Sign of the Sandman

by Tom Turner

They made their way up to the fifth floor, to the Medical Intensive Care Unit. It was uncomfortably quiet except for the occasional beep or murmur coming from one of the many frightening machines hooked up to each patient. The sterile smell of ammonia and hand sanitizer drifted up Charlie’s nostrils, and it felt like his nose hairs were on fire. Charlie was not a big fan of hospitals. He felt like the eyes of the dying bore into him, that they were crying for help and there was nothing he could do to alleviate their suffering. And even though his mother never spoke of his father or how he died, Charlie always assumed he spent his final hours alone in a place like this.

  Charlie buried the thought as they walked past patient after patient and neared Plug’s nana’s room. It was actually more like a large cubicle, because it was walled off on three sides and open in the front, with a sliding curtain if you needed privacy. She used to be up on the eighth floor — in a regular room, with regular walls — but they moved her down here when things got worse. What Charlie didn’t realize was just how much worse. He was not prepared for what he saw inside. Plug’s nana was tiny and frail and hooked up to so many tubes and machines he could hardly recognize her. Her hair was matted from weeks in bed, and her lips were so dry they cracked wide open. It broke his heart to see her like this, and if it weren’t for Plug’s calm demeanor, Charlie may have broken down right there.

  “Is she in pain?” he asked, choking back tears.

  “No,” replied Plug. He stroked his nana’s hand and kissed her forehead. “I’m here, Nana. I just came to see how you were doing. I even brought Charlie with me again.”

  Charlie waved, but kept back, afraid to get too close. An alarm went off, startling him. Its shrill cry sounded like a wounded bird.

  “It’s okay,” Plug reassured him. “Sometimes the machines go off if her numbers drop below a certain level.”

  He pointed to a video monitor with a bunch of multi-colored numbers Charlie didn’t understand. When the blue number on the bottom of the screen went back up a few points, the alarm stopped, and Charlie’s heart returned to a normal rhythm.

  “What does that do?” Charlie asked, pointing to a tube that came out of her mouth and was attached to another machine.

  “That breathes for her. She’s too weak to do it on her own right now.” Plug leaned in and kissed his nana’s forehead again, speaking softly to her. “But pretty soon you won’t need this machine anymore, because you’re gonna wake up and come home. And when you do, we’re gonna go ride the Ferris wheel at Coney Island.”

  Plug’s smile grew bigger when he spoke to her.

  He turned back to Charlie and said, “She loves Coney Island. She’s told me a million stories about it. How she used to go when she was our age! She rode the Ferris wheel all the time — twenty times in a day once! It only cost a nickel then.”

  “Sure you’re related?” asked Charlie, chuckling nervously. “You get sick when you stand on your toes.”

  “True,” said Plug, smiling. “I do hate heights. But if she wakes up—” He stopped, his upper lip trembling, hanging on the word if. He turned again to his nana. “When you wake up,” he said, correcting himself, “I promise, I’ll go on the Ferris wheel with you. As many times as you want, Nana. Until they kick us off…” Plug’s voice trailed away, and he stood silently by her bedside. He hugged her, pulling as close as he could, as if trying to breathe for her.

  Charlie placed his hand on Plug’s shoulder, just to let him know he was there. Then he backed out of the room, allowing Plug a moment alone.

  “Bless his heart,” whispered a hefty nurse with a thick Brooklyn accent. She carried a tray full of pills Charlie thought looked a lot like candy. “Comes to see her just about every week. Just sits there with her and tells her stories.” The nurse pressed her hand to her heart. “I can’t even get my grandchildren to come over for dinner.”

  “And he wears her watch,” said Charlie. “He’s holding it for her, until she gets better and can come home.”

  “Must be some special watch,” the nurse replied.

  “It was a gift to her from his Pop-pop. They were married a long time.”

  “Well, I sure hope he gets to give it back to her.”

  “Me too,” said Charlie, hoping against hope. Then he turned to the nurse and asked, “Do you think she can hear him? His nana?”

  The nurse laid a hand on Charlie’s shoulder.

  “Do you think she can?”

  She asked in a way that made Charlie feel it was the only thing that actually mattered.

  Charlie nodded. “Yeah. I do. I really do.”

  “You’re a good friend,” said the nurse through a smile.

  “So is he,” said Charlie.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  FIRE EYES

  “Do you want to grab the pizza or the soda?” Charlie asked Plug as they surfaced from the subway. The sun had set, and the sky was dark. They had spent more time with Plug’s nana than planned and were now starving, especially Plug.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  “I’ll get the soda,” said Charlie, pulling out a twenty.

  “Coke!” shouted Plug. “Not the nasty diet stuff, like last time.”

  “That was all they had.”

  “It tastes like feet!”

  “You’ve tasted feet?”

  “Just give me the money!”

  Plug extended his hand, but Charlie ignored him, distracted by the sound of breaking glass. He stared past Plug. His eyes and attention shifted toward an alley up ahead. He approached it with caution.

  “Hey, Charlie!” Plug shouted. “The money!”

  Charlie quickly shushed him and waved for him to come over.

  “Dude, what gives?” asked Plug. “Pizza’s not free ya know.”

  Charlie just pointed around the corner. In the alleyway, a man in a business suit was using a sledgehammer to smash a row of mirrors. Each furious swing sent glass shards flying.

  “What’s up with that guy?” Plug whispered.

  “Got me,” said Charlie. “But he must really hate looking at himself.”

  “Seriously! That’s like—” Plug attempted to do the math on his fingers. “A million years bad luck.”

  Charlie tried to stifle a laugh, but it blurted out, and the man in the suit turned toward them. His eyes were bloodshot, and Charlie could sense madness in them, not unlike the man on the subway.

  “They come in your sleep!” the man screamed as he pointed at Charlie and Plug. “They’ll come for you, too! They’ll come for all of us! You can’t run!”

  “The heck I can’t!” screamed Charlie.

  He and Plug scattered like scared sheep. Charlie kept a few steps ahead, but Plug sprinted forward, snatching the twenty-dollar bill from Charlie’s grip.

  “See you back at your place!” he said, turning the corner and heading for the pizzeria. “And remember: regular Coke!”

  Charlie hustled to the corner deli. He could not get the bizarre sight of that man out of his head. Mirrors… Sledgehammers… It had been one strange thing after another today, and he couldn’t help but wonder what was going on.

  Charlie exited the deli, cradling a two-liter bottle of Coke like it was a football. He dashed down the street, dodging hurried pedestrians — juked left, then right, imagining he was only a few yards away from scoring the game-winning touchdown. He was about to raise his arms in mock victory when a pair of hands grabbed him from behind.

  Charlie tried to scream, but the hands slapped over his mouth, mashing his upper lip against a ridge of teeth.

  “Hey, loser! Time to finish what you started,” said Joe Santiago, as he and two of his friends forced Charlie into a nearby alley. They muscled him toward a garbage-filled dumpster.

  “Get off me,” mumbled Charlie. He twisted and kicked, trying to ward off his attackers, but he was outnumbe
red.

  “You’re not so brave without your tubby friend,” said Joe.

  “I could say the same about you,” said Charlie, freeing his mouth. He was referring to Fat Rick and Big Leon, Joe’s two less-than-slim, thuggish buddies.

  “Shut up!” shouted Joe, throwing his hand back over Charlie’s mouth. “In the dumpster!”

  “Hold on!” said Fat Rick, nervously. “I think someone’s comin’.”

  “So what?” said Joe.

  “So what? I don’t want to get in trouble, so what!”

  “Me either, Joe,” added Big Leon. “Not for something stupid.”

  “Stupid?” asked Joe. “If I have to go home and tell my pop this punk got me a week of detention—“

  “Two weeks,” Big Leon corrected him.

  “Whatever! If I have to go home and tell my pop he got me two weeks, and I didn’t do nothin’ about it—” Joe didn’t finish the thought. “No way. Forget it. So man up and trash this punk!”

  Joe flung open the lid to the dumpster. The stink of garbage was overwhelming and made Charlie’s stomach turn. There was nothing he could do but hold his breath and pray. He waited for Joe to toss him into the bin. And waited… But just as he readied himself for impact, Joe let go and Charlie landed in a heap on the asphalt, alone. He rolled onto his side and looked up to find Joe a crumpled mess as well, just an arm’s length away. It took a second for Charlie to register what had happened, until a man leaned over Joe and picked up a sledgehammer. It was the guy from the alleyway.

  The mirror-breaking guy!

  The man straightened his tie and stepped forward. He raised his sledgehammer, looking to smash more than glass. Fat Rick and Big Leon let out a girlish squeal and ran off into the night. Joe wasn’t far behind them.

  Charlie was about to say thank you, but the man spun toward him with a murderous expression, still gripping his weapon. A sinking feeling brewed in the pit of Charlie’s stomach as he realized the man wasn’t actually here to help. His eyes were wide and fiery red, almost glowing, like embers. Serpent-like. Charlie crab-walked backward, trying to escape, but the fire-eyed man was practically on top of him.

  “S-s-say goodbye,” the man said with a snakelike hiss.

  But without warning, an explosion of light brightened the dark alley, showering Charlie with a gritty gold substance. The crazed man let out a high-pitched scream that sounded like a shrieking eagle, then dropped to the ground, out cold.

  Charlie froze, grit trickling from his hair. He had no idea what was happening, and he didn’t stick around long enough to find out. Charlie hopped to his feet, raced across Second Avenue, and fled into the back stairwell of his building, climbing the stairs as fast as he could. He was digging for his keys when another shriek echoed up the stairwell, shattering the wall-mounted light fixtures and plunging his escape route into complete darkness. Charlie was not crazy. Not imagining this. He was being followed. Maybe even hunted. His terror grew. He could hear his pursuer’s footsteps nearing, so he quickened his pace.

  Around the first landing, another set of fire-red eyes cut through the darkness. A set of hands grabbed at Charlie, but he ducked and dodged, hurrying from the stairwell into the hallway.

  “Help!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. “Someone help me!”

  Neighbors opened their doors, but Charlie’s attacker knocked them back with forceful blows.

  Charlie sprinted down the corridor. At the opposite end he paused, trying to decide which way to go. His hesitation cost him. Someone leapt from the darkness and grabbed him. When Charlie tried to scream, a hand slapped over his mouth. The hand was big, thick, with fingers like cigars.

  It was pigeon man!

  His eyes flared gold. Charlie was sure of it this time, just as he was sure of the strange object stowed on pigeon man’s back. The object was curved, polished, smooth, and transparent, like crystal. Gold glistened up and down its arched shaft. It looked to Charlie like some sort of magical bow.

  But no arrows?

  Charlie tried not to panic, but he couldn’t breathe. He felt like he was drowning. The more he struggled, the tighter pigeon man gripped. He had to act now or never. So he chomped down on pigeon man’s thumb. Pigeon man yelled and yanked his hand away, allowing Charlie just enough time to scream.

  “Get off me! Help! Someone, please! Help me!”

  But his calls went unanswered, and pigeon man picked him up and raced down the dark corridor, gunning like a runaway train. Charlie had to think quickly. He spotted a fire alarm and reached out for it. His fingers grazed the lever just enough to yank it down as they passed. The alarm roared to life, but pigeon man did not stop.

  As they turned the corner, another man with fiery eyes appeared at the far end of the hallway. He was large and brooding, ox-like. He unsheathed a huge Bowie knife and zeroed in on Charlie.

  “Get down!” screamed pigeon man.

  The man hurled his knife, but pigeon man shoved Charlie to the ground and dove on top of him. The knife just missed, piercing the wall behind them with a loud thwack.

  Charlie’s eyes popped with fear.

  In one swift motion, pigeon man pulled the crystal bow from his back and drew its golden string, producing a blazing arrow of light, bright as a slice of sun. He fired, and the arrow tore through the air with the sound of a screaming jet engine. It found its target, striking the fire-eyed man in the center of his chest. The arrow exploded into a whirlwind of sand that engulfed the man and dropped him to the floor. But to Charlie’s amazement, the man wasn’t dead. He was snoring.

  The stairwell door opened, and the janitor from Charlie’s school emerged. Blood trickled from his nose, and his shirtsleeve was torn completely off. His eyes were tense, and he seemed battle weary. He stepped over the sleeping giant at his feet and approached pigeon man.

  “This is Moloch’s doing!” he said. “I can see it in their eyes. These people are slaves to their nightmares, to his evil! They’re all over the place!”

  “They will kill the boy!” replied pigeon man. “We have to send him through! We must protect the Heir!”

  But Charlie had slipped away. He sprinted up one more flight of stairs, toward his apartment, hoping he was not followed, hoping to find safety. He hurried through the open door and called out, competing against the sounding fire alarm.

  “Mom! Mom, where are you?”

  He ran to her bedroom, but she wasn’t there. The apartment seemed empty. Or was it?

  A shadow moved behind him, across the hallway wall. Charlie shut the bedroom door. He locked it and hid in the closet, peeking out from between two hanging garments. He heard a thud. It startled him. His eyes shifted to the wall separating his mom’s room from his. He crawled toward it, pressed his ear to the plaster, and heard the shuffle of feet on the other side. Charlie’s breath grew heavy. He glanced down, and his hand was shaking. He tried to quell the panic rising within him.

  “Calm down, Charlie,” he said to himself. “This is your house. Man up and fight.”

  Charlie stepped into the hallway and tiptoed toward his room. The floorboards creaked with every step. The softer he tread, the louder it sounded. When he reached his bedroom door, it was cracked open, and he could see shadows moving on the other side.

  “Mom?” he whispered.

  He pushed on the door, terrified at what he might find. Slowly, the door swung on its hinges and he saw his mother. She was unconscious on the bed.

  “Mom!” he shouted, rushing to her side.

  She wasn’t moving. He shook her, but nothing happened.

  “What’s wrong? Please, mom! Please wake up!” he cried.

  A familiar voice called to him from the corner of the room. “She sleeps, Charlie. She dreams.”

  Charlie turned. It was the school crossing guard.

  “W… Why… Why are you here?” stammered Charli
e, too scared to move.

  “I won’t hurt you,” said the crossing guard. His voice was quiet and reassuring, like the slow stroke of a cello.

  But no sooner did those words leave his mouth than pigeon man and the school janitor stormed the room and each fired an arrow of light toward Charlie.

  Charlie screamed and lunged to his left. The arrows sailed over his head and out the window, striking another man on the fire escape — one Charlie recognized. It was his neighbor, Mr. Rossman, from 8B. He looked dazed, almost zombie-like. He dropped into a deep and instant sleep, but another intruder soon appeared. It seemed as if they were coming out of the woodwork. Two more popped up just outside the window, and then another, crawling over the rail of the fire escape.

  “They’re everywhere!” yelled the janitor.

  “Draw!” said the crossing guard.

  They drew their bows, producing arrows of light that bathed the room in a white-hot glow. The light emissions kept the intruders at bay as the crossing guard, janitor, and pigeon man surrounded the bed, forming a protective circle around Charlie and his mother.

  “What’s happening?” Charlie screamed.

  “I’m sending him through!” said the crossing guard.

  Pigeon man seemed hesitant. “We need to explain to him—”

  “We have no time!” commanded the crossing guard. “Rustam will find him!” He tossed a small drawstring pouch over the bed to pigeon man.

  Pigeon man reached into the pouch, pulled out a handful of sand, and sprinkled it over Charlie’s mom.

  “Get away from her!” screamed Charlie. “Mom! Wake up!”

  Then, like a puff of smoke blown into the path of a laser, the sand revealed a brilliant sphere of red light. It hovered about a foot off the floor, hazy and elongated, like the eye of a giant cat. The crossing guard began to force Charlie toward it when Charlie heard someone scream over the sounding alarm.

  “Hello? Anyone home?”

  “In here!” cried Charlie as the crossing guard dragged him closer to the sphere of light.

  Plug entered the room, pizza in hand.