by Jeff Siamon
Of course, he saw no one or nothing. Just the shadowed glow on the sand from the sunset. So much for Mr. Brave Heart, he thought. Talking to himself and then thinking someone else was doing the talking.
His foolishness made him sit down. He glanced up at the sky, straining to make sense of the star patterns. Yet, he still had no feeling of panic. Foolishness ─ yes. But not panic. Which is what you would expect from someone lost and stranded in the middle of nowhere. It was as if his brain ─ his emotions ─ were split in two. The side that was the Eureka Conrad Brinkley of old ─ a problem-solving hero but as physical as a couch-potato weekend quarterback. That side couldn’t help but to move his lips into a foolish grin. Foolish because he was a fool to think he could ever escape what was going to happen to him. While other side of him ─ the warrior strong ─ took the grin as a challenge. Not a defeat.
The sky darkened slowly. There was no moon so the heavenly pinpricks and rashes began to pop out. He gazed above. Hunted for the characteristic seven stars of the Big Dipper. Aside from Orion, that was about the only constellation he could remember. That and the fact that the two outward stars of the dipper led to the North Star. And where in the sky he found the Dipper would tell him what season this dream or reality was taking place. Although logic told him ─ if stuck in a dream/reality could ever be logical ─ that it was likely the same season of his waking world. Spring.
There were many more stars than he remembered ever seeing. He had always been a city bred-and-lived person. Didn’t think much of the country. Too many bugs. Not enough cafes and drinking establishments. So he wasn’t surprised that the constellation didn’t jump into place quickly for him.
At first he thought the sky hadn’t darkened enough. Perhaps the Dipper stars were faint. He waited until the sunset glow was gone. Until his neck had begun to ache from staring upwards. Then he did a systemic inspection of the sky. Marking a cross in the sand and, using each point for a direction, he scanned the sky. But when he had completed the circuit, he still hadn’t been able to discover any familiar pattern.
Was he wasting his time? He thought so. In this dream/reality world he had fallen into, what did it matter whether he found the Big Dipper or not? Yet the warrior in him didn’t want this adventure to end passively. To lie down and wait for an end to happen. Even though the old Conrad Brinkley was tired. Thirsty. Soon to become hungry. Very hungry.
So why couldn’t he find the Big dipper? It was visible all year long in the Northern Hemisphere. And if this crazy dream/reality of his was in the Southern Hemisphere, he should be able to see the Southern Cross. He was challenged when it came to star gazing ─ that’s what he was about to conclude when he felt a jab of something on his back. He spun around but there was no one or nothing there.
His body stiffened. Another jab came. It struck him on the shoulders. Again, he could see nothing or no one. This time, despite what the old Conrad Brinkley felt ─ the couch potato’s fear/flight response ─ he knew he hadn’t been invaded by any alien sense of fear. This wasn’t a communication. It was an attack.
You bugger, he thought, putting up his arms as if to fend off a blow. But since he couldn’t see the blows coming, he had no way to stop them. No way to be warned when another one was about to strike him. As another one did. This time with such force that he went down on one knee. The only thing he could think of doing to defend himself was to try to get back on his feet.
This was a different battle, he realized in between absorbing blows. Not a mental one. No amount of concentration was going to put an end to it. It was hand to hand combat. Purely physical. His strength against this invisible battering ram. And that’s what it felt like. As if he were being struck by some blunt post. Struck over and over again.
Every time he managed to get to his feet, a barrage of blows would send him back down to his knees. Forewarned or not, it was going to take more than thoughtful determination to overcome this attack. Whatever it was.
And then he knew. Knew what was happening to him. Or at least had a mental vision of what was about to happen. Now with one knee on the sand and the other knee struggling to flex himself to stand, he had the sensation that he was looking inside into whatever was attacking him. Reading its thoughts as a vision of what it intended to do with him. He could picture himself prone on the sand. No longer struggling against the rain of blows. His body slowly becoming a mist of grey. Like a fog cover. And the longer he lay, the more the mist darkened, the wispier it became until it twisted away into the night air.
The pain was intense. Like a hundred lashes by a demonic jailer. And on top of the stinging jabs, he had his own self to contend with. The old Conrad Brinkley was sure the end was near, so why resist? And the warrior/strong wasn’t sure he could defeat this fear attack.
Both knees were on the ground now. Then one hand. Then the other. His back bent over from the repeated blows. It would be easy for him to give up now. Maybe the blows would stop. The pain would end. Instead, he cried out. A warrior’s cry. The yell that leads men into battle. And with the cry, he rose to his feet. Held his stance. His face twisted into a snarl of effort. He felt a frenzied drum roll of blows to counter his effort. A pounding in his head kept pace with the blows. His lips bled as he gritted his teeth and tried to stand tall.
He yelled again. He was the great Cochise leading his braves into battle. Wolfe at the plains of Abraham. Leonidas at Thermopylae.
That was the moment when he saw her. An ethereal vision materializing out of a sand dune. Like a double exposure against the dark sand. The dream girl. Her body, translucent and glowing. Her skin bare and pink like she had been too long in the sun. Dark hair, cascading down her face and clutching her shoulders. A dark slash for a mouth. The triangle of darkness below her belly forming another triangle with her bare breasts. But it was her eyes that captivated him. They were dark. Black holes that were more an absence of light than eyes. Penetrating. Pleading.
She reached out a hand to him. Her lips moved in a silent offer of help. He wanted to extend his hand. He tried but he couldn’t without losing his balance. For the blows never stopped. They had increased when her apparition appeared. She would have to come to him. Moving but without moving. Like a zoom lens image coming closer to the viewer’s eye. And as she got closer to him. As he shook from the effort of staying on his feet, he felt a rush of excitement. Of wanting her. It gave him strength. Goaded him into standing firm. Even though he might as well have been Hercules trying to hold up a dozen Earths for all the strain and pain he felt.
But now he did reach out his hand to her. Though it seemed a futile gesture. He was losing his balance from the blows. Falling to his knees. When his hand reached hers, there was no firm flesh to grab onto. Yet when their two hands met, their fingers seemed to entwine and something electric happened. He felt a jolt of connection. Like their minds had entwined. Like he was her.
But the bigger jolt was yet to come. For almost at the same moment, this other thing that was attacking him became part of the triad. And that connection reverberated between the three of them until everything around him ─ the girl, the thing, the desert sands and the night sky exploded into a mist. He flew backwards. The desert night became the dark in his apartment. The dream girl became a dream vision. And the attacking force ─ the thing ─ shivered and slunk away into some unknown shadow.
For the rest of the night, he slept on his back on the floor beside his bed. Dreams sighed into his unconsciousness. Images of soft skin and softer kisses. The dream girl and him. Together. As one. Without desert sands or pulsating, invading surfaces. Both of them wrapped in each other’s arms. Their bodies a barrier against this black unknown menace.
26
It was city dark in Connie’s apartment. Street lighting penetrated the room from the window but it couldn’t reach into the deep shadows. That’s where he was. Lying beside his bed. Flat on his back on the carpet.
His body suddenly twitched. Not from the light but from something in his
dream. The twitch turned into a gasp when, flinging out an arm, it struck the side of his bed frame. The blow shocked him awake.
He sat up. Slowly. The back of his head hurt as if he had fallen on it. He glanced around the room. Tried to peer into the shadows. At the side of the bed beside him; to the table legs; to the bottom of the counter cupboards. Into all shadows like the one he was in.
For a moment, he was confused. On the floor? How did he get here? Then he remembered. Rather, his body remembered. His back ached. His shoulders began to burn with pain. His legs felt numb and tingled.
As he got to his feet, his body memory began to work its way into his brain. The desert sands. The black suppression. The invisible blows. The soft skin of the dream-girl apparition. And wrapping them all together was the sensation ─ the memory of the sensation ─ of an evil that was lurking on the edges of his mind. On everybody’s mind.
He sat down on his bed and thought a familiar refrain: Dream or reality?
In that defenseless mood between sleep and wakefulness, he had a “why me?” moment. He was tired of the question. All he wanted was to go back to normal. He and Evie together again. No worries other than the ongoing project he and his team were working on.
But that wasn’t going to happen.
What was going to happen, he didn’t know. The question persisted. Over and over until the words became gibberish. But gibberish or not, he had already answered it. In his dreams. His memories did that. And the way his body felt. All too real. Too vivid to be dreamlike. Even when he couldn’t find any proof of the desert sands on the floor around him. And he had spent several minutes looking.
He had a certainty that something extraordinary was going on around him. And for some reason, he had gotten into the middle of it. If he was crazy, then the everybody around him was about to go crazy too.
✽ ✽ ✽
“You’ve got a dead battery, mister.”
Connie and a tow truck driver were staring at the inside of the engine compartment of Connie’s car.
“I know that. That’s why I called. Can you give me a boost?”
The driver scratched several days growth of beard. His bushy eyebrows were greying as was his beard. As were the tuffs of hair sticking out from underneath his ball cap. “I could.” He scratched again. “But it’s not going to do much good.”
“What do you mean? Do I need a new battery?”
Connie had spent the rest of the early morning sitting on his bed, staring at nothing and everything in his apartment. After his eyes had become numb from the effort ─ his brain as well from thinking about what was happening to him ─ he had showered and shaved and skipped eating the stale wheat flakes that were the only food in the apartment. All he had wanted was a good cup of city coffee and to get away to some neutral place so he could think clearly. And all he got was a car that wouldn’t start.
“You might need a new battery,” the driver said after several scratches. “But that’s not going to get you moving.”
Connie didn’t understand what the driver was saying. All he knew about cars was not to lift the hood, because if you did, there’d bound to be something wrong with the car.
“Looks like you had an accident, mister.”
“Yes.”
Another scratch, slow and careful. “Did you report it to the police?”
“Yes. Do you think that ruined the battery?”
“Maybe.”
“Can you replace the battery?”
“Yep.”
“Will that fix the problem?”
The driver had to scratch his beard again to think over Connie’s question. Connie had to refrain himself for shouting at the man’s apparent stupidity. For god’s sake, all he wanted was to get going. Get into the city. Try to rescue as much of his normal life as possible. Maybe then, he could sort out this dream/reality problem.
“Well?” Connie asked.
“Have you looked at your back tire?”
“My back tire? Now what the hell does it have to do with a dead battery?”
“Nothing.” The driver walked to the rear of the car.
Connie followed. His eyes were wide with frustrations. This was another reason why he hated this move to the burbs. Cars. In city, he didn’t own one. Didn’t have to add it to the other urban-levels of stress that city people had.
“When I called, the woman said all you had to do was jump start the battery if it was dead, and I could be on my way.”
“Could do that, but you wouldn’t be on your way.”
“Oh, hell.” This was all too much for him.
“See that tire.” The driver pointed to the rear, driver’s side tire. “It’s flat.”
“Oh.” Connie saw what the driver meant. The tire was so flat, its rim was touching the ground. It was the same side of the car that the SUV had struck. “Can you change the tire for me?”
“Nope.”
Connie couldn’t hold in his temper any longer. “Damn it, why the hell not?”
“Take it easy, mister. See the rim, there? It’s out of shape. That’s why the tire’s flat. You need a new rim. And you probably need an alignment after your accident. And I’d check all the other rims. They might be a bit warped, too. You got insurance?”
“Yeah.” He felt as deflated as the tire.
“You get in touch with them.”
Connie nodded.
“Was it your fault?”
“No.” He turned away from his car. It seemed that the car had brought him nothing but trouble. Long commutes. The poor woman on the bridge. Then the SUV. If he had been alone, he would have shaken his fist at the heavens: If this dream girl was bent on helping him, why the hell couldn’t she fix his damn car?
A stupid thought, he thought while the driver was giving him his tow-truck driver’s stare. A really stupid thought.
“Look mister, my brother runs a body shop. You give me your insurance dope and I’ll take you to his garage. If there’s no frame damage, you should be able to get it back in about a week. I can give him a call and let him know we’re coming.”
“A week?”
“That’s right.”
“My insurance agent said they’d be sending an adjuster around some time in the next few days.”
“Who’s your insurance company?”
Connie told him and then had to look away from the damn car. He needed a cup of coffee. Several cups.
“Oh, them,” the driver said and shook his head. “Hell, you’d be lucky to see anyone by the end of the month. Their claims are backed up because of that pile up last week on the interstate.”
“Shit!”
The driver scratched his beard in agreement.
“Can you get me a loaner?”
“Nope.”
“Shit, I don’t know if I want you to take my car to a shop I’ve never heard of. How do I know you’re honest or your brother is honest?”
The driver walked away. “No skin off my nose.”
“Oh, hell,” Connie muttered. “Hey, wait. Okay. Take the car. Can you at least give me a lift to the subway?”
“Yep. No problem. Don’t worry, my brother’ll do you right. And besides, your insurance company will pick up the tab.”
27
Faces. Pasty. Indifferent. Morose. Subway faces. Pressed together in confined spaces. Unsmiling. Making no eye contact. They stared at their morning paper. Their novels. Their hands in their laps. At the poster advertisements. Listening in on their headphones. Or to their own monologues.
That was why Connie hated taking the subway. His face crammed in among all the other rush hour faces. Too many eyes to avoid staring at. He needed his own space. Not the space of strangers. At least when he had been able to walk to work, the faces had drifted by him or were confined to passing cars or street front businesses. And if there were too many faces on the street, he could always retreat to one of his favorite coffee houses. Hide himself away in a corner booth or table until the foot traffic thinned.
The tow truck driver had dropped him at a subway stop after they had gone to his brother’s body shop. The brother had been all smiles and assurances. Connie had been all frowns and doubts but he had left the keys and his vitals with the brother. When he boarded the train, his expression was a perfect match to the other faces in the car. Anyone would have thought he was a regular rider.
There wasn’t an empty seat when he got on. He grabbed an upright pole only seconds after it was vacated by an exiting passenger. There he swayed and jiggled from the motion of the train. His casted hand clutched the pole. The other gripped the case with “little Connie” inside. And Connie’s face ─ among the press of faces around him. Nothing to look at but the blurry images out the car’s windows. Dark and light impressions of the tunnel speeding by.
Doubt sped by as well. It seemed the farther he got from his place, the crazier the notions he had had on waking became. Just another episode ─ that’s what he imagined Vicky would think.
The train came to a stop. One stop before the bridge.
Doubts paused with the train. He thought about premonitions. Animals had them. They could sense some impending storm or disaster. His scientific-self acknowledged that. So maybe his premonition was real. Maybe something monumental was about to happen. Maybe to him. To someone. To everyone. And as for his realistic dreams ─ they were just reinforcing this feeling.
A body brushed passed him, knocking into his cast. He grimaced. A woman was trying to wedge herself through the wall of people in front of the open doors. Then a man. Then several men and women thrust themselves from the platform into the car. Connie was jostled by the moving bodies. Nearly lost hold of his case. And when the train started up, nearly lost his grip on the pole. The scowl on his face out scowled all the other grim faces in the car. Nobody ever said, excuse me, he thought.