I revved the engine of my car, looking sideways at the driver sitting next to me at the red light.  A middle-aged man, dressed in a suit, most likely on the way home from work.  He didn’t stand a chance.

By keeping one eye on the lights going the opposite direction, I caught the change to yellow.  I turned my head back forward, positioning my foot over the accelerator.  I was a coiled spring, ready to leap into action.

Green.

I slammed my foot down, my car lunging ahead of the businessman.  His Cadillac wasn’t good for much if he didn’t use it, I thought triumphantly.  I watched with satisfaction as he faded into my rear view mirror.

Looking up ahead, I could see that my left lane was a sea of red lights; someone was trying to turn left, and was stuck waiting in the middle of the road.  I cut right, merging in front of my defeated Cadillac opponent, and zoomed past the jam.

I never understood how people could trudge along at ten miles below the speed limit, letting their cars idle as they sat for precious seconds at green lights or stop signs.  Didn’t people want to get to their destination sooner, rather than later?  Why were they so slow, acting like barely moving obstacles in the road for me to dodge?

Another obstacle, coming up.  This time, my opponent was a slow-moving bus, taking up a lane and a half as it pulled over haphazardly to pick up passengers at a stop.  I looked at the other lane, at oncoming traffic.  The nearest approaching car was still a good block away.  Perfect.  I jerked the wheel slightly to the left, swerving around the bus, my left wheels briefly kissing the center line.

I always remember hearing that we were supposed to drive defensively, that we were supposed to be careful and slow in our decision making when behind the wheel.  I had stuck to that policy for many years, but it had gradually changed, evolved.

There were so many dangerous drivers on the road.  Anyone who acted defensively, who merely reacted to events, would be overcome, bogged down, stuck in gridlock and brought to a standstill.

Instead, I had chosen a different strategy.  Taking a leaf from the military’s playbook, I went for the preemptive strikes.  Anticipating threats, avoiding and escaping from those who posed a danger, and being ever-ready to dodge incoming issues.  My goal was to get ahead of the bad drivers, to swerve around the slow ones, to ensure my safety by defeating my opponents.

I drive offensively.

Author’s note: I had a lot of trouble writing this.  I hope this resonates with you as strongly as it did with me.

The young man was dying.  He lay on the beach, clutching his side where the vicious staccato of gunfire had ripped indiscriminately through flesh, bone, and organs alike.  Behind him, one of the troop carriers exploded in the shallow water, screams echoing off the concrete fortifications that lay ahead of the soldiers.  Through the haze of pain and red, he could feel himself fading away.

As the other men stepped over his body, their rifles issuing oddly muted cracks, the young man felt himself pull away, rise back up until he was gazing down at himself.  The feelings of pain and agony peeled away, to be replaced by a deep and suffusing sense of loss and abandonment, sinking to his soul.

“It will pass.”

The shade of the young man turned, trying to see from where the voice came.  Unlike the other sounds, now all but background, the voice cut through reality like a tolling bell.

Behind the man, hovering just above the churning surface of the water, a dark shape faced him.  Although its features were indistinct, it resembled a man in a black cape, a hood drawn over his face.  “You have a choice,” spoke the spectre, the words ringing and distinct.

what is my choice? asked the young man.

“You are permitted one glimpse.  The past, or the future.”  The figure waited.

The young man didn’t have much of a past.  He had fond memories before the split, before his mother had refused to leave her bed and his father took out his rage on the liquor bottle, and then on those around him.  He had tried to fight back, had failed, had run away to the Army to escape.  The past held nothing for him.

the future, the young man chose.

He had no way to know, but he thought that the hooded spectre smiled.  It spread its arms wide, and white light, blinding light, streamed from the cloak.

…the white stones, each identical save for the names and dates carved upon them, stretched out over the hills.  He could see no end to them, rolling on and on into the distance.  Nearby, a young woman held the hand of a small boy as she choked back tears.  

“Mommy, why?” the boy asked plaintively, tugging at the woman’s hand.  

Through clouded eyes, the woman smiled down at her son.  “For us,” she replied, her voice hoarse.  “He gave his life for us, so that we could be free..”

The young man shook his head.  No!  This wasn’t what the other soldiers had talked of, what they had been looking forward to after the war ended.  The dark shape said nothing, but light continued to flow from its core.

…there should have been cheers, but the crowd was oddly silent.  Standing on the shores of Cape Canaveral, watching the brilliant white dot at the head of the plume of smoke rise into the air, there were a few waving flags, a few cries of happy patriotism.  But most of the watchers stood silent, as if they were waiting for what would come next.

At the explosion, as the brilliant point of white light suddenly burst into a cloud of gray and a spray of fragments, there was a murmur in the crowd.  Nothing more.  Was this supposed to happen?  It wasn’t until one child’s arm rose, pointing at the falling cabin, that the shouts and screams began.

The broken body of the shuttle plunged into the ocean.  Nobody knew how to react.  Some ran, some cried, while others simply flopped down on the beach, their legs no longer able to support their weight.  The plume of smoke still hung in the sky, a smooth arc that ended abruptly in a jagged splash…

The young man tried to scream, but nothing came out.  Another failure!  Is this all that lay ahead?  Were all of our aspirations, our goals, for nothing?  Were we always doomed to fail?  He raged at the dark shape that floated in front of him, filled with impotent fury.  The shape merely hung, waiting, as the next wave of light washed over him.

…he really didn’t need the coffee, and was now late for work.  Glancing up through the crowded streets, he could see his building ahead.  If only he could leap up to the 93rd floor in the North Tower, to his office!  

A glint of light from an adjacent skyscraper caught his eye.  He stared upward, watching as the scene turned to horror.  A massive airplane, far too close to the ground.  For a moment, it intersected the tower, a bizarre growth of glass and metal.  Then the image was gone, replaced by smoke, fire, and a hail of debris.  

As dust and chunks of masonry rained down on the streets, the man dropped his coffee and briefcase, breaking into a run.  He didn’t know why he ran towards the destruction, against the tide of bodies and into the smoke and confusion, but he ran, and would not stop…

By now, the rest of the world was quiet, dark, silent and faded into gray obscurity.  The young man slumped down on the beach.  He had given up on hope.  As his fellows still fought onward, all around him, he knew that it was in vain.  All that lay ahead, all that was to come, was darkness, failure, tragedy, pain.  He did not look up as the dark figure drew closer.

“Look once more.”

He could not resist.  The young man raised his head and gazed into the light.

Celebration.  He saw men in camouflage uniforms, the United States flag embroidered on their shoulders, smashing through the gates of Auschwitz.  Young boys, gathered around a wooden table, cheered as a tiny black-and-white television showed them grainy pictures of a man in a bulky white suit carefully descending down a ladder from his landing craft.  Thousands of people, all clutching each other, watched a glittering crystal ball descend to mark the end of a millennium.  Political leaders across the globe, standing before cameras and pledging to offer aid to the United States in its time of need.  Everywhere, after every tragedy, the people coming together to grieve, to offer help, to stand strong.  

Everything was faint now, even the shade of the young man.  is this the truth? he asked, with the last of his energy.

The figure hovered impassively above him.  “This is a truth.  Happiness and sorrow are two sides to the same coin.  There cannot be one without the other.”

As he faded, reflecting on what he had seen, the shade of the young man felt peace.  Not joy, not sorrow, but balance.

Continued from here.

I stare at the words on the computer terminal, their glow the only thing illuminating my room.  I can’t understand.  I don’t remember being trapped for years inside this room!  How can this be happening?  Fingers trembling slightly, I once again reach for the keyboard.

“How many other protected users are there?”

WARNING.  LACK OF CONNECTION DATA INDICATES DAMAGE TO EXTERIOR RELAYS.  AT TIME ZERO, THIRTY-EIGHT MILLION PROTECTED USERS WERE RECORDED.  UNABLE TO ESTABLISH CONNECTION WITH ANY OTHER CONTAINMENT CHAMBERS AT THIS TIME.

QUERY?

“When was last connection established?”

TIME LOGS SHOW LAST CONNECTION WAS ESTABLISHED TO CONTAINMENT CHAMBER #239,581 AT SIX THOUSAND, SEVEN HUNDRED AND FORTY HOURS AFTER TIME ZERO.

QUERY?

Six thousand hours . . . that was a little more than nine months after the chambers had sealed.  “Where is that containment chamber located, relative to here?”

CHAMBER #239,581 IS THREE MILES FROM THIS LOCATION IN A SOUTHEAST DIRECTION.

QUERY?

I take a deep breath.  “Open the door to this containment chamber,” I type and wait, holding my breath.

ERROR.  CHAMBER CONTAINMENT LOCKS CANNOT BE RELEASED UNTIL SENSORS INDICATE A STABLE EXTERIOR ENVIRONMENT.

THIS ERROR HAS BEEN LOGGED ONE THOUSAND AND NINETY SEVEN TIMES.

QUERY?

I let out a yell of frustration.  Wait a minute.  This error had been logged before?  Does that mean that I have asked the computer to do this before?  The feeling of dread, still present in my stomach, churns and roils. “Have I asked these questions before?” I type in.

YES.  SUBROUTINES INDICATE THAT SIMILAR VARIATIONS OF THESE QUESTIONS HAVE BEEN ASKED BEFORE, FROM NINE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY TO ONE THOUSAND TWO HUNDRED AND TWENTY EIGHT TIMES.

QUERY?

My breath is shallow in my throat.  “Why?” I manage to get out.

WHEN THE PROTECTED USER ENTERED THE CONTAINMENT CHAMBER, A MOLECULAR SNAPSHOT WAS TAKEN.  NANOBOT REJUVENATION RETURNS THE PROTECTED USER TO THE MOLECULAR STATE OF THE SNAPSHOT.  ALTHOUGH THIS PROCESS PREVENTS AGING, IT RESULTS IN SHORT TERM MEMORY ERASURE.  THIS PROCESS IS REPEATED EVERY TWENTY FOUR HOURS TO PREVENT PERMANENT CELL DAMAGE.

QUERY?

I push the chair back, grabbing at my head.  Four and a half years!  Four and a half years, I have been trapped in here, reliving the same day, over and over, never able to remember what had happened!  “Let me out!”  I scream.  “Let me out of here!”

Letters continue to appear on the screen.  ERROR.  CHAMBER CONTAINMENT LOCKS CANNOT BE RELEASED UNTIL SENSORS INDICATE A STABLE EXTERIOR ENVIRONMENT.

THIS ERROR HAS BEEN LOGGED ONE THOUSAND AND NINETY EIGHT TIMES.

INTERNAL SENSORS INDICATE A HIGH LEVEL OF STRESS IN THE PROTECTED USER.  FOR SAFETY, NANOBOT REJUVENATION PROCESS IS BEING ACTIVATED.  THIS IS THE ONE THOUSAND, SIX HUNDRED, AND SEVENTY-EIGHTH TIME NANOBOT REJUVENATION HAS BEEN TRIGGERED.

I groan as I sit up, gripping my aching head.  What happened?  I can’t seem to remember anything.  Somehow, I know that this is nothing new, that I often wake up groggy and confused.  It will all come back to me soon.

Dragging myself up to my feet, I move across the floor and settle down into the only chair in the small room, facing the computer terminal.  The screen glows blue in front of me.

QUERY?

I groan as I sit up, gripping my aching head.  What happened?  I can’t seem to remember anything.  Somehow, I know that this is nothing new, that I often wake up groggy and confused.  It will all come back to me soon.

Dragging myself up to my feet, I move across the floor and settle down into the only chair in the small room, facing the computer terminal.  The screen glows blue in front of me.

QUERY?

“What happened to me last night?” I type in, and hit enter.

UNKNOWN VARIABLE: “NIGHT”.  SENSORS INDICATE THAT YOU EXPERIENCED A PERIOD OF UNCONSCIOUSNESS LASTING SEVEN HOURS AND FORTY EIGHT MINUTES.

QUERY?

The computer didn’t recognize night?  “What time is it?” I type.

THIRTY-NINE THOUSAND, FOUR HUNDRED AND NINETY HOURS HAVE PASSED SINCE TIME ZERO.

QUERY?

This is even more confusing.  I do a bit of rough calculation in my head, and come up with slightly over four and a half years.  I put my hands on the keyboard again.  “Define “time zero”.”

TIME ZERO IS DESIGNATED AS THE MOMENT WHEN THIS CHAMBER WAS SEALED AND SCENARIO FOURTEEN WAS ACTIVATED.

QUERY?

Chamber sealed?  I stare around, suddenly realizing that, although there is the outline of a door on the far wall, it was definitely shut, and the handle appears to have retracted into the door itself.  I get up and try pushing on it, just to be certain, but it won’t even budge.  I return to the console.  “Define “scenario fourteen”,” I put in.

SCENARIO FOURTEEN ENCOMPASSES ALL MAJOR EVENTS CREATING A BIOLOGICAL CATASTROPHE OF LEVEL FOUR OR HIGHER.  PROTECTED USERS ARE SEALED IN PERSONAL CHAMBERS UNTIL THREAT LEVELS HAVE DECREASED BELOW LEVEL TWO.  DUE TO UNKNOWN TIME FRAMES, PROTECTED USERS ARE MAINTAINED AT CURRENT ENTROPIC LEVELS THROUGH NANOBOT REJUVENATION.

QUERY?

I still don’t understand quite what was happening, but I can feel a deep pit opening in my stomach, a rising wave of horror threatening to engulf me.

“What happened to trigger scenario fourteen?”

WARNING: MISSING DATA.  SUMMARY COMPILED FROM BEST FIT ANALYSIS OF DATA.  SELF-REPLICATING BIOLOGICAL FORM OF UNKNOWN ORIGIN TARGETED CARBON BONDS OF DNA, CAUSING COMPLETE BIOLOGICAL EXTINCTION LEVEL EVENT.

QUERY?

To be continued….

I thundered down the highway, the speakers in my truck blasting out AC/DC’s classic, “Highway to Hell.”  I was feeling pretty good, the wind howling along through my open windows.  Suddenly, I was forced to slam on my brakes.

“Asshole!” I shouted, as the Pontiac Aztec in front of me merged into my lane at a glacial fifteen miles per hour.  Without a turn signal, of course.

I fumed behind the wheel, my good mood completely ruined.  This guy needed to be taught a lesson.  And fortunately, thanks to my license, I was the right person for the job.

Merging over into the left lane (using my turn signal, of course), I crept up next to the green monstrosity of a car.  Looking over, I was not surprised to see that the man behind the wheel was texting on his phone, blatantly holding it up in front of the steering wheel.  I was surprised he was still on the road at all.

I reached under my seat, gripping the familiar handle.  Hitting the button to automatically roll down my passenger side window, I pulled upward, leveling the pistol across the car to point at the source of my hatred.  He, of course, was completely oblivious.  I would change that, I thought vindictively, pulling the trigger several times while an evil grin spread across my face.

As the paint pellets from the paintball pistol collided with his window, the idiot gave a gratifying jerk, dropping his phone between his feet and nearly veering out of his lane.  Revenge accomplished, I floored the accelerator in my own car, speeding past him.  “Agent of karma, asshole!” I shouted out the window.  I knew he couldn’t hear me, but I yelled it nonetheless.

On the heads-up display on my windshield, a small notification popped up, informing me that I’d picked up ten points on my karma license.  I grinned.  Sometimes, earning a living was hard work.  Other times, like right now, it was the most enjoyable activity in the world.

“And now, if we move on to the next paragraph, as is congruent with clause D…” droned on the county commissioner, flipping to slide 492 of 837.  Inside the confines of my head, I screamed loudly.  Several times.

Swiveling slightly in the high-backed office chair, I gazed down the row of other City Council members, trying to see how they were managing to stay sane.

On the far side of the curved table, Steve Sonneman was leaning back in his chair and tossing pencils up into the composite tiles of the drop ceiling.  Several already hung precariously above his head.  Next to Councilman Sonneman, Karin Herbert was contentedly knitting what was meant to either be a very crooked scarf, or an extremely long tube sock.

Next to me, Duane Olson was hunched forward and snickering.  I scooted closer and peered over his shoulder.  Councilman Olson was holding his smartphone below the table.  I winced as I caught a glimpse of the screen.  The councilman was enjoying some very offensive pornography.  With a lascivious wiggle of his eyebrows, he turned the phone towards me slightly.  I held up my hand in protest and looked away.  Olson shrugged and returned his full attention to the video.

Great.  I looked up at the main projector’s screen, now displaying (on slide 495) a graph with no title, legend, or labels on its axes.  The head councilman had to at least be listening, right?

I leaned forward to look at Jim Valentine, the duly elected head councilman, seated at the center of the table.  His head was bent forward, presumably in deep concentration.  However, as the commissioner fumbled to once again replace the batteries in her laser pointer, I saw a long bead of drool slowly descend from Head Councilman Valentine’s mouth to sit, glistening, on the table.  So he was asleep, then.

Slumping back in my chair, I thought back to the chain of events that had landed me here.  It was actually quite a short chain.  I was technically filling in for Greg Pomeroy, due to his “temporary personal leave of absence.”

What this meant was that Greg had realized a couple of days ago that this council meeting would conflict with his fishing trip.  He had asked me to fill in for him, and because I was already on my second beer, and I owed Greg twenty bucks besides, I had agreed.  Like a fool.

Now, trapped and entering the third hour of the meeting, with no end in sight, I bitterly regretted that decision.  I should have just coughed up the twenty.  My brain, desperately seeking some form of escape, directed my eyes in a longing glimpse towards the fire alarm on the wall behind me.  I actually caught my hand reaching back, acting out of its own self-preservation.

Fire alarm, sprinklers, water everywhere, being forced to flee the building . . . wait a minute, that was the answer!  I stood up abruptly, causing the county commissioner to pause in her litany.

“Yes?” she asked, glaring at me for daring to interrupt her carefully prepared five-million-point speech.

I gestured at the doors.  “Bathroom,” I said, and dashed for the exit.

Fortunately, the local watering hole was only two blocks from the government center, so I wasn’t too out of breath when I came in the door.  “Hey Charlie, beer me,” I panted to the bartender as I sank, gratefully, back into my usual seat.

As Charlie brought me a mug of frothy beer, I nodded at the TV behind the bar.  “Hey, would you mind putting on the city council meeting?” I asked.  “I’m very interested in local government,” I added to his raised eyebrows as he switched the channel.  I settled back in my seat with my beer.  Now, this was how the meetings should go!

I felt the first seizing of panic in my throat even before the engine died, as it gave its first misfire and the accelerator pedal shuddered beneath my foot.  That sixth sense, that vague premonition, kicked in, and I knew that I was in serious trouble.

Hoping for a recovery, I pushed down harder on the pedal, trying to up the flow of gas to the choking motor.  It was to no avail.  The engine gave one last gasp and then gave up, filling the cabin of the truck with a heavy damp silence.

Shit.

I still had a little forward momentum, and I threw the wheel to the hard right, managing to make it halfway onto the shoulder before the truck came to a complete standstill.  Angrily, I hit the button for the emergency flashers, ignoring the honks already coming from the traffic behind me as they swerved around the bed of the vehicle.

Staring out into the swirling white snow, I gripped the key tightly, trying to channel some sort of good luck down through my fingers and into the spark plugs of the engine.  Taking a breath, I twisted the key forward.

A few coughs.  The engine’s clicking sounded wet, raspy, like a choking smoker laboring outside a hospital to draw breath.  I held the key for a few seconds, but the truck couldn’t take in that full breath of air it so desperately needed.

I slumped back in my seat for a moment.  I was miles from the shop.  It would take nearly an hour for anyone to come get me, even if they left immediately.  Thoughts of a tow, of a broken vehicle, of accident reports and service claims filled my head.  I shook myself slightly, trying to remain positive as I reached for the key once more.

Click.

Click.

Click – cough – cough – ROAR.

Somewhere, the gods of travel are smiling down on me.  The engine kicks into life.  It’s unsteady at first, uncertain, and I hesitate to even move in my seat for fear that I’ll somehow disrupt the intimate balance.  But then the engine manages to recover, and erupts into a steady purr.  Throwing the car into drive, I hesitantly tap on the pedal, and am rewarded with a surge of forward motion.

I make my way back up onto the road, looking for the nearest chance to turn around and head back to the shop.  I take a moment, just a single moment, to appreciate my good fortune, considering how much worse things could have been.