screamed in terror, blood on his hands. A flash of hot, white light swelled brighter and brighter, blinding with the force of a hundred suns, followed by an explosive crash so loud it would not only wake the dead, it would surely rend them up out of their graves.
_____________________________________
Denver snapped awake and thrust himself into a seated position, bathed in sweat as his heart pounded within a few beats of complete cardiac arrest. His head frantically spun about in the darkness, as a peal of thunder had just passed its crescendo and was retreating into the distance with all the subtlety of a squadron of low-flying aircraft. The entire building rattled and reeled beneath the onslaught, but soon everything around him returned to a dark, dead calm—with the notable exception of his nerves.
Lightning must've knocked the power out again. Looks like warm beer for breakfast. Terrific .
He sat frozen at first, transfixed by a new and unfamiliar sound—the curious sound of silence. Denver made an educated guess about the general location of his large picture window, and stared hard into the black nothingness in that direction.
Whoa. Whole city must be out. This is bad.
He sat and argued with himself about the merits of simply going back to sleep, but was interrupted by a question that refused to lie down.
Where are all the cars? Where are the lights from the cars?
Once again he studied the best-guess window area. Still nothing. Lightning can knock out the city power, but not car headlights.
His inquiry wasn’t even close to being settled when a fresh mystery washed over him—the odor. It was different, heavy, almost oppressive—not entirely unlike an old, wet towel.
Denver ignored the foreign aroma and rubbed his hands on the couch, but something wasn't quite right about that either. He leaned over and groped all around. Wait, this isn't my couch! It's my bed. When did I move to my frickin’ bed?
He got on his feet, his heart rate and breathing just about back to normal. Oh, that's why I can't see the cars, I'm in my bedroom...duh. He whisked his head around in all directions, and then he spotted it.
A light.
Not a city light, or a car's headlights, or a streetlight, but a weak, warm, incandescent glow. He could make out a straight line, actually two lines, maybe a doorway. He moved along the edge of the bed, disoriented, but now fully awake. Something hit him in the stomach and he stopped cold. He felt of it. A chair? Feels like a wooden chair.
Of course, there was nothing unusual about a chair, except for the fact he didn’t have a chair in his bedroom.
He navigated around the foreign furnishing and progressed toward the light. It was spilling through a cracked door, and Denver pushed it wide open. The room that he saw both confused him and clarified his misgivings in the same instant. He had walked into a bathroom, but not his bathroom. In fact, not the bathroom of anyone he knew, or had ever known, for that matter.
This bathroom was... different . A porcelain toilet, rusty sink, and a plain tub with a hideous shower curtain furnished the tiny area. It may have been practical, but it was not pretty by any standard. He backed out with some effort and located a small light switch on the wall outside the bathroom. Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw next.
He wasn't in his bedroom. He wasn't even in his apartment. And he probably wasn't even in Manhattan. He stared into a long, single room—complete with a bed, a small table and chair, a telephone, a green door, and closed curtains along the far wall.
He was in a motel room.
Journal entry number 12
Wednesday, April 3, 1946
Something simple today triggered something fundamentally… fundamental. I was walking across the grass in the town square and had to cross over a section of soil, and then back to grass. Something grabbed my attention—I think a car backfired–and I stopped and turned. I looked down and saw my footprints
_____________________________________
Denver snapped awake and thrust himself into a seated position, bathed in sweat as his heart pounded within a few beats of complete cardiac arrest. His head frantically spun about in the darkness, as a peal of thunder had just passed its crescendo and was retreating into the distance with all the subtlety of a squadron of low-flying aircraft. The entire building rattled and reeled beneath the onslaught, but soon everything around him returned to a dark, dead calm—with the notable exception of his nerves.
Lightning must've knocked the power out again. Looks like warm beer for breakfast. Terrific .
He sat frozen at first, transfixed by a new and unfamiliar sound—the curious sound of silence. Denver made an educated guess about the general location of his large picture window, and stared hard into the black nothingness in that direction.
Whoa. Whole city must be out. This is bad.
He sat and argued with himself about the merits of simply going back to sleep, but was interrupted by a question that refused to lie down.
Where are all the cars? Where are the lights from the cars?
Once again he studied the best-guess window area. Still nothing. Lightning can knock out the city power, but not car headlights.
His inquiry wasn’t even close to being settled when a fresh mystery washed over him—the odor. It was different, heavy, almost oppressive—not entirely unlike an old, wet towel.
Denver ignored the foreign aroma and rubbed his hands on the couch, but something wasn't quite right about that either. He leaned over and groped all around. Wait, this isn't my couch! It's my bed. When did I move to my frickin’ bed?
He got on his feet, his heart rate and breathing just about back to normal. Oh, that's why I can't see the cars, I'm in my bedroom...duh. He whisked his head around in all directions, and then he spotted it.
A light.
Not a city light, or a car's headlights, or a streetlight, but a weak, warm, incandescent glow. He could make out a straight line, actually two lines, maybe a doorway. He moved along the edge of the bed, disoriented, but now fully awake. Something hit him in the stomach and he stopped cold. He felt of it. A chair? Feels like a wooden chair.
Of course, there was nothing unusual about a chair, except for the fact he didn’t have a chair in his bedroom.
He navigated around the foreign furnishing and progressed toward the light. It was spilling through a cracked door, and Denver pushed it wide open. The room that he saw both confused him and clarified his misgivings in the same instant. He had walked into a bathroom, but not his bathroom. In fact, not the bathroom of anyone he knew, or had ever known, for that matter.
This bathroom was... different . A porcelain toilet, rusty sink, and a plain tub with a hideous shower curtain furnished the tiny area. It may have been practical, but it was not pretty by any standard. He backed out with some effort and located a small light switch on the wall outside the bathroom. Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw next.
He wasn't in his bedroom. He wasn't even in his apartment. And he probably wasn't even in Manhattan. He stared into a long, single room—complete with a bed, a small table and chair, a telephone, a green door, and closed curtains along the far wall.
He was in a motel room.
Journal entry number 12
Wednesday, April 3, 1946
Something simple today triggered something fundamentally… fundamental. I was walking across the grass in the town square and had to cross over a section of soil, and then back to grass. Something grabbed my attention—I think a car backfired–and I stopped and turned. I looked down and saw my footprints
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