Free Dust to Dust by Heather Graham Page A

he’d suffered only one broken monitor and a smashed printer. Whispering a little prayer of thanks, he wrote a note to Kevin to see that the monitor and printer were replaced; he had insurance, so all Kevin had to do was arrange for pick-up.
    He had just finished writing the note when he felt an aftershock that shook the place like a fun-house floor. It wasn’t severe, but he heard screams and stepped outside to see what was going on.
    A block down, the earth had shifted, spewing up concrete and heaving a ruptured gas main to the surface. People were running, some shoving others out of the way, some trying to help those who needed it. He saw a kid of about nine just standing in the street, staring at the broken pipe sticking up into the air.
    Scott tore off down the street. First he grabbed the boy and delivered him to a teenager hurrying away from the disaster. The teen stared at him; dumbfounded. Long-haired, wearing an oversized T-shirt, he didn’t look mean, just young and confused. “Get him out of here,” Scott commanded.
    The teen stared at Scott blankly, then nodded. Grabbing the younger child, he ran.
    The area was clearing, but any second now the gas would explode, and there was no telling how far the rain of devastation would extend.
    Scott raced for the pipe. He grabbed one end, feeling almost overwhelmed by the smell of the escaping gas. He found the other end of the split pipe. He wasn’t sure that he could do anything, and his sense of self-preservation was kicking in, screaming at him to run like hell himself. But he didn’t. Somehow he forced the broken pieces together. He strained, and felt the tendons in his neck popping. His fingers threatened to snap just like the metal, which had been weakened by the first quake and now had twisted as it split.
    He had to straighten out the metal to get the pieces together. It seemed impossible, especially with the seconds ticking by. But to his amazement, though his fingers were bloodied, he managed the task. He forced the pieces together, then wondered what to do next. He couldn’t stand there and hold them together forever.
    Then he heard someone shout the news that the utility company had been informed and the gas had been turned off.
    Sweat was dripping down his face. He gritted histeeth and steeled himself to the task. Someone with the right equipment would come; they had to. No matter what that dying old man had somehow done to him, he couldn’t hold the pipe much longer. How much gas was still compressed in there? Should he let it leak out slowly?
    Scott was startled when he heard movement behind him. He turned to see another man reaching out to grasp the jagged metal.
    He almost dropped the pipe. He was sure his jaw gaped.
    It was him.
    The man from his dream.
    That was impossible, of course. He just thought it was the man from his dream. He’d probably seen the guy’s picture somewhere and put him in the dream. Because logic dictated that people—strangers—simply did not walk into each other’s dreams.
    Yes, they did, and logic be damned, because the man recognized him, too. He saw it in the man’s eyes, in his shocked expression.
    With impressive dexterity, the man grasped the pipe, not allowing any shift that could create friction and a spark. “I’ve got it,” the man said. “You can let go. Help is coming.”
    Scott stumbled back. Every bone in his body seemed to ache. He stared at his bloodied hands, and then at the stranger.
    He knew him. Damn it, he knew him.
    â€œAre you…Earth? Or, uh, the Oracle?” Scott asked quietly.
    â€œWhat?” the man asked, looking as him as if he must be confused.
    â€œAre you…the Oracle? Are you…an earth sign?”
    â€œI’m afraid…not,” the man said, shaking his head, but studying Scott.
    He, too, had dark hair and hazel eyes. But he thought he saw more. The man’s eyes had a streak in them, like a