Falling Sky (4 page)

Ian smiled as he imagined a young Wasley being tossed into the water. He couldn't quite imagine his instructor as a child, but pictured a small red-headed child with some freckles. They both shared a laugh before he continued.

“Needless to say, there was a lot of crying and splashing going on. My dad pulled me out and after some more crying and some coughing I was alright.” He stood up. “The point is that eventually I learned how to swim. If it wasn't for my dad tossing me in, I don't think I'd ever have touched the water. If you want to face your problem, you need to jump right in.”

“I thought this was about saving humanity, not my shortcomings.” Ian let himself fall backward. He landed on one of the soft pillows arranged on the sofa.

“It's about both. If this whole ordeal turns out to be nothing but a wild goose chase, then at least something good would have come from it.”

Ian heard the door open and it quietly squeaked on its hinges.

“Just one more thing.” Wasley paused to see if Ian was still listening.

“Yeah?”

“When you go to bed tonight, don't use the Somnium. Maybe you'll dream again.” The door closed.

Ian sighed deeply and stared at the ceiling for the next half hour.

The wind tore through the field, blew back Ian's hair and made his entire face numb. He didn't start out in a black box this time. Instead, he woke up in the field, his face caressed by frantic blades of grass. He sat up and drew his knees to his chest in an attempt to preserve some of his body heat. The man walked up to Ian.

“Did you tell the others?” His voice sounded clear in Ian's ears. It cut straight through weather and he heard every emotionless syllable.

“Are you Phineas?” His own voice, however, disappeared.

“Who I am is of no importance,” he replied and began to turn around. “We'll meet under the heavens, before the sky cracks.”

Ian watched him as he walked away, disappearing into the horizon as he headed down one of the hill's slopes. As before, the clouds caught fire and consumed everything around him in a blinding flash. He closed his eyes tightly and threw his arms over his face. When his eyes opened a darkened bedroom ceiling greeted him. He turned his head toward his nightstand and noted the absence of the Somnium's green lights. The nightmare had returned as well as the cold sweats, but that didn't matter. He didn't even spring out of his bed this time, but laid there and let the beads of sweat make their way down the sides of his face. They created little imperfect black circles in the already dark blue sheets. The dream wasn't parasitically attached to his thoughts. He focused, instead, on the realization that he had reached his decision.

When day broke, Ian dressed and made sure to put the piece of paper Wasley gave him in his jean's pocket. After breakfast his father inquired about Ian's professor, “Isn't Mr. Wasley supposed to be here by now?”

“Oh…” Ian searched his mind for an excuse. “He said that he'd be at the school late, so he won't make it today.”

“Fair enough,” his father remarked. “I guess you have a day off today.” He smiled at his son before exiting. Ian noticed that he didn't say good bye to his mother and, strangely, she didn't seem to care much.

“Are you going to visit Grandpa today, Mom?” Ian asked, knowing that her departure would create the only window of opportunity for him to leave. She'd be gone for most of the day, so maybe he'll be back before her as well.

“Nope,” she replied, “they're going to try a new type of treatment for his cancer today. He won't be available for visits.”

“Oh,” his heart sank. He pushed his chair out and took his dishes to the sink, “That's good.”

“I don't have work either. So, I get to be here all day with you.” He heard the smile in her voice as she walked into the living room. With a quiet sigh, he sat at the dining table and met eyes with his reflection.
Maybe between the both of us, we can figure something out
, he thought. As could be predicted, the house didn't seem as cold with his mother's presence. He sat and basked in the figurative warmth she emitted, even though she had left the room. For a moment the nightmare, and all its implications, disappeared. The tension that gripped his chest eased a bit, and Ian took a deep breath.

We still have to go,
a part of him, speaking through the reflection, said.

Ian nodded, but didn't move. He heard his mother's bedroom door shut; soon she'd be in the shower. Immediately he began to run through a list of excuses he could use when he would be inevitably questioned about his absence. He blinked hard and shook his head; however his reflection's expression remained stoic.

It's now or never.
The facsimile didn't leave him anytime to question his sanity.
It's up to you.

Ian rose and moved into the living room. He stood until he heard the water start to run and its sharp resulting splashes. The tension returned to his chest. He held his breath as he approached the door and placed a hand on the shining knob.

He let out the breath and turned his wrist. The door opened a crack, allowing a slice of yellow to enter the house. When he stepped out, his senses became enveloped by the bright light, which was similar to the burning sky in his nightmare. Ian let the door close quietly.

He stood outside for a few moments to let his eyes adjust to the sudden change of light. Unlike the homes, which used florescent light bulbs, the city's illumination came from a full spectrum light source that mimicked the sun. Its warmth felt soulless and sterile like the bright green, neatly trimmed trees that were unnaturally symmetrical in shape. Perfect rectangles of grass flanked the sidewalk overflowing with people.

Most walked alone but Ian could see some walked in groups of two or three. The bright greens and blues overloaded his senses almost to the point of fainting. He took a step back and grasped the door knob for support; he turned it but it wouldn't budge. He searched his pockets for the keys but realized he had left them in his room and the door had been programmed to auto-lock whenever someone leaves. He turned and faced the sidewalk full of people, stepped forward and, with a deep breath, joined them. A moment ago, while he stood at the door trying to control his panic from boiling over into a full nervous breakdown, the people had seemed completely indifferent and didn't look in his direction. When he stepped onto the sidewalk, he seemingly drew their attention. The rational part of his mind knew the people were actually as indifferent as before, however the other part of his brain convinced him differently.

Ian's legs had trouble finding balance, as if the ground was coated with a rubbery substance. He felt the pedestrians' stares like needles prodding the back of his neck. His anxiousness became tangible as a painful knot in his stomach. His chest tightened, restricted his airways, and his breathing became louder.
They can hear me,
he thought,
they can hear me breathing. Stop it.
The trees and grass provided a brief distraction; they posed as a picturesque background to the city. It reminded him of the illustrations he saw in children's books: colorful pictures dominating a page with three or four boldfaced words.

City workers grew the plants naturally, and then meticulously trimmed and groomed them until they resembled a caricature of nature; completely devoid of any uniqueness. Ian imagined that no one had a favorite tree, and no trunk bore carved initials inside of hearts, made by couples in the fiction his professor sometimes brought him to read. He felt a sudden urge to reach up and snatch a handful of leaves from one of the perfectly shaped branches, but fought it. The very thought almost threw him off balance. He tried to imagine his mother and father on either side of him as he walked, like they did whenever the family ventured to the market, but the image wouldn't materialize.

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.

“32
^nd
block, 4
^th
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. I
t'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.

“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.