The Dreaming Field

by Ron Savage

  Phoebe stared at her father’s painting. Though dim moonlight came through the deck’s glass doors, shadows still hid parts of the canvas.

  Something had moved.

  They’re right…

  …I gotta quit watching…

  …and moved, again.

  She walked over to the picture—cautious, small steps—arms folded to her chest; and leaned in for a look, counting the images.

  Two men.

  The table.

  An owl.

  One open pizza box.

  Then Phoebe saw the “something” that had moved—actually, “somethings”, at least twenty, maybe more—and they were climbing over the lid of the pizza box, a quivering dark cloud. Tiny pieces of the blackness started dropping to the floor next to the table, crawling slowly toward the painting’s edge. The closer they got to her, the larger they became: she saw them clearly now.

  Bugs.

  Fifty, a hundred, maybe more, and as large as rats.

  Phoebe tried to scream, heaving the air from her lungs, but no sound. This isn’t happening. Paintings aren’t suppose to—She felt a sudden relief swell inside her, and giggled. I’m dreaming. That’s it…just a dream. You can’t get hurt in—

  The first bug fell out of the picture and onto the soft, carpeted floor…

  …and a second…

  …and a third…

  They can’t hurt me.

  …tumbling down, a few landing on their brown-shelled backs, their bristled legs wriggling, bodies twisting…

  I know it’s a dream…has to be a…

  …oh, yuck.

  Roaches, they’re roaches.

  …long thingies, seven, eight inches; and thick bodies, antennas tapping at the rug like blind men…

  Nice, roaches.

  Good, roaches.

  …one gazing up at her, opening its mouth, showing slivers of sharp white teeth.

  Roaches DON’T have teeth. I mean, maybe they HAVE teeth, but not THOSE sort of teeth.

  The roach leaped, ripping a small piece of flesh from her calf. Phoebe screamed, and this time heard the sound; felt the pain shoot through her left leg and into her skull. She batted the thingie away, stomping it with the heel of a bare foot, once, twice, listening to the crunch. Creamy yellow liquid pooled about the insect’s squashed body. Three others were crawling toward her. Before running up the stairs, she’d glanced at the painting, the entire bottom half now filled with the blackish-brown cloud, roaches dropping to the carpet one after another. Then an unsettling, final concern: the two images at the table had changed.

  A man was missing.

  II

  Phoebe had locked herself in the second floor bathroom. Harsh light glinted off the beige tiles. The girl stared at the sticky crimson handprint on the doorknob, the blood on her fingers. Red footprints, too. She wetted a pink wash cloth with warm water and opened the medicine cabinet, collecting peroxide and a tin of Flintstone Band-Aids. Sitting at the edge of the tub, ankle on knee, she examined the wound, dabbing the wet cloth over the dime-sized hole in her calf. This isn’t a dream. But what else? Phoebe tried to think. Once, a couple of years ago, she’d dreamed that her teeth were loose, even pulled one out. Nothing painful, really. No dream had ever been really painful.

  “Okay,” she said, unscrewing the cap on the peroxide bottle. “This is gonna hurt.”

  And it did. Tears swelled in her eyes and flowed down her cheeks, a sting so hot and brutal she felt the top of her head break a sweat. Don’t let me faint. Please…please. Phoebe covered the bite with two Flintstone bandages, Barney and Fred smiling up at her.

  “Yabba Dabba Doo,” she whispered to them, then heard a muffled clicking noise, like toy drumsticks tapping on wood, a whole marching band of drummers.

  …not drummers…

  …little roach feet…

  …in the foyer.

  Phoebe stood, hand against the wall, hopping to the sink on her good leg. Uncle Jake…I gotta get to Uncle Jake’s room. When the girl lowered her other foot to the tile floor, the pain seemed less, a dull pinched feeling. She shut off the light, opening the door quietly, staring down the hall. Uncle Jake’s room was at the opposite end, ten or so yards away. That meant she’d have to pass the stairs and the railing over-looking the foyer.

  The clicky-scratching noise was louder now. How many? God, must be bunches of them. Her legs felt shaky and cold.

  Nice roaches.

  Just pretend they aren’t there…

  …be, you know, casual.

  As Phoebe walked toward Jake’s closed door, she did a fast side-glance beyond the railing to the foyer.

  Shit.

  Oooo, you said the “S” word.

  The blackish-brown cloud undulated, thick and alive and blanketing the marble floor and stair landing below her. Hundreds: roaches in layers, clawing at each other, climbing over the ones below, bogged down by their sheer numbers; and more were coming from the study, wedging into the dark cloud, a nightmare traffic jam that refused to end.

  Relax.

  Remember: casual.

  After three, maybe four steps, Phoebe decided to revise the casual stuff and ran, grabbing the brass knob and slamming the door behind her. She leaned back, resting against the wood surface, breath sharp and audible, inhaling Uncle Jake’s cinnamon cologne, feeling a teeny bit safer just from the scent.

  Phoebe couldn’t see all that well, the dark room relieved only by the filmy light of the moon. She focused her eyes; observed a shape on the bed.

  “Uncle Jake?” Whispering it.

  No answer.

  “Wake up. Please.”

  Gotta get out of this house. She went to the window, gazing down three stories at the deck below her. And thought: breaking a couple of bones was certainly better than being a roach’s lunch. Not much better, though.

  “Uncle Jake.”

  Abruptly, the shape sat upright. The head turned toward her. She considered the face in the moonlight, a young face, greased black hair and sideburns.

  “Hello, pretty girl.”

  Phoebe knew the voice. “Mr. Eddy?”

  “Uh-huh, in the flesh,” he murmured. “…for awhile, anyway.”

  He lifted his arm slowly. She saw the knife, one of those “Chase-Me-Around-the-House” knives she’d seen in Halloween, a Michael Myers’ Deluxe Edition. Phoebe felt urine dribble down her thigh, hearing the tap-tap of it hit the wood floor.

  She ran from the bedroom, his footsteps not far behind; he, grabbing her flannel shirttail as they entered the hall, yanking her backward; and Phoebe, not thinking, twisting around and scraping nails across his cheek.

  Then a truly weird thing happened.

  Eddy let go of her, yelping at the pain, saying that “S” word—yelling, Aahh, shit!—and he touched his cheek and looked at his bloody fingertips.

  “In the flesh,” he said again, as though disapproving of the whole idea.

  I scratched him, she thought.

  Mr. Eddy’s…like…me.

  He’s bleeding.

  His hand gripped her shoulder now, shoving her to the railing. Phoebe’s lower back jammed against the bar, the upper half of her body arched outward over the foyer. Below them, the expanding blackish-brown cloud hissed and clattered, seeming aware of her struggle; and as she glanced to the left, she noticed the cloud ascending the first third of the stairs, the large insects snapping at each another, using the ones under them as stepping stones.

  “Feeding time at the firehouse, pretty girl.” Eddy poked the knife under her chin.

  III

  Though the hallway had a vague familiarity, Simon didn’t know where the hell he was and utterly no clue to the dark cloud drifting up the stairs toward him.

  …rats?

  Jesus…roaches.

  That noise, the clicking and scraping, you couldn’t hear yourself think. Those are the the biggest goddamn roaches I’ve ever—

  One opened its mouth. Spiked white teeth reflected the foye
r’s light.

  …oh, shit.

  Then he glanced at the two people near the railing: the black leather jacket and Elvis hair, a knife, and Phoebe.

  Without thought, he made a dive, arms spread, tackling Eddy at the waist—the knife skimming lengthwise down Simon’s arm, a wet red line along the cut sweatshirt—the two of them rolling once, Eddy on top, grinning, his right cheek also dotted with blood where he’d been scratched. The guy’s bleeding, Simon thought, then shouted at the girl to lock herself in a room.

  Phoebe ran toward the bathroom, slamming the door shut.

  “Let’s get this done,” Eddy said, and raised the knife.

  “Welcome to my world, asshole.”

  Simon wrapped his fingers around the blade, feeling the edge go deep into the fold of his palm, pulling on it to straighten Eddy’s arm to the side; and with a free left hand, he sent three solid jabs into the scratched cheek, blood beading up like sweat, Eddy squealing as each punch connected. His cries seemed an eerie fusion, separate threads rising and converging: one, a shrieking immediacy; the other, darker and from the gut, the distant gravely howl of something wounded. Simon struck the swollen raw cheek again, the blow toppling Eddy off. That’s for my parents and Virgil, scumbag. Then Simon grabbed the knife and tossed it, a tinny clattering sound on the wood floor. He got to his knees and stood, hesitating for a breath, and hiked Eddy up by the leather jacket, letting loose two more jabs aimed at the same bloody cheek, swift and hard. He shook the pain from his fist.

  The guy slumped to the ground.

  Simon waited.

  Eddy didn’t move.

  Go find the girl.

  Get her out of this place.

  “Phoebe! Where the hell are you?”

  “Here…” He heard her muffled voice behind the door at the end of the hall. “I’m here, Mr. Aaron.”

  “You okay?”

  “They bit me.”

  “What did they do?”

  “On the stairs. Those bugs…the roaches.”

  Simon turned, looking down past the railing. A massive black cloud covered half the stairs and all of the foyer—three, maybe four feet deep— a wriggling, clattering swarm of living things…

  …hungry things.

  Jesus, how could I forGET that. How do I stop…

  …wait…

  …just wait…think…

  It’s the field of dreams, isn’t that what Benjamin said?

  She’s dreaming…inventing this…

  He suddenly felt his legs being shoved out and away, shoulder-blades thudding flat to the wall, air leaving his lungs, a jagged slide to the floor.

  Oh, Christ…

  …too old…for…this shit.

  Eddy leaped, hovering above him.

  A second.

  Two.

  He seemed to drift through the air—grinning down, a madman’s grin—his small, perfect teeth wet with blood, his hair crusty and matted, the kitchen knife in his right fist.

  Elvis has truly left the building.

  “Phoebe!” Simon yelled her name as he bent his legs. “Get out here. You’re dreaming, Phoebe. You’ve got to change the dream.”

  Using both feet, he caught Eddy’s chest…

  “Phoebe, goddamn it! Get out here now! “

  Please, let me do this.

  …and he pushed…

  …watching the Elvis hair fly upward. The leather jacket and what was in it reeled backward, arms doing an unrestrained flapping motion, the knife leaving Eddy’s fingers, an arching, slow twirl that flashed the hall light before the blade sunk point first into the wood floor. Simon seized Eddy’s bloody T-shirt, jerked him forward; and praying that the little shit had genitals, drove a knee squarely at the crotch.

  He did. Eddy yelped from the pain, doubling over and falling. He rolled to his side, legs curled, holding himself and groaning.

  “Mr. Aaron!”

  Simon turned to the girl who was standing by the open bathroom door—skinny, pale legs beneath a large blue and white flannel shirt—and she looked terrified, immobile, her eyes wide, refusing to blink. Phoebe glanced about the hall and stairs, blood speckling the floor. She saw the enormous black cloud covering the foyer—God, how many? Thousands, maybe…has to be thousands—a chatter of hard shells and teeth as they continued their climb up the steps.

  “Phoebe, I know you’re scared.” Simon tried to steady his voice. “But it’s a dream, honey. Remember? We’re in the dreaming field, you and Eddy and me. These dreams, they‘re different: whatever happens to us now is happening to us for real in the field. Look here, see?” He lifted his arm, showing her the cut and bloody sleeve of his sweatshirt and the knife wound that went from wrist to elbow. “I’m bleeding out there, too. In the field. You understand?”

  She nodded, ready to sob, her shoulders trembling. “…I…I don’t know what to do, Mr. Aaron.”

  “Dream it away, baby.”

  “I…don’t know how.”

  “You can—”

  The girl screamed, fists drawing to her mouth.

  Simon felt fingers stiffen about his throat; smelled a huffing stench close to the right side of his face, something between gasoline and rotting meat.

  Then he heard the whisper, “Die, you fuck.”

  Clipping Simon sharply at the calf with a hobnail boot, Eddy brought him down and straddled his chest, hands slipping around and tightening against the windpipe, a quick, fluid motion.

  The air disappeared.

  …I…can’t breathe…

  …oh, Christ…

  …help me….

  …Phoebe…Jesus…

  Simon felt a panicky rush, his body going hot, his lungs burning. He saw Eddy’s face staring down, inches from him, the ragged flesh of his cheek, the blood soaked gums and teeth. And those eyes—God, the eyes—small flames blazing in the shadows; and beyond that, wasn’t there a city skyline against the night’s faint orange glow?

  None of it for long, though.

  Maybe never at all.

  Darkness had begun to settle in, blooming silently about the periphery, washing over the images with deeper and deeper grays, colors vanishing, one after another, his panic diminishing as the grays entered, as the colors left.

  He’s right…

  …I’m dying…

  …he’s…

  …killing…me…

  Then the pressure around his neck disappeared. So quickly, so easily. Cold new air flushed his lungs. Simon inhaled like a drowning man finding the beach, big audible gasps. The black and grays changing into bright colors, the images veering from fuzz to clarity, the room refocused. A question emerged out of his ebbing confusion—the question—that glitzy million dollar number, the one where you get to call your best friend or poll the audience:

  What the fuck happened to Eddy?

  He stared through the railing, toward the steps to his right, scanning the stairs down to the foyer. The monstrous black cloud had reshaped itself, a shimmering throbbing funnel that seemed rooted to the ground. No, not a funnel. This was more a column, nearly four feet thick, ceiling-high, swaying, the blaring claw and clicking of insects—thousands of them—teeth locking onto limbs and dark shelled bodies.

  What’s happened to Eddy?

  Still lying on the floor, Simon twisted his shoulders to the right, straining to see the girl. Phoebe stood near the banister, draped in the blue and white flannel shirt, skinny, pale legs stiff at the knees; hair, a wild electric frizz. She was staring up at something, and her half-opened eyes fluttered as if caught by a dream.

  He heard him before he saw the son-of-a-bitch, an intense prolonged growl vibrating the walls and floor; Simon, feeling its agony and trembling guttural fury within his own chest.

  The column hung over the railing, writhing, twisting, suspended seven or eight feet above him, the tip of that living blackness fanned and cocooned about Eddy, only his head and limbs visible.

  The cocoon had fingers.

  …oh, Phoebe…<
br />
  …my God…

  Simon watched the dark fingers tighten into a fist; watched as the hand shook its prey, a doll in the angry grasp of a child; listened as the screams stopped; listened to snapping bones, the clacking, gnawing teeth. Blood flew across the white walls and ceiling.

  EPILOGUE

  His eyes blinked open; before Simon realized he was on the sofa in the senator’s study, he let out the ahhh! sound usually reserved for waking up from a nightmare.

  “Easy now,” Benjamin whispered, kneeling beside him. “Everything’s fine, okay? More than fine.”

  Simon glanced at his bandaged hand and arm; then looked at Jonathan seated in the wingback chair, Phoebe curled in his lap and asleep, her calf wrapped in gauze, wearing the white cotton nightshirt instead of the flannel one.

  “Listen,” said Clayman. “I need to apologize to—”

  “No, no,” dismissing the words. “I might have done the same, Johnny. I mean, who knows.”

  “I should’ve been there.”

  “You did what you believed was right.” Simon stared at the girl. “How is she?”

  “Exhausted. But alright, I think.”

  Simon studied the bandages on his arm and hand. “Some dream.”

  “A souvenir from the field,” said Benjamin.

  “What about Eddy?”

  “Didn’t you see?”

  “He became human.”

  “Uh-huh, just another mortal.”

  “So we’re done?”

  “Yes, I think it’s done.”

  “Safe, I mean.”

  “As safe as we can expect, I guess.”

  “I’m already having trouble remembering what happened.” Simon was also having trouble keeping his eyelids from closing. “Is that…normal?”

  “Why don’t you rest now.”

  …rest…

  Every part of him felt worn; bones and joints ached; and sinking into the pillowy warmth of the couch, the tension began to let go of his body.

  “Will I see…you…again, Benjamin?”

  “I’ll make an effort.”