Ends Dream

Ends Dream
A Short Story
By Dr. R. D. Charbonneau



          IT ALWAYS SEEMS as if time stretches to no end when you are waiting for something. The greater your anxiety, the more it seems to stretch. The fact is time as a constant does not change, but time as our bodies and brain interpret it does. Our hearts beat a bit faster and our brains pack in more data in each second. Why? Adrenaline for one. It's that funny hormone that enters our blood and allows us to have greater strength. Speed increases. Time doesn't.

          When the adrenaline is present, but our bodies don't enact to use it, our brains interpret it as something is wrong with the body, as if it is paralyzed. Our subconscious acts as though death is approaching and the pineal body releases dimethyltryptamine, commonly referred to as DMT, into first the tuber cinereum where our eyes initially process the light signals from our eyes. The reaction dilates the entire optic mechanism. Like the neck of a beer bottle changed from long neck to wide mouth, more data is suddenly handled and time slows down. When we experience a special moment, like love at first sight, this can be so pronounced that time can seem to stand still.

          I know this first hand because the unconventional clothing I wear monitors my vital signs constantly. I know my heart beats faster when I'm waiting for a bus or for my name to be called.

          “Hu.” The auctioneer sitting at his desk after the event called out my name over the P.A. “Martin Hu.” He waited a few seconds, as I was rising from the fold-up chair. “Martin Hu.”

          The auctioneer saw me approaching his desk where he had my ticket and the paperwork his assistant had filled out and handed to him. I brought out my check book and sat down in the chair beside his desk.

          “I'D., please.” The auctioneer was a stocky man. His hair was gray and thinning. He looked at the Indiana State I.D. And noticed my membership card from the American Mathematical Society below it. “You're a doctor?”

          “A physicist.” I clarified. “Not a medicine man.”

          “I have a cousin who is a physicist.” He grinned at me. “She doesn't go to auctions. If she did she wouldn't be dressed like that either.” He stamped my paperwork and stamped the back of my check 'For Deposit Only' handing me my copy and my wallet back. Then he grinned. “Your flashing lights definitely let me know you were bidding.” He continued to inform me. “Your purchase will be held for ten days while your check clears.”

          “I'll have a semi and a driver here to pick up the aluminum in ten days then.” I'd made bids like that before in the industrial auctions. This one was in Elkhart. An RV manufacturer was closing its doors. The same guy held the events most of the time. I scooped up my effects, knocked on his desk as a parting gesture and made my way to the exit, ambling to the Greyhound station after grabbing a burger.
          Having a disease that keeps one from driving is a pain in the tush. You either ride a bus, a taxi, hire a limo or walk. Greyhounds weren't that bad, except for all the side stops. The next bus to Indianapolis was one of those with the scenic route. I barely made the coach and it was packed. The only seat was next to a red haired fellow probably twenty-five years my senior. He nodded to me as I took my place next to him. I watched as his eyes checked out my strange garb. I had my laptop open working on a design that would involve the aluminum.

          It was after six. The October sky was already pink and red along the Western scape. “Sky Blue Pink!” The old fellow in his eighties gave me a sidelong glance. His brogue defined his Irish nationality.

          “That's a beauty this evening, isn't it?” My Midwestern hosted Oxford defined mine.

          “Isn't that a bit hot?” He swirled his index finger referring to my spacesuit.

          “It's electrothermally heated and cooled.” I had the hood pulled back, sporting the electronics attached to the gorget. Luckily the man had washed and was wearing a sporty aftershave. If you smelled bad, they might not let you on the buses anymore. “Forty degrees hotter or cooler than the ambient if needs be.”

          “Are you sick or something?”

          “Sometimes I use that as an excuse, but the truth is I can't stand cigarette smoke.”

          “Phags! Yes.” He rolled his eyes. “Nasty things. Can't say I blame you a bit.” He kept craning his neck to satisfy more of his curiosity about the suit. “Where do you get one of those?”

          “I make them... or at least this one.” I smirked. “Nobody except me wants to wear one.”

          “As close as we are to Vatnajökull, we could use those in Northern Ireland.” He explained that he had come to America to purchase enough haz-mat suits for a couple hundred families because of the threat of ash from the Icelandic volcanoes.

          We continued the conversation and I explained to him about more of my own research about Yellowstone Park's caldera and other recently discovered bodies of water beneath the dry land of Colorado, Mexico, Michigan, Canada, Europe and, the worst of them, a sub-crustal ocean many miles beneath Asia near the Himalayan Mountains. The Irishman seemed held captive as I described how springs and surface waters both siphon and are driven by centrifugal force from the planet's interior and how Old Faithful, like many other geysers, were only about 300 years old and appeared to have formed after the Earth's crust had been punished by the last, so called, “Little Ice Age.” I showed him on my laptop some ideas for vessels that could save people from this impending new global deluge we are nearing.

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          I explained how people laughed at me over those designs and my warnings of a probably flood. I told him I had just drained my bank account to buy the aluminum and other materials to build the first one. The conversation turned to what happens when people die. I mentioned that I had some ideas for a machine that might let us see or travel into another dimension, so we might know, but it was just another dream. Mainstream scientists laughed at me for that too.

          I said I used to believe in Jesus and God till my other half, crippled with Multiple Sclerosis, had stopped breathing one day. I administered CPR and brought her back after about thirty seconds of breathing for her. Maybe it was just that she was only in the first stage of death, but she said there was no tunnel or bright light or angels. There was only cold, darkness and the awareness of that. It truly shattered any belief I had in an afterlife. This is all we have. Use it or lose it.

          I knew I was very tired. I saw the face of the Irishman and heard the snap of his fingers. “Rest, my young friend. Rest.” That seemed so odd because I'm sixty. I felt myself nodding off to sleep. I woke up and wondered how I had left the bus.

          I looked out at the horizon. It was black and brown and deep red. Above it the aurora was zipping across the Northwestern sky. Purple emanated. Lightning danced. Black smoke intermixed with fire and in the distance lay the remains of a pyroclastic cloud and its debris. It seemed the view was from a white, gold and gray marble stoop, perhaps a podium, amid ionic columns, only adorned with articulate glass bead work, but the structure was far more vast than anything I'd ever seen. There the smell of many pleasant fragrances met the senses.

          I looked down. Before me was a huge marble table. On it was a proportionally large lexicon, the cover bore one word “Life.” I looked to my right to see a stocky figure somewhat taller than me. Long wavy locks of reddish, golden gray hair flowed to the middle of his back. He wore no robes, but a loose white shirt, blue jeans and sandals.

          I knew this had to be the Christ. He didn't say anything at first, only motioning  for me to look to the scape before the volcano. At first all I could see was fog, creeping in with the vague odor of mildew. There were many great lakes I'd never known existed. As the wisps cleared I could see myriads of houses, automobiles, computers and most anything one could imagine to see in a scrapyard. As more of the mist lifted I saw billions of people in the midst of the junkyard. I could hear screams and wailing, but it made no sense. The people's mouths, eyes and ears had been sealed shut; grown over with fatty skin. All colors of people were there. Then the wailing became louder. I could see why. From the middle outward the ground was collapsing like sand swirling down the center of an hour glass. I turned to the Christ figure.

      He pointed at the book. It was open and an old fashioned quill pen was next to a bottle of ink. How quaint! I knew how to use one from days of making ink drawings.

          “Write the names of those I should save.” The Christ said.

          I took up the pen and dipped it into the ink. Suddenly names came piercing my mind. I was growing weak. I set the quill down and sat on a stone bench beneath me. My bottom felt wet. Had I peed? No I was sitting in a pool of blood. My blood and it was growing. I jumped to my feet.

          The Christ pointed to a huge, gleaming torus made of silver metal that was resting upon the left side of the vast podium. Perhaps a few hundred people, no maybe a thousand or more, were grouped around the star ship waving at me to join them.

        The Christ pointed at the machine, looking at me with wild fire in his glistening eyes. “Go!”

          “Sir! You must go!” The bus driver was gently shaking my shoulder. “We're in Indianapolis.”

          “Oh.” I blinked and woke up. “Sorry!” I smiled sheepishly. As I rose, I noticed my laptop was closed. I unzipped the flap on the front of my suit and stashed it back in its pocket. Standing up, I nodded to the seat near the window. “What happened to the fellow who was sitting there?”

          “You've been sitting alone in that seat the whole trip, Sir.” He looked at me in my strange attire. “Are you okay?”

          I had to admit I felt a bit tired. “Yes.” I thanked him and left the bus.

        My suit monitor was telling me my urine caches in the calves were filled. I went to the men's room and found an empty stall. Paid my quarter and went in. I lifted the first boot over the toilet seat and pushed the button on my left gauntlet's keyboard to open the drain. Out came the urine, but soon it was followed by blood. More than usual. The same came out of the other boot. I closed the valves and returned to the bus docks. My final bus to Muncie was boarding.

          On the bus I found a seat. The bus would arrive in Muncie about an hour later, then I'd hoof it the last mile home. It was 9:00 PM Indiana time. I drew out my laptop. When I opened it there was an envelope on the keys. In it was a list of several hundred names. Families waited. They wanted not only the suits, for which every persons tailor measurements were included, but the order was for 200 of the vessels. Attached was a folded check and a note. The note read:




          “I canceled my order to the other company. Please fill this as quickly as possible. You mentioned how much they all were. You seemed like you needed the sleep so I didn't bother you. I did the math. There's plenty here for the order and certainly enough profit for you to get your operation and the chemo. You aren't going to be much good to any of us if you don't make it.

Take care. See you soon.

Finn McCool. “




          I recognized that name from somewhere and decided to put it in a search engine. I opened the check. It was for two hundred million dollars. Yes. It was just the right amount to fill the order. I felt wet below again. I knew this time it wasn't blood. I punched the cell connection in my suit and called ahead for a taxi.