The Warning

The bed shook so hard that Mike Swayze rattled off its softness like an old car falling apart as it drove down a rutted road. “Earthquake!” he thought as he pulled himself off the hard tiles. From somewhere near by, an emergency siren was wailing like a banshee on meth. His heart beat savagely and he blinked sleep from his eyes, glad for the first time that Lisa had gone to Connecticut to visit her parents.

Connecticut didn’t have middle of the night quakes that dumped you to the ground. No, Lisa would be safe.

Just as he’d been taught since childhood, he scrambled to his feet and started for the door frame of his bedroom closet.

Except that he wasn’t in his bedroom.

He froze, a frown narrowing his eyes to slits, and stumbled as the jarring motion continued. Placing a big hand against a wall, he leaned there, trying to catch his breath, trying to catch his bearings.

This wasn’t his bedroom. In fact, it wasn’t anywhere in his house. That was clear.

But that was all that was clear.

Instead of the huge California king bed that accommodated both his enormous dimensions and Lisa tucked in beside him, he’d toppled off a narrow, ugly twin bed. The mattress was thin, the frame metal. A flimsy curtain covered most of a window at the head of the bed but he could see lights outside, flashing by with a speed that left Mike even more confused.

If such a thing was possible. And, he thought to himself, it obviously was.

Cars? he wondered but knew that couldn’t be right. The lights were moving with such incredible speed. No… That wasn’t right. It wasn’t the lights that were moving. It was him. Or wherever he was. Whatever this was.

The noise of motion wasn’t coming from outside, he realized with a start. It was coming from within, from beneath his feet. He listened more carefully.

This was a train. The knowledge hit him as suddenly as he’d hit the floor moments before. And the alarm he’d heard hadn’t been any kind of emergency signal. It was the train’s whistle.

And… Music.

There was music – had been music all along, Mike realized. It was quiet, almost smothered by the noise that filled the little room but it was there. An old song, one his sister listened to incessantly when she was in one of her ‘emo moods’. Not that the song was black, like her disposition would become during those days, but… He knew the song.

'Cause tonight's the night the world begins again …

Mike knew the song. For whatever reason, its familiarity provided him with a fragile layer of comfort. But as he began to feel the rhythm of the motion beneath his feet, as he began to allow the music to take the edge off his apprehension, a voice jolted through the gentle melody.

“This is an emergency news alert. Unknown forces are … The world is…’ The polished voice of the newscaster broke. The man’s words hiccuped with uncertainty and, like cloth tearing, his calm began to ravel. “There’s something, someone… News reports out of Washington DC., London, Mexico City, , Beijing, Moscow… There are violent riots worldwide. The cause is unknown but all major cities across the globe are under attack by their own residents. These are not normal riots. Reports indicate that people have lost all control of their faculties. Murders are rampant. The violence appears to spread with contact. If you are in a safe place, do not leave. Turn off all external air sources and turn on any air purification systems available. Drink filtered water if it is available. Do not come in contact with anyone outside your home. Do not open the door to anyone. The cause of this behavior is unknown. If you are in a public place, seek shelter immediately and avoid contact with anyone who appears to be infected. There is no --”

The speakers crackled and were filled with the sounds of glass shattering, yelling, incoherent voices, a single, tortured scream and then... static.

The Goo Goo Dolls returned.

Hist’ry starts now…

Mike frowned, aware that the hair on the back of his neck, as close-cropped as it was, had come to sharp attention with the final seconds of the newsman’s report.. None of that made sense to him. No sense. In his years of training, in the Academy, on the streets and in more secretive, international fields, none of that had any bearing in the reality he knew.

“Work it through,” he said aloud. “Break it down and work it through.”

He stood in the sleep car of a train, of that he felt certain. Certain was good. Being in a train was not.

Mike had no memory of boarding a train, no memory of being ordered out of San Francisco and no idea what had happened since he kissed Lisa good-bye at the airport and started for home.

Had he gotten home?

“Did I?” he asked the empty cabin. He shrugged huge shoulders. He had no idea.

He and Lisa had debated taking BART to the airport but decided on a drive. They’d loaded into the car far earlier than necessary to make her flight and stopped for a leisurely brunch. Then he’d driven to SEO, kissed her hard and enveloped her in his hug, squeezing just tight enough to elicit a tiny, reproachful squeak.

She’d drawn away and slapped playfully at his chest. “If you want to squash me,” she’d teased, “you ought to pick a more private place.” She’d gestured to the crowd surging around them.

He’d looked around, considered and nodded down at her. “You’re right. There are too many witnesses here to commit that level of crime.”

“Oh?” She’d arched perfect eyebrows and grinned. “What kind of crime would you suggest?”

Tweaking her chin, he’d made promises about the night of her return that left an elderly, blue-haired granny smiling with mingled surprise and pleasure.

“Enjoy it now, you two,” she’d advised loud enough to be heard over the din. “One day, it will all be memories.”

“Sweet ones?” Lisa asked as the woman moved on.

“That will be up to the two of you.” And then the woman was gone, swallowed by the milling masses.

Mike walked Lisa to the security section, considered flashing a badge to go further and patted his wife’s bottom, instead. “Have a good trip,” he said as he kissed her with more gentleness than before.

She made a face. “With my parents?”

“They’re not all bad. Look at their product.”

After he left the airport, he’d considered driving down the coast, but opted for home. MacArthur, his lolling-tongued German Shepherd was waiting and wouldn’t appreciate more time out in the yard. Sure, the yard was shaded and Mac had better accommodations out there than lots of San Franciscans, plus his own salt-water pool, but… He turned the car to the north and started that was as the sun finished it’s climb to the highest point in the sky and began the descent that would end with it melting into the ocean.

One minute he was driving. The next…

The next he was here.

Mike felt at his waist for the Glock he always carried, partly out of duty and partly because he felt as naked without it as a man might feel if a network television show highlighted him in the shower. Scrubbing his

balls. While singing. Opera.

The revolver wasn’t there. Neither were his wallet, badge or cell phone, he confirmed, patting his pockets.

No gun, no dog, no phone, no idea where he was or how he’d gotten here.

“Good times,” he muttered to himself. Sarcasm, his own or that of his partners on the rare occasions he had a partner, always calmed him. This time it didn’t.

He ran a hand through his hair, not as thick as it had been ten years ago, and prepared himself both mentally and physically for his entry into the corridor of the sleep car. He geared up for any enemy that might be waiting for him there with no idea who it might be. According to the announcement, it could mean anyone at all.

He swung the door wide, stepped into the train corridor, broad shoulders ready to take a hit, fists ready to deliver one and…

Stopped.

There was no one. Nothing.

Mike Swayze felt sweat on his forehead, under his arm pits, running down his back. He’d been unaware of it until now, but now it was more than happy to make its presence known to him. Swiping at the moisture on his face, he jerked to sudden realization. Grabbed for the door to ‘his’ room. Missed. Cursed. It clicked shut, automatically locking. He had no place to retreat.

He seldom took that action. Retreat was rarely in his vocabulary but he was smart enough to realize that a backward-advance had saved his life on more than one occasion. With that avenue cut off, he scanned the hallway. Both directions.

If a mouse was aboard the train, a fly, a mosquito, it didn’t move. Neither did people, although the big man had to wonder who might be crouching, waiting in one of the adjoining rooms..

The rocking of the train felt more natural now and Mike started down the narrow hallway, aware of every sleeping car entrance, of every possible point of attack. He could have saved the mental effort. The train appeared to be empty.

Not that that was good news. Or, maybe it was. Mike was far beyond guessing at this point. Even his instinct, usually sharp as the knife he used on camping trips to filet fish or cut saplings, was quiet.

He left the sleeping car and entered a car filled with rows of bench seats, paired off so that each set faced each other. But the car proved to be as empty as the first. Mike walked forward with great care and stealth but, when he reached the door at the other end, had not found anyone – not foe, which he expected, or friend.

As he started through the door to the next compartment, a scent hit him, bringing his mind alive with memories. Frowning, Mike breathed deeply. Russian vodka and Sbiten, he realized, and his mouth watered. Strange. He hadn’t graced Moscow with his unwelcome presence in… What… 18 years.

He remembered that mission. Acting as a tourist, he’d hit the nightclubs and hookah bars every night, watching, laughing, pretending to be drunk so often he felt he deserved an Oscar. All the while, as part of a ‘self-guided tour’, he and his partner worked, taking photos and such detailed mental notes of a certain Russian politician and his goings-on that he’d received a commendation in the Company.

He’d received a commodification.

His partner, a pretty young blonde from the southern part of Alabama, had received a bullet and an early grave. It had gone badly so quickly. So quickly. They’d almost gotten out when she was identified and taken out. He slipped past in the chaos of their own making. ‘How’, he’d never managed to understand. ‘Why’ was still in question. But he’d made it. And she hadn’t.

He pushed the memory away as he shoved through the door and into the next compartment. The sound of the train racing along tracks filled his ears, the car appeared the same and… Just as empty. This time, Mike strode forward at full speed, or at least as close to full speed as the swaying motion of the train allowed. Half way there, he slowed. What was that? Out of the corner of his eye he would swear he just saw the Eiffel Tower. It hadn’t blurred past in a flash as other things out side the windows ha, but appeared in each window, slow enough that he got a perfect view of the tower.

He felt Lisa's lips brush his cheek and hear her soft whisper.

“I love Paris. Thank you for sharing this with me. And… I love you, Mikey.”

No one else ever called him ‘Mikey’. Not since his fifth birthday when he’d asked his mom to stop calling him that ‘baby-name’ as a birthday present. He’d done it politely of course. Or, at least, as politely as any five-year-old could make such an important, life-altering request.

So now it was only Lisa. He had, at first, tolerated it. Then, he’d gotten used to it. Recently, he’d relished it.

I do love you, Michael Swayze.” She looked up into his dark eyes, a sudden seriousness taking his breath away as he stared down.

“That’s a pretty ballsy thing to say on Friday the 13th. Don’t you think you might jinx it?”

She smiled, showing snow white teeth in a tanned, petite face. “I don’t believe in jinxes. You don’t, either.”

He’d nodded.

About half an hour later, the terrorist attacks began.

“I love you, Mikey,” she’d whispered over and over that day.

Mikey.

He heard the intimacy in her voice with every proclamation.

And he doubted with sad, sharp certainty that he’d never hear it from her sweet mouth again.

That he’d never hear anything from her again.

He shook the feeling as best he could, moving through the car without looking again at the windows.

He hesitated before shoving through the door to the next train car, hoping there would be no visions, no memories awaiting him there. He breathed a prayer to that effect, although he hadn’t prayed in … a very long time. He’d given up on prayer when it didn’t save his mother. That woman, the most gentle and witty woman he’d known until he met Lisa, withered. As cancer ate her body and will, he prayed. And he prayed. And he waited for God to listen and follow through on what Mike knew had to be in His will.

But Mom died, anyway.

“Michael,” the preacher said, months after the funeral, “if God does what you want instead of what He wants, then, just like that, you become God. He isn’t your personal genie. He isn’t--”

“I know all of this,” Mike had retorted.”He’s not a vending machine. He’s not a dear old granddaddy, hoping to spend a few minutes with me when I have time. I’ve heard it all. I’ve heard it all from you, as a matter of fact. And I gotta tell you, Brett. I gotta tell you… I’m not interested anymore”

He’d grown up with Brett Thompson. Brett had gone into ministry. He’d gone into the military, then the police, then the Feds. And, for the last couple of decades of that time, he’d remained uninterested.

He was interested now.

“No more, please,” he whispered. And shoved through.

There were no smells, no visions of places he’d been here. NO…

Instead, a television on the wall of the dinning car he entered. ON it, images of riots flashed. First Rome. Then Dallas. Then Karachi. Then Seo Paulo. Tokyo. Berlin. The names flashed beneath each video clip but the images remained virtually the same. People pounding on each other in the streets. Breaking into buildings. Flipping cars. He watched as a mother pushed her child into the path of an oncoming truck and then stood, staring at the broken body until a teen came up behind her and slammed a huge rock into the back of her head.

Mike wanted to look away.

He couldn’t.

A newsman came on, a newswoman beside him. Both looked terrified, their polished, eloquent appearances destroyed by the days events. His mind slipped back to September 11, all those years ago. This was the same, he thought. And so, so horribly different.

He ripped his eyes from the screen, ordered them not to return to its frighteningly seductive depiction of what he had to assume was real.

Real.

He ran to the next door, so oblivious to threats that, if one had existed in this compartment, he would have certainly fallen victim to it.

But none did.

He reached the next door as the train whistle sounded, flung it open and…

Fell forward into darkness.

Mike Swayze fell through the blackness like a comet bursting through the atmosphere, burning itself to death as it reached its destination. “What the hell!” he thought as he pulled himself off the hard tiles. From somewhere near by, an emergency siren was wailing like a banshee on meth. His heart beat savagely and he wiped blood from his nose.

He scrambled to his feet and stared to lean back against the door to this compartment.

Except that this wasn’t the train.

He froze, a frown narrowing his eyes to slits, and stumbled. He lowered himself to his knees beside his California king-sized bed, the one that accommodated both his enormous dimensions and Lisa tucked in beside him. Placing a big hand against the top of the mattress, he sat there, trying to catch his breath, trying to catch his bearings.

This was his bedroom. He wasn’t in a train anymore or, for that matter, anywhere near a train station. That was clear.

But that was all that was clear.

“Lisa?” he asked. He looked. She wasn’t there. She was, he remembered, in Connecticut. “Damn,” he whispered. “What a weird dream.”

But it didn’t feel like a dream. Not even a little bit. It felt like such firm reality that he wondered if this was the dream.

Music. He could hear music.

Be careful what you wish for…

History starts now.

Beyond the bed, MacArthur was staring out the bedroom window. His tail was tucked beneath his body and he was whimpering softly.

“Mac?” Mike’s voice sounded little and frightened and, for the second time in the past few minutes, he was reminded of that five-year-old boy he had once been. “Mac. Come.”

Te dog ignored him. Ignored him. Except for a flick of one ear, the Shepherd didn’t move.

The song on the old radio he’d had since his high school graduation played the next line of the old Goo Goo Dolls’ song but then a voice broke in. Even before he started to speak, Mike knew what he would say. The knowledge hit him as suddenly as he’d hit the floor moments before. And the alarm he’d heard blared on and on, battling the radio announcer for his attention.

It wasn’t the train’s whistle, he had to tell himself. IT was the city’s emergency alert system.

“This is an emergency news alert. Unknown forces are … The world is…’ The polished voice of the newscaster broke. The man’s words hiccuped with uncertainty and, like cloth tearing, his calm began to ravel. “There’s something, someone… News reports out of Washington DC., London, Mexico City, , Beijing, Moscow… There are violent riots worldwide. The cause is unknown but all major cities across the globe are under attack by their own residents. These are not normal riots. Reports indicate that people have lost all control of their faculties. Murders are rampant. The violence appears to spread with contact. If you are in a safe place, do not leave. Turn off all external air sources and turn on any air purification systems available. Drink filtered water if it is available. Do not come in contact with anyone outside your home. Do not open the door to anyone. The cause of this behavior is unknown. If you are in a public place, seek shelter immediately and avoid contact with anyone who appears to be infected. There is no --”

The speakers crackled and were filled with the sounds of glass shattering, yelling, incoherent voices, a single, tortured scream and then... static.

Mike listened to the sounds of the DJ being slaughtered, live. Slaughtered… live. The contradiction crowded his mind, trying to pull him from this new reality. He watched as MacArthur, trained by the best, whined and backed away from the big window in his bedroom. And he watched as people, his neighbors, his friends, began to fight and kill each other in his front yard

“Lisa,” he whispered. He lay his leaned his head against the side of the mattress, blocking his view of the yard, and began to sob.