by D. L. Denham
Reho accessed the entertainment panel from the table by the sofa. A red X was placed next to some options, showing that the feature was no longer accessible: Films, X. Reho had hoped to watch a movie, an instant escape, as OldWorld movies reminded people of what life had been like before the Blast. Reho pressed Music. Most of the names and bands he’d seen before; some he had even heard.
After deducting three points, the music played. Reho closed his eyes, his head resting on the arm of the sofa. He wouldn’t even bother undoing the bed. He lay naked as the music faded and he dreamed.
***
The dream was familiar. It was one of several that returned to him, always at unexpected times. His dreams had always felt real, as though they were moments he’d already lived or perhaps would live at some point in the future. Jen had once said they were of the future or maybe of another life. She had read books about civilizations before the Blasts that believed such things.
In this dream, he woke from a fetal position. Sand shifted beneath him as stood. Fresh blood poured from somewhere on his body but he could never find the wound. It formed a puddle around his feet, mixing with the sand. The tide was too far away to wash the mess out to sea. Behind him a fire raged. With his back to the ocean, he could see a city-sized, foreign military compound burning. A mountain had exploded, sending a mushroom-shaped cloud into the atmosphere above it. The flames rose higher than he could see. The scene was familiar enough. Once he had ventured off the beach, but each time he became lost in the jungle.
Now he looked out onto the ocean; a ship sat far away. He raised his hands and waved. Can they see me? The ship shrank from view. Rain poured as he waited on the beach, the dried blood running off his body as the rain persisted. The ocean’s angry waves crashed against the beach, driving Reho farther back. He could still see the ship through the storm. It grew closer as the storm pushed wind and rain onto the beach, stinging his eyes. The boat was coming back.
Reho felt something crash against his legs. An umbrella. As the water receded, Reho saw two other objects: a full-faced rubber gas mask with the canister missing and a dark, corked bottle. Reho snatched up the items and retreated farther inland. He put down the umbrella, a five-foot OldWorld style that looked as though the span would be at least six feet in diameter if it were opened. The gas mask was strange enough; he checked inside it for a name or company but found nothing. The dark bottle was void except for a single item wedged in near the neck. Reho yanked on the cork and retrieved a piece of paper. It read: Kingdom . . . The second word had been smeared.
An aggressive wave returned, covering his waist and retreating with the other items. A mammoth rock pushed up from under the beach. Reho fell back, barely avoiding the rising ground. It rose thirty feet above ground level. The tide returned and swept him under. Disoriented and panicking to find the bottle, he pushed farther out to sea.
The storm howled and something—a human voice?—rose above the winds and thunder. Reho lifted himself off the beach and ran to the jungle. As he ran, the voice returned. Its sound was unnatural, like a wild animal trying to talk, but its words were clear as it repeated:
The stone, once dropped, wants to move toward the center of the earth.
The stone, once dropped, wants to move toward the center of the earth.
The stone, once . . .
***
Reho woke, his sweat-drenched body shaking in the cold room. He pushed the dream to the back of his mind and adjusted the thermostat, then selected a peanut butter sandwich from the vending machine in the room. He ordered a few extra sandwiches and stuffed them into his pack. At an inflated cost of nineteen points, he would have enough calories to make it the rest of the way. Points were never an issue for Reho. He had more than he could spend from his winnings at the races in Red Denver. After eating, he stretched again and returned to the sofa.
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