Ashes of Prophesy

A vivid dream while in a coma. A hallucination or prophecy?

Ashes of Prophecy

          The first thing Arlen noticed was the light. Soft, too soft, like dawn filtered through gauze. She blinked, her eyelids cracking open to a sterile white ceiling. Beeps and hums of machines surrounded her. A hand, her mother's, clutched hers, cold and trembling.

          "Thank heavens," her mother whispered, tears streaking her face. Her father leaned in, eyes red-rimmed, as if he'd aged a decade in the twelve weeks she'd been comatose.

          Arlen's throat burned. She tried to speak, but her voice emerged as a croak. "How long?"

          "Twelve weeks," her father said, smoothing her hair. "You had pneumonia. The doctors didn't know if you'd . ." He swallowed, unable to finish.

          Dreams. Oh, the dreams. They'd been so vivid, so real. She'd relive them in the void of her coma, over and over. A fiery mountain spewing black veins into the sky, scorching cities, burying them in ash. People screaming, running, vanishing under molten rivers. Three-fourths of the world's population is gone. She'd counted the corpses in her sleep, desperate to wake up and warn someone.

          Now, awake, she gripped her parents' hands. "I had a dream about a volcano," she said urgently. "In Wyoming. It erupts. It... kills millions. You have to believe me!"

          Her mother's laugh was brittle. "Sweetheart, your body was fighting for its life. Your brain--"

          "It wasn't just a dream!" Arlen's voice wobbled. "I saw the ash clouds covering half the planet. I saw people fleeing south. It's going to happen if we don't--"

          Her father pressed a finger to his lips. "Let's take it easy, Arlen." But his eyes darted to the TV in the hospital room. A news ticker scrolled at the bottom of the screen: Unusual Activity at Yellowstone Supervolcano. Scientists Monitoring Temperature Spikes.

          Three days later, the reports grew darker. Satellite images showed plumes of black smoke rising from Wyoming's Snake River Plain. The ground's temperature had jumped 20 degrees in 48 hours. "Probably a false alarm," her father said, though he'd stocked their home with bottled water and a first-aid kit. Arlen, pacing like a caged animal, watched the world edge toward her nightmare.

          Then, on the twelfth day, the earth screamed.

          Arlen was jolted awake by a deep, resonant thrum, like the growl of some primordial beast. Her parents rushed to her room as the tremors shook the house from its foundation. "It's starting!" she shouted, sprinting to the window.

          The sky over Europe had turned an eerie orange. But it was the images on TV that froze her blood: A mushroom cloud of ash and fire tore through Wyoming, a black sun swallowing the American Midwest. The eruption lasted 19 terrifying minutes.

          When the ground stilled, the silence was worse.

          The hospital became a refuge. Arlen's parents clutched her as emergency broadcasts blared. The volcano had hurled 280 cubic miles of ash into the stratosphere. Billowing clouds smothered North America. Europe's skies darkened under the fallout. Temperatures plummeted. Crops would die.

          "It's exactly like you said," her mother murmured, staring at Arlen, awe, and terror warring in her eyes. "How?"

          Arlen had no answer. Guilt gnawed at her. She'd seen the bodies, the panic, the desperate exodus to the equator where the air might still be clean. Now, her parents stood between her and the reality of it: She'd survived because she'd been asleep, while millions had been awake and unaware.

          The family joined the exodus south, hiking toward Switzerland as the world unraveled. They passed frozen lakes, ash-choked forests, and towns abandoned mid-evacuation. Arlen's dream had spared her the worst--but she knew what awaited them: starvation, disease, the slow death of civilization.

          One night, as they huddled under a tattered blanket, her father asked, "What now?"

          Arlen gazed at the bruised sky. The dreams had stopped. The future was written, but maybe--just maybe--the rest of the story wasn't.

          They walked on, footsteps silent in the ash.

Word Count: 659