It all started with that damn dress, I suppose. I mean, before that, I could have cared nothing about her. But that dress, man. Light blue, the color of the summer sky. The play was a spoof of a murder mystery. I don’t recall specifics, other than that it was pretty damn entertaining, at least according to what I heard, as I was acting in it as well. She played the “lady of the house,” and I played the creepy guest. Yes, very stereotypical, but it was a spoof, so it went over well. Ever since then, this girl—well, woman now—has been the subject of my fantasies, and despite how hard I’ve tried, I can’t break free from her grip. Perhaps if I’d never joined drama, never met Louise, I wouldn’t be in the mess I’m in now. But that’s over and done; as the phrase goes, “Hindsight is 20/20.”

“ASHBY.”

I was daydreaming again as the name of the next station comes up on the train’s speakers. Normally I would be well rested at this time, but I lost much sleep on account of the… nightmare. Worst damn trip I ever had, if you can call it that. Probably on account of meeting Louise and her boyfriend, Joel, yesterday for dinner. Yep, that’s it, no doubt in my mind. It puts a damn lot of stress on a guy, you know, trying to act likeable around people you love. I try not to think about the dream, but it slips into my thoughts as I doze off once again.

I am looking at Louise. She is tied down in the center of vast, circular room. The walls are lined with smooth concrete. Or maybe some sort of metal; I can’t tell. I am tied down in a chair in an observation room looking at all this. I see many other rooms around the facility that also look upon Louise. I can’t see what binds her to the floor. Joel appears above me. He speaks, but I can make out no words, only echoes. He is not looking at me.

The dream ends. I woke up shaking in a cold sweat, struggling to sleep for the rest of the night. I managed to catch another hour and a half when I was woken up by my clock radio. 6:14. The time I wake up every day.

“…experts attempting to determine the source of the sinkhole; no such features are known to exist in the San Francisco Bay, which worries—“

 I normally listen to the news for a few minutes, but I couldn’t stand to stay in bed. I’ll probably pick up some juicy tidbits at work today. Those cooks sure enjoy their gossip.

Petty officer 1st class Davis stands on coast guard vessel WPB-15776 awaiting orders.

“Alright, pretty routine here. Sinkhole in SF Bay near Emeryville. Our task is simply to monitor the area; make sure no civvys get caught in it, while making sure not to have that happen to Dolly, of course.” The officer salutes chief petty officer Pinko, and moves to his post, a 50 caliber machine gun mounted at the rear of the 110-foot vessel. Lance obviously wasn’t going to have to use the weapon today. Dolly is the unofficial name of the vessel John “Lance” Davis sails on. Though he is not excited about the task, he’s happy to help however he can; if every ship in 50 miles of coastline would have to be called to ensure the safety of even one individual, Lance would not be annoyed in the slightest.

“Lance,” of course, is John’s de facto name. His two closest friends in high school, Fred Wilson and Harry Meisel, would have it no other way. Lance wished he kept up with them; now that he was in the Coast Guard, and on the water 70 percent of the time, it was tough. Harry, as far as he knew, was in the Bay Area working and Fred was on a humanitarian mission in Angola.

As Dolly sailed out of the Carquinez Strait and into the Bay at large, Lance thought about his high school days in Morro Bay. Originally, his plan was to join the marines, but many conversations with his father convinced him that this was ill-advised. After working odd jobs around San Luis Obispo for a couple years, he decided to join the Coast Guard. Flight of the moment decision, really. Lance wanted to make a difference, and the Coast Guard are the everyday heroes, saving stranded vessels and preventing those with malicious intent from getting near to his dear U.S.

I can hardly tell dreams from reality anymore, the world is so distorted. The economic collapse a couple of years ago, of course, what with the Chinese “investing” trillions in the California economy. I.e., they basically own the place now. I hear talk from groups huddled in the streets and on the train of California secession. I try to stay out of politics.

My housemate Edwardo texts me. “Harry, u free for 2nite? Me, Trent & Marcos get back today and want to see a movie. ” My housemates are arriving today from a trip they took to Las Vegas; I couldn’t go as the restaurant didn’t have a replacement chef. It was nice to have the house to myself for a weekend as well. I don’t want to talk right now.

My thoughts drift again as the train departs from Ashby station and enters the tunnel under San Francisco Bay.

Dolly winds her engines to an idle, pulling to a stop about 100 yards short of the sinkhole. It certainly was a sight to behold. White water nearly 200 yards in diameter, Lance figures, spiraling to a great funnel in the center. It’s a giant hot tub in the middle of San Francisco Bay! “Not everyday you see something like this! Better take in all you can guys; were not going to see anything this exciting in a while,” Lance announces while chief petty officer Pinko is on the radio with USGS research vessel Pelican.

“Pelican, this is coast guard WPB-15776 speaking. Your vessel is far too close to the sinkhole. Step off by at least 50 yards. This is for your own safety.” Lance can make out Pelican’s response.

“Pelican to coast guard WPB-15776. We have determined that we are not in imminent danger. Determining source of sinkhole is top priority.”

Pinko is not pleased. “Pelican, know that if your vessel is in peril we will not have an easy time saving it. Over and out.

The Pelican is quite impressive to look at, even compared to the sinkhole. Lance is not used to seeing boats larger than Dolly in the water, except for the mothballed ships in San Pablo Bay. Lance counts eight decks, and figures that the boat’s at least 250 feet long. Quite humbling to be in the presence of such a large entity.

The sinkhole seems to be changing. Lance watches the sinkhole intently as its shape becomes more… inorganic. Before he can begin to contemplate this, a flash of ruthless white light. Lance is blinded for about ten seconds as he stumbles back on the deck. He hears gasps from the crew. He opens his eyes.

The lights flicker out and the train grinds to a halt in the murky blackness of the tunnel.  What the hell? “Guess the city finally ran out of cash, huh?” My remark elicits no response; I guess I should be panicking or something. I sit there for what seems like a minute in the inky blackness. The emergency lights go on.

“Attention BART passengers. Potential terror attack in progress. Please remain calm. Once the sliding doors open, step out onto the track. Assist disabled passengers. Follow the blue arrows out of the tunnel.

“Potential terror attack?” What does that even mean? I heed the voice box’s orders and begin to follow the arrows. I hear—and feel—vibrations a few seconds after reaching the tracks. Well, shit. Civil War II has begun I guess, with California’s version of firing on Fort Sumter

No. No. This is a fucking joke, right?

Lance stares upwards. The tremendous female body that greets his eyesight instantly sends him into a flurry of emotions. Fear. Panic. Disillusionment. Reality itself is tearing at the seams.

This is a dream. He’ll wake up sound in his bunk and laugh it off with his shipmates.

Not so. He looks up and the giantess is still there. Lance finds himself studying her features—he is a man, after all, and besides, he’s been given no orders. Perfection. The experience terrified him still, but… perfection. Her skin is a luminous light peach. Cute “little” tummy. Perky breasts. Gorgeous sky-blue eyes. Radiant blond hair. And the other… part. Yes, that is exquisite as well. Lance was raised Protestant so he’s inclined not to think of such things by name. Her figure could be described as petit—well, considering…

She almost looks familiar. Someone from his high school… yes… Lance has seen her before. He never forgets a face.

She takes a step forward. Lance was so distracted by her figure that he disregarded the woman’s size for a minute. And it is truly remarkable. The giantess stands less than ankle-deep in water that’s at least 60 feet to the bottom. The Pelican is at least 300 feet long, yet is dwarfed by her stance. Lance didn’t want to contemplate it.

 The woman’s second step, seemingly deliberately, overturns the Pelican with her foot in a span of a second.

“Christ almighty,” Lance hears Pinko mumble. “Open fire,” he orders.

“Sir?” Lance replies, “Sir that…that may not…be the best…course of ac—“

“DID YOU HEAR ME DAVIS? OPEN. FIRE.”

“Y—yes, sir.” Not wanting to anger the giantess further than she clearly already is, Lance reluctantly cocks the mounted machine gun and fires. It doesn’t seem to do much. Pinko gives the order.

“Reverse engines. Full throttle to six o’clock, then set a course for the Pacific Ocean."

Fred Wilson sits in an open-air bar in Camaxilo, Republic of Angola. It is a humid, overcast day in the tropical region.  He has just finished the day’s work; today it consisted of moving 50 pound sacks of rice. He sips on a mongozo beer, and feels truly at peace with the world, if only for an instant.

Something on the television catches his attention. Fred is not fluent in Portuguese, though he knows Spanish well and can therefore make out some of what is being said.

“Quebrando a notícia. O aparecimento súbito de uma giganta em San Francisco, Estados Unidos, tem confundido e profundamente preocupado com funcionários do governo.”

Something about a giantess in San Francisco?

“Not something one hears everyday,” Fred says to himself sarcastically as he assumes this is some metaphor his cultural barrier prevents him from understanding.

The footage soon negates this.

“Wow” is a word that comes to Fred’s mind, as his logic still does not let him believe what is on the screen. Perhaps guerrilla marketing for some movie, his decreasingly optimistic thoughts tells him. 

And then he sees her face.

“LOUISE!” Fred shouts, dumbfounded. He is the only one in the bar save for the bartender, who comes out of the storeroom and immediately drops his jaw as well.

As Dolly speeds full throttle toward the Golden Gate, Lance starts pumping a fourth clip of 50-caliber bullets at the giantess’s ankles.

“GET ME GODDAMNED CHINA LAKE,” Pinko screams into the radio. Lance doesn’t know if the armed forces have been alerted yet, but China Lake Naval Air Station is the largest of any branch’s base on the west coast, and would be able to provide firepower and mobilize units elsewhere, fast.

“What’s going on? WHAT’S GOING ON? TURN ON THE GODDAMNED NEWS; that’s what’s “GOING ON!”

“SIR, SHE’S GAINING ON US,” Lance has to shout over the rush of the wind. What scares him more, though, is that the giantess isn’t even walking at a brisk pace. She’s exerting hardly any effort into destroying her attackers! Almost as if it’s a game to her, Lance thought.

“Fuck!” Pinko stands frozen for a second. “ABANDON SHIP.”

The crew takes no pause to carry out this order. They dive off the railings into the murky bay, in a flurry of water and air as the colossal woman kicks the vessel at least half a mile with an effortless flick of her foot.

I run toward San Francisco. A water breach followed by an airlock door closing on the Oakland side of the tunnel has forced everyone to go in this direction, though the point, I assume, of evading a war zone is to escape from densely populated areas, not into them. What awaits me once I step outside? Will San Francisco be a cratered, smoking hellscape? The fact that I’ve been feeling the deep vibrations, hearing the thuds and booms for a few minutes now leads me to this conclusion.

I am taking up the rear of the group that was on the train. I can see the light of day in the distance.

I sigh a deep sigh of relief as I step out of Embarcadero station and realize that San Francisco is indeed not a smoking crater as I had feared. What then is the trouble?

I encounter a cop directing us toward the waterfront, where he says that there is a ferry waiting to evacuate people from the city.

“What’s the deal?” I ask. The obviously shaken cop simply points a feeble finger toward San Francisco Bay.

I am overcome with dizziness. I fall to my knees, nauseated. I try to vomit but nothing comes up. Skipped breakfast today. Wasn’t hungry.

After being on my hands and knees for what seems like hours, I turn around and sit on the asphalt for a minute to regain my composure. I stand up, looking away from the water. The cop, obviously sensing my situation, informs me that this high-speed ferry will be the last to leave downtown.

“Can’t risk any more after it with—her—getting this close. You’re the last one ashore. Here, I’ll help you on.”

“No.” Wait—why did I say that?

“I’ve got business to take care of here.” Woah, Harry don’t get ahead of yourself.

“Your choice, kid. Good luck, I guess.” The cop walks briskly and then breaks into a sprint toward the ferry. I stand here like a dodo watching it depart.

The streets are deserted. That’s good at least. Since 2005, Uncle Sam’s learned how to do an evacuation properly. At the plaza I stand in are a few classic cars that were apparently part of a car show.

I hear a great splash of water behind me. Time to face your fears, Harry. I turn, and nearly fall to the ground again. Good God. When I saw her five minutes ago, I guess she was further away than I had assumed, as now Louise stands towering over Financial District. Oh yeah, she's also not wearing clothes. Obviously. Her body is exquisite, as I can’t help but notice. I’ve never seen her nude before. I’m not really focusing on that right now, though. She walks even closer and I realize that Louise must be at least five times the height of the Transamerica Pyramid, the tallest building in the city. That would be… about five thousand feet. I shudder as I realize that’s almost a mile. I look behind me down Market Street and I cannot see where her colossal shadow ends.

What was my plan anyway? I refused to board the ferry seemingly out of instinct. I… I can’t run away anymore. I have to confront my fears.

Louise stops her jaunt toward the city with a massive footfall in front of Ferry Plaza that sends a torrent of water pouring over the structure. The ocean spray licks my face.

She reaches a hand down toward the city. Each finger is larger in width and length that one of the waterfront piers. Delicate and immensely powerful at the same time. But Louise would never hurt me: one of her treasured friends for years! Right?

As begins to reach another hand toward the waterfront I am shocked into sanity. Her face—oh, her angelic face—bears down on the plaza where I stand. Who are you kidding, Harry? You think she sees you? I’m going to fucking die right now if I don’t get the hell out of here.

I sprint toward the car show I saw earlier. I see an escape route and vault myself into what I know to be a 1960s Plymouth Fury. The engine is idling, presumably having been left on in the panic of escaping the city. As I shift into first, I hear the intense sound of buckling concrete and splashing water behind me. Don’t look back. As I skid onto Market Street, the sound of twisting steel joins the mix. I throw the vehicle into top gear and speed away from the city center.

Lance and his shipmates tread water as they watch with bated breath as the giantess, who towers over downtown San Francisco, dwarfing even the largest buildings, reaches toward the ground. Lance can see her force her hands into the ground around the city center as if to… pick it up…

Asphalt is breaking beneath the tires. A street is forced upward in front of me. I drift to the right. Bits of concrete, plaster, and broken glass rain onto my windshield. I am at one with the car. The roar of the engine fills my head. Nothing else exists.

The street is shifting beneath me. The sound of scrapes along the chassis; pebbles of asphalt bouncing around in the wheel wells. A rift appears in front of me. I gun it.

Time slows to a crawl as I seem to hover over the gap. The tires strike pavement. Explosions behind me now, but I look forward still. The ground is no longer disintegrating beneath me. I guide the Fury along Market street; I’m not going to stop until the tank is empty.

The crew of Dolly watches the giantess scoop up most of downtown San Francisco into her mighty palms.

“There… there are no words.” Fred watches the reporter cease to speak as the giantess Louise raises what is left of Financial above her head and tilts it back.

The station has been switched to BBC because of its better coverage. Fred and barkeep Simao watch with tense and shaking composure. 

The giantess opens her mouth and empties the contents of her hands into it.

“We can only hope that everyone has made it safely out of the city,” the reporter says after a few seconds.

Lance feels like sinking to the bottom of the bay and staying there. This… this is simply unfathomable. Certainly the end times. Lance doesn’t really buy into Revelations, but this is what comes to mind.

The camera of a stupidly brave news crew reveals the scene through the cables of the San Francisco side of the Bay Bridge. Seemingly unsatisfied, giantess Louise’s hand comes down with astonishing force onto Telegraph Hill. She runs her hand along the ground, obliterating several blocks and emptying the remains into her other hand. She swallows this as well.

She… she just… Louise just… ate… San Francisco. Most surely I am going mad. Less than thirty minutes ago I was sitting on the train, heading to my job at Vilna Ashkenazi Cuisine (which has probably become cuisine itself), thinking about the dream I had last night.

Lance hears the roar of jet engines over head. Took them long enough. They speed toward the giantess’s position. Lance is sort of disappointed such a magnificent creature should have to be destroyed, but look what she just did to the city!

The F-22s release their payload. Lance closes his eyes; he’s never been one for gore. He hears curses and gasps from his mates. He looks and realizes that the bombs didn’t do anything more than the mounted gun had.

“We have word that US Navy cruisers Dwight D. Eisenhower and George S. Patton have arrived in position two and a half miles off the Pacific Coast. They are—there! You can see Tomahawk missiles now approaching the target.”

The missle strike the Louise in the side, which does not appear to Fred to hurt more than a Nerf gun might. The giantess is clearly quite displeased. She looked around and quickly spots the cruisers’ locations. The giantess cuts a path of destruction through the city as she heads toward the source of her tormentors. The footage cuts to that from a circling prop plane.

One footstep is enough to flatten four blocks. Louise smashes her way through the Sunset district and wades into the Pacific Ocean. She reaches the cruisers in a matter of seconds.

Fred can faintly see crew leaping from the vessels into the azure water. Louise grips either end of the Patton, lifts it out of the ocean and breaks it in two, then throws the two halves into the depths. The Eisenhower by this point is heading at full speed in the opposite direction. The mighty giantess throws her weight in the direction of the fleeing ship.

She hits hard. The upper decks of the cruiser are crushed instantly by Louise's waist, and she finishes the job, wrapping her hands around the ship and crumpling it as one might crumple a soda can.

The dream.

I… no, I got smashed last night after dinner. Isn’t that why I can’t remember anything?

Oh my God. It’s all coming back now.

I bid farewell to Louise and Joel as they leave the restaurant on Fourth Street in Berkeley. They chose the place. It was pretty good. I sit at the bar, have a couple of drinks—not enough to get drunk—and decide to head home. As I’m driving down Fourth, I see Louise and Joel walking through a lot toward a warehouse. It seems a bit off, so I stop the car. He leads her into the building. I get out to take a look. I walk across a vast, clean, empty concrete yard. I arrive at the warehouse and peer inside. It looks immaculate as well. Polished concrete floor in a vast empty room.

I don’t see the man coming toward me.

I come to in a white room. There is an observation window. It looks out into a vast concrete void. I can see many rooms like mine around the space. There is a woman bound in the center of the space. Louise. I try to cry out. It is an effort in vain. Only a puff of air escapes my lips. Joel enters the room.

“Administer a memory wipe for my friend Harry here. No, no a couple hours should be good,” he orders an assistant.

“Harry, I’m afraid you’re interfering. I’m real sorry about this but don't worry; in a few hours you won’t remember a thing.”

“Wh… what are you doing to her, you fuck?”

“Now, now,” Joel says. "No need to get upset. It’s all part of the plan."

I'm put under before I have a chance to respond.