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A Thousand Years Later
mily Mayhall stared out the window,
determined to ignore the letter. Below her, the Pacific Ocean sparkled
Caribbean-green in the early afternoon sun. A stiff onshore breeze
whipped whitecaps on the waves and hungry pelicans dove for lunch, while
the homeless of Venice Beach worked the boardwalk. Or at least, what
was left of it.
Most of them lived in the block-long chasm that
loomed in the distance; an area once known as Muscle Beach. Her team had
been the first on-scene after that chunk of coastline had vanished.
Emily shivered. It was one thing to chase disasters for a living. It was
another when they happened in your own backyard.
In spite of her
intentions, Emily’s gaze drifted to the registered letter that mocked
her from its perch amid the clutter on the counter. It had been there
all week and at the postal store before that. Sighing, she decided she
had suffered long enough. Opening it couldn’t be worse than imagining
what misery it might bring.
Rising from the overstuffed armchair,
she crossed to the counter and lifted the official-looking envelope in
the air. For the umpteenth time, she gazed at it intently, trying to
divine the message within.
As usual, Emily divined nothing.
It
grated that she’d thrown away precious dollars to develop a sensing
ability Shalane had insisted she possessed. That she had listened to the
shaman in the first place was part of the rub. Regaining the
self-esteem her mother’s tongue had taken from her was difficult enough.
Avoiding others with the same agenda was harder still. On the surface,
they looked like everyone else.
Emily eyed the letter. If it was a
debt that hadn’t been listed in her already-discharged bankruptcy, the
creditor was up shits creek. That’s what her Canadian friend would say
if Emily were to solicit her advice. Of course, she hadn’t. And
couldn’t. Not without giving her new identity away.
Dismissing
the guilt, Emily ripped open the envelope and searched the solitary
sheet of linen for an unpaid balance due. There were no numbers, just a
request to contact the office of Mitchell Albom Wainwright III Esquire,
whose address was in Atlanta, Georgia. The letter was dated January 11,
2042, more than a month ago. What did Mitchell Albom Wainwright the
Third want?
She folded the paper, stuffed it back in the
envelope, and tossed it on the counter. Outside, the surf broke over the
jetty, sending spray dancing high against the blue sky.
The wave
washed inland and surged back toward the sea, stirring a need in Emily
that was palpable. It was a crystal-clear day and she could think of no
better cure for the fear that plagued her. She needed to run.
Fishing
sunglasses and her lone key from the bottom of her purse, she stopped
to hug Ralph. He mewed and blinked sleepy amber eyes, pretending to be
annoyed. His purring told her otherwise. She planted a kiss on the spot
between his cheek and ear.
“Bye, Ralphy. I’m going for a run.”
He
yawned and stretched on the back of the armchair, then set about
licking the fur she had mussed. He was OCD like that, a compulsive
washer. The two of them made a fine pair.
Scanning the tiny
apartment, Emily dug beneath papers to retrieve a worn headband. Only a
few boxes dotted the floor of the three rooms. The furniture was gone
except for the bed and armchair. The maintenance guy had promised to
take those.
“Back soon, Raf-feller!” Emily called as she turned the two bottom locks and the deadbolt.
A
damp wind greeted her, lifting curls the color of crimson and gold, and
with them, Emily’s spirits. Inhaling deeply, she savored the briny tang
of the ocean air.
An aging gull landed on the railing beside
her, mewing as if greeting an old friend. Another swooped down and
started a ruckus, no doubt sensing a mark in the making. Disappointed
when Emily had nothing for them to eat, they raced to the beach
screaming challenges at one another before continuing the search for a
handout.
Smiling at their antics, she braced her hands on the low
stucco wall and leaned against it to rise on tippy-toes, stretching her
calves. A long, high whistle shrilled from the nearby Bottle Brush
tree. Amid its fluffy red blooms, a parrot mimicked Emily’s movements,
yellow head bobbing up and down.
She placed her foot midway up
the wall, leaned into a thigh stretch, and squatted before stretching
her abdominal muscles. The entire warm-up took only a minute, just long
enough for more parrots to join her audience.
“Hello lovelies,”
Emily called to the chattering birds. She zipped her jacket and fixed
the headband over ears too sensitive to endure the Santa Ana winds.
Fingering
the Taser in her jacket pocket, she said a silent prayer she wouldn’t
need to use it and dashed down the three flights of stairs to the
street. Turning away from the beach, Emily jogged a short block to
Pacific Avenue and followed it to the park.
She was sweating by
the time she entered the gates, but the cursed letter dogged her,
attached to her psyche by a thread of her own weaving. Determined to
outrun it, she increased her pace, counting to sync her breath to her
stride, “One, two, three, four. Five, six, seven, eight—”
Her toe
caught on a lifted corner of sidewalk. Quick reflexes and cat-like
agility kept Emily on her feet, but she chomped down hard on her bottom
lip, drawing blood. Crying out in pain and frustration that had nothing
and everything to do with biting her lip, she ran even faster.
Though
buckled and broken by myriad quakes, the neighborhood survived,
unrepaired by a government that had run out of money and leadership long
ago. Emily spat the blood in the sand beside the trail.
“Budget
cuts, my ass.” It was the bullshit reason they’d given for firing her.
But it was really because Emily had identified a pattern in the chaos.
No sooner had she shared her theory with her boss than she’d been out on
her ass with barely a severance package to show for her years of
service.
But not before Cyclone Charlotte literally ripped her
fiancé from her arms. Emily pressed her tongue against her jagged lip,
not wanting to think about Trey. He had saved her life, but it had cost
him his.
“Think of the government. Think about Chester. Be mad,
goddammit!” Her ex-boss, ex-friend, and one-time lover had sold Emily
out. His betrayal wasn’t limited to her dismissal, either. Chester made
sure Emily would never work again by having her blacklisted.
She
zigged around a barrier and caught a flash of movement. Yanking the
Taser from her pocket, Emily dropped to a crouch, heart thudding. It
turned out to be her favorite homeless lady, wearing layers of warring
colors. Emily relaxed.
The grinning Maude waved and threw her
head back in a cackle, revealing gums sporting nary a tooth. Pocketing
her weapon, Emily hailed the leather-faced woman and left the erstwhile
actress with a crumpled dollar bill.
A fresh gust of wind whipped
the flags overhead. They were stacked atop one another and lowered to
half-mast. Who had died? Keeping up with politics was a past-time Emily
had never pursued. Or politicians, either.
“Actors, now, are a
different story,” she muttered to herself, passing the building Caleb
MacLaine had reclaimed. She eyed the Einstein posit emblazoned on the
side: “Imagination is More Important than Knowledge.”
As a
scientist, Emily had no trouble with Einstein’s theories of motion and
relativity, or even gravitational waves and wormholes. But she couldn’t
fathom how this maxim could possibly be true. Seeking knowledge had been
her lifelong pursuit.
At the Muscle Beach Chasm, she detoured
through an alley between two mansions. Riotous masses of coastal
geraniums and hot-pink bougainvillea spilled over every surface of the
patio to her right.
On her left, coastal oaks trailed Spanish
moss. One had been given a whimsical face, complete with lips and nose.
She waved to the tree-man, grateful Venice Beach had mostly been spared.
Many coastal cities were wiped out completely, leaving gaping
sinkholes and putrid pits of ash and rubble and dirty saltwater. Chunks
of the California coastline had succumbed to the advancing sea. Nearby
Manhattan and Huntington Beaches were both gone, with a million people
lost and presumed dead.
Emily had worked those disasters and
consulted on others. Pre-Charlotte. Pre-Trey. She had participated in
recoveries around the globe, even led a few.
She’d been told she
was bossy, but got the job done, working longer and harder than most of
her peers. Until six months ago when she’d been handed her walking
papers. She snorted with disgust. She’d had her fill of studying
disasters anyway.
Which really only meant Emily had lost her nerve.
She
cut across an eerily-vacant Bel Air Avenue, fingers gripping the Taser
in her pocket. Had more of the locals packed up and left? Many wouldn’t,
or couldn’t, in spite of the continued and constant warnings.
Either
they’d fooled themselves into thinking the worst was over or prayed it
wouldn’t happen to them. Shame stung Emily, knowing she could be counted
in their number.
At the precarious shortcut, she slowed to pick
her way through the debris to the beach, then jogged a while in the
shifting sand. All but the ocean and its wildlife faded. Gulls cavorted
in the crashing waves and pelicans dove for an afternoon meal. The salty
spray soothed Emily’s soul. The sun coaxed a smile to her lips.
Then
the stench of old death assaulted her senses and she stumbled and
retched. Unable to not look, Emily bit back a sob for the innocent sea
lion rotting on the beach, even as her rapidly-sorting, cataloging brain
compared the reek of old death to the shambles of her life at the
present.
“Shut up, dammit,” she cried in anguish.
Keeping
an eye out for obstacles, she settled into a blistering pace, anxious to
escape both life and death. It was something Emily pondered a
lot—escape. Change your name, use cash, stay off the grid. With a new
identity and tricks her mother had perfected, even a novice could
disappear.
So, reeling from Trey’s death and Shalane’s unwanted
advances, Emily had assumed a new identity. One taken from the ledger in
her mother’s box. She had chosen the first name on a long list of
aliases they used over the years, and Ebby Panera became Emily Mayhall.
But
she wasn’t her mother and living this way felt wrong. On New Year’s
Eve, alone and lonely, Emily had resolved to find her true self and to
be it no matter what. So far, she hadn’t a clue what that was.
Unease
stirred in the pit of her stomach. She glanced over both shoulders and
detoured inland. Unbidden, a puzzle she’d been pondering earlier snicked
into place. Her mother’s box, the registered letter, and the recurring
dreams were all connected. They had to be.
The day she’d signed
for the registered letter, Emily had tossed it on the counter unopened.
But a compulsion to retrieve her mother’s wooden box from its hiding
place had seized her and wouldn’t let go.
She had fallen asleep
leafing through a remarkably-preserved papyrus tome contained within.
Delicate hand-drawings of dragons, birds, and animals, along with maps
of places that no longer existed filled the pages in a flowing, lacy
hand. The language was so cryptic Emily had yet to discover its origins.
Not that she had tried very hard.
Upon falling asleep that
night, the dreams had come in fits and spurts so urgent Emily woke in a
sweat. Each time she had fallen back asleep, the dreams continued.
In
every dream, she was a druid priestess in times gone by, fighting to
save the life of one man. A royal who would be both her destiny and
downfall. An unknowing diverter of disasters.
Clearing the last
line of beach cottages, Emily faltered when a curtain of sand pelted her
face. Sputtering, she brushed the grit away, along with the haunting
dreams, the box, and the letter. She would think about those later.
She
pounded the boardwalk, lungs laboring, and avoided the eyes of the few
locals who scurried to let her pass. In the distance, her destination
bobbed into view. Battered and shorter than its original length, the
Venice Pier jutted reassuringly into the agitated sea.
Pumping
harder, she ignored the pain that pierced her side and rounded the
point. A woman with blond, flyaway hair appeared in her path. Unable to
stop or even slow down, Emily plowed into her, ears assaulted by a sharp
squeal as they tumbled to the ground. Fire shot up Emily’s forearm as
her palms bore the brunt of her fall.
Beneath her groaned a
female version of the Pillsbury Dough Boy, eyes clenched tight. Fear
turned Emily’s innards to liquid and her adrenaline spiked. Leaping to
her feet, she dashed away pulling her hood over her head.
Of all
the french-fried luck. The woman she had bowled over was none other than
her stalker, Shalane Carpenter. Shaman, sorceress, evangelist, creep.
“Come back, you fucking lunatic!” Shalane screeched after Emily. “Come back here, you—” Wind and distance garbled the rest.
Emily
sped for the cover of the decrepit pier, praying Shalane hadn’t seen
her face. When the path dumped her on the far side of the jetty, she
bent to gulp air, lungs blazing. On legs of rubber, and guts threatening
to hurl, she sidled to a bench and doubled over in pain.
“I think I ruptured something,” she gasped.
An
unkempt veteran leapt from the bench, accusing eyes frantic beneath
black, bushy brows. He backed away quickly, putting several cracked
spans of concrete between them.
If Emily could have laughed, she
would have. Instead she sucked in air and fought to keep from losing her
meager lunch. She collapsed on the seat the homeless man had vacated
and tucked chilled hands beneath sweaty armpits. Soon the fuzziness
faded from her sight and she no longer felt like puking.
When there was still no sign of Shalane, Emily told herself the run-in was coincidental. The shaman hadn’t known it was her.
Though
far from convinced, a satisfied sigh escaped Emily’s lips. The jog
might have brought her close to discovery, but it had eased the
unbearable tension building in her chest since the dreams began.
Slouching
low, Emily stared at the sea. Waves broke angry against the reef a
hundred yards out, whipped to a frenzy by yet another storm brewing in
the Pacific Ocean. Swells upward of ten feet slapped the underside of
the pier before rushing to the beach. Onlookers gathered to watch a pair
in wetsuits battle the big surf.
Emily dug a fist into her side and groaned when the letter popped in her head.
“Go away!” she demanded, wishing her brain would obey.
It
wasn’t like Emily had any credit left to ruin. Not after losing her job
and the resultant bankruptcy. She had a little cash from the sale of
her stuff. But come Friday it was official—she would be out on the
street with no job, no home, and nowhere to go.
And now, in spite
of all her many precautions, Emily’s stalker likely knew her
whereabouts. She swiveled to search both ends of the boardwalk. No
Shalane.
But her relief was short-lived. The deeper, primitive
ache of destitution twisted Emily’s gut. She wrapped her arms around her
scuffed knees and buried her face, willing the dam not to break. If it
did, the tears might never stop.
“Ahhh-wen.” At the edge of awareness, a musical voice crooned the name from Emily’s dreams.
Her
head jerked up, startling a gull that was picking through a metal waste
can. On a shriek, it took flight and wheeled toward the sea. Shivers
danced along the nape of Emily’s neck. Who else knew about Awen?
The
number of surfers and spectators was growing, but no likely culprits
there. Maybe it was a snatch of a song on the salt-laced breeze. Or was
Emily hearing things, on top of everything else?
“Stay in the
moment,” she muttered with a calm she didn’t feel. “Now is all that
matters. Those people are okay. That gull is okay. That homeless man is
okay. Shalane didn’t see you, so you’re okay, too. Now quit the
waterworks and stop freaking.”
In defiance, her mind conjured the
aqua clunker Emily had purchased after the bank repossessed her sexy
little coupe. Tears blurred her vision and Emily rubbed her face briskly
in her hands. The salt-eaten sedan had a large back seat. Which was
good, considering her collision put the kibosh on her plan to seek
refuge at the Venice Mission.
Replaying the crash in her head,
Emily had to grin. It’d felt good to deck that sadistic bitch, even if
by accident. Only now she would have to get away from here, money or no
money. And as Emily Mayhall, she didn’t know a soul. Not here or
anywhere else.
A long-forgotten scent jolted her awareness and was gone before Emily could give it a name.
“Ahhh-wen.”
More thought than sound, the druid moniker tickled her inner ear.
Baffled, she stood to search the boardwalk, the beach, and the sea.
A
new and different foreboding crept upon her, more disturbing than
Shalane or homelessness. Like molten metal, it trickled slowly down
Emily’s spine and spread through her body, triggering her instinct to
run.
