May Hawaii and the Dreamhunters

May woke up with a start at the sound of two loud metallic bangs. The second one much longer than the first. She stifled a scream and sat up, just in time to see a dark figure cloaked in shadows lunging toward her, a knife gleaming in the faint moonlight.

Shards of glass from the window pierced her skin as she leapt through it in her escape. She landed sideways on the grated metal floor of the exterior stairway, which served as access to the upper levels of the shantytown tower where she lived. The cloaked figure leaned out of the broken window, searching for her, but May was already running upwards, stumbling as she went, still groggy and disoriented. From the rooftop, she could climb onto the wall. If she was lucky and there were no guards patrolling, she could slip into the city. If she was unlucky, they would shoot her down. She heard heavy footsteps pursuing her. She didn’t have many options.

The rooftop of her home was nothing more than the rusted top of an old shipping container. These containers had been stacked near the wall as the refugee crisis worsened. Hers rested atop a derelict building in Puente de Vallecas. She could jump to the electric tower and from there to the wall. She did it often after the guards had made their rounds, either to gaze at the city or to sneak inside.

She jumped onto the tower, wincing as her bare feet hit the metal. Her body was scratched and cut from the glass. The pain was now catching up to her as her senses fully awakened. She climbed. Her attacker seemed hesitant, which gave her a chance. May had a backpack hidden in the tower containing some tools, money, and clothes. She reached it and slung it over her shoulder. She studied the cloaked figure closely. He wore a hood that covered his face, leaving only his eyes visible. In the darkness, identifying him was impossible. Black sneakers, likely basketball shoes. He was large and muscular. The knife in his left hand made climbing the tower more difficult. He seemed to realize he couldn’t easily catch her, but he didn’t give up. He didn’t stop. What was going on? As she approached the wall, May mentally reviewed the past few days. She had gone to work at the plant as usual, completed maintenance on the towers assigned that week. No incidents at work. She had spent her free time repairing a couple of cuts in the homes of refugees, as always. She did it voluntarily to help. None of those people would want her dead. This wasn’t a thief, either. Someone wanted her dead specifically for being her.

She leapt onto the top of the wall and turned to face the man. From that position, she could push him off if he tried to follow her. Pulling a jumpsuit from her backpack, she put it on without taking her eyes off him. The cloaked figure seemed to hesitate, then finally gave up, descending back toward the rooftop. May couldn’t return to her container. She had no choice but to enter the city clandestinely and find shelter with one of her contacts. The concrete ground inside the city was cold under her bruised feet. The guards on patrol were far away. She’d been lucky. She sat on the ground, catching her breath as she gazed at Madrid’s interior. The city unfolded before her in apocalyptic silence. La Castellana, now a murky and dark river, snaked between the crumbling remains of buildings, reflecting the city’s broken silhouette in its waters. Only two of Las Torres remained intact; another was split in half. Yet despite everything, those within the walls lived much better than the refugees. Most had electricity, and for some lucky ones, life was the same as it had been at the start of the century. It was no surprise that more and more people preferred to spend their time sleeping, dreaming of Oniria.

Oniria… there were people there who wanted her dead. Could dreams really affect reality? She rubbed her head, trying to recall her last dream. Normally, she wrote everything down in her “nocturnario,” her dream journal. It was part of the Key Method. But with the shock, she couldn’t remember everything. She remembered Marcus. He was the only person who had been to her home. Marcus wasn’t a refugee, but he often left the city to help. Could Marcus want her dead? It seemed almost impossible. In any case, all these questions would have to wait. May needed a place to sleep. And shoes. And to disinfect her cuts. She looked up at the moon, which shone yellowish through heavy clouds, lighting the construction cranes. She sighed and got moving.

She climbed down the wall using drainage pipes. With her harness and ropes, she slowly made her way to the ground. She was in the southeastern part of central Madrid. At this hour, the area was deserted. Trash bins overflowed onto the streets due to an inefficient waste system. Some homeless people slept among cardboard in doorways. They were citizens, not refugees, so they had the right to live within the walls—a “privilege” granted to all those inside the M-30, now turned into concrete barricades.

May pressed the intercom of a brick apartment building on Calle de los Pajaritos. Montse lived there. After a few minutes, she answered, clearly annoyed.

“It’s May. I can’t go back home tonight. I need a place to stay.”
“May Cruz? Come up.”

The door buzzed open, and May climbed to the fifth floor without turning on the stairwell lights or using the elevator. No one used elevators anymore, as the lack of maintenance had made them dangerous. However, Montse’s building gave the impression that civilization hadn’t entirely collapsed. The floors and walls were clean and disinfected, with mirrors and paintings adorning the landings and hallways. May didn’t need to knock because Montse was already waiting at the door of her apartment, 5C. Montse was a large woman, wrapped in a pink bathrobe and matching slippers. She handed them to May as soon as she saw her bare feet and ushered her inside.

“You look terrible!”

Montse’s apartment was filled with boxes. She ran a clandestine network distributing medicine and had no storage space. They had met years ago when an earthquake had leveled an entire shantytown in Usera. May was her contact outside the walls, occasionally smuggling medication. No one would want her dead for that. Montse let her shower and gave her clean clothes. May explained that someone had broken into her container while she sipped hot tea, regaining her strength. She didn’t want to worry Montse too much. She just needed a place to rest for the night. She would leave the next day.

Montse gave her a blanket and the sofa, which she would share with her cat, Zeus. Dawn hadn’t broken yet. May made herself as comfortable as possible and wrapped herself up. She closed her eyes and prepared to reenter Oniria using the Key Method. In dreams, she was powerful. She wouldn’t have had to flee from a bandit like this. Her mind drifted to sleep, and the image of a split Marcus began to appear.

A kabu carrying Marcus’s memories.