Flashback/The Dinosaur Apocalypse: The Final Trilogy of Stories

Chapter 4

I got up and went down the stairs, found my peacoat and boots. “We just need to try it, is what I’m saying. We—I—need to know. That’s all.”

She sat up on one elbow. “And what if you see more than you bargained for—like with the girl in Seattle? What if you see something you can’t ever unsee? Huh? Do you ever think about that?”

I pulled on the thick coat, turned up its collar. “Honestly? After that trick we pulled with the welding glove?” I swung open the hatch and extended the step. “I doubt I’ll see anything at all.”

And then I left.

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The earth, meanwhile, had continued to abide; in spite of—or perhaps because of—losing most its human population. Nor was it particularly time-torn; not really—even after the cataclysm of the Flashback. Sirius was there, for example, as it had been since time immemorial: setting in the western sky like a beacon, telling me it was about 4:30 am. The morning tide still rushed in and rushed out. There was even a scavenging of seabirds—a largish species of pterodactyl, as I recall—that scattered as I walked toward the surf.

But then I was there; and I could walk no further. Then I was standing with the tide lapping my boots and my hand turned up—waiting; even as I released the clips and began unravelling the bandages. As I held my breath and braced for the ghosts—millions upon millions of them—pressing down on me from every nook and cranny of the world, driving me to distraction. As I prayed for lucidity but prepared for a deluge, a cacophony.

A cacophony which, to my relief and consternation, never arrived. Rather, the eyes merely slept; listlessly, torpidly—failing to open even a little, as shriveled as white prunes. I thought of a Halloween game from childhood, I still don’t know why: Here are his eyes, he loved looking at hands / Here are his ears, he can still understand ...

I scanned the beach and the abandoned vehicles (of which ours had been but one), the Shilo Inns at Ocean Shores, the faint glow of light to the east. There was nothing—not so much as a whisper. Alas, so we’d finally gone and done it; healed me, yes, but also killed something we hadn’t understood, and may yet have been—

That’s when I saw it: one of the eyes staring back at me (the one in the index finger), its golden iris glinting, its surface moist and bright. That’s when my whole body jolted as though a g*n had been fired and I could suddenly see myself as it saw me—gaunt as a leper, pale as the moon. It’s when I realized I was no longer on the beach in Ocean Shores at all but standing in the sail of a nuclear submarine in Port Angeles—standing next to a man named Captain O’Neil, I knew (though didn’t know how I knew), watching him scratch something into the hull with a knife.

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It was a spiral, however crude—like the garden maze in my dream. Nor was it alone, for he had etched many others all along the bridge. Indeed, he would have carved still more had the Mouse not disturbed him (that being the nickname of one Pang In-Su: teenage deafmute and valued member of what was left of the Sarpedon’s crew—although, again, how I actually knew that I couldn’t possibly say).

“The Mouse is up early,” said O’Neil, helping her up through the cold, damp hatchway, “And to what do I owe the privilege?”

Pang leaned against the gunwale and took out her pocket notebook, scribbled, I had a dream and couldn’t get back to sleep.

“Oh?” The captain moved to elaborate but paused—and I thought for a moment I’d been apprehended (I was standing directly next to Pang). But he only leaned against the ship himself so that both were facing the harbor. “What kind of dream?”

I joined them at the gunwale and watched as she thought about it—it was obvious she’d read his lips; as she studied the spirals etched in the metal. Like that, she wrote at last, indicating one of the markings. It was like that—only a labyrinth.

There was a shuffling sound as a third person entered (a fourth if you counted me); who poked their head up through the hatch—Puckett was his name, Engineering Chief Puckett—and said, (taking note of the Mouse), “Oh, hello.” And to O’Neil: “Sorry to bother you—sir! But—ah, we’ve got a bit of a situation down in ... Down ...”

But O’Neil wasn’t listening—or if he was, he’d given no indication of it—choosing instead to keep his back turned toward him; choosing instead to look at the sky—a sky that remained dark enough that the so-called Flashback Borealis could be clearly seen: stretched across it like an emerald shroud, flickering within like a summer storm. “Mackerel skies and mare’s tails, soon will be time to shorten sails.” He added compactly: “Down in the crew’s quarters ... something involving dreams. Am I warm, Chief?”

Puckett hesitated, appearing flummoxed. “Why, yes ... yes, sir. I—but how did—”

“I want you to call a meeting ASAP and I want everyone—and I do mean everyone—there; present and accounted for, is that understood? Everyone on the boat. That means every department head, chief, petty officer, and seaman. Tell them immediately; the galley will suffice.” He looked at the Mouse (named so because of her big ears) and gestured toward the hatch. “Miss Pang ...”