The Last Dreamer

by Nicholas Erik

  “Yes sir.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Yes sir.”

  The Reverend waited a moment, then said, “Spotter four, are you out there?” Empty silence crackled across the radio. “Say something if you are.”

  After another minute, the Reverend took his finger from the radio and said, “Boyd, you spoke with the fourth when?”

  “Maybe five minutes ago. Shit, you think—”

  “They got to him,” the Reverend said, and shook his head back and forth. “They’re advancing slow. Typical corporate nonsense. Sloth.”

  “We telling the others,” Boyd said.

  The Reverend waved him off, and clicked the radio on again. “Are the three of you still there?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Listen close,” the Reverend said, his words deliberate, each one carrying great weight. “Hold your positions and report back when they’re in range.”

  He switched the radio off before he could hear their answers. The Reverend shoved the plastic box into Boyd’s gut.

  “They’re gonna die out there, you know.”

  “Boyd,” the Reverend said, “unlock the weapons cache.” He walked over beneath his bed, slid out a wooden chest, and slid a small key into the lock. Inside, there was a pistol and a great ring of keys—the master set, to every one of the compound’s secrets. He tossed the key ring to Boyd, the metal clanging and ringing out as it sailed through the air.

  Boyd caught it, and the Reverend slid the pistol into the back of his jeans. Then the Reverend turned to Devin.

  “You said you’re ready?”

  “I’m ready,” Devin said. He was unsure whether he should mention the situation, since Chimera’s impending arrival seemed far more important than whatever stilted words he would utter.

  “It’ll have to be short, son. You think you can handle that?”

  “How short?”

  “You got five minutes,” the Reverend said. “And then we’re going to defend what’s ours.”

  Devin wasn’t sure he liked the we in the Reverend’s statement, but he just said, “All right.”

  And then he followed Boyd and the Reverend down the tight stairs, out into the dusky light.

  45 | Firefight

  Everyone who lived on the compound was there, sitting, their hands in their laps, waiting for Devin to speak. The Reverend pushed him out in front of the congregation and then left without a word to deal with the impending crisis.

  Devin stood alone before the fire, his shadow dancing in the flickering orange light. Everything was still. He scanned the crowd; two rows back, on the left, he caught Sarah’s eye, and she gave him a quick wink.

  “We’re under attack,” Devin said, “so I guess this is the time to find out what you believe in.”

  No one moved. Devin wasn’t sure if that was the right start; it wasn’t what he’d practiced, word-by-word, in the mirror for the past few days. But now that it was out there, he had to go with it.

  “I don’t agree with everything the Reverend—Samuel—believes in. I don’t even believe half of it.” A couple murmurs, but at least most of the people weren’t crying heretic. “But I guess I believe in all of you. I believe in faith, even if it’s misplaced.”

  Everyone stared at him. Devin paced and watched his shadow fall on one row, then the other, back and forth. Then the last bit came to him. “And faith, my friends, is rarer than gold. Don’t ever lose that. Because what’s a life without dreams?”

  Devin stepped away from the fire and began walking towards the silo. “Time to defend ourselves.”

  Everyone rose in unison and stepped out behind him, following him into the dark.

  Boyd fiddled with the great rusted lock. Fuck Samuel and his ring of half a billion keys. Didn’t even tell him which was the right one. If any of them was the right one. Typical Samuel. Just expected you to get it right, and then when you didn’t—

  Click.

  The key creaked in the lock, and Boyd turned it slow, to make sure it didn’t break. The bolt slid open, and Boyd grasped the pull rope on the trap door in the corner of the silo and heaved. The heavy wooden slab moved up, inch-by-inch, until Boyd, with a final burst of strength, flung it against the side of the silo with a great booming echo.

  He looked down into the dark expanse. Nothing. He fiddled in his pants for the metal windproof lighter that he’d kept from Samuel, kept as contraband. Hell if he was going to give up everything from the outside world. Samuel sure didn’t give up all the money he was making from all this dope. Hypocritical shithead. If Samuel hadn’t saved him, Boyd was damn sure he’d have taken over this joint long ago.

  Boyd flicked the lighter’s wheel, and the flame erupted over the darkness with a small spark.

  He whistled, the shrill tone reverberating across the walls.

  Whoever was coming to claim the compound, they would have a hell of a fight on their hands.

  The great wooden slabs that held the silo’s doors in place began to heave, and Boyd, his nerves shot, dropped the lighter into the cavernous hoard of automatic rifles.

  He whirled around, reaching for his own firearm, ready for a fight. His eyes narrowed into tiny slits, his brain thinking of a single plan: survival. Kill or be killed.

  The doors swung open, and his firearm glinted in the moonlight.

  “You gonna shoot us,” Devin said, and walked into the barn, a flock of people behind him.

  Maybe. He would have liked to, this new chosen one sponging up all of Samuel’s attention and admiration. But he returned the mighty revolver to his belt, and just said, “We don’t got much time, so let’s go.”

  Boyd fished around in the darkness, found the lighter, and flicked it once more. He brought his fingers up behind him, gesturing for a lantern or another light. Devin held out a dusty kerosene lamp hanging on the wall, and Boyd lit it.

  “Light the way, seer,” Boyd said. Devin knelt down, the light struggling to permeate the depths of the darkness, and Boyd handed each disciple of the Lionhearted an AK-47 automatic rifle and two 75 round drum magazines. Each person—man and woman—took their rifle without a word, as if this was part of their creed, the very beliefs that Devin had spoken of not ten minutes prior.

  “No one even questions it,” Devin said.

  “You’re the Prophet and you couldn’t see that before?”

  “The what?”

  “The faith,” Boyd said. “The fucking faith.” He hadn’t heard Devin’s speech, but long before, he had realized the power of faith. Everyone needed it.

  Samuel.

  The scientists.

  Only those who believed in nothing had no use of it.

  And those were the people that Boyd hated the most.

  Sarah stepped forward and Boyd handed her a Kalashnikov, the two drum magazines. Devin stepped forward, plunging the almost-empty weapons cache into complete darkness.

  “Not her,” Devin said.

  “Everyone defends the compound,” Boyd said. “That’s the deal.”

  “Not her,” Devin said. “That wasn’t the deal.” Devin took the gun and bullets from her hands and threw them into the corner.

  Boyd sighed and got to his feet, walked to the corner with a determined but unperturbed gait. Picked up the discarded objects like they were wayward toys and then came back.

  Handed them to Sarah again.

  “You, me, her. Samuel,” he said. “It don’t matter if you’re pretty or see pictures from fucking Jesus. Because either we all live together, or you die alone.”

  His fingers were clasped around the revolver’s grip. Itching for the chance to use it, end this son-of-a-bitch and his visions for good. Boyd knew that the Dreamer, this false prophet was the reason the Lionhearted even existed, but he didn’t believe in Devin.

  He only believed in the Reverend. And even that was shaky.

  A man couldn’t believe everything. Just pieces of the truth.r />
  “All right,” Devin said. “Stay low. I’ll be with you.” Sarah nodded and disappeared to get her orders from one of the senior members of the congregation, an old man, ex-military, in charge of contingency defense plans.

  Boyd sneered, and continued servicing the assembly line of members until all the guns had been emptied. He snatched the lantern from Devin’s fingers and dangled it inside the hole, swinging it back and forth in the dank pit.

  “Lucky you, asshole,” Boyd said. “I think there’s one left.”

  “Let me guess,” Devin said. “I need to get it myself.”

  Boyd picked up his own AK-47 and ammunition from the leaf-strewn silo floor. Set down the lantern and tossed the key ring on the ground next to Devin. “And lock up when you’re done.”

  Devin reached for the keys in the now deserted silo.

  Boyd brought the rear of the assault rifle down onto his head, the crack sending Devin sprawling out on the floor. Boyd nudged him in the ribs. Nothing going; the kid was still alive, but out cold. Boyd brought the lighter up and flicked it on and off.

  He believed in Samuel. Just not everything. He sniffed the air. Not the marijuana.

  And not the Dreamer.

  He brought the wavering flame above his head and torched the drying leaves as he headed out of the silo. Behind him, the building began to fill with smoke.

  Then Boyd, like the others, walked out the doors, shut them tight, then headed to the old man to get his own marching orders. But he whistled a cheerful tune while he did, content that, if this was his last hour in God’s kingdom, at least he’d made things shitty for the golden child, too, before his time on Earth was through.

  46 | Sweet Dreams

  Devin entered her body with a thud and a jolt. The transition had been getting smoother over the past couple months, but it seemed that getting hit on the head threw things off a little bit.

  He shook the girl’s head and the edge of her blonde hair fell over her shoulder into view.

  He’d landed in Sarah’s body.

  Sarah was going to die.

  “Hey,” Devin said, the voice light, in his head, “can you hear me?”

  One of the other members of the congregation manning the fence turned around with a raised eyebrow but didn’t say anything. Devin ran through Sarah’s thoughts and memories as quick as he could. But she had no idea that he was in control.

  It was like—well, it was like she was sleeping.

  The irony.

  Devin bumped into the memory of him and her on the ground, and lingered just a bit to get her feelings on the matter. She enjoyed it. She was surprised. She was—

  A burst of gunfire erupted nearby, and Devin hit the deck. Checked Sarah’s body for gunshot wounds. Still alive. He had to save her. But then his own thoughts took over—why he might be in control.

  The long blonde hair swished.

  “Parsons,” the other woman manning the fence called, “get over here. We need some cover fire.”

  Devin rushed over, hiked up the ladder and put the muzzle of the AK-47 over the crenellated wooden fence. He scanned the horizon for anything. This was insane. An army of horticulturists and religious freaks fighting against Chimera’s private army. There was no way they could win.

  But, seeing movement to his left, far away, Devin squeezed off a couple rounds anyway. A hail of return fire peppered their position, and he saw the other woman catch a bullet and tumble over the fence, a look of surprise painted on her face.

  Maybe she’d thought that the Reverend’s words would save her.

  They hadn’t.

  It was suicide to stay up on the wall. Devin leapt down and rolled as he hit the soft soil. Sarah had once done gymnastics, and it was coming in handy now. He ran away from the fence, through the sticky fields, unsure where to go.

  Then it hit him as he emerged into a copse of young plants, ones that weren’t quite as high or leafy. Smoke was pouring from between one of the silo’s notched wooden frames. Faint, maybe not even all that noticeable given the melee going on at the walls.

  But, sure enough, the silo was ablaze. Devin reached back, tried to remember anything from after Boyd had cold-cocked him. There was nothing; but if he had to guess, Boyd had taken the cover of chaos to rid the Lionhearted of its new problem.

  He didn’t have to save her.

  He had to save himself.

  He raced towards the thick doors and struggled against the bar. It was of little use; it took a stout man, perhaps two, to move it. Running around the silo, Devin could now smell the smoke in his—her, rather—nostrils, burning the insides. There was no one around, here in the back of the compound. Everyone was at the front lines, fighting a battle that they could never win.

  Panting, Devin tried to leverage all of Sarah’s strength and weight into the wooden slat. It shifted an inch, perhaps two, then crashed down, sending her body to the ground. Devin coughed and hoisted himself back up. Scanned for help.

  There was a light on in the Reverend’s quarters. Perhaps Boyd had been wrong about all men battling until the end. Perhaps one was hiding out and avoiding the fray.

  Devin darted across the open field, past the rows of benches and firepit where he’d given his speech not long before, and swung the door open.

  He just hoped that it was the Reverend, and not Boyd, who had left the light on.

  47 | Annihilation

  “Move forward,” Mr. Parsons said over the field-com. “Keep moving forward.”

  Chimera’s private security and his own team of operatives had made short work of most of the compound’s defenses. Minimal losses and wounds.

  The majority of the men piled back into the armored convoy and drove up to within a hundred feet of the compound’s gate. An explosives expert, flanked by two sharpshooters, stepped out of the first truck and dashed up to the fence.

  A member of the Lionhearted, only wounded, not dead, popped out and aimed down, but one of the snipers picked the man off with an almost casual headshot. The explosives expert didn’t even look up, as if he expected the safety of the cover fire.

  He set two charges on either side of the gate, and then darted away, a wireless transmitter in hand.

  Mr. Parsons’ voice came over the communication units. “Status update?”

  “Charges set,” the expert replied. “Waiting for your order to detonate.”

  Mr. Parsons turned to Mr. Ena. They were sharing the same Jeep, managing the operation from the back of the convoy.

  “The fences have been cleared, and we’re about to breach. Any objections?”

  Mr. Ena puffed on his Cuban cigar, as if considering any that he might have. But he just said, “My daughter’s intel has proven reliable thus far. Their patterns of attack, the compound’s layout. I wouldn’t expect any surprises.”

  “I always expect surprises,” Mr. Parsons said. “So it’s a go?”

  One of the sniper’s voices crackled through the com unit in Mr. Parsons’ ear. “Sir, I’m noting a lot of smoke on the edge of the compound.”

  “Smoke? Did we launch any tear gas or grenades during the initial encounter?”

  “No, sir. As per your orders, bullets only. The only explosives are on the gate.”

  “Blow the damn thing,” Mr. Parsons said, an edge coming into his voice, “we need to get the fuck in there.”

  “Yes sir.”

  The Jeep shook as a fireball erupted in front of the convoy. Mr. Parsons turned to Mr. Ena.

  “We have a problem.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “The place is burning.”

  “We were going to do that anyway,” Mr. Ena said. “What’s the problem?”

  “It wasn’t us.” Mr. Parsons looked out at the night, punctuated by the orange glow. “Which means only one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Dissent in the ranks.”

  Mr. Ena gnawed on the end of his cigar, then slammed it against the window, sending a splash of as
h on to his tailored suit. “I don’t like wild cards.”

  “Neither do I,” Mr. Parsons said, and watched the fire in front of the convoy die down, and then the first truck, second truck, third and so forth begin to move in. “Neither do I.”

  48 | Savior

  The Reverend didn’t care to be interrupted by this girl. An outsider. But he had heard reports of her diligence in the fields, and what she had to say moved him to action. Allowed him to trust her word that Boyd had locked the Prophet in the silo and set fire to it.

  Set fire to everything that was the Lionhearted’s foundation.

  The Reverend had checked his gun and then followed her without a word, just a nod, out to the silo. There was something odd about her demeanor, her gait, although that could’ve been little more than unfamiliarity or the general strangeness of the day. As he walked past the rows of benches, the Reverend’s peripherals caught the flash of gunfire—the dying remnants of his flock—and an explosion as the great gate fell.

  Near a bench, Boyd sat slumped, eyes shut. The Reverend took a step towards the young man, then decided against it when a flash of gunfire erupted. The front of Boyd’s shirt was soaked through with blood.

  It was clear, then, that Boyd was dead. The Reverend mumbled a silent prayer amidst the chaos, and strode past, focusing his eyes forward.

  Ahead of him, Sarah stumbled for a moment. The Reverend quickened his steps and placed a hand on her back, urging her forward with renewed purpose.

  They reached the silo, and it was, indeed, smoking. Hints of a blaze peeked out from between the tiny gaps in the wooden slabs. A rush of smoke poured out from between the crack the Reverend was looking, and he was forced to step back, wipe the tears from his eyes.

  He gestured towards the other end of the great wooden bar, and Sarah took her position, the Reverend his. And then he put the might of his belief, the might of all his strength, into that heavy piece of wood, and it lifted upwards, flew towards the heavens, and tumbled aside.