“I choose you, Declan Chambers,” she told him, her words soft and breathy. Sammi pushed away the blanket to expose their naked bodies. “We’re together, and we’re home. That’s all we need to know right now.”
She lifted herself on top of him, moving her hands with his, touching as their breathing grew heavy and fast. He soon forgot the questions he’d asked, and a moment later he was above her, resting on his elbows, his chest pressing against her breasts.
When she wrapped her legs around him, he said, “As your chosen, I accept you, Sammi Tate. I love you.”
She told him that she loved him too, and helped guide him closer, preparing to make love for the first time, and to make it last until they collapsed into one another’s arms.
******
Declan eased himself from that place where dreams are sometimes real, where dreams are sometimes fantasy, but, more often, are unforgiving. It was where people died and never came back. Waiting for his bleary eyes to adjust, he blinked away the sleep that was holding onto him.
But none of what had happened was a dream. He was awake, and he really was here in this strange place, with Sammi sleeping beside him. Not wanting to wake her just yet, he looked around.
Like the shapely curve of Sammi’s body beneath the silver blanket, rising and falling as she slept, the walls around them bore a smooth canvas, uninterrupted by cut-lines or corners. The room that Sammi called their home was bigger than any of the dwellings from their Commune. It was a round room with a mix of art and technology nestled flush in the walls. One image caught his eyes. It was a strange landscape: a great desert, with a hovering gray sky looking down upon it, all under the cautious eye of a white sun, high and commanding. Sands in the desert imagery seemed to move with each of Sammi’s breaths; an eerie harmony, or illusion, which Declan quickly dismissed as coincidence.
Above the entrance to their room, a series of six small lights blinked in odd successions, alternating colors and frequency. Declan stared at the illuminations, mesmerized by the patterns they played. He struggled to understand what the lighting was. He thought maybe it was artwork, or possibly a part of the machine’s technology.
Sammi stirred, a delicate yawn spilling out while she wrapped an arm around Declan’s middle. Stretching the sleep from her body, she pushed a slender leg over him, and dressed his feet with her toes. His heart swelled with the intimacy of the moment.
“I love this place,” she said, her voice sounding sleepy, but rested. “I can get used to this… can’t you?” Lifting the covers, she took hold of him in her hand, and moved to meet his eyes. She caught him off guard then, as she gave a playful squeeze with her fingers.
“Well… I can certainly get used to that,” he answered, laughing. “But I’m hungry… are you?” Sammi nodded a quick agreement, letting him go.
Putting her finger to his lips, she said, “Just wait until you see this!”
Intrigued, Declan said nothing, and watched as Sammi moved from beneath the covers. A rush of cool air fell over his bare skin. He watched Sammi, seeing all of her beauty as she stood up, free of any coveralls. And while she strode around the bed, he smiled at the lift and fall of her breasts.
“I can get used to that too,” he said, and then laughed. Sammi stopped, letting him stare another moment, and then returned a quick wink.
At once, the emotion of her death struck him, and images of her naked body lying on the steel table came to mind. He saw the blood running along her pale leg as he washed her wound; he saw her dead eyes before he shut them for the final time. Taken by the memory, Declan sat up, swinging his feet over the edge of the bed.
“Sammi?” He struggled to get up, and reached for her hand. She stopped, the smile on her face turning down with concern. Moving to him, she took his fingers.
“Declan, what is it?”
“You were dead… and now you’re here—” was all he was able to get out before emotion stole his words. He pulled her toward him, her bare skin warm under his touch. He brushed his fingers over her belly, which remained flat and clean, absent of painful memories. Gone was the wound that had taken her life; the pureness of her skin was uninterrupted. Like the walls around them, she was whole and unscathed. Wrapping his arms around her, he pressed his lips to her skin: warm and alive. Sammi leaned over him, her hair falling onto his shoulders, her chest resting against his head.
“I remember, Declan,” she whispered, and then kissed the top of his head. “Some of it, anyway. I remember the theater, and pain. But then the pain started to go away, and I remember you were there, looking down at me.” Sammi ran her hand through his hair.
“I don’t know how you can be here—alive,” he exclaimed. Sammi lifted his chin to meet her eyes, a tear from her cheek falling onto him.
“I do remember more, Declan. I’m so sorry you were there to see me die,” she finished, and then held him.
With those words, he began to cry with her. He tried to hold back, but to have her in his arms was too much. And as they held one another, she hummed a rhyme he’d heard her sing so many times before. The hymn encouraged more tears. Sammi was alive, and he wasn’t sure if he cared how it was possible. Not now, anyway.
Sammi lowered him back onto the bed, and then lay on top of him with her head resting on his chest. There they stayed for some time, saying nothing, just being together. When Declan kissed her, she kissed him back, harder and more sensual, and then she pushed her legs to his sides. Forgetting they were hungry, and forgetting Sammi had something to show him, Declan’s only thoughts were of the love he had for her, and the completeness in his heart as they made love.
10
130 YEARS EARLIER
ISLA JENKINS OPENED HER eyes, expecting to find the Commune’s mortician staring down at her, his narrow face unemotional and expressionless. She’d expected to see the look in his eyes suddenly change to one of surprise, even shock, at this interruption of her rite of cleaning. After all, how often does a dead body abruptly come back to life? It must have been a mistake—she hadn’t really died at all. Not the way she’d intended, anyway.
But she looked around to find that she was in a round room, alone, and lying atop a strange bed. The mortician wasn’t here, wherever here was. As she slowly awoke, rubbing the back of her neck, Isla pulled in a rushed breath, her heart beating a little harder. A frightening thought came to her as she recalled her final moments, and considered that she’d survived her attempt to die.
She was alive.
Something called to her then. Turning her head, she listened. She glanced around, suspicious and excited at the same time. Her eyes were drawn to a glossy black panel that reflected soft ambient triangles: a small row of bouncing blues and greens that were both soothing and calming. She knew the black panel was a food dispenser. She didn’t know this by looking at it, though. She’d swear the small machine told her. Isla clenched her teeth. Unease turned in her, again spurring confusion about where she was. A song played, soft and distant. Isla turned her gaze to the source, finding another array of lights above the door. The row of colors fluttered a rhythmic, ethereal dance. Isla found that she understood the tranquil sequences; they were order and direction.
She sought out the smell of the farming floor. The scents of plants and soil were missing. Frowning, Isla realized that the air seemed empty of all odors. This definitely wasn’t any room she’d ever visited in their Commune, and she wondered for a moment if the rite of cleaning and passing had been moved away from the farming floors. But that wouldn’t make sense. In all of her Commune, she’d never seen a room that looked like this.
Dreamy thoughts of Nolan Shrande came to her then. His face and smile always came to her when she needed him. Whether it was to comfort her, or to share in the goodness of a lost moment, he came to her. She held onto the fonder memories, seeing his face again, remembering his voice. But if she wasn’t careful, her mind would drift, and the memories she’d hidden would come to her, haunting her. She pushed away Nolan�
�s death, and focused instead on his smile and eyes.
It had been five years since she’d last felt the touch of his hands, or his warm breath on her skin. She listened to the memory of his voice, and the way he used to call out her name from across the classroom. She’d lose the sound of his voice eventually, she knew that, but she was thankful to still be able to hear it.
Older than she was, he’d sat in the back row, giving him a clear view whenever he wanted to steal a glimpse. She’d tried to catch him staring from time to time. It had been just a game at first, but then it’d become something much more, and she’d made the decision that she’d choose him when she came of age.
Thinking of him now, her heart got heavy, as it always did, and soon Nolan faded from her, and so too did the moment. He’d forever be in her mind; that was his resting place, not the farming floor, where she’d participated in his cleaning and passing.
Isla’s heart thumped with pain, and the haunting memories of Nolan surfaced, seeping into her thoughts like the harbinger of death, eager to deliver a reminder of what had happened. She put her hand to her chest and shuddered, overwhelmed. Her time with Nolan had been short. Soon after choosing him, he’d died. And, since he was her chosen, she’d followed each service of the rite, staying with the mortician to witness his passing to the farming floor. She remembered the mortician consoling her. His deep voice, his gentle touch.
“I miss you, Nolan.” She whispered the familiar sentiment. She hoped that there would come a time when she’d see his face and hear his voice without the other memories needling in like the ocean salts that tainted the air. But the two seemed forever joined, and maybe that was the way it was supposed to be. Maybe she could only remember the bad with the good. Maybe she’d been sentenced to recall the pain of how he’d died with the joy of how they’d lived.
Isla swiped a tear from her eye, putting aside thoughts of Nolan for now. Clearly, she was alive. But how? And what was this strange room? And what was with the rested feeling? As painful and emotional as the memories plaguing her mind were, she couldn’t dismiss how utterly relaxed and alive she felt. Ironic, she thought, as she considered what she’d done to get here.
For a moment, she didn’t want to move. A tingling feeling crept along her legs and back, and then to her arms. Soon all of her body was tingling, and she liked what she felt—she didn’t want it to stop, An almost euphoric sensation enveloped every muscle, every pore. She sighed, and then moaned, catching her lips with her finger, taken by the sudden expression in her voice. A distant concern called for her to get up and leave. This wasn’t her home; not her dwelling, not her cot. But the distance of that thought grew, and any urgency to consider it dulled until she’d dismissed it.
“This is my home, now. I love it,” she said. Lifting her chin, she liked the sound of her words in the room. And as if listening and appreciating the comment, the bed embraced her. Unlike the cot in her dwelling, this bed held her form, pushing back, as if suspending her in the air. She stirred, welcoming the pretend sense of attachment, even if it was just her mind playing tricks on her.
There was something else, too—not that she could put her finger on it. There was something more that made her feel different. It was life, she finally concluded, and a wave of guilt rose in her quickly before shrinking away. She felt more alive than she’d ever remembered.
Isla became aware that her skin was bare beneath the silver sheet. Blowing out a shallow laugh, she wrinkled her brow, surprised that she’d been sleeping in the nude. She’d never slept in the nude before; much of the time she’d been uncomfortable even looking at herself naked. She blushed—but it was a good blush, a welcome one. The feel of her bare skin didn’t bother her like she’d expected. In fact, there was a sense of liberation. Freedom.
Her thoughts went back to the Commune, and their mortician. Shame crept into her thoughts as she imagined the mortician staring down at her naked body during the rite of cleaning and passing. So strong was her shyness that she’d stayed dressed in her gray coveralls the night she had ended her life. But none of that seemed to matter now.
With her fingers splayed, she rubbed her hands up and down the sides of her body. Exhilaration followed; she was freed from the needs or regimen of clothing. The silver sheet on her skin was warm, and absent the scratchy wool of her own blankets. She liked the way her skin felt against the strange material: sleek and fine. She wanted more. Grinning, she stretched herself, rolled onto her belly, and then back.
When an absent pain gripped her arms, she was reminded of how she’d died, or how she thought she’d died. Her smile turned bitter. She’d expected to be dead, and she’d expected an end to her mourning for Nolan. She’d waited through the years that they would have had together to start a family. She’d waited until the anniversary of his death. And on the eve of the day when her time to have children was over, she’d ended her life. Although, if she was really in this room, alive, then she’d failed.
Another sharp ache cut into her, piercing her left arm this time. She clenched, and pulled her fingers into a fist around her wrist. Hands trembling, she pulled her clutched hand up to her chest and peered down over her bosom. A menagerie of images juggled in and out of her mind: images of what she’d done. More pains pushed into her, causing her to gasp. Isla hesitated before lifting a finger, expecting to see blood pulsing from beneath the secret she’d been hiding. With the blood, there’d be regret; her life would pour from her, carrying with it remorse for what she’d done. How could she ever repay those whom she’d hurt?
Swallowing against the thickness in her throat, Isla lifted her fingers, and suddenly saw images of her mother and father standing next to the mortician, holding a cleaning cloth and the bowl of water with the decomp salts. She shook these images from her mind and released her hands.
There was nothing. The violations she’d prepared her eyes to see were gone. Confusion circled her thoughts, and there was an eerie sense that what she’d done had been a dream—but she knew that couldn’t be the case. No dream had ever been that vivid, that real. Moving her fingers to touch this skin that lied to her, she couldn’t find what she knew should have been there. The scars she’d expected to see remained hidden, the imagined pain was gone. Her confusion turned to a broader concern as she searched both arms and recalled the exactness of what she’d done. The details, the motions, and the count, always the count: exactness was what she was best at. As the Commune’s research and development lead for all things relating to structure preservation, nobody could run the compounds, resins, and epoxy labs like she could.
A soft a breeze took her attention. The sound seemed to emanate from the artwork on the wall. As Isla settled her eyes on the image, she pulled the blanket against her body and let the bed hold her. In the painting, she saw a desert: sands sweeping across the crests of a hillside, stray grains that tumbled and fell, all resting beneath the light of a white sun. Isla’s breathing slowed, deepening, as she studied the artwork. With each breath, the breeze pushed and pulled the white sand between the desert hills.
When the lights above her door fluttered a new sequence of colors, she knew it was time to go to her lab and start working. After all, what good was attention to detail without adherence to a schedule? Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she shook her head, wondering how she could know where to go. How could she know anything? But she did know. The lights told her where she was. She was home now.
Knowing this, Isla pulled her arms tight against her chest, and was suddenly afraid. Not because she didn’t know where she was—but because she didn’t know why.
11
JANICE GILLY SAT UP in her cot, startled by the knocking on her dwelling door. Reluctant to leave the comfort of her slumber, she took hold of her blankets and fell back down to capture the sleep she’d left on her pillows. Thinking the disruption was just a dream, she rolled to her side, mumbling her irritation at having woken too soon. But when more thumps came from her door, she was forced awake
, roused by the obnoxious sounds. Annoyed, she forced open her eyes and threw off her blankets.
She struggled to get up, wrapped in both the darkness and cold air of her dwelling. A deep yawn caught her breath, holding her momentarily until some of the drowsiness was run out. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Janice stabbed the air with her toes, searching for the opening to her slippers. When she touched the worn sheep’s wool, she settled into one slipper, and then jabbed the point of her other foot, trying to find the other.
Feeling the creak in her knees, Janice pushed to stand, and blindly waved her hand to shoo away another series of bangs. The knocking echoed, and was followed by the sound of a man’s voice saying her name. But it was just her last name that he’d called out. He hadn’t used her full name, or even her first name. Ms. Gilly, he’d said, and she wondered if it could be one of her older students. Though somewhat restrained, the voice was still loud enough to stir her neighbors from their sleep. Janice shrugged it off, and tried to recall if maybe she’d heard the ringing of the Commune’s bell. Maybe it wasn’t too early in the day; maybe she’d slept past the morning bell and was late for getting to her classroom. Were the children waiting? She imagined young Rick Toomey, rummaging through his desk, a toothy grin pushing his cheeks as he waited for the day’s lesson.
Standing in the darkness, she knew none of that was true: the time to be in the classroom was still hours away. She wondered just how far from morning it actually was. Too early for the bell, and certainly too early for anyone to be calling, she thought. Placing a hand to her hip, she huffed out a tempered breath, annoyed. Another yawn came and went, more quickly this time, while she coughed any remaining sleep from her body.
End of Gray Skies: An Apocalyptic Thriller Page 11
