"I'll have the cheesesteak...and a round of Vegas Bombs for the table." I peer over my menu at Emily with a grin, anticipating her reaction. She waits till the waitress has turned her back and is out of earshot before rounding on me. "Vegas Bombs? Really Morgan?" she questions.
I laugh at her protest. "Really Emily?" I taunt. "You're the one who invited the three of us up here," I say, gesturing to Leon and Felix who sit on either side of me. "Are you honestly surprised?"
"To be taking shots before noon? Yeah, a little," she says.
"It's five o'clock somewhere," Felix says, raising his beer in toast and taking a drink. Leon leans in, laughing. "Come on Em, it's your twenty-first! You have to either go big, or go home."
She turns to him. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but weren't you passed out by six o'clock on your own twenty-first?" she smirks, sending Felix into a coughing fit as he begins to laugh mid drink. I smile. That was one ridiculous day.
"Six o'clock—an impressive feat," Maya says approvingly. "I'm guessing it was one hell of a party?"
"You have no idea," Emily laughs before launching into the story. I find myself replaying the scene in time with her narration: the spring sunlight warm against my skin, warding off the chill from an intractable winter's fading grasp; the smell of smoke and grilling meats thick upon the air, intermingling with the shouts and laughter from the myriad of friends and family strewn about the yard; games of flip cup, and beer pong, and every other stapled drinking game we knew keeping a steady stream of alcohol flowing through our systems. Leon was the first of us to turn the monumental twenty-one, and Felix and I pulled out all the stops in planning the festivities—kegs, bottles of liquor, enough food to feed a small army—it was a party of epic proportions, lasting well into the wee hours of the morning. At least for some of us.
"So, suddenly I notice a crowd snapping off pictures with their cell phones and laughing at someone hunched over one of the tables," Emily says. "I go over to check it out, and sure enough there's Leon: blacked out, the left side of his face smashed into a piece of cake, and the right graffitied with magic marker," she finishes, shaking her head in mock disapproval.
Leon shrugs it off, grabbing two shot glasses from our waitress who arrives a moment later. "Hey, no regrets here. I went big," he says, extending one of the shots Emily's way. "Now it's your turn." Peer pressure getting the better of her, Emily accepts the shot as we raise our glasses one by one. "To Em. And to one hell of a birthday," Leon says. With a chorus of cheers, we drop our shots into tumblers of Red Bull, and down the hatch, they go.
"Anyone up for round two?" I ask, smacking my lips. Emily immediately shoots the idea down, and I can't help but laugh: I've missed this. Ever since she moved to Denver for college, weekends like this have been too few and far between. Growing up we were always close. With only two years and one grade separating us, I suppose it was inevitable our social lives would overlap. We had the same friends, went to the same parties, did the same stupid things to pass the time in our quiet mountain town. We were as much friends as anything else, the friction often felt between adolescent siblings never an issue for us. Of course, there were times when I wanted to strangle her, and I'm sure she wanted to do the same to me. That's just the nature of brothers and sisters. But anytime she needed me she knew I would be there for her, just as I knew she would be there for me. She was my rock, and I was hers. I don't know how I would have made it through my formative years without her.
"Might as well grab another pitcher, yeah?" Leon says, topping off our glasses with the remainder of our first. At the bar, I notice him exchanging words with our waitress, nodding over to our table as he does so. I shake my head. He's been my best friend since the day he moved in next door, the summer before 2nd grade. My mother, the charismatic and friendly person she is, wasted no time in introducing herself to our new neighbors. Once she saw Leon I was summoned from the house, and in turn, volunteered to entertain the new kid. I'm not sure whose bright idea it was to have an ice cream eating contest, but nearly four pints of Ben & Jerry's later, we found ourselves hunched over and vomiting in Ms. Patel's rose garden. There's something bonding about emptying your stomach with another person. Or possibly there's something bonding in random acts of stupidity. Either way, like the rose's Ms. Patel so carefully cultivated, a seed of friendship took root in that garden, and it's bloomed beautifully through the years. Over time I've learned to read him—to figure out his traits and tells. Which is why when I catch his eye and see the subtle smirk he wears, I know Emily's going to be pissed here shortly.
Leon arrives back at the table a minute before our order does. I dig into my food with gusto, needing to give my stomach something solid to drink on. I have a feeling it's going to be a wild day. My eyes flick across the many screens of the sports bar, stopping when I notice the procession of athletes filing into the Olympic Stadium. "I forgot the Olympics were starting this weekend," I say, nodding to the screen.
"Hell yeah," says Maya. "It's going to be weird not cheering for Michael Phelps, though." I agree. It will be just as strange not watching Usain Bolt running on the track, the 2016 Rio games being the finale for both of their Olympic careers. I imagine it must be difficult for them to watch the games after dominating their sports for so long. But that's just how time works—why each generation of sports fans have different legends to idolize. Maybe these 2020 Tokyo games will make way for new legends. "I can't wait to watch the US dominate in basketball. This year's roster is ridiculous," Felix adds.
"I don't know," Leon laughs. "It kind of loses its appeal when they blowout teams by halftime." As we eat, talk of the Olympics dominates the conversation. I'm surprised when Maya admits to once holding Olympic aspirations herself, garnering national recognition before breaking her ankle during a floor routine. "It was just never the same after that," she explains. And though she smiles, I catch the traces of regret behind her words, and I know at least part of her must wonder what might have been.
"Well, you know what they say about gymnasts right?" Felix asks.
"Let me guess. Something or another about flexibility and being good in bed?" Maya deadpans.
"No perv," Felix says, clucking his tongue. "Get your head out of the gutter!"
Maya looks slightly curious now. "Alright then. What do they say?"
He leans closer. "They say they have some beat up feet," he says, glancing beneath the table. Maya busts out laughing even as she makes to hide her sandal-clad feet when Leon and I peer beneath the table, playing into the joke. "Screw you!" she says. "I do not have beat up feet."
Felix raises his hands in a defensive gesture. "Hey, I'm not saying it's true...but you are trying pretty hard to hide your feet right now," he says, earning him a swat on the arm. I finish off the last of my cheesesteak and push the plate away, completely stuffed. Stomach full, and alcohol flowing through me, I'm in no hurry to get anywhere. I watch as Leon and Felix continue to give Maya shit, and am about to suggest another pitcher when I'm distracted by the sudden procession of waitresses wending their way toward us. Damn, Leon.
The look on Emily's face when she realizes what's happening is priceless. I can practically feel the embarrassment rolling off her as they begin to sing and I fail in holding back my laughter. Poor little sister. When our waitress hands her a tumbler filled a deep blue, it's out of desperation to draw attention away from herself that she immediately shoots it down. When the waitresses leave, she looks to me and then to Leon. "You're such an asshole!" she tells Leon, the grin he wears giving him away. Even so, she smiles. When it lingers, I take a drink and pretend not to notice the gleam behind both their stares. It's something I've gotten good at over the years.
"Anyone opposed to the idea of hitting up a liquor store and heading back to the apartment?" Felix asks. Nobody objects. When the waitress comes to check on us I hand her my credit card to pay, waving away the protests around the table. "This one's on me," I insist.
"We got the booze then," Felix says, gesturing between himself and Leon.
"Sounds good to me," I reply. Our waitress returns with the ticket for me to sign. I scrawl my signature and hand back the booklet with a thank you for her service. "Shall we?" I ask.
"Hold on," Maya says, eyes glued to the screen above the bar. "They're about to introduce The United States." Our eyes are drawn to the TV where the delegates of the United Arab Emirates march through the Olympic Stadium, the United States on deck. I'm glad Maya stopped us. Out of everything, this is always my favorite moment of the Olympic Games: watching on as my fellow countrymen make their entrance. There's something magical about it. Seeing the pride etched into their smiles, and hope gleam in their eyes as they march through the stadium, the culmination of years of training and aspirations boiling down to a handful of events. It really is a beautiful moment to witness. Only it appears not to be this time around as the coverage is cut off, and the screen filled with static gray and white noise before the US can be introduced. It's not the only screen to do so, the dozens of screens throughout the bar simultaneously cutting off as well. A chorus of groans and grumbles ensue throughout the bar, an overweight man a few tables away standing out in particular as he hurls a string of obscenities when his baseball game is interrupted mid-pitch.
"Cable must be out," Leon says.
No sooner do the words leave his mouth when the dozens of screens cut away once more, though they do not revert back to their original broadcasts. All the screens throughout the bar show the same image: that of a man from the shoulder down set against a black backdrop. He reeks of money—expensive suit, meticulously combed hair graying at the edges, a large smile of straight and whitened teeth. At first glance, I'd peg him as a politician, like a member of the one percent running for office to help shape laws which suit him and his fellows. But there's something off about him. Something in the eyes. Something that gives me a leaden feeling in my gut and tells me something vicious hides behind his smile. It's then, he chooses to speak:
"My fellow members of Humanity, it is an honor and a privilege to address you on this most marvelous of days. I ask each of you, no matter where you are and no matter what you may be doing, to please take a moment and observe your surroundings. The weather outside, the faces of those you are with, the smells and sounds around you. Sear it all into your memory. I ask this, because I can guarantee you all that today will not be forgotten. For the rest of your lives, and for millennia to come, today will be remembered as a new beginning: as the dawn of a new age."
The man pauses for a long minute—one which seems to bend and stretch into infinity as all throughout the bar, plates are left untouched, and mugs of beer forgotten—the once boisterous air now thick with unease. I look to each of my friends in turn, their tense and confused faces a reflection of what I feel inside. And then, the man continues.
"For the entirety of my life, today was only ever a dream. To stand before you now, bearing witness as that dream comes to fruition, is truly a moment I shall cherish for the rest of my days. I thank you. For you are the reason my organization exists: the drive behind all that we do. It matters not your race or religion, where you come from or your walk of life. Strip away the parameters which divide us and you will come to one irrevocable truth: we are all human, both the most magnificent and malicious species to ever inhabit this world. Through scientific discoveries and technological breakthroughs, we have revolutionized our world and transcended what we believe to be possible. Diseases have been cured. Monuments, built. We have explored the deepest depths of our oceans and launched men and women into space, allowing us to walk the moon and observe Earth's beauty from a vantage point only ever known by God. We have much to be proud of. For in every country, on every continent, throughout every corner of this world, the genius of man echoes for all to hear."
His eyes darken. "But so too, do our atrocities."
"War. Terrorism. Genocide. The history of man is a canvas painted in blood and dark deeds. Even as I speak, the drums of war beat. Men with cruel minds and black hearts plot. We are a species hardwired for destruction and I mourn for all which we destroy. For as abhorrent as our behavior is, the same behavior has held true since the dawn of time. Only now the stakes have been raised. Men no longer ride to battle on horseback, but in armored vehicles and in the cockpits of helicopters and fighter jets. Arrows no longer fly across our battlefields—bullets and missiles do. At any given moment, the powers that be could enter the codes to launch the warheads, that would mark the beginning of the end for us all. The world itself is a bomb, and make no mistake, the fuse has been lit. The warnings are written on the wall clear for all who care to read them. The world will once again be consumed in war. Ten, fifty, one hundred years from now. Though the timing may be unknown, our past portends another conflict arising: one we as a race may never recover from."
"What's more, our destructive nature extends beyond the conflicts we fight among ourselves, jeopardizing the world itself on a very primal level. Look to our melting ice caps and rising seas. Look to the deforestation of our rainforests for timber and arable land. And if ever there were an example of our cancerous presence, look no further than our gross demand for crude oil—the toxic black sludge we have grown so dependent upon—leaving us suckling at the ground like pigs so we may maintain our false utopia. Our footprint on this planet is indisputable. It is large. It is devastating. And it grows with each passing year. I ask you, how long till the boot grows so large that the world is crushed beneath its weight?"
"Currently, mankind stands at the precipice of eight billion souls: a number this planet was never meant to harbor. Earth cannot sustain the status quo. We consume energy with glutinous glee, oblivious and uncaring of the repercussions from doing so. We have raped the earth for sustenance for far too long. And for what? Out of necessity? Because we had no other choice? No. If we are a destructive species, it is only because we too are a greedy one—destruction so often merely the means to sate our ravenous hunger for more. Should we continue the course we've set, it's only a matter of time before we make a corpse of this world, and it will be as flea-bitten carrion when we realize our folly."
"And it is for that very reason my colleagues and I have taken measures into our own hands. But before I continue, I would like to make one thing abundantly clear: WE ARE NOT TERRORISTS! Though I have no doubt that is the title with which we will be painted. What we do now is not out of hate, but out of love: love for a species that if left to its own devices will destroy itself by destroying the world it inhabits. What we do is for the dream of a better future: a future we will not have should we not do what must be done. Change is not coming. It is here. It is sweeping through the earth like mist."
"My colleagues and I have stationed ourselves throughout the globe to lead the vanguard of change. We are in your schools and universities. We are in your militaries and governments. We have in our ranks generals and politicians—scientists and engineers—anything and everything necessary to set the world about a new course. We have instilled ourselves among the fabric of society over generations, all so we might one day have the opportunity before us. Today, we unravel that fabric in hopes it may be sewn into something better, something stronger. There will be no rule or order except that which you make yourselves. Nobody is coming to your rescue. It is as Darwin said: survival of the fittest, for that is who we will need to usher mankind into the future. Farewell, my friends. And please, to those of you who live to rebuild this world: build a better one than that which dies today."
As the man ends his speech, I realize what gave me such unease when I first looked into his eyes: the mania. The euphoric excitement burning behind his stare. I haven't a clue who this man is or what he may be involved with. But I have a sinking feeling that something very bad is about to happen.
The man disappears, the screens cutting back to static gray and white noise before finally settling on the Olympic coverage once again. Only something's wrong. The athletes no longer march through the stadium. The spectators no longer wave banners and yell out in pride. Even the announcers have been stunned into silence, everyone seemingly digesting the same message we've just heard. And then in the span of a breath, the silence is broken— harsh and brutal—as explosions unfurl throughout the stadium in waves, bringing death to all in their wake.
Shouts and cries of alarm sound from our fellow diners even as the screens flicker once more, cutting to an image of The White House meeting the same fiery end. Flicker. The British Parliament is reduced to rubble. Flicker: The Eiffel Tower is toppled. The screens flicker again and again, showing death and destruction rippling across the globe like dominoes falling one right after the other. Buildings explode and crumble, shipping barges are sunk, panicked mobs are crushed beneath falling debris. We sit for I don't know how long, transfixed and horrified by the mayhem till finally, the screens go black. A moment later the air conditioning goes out and so does the lighting within the restaurant. I reach for my phone, praying it still has power. Dead. Anger and fear coursing through me, I chuck it at the wall as hard as I can and watch it shatter: a thimbleful of destruction compared to the tidal wave which has just rocked the world.
For as long as I can remember, I've been a vivid dreamer. I've held a smoking revolver in my hand as I laid waste to zombie hordes; I've flown through the clouds at lightning speed, and felt the wind whip my face and sunshine on my back; I've explored hidden alcoves of mermaids and strange aquatic creatures below the ocean's depths. I found that with practice, I held some degree of control over my dreams—so when a stray walking corpse sank its teeth into my leg, or I lost flight and plummeted towards the earth, or I ran out of air and started drowning—I could pull myself out, and ground myself back into reality with nothing more than a racing pulse and twisted sheets.
But this is no dream. If it were, I'd have pulled myself out long before now. I would be back home, splashing my face with cold water and telling myself none of it was real. I would turn on the TV and watch late night infomercials until I could get the images out of my mind. But I'm still here, hundreds of miles from home, and this is more real than anything I've ever dealt with. The explosions and screams and chaos were real. Hundreds of thousands of deaths in the span of minutes. Sounds of chaos still reach my ears, only it no longer comes from the TV. It's in the panic of those around me. In the screeching of tires and crashes of twisting metal outside.
I hear it, and I know it's real.