My vacation’s over, four days shy of two weeks.  The dream hasn’t gone away, but only seems to be coming more intensely.  I’ve tried drowning it out in a haze of alcohol, designer drugs, and endless debauchery.  Rio’s a great place for all of the above.

I had no intention of ending my vacation early, but several factors have come into play.  This morning I awoke to find that my ticket home to Ibrium City on Luna had been canceled.  I tried to reschedule, but there are no flights leaving Earth at all.  Curious.

A few hours later, and it’s splashed all over the news.  Earth’s under quarantine.  Some kind of virus has apparently been running amok for the past three days.  It seems to be something which medical science cannot explain or define.  It’s killing people by the hundreds of thousands.

It hasn’t hit Rio just yet, but projections are that it’s only a matter of time.  Mass hysteria prevails in the parts of Earth that have been hit the hardest.  I wonder how Ibrium City is going to fare.  And May.  

My head starts to hurt badly somewhere around mid day, so I find myself picking up some pills from a street corner vendor with flashing blue eyes and gold teeth.  Then some rum at a liquor shop.  Then I head back to my room, to glue myself to the vid.  Something’s not right here, but I’ll be damned if I can figure it out.

But before I can make it to the hotel to catch more news, I find myself passing by a small market on the waterfront.  I decide to pick up something to eat.  While wandering through the market, I have my virtual assistant call up May’s commlink.  She won’t answer, so I have the assistant leave my hundredth or so message to her.

I stagger in shock when I see it, lying on the black velvet covering the crude wooden table.  It’s just like in my dream.  The black rubberized grip; the cylinder is broken open, exposing the six chambers lying empty and awaiting their deadly occupants; the long gleaming chromed barrel flashing in the sunlight.  

My eyes move over it in disbelief.  I try to rationalize; I’ve probably seen images of this exact same model over a thousand times now in my dream research.  But somewhere inside I know that this isn’t just any revolver of the same make.  

I’m completely transfixed by the sight of it as I authorize my virtual assistant to process funds to the young man with sad eyes selling the gun.  He pushes it into a torn brown paper bag, says something in Portuguese that I can’t quite hear over the rush of blood in my ears.

I look up to him.  He’s asking me if I want bullets, too.  I just nod dumbly.  I briefly catch a glimpe of some letters on the side of the box before he shoves it into the bag with the pistol.  Calibre .44.

“Os tempos duros estão vindo, sim?” the young man with sad eyes says in Portuguese.

I turn without a word and stagger away with my prize, still reeling with the odd synchronicity of events.  Yes.  Yes indeed, hard times are coming.