite. He ignored the rest of the food on the tray.

  Chapter Eleven

  Dante returned for the tray a half hour after Ian finished his breakfast. Ian took another couple of laps around the table to stretch his legs. Even though he was prisoner, he took solace in being by himself. After his fourth lap around the table, the door swung open and Ellis stepped in.

  “Your visitor has arrived.” He let the door close behind him an
d stood motionless in front of the table. Ian stopped behind his chair and stared into Ellis’s hateful, skull-like visage. “I think you should sit.”

  Ian didn’t move. “Why?”

  The man’s expression hardened. “Just sit, you’re making me nervous.”

  Ian nodded and sat. It took some effort to not act disturbed; Ellis emitted palpable waves of anger. He laced his fingers together and rested them in his lap.

  “Good. It seems that your professor was inquiring about your whereabouts and it led him here. I decided to let him meet with you so you guys could continue your lessons. Maybe he can talk some sense into you.” He sighed. “But don’t think he’s here to whisk you away. We’re not done talking.” Ellis opened the door and took several brisk steps out and Michael Wasley entered.

  “I guess they got you,” he said with wide grin.

  “Why are you smiling? Who are they exactly? The people who made the Somnium?”

  The professor continued to smile as he slowly pulled the chair out and sat. “Well, I guess we’re going to have to continue your lessons in here for now, huh?”

  “What?” Ian stood up and slammed his hands on the table. “You got me into all of this!” He leaned over and looked past Wasley, at the door. “Tell him. Tell Ellis that I don’t want to destroy society or whatever they think I’m up to.”

  “Dante is going to bring us the reading material. They had to confiscate my back pack at the front desk.”

  Ian sat down and rested his chin on his chest, “Do you know how long I’m going to be here?”

  “No idea.” Wasley leaned back and crossed his arms. “But you shouldn’t be here long. I just want to make sure that you’re caught up on your studies. Is that alright with you?”