I should be sleeping, curled under the covers in nervous anticipation for what work holds for me tomorrow. A phone call this afternoon stated I had been cleared for work and apologized for a mix up in my credentials. I will be returning to work, but not as part of the Children of Nostradamus specialty division. I really don’t care, my rent is coming and I’m already dipping into my savings. Michael will say it was brought on by stress, which normally I’d believe, but not this dream.
When I was little I’d wake in the cold of night, shivering, my blankets tossed to the floor. My father would barge into my room, convinced an intruder had snuck in my window. He wielded the metal bat like he’d know what to do if a stranger loomed over my bed. Each night he’d set it down near the door and drag the blankets back onto my bed and curl up next to me until I fell back asleep. With him nearby I’d have normal dreams, the zoo, being naked on the first day of school, kid stuff. Weeks might go by before I’d have another night terror and it’d begin anew.
This one started like any other. I’m standing in a city I’ve never seen before, nearly choking on the smog. A gray haze covers the sky and it could be any city. As I walk toward the towering skyscrapers, I realize there are no people. The city takes on an eerie quality after that as if it’s been robbed of its soul. Even in the middle of the night, Chicago has a voice, whispers of people with the occasional screeching of sirens. But this, it’s as if people vacated in the dark of night and the city awoke a hollow shell.
It feels like hours as I wander the streets. Each time, I wander into new stores and down different alleys. This evening I found myself in a pizzeria. The warmth of a brick oven fireplace is almost as real as the smell of marinara sauce. I can see the steam rising off food placed in boxes but yet to have their lids shut. Not only is it vacated, but each location I stop is the same, it’s as if the denizens of this world blinked out of existence.
It feels like days as I search through buildings. Unlike my normal dreams, I can recall the feeling of brick under my fingers or the scratch of a chainlink fence along my back as I crawl through. It might not be real, but it’s close enough to play tricks on my brain. And like every other terror, I find myself on the top of the parking garage. Sometimes I don’t remember what comes next, last night, the whistling sound jogged a memory. I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t muster my voice.
In the distance, miles beyond the city skyline the sky flashes a red, orange, and grows until a white light sears my eyes and I have to look away. It’s twenty seconds later when I hear the boom. The concussive force behind it washes over the city, shaking buildings as the tallest crumble under their own weight. Wind brings the heat and moments later the temperature starts to burn. The blast of whatever bomb is detonated pushes through the city and I watch as the skin on my hands flake and peel away. Moments later, I am nothing.
I’m not there, but I am. I can’t explain it. The city is in ruins. The people who fled were the fortunate ones, me, I’m nothing more than vaporized dust on the wind. The creepiest part of it was the figure from the Phantasm, I could swear I saw them. Not while it was happening, but as I started to drag my frightened ass out of the dream, they were standing on the rooftop where I had been.
I’ve never been scared of a foreign power destroying the city, at least I don’t think so. I bet I snuck into my father’s office while he was working and he was studying footage of an old world nuclear disaster. Perhaps the other day in the Phantasm gave my brain a jostle and me being me decided to conjure up the one thing that terrified me as a child. It figures.
I think instead of hiding in my apartment for the next three hours, I might go to the coffee shop until work. At least there, I can be around people. I’ll admit, I’m missing my father and that damned baseball bat right now.
When you open the door and synthetic greets you, your first reaction is always fear. The hollow husks of law enforcement have a reputation of conducting themselves in a way that, let’s just say, seems extreme to the flesh-and-blood population. But there it stood, its white and silver chassis. Even without eyes, you get the feeling it’s staring at you, or more like, it’s staring through you. Alone it almost didn’t seem as threatening, until it raised the rifle and a computerized voice said, “Madison Walker, you are needed for questioning.”
I almost died.
The machine wasn’t as aggressive as I’d seen on the news feeds. Granted, most of those were trying to stop rioters, looters, and gang violence. This one gave me a moment to grab my phone and let me lock the door to my apartment. It held the door open for me as we exited the building and even helped me into the back of the police transport. There were humans driving and the synthetic stayed in the back with me. The machine had been sent into a potentially dangerous situation while the humans sat safely inside their vehicle. Did the police think I was dangerous? I have a taser for emergencies, but beyond that, the most dangerous thing about me is my singing voice.
At the police station they put me in a small room. Everybody was civil and polite even if they were a bit stand offish. When Detective Chen sat me down and started asking about my experiences with Children I got my first clue as to why I was brought in. I answered honestly, other than seeing them in videos, I don’t think I ever met one in person. He asked me about the Church of Nostradamus. There was a small branch of the church a block over from my apartment, but other than tossing loose change into the donation bin for the homeless, I’d never set food inside. Then he slid the photo across the desk. I expected it to be the man with the dark eyes, but it was the circular hawk. My job has lot of gag orders, but I was able to tell him I had seen it thanks to work.
Now I had questions. What is the hawk? How did it tie into the Children? What did the Church have to do with it? The man gave me little to nothing. Just said it was a symbol pre-corruption used by the Children of Nostradamus. When he leaned forward to grab the photo, he made his one and only slip. The pen in his pocket, the one cops infamously use to jot notes in their archaic notebooks had a company name in thin letters, “Genesis Division.” He tapped a finger on my cell phone and loaded his cell and work number and said, “If you come across this symbol again, I’d appreciate a phone call.”
He offered me a ride home, but I opted to walk. I hadn’t heard back from work yet, and seriously, I needed some time outside away from my thesis (which was going nowhere.) Something about work, about that hawk had pinged the largest conglomerate in the world and landed me without a job. I wasn’t sure what was happening, but it was the first time I need to use the word “conspiracy.” There weren’t many pieces to the puzzle yet, but I had a long walk ahead of me to figure it out.
My power went out again. The rolling black outs for low priority residents in the Free Republic persist and it doesn’t appear there is any end in sight. I wish I could afford a generator, but eating and paying for text books remain a priority. So for now, I’m holed up in a Phantasm Hub paying for electricity while watching people partake in their virtual reality fixation. I spend my days scanning newspapers and cataloging photographs to put history back together, and Genesis Division believes the answer to our problems exist in a make-believe universe. Mankind has issues.
Today at work my promotion went sideways. I was part of a Specialist team and while looking through a delivery from our Chicago acquisitions department, I stumbled upon a photograph of a man with black eyes. I couldn’t make out what the Child’s ability might be, perhaps the black eyes were the extent of it? When I submitted the entry, no alarms went off. When I went back and added the circular bird tattoo on his neck, the head of Data Entry had me called to his office. He commended me on my work and wished me well, but made it clear he wanted me to take the rest of the day off. They never “urge” us to take time off. Something about the man with black eyes and the tattoo triggered an internal alarm. When I returned to my office, the photograph was missing. Right now, I don’t know if I have a job or if this is their subtle way of terminating my position. I lasted a week.
The week of horrible doesn’t end there. I met with my thesis advisor and pitched my topic. I’m not even going to say what it was, the man simply said, “Derivative. He suggested I dig deeper, claiming that my topic is “surface level thinking.” I appreciate the candid feedback, but can I catch a break? So world, here I am, potentially unemployed, not-yet-graduated, and hanging out with people incapable of coping with reality. What’s next? I fully expect to go home this evening to find an eviction notice on my door. For now, back to brainstorming, maybe I can do research on the Phantasm and the necessity of escapism in a catastrophic society? Or maybe I can bang my head against this table. Till next time.
The Corruption wiped out all electronically stored data connected to the internet. To this day, we don’t know the origins of the virus or who unleashed it on the world. It had the potential to wipe all computer systems clean, but it primarily focused on stored data. This meant photos, text documents, basically anything we kept as mementos of our past experiences. Between the Second Civil War and the Corruption, huge chunks of the Free Republic’s history have vanished. That’s where I come in.
My father is a historian specializing in the Isolation. I’ve always wanted to be like my dad, even working on my Doctorate in Pre-Corruption history. To put myself through school, I work in Data Reconstruction, one of the most important jobs of our centuries (read: boring.) We scour the world for physical evidence of our lost past. From newspapers to vintage photographs, we collect data and enter it into the database. I find it funny that I’m converting relics into the digital world because the digital world got wiped out. I’ve been there for two years and recently appointed to as a “specialist” focusing on data involving the Children of Nostradamus. Since the 21st century, these individuals have popped up across the world, with what I can only describe as a super abilities. Part of my job is to discover when it started happening and what caused it. They fascinate me.
Meanwhile, I should be grateful for a top priority position and significant pay increase. College ain’t cheap and those bills aren’t going to pay themselves. It’s ironic, I’m working at piecing together the past and here I am detailing my every thought. I guess the historian in me needs to record everything. I should probably get back to my thesis and figure out my topic. I only wish my father were here, he’d know the perfect spot for me to focus in on. Till next time.