Curtain Fall: Second Edition, Disaster, Preparedness, Survival, Awakening (The Gatekeeper Book 1) (2 page)

The light continued to grow, and he could feel it as much as see it. With head down, and filled with a new determination, John continued
forward. It was then that he noticed the unmistakable shape of a human body under the thick blanket of ash.

He knelt by the first unmoving shape he saw and felt under the ash for the face. John wiped the face clear and saw that it was a child. He couldn’t tell if it was a boy or a girl, but he, or she, was certainly dead. Ash filled the child’s mouth, nose, and sunken eye sockets.

John looked up and noticed that there were many more bodies lying under the ash around him. People of all shapes and sizes lay covered under the thick gray blanket of ash that filled the alley floor up to a depth of about eight inches.

The sight of death was no stranger to John. He had seen it in war, in the streets of Baghdad even, but rarely did he see dead children. He knew the alley was death; that it was trying to kill him, in fact, going to kill him if he didn’t get out of it.

Once again he stood and resumed his walk toward the light, but he was forced to slow his progress to avoid stepping on bodies. Soon there were so many bodies in the alley that he stopped counting. They were piled high against the sides of the buildings, nearly blocking his way. Eventually, he was even forced to step on the dead as he struggled to reach the light.

With head bowed in fatigue and sorrow at the corruption that lay around him, John nearly collided with the gate that barred his way. He looked up and saw that the heavy, metal bars of the gate rose to the top of the buildings on either side of him, and formed an impassable barrier. John put his hands on the bars and tried to shake them, but they did not yield to his hands. The gate was firm and unmovable. He even examined the latch and saw that it was locked. The gate sealed his fate, the alley was his prison.

For the first time, John looked beyond the gate. He saw a busy city street, one bustling with life and activity as if in the middle of the day of some unknown work week. Cars speed past, lights blinked, and people walked and talked together. All the familiar sounds of city life reached John’s ears through the gate.

He called out to a number of people as they passed, but they either didn’t hear him, or completely ignored him. Finally, after countless attempts to gain someone’s attention, John reached down and fished for a small stone under the layer of ash at his feet.

He found one, and then threw it at a well-dressed man wearing a black sports-coat and dark gray slacks. The rock passed through the man, skidded to a stop on the street several feet beyond him, and came to rest; unnoticed by all but John. He tried once again, but this time to a well-dressed woman in a tan and black business suit. As before, the rock had no effect on her either.

He saw another woman, this one leading a young boy by the hand down the street. She was impatient, looked to be in a hurry, and was obviously frustrated that the little boy wasn’t keeping up with her. John picked up another rock, and just as he was about to throw it at the woman, the boy broke loose from her grip and turned to look in John’s direction.

John was so surprised that he dropped the rock. The boy’s bright yellow sweater, set atop denim pants and Sperry loafers, made him look like a tiny college professor. John smiled and waved, and just as the boy was about to wave back, the woman grabbed his hand and led him away.

John heard a shuffling movement behind him and quickly turned. The dead, those who had been covered by the ash, were rising up and walking toward the gate. John gave the gate another desperate shake and yelled, “Help me! Open this Gate! Help!” but no one heard, or came to his rescue.

Soon, the dead were all around him, but they weren’t interested in John, only in passing through the gate and into the light. They pressed against him as they also tried to reach through the bars. John felt their accumulated weight build against him, as if they meant to crush him into and through the bars, and he began to gasp for breath.

One of the dead, a woman, began shaking his shoulders, telling him to wake up, wake up!

“Wake up, John! You’re having another nightmare.”

John, still caught up in the dream, brought his hands up to push Jenna away, but then quickly realized where he was. His conscious mind reasserted itself and he relaxed and leaned back against the headboard and closed his eyes. He pulled his t-shirt from his mouth and slowly shook his head. With shaking hands, he reached out for Jenna.

She looked worried, as she always did when he woke her from one of his troubling dreams. John saw the concern on her face and asked, “Are you alright?”

“That’s a question I should be asking you,” said Jenna.

John grabbed a glass of water from his nightstand and drank deeply. “You won’t believe what I just saw,” he said, between several long drinks. He returned the glass to the nightstand and rubbed his eyes, as if trying to clear them of ash.

“You woke me when you yelled, ‘Open Up!’ I figured you were in another Iraq war nightmare . . . but I was afraid to touch you,” replied Jenna.

“I’m sorry, babe,” said John, as he wrapped his arms around her. “I know it scares you when I have dreams like that . . . but it’s been a long time since I’ve had a nightmare.”

“I wish you’d get some counseling,” she whispered. “I’m really worried about you.”

John pulled back and said, “This was different, Jenna. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen . . . or experienced before.”

She hugged him again and said, “I really thought you were gonna hit me. I know I shouldn’t touch you when you’re under like that, but I was afraid you’d wake the kids. That was a little scary for me, John.”

He said nothing, in fact he had nothing to say because the dream scared him as well. He looked at the clock and saw that it was almost three-o’clock in the morning. He wanted to tell her about the dream, but she didn’t ask. In fact she never asked. Besides, he really wanted to think about it for a while. He desperately needed to understand the elements of the dream, to somehow piece them all together into some kind of understandable format.

John knew it wasn’t the first time he had such a vivid dream, but none like the one he just had. Dreams have come to him, off and on, throughout his life. As a young boy, his dreams occasionally led him to walk in his sleep, or sometimes wake up believing that what he held in his hand, while dreaming, would still be in his hand when he woke up. He was always disappointed to find his hand empty, but it was still a cool experience. On occasion, he would dream of being hurt in some way, and then wake up to find that he was uninjured despite how real the injury felt in his dream.

Since joining the Army, John’s dreams consisted mostly of fighting and flying, but for some reason guns never seemed to work for him. The guns either didn’t fire, or the bullets were weak or ineffective. He didn’t understand it, but he was glad edged weapons always worked. For John, swords and knives were always the most effective weapons in his dreams.

Though most of his dream battles were defensive in nature, they were usually always brutally violent. Once, long ago, when they first married, John shared one of his vivid sword combat dreams with Jenna. She asked that he not do that again, and he agreed. And, for the most part, he managed to keep that promise. But it was hard for John because he desperately wanted someone to talk to about his dreams. But Jenna never asked, and John knew better than to offer.

“This one wasn’t an Iraq war dream, babe. But I know you don’t want to talk about it, so I won’t bother explaining it,” said John.

“It’s not that I don’t want to hear about it . . . but can we talk about it in the morning?” she asked, as she settled back onto her side of the bed.

John nodded and frowned, but hid the later by taking another drink of water. Jenna smiled and flipped off her bed lamp. While he sat in the dark, John was sure he couldn’t fall back to sleep. The dream continued to play over and over again in his head. He knew he had to record it, maybe even start a dream journal. The experience was just too much to let it pass away into distant memories.

He slid down, rested his head on his pillow, and moved close to Jenna. John waited for her to surrender to sleep, and as soon as she was out, he planned to get up and record the dream. He didn’t want to worry her about his need to record the dream, but he knew it was important that he do so. Finally, when Jenna’s breathing was slow and regular, John slipped out of bed and walked to the kitchen.

With pen in hand, John paused to consider why he had such a dream. He knew it meant something, but not what it meant. He was determined to figure it out. When he was younger, John thought everyone dreamed like he did. But later, as an adult, he learned few - if any - people actually dreamed the way he did. In fact, he learned that his dreams, or perhaps his ability to remember them, made him different from most people. It didn’t concern him, but it did make him wonder why he was different. After more than thirty years of vivid dreams, the dream he just had was more real than any other. It was like he actually lived that event, that it was a real life experience, as real as any other in his life.

At the top of the legal pad he wrote the words, “Alley of Ash.” His script was haggard and loose, but the record went down fast, and after close to two hours of handwriting, he returned to his bedroom and climbed into bed. He kissed Jenna on the cheek, rolled over, and willed himself to relax enough to sleep.

As he lay in bed, he continued to dwell on the number of stones he saw stacked on the pile in his dream. Did sixteen stones mean sixteen years, or the year 2016? And the ash, was it nuclear fallout, or volcanic? Either could produce fallout like what he saw in his dream.

Finally, after his mind circled around on his thoughts one last time, John drifted off to sleep. Though the dream was recorded, the memory of it would linger on, in all its detail, in his mind for several years. Though it lingered, the true meaning of the dream never seemed to present itself to John. Over time, he eventually let it settle away, but only long enough to wait for something, some clue about what it all meant.

S
lightly irritated with the disruption of his routine, John pushed buttons and fiddled with the knobs of his radio as he tried to zero in on his favorite FM radio channel. For some reason, nothing but static was coming through his usually reliable analog radio, the primary function of which was to distract him during his unpleasant commute to work.

John never bothered adding a CD player to the truck because he preferred listening to news anyway. Besides, he didn’t want to disrupt the integrity of his truck, a late model Chevy Suburban. It didn’t come with a CD player, or any other fancy electronic device, and that suited him just fine. It was clean and simple, like a military vehicle, and it was John’s favorite ride.

After a few more attempts to tune the radio, he gave up and turned it off. Deciding to enjoy the weather, he cranked the driver’s side window down and let the cool morning air fill the truck. He breathed deep, taking in the natural scent of pasture grasses, as well as the oak, elm, and cedar that was abundant in the area.

The cooler fall weather was a welcome relief from the unseasonably hot temperatures that persisted in the area for the past several months, so John welcomed the polite freshness. Just last week, rolling down the windows, even at six-o’clock in the morning, would have meant a blast of hot, dry air to his face. The cooler temperature was a welcome relief, and more than made up for the silence he was forced to endure on his drive into work.

He arched his back and reached behind him to adjust the position of the Sig Sauer P225 that was concealed in a Remora holster at the small
of his back. He never got used to the feeling of a weapon at the small of his back, especially when he was driving. Even the compact size of the single-stack, seven-shot, 9mm, left an impression on his body despite the somewhat forgiving quality of the truck’s comfortable seat. But John preferred the feeling of discomfort when he carried a pistol. It reassured him of the presence of the weapon, and reminded him of his responsibility while doing so.

With his attention back on the road, John began to hum a random melody. He paused a moment to coo a few encouraging words to his truck, “That’s a good girl,” he said, as he firmly patted the dashboard of his Chevy, three times. He didn’t make a habit of talking to objects, but his old Suburban was an exception. They’ve been together for most of the past twenty some years, and John was very attached to his old reliable truck.

He smiled at the thought of his father. His dad always talked to his vehicles. In fact, John’s father spoke to just about everything he owned, including the trees around his home. As a young boy, John never though his father’s behavior was odd. What he saw in his father was a man who worked hard for what he had, and worked even harder to get the most out of it.

Later, as a teen, John began to see the merit of his father’s quirky behavior; in the way he seemed to deeply connect with the people and objects around him. His dad seemed to flow through life as if nothing could get in his way. When he was alone with his father, when they were working together on a difficult or challenging project, his father would say, “Johnny, the answers are already there, you just have to see them through the distractions.”