Dreamfall

by Amy Plum

  The entry for “hypnagogic hallucinations” makes them sound just as bad. They happen when someone is falling asleep and are so lifelike the person isn’t sure if they’re real. They can involve any, or all, of the senses. Although they can occur without narcolepsy, the hallucinations are more common and severe with narcoleptics.

  I click on a link where people share their experiences with these hallucinations, and read one woman’s story where a huge, hairy spider was on her forehead. She not only saw it, but felt it—vividly—and since something called sleep paralysis can go hand in hand with the occurrence, she had to lie there motionless while it crawled across her face. I shudder, wondering which of the two conditions would be worse: falling down in public or being crawled on by hyperrealistic spiders.

  Window number two on my monitor shows a tall boy with black hair. I check his vitals. Six four. The photo in his file shows an angry-looking guy with dark circles under his eyes. Underneath is a list of restrictions: no driving, sports, or work that involves dangerous materials. He has to live with another adult who takes responsibility for his safety in the home. In parentheses behind that clause is handwritten “lives with parents.” No wonder he’s angry.

  The door to the lab flies open, and big man in a suit strides into the room. “Zhu. Vesper,” he acknowledges as they spring to their feet. As he marches around the circle of beds, they trail along behind him, explaining what happened and kowtowing in a way that leads me to assume this is Michael Osterman, the hospital director. He leans in to inspect one of the subjects, hands clasped behind his back as he maintains a safe distance from the sleeper. Finally, he turns to the researchers. “Well, we’ve got messes to clean up all over the clinic, thanks to the power cutoff caused by what the news is calling ‘a minor seismic event.’ So I have other crises on my hands. This one is yours to handle. What do you propose?”

  “We’re consulting with Erwin Murphy at Mt. Sinai,” Vesper says.

  Osterman nods. “Good thinking. You might want to try Frankel as well.”

  Vesper heads for his computer, finds the number, and dials. The director glances my way but looks right through me as his gaze swings back to the researchers. Since I’m not important, I don’t exist to him. Good.

  He gets in a huddle with the doctors and I hear the phrase “damage control.” They talk about what to tell the parents. The decision is made to meet with each parent or guardian individually to avoid “a mob mentality.” They’ll hold the meetings somewhere else; getting the news while seeing their unresponsive children would be too upsetting. It’s decided that Vesper will stay here and continue monitoring the subjects while Zhu and Osterman confront the parents.

  Just before they leave, the beeping of the sensors accelerates like it did before, and they all turn toward the monitors. “What’s happening?” asks Osterman, with a note of alarm.

  “Eye and heart activity acceleration,” responds Zhu. “It’s happened before. Brain activity remains flat.”

  Osterman nods. “Just make sure we keep thorough records of everything that happens.” He and Zhu head out the door.

  I’ve been keeping my own records. Jotting down times and events as they happen. Maybe it’s because I know so little about the science of sleep disorders, but I’ve already noticed a pattern, even if they haven’t.

  I get up and walk over to one of several screens showing the polysomnographic readings. Vesper glances at me. “Is it okay if I look?” I ask.

  He studies my face for a moment and decides it’s not going to make a difference. “Just don’t touch anything.”

  It’s easy to find the place on the graphs where the eye and heart activity jumps. I stand and watch the lines spike up and down for almost one more minute before they plunge and become stable at a much lower level.

  The initial plans were to have REM sleep for twenty-minute periods, alternating with fifty-minute NREM phases, both controlled by the electrical current being administered through the electrodes. But even after the electrodes were removed, the feedback from the subjects has risen and fallen in phases close to twenty and fifty minutes.

  When Vesper wondered if they could be dreaming, Zhu cut that theory down and said their bodies were just responding to the abrupt interruption in electric flow. But none of them has mentioned the cycles falling into regular intervals. I really don’t think they’ve noticed, which I suppose is normal if they don’t think it can have any significance. But could it actually mean something?

  I turn my attention to Vesper: his look of intense concentration prevents me from asking. I’m too scared he’ll jump all over me for distracting him. I’ll wait it out and see if the cycles continue. It’s only happened twice. It’s probably just a fluke.

  I glance over at the seven unconscious bodies hooked up to the Tower and am struck once again with the sensation of being in an eerie science-fiction film. Like the sleepers are pod people, or space travelers held in suspended animation while being transported through galaxies. But these are just kids. They’re real people . . . in danger . . . lying a stone’s throw away from me.

  I glance at the clock and estimate I have another half hour before anything else happens . . . if it happens. I sit back down in my chair, rifle through the folder, and find the section entitled “Trial subject three.”

  CHAPTER 11

  CATA

  WHEN I OPEN MY EYES, I AM LYING ON MY BACK on the ground, a wooden floor just inches above my face. I hear yelling and banging and what sounds like a door being smashed in. Boots stomp into the room, and above me the floorboards creak and groan under their weight. Men are yelling in a foreign language, and even though I don’t understand the words, I understand the intent: Come out or be killed. This is followed by a bout of evil laughter.

  I struggle to mask my breathing, but it is difficult not to gasp for air, both from the lack of space and from a wave of panic so severe that it crushes my chest, emptying my lungs. Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth was Dr. Carolan’s prescription for panic. I turn my head slightly to the side and pull air through my nostrils, exhaling through my lips as silently as I can. Sweat runs down my forehead, stinging my eyes.

  I blink and see Remi lying a few feet away from me, wedged under the floorboards like I am. He works his arm up from his side and places a finger to his lips. As if I need to be told to keep quiet. From the desperate look in his eyes, I know we must be in his story. He knows exactly where we are.

  A boot plants hard right above my head. The thin board bows downward under the man’s weight and a protruding nail punctures my cheek. I squeeze my eyes shut and grit my teeth against the pain. This is a million times worse than the creepy monster in the cave. I could handle that. It was a monster, not a man. Although sometimes those can be one and the same.

  I feel my body numb and my brain start shutting off. Oh no. It’s happening.

  I didn’t know it could happen in a dream. I think back to the Flayed Man dream and the cave, and realize that in both of them I was able to do something about my fear: run or fight back. But in real life, when I feel like I’m in danger and can’t do anything about it, that’s when I’m in trouble. I disassociate. Like I feel myself doing now.

  I begin to have the sensation of floating—like my spirit is leaving my body. I hear Dr. Carolan say, A short break with reality allowed you to escape when the trauma was too intense for you to handle. Dissociation isn’t always a bad thing.

  Not when it’s going to get me killed, I think, and fight to remain in the here and now. A stream of blood trickles down my face and runs into my ear, the repulsive oozing sensation slamming me back into my body. I resist the urge to reach up and wipe it out. If I move, the men might hear me. I feel it bubble and leak into my inner ear, and I want to scream.

  Though the blood half deafens me, I can make out the crashing of furniture and breaking of glass. The boots stop and a second later a spray of bullets riddles down around us, opening up a dozen holes in the floorboards. Lig
ht comes streaming through in thin beams. Frozen in fear, my eyes fly to Remi. He hasn’t budged.

  Seemingly satisfied, the men stamp outside and slam the door behind them. Are you okay? I mouth as soon as I’m sure they’re gone.

  “Yes,” he responds almost as quietly. “Just wait.”

  We lie there, unmoving, until finally I whisper, “Where are we?”

  “My home. Crawl space under the floor.”

  “Why are soldiers crashing around your house?”

  “Genocide,” he whispers, and that’s all I need to know. That explains what he said in the Void—why he left Africa to live with his aunt in America.

  I’m in the middle of an African genocide. Or at least a dream about one. A dream so realistic that it almost got us killed. Remi isn’t moving. Anguish twists his face, and I wonder if he is rational enough to make a decision for the both of us. “Remi,” I whisper. “I want to help you . . . help us get out of here, but this is your world, so you need to tell me what to do.”

  Seeing the suffering in his eyes nudges a memory from my own childhood—something just beyond my reach, but it makes me feel a connection. I watch him steadily, pushing my dread aside. After a second, some of the torment leaves his face, and he blinks a few times. Dust motes and sawdust spin around in the columns of light surrounding us. Finally, he shifts and pushes up a section of attached boards above him. He eases it to one side and pries himself out.

  His previous surliness has been replaced by a clinical resolve. It occurs to me that survival is the only thing this boy thinks about. Not making friends. Not being personable. Just survival. And if this is what he comes from, I can see why.

  Remi squats down and sticks his face into the hole. “It’s safe to come out,” he says, and thrusts his hand down to help me crawl out.

  We are in a one-room house that has been totally ransacked. But Remi’s expression is one of relief: he clutches his chest with his hand and the trace of a single tear remains on his cheek. “They aren’t here this time,” he says, and, seeing my confusion, explains in a choked voice. “In this dream, sometimes when I come up from below, or walk in the front door, or creep in the back window, my family is here.” He gestures at the floor. “Slaughtered.” He swipes the tear from his cheek and stands there looking empty.

  “Remi,” I whisper, “we need to get out of here.”

  “You’re right,” he says, and presses his fingers to his forehead like he can force the images away. “Okay. Wait here.” He goes to an open window at the back of the room and peers carefully out.

  I poke the bottom of my T-shirt into my ear and tip my head sideways, letting it soak up the blood. I inspect the stain on my shirt and run my finger lightly over the blood-matted puncture wound on my face, wincing as I touch the hole. Real blood. Real pain. Does that mean we really could have been killed with the very real-looking bullets that lay scattered on top and beneath the floorboards? What if we never get back to the Void? What if, this time, we’re stuck here?

  A sound from the street jerks me from my thoughts. They’re coming back, I think. Fear burns a hole through my stomach. I glance around to see Remi climbing out the window and waving for me to follow him. Lunging across the room, I scramble through the window and follow Remi as he creeps around the side of the house. We hide behind a wooden shed anchored to the house a few feet back from the street. From the smell, I guess it was once used to keep livestock—probably chickens, since there’s a little ramp leading up to the elevated door—but it’s empty now. I can still hear the sounds of men yelling and shots being fired, but they are coming from farther away.

  I wedge myself into the corner behind Remi, who pokes his head gingerly around the edge. I see his body tense, and then he pulls back and turns to me with an astonished expression. “You have to look,” he whispers.

  I hesitate.

  “Don’t worry. The militiamen—they’ve moved on,” he reassures me. “Just look at the car to the right of the general store.”

  I inch forward to peek around the edge of the henhouse. Directly across the street from us is an abandoned wooden building with a few scattered boxes and cans in the windows. Next to it is a rusted-out car with no wheels. And crouched beside the car is the boy from the Void—Ant—dressed in his weird hat and gloves and shorts. He’s on his own and looks scared out of his wits. Glancing up, he sees me, and raises a gloved hand to his mouth in surprise.

  For a second, it looks like he’s going to sprint across the street to us. But before he can, there is a yell and a round of gunfire and the sound of boots coming our way. Remi leans past me to wave the boy back.

  The boy’s eyes grow wider, and he starts tapping his finger nervously against the rusted metal of the car next to him. It makes a hollow clanging noise. I raise my finger to my lips, but he does it again. Clang, clang, clang goes his fingernail against the side of the car.

  “Why is he doing that?” I hiss.

  “He did that in the cave,” Remi whispers. “I don’t think he can help it.”

  “Well, he’s going to have to help it or he’ll get himself killed!” I lean farther out. A dozen men in uniform are climbing into an army truck parked outside a two-story house on the far side of the general store. One pauses and then turns to walk back toward Ant. I open my eyes wide at the boy, and gesture for him to leave. But he just sits there and folds his fingers together like he’s praying and crushes his fists against his chest. He’s trying to keep himself from tapping the car, I realize.

  Something’s wrong with him. He’s not going to hide. The soldier is going to find him and kill him.

  The gunman has drawn his weapon. Beside me, Remi fumbles in the dirt, picks up an egg-sized stone, and launches it above the army truck. Breathless, I watch it arc through the air over the street. And then it hits one of the house’s upper windows with a crash and glass explodes over the truck. The men leap out, firing their guns, pumping the house with round after round of ammunition.

  The militiaman near Ant turns and jogs back toward his truck. It’s now or never, I think, and dashing across the street, I grab Ant’s hand. I swoop him up out of his crouch and pull him in a sprint down a dirt path leading away from the main street. Remi is right behind us. “Where do we go?” I yell, and he points toward the outskirts of the village.

  We are running at full speed, and I’m practically dragging Ant behind me. “Faster!” I yell.

  “I’m trying,” he says. His face is white with fear, and I have a feeling that if I weren’t pulling him along, he would collapse.

  “Do you think they saw us?” I ask Remi, who is pacing me.

  “I don’t know.”

  I feel Ant lag and see that he’s looking at something behind us. I glance back to see George running to catch up. The others must be here too.

  As I try to remember who else was in the Void, I see a movement through the broken window of a house we pass. The door flies open and BethAnn and Fergus burst out, following us at a sprint.

  CHAPTER 12

  FERGUS

  WHEN I OPEN MY EYES, I’M IN THIS RAMSHACKLE building with busted-out windows. It’s such a mess, you’d think a tornado had ripped through, except the roof is still there. Outside is a dirt road lined with houses just like this one. There’s no sign of anyone . . . anywhere. It’s like a ghost town.

  I take a minute to get my bearings, wondering if I should hide here or go look for the others, assuming this is like the cave dream and we’re all in it together. This place is as hot as hell. A stream of sweat rolls down my back. I fidget, then open the front door and look out. There’s no way I’m sitting around and waiting for something to happen.

  I wander through abandoned houses for about ten minutes before I find BethAnn. I turn a corner, and there she is—sitting in the back of a dirt-brown army jeep, her hands tied behind her with one of those plastic bands that riot police use as handcuffs. Her face is dirty and her long blond hair is drenched with sweat.

  I whistle, and
she turns. Her eyes widen with surprise. She shakes her head in warning, and gestures with a tilt of her head toward a nearby house. I nod and hold up both hands, telling her to wait, and then backtrack down the street I came from, ducking into an alley that runs behind the houses. As I near the one she indicated, I hear men yelling in another language and the sound of glass breaking. I approach carefully, staying low to the ground, and see them through a side window: two soldiers pointing guns at a man with his hands in the air.

  They’re yelling questions at him, and he’s answering them and crying. The soldiers’ backs are to me, and the man’s eyes are glued to them, allowing me to creep toward the street undetected. I scan the room as I pass beneath the window. No one else is there. I move forward, hunched over, until I’m crouching behind the front edge of the house, mere feet away from BethAnn. I whistle again.

  Are there only two? I mouth, holding up two fingers, and then pantomime holding a gun. She nods. I inch back a few steps and peer cautiously into the room. The soldiers have forced their captive to sit at a table and have shoved a paper and pen in front of him. One holds his gun to the weeping man’s head, while the other stands behind him and shouts.

  I dart out to the jeep. “Quick, while they’re busy!” I whisper.

  Throwing a panicked look toward the house, BethAnn stands and, unable to use her hands, leans toward me. I grab her around the waist and swing her over the back of the jeep onto the street. “This way!” I say, taking her back the way I came. We run silently for a couple of blocks before ducking into one of the houses I already checked out. “There’s no one here,” I reassure, and pull her through the open front door into a corner where we can’t be seen from the street.