A rather dark and bleak dream sequence that my unconscious conjured up early Sunday morning. Not for the extremely anxious types. The details that follow have more to do with the past and present instead of the future. I am not a prophet.
(Two eerie and frightening scenes from one of my favorite movies, The Time Machine, the 1960 version.)
My wife, two daughters, and I were hanging out in a hotel room. We were several floors up. Large, sliding glass doors led to a balcony, which in turn opened up to a view of a pool. Tall evergreens rose to block the horizon. The sky was a bright blue. We were preparing to head outside.
As my family moved about, putting on shoes, taking turns checking themselves in the mirror, I stood at the the sliding glass doors, enjoying the scenery. It was in that moment of serenity, while appreciating the vacation, I heard a whisper. It was definitely a voice that seemed meant only for me to hear, but it came across like a radio announcement. However, there was no such device in the room. I doubted it's warning, as I was looking out across a pleasant blue sky. Except, the blueness soon began to change. It became the orange of a sunset, but one captured by a surreal painting instead of a photograph.
And it was then that I witnessed them, what that static-filled whisper had warned about. My brain screamed, commanding me to move away from the glass. Yet, my heart froze, refusing to pump blood to my legs. Stuck, I watched as long, surprisingly thin feathery strands rose behind the tree line, and formed into billowing mushroom caps. Something in my mind convinced me that despite their heights, they had to be far away. While another part of my head reminded me of the searing, blinding light that should have blinded me by now. Its absence gave me hope, and also an important jolt.
Turning to my family, I informed them the basement was their best option. Unlike me, they did not hesitate. Without a word, they left. Watching them go, my stomach turned again. The thoughts struck me. The ugly truth: you cannot outrun a nuclear holocaust. A deep, sad epiphany: we had designed this weapon system to prevent survivors. A profound absurdity: despite our knowledge of these weapons, we still hold out hope that we can survive somehow.
With that last thought still lingering, I accepted, on faith, the next idea. We would need supplies, especially water. So, I began to gather up plastic water bottles. That task became a struggle. Despite knowing that time was running out, that it had indeed ended the moment I saw those clouds, I refused to give up. I filled several large plastic grocery bags with containers of water. With them gathered at my sides, like someone who refuses to make more than one trip from the car to their apartment, I was ready to escape, to join my family in the basement.
That is when two people arrived. In real life, they were women who had been part of an organization, but had left on bad terms. I did not care for either of them, but for different reasons: one was very negative, the other too competitive. And now they had entered my hotel room, on the eve of destruction, just as I was making my way to be with my family. However, what they said next transformed my annoyance into despair.
"Why anyone would bother taking shelter is beyond me. All those people, heading to the basement like that. It's only 46 square feet!"
"It is still something, that 46 square feet. People will figure it out."
No, there is no way a hotel full of people would find space enough to shelter in a 46 square foot basement, the size of a small walk-in closet. And then, in my dream, I imagined a crowd of people squeezing themselves into that space, pushing and shoving, flailing about, all on top of my wife and two daughters, suffocating them.
All the while I stood, holding bags filled with water bottles, with two woman whom I had not desire to be around, in a five-start resort, watching humanity disintegrate itself.
My stomach turned. The world went dark. Finally, I woke up.
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