The Dreaming: Dark Star (Book 5)

8.3. Oblivious (Old Shalon)

Michael and I made it back to 447 Exeter just before sunset. The going was slower than we'd anticipated because Michael had a concussion from getting knocked over the head with that man's rifle, and then of course there was my knee, which was giving me grief again. 

When we arrived at my building — The Exeter — we were greeted by two big surprises. One was that the lobby was eerily silent and empty. The second was that the lobby had obviously been restored by Commander Tom's army of re-bots.

I wasn't sure which surprise was more astonishing.

"Where's Money?" Michael asked, clearly just as confused as I was.

We stood there in front of the dark lobby, and marvelled in awe of the handiwork of the re-bots. Yesterday when we'd left, the lobby had been a smashed war zone where a gang of child-thugs had been living for fifteen years without any adults telling them to clean up after themselves.

Less than forty-eight hours later, the glass foyer had been reformed, the walls reconstructed and painted and of all things, there was a fountain right there in the middle. It looked like WW3 had never happened.

I craned my neck up and looked at the penthouse — my apartment — and wondered if anyone was in there.

My heart started pounding in my chest. It wasn't like I was looking forward to seeing Money, but not seeing him was even worse. Where the hell would he go to? He'd been living with his gang in the Exeter's lobby for as long as I could remember. Since the exodus. "I've got a bad feeling about this, Michael."

Michael nodded, and his shoulders slumped. He was tired and so was I. Half the talk on our way home had centred around food and sleep. We just wanted to eat and go to bed.

We walked forward and I clutched the handle of the door — a thick glass door almost two stories tall. "How on earth do they have the technology to create this?" I asked Michael as I pulled it open. It swooshed open in a way that doors had ceased to swoosh open about ten years ago.

He didn't respond.

I turned around, the door wide open, and continued, "I mean, don't you think it's strange that this small group of people run by some pseudo-military geek has access to all this technology?"

Michael shrugged, but his face was pale. I wasn't sure if it was the concussion or fear.

Having grown up as an orphan in a nuclear fall-out zone, in post WW3 North America, any working piece of technology was a miracle in his books — he didn't understand what was different about The Family's technology.

I shook my head and tried to explain. "You don't get it, Michael. This kind of technology didn't exist before the war. This is beyond anything that anyone ever dreamed up back then." I looked down at the floor. It was a perfectly smooth, black, glass surface, like marble. Just yesterday it had been chipped, stained and dirty concrete, the carpet long worn away.

"How on earth did they develop the technology to restore a building this size in less than a week? I mean — look at it!" I held my hand out, "There's a goddamned fountain! And the craziest thing is that it works. It actually works."

We walked inside and the door swooshed shut behind us and I felt nostalgic about that sound, but I pushed it away, and surveyed the room.

All of Money's furniture — the couches, the tables — all the crappy, decrepit furniture was gone. The space was immaculate, and felt bright and airy and refreshing. The only thing missing was some paintings for the walls.

"Hello?" I called out.

Silence. Then I heard a sound — a low knocking sound.

"Anyone here?" I asked.