The Dreaming: Dark Star (Book 5)

8.2. Oblivious (Old Shalon)

Over 200 years earlier, Old Shalon wakes up from her dream with a jolt.

I woke up very early the next morning with some light streaming through a boarded up window in the living room. I felt confused and anxious. My dreams from the night before were a jumbled mess of confusion, but there was one thing clear: I needed more Lucid. Tom was hiding something from me.

I felt there was something at the tip of my tongue, a memory or maybe just a feeling.

I looked over at Michael sleeping. His left foot was twitching and I realised he was probably dreaming. Bennie was snoring deeply in the chair across from me. A cat curled up on his lap looked at me and yawned and stretched it's paws in front of it.

I stretched my arms as well. I was stiff and tired, but I knew I wouldn't sleep anymore. The chair had lost all avenues of comfort, despite its reclining abilities.

I got up quietly, put on my coat, hat and scarf and swung my small bag over my shoulder; then I shuffled down the hall trying not to disturb anyone. Outside the air was cool and crisp. It was a clear fall morning.

I surveyed both directions: to my left was a curving avenue that headed north, back up towards Broadway. It was a well-trodden path that Bennie used frequently. To my left was an overgrown path heading south, a route that Bennie obviously never used. I decided to go in that direction.

I took off down the walkway to the street and headed south, skirting fallen trees and cutting myself a path. I surveyed every house I came across, and walked about five blocks trying to narrow down a target. Some of the yards were completely overgrown with plants, and had become inaccessible. Other yards had a steep slope to the front door, and the staircases had crumbled.

In the end, I chose a pale blue rancher covered in ivy. There were iron bars on all the windows as far as I could see. One story, empty front yard, staircase intact, and a big rotting late model Aurora parked out front. Looked like it was a nice house in its day.

I pushed a big rusted iron gate open enough to squeeze through, and waded through some waist high grass. This time Michael wasn't here to wack our way through it with his machete, so it was slow-going, but I eventually made it to the front steps. I slowly worked my way up the front stairs.

Just my luck, the front door was locked.

I went back down the front stairs and made my way to the side of the house—thankfully there was no grass here—and hiked through some mud to the back of the house, and sure enough, the back stairs were still intact as well.

It's your lucky day, I told myself.

I climbed the back stairs carefully and slowly. The railing was rusted and wobbly, and not to be trusted.

When I pushed the door open, I saw to my surprise a fairly ordered, clean and dry space.

I stopped dead in my tracks. My breath caught in my throat. What if someone lived here?

Staying absolutely still and holding my breath, I looked very carefully around inside and listened for any noise indicating an inhabitant.

I heard nothing and saw a thick layer of dust covering the table. I exhaled. There were also no footprints on the floor. I gripped the counter beside me and relaxed. No one lived here now, but there must have been someone living here in the last few years. It had survived the exodus, the looting and fires and was in pristine condition. Someone had preserved it perfectly.

There was a clean knife and a clean wooden cutting block on the counter. There was a box of crackers on the table. There were rocks in a bowl on the counter—dried fruit, it looked like. I picked one up. An apple, shrivelled to the size of a large raisin, hard as a rock. I put it back in the bowl, carefully.