by Taylor Kole
“Guess that means I’m an agnostic Christian.” Justin smirked. “But I’m not sure most people know the definition as well as you. I’m of the full belief: God reveals himself to those truly searching.”
“Most people,” Marci said—and Corey saw genuine interest in her. They were both academics at heart—“have no awareness. They never examine themselves, or learn their beliefs or what’s important to them.” She took Corey’s arm in her hand. “We outlined, discussed, and defined our values during our first year together.”
That was true, but people and things change as new information presented itself.
Across the large, vacant room, a back door burst open and a young boy raced out, Chevy behind him, Janey giving chase behind him. The sounds of more children buzzing came from the open door. The area between the steps and the back wall, where a short hall led to two rooms, was lined with tables and cabinets. The walls were decorated with children’s drawings, paper cut-outs dangled from strings.
The three children wore full body protection in the form of plastic garments covering their fronts with string tied around the neck and back, Janey carried a flip-down plastic face plate.
Corey wondered if dissecting cadavers was normal play for Sunday school.
Noticing her parents, Janey waved in stride. “We’re painting.”
Corey exhaled.
The first boy threw open a chest lid, passed Chevy and Janey small tackle boxes, and without another blip of attention toward her parents, Janey dashed back into the room. The other two followed. The door shut.
“She’s adorable,” Justin said.
Marci replied for them both, “She’s our world.”
SEVEN
From behind the steering wheel, Corey looked up at a metal arch that straddled I-4 north. It looked like something that would hang over the entrance of a Texas ranch. Neon letters read: “Welcome to Reno, the biggest little city in the world.” After traveling through the empty desert, they were finally back in civilization. For hours they’d seen nothing buy empty stretches of sand, spanning out in both directions for miles and miles. There was nothing out there. If the car had broken down, it would have been hours before help could come.
Unfortunately, the lights and buildings of Reno gave Corey an equal feeling of dread. Seeing them meant he’d soon be inside a stranger’s dream.
The Smartphone announced their next turn, in four miles, putting them nine minutes from their destination.
“Let’s just feel the guy out a little before we go into his house,” Corey said.
“Don’t start. We’re almost there, and we’re doing this.”
“Yeah, totally. But there are bad people in this world. I’m just saying we make sure.”
“I already made sure. Now, stop talking.”
Corey sighed but was drowned out by the navigation.
“Dang it,” Marci said when the navigation finished its verbal update.
“What?”
“We just received an email on Dreamriders. I was opening it when the GPS kicked on.”
Arriving emails stirred a joyous anticipation in both of them. When at home, the sound pulled them into the living room often at a race. Every email carried the promise of revenue. Prior to Walt, a Dream Ride request meant the chance at something special. Every one of the nights they spent shaping Janey’s dreams had been a delight, but that had been before he discovered things lurked in the mind.
“We have two messages,” she said. The glow of the phone screen illuminated her face against the dimming evening beyond. “The first wonders if we can come to Houston and give them a sample ride—uh, no. The other is from Walt Zimbardo.” She adjusted her voice and continued, “Dear Mr. and Mrs. Padesky, I must admit my surprise at having yet to hear from you. Normally, when I meet new people, particularly when our meeting concerns business, I am inundated with emails, texts, phones calls, even letters of appreciation and gratitude for the audience.
“Bravo on your playing hard to get!” He added a smiley emoticon there. “I only mention this as a humorous side note, mainly to myself. I never realized how accustomed I was to being coddled, so thank you for treating me like a regular person.
“From my end, this email represents the limits of my willpower. Since Saturday morning, I’ve felt like a girl waiting to be asked to the Prom, racing to answer every call. I’ve imagined a hundred phone calls in my mind with you, explaining my awe. Last weekend filled me with more determination and purpose than my previous twenty years combined.
“I am back in Las Vegas for two days and want to schedule another ride for later this evening if possible. To compensate for the short notice and/or to move myself up a waiting list, I’d like to offer double your normal fee (about ten percent of what the experience is worth!). I will be returning to Chicago early Sunday morning to begin work on my new business venture, courtesy of you! Another Dream Ride would start that venture on the right note.
“I look forward to us spending many nights together, Walt Zimbardo.”
Marci’s voice had spiked at the mention of double pay. Disappointment slowly settled from there until the sign-off.
The realization he opposed the offer stung him as well. He would like to earn four-hundred dollars for one night during their essential sleep-time. He would prefer to drive ten minutes instead of seven hours, but psychotic demon inhabitants notwithstanding, they would have to rush and cram to make another ride by tomorrow. Also, Lisa would have to be available to watch Janey. With all that potential for cancellation, Corey committed himself to creating excuses until Walt left. Only, he would never admit that aloud.
Marci tapped away on the keypad. Though the fine print remained illegible from his angle and distance, Corey peered at the screen numerous times, sending a nonverbal message: What are you replying?
Marci lifted the phone and read, “Thank you for the supportive email and comment on our homepage. We loved working with you and are eager to do so again. Unfortunately, we are out of town for the weekend with another client.” She spoke as she typed more, “Best of luck in your new business venture. Yours truly, Corey and Marci Padesky.” She then checked with Corey.
The appreciation he felt for her making this a non-issue brought him to the brink of tears. He knew she would love back-to-back paying customers—one offering to double their rate. She also had strong arguments that could win Corey to her side, but instead of starting the fight, she made the considerate choice and conceded her position. He filled with a compulsion to return the favor and agree to the Dream Ride. If he did, all the tension between them would evaporate. Her eyes would light up; she’d probably let out an excited smile, knowing she could afford to leave her day-job for good.
“Anything else?” She asked.
The compulsion pulled on his heart, as if it were a man swinging from its valves, yelling, “Do it, Corey. Do the right thing!” The noble, responsible thing would be to tell her to erase that message. He loved her, they could give Walt another ride. Maybe nothing would be there.
“The message sounds good as it is.” Corey said, and then cleared his throat.
Minutes later, as they pulled into the driveway of Marty Carnes, Marci powered down the phone with a heavy sigh.
The house was middle-upper class: basketball hoop in front of a two and a half stall garage; a combination of brick and stucco, exterior lighting at the main entrance and around the dark lawn.
If they planned to earn more per ride, they needed clients in neighborhoods like these. From outward appearances, Marty might be able to afford a three, even four-hundred dollar ride-fee multiple times a month. Line up a few steady clients of that magnitude and things would calm in their lives.
Dragging the canvas bag full of props from the trunk, Corey accepted that for them to reach Marci’s ambitious goal of ten-thousand dollars per ride, they would need the Walt Zimbardos of the world.
Twenty feet from the door, it opened. Marty filled the entrance.
“We
’re ten minutes early,” Marci announced.
“That’s great, because I’ve been standing by the door for the last twenty. I probably would have stood here a full day, had you been late.”
The man had grown thicker since his Facebook photos. He remained handsome and stood a solid four inches taller than Corey, but unlike the smiling Marty displayed on social media, bags lined the man’s eyes. His hair was disheveled. He wore a tight, wrinkled, BYU T-shirt that was too tight around the belly.
Motioning to his faded red sweatpants as he closed the door, he added, “I usually crash out at ten and figured since I would be asleep when this happened, I could go full casual.”
Marty smiled, but it dropped faster than a natural smile, and then he just looked defeated.
Instincts urged Corey to get closer to the man, give him a psychic-type hug. Since it might be socially uncouth, he settled on hoping they could help him.
Strolling past a wall of photos—mainly Marty and a brunette woman, some of an older couple, and a different family of four—Marci asked. “Does anyone else live here?”
“I have a long-time fiancé who’s here most nights, but we take our breaks. After reading the process on Dreamriders, I figured it might be best if she stayed out for the night.”
They gathered around a darkly-stained cherry wood table; the lighting was set to an evening ambiance. With Marty watching him, he addressed their client.
“How can we assist you, Mr. Carnes?”
“As I said in my email and to your wife, I’ve been having recurring dreams for some time.”
Waiting for him to elaborate, or for Marci to step in, Corey stayed silent.
Marty pinched his bottom lip with two fingers and a thumb as he inhaled through his nose, and exhaled in the same fashion. “For the past four, maybe six months, I’ve been having these dreams where I basically die, in all types of ways: I’m murdered, I expire from old age, I have accidents.”
“You’re plagued by nightmares,” Marci said.
Marty shook his head with uncertainty. “I’m not so sure they’re nightmares. My first death dream may have been three years ago. Over the next two and a half years I couldn’t have had more than three or four other death dreams.”
“That number falls into an acceptable range,” Marci said and looked to Corey for confirmation. Having experienced a few falling dreams himself—where he woke before the splat—he nodded. “I think everyone has dreams about mortality and its eventuality.”
“Yeah, but like I said, sometime in the last half year, they started gaining in frequency. For months, I’ve woken at least every third day. Over the last couple of weeks, I dream of my death every night and wake the moment I die.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Corey said. Waking each night explained the bags under the eyes; and dreaming of your demise over and over had to induce… fatigue.
“Waking at death is also very common,” Marci said. “In fact, I’ve never heard of someone dying in a dream. The mind has trouble differentiating reality, and jolts you awake as a defense.”
“So you don’t believe anyone has ever completed the cycle?”
“What cycle?” Marci said, “is there a certain way you die? Drowning, by fire, falling?”
“All of those, yeah, and everything. Terminal illness, spider bites, being shot, stabbed, clubbed, run over.” Facing Corey, he added, “It might be easier to list the ways I haven’t died.”
“What are some of those?” Corey asked.
Marty thought for a moment and then shook his head, “I can’t think of any.”
“Dreams where you wake before death are common,” Marci said more to herself, as if considering his explanation. “However, it’s normally an identical method of passing, and the message lies in that method.”
“What if the message I’m supposed to receive comes after my death,” Marty said.
Marci wrinkled her brow and said, “I’m not following?”
“Like, the message will reveal itself after I die? Unless you don’t think a person can survive a dream death?”
“Well,” Marci said. “That is a fun topic of debate, but how could we ever know? Maybe people who dream their deaths die in their sleep. But in my opinion, the trauma is too intense for the psyche. The dreamer always wakes. Maybe there could be some emotional damage—lingering paranoia, anxiety, anger—but death… that seems far-fetched.”
“Because that’s why I called you here,” Marty said.
Seeing his chance to help, Corey chimed in, “You want us to find a way to end these nightmares?”
“No. I want to have a dream where I die, all the way.”
Silence fell over the table like a loosened silk canopy.
Marci stared at their potential client, who watched Corey. Unsure how to answer, specifically since dream directing fell under Marci’s control, Corey studied the floor a moment before returning his attention to Marty.
“I know you’re thinking that’s a weird request,” Marty said, “but the reason I don’t think I’m having nightmares is I fill with exhilaration as death approaches, and I don’t wake frightened. I wake feeling disappointed, even cheated.”
Marci worked as a mental health professional. She took an oath to report any undisclosed crimes or suicidal threats to the authorities. After the long drive and them already having received payment, Marty trying to cancel because they couldn’t provide his request, or Marci getting pinned in some ethical bind, could turn their nice payday into a net loss.
Marci softened her tone and said, “Do you feel cheated because things are going on in your life that seem insurmountable?”
“I don’t want to die, if that’s what you’re getting at. I have a good life. A decent life at least. I just think if I could outlast the death in my dream, I would learn something important.”
“That’s quite a boundary you’ve established,” Marci said. Corey noticed her shoulders relax. “Psychologically, you’ve erected a defense against some buried truth. I’m inclined to believe you’ll find a repressed memory if you break through. I doubt it’ll be merry. People tend to block out the bad. However, maybe after the Ride, you can explain the dream and we’ll work-out the meaning together.”
“Maybe. And I understand the psychology. But it really feels like more than a buried trauma.”
“Bottom line,” Corey said with a glance at Marci. “You want us to influence your dream so you die?”
“I want to die and stay dead as long as possible.”
“There’s a movie Dreamscape from the nineteen eighties written around the concept that when you die in your sleep, you die in real life. The antagonist is an assassin who kills through dreams.” Corey said, but then he sought out Marci, “I’m assuming there’s no chance of that.”
She frowned, “What do you want me to say? My gut says no.” She addressed Marty, “Your request is more complicated than something like, ‘I’d like to dream I’m a polar bear.’”
“You can make me dream I’m a polar bear?” Marty asked.
“I believe we can make you dream anything you can imagine, and more; pleasant or horrible. But the polar bear would be a lot simpler than what you’re asking.”
“Maybe another time. Tonight, I want to survive my death. Can you do that?”
With a rigid faith Corey didn’t share, Marci said, “When it comes to dreams, we can do anything.”
“You’re looking at the biggest threat to our future,” Marci said. She clenched a powered down Smartphone over a sedated Marty Carnes. It had taken her three minutes of searching the bedroom to uncover the hidden device balanced behind a picture frame, its camera lens pointed at the bed, filming. “If video of what we do—or more relevant—how we do it leaked…”
“People would think they watched a hoax,” Corey said.
“Maybe. And let’s say ninety-nine-point nine percent of people believe our little sideshow of standing over a guy looking unconscious is a joke. The thing is, we know it’s rea
l.”
Corey scrunched his face, “So?”
“So, if us blending our minds into other people’s dreams is real, what else can people do metaphysically? Probably something, right?”
Corey licked his lips as her line of thought straightened out.
“If our thing is real, if other things are possible, and we know this, then others do too, but we’ve never heard of any levitator or teleporter, even as hoaxes.”
“Why would that matter?”
“Because there’s probably an agency out there that snuffs out the abnormal. If evidence of this exists, we’ll be an X-File. At best, they’ll put us in cages; do thousands of tests and procedures on all three of us.”
Goosebumps covered Corey’s arms as he pictured Janey in some white day room in the heart of a secure compound. There’d be a female doctor complimenting her on her drawing, soothing her in between blood draws and promises she would be reunited with her parents, once they were deemed “safe”.
Things would be worse for him and Marci: blood tests, CAT scans, bone-marrow draws. All of that after capitulation, which required leverage. Perhaps threats to Janey’s future, felony charges, maybe outright waterboarding. Being swallowed into that routine would be a death sentence to the life they hoped to build.
Previously, when he had daydreamed of their talent being outed, he saw them on the hottest Late Night show, where he would explain the embarrassing truth about how they gained their abilities to a laughing and supportive audience. He would then discuss some of the famous celebrity dream requests he’d done, under anonymity, of course.
Setting the phone down, Marci searched for another minute before relaxing and saying, “I’m going to buy us a little metal detector.” She then untucked her shirt to get comfortable. “Just be mindful of us being discovered, Corey. We can never share this secret, not with one person, ever.”
Corey sobered to that truth, and nodded.