A Measure of History

Important Note:

This story is currently being rewritten. It does not fulfill my own standards. The rewrite will eventually be published under the title

"A Query for the Dream."

November 9th, 2004

Fallujah, Iraq

His head pounded, feeling very much as if someone was repeatedly slamming a mallet upon his temple. His vision was hazy, blurry, and dark—he delved in and out of consciousness, like an overboard sailor tossed through Poseidon’s violent embrace. His hands flailed weakly beneath his body, attempting to grab some sort of safety, some sort of brace, to hold his unsteady frame.

He could not hear; an infuriating buzz filled his ears. He groaned feebly, and his chest ached as he struggled for breath. In and out, in and out, air was sucked into his lungs only to be expunged forcefully, spit and bile flying out between his dry lips as he retched and choked.

Beneath him, the ground felt soft, grainy. His legs kicked repeatedly, digging through the material. Sand, coarse and rough, its surface hot to the touch, filled the spaces between his fingers. He felt the sun above, scorching angrily down upon his face. Where was he?

The world’s threads and oils shifted and melded, and suddenly, he was crouched behind a boulder, a long object of steel and polymer in his grasp as a man, dark-skinned and faint, shouted orders at him. His ears were racked by the sharp cracks of bullets, and the frantic voices of both his comrades and the enemy muddled together like a cacophonous roar. Behind him, men dressed in drab camouflage dragged a charred body out of a vehicle—why was it so familiar?

He felt his head nod, his body rising to a stand. The dark-skinned man before him gave a light salute. He felt his legs pumping up and down as he ran, ever so desperately, to reach a corner. He had no more time—his friends were relying on him!

‘Three,’ he thought, tightening his grip on his rifle.

‘Two,’ he glanced around the corner, failing to spot anything.

‘One,’ time was of the essence—it was do or die.

‘Zero,’ without further ado, he emerged from the corner, his legs pumping him into a sprint. He huffed and puffed, his equipment jangling on his body. He had almost made it—his destination was so close! Faster, faster, quickly, quickly, he had no time to lose! Ten meters, nine meters, eight meters, seven, he was nearly there!

Thwack!

Suddenly, pain flared from his chest, a seemingly magical fist pushing him backwards as force violently clashed against force. A crimson rose, bubbly and shining bright under the light of the desert sun, erupted from his sternum, its stem stabbing through the thin cloth of his uniform. His legs lost their energy and his mind went blank. He fell to the ground, his head thumping against the sand as his brain rolled in his skull like a pair of dice.

What had happened?

He heard a voice screaming, its essence like that of a soul torn from the land of the living. After a moment he realized it was his own, young and fresh, yet terrified and shrieking. Why was he screaming? What had happened? Had he fallen off the tractor? Where was his mother?

His vision darkened, his eardrums deafeningly ringing. Maybe… maybe it was time to take a nap, for a little while. His mother, or his father—either would wake him up soon, maybe? The warm summer sun of rural Pennsylvania felt refreshing and revitalizing on his face. Warm, thick water covered his skin in droplets, its scent coppery. It just felt right to take a nap in the cool, fresh grass. He could wake up before dinner, probably. Perhaps his mother was making those steak and potatoes he loved again…

November 20th, 2015

Eleven Years Later

Brooklyn, New York

James Volker rubbed his face with a low groan, his eyes threatening to close due to his fatigue. Why had he decided to come to work today? His head pounded, and he was plagued by a crippling headache. What inane stupidity from within had decided that it was a good day to work? For Christ’s sake, he worked with teenagers! Loud, rambunctious, chaotic teenagers, on the cusp of their adulthood, wailing day in and day out about relationships, drama, sports, and the like!

Ah, yes. That was it. He loved his students—he loved them dearly. They were innocent, naïve, refreshing from the chilling monotony, repetition, and tedium of his peers and colleagues. No matter how annoying, frustrating, or absolutely terrifying they were, James Volker absolutely loved teaching them, mentoring the next generation as they prepared to thrust themselves into the torturous grasp of real society.

It was at least a blessing that his last class of the day was composed of seniors. They were at least somewhat quieter—though not by much.

Shaking his head to at least rid himself temporarily of his headache, James stood up, his pin-stripe suit ruffling. He strolled to the front of the classroom, gazing over his students whilst they conversed, laughed, and gossiped. After a moment, he clapped his hands together, and almost instantaneously, the teenagers ceased their shenanigans, staring attentively back at James.

He always loved to do that.

“Students!” he exclaimed, analyzing each pupil. “Welcome back to AP European History. How are you all feeling?”

He was met with a chorus of “good’s,” “eh’s,” and “alright’s,” and James smiled warmly.

“Now, I understand that because it is the final period of the day, you’re all itching to get home. But!” He turned around, grabbing hold of a metal handle. He pulled down a large map, and Europe sat before him, multi-colored in all of its glory. “Today, we will be beginning our first lessons on Medieval Europe! Now, to start, does anybody here know anything about twelfth-century Germany?”

James noted that none of his students had raised their hands. Nodding to himself, he walked up to the desk of a particular pupil, red-haired and freckled.

“Connor, do you know what the Holy Roman Empire was? One point extra credit if you can give me the correct answer.”

The boy, Connor, scratched his head frantically, eager to gain the one point for his grade, yet ignorant of the answer. “Uh, I don’t know Mister Volker. Some empire in Rome that was religious, or something?”

James chuckled heartily, shaking his head with a smile. “I’m afraid that’s incorrect, Mister Buckley. The Holy Roman Empire is known to have been neither Holy, nor Roman, nor an Empire.” He rapped Connor’s wooden desk with his knuckles, before walking back to the front of the classroom. “It was a nice try, Connor, but I’m afraid I’ll have to withhold that point for now.”

The boy groaned as the rest of the class chuckled, watching eagerly as their favorite teacher continued the lesson. “Moving on, students. I have a small video I would like for you all to watch first, on the early medieval days of the Holy Roman Empire.” A few students cheered, happy at the prospect of a video, before James dashed their hopes and dreams. “But you’ll still have to pay attention. There will be a quick quiz and a class discussion at the end of it, so don’t slack off. Any questions?”

A hand rose from the middle of the room—a chocolate-skinned girl, the end of her black locks dyed a bright brownish red. “Mister Volker, how long is the video? Just wonderin’.”

James smiled warmly at the girl, an almost mischievous glint in his eyes. “Well, you can watch and find out.” He shut off the lights with a flick of the finger, and the cool white light disappeared, a television in the corner lighting up. Retreating to his desk in the back of the room, James lounged back, electing to watch over his students.

Hopefully, his headache would be gone by the morrow, when he could properly teach his students. Maybe a visit to the school nurse was in order, before he left, or one of his fellow teachers might have some medicine of some sort.

James Volker winced, holding his temple as it pounded and ached. A truck’s horn sounded off behind him, and the teacher gave a brief flick of the middle finger behind him before stepping on the accelerator.

He had been stuck in traffic near the Washington Bridge for the better part of the afternoon, his headache feeling very much like his old drill sergeant was screaming directly into his ears again. With a quick glance at his car’s clock, James noted the time. 1551 hours, nearly two hours since his workday had finished.

Unfortunately, whatever god that sat above had felt that it was precisely the correct day to shift the daily rush hour sixty minutes ahead, thus pitting James in what was essentially a cage match with every single other commuter that happened to be leaving New York into New Jersey.

The combination of bumper-to-bumper traffic and his splitting headache had made James quite miserable indeed, and he would have given anything, absolutely anything to simply get out of the hellhole that was the New York Metropolitan area.

Approaching the car to his front, James pressed on his brake, slowing his vehicle down to a halt. Eyeing the car to his front, James noted its features. A 2009 Lancer, painted a deep metallic red. It was common enough, and did not garner any special attention, yet James could enjoy the vehicle’s simplicity—the humble pleasures in life were what James enjoyed the most. He had always been a modest boy from the Pennsylvania Dutch Country.

Glancing in his rearview mirror, James noted the flatbed behind him, its driver clearly infuriated by James’ earlier gesture of goodwill. The history teacher rolled his eyes, preparing his hand for another gesture, when a sudden pain pierced his skull, his vision flashing into a checkerboard pattern. James clutched his head, growling in frustration.

Again, the flatbed’s horn blasted from behind him, the driver flailing his arms angrily. The traffic to James’ front had died down, seemingly opening up a large gap up the bridge, and James pressed down on the accelerator, eager to take his chance.

Powering up the highway, James’ car rolled up onto the bridge, following the somewhat sparser flow of traffic to his front. His speedometer steadily increased, the needle cycling around it. Twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five, forty. James removed his foot from the accelerator for a brief moment, checking his rearview mirror once more. To his displeasure, James saw the flatbed truck following closely behind him.

“Idiot,” James growled, giving the driver a death-stare through the rearview mirror. Hopefully, the situation would not escalate to a case of road-rage—that was simply hazardous on the Washington Bridge. With any luck, the flatbed’s driver would understand the potential danger.

A lightning-flash of pain flared into James’ skull, and his hand flew to his head, releasing his foot from the gas. Realizing his situation, James pressed his foot down once more, slowly removing his hand from his head. Thirty, thirty-five, forty—

“God dangit,” James muttered, watching as the flatbed’s driver changed lanes, speeding past James while flipping the veteran off. It had seemed that James had overestimated humanity—the driver of the flatbed was evidently infuriated by James’ antics, and had clearly had enough. With a loud vroom, the flatbed raced ahead, pulling ahead of James. Behind the veteran, other cars started to honk at the pair, and James growled, stepping down hard on the accelerator in an attempt to appease the drivers around him.

“Never should have driven with this headache,” James mumbled, watching the flatbed. Closer and closer he drove, eyeing the truck for any change in movement. Fortunately, there was no turn or lane-change signal—the driver wouldn’t try to cut him off for the time being.

‘ZZZZING!’

James snarled viciously, his hand flying back to his searing temple. A split second later, he realized his mistake, opening his eyes frantically as he looked back out the front window. James let out a low sigh of relief, failing to see anything wrong—

A deafening roar blasted through the air, an ear-splitting sound of metal screeching against metal, and James was knocked to the side, his vision tumbling. Shouting in urgency, James clutched his steering wheel tightly, the world spinning around him. Horns blared from all around him, yet James paid them no heed—something was going terribly wrong!

James’ eyes widened—suddenly he could only see blue and white. For a second, the teacher was utterly confused—why was his car tipped upwards, towards the sky? But then, a moment of sheer realization and panic filled him, his mouth opening to scream as his car pitched downwards, revealing the deep, muddy blue of the Hudson River. Momentum took his body, attempting to tear him away from the steering wheel as his car began to fall. Clutching the wheel with a death-grip, James Volker watched as the deep water below came rushing closer. He was done for, he was dead—not by bullet, not by artillery shell, not by bomb, but by drowning, of all things.

With a sudden clap and a frightful impact, James’ car sunk below the surface of the water, falling down, down, down, towards the bottom of the bay. Panic quickly took James, his mind racing at a million miles a second, and his breath began to grow short—he could not breathe! There was no water in the car, and yet he could not breathe!

Struggling to take in air, James clutched his chest, coughing and wheezing as his eyes teared up. Water began to pour in from the sides of the car, the vehicle slowly filling up with the murky filth. How would he die, then? Asphyxiation by drowning, or by choking to death?

The water quickly rose to his face, and with a last cough of desperation, James was submerged in the water, completely unable to breath. Small, pathetic bubbles left his mouth whilst the Marine Corps veteran struggled for air, for life—he didn’t want to die!  Not yet! He still had students to teach, teenagers to mentor, future successes to tend to, children to divert away from their troubles—why now, why now?!

Slowly, slowly, slowly, James’ vision grew dark, his attempts to live growing feebler by the second. He felt like he was floating, drifting steadily down into the depths of the bay. His limbs grew weak, his mouth hanging open as he gazed down into the sunken deep. Where was he again? The local country club’s pool? His sister, Alex, would be around, right? Pulling him back up to the surface, giving him a glass of juice as their parents watched from nearby, smiling at the siblings' friendship? Or was he at the beach, on one of his family’s occasional trips to the Jersey Shore, briefly dragged underwater by a particularly large wave? Was he back with the Marine Corps, undergoing deep water training with his platoon near the well-deck of a Navy vessel?

Suddenly, James’ glazed eyes took in something unique, something different—a light, a bright light, beaming down from above. Above? But wasn’t he looking down into the depths? Was up down, and down up, or was up above, and below down? What was going on?

Despite his wandering thoughts, James set his goal—he punched upwards with both hands, kicking his feet and spreading his hands again. Hadn't he just been in the front seat of a car? How were his legs free? Ignoring the matter, James repeated the stroke, slowly yet steadily rising up towards the light. Closer and closer the light came, rippling like a diamond from below the surface of the water. A warm sun gleamed from above, shining a bright orange-yellow. A smile crept onto James’ mouth, and he kicked up again, the light only an inch away from his fingertips. With one final kick, and one final spread of his arms, James hit the surface, rapidly emerging from his watery tomb.

Air! Wonderful oxygen, crisp and clear! With a frantic gasp, James fell onto his knees, his hands in contact with some marble-like tiles. His arms grew weak, however, and James collapsed onto his face. Water filled his mouth again, and with a shout and a flail, he arose from the water again, cool droplets flying from his face. His vision was blurry and his eyes burned, presumably from the salt of the bay water. Rubbing his face with a groan, James leaned back, opening his eyes to see where he was.

A… a fountain? Why was he in a fountain? Panic began to take James—he had just fallen into the Hudson River, why in the world was he in a fountain?

A gasp of alarm escaped him, and James looked away from the fountain, only to be met with… horses? Bright, multi-colored horses, their eyes huge and their mouths hanging open as they stared at him—in confusion? In terror? In curiosity? And, to James’ immense incredulity, some of the horses seemed to have wings, and others horns!

Was this a dream? Was he dead? Had he drowned in the bay? Rapidly, James’ eyes flicked back forth, taking in the sights around him. His breath grew short, his lungs catching. He was soaking wet, his body cold and frigid, and yet James paid it no mind, sheer terror beginning to fill him.

James's panicked gaze darted around, when one minty green horse caught his attention. It had a green horn and a golden harp painted on its flank, looking very much like it was either smiling or preparing for dinner. Its eyes were bugged out, gazing at James with an almost psychotic stare, and James splashed backwards, retreating as far as he could from the horrifying unicorn. Did it want to eat him? Did it see James to be food?

The thought of horses eating humans filled James Volkers’ mind, and with a choked scream, the hardened  veteran jumped up to his feet, turning away from the unicorn. His eyes flicked back and forth, hysterically searching for a path of exit—there! A gap in the lines, large enough for a truck or two! James retched out a watery cough, beginning to pump his legs forwards.

Yes! The horses, the carnivorous horses, they did nothing to stop him! Rather, they split apart like a biblical sea, making way for the frenzied teacher. Struggling forwards like a zombie, James ran as fast as he could, his limbs flailing around uncontrollably. He was almost there, he was almost out! Ten meters, nine meters, eight meters, seven! Escape was close!

Suddenly, James tasted dirt, his face planting into the ground. No, no! He could not collapse now, he did not want to be eaten by horses! His arms set into the ground, desperately attempting to push himself up, but he did not, could not—his strength had failed him!

With a cry of anguish and terror, James grew tired, his eyes heavy and his vision dark. He could not feel his limbs, and he could only hear muffled sounds and voices. With a final choke, James Volker lost consciousness, his fingers clawing at the ground beneath him.