Now that I’m awake, my thoughts are free of the muddled chains of Nightmare. I can think clearly and pull up all the knowledge and lessons I’ve lived and learned.
News reports have only ever spoken about the endless Tunnel of Death. They never knew about the world beyond the Tunnel. What did Crixus call the dreamscape? Tenebra? Surely someone would have woken back up and said something.
I open my laptop and search the term. All that comes up is that it’s related to the Latin word tenebrae which means “darkness.” Seems appropriate. But no news clips, no blog posts, not even a Tweet about this world in the Nightmare.
But people are there. Erik. James. Crixus. Maybe they don’t wake up anymore. So then what have they done with their bodies?
That’s the darkest part of the virus. Once you’ve managed to survive the first 22 days of being infected, you’re trapped in the virus forever—never to wake—leaving your body at the mercy of whoever’s with you.
Nole and I had each other. I was going to take care of his comatose body for as long as I could. Keep him alive. We were going to either find the cure or “borrow” a LifeSuPod—a Life-Support Pod—until we figured it out.
But now I have no one. Once I’m trapped in the virus, I’ll have at best a few days before my body starves to death. And yet, I’m not afraid, though I probably should be. Call it ignorance or blind hope, but I think I found the missing part to our cure.
All this time Nole and I were trying to figure out how to eradicate the mutation that took over everyone’s mind. But we don’t need to counteract the virus, we need to rewrite it. It’s nothing more than a dark, twisted dreamscape.
Dreamscapes don’t create themselves. Someone made this place. It was programmed.
Which means it can be hacked.
I lurch for my notebook and pen. Laptop would be faster, but I can’t waste the charge. Best to write it out and then upload a photo of my notes. I pull a candle out of the box of dollar-store candles we stocked up on before things got so serious. I light it, then peek out the window. Night. Not even a whisper of dusk.
I don’t know what I expected. It’s already past nine. But since my Sleeps come at 6:00 a.m. I’ll never see the sun again. I haven’t seen it the past couple wake times—not fully. But it’s still a hard fact to swallow.
I pull out my time card and mark my new status, filling in one more hour bubble to indicate the progression of the virus. Only seven more Sleeps.
I stuff the paper back into my pocket as if I can crinkle up the knowledge along with it. Then I take a fresh stick of gum. I’m running low—just a few sticks left. The bright orange sends a sharp zing to my tongue. It’s my favorite brand because it tastes like more than a mouthful of sugar. It has depth.
Nole used to make fun of me. “You like your gum like you like your dreamscapes. Layered and overcomplicated.”
I let my memory of him fuel me. As I write my thoughts, my brain speeds after the ripple effects of what this Nightmare dreamscape could mean, how we could change it. I mean, how I could change it. The Draftsman in me wakes up, passion and studies multiplying in my memory. Instead of always feeling one step behind Nole and his science skills, I finally feel like I could be the person to do this.
The person to bring the world a cure.
I force myself not to rush, despite the clicking secondhand from our battery-operated analog clock growing louder and louder. I think through every ripple effect, every potential outcome. When I need a break, I spend it sketching the coliseum on fire.
It takes hours to finish my notes and reconcile them with Nole’s equations. When I finally think I have something to work with, I pull up Nole’s neglected video channel. The last time I updated it was after Nole’s death. His followers deserved to know.
Now there’s a glimmer of hope, and I can’t keep that from them. From those who are still alive, that is.
I do a quick Live video, sharing how I’ve had a breakthrough for the cure.
“I’m still working on it. I have Nole’s notes and share his blood. It’s not the end yet.” I almost mention that there’s an exit to the Tunnel, but at the last minute I keep that information to myself. The world outside of the Tunnel almost killed me and resulted in my being trapped in the coliseum for gladiator servitude. From this perspective, the Tunnel almost seems safer.
Is that how Nole died? He escaped the Tunnel and the Spores got him? Burned to death from the coliseum flames? Died in the gladiator Arena I’ve yet to see?
I’ve hardly finished filming the Live when comments roll in and several people click the “thumbs up.”
>>I needed this today. Even if it goes nowhere, I needed the glimmer of hope.
>>I’m willing to try anything at this point. Even if it poisons me.
I glance at the clock. 5:00 a.m. Already I’m a mere hour from reentering the Nightmare. Did I really spend all my Awake time working on this already? It feels like I only just woke up.
I move faster, stuffing a cold hard-boiled egg into my mouth. I toss some feed into the chicken coop and gather one more egg. Then I spend the final 30 minutes looking at my notes. Double-checking and pushing my focus to deeper levels than any professor ever achieved.
If I’m going to rewrite the Nightmare dreamscape, I need ImagiSerum. Fresh, unused, unprogrammed ImagiSerum to mix with Nole’s cure. To write my own dreamscape that counteracts the Nightmare.
I don’t need to create a new world. I merely have to create the end of one. The serum needs to tell the brain, The dreamscape is over, time to wake up. Just like when people sit at the ImagiLife parlor and their 60 minutes are over.
The dreamscape kicks them out.
At first I consider finding an ImagiLife parlor to see what stock might be left in the back, but all that stock will have been pre-programmed. No, the best place to get unadulterated ImagiSerum is the university.
I still have Nole’s keys.
Time to break the law.
“I don’t care if you die, as long as you die with style,” Crixus says from the front of the mess hall.
I’ve only barely entered the broad, doorless entryway to find him addressing all the sleepy-eyed noxiors at what I assume must be breakfast. This Roman version of a mess hall is as large as a public-school lunchroom but with low ceilings and rough, wooden tables instead of the typical foldable particleboard ones.
I slip onto an open bench nearest the door.
“Wrong table, mister.” A woman in the middle of the bench nudges me with her elbow. She seems to be in her late twenties, maybe early thirties and has a splash of freckles across her cheeks. In another life she’d seem welcoming, but the unyielding set to her grim face matches the battle-worn leather gladiator clothing on her tense body.
Wrong table? Surely she’s kidding. What is this, high school? And she’s head cheerleader? Except older.
