Gaia Dreams (Gaiaverse Book 1) (8 page)

"What did the trucker say?"

"He said, 'It's all ice.'"

"Ice?" Maria said blankly. "How can there be ice
in Las Vegas in the spring?"

"I don't know, Maria," Phoebe said in her most
patient tone. "All anyone knows for sure is that no radio, TV, computer, fax or
telephone communication has come out of Las Vegas since about four a.m. That's
their time. And since you're not too far away--Maria, there are hundreds of
thousands of people in Las Vegas and it's like they're just gone."

"Well, there are millions dead here...but yeah,
okay, I hear you. It's just so bizarre. I'll go, but if this turns out to be
nothing, heads will roll, Phoebes. Pass that message along."

"Gotcha. Now, you and Zack need to be at the
same airfield you arrived at outside L.A. and bring all your equipment because
you may not get much help from anyone in Las Vegas. The chopper is rented by
us, so you'll have it at your disposal as long as you're there."

Maria nodded as she wrote down further details
in her notebook and then hung up. Walking across the tree-covered street, she
called out, "Zack, you're never going to believe this one."

Later, she finished her broadcast from the
outskirts of Los Angeles:

"This morning, while yet another firestorm in
downtown L.A. continues burning, rescuers search for survivors. The earthquake
was powerful enough to rip homes and businesses from their foundations and to
collapse reinforced highway supports. Virtually no elevated highways have been
left standing. High rise towers thought to be quake-proof have tumbled to the
ground like they were made of children's building blocks. Millions of homes
have been leveled by the initial quake or the tremors that followed. The
conflagration in the downtown area appears to be caused by rupturing gas mains.
With water mains broken, and no access to roads into downtown, officials here
say they can only wait for the fires to burn out on their own.

"But the picture that will haunt most of us who've
seen the devastation firsthand is this one--I'm standing in the middle of a
park in a Los Angeles suburb. You can see the swing set and slide behind me
where the children played. What you can't see is the smell that permeates this
park--the sickly-sweet smell of death. To my right, what you are looking at is
a very large pit, dug yesterday by officials to handle disposal of the dead.
The bulldozer is quiet as workers take a break from their horrifying task. They
are using the bulldozer to shovel bodies, the dead of Los Angeles, into the
pit. Due to unseasonably high temperatures, and the lack of any facilities
large enough to cope with the problem, officials have no choice but to perform
mass burials, hoping to prevent the spread of disease. Many of these bodies
could not be identified since survivors are so separated across the city and
travel is near impossible. Most people will never know where their loved ones
are buried. This death pit is only one of four, and officials expect that more
will be needed. As one worker told me moments ago, tears streaming down his
face, 'We have no choice. We have to do this to try and save the living.'
Casualty estimates as of this morning put the number of dead at 308,537,
however, that number is expected to climb dramatically in the days ahead as
more bodies are found in the rubble that is now Los Angeles. This is Maria
Santiago, live from the City of Angels, for SNN."

Sonoran Desert, Arizona

Margaret sighed as she was put on hold for the
third time. Her hand was sweaty against the plastic of the cellular telephone. "Oh
well," she thought, "at least they didn't hang up on me yet." It was her sixth
call of the day. She was trying to get someone in some kind of authority to
listen to her prediction of a massive hurricane that would hit the Gulf coast
in two days. Margaret had watched the portable television with its satellite
dish for the past day searching for any meteorological reports that would
indicate a tropical depression forming anywhere near the Gulf. Of course, there
weren't any reports like that, but she had hoped there might be some indication
of the storm to come, giving people time to evacuate. A voice from the phone
interrupted her thinking.

"Hello Ms....Larson is it? I'm Andy Jordan, one
of the meteorologists here at KNBS Biloxi. Ms. Larson, I've checked all our
satellite reports and there is no sign of any potential hurricane forming
anywhere near the Gulf. So you don't need to worry."

"But, can't a hurricane develop quickly? I'm
just saying I think you need to be aware that this one could happen suddenly,
without much warning...." Her voice trailed off as she realized there was no
way to make him believe her.

"Look, Ms. Larson. I don't know if you think you
are some kind of psychic or just someone who is frightened of hurricanes, but
with these storms we generally have several days and sometimes a week or more
to warn the public and prepare for any emergency. Today's technology allows us
to know what is happening in the atmosphere minute by minute. Now, I'm sorry,
but I have a broadcast to prepare so I need to run. We appreciate your calling
and hope you watch--"

"Wait! Don't hang up yet, please!" Margaret said
firmly, attempting to keep desperation out of her voice. "Mr. Jordan--Andy,
thank you for taking the time to hear me out. Did your secretary take down my
number earlier?"

"Er...yes, I have it here."

"After this hurricane hits--and it will hit in
two days--afterwards, if you are still alive, please call me. Remember what I've
told you. All the oil rigs in the Gulf will be destroyed, thousands of people
will die and more will be homeless, oil refineries in Texas and Louisiana will
be wiped out and, well, I guess that's enough to tell you. Just promise me that
you'll remember what I've said--and Andy, when it starts, get to high ground
and safety early on."

"Uh, sure, Ms. Larson. I'll be sure to be
careful. Now, I really have to go. You take care of yourself, you hear?"

Margaret slowly pulled the phone away from her
ear, the dial tone sounding as ominous to her as the air raid sirens she
remembered from childhood when the schools would rehearse an attack by the
Soviets and have them all hide under their desks. "And my warnings are about as
effective as the duck-and-cover strategy would have been too. He didn't believe
me. Damn it! When is somebody going to listen to me?" she shouted aloud to the
surrounding desert as she slammed the phone on the ground.

"Umm, Margaret, dear," said Irene from the porch
of a square stucco house.

"What? What do you want?"

"Don't bite my head off, first of all. Just
wanted to remind you of our conversation about calling the press. Maybe if you
did some interviews, got your name out there, maybe people would listen."

"Oh, yeah, right. I'm sure they'd listen. I
would probably end up on one of those crazy daytime talk shows with the caption
under my name 'Psychic Attorney Predicts Disasters,' and still nobody would
listen to me. Not a good idea, Irene."

"No, no, that's not what I'm talking about. What
if you tried the bigger-named journalists. Like that handsome anchor from NBC, or
Maria--what's her last name--from SNN. She seems nice and she doesn't do tabloid
stuff."

"Sure, I'll just call her up and tell her I
predicted the California earthquake and now I'm predicting a disastrous
hurricane in the Gulf. Of course she will believe me--why didn't I think of
that?"

Irene stared calmly at the tall, pacing woman,
wondering at the volatile intensity Margaret displayed at times. She said
slowly, "There is really no need to be so sarcastic. Do what you did with that
Andy Jordan just now. Tell her you know she won't believe you, but when it
happens it will prove you were telling the truth and then maybe she will
believe you the next time. Because there are going to be lots of next times,
Margaret, and you know it."

Adjusting her beige cowboy hat more firmly on
her head, Margaret took a deep breath as she thought about what the shaman
said. It was probably the only way to get anyone to believe her. Make sure they
get her name and telephone number, give them the warning and ask them to call
afterward.

"Okay, maybe you are right. If the scientists
refuse to believe me, then maybe the journalists will get through to them.
After all, we live in a world where nothing is actually true until we see it on
the evening news."

Cape Fair, Mrs. Philpott's House

"Knock, knock," Jessica sang out, rapping her knuckles
on Mrs. Philpott's screen door. "Mind some company?"

Mrs. Philpott walked briskly into the living
room after closing the computer room door firmly behind her. "Not at all," she
said smiling warmly. "Come right on in...and Samantha's with you! Well, hello,
sweetie, how are you doing today?"

"Just fine. Can Harry come in too?" asked
Samantha.

"Sure, Harry's my favorite dog, you know," Mrs.
Philpott said, grinning at Sam and ruffling the fur on Harry's back as she
petted him.

"He's my favorite dog too!" Sam exclaimed as she
hugged Harry tightly. Harry responded to the attention with vigorous
tail-wagging.

Mrs. Philpott turned to Jessica and motioned to
her to sit in the overstuffed chair by the bay window as she asked, "How are you
doing Jessica? How's everybody doing?" Passing out glasses of lemonade and a
bowl of water to Harry, Mrs. Philpott finally sat in the rocker across from
Jessica.

Jessica glanced across the room to Sam who was
stretched out on Mrs. Philpott's couch with Harry by her side. "Today's walk to
your house is the longest one yet for her. The doctors say she needs the
exercise every day, but to keep an eye on her." Jessica shrugged and said, "She
seems better, but it's hard not to worry and--"

"Mom," Sam interrupted, "I'm just gonna rest
here for a minute 'cause Harry's tired from walking."

"Okay, Sam," Jessica replied. "You let me know
when Harry feels ready to go home."

"Okay Mommie," came the reply, followed by a
yawn.

Jessica's look of concern gave way to a slight
smile as she talked with Mrs. Philpott in low tones so that Sam couldn't hear. "Harry
has been a godsend through all this. He never leaves her side, unless he's sure
she's sleeping soundly. And if you think I'm a worrier, you should see Harry if
he thinks she's being too active! The other day he came in and tugged at my
hand to get me outside to check on Sam when she got winded from running."
Jessica laughed. "Of course, what he didn't realize was that I had been
watching from the kitchen window and was already on my way out there. What a
pair we make!"

Mrs. Philpott laughed quietly and said, "She
looks good, Jessica, I really think she's going to be all right."

Harry watched the two women chatting across the
room. Samantha might not be able to hear their conversation, but he could, and
he was glad Jessica was talking about her fears. Last night, after the dream,
Jessica and John and Sam had all smelled like very afraid people. Maybe she
would talk to Mrs. Philpott about the dream. He wished he could talk about
it--it was the scariest one yet.

Soft beams of afternoon sun, diffused by the
heavy cream-colored lace curtains, highlighted Jessica's golden hair as she
bent forward to open the basket she'd brought with her. "Here you go, Mrs. P,
the best homemade bread in town, baked this morning. It's a blend of wheat and
white flours, made with olive oil and honey. It dawned on me that you've never
tried it."

"Hmm, smells delicious," Mrs. Philpott said as
she opened the red and white checkered cloth covering the bread and breathed
deeply of the aroma. "This will be great. Thank you so much, dear." She set the
loaf of bread on the round maple table that sat between their chairs. Rocking
gently back and forth, she watched Jessica carefully. It was clear that
something was bothering her, something besides Sam's illness.

"Why don't you tell me what's on your mind? I'm
a good listener, but I'm also impatient, so I'm being pushy. Sam looks sound
asleep, so let's take advantage of that."

Jessica looked up, startled. This white-haired
old lady was always surprising her. She was nothing like any older person
Jessica had ever known. "This is about Sam, but not about the illness. Last
night she gave John and me quite a fright. Woke us up in the middle of the
night with a bad dream."

Mrs. Philpott gave a start and then continued
rocking, albeit at a faster pace.

"She's never been that upset by a dream before.
And it was weird--I can admit that now in the light of day, even though I told John--well, anyway, the more I think about it, the more strange it seems. You see, it wasn't
just that the dream had such an effect on her, but also that Harry acted so
peculiar."

Mrs. Philpott waited, thinking,
this is what
it means to wait with bated breath
.

Jessica continued, "I swear that dog acted as if
he had the same dream as Samantha! He was shaking uncontrollably, just like
Sam, and seemed to be gasping for air, like Sam was when we first went in the
room. I'll be honest the whole thing was pretty creepy. Especially when Sam
started describing how it felt to drown!"

Mrs. Philpott stopped rocking and said sharply, "Drown?
She dreamed about water last night? About drowning? Are you sure?"

"Well, yes, I'm pretty sure. That was what it sounded
like. Why? What's wrong?"

Mrs. Philpott had risen from her chair and was
pacing in front of Jessica muttering to herself excitedly. "I knew it! I knew
it wasn't just me, why would it be? Why would it just be one old lady and a
cat? Of course not! It's bigger than that--the cat was right! He was right!"

Jessica got up and stood in front of Mrs.
Philpott, grabbing her arms to stop the pacing. "What are you talking about?
What do you mean 'not just you'--and what cat?" Jessica demanded in a loud voice.