Monday, March 31, 2014

Chapter One


Beyond A Musing
By Alisha Joy

Chapter 1

Umbra
April 10th 1976


Hard to believe dust was once a mere inconvenience—something to be swept up and dumped in the trash, a bothersome layer to shampoo out of the hair and wash down the drain.  But dust has turned darker in the last six months, morphed into something unshakable and inescapable—a suffocating blanket that turns the sun into a shadow, paints the moon red.  It gets in your teeth, hides like a hermit in your pores, burrows underneath your fingernails.  It envelops all who live on the run, obliterates our heritage, paints us all a common greyish-brown. 



I see its taken hold of the baby as well—tinted her cheeks, turned her snot gritty.  Her face contorts until it resembles a tangle of dried out riverbeds.   “Shhhhh, it’s okay, it’s okay,” I coo, lying through chapped lips.  It isn’t okay.  And it’s not going to be okay.  Not now.  Not ever.  “Shhhh, I got you, it’s okay.”



A dusty wind blows down the alley, carrying a chill and trailing trash and tin cans.  The debris ricochets off bricks, bangs and plinks against an old refrigerator.  I turn my back to try to block out the worst of it.  But Clay’s words are a lecture in my head: never turn your back, always know what’s coming.  So, I swivel until I am once again facing the street.  I’m supposed to keep lookout, suppose to bang the garbage can if I see anything suspicious.  That’s my only job, and I can’t mess it up, can’t let Clay down. 



I’m lucky Clay found me, even luckier that he’s stuck with me for as long as he has. Every day I worry, worry that he’ll get smart and leave me.  I have no idea why he stays.  At first I assumed…

But I was wrong. 

He’s never made a move to touch me, not in an intimate way and if he had, I wouldn’t have stopped him.  It doesn’t matter that I’m not attracted to Clay with his hard features, unkempt hair and beard, his eyes, nearly black, his skin grayish brown—just like mine.  I wonder what he sees when he looks at me. 



Another gray gust… colder this time. 



The light is fading… in two hours it will be freezing.  Ash clings to my sleeves, peppers the baby’s tattered blanket. 



“God damn it Twyla, put that kid back where you found it.”  Clay hisses, his voice muffled behind his bandana. 



I jump at the sound, fumble, almost drop the baby.  Even facing forward, with my eyes pinned wide open, Clay has managed to sneak up on me.  I wonder how he does that, how he moves silent and invisible… when I can’t seem to get the hang of life on the run.  I’m about to apologize—for what, I don’t know—but I stop when I see his face.  He’s wearing goggles, a fat black band wrapped securely around his head.  He blinks behind the dusty lenses. 

“Where’d you get those?” I ask, wishing it was me who’d found the goggles, him who’d found the baby.  

“Corpse around the corner.”  Then softer, “Twyla, she’s fresh…”  Clay lets the words trail off, eyes the baby. 

No need to say more.

“I used to have a pair just like that… for skiing,” I say thinking of snow, craving ice.  My stomach growls.

“Twyla, did you hear me?  She’s fresh.  I’m guessing she was drained in the last hour.  We have to move.”

I nod.  This is what the world has been reduced to—running and hiding and dust, and ash and dirty tears, and cough, cough, cough and no matter how many times you cough, never having enough clean air to take a breath.  Every breath toxic… toxic, yet necessary. 

The baby wiggles an arm free of her wrap—an old sweater, I realize, a cardigan with big wooden buttons.  The baby’s eyes are flooded with tears—salty pools clouded with specks of gray dust, and darker flakes of ash. 

Tears. 
So she…
Well maybe not a she, but easier to think of her as a she than a he. 
I shake my head; focus on the babies’ damp cheeks… start again.  So SHE can still make tears… a good sign. 
Or a bad one, depending on how you look at it. 

“Give me the baby,” Clay says.

I look around, half-expecting the child’s mother to come running around the corner—robust, with practical shoes and a giant bouncing bosom, clean clothes, lips painted a deep red.  “Lordy, I thought I’d lost her, thank you Jesus!  God, I must have thrown her away by mistake.” 

I laugh, bitter, and curse myself for opening the dumpster lid.  I begin to explain… stall…  “I heard a noise, thought it was a cat, or maybe a raccoon, thought I’d kill it.” Fresh meat.
That’s what I’d been thinking about.  Only this wasn’t the kind of meat I was hoping for.  But what had I expected when we haven’t seen an animal in over a month. 

“Shhhh!” Clay is holding up a finger, crouching.

I drop to my knees, make myself tiny, and work to arrange my street-made camouflage so it covers my arms and legs.  The garment was Clay’s idea, a patchwork collection of trash—old newspapers, gum wrappers, leaves, even a headless baby doll.   

I hold my breath, listen… heavy booted footsteps, four distinct clomps, four…
No…
five identifiable rhythms. 
Too loud, too confident to be one of us.  Drainers… has to be Drainers.  They are wearing boots, which is lucky, since they aren’t carful about being quiet.  I wonder if the woman in the alley was wearing boots, whether it is her boots I hear clomping through the streets.  I’m not sure what Drainers looked like before they crossed over, since they seem to transform with every feeding—become a sloppy sexless reproduction of their latest victim, with features lazily slapped onto slack skin, noses drooping, eyes mismatched, no ears… never any ears, but that doesn’t stop them from hearing. 

Clomp, Clomp, Clomp

They are close but it’s hard to tell how close.  Everything echoes now that the world is empty.  Sounds bang through abandoned houses and deserted diners.  A single footstep is made huge in vast, vacant movie theaters, in foodless food courts. 

The baby whimpers and I put a dirty pinky in her mouth, praying her soft sucking doesn’t give us away.  She clamps her lips, moves her tongue back and forth… practiced motions.  I feel the beginnings of a tooth… ignore it… readjust my finger until I only feel gum.  I wonder when she last had a drink.  Not long ago.  No.  It had to be recent… her mouth is too wet, her tears too plump.  I picture her pink lips wrapped around a breast, pulling, sucking—her flat belly made round with swallow after swallow of milk.  The baby sucks harder, as if she too is thinking of milk.  Her face is scrunched in concentration.  My stomach growls and I’m tempted to take my finger out of her mouth, suck her hydration off my skin. 

I try to swallow, but fear has commandeered my saliva, transformed it into adrenalin.  I still have a little water in my flask, left over from last week’s rain, but I need to save that.  And anyway, I can’t risk the noise. 

Clomp, Clomp, Clomp. 

Closer now… definitely closer.  

I pull the baby into my chest, clamp my eyes shut.  The baby’s head is pressed against my lips.  She needs a bath and a change… but there is still something innocent underneath the stench of life… something familiar.  I focus on that, block out the rest, and breathe as quietly as I can. 

An uninvited image: my Toby, alive.  He’d just lost his first tooth, was excited to put it under his pillow.  I cried when I saw that tooth, tiny and white, so perfect. 

“Mommy, why are you crying?"

“You’re growing up.” 

He grinned, wriggled his tongue through the space where his tooth used to be.  “Don’t you want me to grow up?” he asked. 

“No. I want you to stay little forever,” I said, tickling him.   

The tooth fairy never made it.  The blast came, and our house was split in two, one half intact, the other in rubble.  I’d been in the kitchen pouring myself a glass of wine… Toby must have fallen asleep.  He’d been so worried about being awake when the tooth fairy came…  

Why had I left him alone?  I’d read the reports… knew that people were dying in their sleep.  It wasn’t new news, but it was happening more and more.  No one could explain… and it wasn’t just the babies and the elderly at risk, but healthy people still in their prime.  I should have been more careful, I should have kept him safe.  

Stop. 
Better he got out when he did. 
True.  Better.
Only I hadn’t felt that way at the time.  No.  At the time I’d screamed and cursed God.  But God did me a favor.  I never had to watch dehydration steal Toby’s tears… starvation devour his will to live, fear turn him into a beast, a monster who would drink saliva from the mouth of a baby.   Toby died believing this world was good, safe… that nightmares stayed in your head, vanished with the morning sun.  

Clomp, Clomp, Clomp. 

Something rattles the dumpster.  I hear the lid screech open, slam shut. 

I freeze, lock eyes with the baby.  If I’d never opened that lid, never picked her up, I think, or if I’d put her back like Clay said… if I’d done any of those things, then they would have found her.  They’d be lifting her out of the dumpster right now.  She might have been the distraction Clay and I needed to escape.  I’m tempted to roll her free of my camouflage, just another can bounding down the alley.  But I’ve witnessed the Drainers at work, watched as they greedily sucked the light from their victims. 

I look at the baby’s tiny nostrils, half-clogged with dust and I know she won’t survive, she can’t, not with her mama’s breast dry and dead in the next alley over.  Better to get the end over with.  But I have her scent in my lungs…

The Drainers are hissing something incomprehensible to one another, two distinct sounds, one a buzz, the other a drone.  The inhuman octaves sizzle up my spine, wrap icy hands around my neck. I force my body to stay still, resist the urge to shiver, to scream, to cover my ears.  I’ve seen that too, plenty of times… seen people choose madness over light, watched as they dimmed to darkness before my eyes. 

More hissing—pulling, tugging, tempting me towards insanity. 

No! 

I concentrate on the baby’s eager sucks, focus on her warmth, imagine that warmth pouring into my body, nourishing me as thoroughly as I am failing to nourish her.

More clomping, only this time it’s receding.  I stay hunched and count the rhythms, wanting to be sure all of them have left, one, two… three.  Drainers usually travel in packs and they aren’t very smart, but they also aren’t the only terror that has crossed over…

“Let’s move.”  A hand on my shoulder, I swallow my scream, see stars as I suck air into my lungs. 

“But…” I look down at the baby and struggle to calm my racing heart.

Clay follows my gaze, touches my arm. 

“But…"

He doesn’t say a word, just reaches out his hands, takes the baby, carries her around the corner. 

Again I think of Toby.  What would I want a stranger to do if they found Toby alone in a dumpster this close to nightfall?  I know the answer, but I refuse to give it words… life.  Instead, I forcibly shake my son out of my head.  His memory doesn’t belong in a place like this. 

Clay is back, walking with purpose, his infantless arms swinging by his sides.  He strides past me and I hurry to follow… strip thought from my mind. 

Clay is silent as he navigates the city streets.  He sets our pace just shy of a jog.  Our steps stir the dust and I stifle a cough as I secure my bandana around my mouth.  Then I fumble at my belt for the strip of gauze I used to think I was lucky to have and tie it around my eyes.  The world falls into a haze and I stare envious at the new black band secured around Clay’s head.

No one can explain the dust—unlike any dust the world has ever seen before—that’s what the scientists reported back when the airways still held information.  If I was the one in charge of guessing, I’d say it was the sands of time, blown free of the hourglass when the world went to hell. 

Clay slows and I move to walk beside him.  The sun is sinking fast and somewhere a moon is surely rising, but I can’t make out its arc through the dust and the gauze.  I shiver, and wrap my cloak of trash more tightly around my shoulders. 

“Here, put this on.  You’re the one who found it, so it’s yours,” Clay says, handing me a sweater—wool cardigan with big wooden buttons. 

I lift the bandana from my nose, and bury my face in the garment—it smells of dust, and rot and salt and loss.  I want to tell Clay he shouldn’t have taken it, and maybe he shouldn’t have but I’ve been cold for months and the tempting warmth of wool is too powerful for me to resist.  I’m careful not to look at Clay as I silently slip my arms into the sleeves; struggle to fasten the buttons with clumsy shivering fingers.   
I look down at myself, see the body and clothes of a stranger—shapeless pants, stolen sweater, cloak of trash, once black work boots… also stolen.  What has become of Twyla Parks: born August 29th, 1942, the once vegetarian, artist, poet, the once single mother to Toby Parks born, March 12, 1970…
Died, October 8, 1975. 
I shake my head.
Twyla Parks is gone, buried six months ago, alongside her son’s empty casket. 
Dead child.
Empty box. 
There hadn’t been enough of Toby left to bury—common in a blast of this magnitude, that’s what the coroner said, remarkable you survived, never seen a house split in two… miracle.

“Can you see?”  Clay asks.

I nod, refocus my thoughts on the now.  Thermal vision was one of the first things Clay taught me, and it hadn’t come easily.  In the beginning I struggled to believe it was possible, then I just struggled.  It used to take me hours to get my mind to a place of vision.  But lately I find I don’t even have to think about it.  Night falls, eyes wake—as automatic as breathing.  We are approaching the outskirts of the city; the buildings are shorter, sparser.  Ahead I see a gas station, beyond that: trees, hills, a deserted stretch of road.

“Look over there, tell me what you see” Clay says, pointing to a distant cluster of bluish purple mounds.

“Humans, about a dozen of them,” I say. 

“Alive?”

“Yes.  They’re cold, but they’re not dead.”  All I can make out from this distance is shimmering orbs of color, but I can imagine what they’d look like up close, huddled and shivering, struggling to stay awake.  Color is good, color is heat, it’s the lack of color you need to watch out for.  Drainers are invisible in the dark—no color, no heat, no light, unless they’ve recently fed… or are currently feeding.   When they feed they appear bright scarlet, but within minutes that fades to an inhuman orange and then quickly back to black. 

“We’ll camp there,” Clay says, pointing to a clump of trees about a quarter of a mile to the left of the others. 

“Maybe we should see if they have any new first,” I suggest, gazing at the mounds of body heat with a mixture of longing and apprehension.

Clay shakes his head.  “Come on.”  He starts walking.  I hesitate, but Clay keeps moving, never once turning to check if I’m following.  I hurry to catch up. 

I know why he’s reluctant to camp near people, and I agree with his decision.  It’s best to be vigilant, careful.  But I miss voices—unique and identifiable, even in the dark—and Clay isn’t much of a talker.  Maybe we’ll cross paths with them in the daylight, when sleep is less of a risk, I think hopefully. 

Sleep… it used to be simple—close your eyes, drift off.  Now it must be timed and strategized, done in shifts.  Before meeting Clay, I was terrified to close my eyes, even for a minute.  But Clay has worked out a system to make sleep safe, found ways to avoid REM.  That’s where the nightmares are, he told me.  If you drifted into REM, you might never wake again, or worse… you might open a portal. 

The BSI (Bureau of Sleep Investigation) claims that is was happened to Toby.  The official report stated that too many nightmares tried to come through at once and the force killed T. P. (male, 5 years old), destroyed 50 % of the dwelling.  (Asterisks) children do not make for stable portals.

I hadn’t known about strategies back then… hadn’t known that you needed to wake every fifteen minutes to assure your safety and the safety of those sleeping beside you. 

I glance once more at the distant camp, turn away.  Clay is right, we can’t risk approaching a group of that size, not on a night as dark as this.  Not everyone has found their sight, and it’s hard to keep your senses when you can’t see.

The night is cold, the air course and unforgiving.  I cough, imagining the dirt that must surely coat my lungs.  We still have a ways to go so I pass the time coordinating crunches; I step, he steps, I step, he steps.  And then something different, disturbing… a mysterious third crunch has invaded my pattern.  I freeze, grab hold of Clay’ hand. 

He squeezes my knuckles, sharp and quick, a code for ‘What?’ 

I squeeze back a succession of rapid pinches, ‘footsteps.’ 

We are silent, listening.  I scan the darkness for any sign of human heat… see nothing. 
Clay tugs my fingers to say, ‘lets go,’ and we’re walking again, side by side, hands clasped together incase we need to communicate, our crunches in sync.

One step, two, three, four, then I hear it, that offbeat crunch and I squeeze the code for ‘footsteps’ again.  Someone, or something is following us, and it sounds as if they are being careful about it, calculating, trying to step when we step, but the beat isn’t perfect.  Drainers aren’t this careful, and they rarely work alone… but Drainers aren’t the only nightmares that have crossed over.  I pinch the center of Clay’s palm, make a circular motion with my thumb, ‘Drainer?’

Clay taps the back of my hand once, ‘no.’ 

The imperfect crunch is close, maybe thirty steps behind.  Please be human, please be human, I think again and again.  Although human doesn’t guarantee anything—not all humans are on the run.  Some have become willing portals, while others use their light as payment to visit the dark perversions offered in sleep and when that runs out, they search for brighter bodies to bargain with. 

I look around and realize Clay has changed our course and is now steering us towards the band we saw huddled in the trees.  He’s also quickened our pace, only he did it so subtly that even I hadn’t noticed.  I only realize it now because my breath is on the verge of becoming a pant.  We step around a large rock and the others come into view, some twenty feet ahead.  They aren’t sleeping, or even huddled, as I had imagined, but sitting in a circle, deep in discussion, with two people on lookout.   Someone spots us, signals the group.  Twelve faces turn in our direction; all eyes hidden behind goggles.  There’s a small lantern standing in the middle of the circle.  It offers enough light for me to make out the suspicious scowls marking each face.

A man walks towards us, puts his hands in the air as if to show that he’s unarmed. 

I try to slow but Clay keeps moving, and drags me along with him.  “We are being followed, prepare yourselves,” he says, warning the strangers.

The man looks past us into the night.  “Whatever it was, it’s gone now,” he says, confident.  

I feel Clay’s muscles tense.  He drops my hand and takes a defensive stance. 

“See for yourself,” the man says.

Together we turn.  The man is right, there’s nothing there, nothing but night and brackish sky.  A sliver of red-gray moon peeks through the clouds to cast its cool shadowy light on the surrounding vacant woods.   

“But I heard it.  It was right behind us,” I say, confused.

“Come, you’re safe now,” the man says, turning to rejoin the group.

Clay hesitates and I wish he was still holding my hand, wish I knew what he was thinking.  As if reading my mind, Clay steps to my side, fumbles for my hand, squeezes my fingers. It’s not one of our pre-established communications, but I take it to mean ‘don’t worry, I won’t let anything happen to you.’  He guides me to the group, steps in front of me.  Panic has left a metallic taste in my mouth; I reach for my canteen, remember it’s empty and let my hand fall to my side. 

The man who first approached us extends his arm toward Clay, “I’m Troy.”

Clay doesn’t return the shake, “I’m Hunter and this is Sunny,” he says, giving our pseudo names (safer that way, names have power, don’t ever give them away… that’s what he told me the day I met him, the day he told me his name was Clay.) 
Another pseudo? 
Probably.

Troy points to each person in turn, “this is Carson, Trent, Finn, Wanda…”

I stop listening, study the faces instead, searching them for signs of light—another skill Clay is trying to teach me.  Clay says it’s more of a feeling than an actual seeing, but I’ve never been able to do it.  Still, I try.  I don’t see or sense any light, but I don’t sense any lack of light either.  All I know for certain is that five of the faces are beardless—women, or boys too young to shave, I can’t tell.   

“Sit, you must be tired,” says the nearest beardless face.  I think it’s the woman Troy called Wanda.

“Not yet,” Clay says, putting a hand on my arm.  “First I want to know what you sent to follow us and why,” his words challenging, accusing. 

“What makes you think we sent it?” Troy asks.

“Because it disappeared as soon as we got here.”

“How do you know you weren’t imagining things,” Troy snaps back. 

Clay stiffens and another man stands, puts his hand on Troy’s shoulder.  “What my brother meant to say is that you’re safe now, whatever you thought was following you is gone.  Here, maybe this will help.”  The man takes off his goggles and moves until he is standing directly in front of Clay.

Clay removes his own goggles as well and peers into the man’s eyes.  After a few seconds, he nods.  Then the man turns to me.  I pull the thin layer of gauze down to my chin and make a show of looking.  But all I see are rings of blue framed by thick eyelashes.  The surrounding skin is smooth, unlined, his beard sparse… he’s younger than he sounds.  I’m tempted to touch my own eyes, trace the lines that hadn’t been there six months ago.  But I resist the urge, mimic Clay’s nod instead and force myself to step away from the boy with the blue eyes… try not to think about another boy with eyes just as blue, lashes just as thick. 

The brothers reclaim their places in the circle.  Room is made for us on a log and we sit.

“Here, drink something,” the woman who might be named Wanda says, offering me a canteen. 

I drink deep and quick, not giving Clay a chance to caution against it.  He still has some water, I heard it sloshing as we walked, but my canteen has been empty for hours.  “Thank you,” I say, coughing and wiping my mouth on my sleeve.  I hand her back the canteen.

“Keep it, there’s a spring not far from here.” 

Grateful, I take another swallow; only this time I let myself enjoy the sweet clean taste of the water.  If I was alone, I’d swish it in my mouth, spit, and swish and spit again and again, until every speck of dust was rinsed away, turned to mud.  But the canteen is nearly empty already and water can’t be wasted, not for cleaning or spitting. 

But if there really is a spring…
Then I’ll do it, and I won’t care who’s looking. 

“How long have you all been traveling together?” Clay asks.

The boy with blue eyes and a man’s voice speaks up.  “Me and Troy are brother’s.  But we met up with Finn here a couple weeks after the dust storms started.  And the rest we picked up along the way.” 

Clay tenses. 

Troy jumps in, “But we’re careful about who we take on.  There isn’t a person here who wouldn’t show you their eyes.  Steven, take off your goggles, let Hunter see for himself.”

Clay puts up a hand, “no need for that.”  His tone implies trust, but he neglects to tell them that he doesn’t need to look in a person’s eyes to sense how much light they carry… he can feel its hum vibrating under their skin, or at least that’s what he claims.  “How do you handle sleep in a group this large?” Clay asks.

All eyes turn to Finn. 

So, the brothers aren’t the ones in charge.
A shift in Clay’s body language tells me he has picked up on this as well.  He angles his knees towards Finn, folds his arms, waits.   

Even sitting, I can tell that Finn is at least half a foot taller than the brothers.  His shoulders are broad, arms thick.  I’m guessing he’s bigger than Clay even, a fact I should have noticed when I first scanned the group.  But Finn doesn’t wear his size the way Clay does.  His movements are slow, thoughtful and I wonder what his profession was before all this happened.  He looks from me to Clay and quietly fingers his beard, as if considering where to begin. 

Finn grunts, a short decisive sound, and starts talking.  “We have allies on the other side.”

Clay snorts.  “Allies? And was it one of these allies that you sent to follow us?” he asks.

“We sent no one, but it’s possible one of them was responsible for this meeting.  They don’t actually cross over, but they can approach the edge of thought.”

“But I heard it,” I blurt, surprised by the sound of my voice, loud and awkward.  I usually let Clay do the talking.  I clear my throat and am careful to speak at a more reasonable volume, “It was trying to match our footsteps, but I could hear the crunch of its boot.” 

Clay shoots me a look… quizzical?  But he heard it too…

“I’m sure that’s what you thought you heard.  But I’d bet Hunter experienced something different.  Their purpose was to lead you here.” 

I take a breath to speak but Clay silences me by pressing the tip of his thumb against mine, the sign for “Shhhh.” 

“If you didn’t send it, then how do you know what it was?” Clay asks.

“From experience.  Every person in this circle has a story like yours; it’s what brought us together.  I can assure you, it is no accident you’re here.  But all this can best be explained in sleep.” 

Clay leaps to his feet, pulling me up with him and nearly ripping my arm out of the socket.  I struggle to gain my footing.  Had Finn actually said sleep?  Was this whole thing just some elaborate trick to get us into REM… to kill us… to open a portal?  I can feel Clay’s blood beating, fast and fiery through his palm; can feel my own blood pounding in my neck and temples.  I take a step back, ready to run, but Clay stops me by lacing his fingers through mine—the signal for ‘stay still.’ 

Finn puts up a hand, “I know how this must sound, but believe me, we are careful in how we approach sleep.  Please, sit.  Give me a chance to explain and then you can decide for yourself.  No one is forcing anyone.  That’s not how we work.”

The veins in Clays neck are visible, pulsing, his muscles tense, jaw clenched.  My sight has dimmed but I can still see the shadow of his heat, once bluish-green, now a yellowish-orange.  He’s angry, suspicious and I worry he will leave before Finn has a chance to finish what he has to say. 

There is something about Finn, something that speaks of hope and peace, something I haven’t seen or felt in months and I want to hear more.  I touch Clay’s thumb with mine, giving him the sign for ‘shhhh,’ in the hopes that the gesture will calm him.  Clay’s shoulders relax a bit.  He pulls me closer and we sit, although Clay remains perched on the edge of the log—guarded, ready. 

“How rude of us not to offer you any food,” Finn says.  He speaks casual, as if such things were still done, as if food wasn’t hoarded and protected, rarely shared, and never given to strangers.

Troy unzips his backpack, pulls out a bag of dried apples, tosses it to Clay.  My mouth waters, stomach grumbles.  I look at Clay, my eyes pleading, please, please, please, please.  We haven’t eaten anything since first light and then it was only a handful of nuts and some strips of leathery coconut.   Clay nods and hands me the bag.  I have to force myself to stay calm, civilized when all I want to do it tear into the packaging with my teeth, bury my face in plastic and devour every morsel inside.  I put a slice in my mouth, and force my teeth to still, give the fruit time to rehydrate and suck to make the sweetness last longer.  I offer the bag to Clay and I’m surprised when he reaches inside, grabs a handful, chews, swallows. 

“We appreciate your hospitality, a rare thing these days,” Clay says.  “Now explain what’s going on here.”

Finn’s posture is open, legs uncrossed, palms upright in his lap.  “As I said before, we have found allies in sleep, or rather, they have found us.”

Clay stiffens, and I can tell he’s ready to argue. 

“These are human allies,” Finn clarifies, his eyes intense, unblinking.   “They call themselves Keepers.  This may be difficult to understand but ours in not the only world.  There are many more.”  Finn’s eyes are bright, excited.  “There are worlds where it is still safe to sleep and even some where sleep hold more importance than the waking world.”

I try to imagine an existence where sleep is safe, dreams beautiful, a world where my Toby might have lived to be a man.

“Sleep is a common ground for all worlds and that is where I met the Keepers.  They have the ability to stay conscious in sleep and they are teaching us to do the same.  We don’t have to be afraid.  We can fight.  If you let me lead you to them, you can see for yourself.”  

The others are nodding in agreement, faces expectant.  A need to belong, some engraved longing for community flares up inside me and I find myself nodding along with the others.  Could it be true?  Is it possible? 

Clay snorts and grabs my hand, moves to stand.  But I don’t want to leave… not yet.  Not when there’s a chance that Finn is telling the truth.  I tighten my grip on Clay’s arm and hurry to speak.  “But what are Keepers?  Where do they come from?”

“You can’t trust these people,” Clay hisses.  “We should go.”

Finn ignores him, turns his attention to me.  “Keepers are responsible for maintaining the balance in sleep.  They are the ones who protect the sun’s light that sleepers carry.  Nightmares are powerless without it.  They used to only scare the daylight out of people, but things are changing.  Nightmares are getting smarter and more powerful.  Some have begun to barter for light, and then there are the Drainers… and we all know what they do.” 

I shiver and scan the surrounding woods.  I notice others in the circle doing the same.

Finn continues.  “It was bad enough when the attacks were confined to sleep, but now that the evil has crossed over…”

“And who allowed that to happen?” Clay snaps.  “If these Keepers claim to be the protectors of sleep, then what are they doing to fix this?  Have you asked them that?”

“Of course I asked them.  No one knows how the nightmares got into the waking world.  Nothing like this has ever happened before.  But this is precisely why it is so important we join them.  The Keepers believe we might hold the knowledge of how this happened, and then maybe they can stop it from happening again.”  

Clay laughs.  “They think we know how to stop this and still we do nothing?  Do they think we’re cowards?  If we had the answers, we would use them!  You tell your Keepers that.”

“It’s not that simple.  They understand that we are not consciously aware of the answers, but our souls could carry that information.  It’s like thermal vision; most of us didn’t even know it was possible until it became necessary for survival.  But we now know that there are families that have had the gift for generations.  The Keepers say we are the only population with this ability.  Most of us just started using it, but the knowledge was inside us all along, don’t you see?” Finn asks.

And I do see.  I blink and my vision flares to life.  We are a people who taught ourselves to see in the dark… who knows what else we might be capable of. 

“They can’t risk us becoming extinct, not when the answers to saving the worlds might lie inside our souls… waiting to be unlocked,” Finn says. 

“Unlocked?” Clay shouts, leaping to his feet.  “And how do they propose to UNLOCK us?”

“Unlocked wasn’t the right word,” Finn says quickly.  “They just hope that in time one of us will remember something, or do something that can bring an end to the nightmares.  Look around!  Umbra is on the brink of ruin, any fool can see that.  The dust blocks out most of the sun’s rays, the animals are gone, the plants are dying,” Finn pauses and gently pats the log he is sitting on, again I wonder what he might have done before the dust.  His voice has been stern but his gestures are kind.  “We won’t last.  In six months, maybe a year, all life on Umbra will be extinct.  The Keepers are offering us a way out.”

“A way out?  Are you mad!”  Clay shouts, throwing up his arms.  “You are being tricked.  Can’t you see that!  Some clever nightmare is tricking you out of your light.”

Finn pushes himself up from the log and rips off his goggles.  “Look in my eyes.   Are these the eyes of a man who is being fed on?” 

“They might not be feeding on you yet, but they will.  You’re a fool to believe a word spoken in sleep.” 

“It’s not a trick!  Look at all of our eyes!”  One by one, every person in the circle takes off their goggles.  “Tell me Hunter… what exactly is your plan?” Finn asks.  “Do you truly believe you can run forever?  And how do you plan to protect the girl?  We are outnumbered, and soon we will be dead.  But the Keepers are giving us a chance to fight back.” 

Clay lunges forward, grabs hold of Finn’s shirt.  “What are you suggesting, because the only way out of this world that I can see is death.  Are you asking us to die?”

The brothers are on their feet now, closing in on Clay.  I brace myself, ready to jump in and fight if I have to.  But Finn holds up a hand and the men back off.

Clay steps back, fists clenched, head tilted to meet Finn’s eyes.  “Answer the question, are you asking us to kill ourselves.” 

“No.  I am asking you to look around, to open your eyes to what is going on here.  Is this a world where babies are being born?  Where lives are being lived?”

Clay stands silent, his shoulders heaving up and down.

“Our world is done.”

“We can fight!” Clay protests.

“There aren’t enough of us left,” Finn says, shaking his head and I know he’s right.  “It won’t be long until everyone is dead.  But the Keepers are offering us a chance at another life… a fresh start.”

“Only first we have to die,” Clay says flatly. 

“We are already dead.  The fact that we’re still breathing is just a technicality, but not a single one of us has more than a week, maybe a month left.  The Keepers aren’t asking us to end our lives before our time comes.  All they are asking is that we commit our souls to their cause, so that we can come back and help them fight.”

“But what does that mean?”  I ask.

Clay spins and stares intently into my eyes.  He shakes his head almost imperceptivly and I imagine him tapping the back of my hand for “no,” hushing me by pressing his thumb against mine.   But he’s too far for code.  Only a few feet separate us, but it feels like miles.  I have spent the last few months relying on him for everything, in constant doubt of my own thoughts, ideas, following his every word, even when my gut told me not to.  It’s exhilarating to stand on my own two feet, to think for myself, to speak my mind.   

I take a deep breath, “I want to hear what they have to say.”  I address my next question to Finn, “what does it mean to join them?” 

“That you are willing to be born again.”

“But you said Umbra wouldn’t survive,” I say.

“You won’t come back to Umbra.  They will send you into a different world and when you’re old enough, they will find you and teach you how to fight.”

“This is madness,” Clay starts.

I cut him off, my voice small, brittle.  “I had a son…”

Clay stares at me, his expression slips into to shock and then just as quickly turns to stone—his mouth clamps shut, lips form a line. 

I never told Clay about Toby, and I imagine he isn’t happy I am giving my secrets to strangers. 

I take a breath and square my shoulders, no reason to stop now.  “He’s gone, died when the attacks started.  How do I know if the Keepers…”  The sentence hangs, and I have no idea how to finish it.  Will I see my son again?  Is he safe?  Is someone taking care of him?… that’s what I really want to ask.

Finn drops his hands to his sides, “I’m sorry.  The Keepers have never recruited from Umbra before.  Sleep has been problematic for our world for centuries and they didn’t want to risk those problems spreading into the other worlds.  But things have changed. Many worlds are under attack now and after seeing what happened here, they need us to help them fight.”

Clay laughs, “you keep talking about fighting, but you’re asking us to die!”

“No.  I’m asking you to live again.”

“You’re asking us to pledge our soul to some entity you met in sleep!” Clay spits. 

“They are human!  Come see for yourself.”

“So I give my soul to these HUMANS and then what?”

“Well…”

“You don’t know, do you!”  Clay laughs.  “Let’s pretend these Keepers have found a way to shove your soul into some other worldly womb.  And nine months later, you pop out.  Then what?  Tell me, Finn, what’s the one thing babies have in common?”

“I don’t have all the answers, but…”

“Then I’ll answer for you.  The one thing babies have in common is that they DON’T REMEMBER ANYTHING FROM BEFORE THEY WERE BORN.  How are you even going to know you are there to fight?  Come on Sunny, we’re leaving.”  

I hold my ground and listen to the thud, thud, thud of my heart, hear myself speak from somewhere far away, “I’m staying with them.”

Clay moves to me, puts his hands on my shoulders.  “They are asking you for your soul!  Do you understand that?  I’m sorry about your son, but he is somewhere better now and when you die, you will go there too”

“You don’t know that.”   I look away as tears streak down my cheeks… tears of regret and longing… of failure.  Toby, oh Toby, baby… mommies so sorry.  I should have protected you.

 “Sunny, listen to me.  Please.  Don’t trust these people.  Haven’t I been taking care of you?  Haven’t I kept you safe?”

“I will not sit back and let what happened here happen to another world, to another woman’s child!  Not when there’s a chance I can do something to stop it.”

“You don’t actually believe this, do you?”

“Stop.”  I reach for his hand.  “Nothing is certain anymore, but they are offering me something to believe in.  I need that.  Please…” I almost say Clay, stop myself.  “Please Hunter.  I understand if you don’t want to do this, but they’re right about one thing, no one is getting out of this alive.”

Clay shakes his head, opens his mouth as if to argue.

I press my thumb to his, giving him the sign for “shhhh,” 

“I would have died months ago if it weren’t for you.  I’m not asking you to come with me, not if you don’t want to.”  I try and smile as I reach out a hand and touch the small patch of skin above his beard.  “If anyone can survive this hell, it’s you.  But I need you to trust that I know what is best for me.  I can’t fight in this world, but that doesn’t mean I’m giving up.”

Clay closes his eyes but he doesn’t argue.  He leans into my ear, brushes his lips against my cheek, squeezes my hand three times and whispers, “I. Love. You.”  Then he steps back and without looking at me, turns and walks away. 

No one speaks, but all eyes face north.  I engage my sight and track Clay’s heat until it dims to a distant flicker.  Most turn away, but I keep watching long after the flick fades to nothing.