Dream Walker

by Shannan Sinclair

  DREAM

  WALKER

  SHANNAN SINCLAIR

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and events are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 Shannan Sinclair

  Cover Photo licensed by Depositphotos.com/©chaoss

  All rights reserved.

  To Dream Walkers everywhere.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  The writing of a book is lonely work, but its crafting takes a team. I am forever indebted to the following individuals:

  Jeff Sinclair - we have probably had more downs than ups in our relationship, but one thing remained abundant and unwavering and that was your enthusiasm and support for me in writing Dream Walker.

  Dad & Diana - for believing in me as a writer and a messenger and for hounding me to get back to writing this book after I set it aside for too long.

  Renea Dawes - your laughter and enjoyment of my first drafts encouraged me to continue. Often I wrote just so I wouldn’t leave you hanging without an ending.

  Lee Tidball, Norine Fisher and the Modesto Writer’s Group for your feedback, guidance and support.

  Kelsea and Mattea Overstreet - the two most kickass kids a mother could ask for.

  “The man who never in his mind and thoughts travel’d to heaven is no artist.”

  “Imagination is the real and eternal world of which this vegetable universe is but a faint shadow.”

  William Blake

  Do not confuse the world of imagination with fantasy. The imagination is the primary means by which we engage with Creation, the link ‘without which the worlds are put out of joint.’

  Henri Corbin

  CHAPTER 1

  She knew before she opened her eyes. Something was different. The faintest hum of static electricity tickled across the hairs on her arms as if there were a breeze. But there wasn’t any breeze. The windless air was leaden and pressed so heavily upon her it constricted her ability to inhale even a sigh of breath. She began to feel claustrophobic to the point she thought she would choke, and she opened her eyes.

  She expected to find herself confined, standing in a box; but instead a wide-open and infinite landscape surrounded her, nothing but rusty dirt and gray shrub as far as the eye could see. She turned in a complete circle, surveying the area again, scanning for the skyline of a city, the outcropping of an oasis—any object or light to which she could fix upon and orient herself. Nothing. Not even one anemic shrub was taller, wider or of a different shape than another.

  The sky was painted with the same palette as the earth, a mixture of ochre, sulfur and smoke. It looked acrid and poisonous. She inhaled hesitantly, fearing it would scorch her lungs, but found that the air was crisp and tasted as sweet as mountain air in springtime.

  Where am I?

  As she thought about it she realized that she not only didn’t know where she was, she didn’t know where she came from or where she should be, either. She began to panic. She rummaged frantically through her mind, closing her eyes and squeezing her head in her hands hoping to wring just one memory from it, so she could pin herself to reality with it. Thinking, thinking, thinking, but the topography of her brain that housed memory was as desolate as the landscape in which she found herself.

  A slight trembling tickled across the soles of her feet as the ground beneath her began moving. The vibrations grew into a severe rumbling that worked its way up her feet and into the marrow of her bones. The atmosphere surrounding her morphed; the sky warped like the heat of a mirage.

  The space around her began to spin and she found herself standing in the center of a centrifuge. Particles came together then pulled apart dancing wildly within waves of energy. Strangely, she remained firmly planted on the ground.

  The earthquake intensified, shuddering and roaring violently. Holes in the earth belched open and one edifice after another birthed itself into reality. In short, quick bursts, like popcorn in a Pop-O-Matic, structures manifested across the open plain.

  There was a loud crack and she was no longer standing in an empty red desert but was instead transported to the decrepit ruins of a city—or what was once a city—a city after a cataclysmic end.

  She stood stunned in the middle of the empty street, feeling more alone here than she had in the previous forsaken landscape. Although she now had something to orient herself to, she felt immobilized by fear and confused by the sudden eruption of this new world.

  She picked a direction, it really didn’t matter which way, moving toward anywhere was better than lingering nowhere; and she began walking.

  A thick layer of ash encrusted everything. As she stepped upon it, it gave way and her feet sunk several inches into the soft powder of silt beneath. She made her way down the lonely street leaving a trail of imprints in the gray snow that would never melt.

  Skeletons of skyscrapers towered above her, their cement peeled off and melted like charred skin. Their twisted, metal bones protruded at odd angles against the backdrop of a sky that still sizzled. Burnt carcasses of parked cars lined the street, neat and aligned though blackened and useless. As she passed them, she noticed a dark silhouette skip from shard to shard across the smoke-stained and spider webbed windows. She moved towards it and gazed at a reflection that could only be her own.

  She had auburn hair that was pulled back into a slick ponytail. Her skin was pale, naturally so rather than from the fear that ran rampant within her. Her nose was sprinkled with faded flecks of cinnamon, remnants of a sun-dappled youth. Yes, she was remembering now.

  “Aislen,” she sighed with relief. And she hated those freckles.

  She settled into the comfort of finally remembering her name. Such a small thing, but it kept her from slipping into the madness she was on the verge of. She repeated her name over and over, fixating on the image of herself in the glass. She wore no makeup, her face fresh and bright. Her lips were lush and perfectly defined.

  “My name is Aislen Walker.” Another wave of relief ebbed through her as she pulled the nugget of her last name out of the blank recesses.

  She leaned closer to her reflection, hoping it would tell her more. She noticed an indent in the center of her chin. It was so slight and shallow. She did not recognize it as a part of her own face. Another memory blossomed—of someone placing their finger into that shallow groove and gently caressing her chin.

  “I love your little butt-chin, Buttercup.”

  She caught her breath. It was a voice that wasn’t her own—a male voice. Her heart stuttered and she felt her limbs go weak. An overwhelming grief flooded into her veins.

  Who was that? Whose voice did I just hear?

  She racked her brain again, but could not recall a face that went with the voice. She tried repeating it to herself.

  “I love your little butt-chin, Buttercup.”

  But the memory was gone already. It faded out like a whisper and reabsorbed back into the abyss of her memories as quickly as it had come.

  What was going on?

  Then she heard footsteps fast approaching from around one of the many street corners. The crunch of feet in the ash echoed off the walls, through the shattered glass, into empty shells of buildings, and back out into the street. It sounded as if there was more than one.

  Fully alert now, Aislen quickly hid. Given the unpredictable setting she found herself in, there was no telling what was walking around out here. She definitely knew she didn’t want it finding her. She moved quickly, ducked behind the flattened tire of a car remnant and peeked up through the windshield.

  Two figures came stomping from around a corner. Thunderheads of fine dust exploded at their feet and columned up around t
heir legs before floating off to create an aura of cinder around their bodies. Acting like they owned the place, they marched with a confidence that they were alone. Two more massive behemoths followed close behind the first pair, but there was something flat and empty about them. Despite their enormity, their footfall made no sound and no clouds of ash billowed at their feet.

  The whole squad was dressed the same. Aislen’s memory banks lit up as she recognized the pixalated slate, desert, and drab green pattern. Military uniforms. There was an extra pixel in the fabric, though, that Aislen did not recognize, little squares that reflected like a mirror, glinting and shifting in the light, making the uniform pulse with electricity.

  A square patch adorned each of their shoulders, but rather than an embroidered insignia, it appeared to be a miniature television screen. An animated graphic played on the display; a swirling spectrum of color radiated outward from the center spiraling in a wave—up then down to the left then up and down to the right. When it finished it created a glowing infinity symbol in gold. It paused on that symbol for a few moments before fading out and repeating the cycle.

  Each soldier wore a thin helmet covered in the same mirrored pixels as the uniform, a vest with multiple pockets filled with what Aislen assumed was ammo and visors. The visor concealed the upper half their faces, reflecting only the blood red and fire orange of the sky and revealing only the tight lines of their lips and their clenched, square jaws. Each of them carried the same type of menacing automatic weapon.

  The man who led the way raised his fist in a motion that halted the group’s forward march. He was tall, and Aislen could see the etching of muscle definition bulging through the busy array of his coarse uniform.

  The squad stopped, took a defensive posture, and scoped out the area carefully.

  The leader moved forward and crouched down to investigate the tracks Aislen had left in her wake. He stood back up, flipped up his visor and followed the trail with his eyes as it led straight for the car she was trying to hide behind.

  He’s going to find me! The thought screamed in her head. She shushed it, held her breath and lowered herself further from the leader’s line of sight, hoping he would move on rather than come her way. Wishful thinking. The leader immediately started walking toward the car—toward her.

  Another sound interrupted him and he turned toward it. It was the sound of crunching ash—someone approaching quickly from the opposite end of the street. The leader flipped his visor back down, raised his weapon, and took aim down the street. The other three soldiers scuttled into formation beside him, dropping to their knees and aiming their sights as if readying for a showdown.

  Aislen dared not turn her head toward the sound for fear the motion would alert the group back toward her presence. She kept her eyes fixed upon the foursome.

  The sound of a lone person continued to advance assuredly to the squad. Aislen could see the newcomer at the periphery of her vision. He was wearing the same type of uniform; the helmet, vest, visor, and weapon looked exactly like the other four, but there was no animated patch on his shoulder. He had no patch at all.

  He ignored the threatening stance of the group and marched directly up to the soldier standing to the right of the leader. Aislen realized that this soldier was smaller than the others. He appeared frail and slight, definitely lacking their muscular build.

  “Blake!” The newcomer’s shout made Aislen jump. It had the same effect on the small soldier. “You have been forbidden to come here,” he yelled.

  Blake started to lower his weapon and looked as if he were about to stammer something when the leader interrupted him.

  “Blake. Carry on,” the leader commanded in a calm monotone.

  The newcomer turned toward the leader. “I don’t know who you think you are to assume you have more power over Blake than I do. You have some fucking nerve! I demand that you let him leave here with me and never contact him again.”

  “That isn’t going to happen,” the leader said, with a matching steel tone.

  “Then I will be forced to report you to the authorities!”

  The firm line of the leader’s mouth turned up ever so slightly as if in amusement. “Blake. Carry on.” The tone of his voice was firmer, but still unemotional.

  The small soldier named Blake pulled a handgun from out of a vest holster, raised it at the newcomer in front of him, and aimed it square between the lone soldier’s eyes. There wasn’t a hint of a tremor in his hand.

  “Blake,” the solo soldier shouted again, this time with a bit of hysteria. “I demand that you put that gun down right now!”

  But Blake did not lower his weapon and he did not waver his aim. The leader looked back at the newcomer, his smirk becoming more a gloating snarl, then looked back at Blake.

  “Blake. Kill.”

  And with that, a single gunshot ripped through the city and into the soldier’s head. His body enfolded upon itself like an accordion, dissolving from the uniform before it even hit the ground.

  Blake lowered his weapon and looked up at the leader.

  “At ease,” the leader said as he kicked the lump of uniform at his feet. “He definitely won’t be a problem anymore.”

  He turned back to Blake. “Now you.”

  Without hesitation, Blake turned his weapon around, and placed the muzzle into his mouth.

  A gasp escaped from Aislen involuntarily.

  The whole group jerked their heads her direction. The leader strode toward the car she was hiding behind; the two lumbering soldiers followed him. Flight instinct took over and Aislen made a run for it. She lurched out from behind the car, but the thick ash encased her feet and she stumbled forward, falling face first onto the charcoal crust.

  It was too late anyway. The leader was already upon her. He raised his rifle. The other two monster soldiers raised theirs as well, mimicking the leader’s every movement. She could never outrun them or their bullets.

  “Get up,” the soldier demanded.

  Aislen, covered in soot, got to her knees and raised her arms in a gesture of surrender. She hoped he would see she was an unarmed, harmless woman and would spare her life.

  “How did you get here?”

  “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I don’t know where I am.”

  The leader paused for a second, analyzing her, his rifle still on target for her head. “Blake! Come here.”

  Blake shuffled over beside the leader, gun still in hand; but he seemed confused and lethargic now.

  “Blake,” the leader’s voice became monotonic again, “carry on.”

  Blake looked at the leader, then looked back at Aislen. He raised his gun, pointing it at Aislen’s head.

  “Please, don’t,” Aislen managed to say, more as a prayer than a real request.

  Blake, surprisingly, lowered his gun.

  “Blake! Carry on,” the leader commanded, his voice taking on an edge that wasn’t there before.

  Blake looked back and forth from the leader to Aislen and raised his gun again.

  Aislen couldn’t help it, her eyes flooded with tears. She wished she could remain stoic in the face of her impending death, but her emotions were now out of her control. She blinked and the overflow slipped from her eyes streaking down her soot-dusted face.

  Blake lowered his gun, yet again, then reached up and removed the visor from his face.

  Aislen was dumbfounded. He couldn’t have been more than thirteen years old! He was tall and lanky, but he had the youthful face of a boy. He looked at her, then at his leader, then back at her, saccadic movements tormenting his face. He fell to his knees in front of Aislen and let out a single sob.

  The leader took off his visor and stormed toward the boy.

  “Blake! Attention!” His fury was apparent now.

  The command elicited no response. Blake was done, slumped and broken, staring blankly into the gray particles of ash. The leader grabbed the boy by the hair, pulled his head back and looked into his eyes. The glassy, v
acant orbs must have said it all. Blake was lost. The leader kicked the gun from Blake’s hand then turned to face Aislen.

  Time stopped. With his visor removed, the intensity of the soldier’s face blazed. His sculpted features appeared to have been carved out of a marble reserved only for a mythological god, and the glacier blue of his eyes bored into her own, chilling her bones, yet burning her with terror.

  He took several deliberate steps toward Aislen, his eyes unwavering from hers. She could find no sign of warmth within their frozen terrain, but she felt held by them, cradled and calm. She was but prey, hypnotized and completely at his mercy. He stopped in front of her, bringing the barrel of his weapon up underneath her chin, lifting it to get a better look at her face. He surveyed her for a moment, then cocked his head to the side.

  “Do I know you?” His voice was soft, almost gentle, despite the steeliness of his demeanor.

  “No,” Aislen managed to say through her choked throat.

  “Good.” He took a step backward and aimed the muzzle at the center of her forehead.

  Aislen squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself for the impact. A cracking sound split through her skull, jarring her brain, taking her breath away. A loud tinnitus burned her eardrums and reverberated throughout her body. She felt a chill wash over her flesh and then she felt a breeze caress her skin.

  She lay breathless. Was she crumpled up like an accordion now, too? No. She felt stretched out and flat on her back. She felt a lifting sensation, her body moving up, up and further up like she was being raised into the sky. The piercing ringing in her ears faded away, replaced by a hushed whirring sound.

  Was this what it was like to die?

  Pale light glimmered through her eyelids. Aislen took a breath and opened her eyes to a blur of dark and gray, shades of shadow and amorphous shapes.

  Where am I?

  She blinked a few times, trying to adjust to the light and rolled her head to the side. Neon green blinded her; 3:33 read her clock.