Dreamland

The room to which I was assigned was exactly 15X15.  Here, I was told by The Council, I was to live for a year, starting today, never toventure outside, to help break the spread of the dread virus that was ravaging the planet. They kindly would provide all that mylimited existence would need to survive. 

“Thank you, Mr. Walters, for this sacrifice you are making for the good of all people everywhere. Welcome to your new home. There is an intercom here if you ever need to communicate with us.  Any questions?” I had already been briefed about all this so I just said, “No.” The door closed and was bolted. The sound of it had a sense of finality to it. 

The room was painted a drab green. There was a flat-screen television on the wall, a small refrigerator, a dresser, an old wooden chair, a shelf of books, a single light on the ceiling, one painting—Van Gogh I think—a sink with soap and a razor, a toilet, and one mattress on the floor. That’s it. No clock. And there was one window. Two darkly-colored, solid drapes hung on either side. I walked over and peered out. I believe I was on the third floor, to the best of my knowledge, of a large circular complex with a dirt courtyard in the center. Windows lined each level, snaking around, on the three sides that were visible. They were the rooms I assumed of the other rats. I looked down to see if there was a way to open the window but there was none. The word “caged” came to mind. 

“Welcome to your home.” This was not home. My two children were not allowed with me; not so much because of this small space but, again, due to the measures this group, known as “The Council”, was taking now to halt the advance of the pandemic. It’s being called, Celeritas 20, which in Latin meant “speed” referring to how quickly the virus was spreading, and to the sudden, extreme precautions needed to stop it. My two girls, they said, we together in another area of the building. Almost six months ago, my wife fought the virus bravely but succumbed in the end. At least that’s what I was told. I was not permitted to be with her when she passed. Did she really die of the virus? I may never know. 

“The sacrifice you are making.”  This was no sacrifice I made willingly. It was an order from The Council with threats of long-term imprisonment, never to see my children again, if I refused to quarantine. I decided to make the sacrifice. 

“For the good of all people everywhere.” Over the course of the months after Celeritas was unleashed, we were told measures were being enacted quickly that, while seemingly harsh in nature at first, in the end, we would see they were necessary to save the human race from certain annihilation.  I was not feeling the love. They used that same line of bull when the previous pandemic hit. But before anyone could understand what really was going on, personal liberties were lost for the sake of security.

I was about to turn and see what books were on the shelf when my eye caught sight of a figure in the window almost directly across the complex from my room. It was a woman, maybe in her 50s, wearing the same uniform they draped over me. Awkwardly I slowly raised my hand and waved. She did not wave back; instead she just walked out of sight. Friendly folks here.

Back to my original plan. I surveyed the books I was graciously given to blow time. History, poems, business, novels, and cookbooks were randomly thrown together. Cookbooks? A cruel joke. Then I saw it. A pen hidden behind one of the books. Looking around my “home”, I saw no paper. What good is a pen, I said out loud, without paper? The sound of my voice brought comfort. It grounded me. My voice became my friend. From that point on I began to speak frequently out loud.  

The sun was setting on my first day of captivity. Feeling a tinge of hunger, I walked to the small fridge and opened it. There were twelve bottles of water and twelve things wrapped in cellophane. Nothing else. My survival food no doubt. Yum. The Council thought of everything. I took a bottle of water and took a few long gulps but stopped. The water had a medicinal flavor to it. I unwrapped one of the bars and smelled it. No smell whatsoever. Taking a small bite, I slowly chewed the thing. No smell and little flavor. Famished, I ate it.

Suddenly the intercom whirred to life, startling me. “Good evening, Mr. Walters. We hope you are adjusting to your new home. We of course apologize for the somewhat crude surroundings but it’s the best we could do, given the ominous circumstances Celeritas 20 presented us with. Buildings such as this had to be constructed hastily because time was of the essence and there were many to quarantine. We trust you understand. You probably have already looked in the refrigerator. The water has been purified and the bars contain all the daily nutrition you will require. The virus has decimated the food supply, but thankfully, The Council foresaw this human crisis years ago and prepared accordingly by creating a genetically-modified, super food bar. What it may lack in flavor, it more than makes up in the daily need of vitamins and minerals. Use the intercom anytime you need either.” After a long pause, the voice said, “Have a safe day” but before it clicked off I asked if I could somehow keep contact with my children. Another pause and I was told that that was still being worked out, then the intercom went dead.

“Have a safe day.” Really? What could possibly harm me in this sanitized cell? On second thought, sheer boredom may kill me. I looked around the room and pondered how I would prevent that. My options were severely limited. TV, reading, exercising, sleeping, not much else.

I decided to use the pen to keep track of my prison sentence. Each morning when I woke up, I put a small slash mark on the wall beside my bed indicating the dawn of a new day. And when those marks reached thirty-one, I drew a circle around it and added what month it was. This I did faithfully morning after morning.

On day seven, and missing my girls, I hit the intercom button. After a few seconds, there was a crackling sound, then, “Yes?” “When can I talk with my children?” A long silence; then, “It was determined by The Council that for the emotional health of the all children here that they be moved to a larger complex not far from this one, and their schooling and instruction begin.” I interjected, “Moved? They are my children; why wasn’t this discussed with me?” “We trust, Mr. Walters, that you understand the world currently is dealing with a deadly virus of global proportions, and, as such, stark and unpleasant steps are being taken to preserve the quality of life for all people. Because parents have been isolated for a time, such as yourself, the state has assumed temporary parental rights.”

I wanted to rage against the machine, the inhumanity, my own helplessness to change things. Instead, I hit the intercom button off. What the hell is happening here? I walked to the window seeking solace from the world outside but found none as rain had started to fall.

Watching TV, I discovered, was a wasteland as it became just an endless stream of boasting of the supreme benevolence of The Council, citing ad nauseum their wise decisions regarding the global pandemic and their on-going efforts to salvage what was left of the human race. Who was this mysterious cabal who called themselves “The Council”? Who appointed them into this lofty position of controlling our lives? There were more questions than answers.

Another habit I developed to bring life into my mundane existence was to go to the window and pretend it was open and I could breathe in fresh air on some far away mountaintop and would envision the day I’d taste the real air of freedom. On day five I stepped to the window to do that but saw “Lydia” again. That was the name I gave my new friend across the complex. We starred at each other, and I waved again. This time, she waved back! I smiled, feeling an affection for her, my silent, unwitting comrade in this gulag. Sensing she wanted to communicate, I placed my hand over my heart and then extended out to her. She smiled and reciprocated. I then became aware that this was the first tender interaction I had with another woman since the death of my wife. In this increasingly cold world, it felt nice and intensely human. But how else could I communicate to Lydia with no voice? I looked around the room to find something to try and keep the connection. Grabbing a novel, I raised it high…but she was gone. I waited a few minutes but she never returned to the window for the rest of the day.

Sadness suddenly engulfed my spirit. Would I ever see my kids again? Or meet her? Was there a way to escape this fabricated hell I’m in? For the sake of my children, I would persevere, no matter what.

The weeks droned wearily on.

The sun broke through the window upon my face, waking me from a sound sleep. I figured it to be between 7:30 and 8:00AM. Reaching for my pen, I draw a slash mark and then a circle around the month, which was June, and the dismal reality crashed in that I had been there for four months. Eight to go, supposedly. But who really knew? I was hungry but no longer could eat one of the toxic things they called a nutrition bar this early in the morning. Visibly I was losing weight. I took a few swigs of the chemical water. I strolled to the window to engage in my daily routine of day dreaming. I looked for Lydia but she probably was still sleeping.

Every attempt to make contact with my children was met with excuses and disingenuous statements that they are well, enjoying school, and that they missed me. I had to fight every day now the thought that I would never see my precious girls again.

It was the afternoon, in the middle of month seven, and a voice over the intercom interrupted my banal existence, declaring that The Council had discovered a promising vaccine, and each resident would receive it in a few weeks. I had heard a gazillion theories about vaccines, both pro and con, and it was confusing as to what was the truth. It didn’t matter, holding my children hostage as they did, I would not be given a choice.

Half-way through an Asimov novel, a knock came, and before I could open the door, two men entered wearing hazmat-looking suits, one holding a needle. I just shook my head at the melodrama of the scene. I felt like I was the disease which, I was coming to figure out, was how they wanted me to feel.

One spoke, “It is your lucky day, Mr. Walters. This vaccine just might be your ticket out of here, sooner than expected. That would be nice, yes?” I didn’t answer; just shook my head in modest agreement. The thought suddenly came to me that I might be able to escape right now. But even if I were successful, that would put my girls at risk as I had no idea where they were now. I dismissed the idea, then reluctantly rolled up my left shirt sleeve. The injection was made and the space men left. Not even a goodbye. It did not take long before my body didn’t feel right.

Wanting to connect with Lydia, I walked to the window. She wasn’t there so I pulled up a chair and waited. Then I spotted her as she crossed the room and jumped to my feet, waiving my arms. She eventually saw me and came to the window. Picking up the pencil, I raised my left arm and made believe it was a needle. Lydia understood and pointed to her arm where she had gotten her stick. I then threw my hands up as if to say, “It’s done so let’s see what happens.” She smiled and nodded. I smiled back and then, without hardly thinking, I threw her a kiss. She then pressed her lips against the glass. My heart lept with joy and hope! I was in love with a woman I had never met. And who cares? As we gazed at each other I could she had begun to cry. I could feel her tears and my heart was breaking. Hanging her head, she slowly moved out of sight. I screamed out her name over and over but she never came back to the window that day.

Anger suddenly rose up in me—not at her but at The Council. I stepped back and I threw the chair against the window, shattering the frail wooden thing. I screamed loudly, “Bastards! You’re all freaking bastards! Your day will come, I will see to that personally!”

The intercom broke in. “Mr. Walters, we would strongly advise against such outbursts.”

“Oh, really? Well, who the hell are you to tell me what I can and cannot do? In this cell you’ve sentenced me to, I’m the boss and I do what I want, even if you don’t like it, so screw you!”

The intercom clicked off.

I turned to the door and grabbed the knob, trying to force it open. In rage my fists began pounding on the cold steel. After a minute or so, in exhaustion and frustration, my body slunk to the floor and I began to wail in anguish. Then I rose to my feet, slammed the intercom with my fist and shouted, “I am a human! I am not an animal! I am a human being and a member of the human race. I believe in God and The Council thinks their gods but you are not! And nothing you do will devalue who I am. To my last breath, I will be human!” There was silence. No response. I clicked it off. My body yearned for a beer, lots of them. Night was falling. I flicked off the light in the room, sat on my bed for hours, thinking, till sleep mercifully came.

The days advanced, painfully slow, and were spent reading, exercising, and keeping my connection with Lydia as we had developed various forms of crude communication. Unknowingly, she kept me alive, as did the hope of seeing my kids. 

 On a Saturday I think, of month eleven, while forcing myself to watch some TV, came the news. Apparently the vaccine was immensely successful and videos were shown of people all over the world dancing and celebrating in the streets. Brazil, Italy, Hong Kong, and many other nations, even, America, were emerging out of the death malaise and new life was bursting forth across the earth! The Council was being hailed as the saviors of the world.

Just then the intercom came alive with the report that due to the success of the vaccine campaign, all doors would be opened on-schedule, next month, exactly one year from the day I arrived. Such exactness. This was all planned. 

“Mr. Walters, your day has come! Tomorrow at 9:00AM you may leave. Please be ready because we will take you to the lobby where your children will be waiting.” I wondered how my girls had grown and how’d they look. When I hug them, I’m not letting go. Then my mind began filling up with meeting Lydia for the first time. I closed my eyes and felt life flowing into my dusty body.

I arose early and excitedly gave myself an extra close shave, then lathered up my naked body with soap and washed it off. I wanted to be squeaky clean and smelling good for my first date. Throwing on a fresh uniform from the drawer, I peered out the window, and there was Lydia beaming from ear to ear, brushing her long brunette hair, looking at me. I could see the twinkle in her eye even from this distance. I motioned that I was going to hug her, and she clapped!

With nothing left to do but wait, I lied down on that old mattress and dreamed of what it would be like holding Lydia in my arms and making love to her for the first time. We were on some deserted island. I think I’m going to ask her to marry me. Today! Who knows what tomorrow holds? Lydia Walters. I love the sound of that!

At precisely 9:00AM, I heard the noise of the door being unlocked. I jumped up and moved towards it, my heart pounding in my chest. The door flung open and a bright light almost blinded me.

Then two men came in carrying a stretcher. Bringing it by the bed, they placed it on the floor, then flung the limp, dead body of James Walters on to it and exited out. The vaccine and the arsenic in the bottled water had done its intended work. As the men left, two women carrying sanitizing supplies walked in to get the room ready for the next resident. They brought in an old wooden chair, too.

The Great Reset was advancing on schedule and unhindered.