Dear Readers, It's been a long time. I am fulfilling a dream of restarting my blog by narrating a dream. There's a certain...symmetry.
Last night I dreamed I was still a student at Covenant and everyone was drafted into the military to fight a big new war.
We were all in a big classroom familiar to me from WashU, being given some sort of pep talk, but I had to go to class, which was fine, but I got back a little late. Everyone was filing out and boarding the troop transport trucks. I had to go to the bathroom though. By the time I made it out into the late afternoon sun they were waiting for me. A sergeant yelled at me and wanted to kick me out right then and there but someone, I don't remember who, stood up for me. I clambered into the back of a truck and apologized to my compatriots for the holdup. They were nice about it.
As we drove I discovered the female, 16 year old recruit next to me was dating my younger brother Jack. This made the dream difficult to navigate because I don't have a younger brother, and his name isn't Jack.
"What is that you call him?" she asked, and thankfully supplied the answer, "buddy?" She was nice enough, I supposed.
About this time we were making a turn in a residential neighborhood, in our truck which had turned into an SUV, when two old cop cars painted black sped up behind us, and our driver floored it. Looking out the back window through the dusk, we saw the lead driver raise a gun in preparation to fire (yeah, through his windshield).
"Everybody get down!" I yelled, and we all hugged the floorboards as glass shattered overhead. We were just recruits; we hadn't been issued any weapons. But the same girl next to me produced a pistol from her jacket.
"I smuggled my gun with me," she explained and shot out the rear windshield. The sound was intense as she exchanged fire with the pursuing vehicles. She was on the left side of our SUV; I was on the right, and the lead pursuer jinked over to the right.
"Hey, here," I said, reaching up for the gun. "I'll get him when he passes."
Right as she handed me the gun I saw the other car pass on the left side, a series of yellow flashes in the twilight marking his wild and apparently ineffective shots. I tried to get even lower.
Then we stopped.
Either the driver was hit, or the car that passed had cut us off. I poked my head over the back seat and sighted on the silhouette of the other man getting out of his car. He couldn't have been ten yards away, but I was pretty sure my first shot went just right of his neck. The second must have grazed his head; he jerked and his officer's cap flew off. But he didn't fall and my magazine was empty.
My anger at myself for not sitting up higher to take the easy shot at his chest, and for missing twice at that range, was quickly replaced by fear as he yanked the left hand back door open. There were lights on us now, and I could see blood on the door-frame. Maybe his? Maybe the driver's? Maybe the girl next to me had been hit? I fumbled with the gun but there was no hiding who had almost killed him. He pulled me across the seat and out of the car. We walked away from the left side, past the other police car. I registered that the cars and uniforms were all black, but the paint jobs on the cars was bad; you could see where numbers had been painted over. These people must be some sort of group opposed to the war. I wondered if this guy was about to kill me as we walked across flat concrete towards a ledge.
I woke up.