The Nibiru Effect

Memory 6

I shiver as I amble down the sidewalk. My hoodie is thick and my jeans adequate, but the pyjamas I wear underneath are still drenched in sweat. I consider hiding behind a bush to remove my sleeping attire, but I refuse to waste even a single second. According to my calculations, I have fifty minutes of wiggle room, but the last thing I need right now is for an unpredictable event to stand in the way of my family reunion.

Montréal is the second largest city in Canada, which means that no matter the time or the neighbourhood, there's always something going on. But not tonight. Tonight the streets are deserted. The houses are dark and the cars idle. I don't hear a single honk or bark. The city is quiet. Too quiet.

I walk on, refusing to let the ominousness of my surroundings get to me. Two turns and not so much as a single encounter later, I reach the subway station. I push past the revolving doors and look around.

The station is empty.

Still unsettled by the complete and utter lack of human presence, I make my way to the escalator and ride it down to the turnstile level where half a dozen ticket machines are waiting for me. I use what little money I have to buy a boarding pass, then make my way across the overpass.

It's not until I reach the boarding platform that I remember the station has been closed for renovations for the past few months. From the looks of it, I'm one of the first people to use it since its grand reopening.

I take a moment to study the unfamiliar surroundings.

The new colour scheme is livelier than the last, but it's still far from cheerful. On the plus side, the dreary benches that once lined the walls of the boarding platform have been replaced with massive stone benches. They stand back to back at a ninety-degree angle from the wall. Hanging between each of the twelve pairs of seats are television screens. That's a good thing because I only just missed the train, which means I'll have to wait ten minutes for the next one to arrive.

I take a seat and glance at the nearest screen. It's 12:45 AM. The walk took a little longer than I expected, but I'm still on schedule.

As I wait, my mind begins to wander. What will my mother be like? Will she be tall and beautiful or short and ugly? What about my father? Will he be there, waiting to embrace me? Will they be proud of the young man I have become? What if I get there and there's no one? What if this was all a practical joke? But who would do such a thing? And why?

I'm in the process of driving myself crazy with all these questions when a scream echoes throughout the station. I scan my surroundings, but there's no one in sight. I'm just about to accept the fact that I truly did drive myself insane worrying about my family reunion when the echo of footsteps reaches my ears.

The sound grows closer with surprising speed, indicating that whoever is approaching is doing so at a rapid pace. I catch a glimpse of a shape hurrying across the overpass, but it vanishes from sight before I can make out the person's gender. If the scream I heard is any indication, it's a woman.

From where I sit I can't see the staircase, but I have a clear view of the platform where the newcomer will emerge. I wait, but no one appears. The footsteps have stopped, indicating that whoever just crossed the overpass has halted somewhere on the stairs.

I wait a few seconds, but nothing happens. Should I investigate? Perhaps the woman needs help. But, in the end, it's curiosity that drives me to my feet. I near the corner and slow down. When nothing happens, I step out of cover.

It's her. The woman I heard before. She hurries down the stairs toward me. Her hair is black, and her stature is small, but I can't make out much else because she's currently glancing back over her shoulder. By the time she turns back around and realizes she's headed right for me, it's already too late.

She slams into me.

Pain explodes from my chest as we topple to the ground and skid across the floor.

The ache is overwhelming. My muscles convulse as wave after wave of pain washes over me. My jaw snaps shut, trapping the tip of my tongue between my teeth. But a sore tongue is the least of my concerns. It feels like I'm going to die. In fact, death would be a welcome release.

I don't know how long it lasts. All I know is the pain ceases as soon as the woman pries herself off of me. Agony gives way to intense heat, but that too quickly fades. Within seconds, I'm back to normal.

I stare at the woman, too stunned to speak.

She's in her late thirties. She could be beautiful, but the large scar that mars her right cheek robs her of it. Her skin is as pale as a fresh blanket of snow while her hair is the colour of charcoal. Even her eyes are reminiscent of cooled embers. But what hits me the hardest is the symbol that adorns her left wrist.

It's an hourglass.