Dream War

by Stephen Prosapio

  A human form with wings emerged. Later, Drew would swear he made out the gentle features of Nadia. Kat would claim she saw the flash of her father’s smile. Had he been present, Alfonso might have seen Padre Gennaro’s calm countenance. Only Alexis saw its true form—a being who’d already revealed himself to her.

  “The angel,” she said softly. “Michael.”

  The impact of the luminous, winged figure into Luzveyn Dred sent ripples of light, heat, and tone out from the blast. A tangled snarl of shadow and flame could be seen for an instant, and then nothing was left but the smell of ozone and sulfur.

  Drew waited no longer and projected himself and Alexis out of the Spatium Quartus.

  - Chapter Forty Five—

  Drew’s eyes opened to the training room at Lopez’s Lake Arrowhead house. He sat half-reclined in the dentist-like chair. Alexis was cradled like an infant in his arms. She looked up at him and smiled weakly. On the chair across from him, Kat lay motionless. It didn’t appear she was breathing.

  “Wait for me in the hallway, Angel,” Drew said, putting Alexis down.

  She slowly made her way out of the room, looking back once over her shoulder. Upon exiting the room, she clung to the doorpost.

  Drew walked over to Kat. A brief crazy thought ran through his head.

  This must have been what Sleeping Beauty looked like.

  He stood mesmerized for a moment, and then touched her arm.

  Immediately, she flinched and sat up.

  “Drew—Alexis?”

  “She’s okay. You’re all right?”

  “Yes,” she said standing up, “but I’ve gotta get to Rome. I’ve gotta find out what happened to my dad, and Hector needs me.”

  “But Hector…”

  “No, he’s not dead. Remember, his body disappeared. That wouldn’ta happened if he’d have died in the S.Q.”

  Drew didn’t know what to believe.

  *****

  A week later, in his condo hallway, Drew watched a teenager with dark features exiting Lopez’s unit. As the youth approached, Drew noted features eerily reminiscent of Hector Lopez.

  “You must be Mr. Faulkner,” he said extending a steady hand.

  “I am.”

  “Jose Lopez.” His handshake was firm. Eye contact was easy, as both stood at the same height. The kid’s black, Perl Jam T-shirt hung on his thin frame above his low-drooping jeans. A Padres baseball cap sat obliquely atop his head, the brim tilting up and to the right. “My dad wants to see you.”

  Drew released his grip and his hand fell to his side. He didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t heard anything about Lopez since their battle with Luzveyn Dred.

  Jose grinned. “He told me you might be surprised.”

  Drew mumbled something he hoped conveyed his desire to invite the young man inside.

  “Yeah, sure, thanks. But just for a minute, though. I gotta get back to the hospital.”

  Drew led him into the messy condo; newspapers were strewn across the coffee table. His TV remained glued to CNN as reports continued to stream in from southern Italy. The TV flashed to the now-familiar image of a desolate Naples in front of a still-smoking Mount Vesuvius.

  “—each passing day, as we hear more and more stories of heroism in the face of disaster, the Italian government becomes less and less willing to address the reasons why emergency reaction time was so slow, evacuation plans so incompetent, and why confusion reigned supreme. From just outside Naples, Italy, this is Charles Pearson reporting.”

  International organizations had demanded explanation—answers that would never come. The world wagged a disapproving finger at Italy for the lack of proper warning, confusion along the escape routes, and ineptitude that led to a death toll into the tens of thousands. Drew mourned the victims, but knew the disaster could have been much worse.

  There would be no talk of sabotage, medallions, magic, Spatium Quartus, or Luzveyn Dred. If any government on earth knew how to be tight-lipped, it was Italy’s. The Sogno di Guerra, if they were discussed at all, would be branded as a fanatical terrorist organization that had lost all grip on reality.

  “You want something—something to drink?” Drew asked.

  “Oh, no thanks, Mr. Faulkner.”

  “It’s Drew, please,” he said. “So tell me about your dad.”

  “Dad’s doing okay, all things considered.”

  “Where is he?”

  “We just got him back. He’s down at the Sharp Medical trauma center.” He cleared his throat. “Dad suffered a massive stroke.”

  The teenager suddenly looked like a little boy in baggy clothing. His arms flat at his side, only the tips of his fingers reached the sagging pockets of his jeans. He stood silent, as if his last five words had cleared up everything.

  “Oh, my God, I’m so sorry,” Drew said. “Can he—is he going to be all right?”

  “They don’t know,” he said shaking his head, his disdain evident. “They don’t know much.”

  Drew had a million questions, but trite as it sounded in his head, he said something from his heart. It came out comforting and strong.

  “Your father is a very, very brave man.”

  “Yeah, thanks.” Jose said, showing his teeth with something that resembled a smile. He squinted and looked away. “Hey, I gotta get going.”

  *****

  Hector Lopez’s face brightened when he greeted them; his facial paralysis was obvious, and hard to witness. He’d aged at least ten years since the night in the Spatium Quartus. The smell of antiseptic and new machinery welcomed Drew and Alexis to the small room, half-crammed with cards, plants, and personal belongings. The area around the other, empty bed remained devoid of personal effects.

  “Hey, Hector,” Drew said, his voice cracking, “you’re looking good.”

  Half of Lopez’s face formed a scowl; both of his eyes flashed frustration. The stroke apparently hadn’t eroded his skill at detecting bullshit.

  Jose stood at his dad’s bedside and greeted them with warmth enough for two.

  “He’s really glad you came, he said.” The boy looked older without the cap.

  “Alexis, did you want to give Mr. Lopez a hug?” Drew asked.

  She clung to his leg, her face vacant of recognition.

  “It’s okay, Angel.”

  Drew lifted her. She squeezed Lopez at the shoulders, but it was a stiff hug.

  “Dad’s memory comes and goes,” Jose said, handing Drew a loose-leaf sheet of paper. “So over the past couple days, he made up a list of questions.”

  “That’s Hector, always working.” Drew stared at the page containing a dozen barely legible inquiries. “Jose, could you take Alexis on a walk while your dad and I talk?”

  “Sure, I think there’s a kid’s play area down the hall.”

  Jose took Alexis by the hand and led her out.

  Lopez raised his good arm, held up three fingers, and pointed to the sheet.

  The third question down, “Alexis been OK? Since?” was in big contorted letters.

  “She doesn’t remember anything from the Spatium Quartus,” Drew said, “and, to be honest, I don’t see any reason to remind her.”

  Lopez said nothing.

  “Except for the lack of memory, she’s been fine. No problems—no nightmares. In fact, I don’t think she’s having any dreams whatsoever,” Drew said.

  Lopez exuded a low gurgling sound that sounded a bit like, “Okay.” He lifted one finger.

  “How did Alexis pull dreamers to S.Q.?” was scrawled on top.

  “How could you know?” Drew asked with incredulity. That had happened after Lopez had disappeared.

  In a subtle movement, Lopez’s head pointed to the nightstand. Hanging from the lamp was a set of dog tags. Drew examined them. “’Lieutenant Colonel Kevin Moats’—did Kat bring these by?”

  Lopez wrote in the notebook that was propped on his lap. An awkward silence accompanied the painfully slow progression of the pen across paper. When he’d
finished, he let the pen fall, and motioned to the large deformed letters.

  “Hoo u think got me—italy?”

  “Sure,” Drew said. “Kat found and brought you back. Did she find out what happened to—”

  Lopez pointed insistently back to the questions and then, with his index finger, tapped his notebook as though insisting that he would be conducting this interrogation.

  “How did Alexis pull dreamers to S.Q.? I don’t know. I’m not sure how she did it.” Drew shrugged for emphasis.

  Lopez dipped his head and stared at the list in Drew’s hand. The top question referred to the Sogno di Guerra.

  “No sign of them,” Drew reported.

  Lopez sighed and nodded. He held up two fingers and pointed to the list but to an item that wasn’t a question.

  “Wear medallions. Do not think it’s over,” it said.

  “Okay, Hector. We’ll keep wearing our medallions. Don’t worry.”

  It was Drew’s turn to get some answers.

  “Ponterosso, the woman you pretended to be in the SQ, is she dead?

  The good side of Hector’s face smiled as he wrote a one word answer. “dead”

  “And Alfonso?” Drew asked.

  The half-grin disappeared, and Lopez pointed to the word again. Not having heard from the old man, it was not a shock but the news hit him hard. Alfonso had grown on Drew.

  “What about Kat? Did she find her dad?”

  Lopez’s eyes watered. His head turned to the right, then slowly to the left. His blood pressure machine beeped.

  Drew looked away. He imagined what this visit would feel like with Nadia at his side, holding his hand, and with Alfonso teaching them interesting facts from the now-vacant hospital bed on the other side of the room. When Drew looked back at Lopez, his friend’s face had darkened, and the eyelid from his good eye had lowered to half-mast.

  “What about Luzveyn Dred?” Drew asked.

  One of Lopez’s shoulders went up, as though he were trying to shrug.

  Before he could find the pen to write a response, a nurse stormed into the room with a flurry of salutations and comments. She investigated the readings on the machines, frowned at what they told her, and turned to Drew.

  “It’s time for you to skedaddle, sir. It’s time for him to rest.”

  “Just a few minutes more, okay?” Drew asked.

  She glared at him. “Look, mister, I don’t know what days you usually come here, but I’m a Sunday shift nurse, and a Sunday shift nurse takes no bunko. If I said it’s time for him to rest, then it’s time for him to rest.”

  Sensing that resistance would be futile, Drew turned back to his friend.

  “Hector, I’ll see you again soon. Get better.”

  Lopez nodded. Both eyes were already closed.

  Drew wandered down the wheelchair-lined hallway. He heard the familiar Italian tune of Alexis’s music box coming from one of the rooms. Funiculi, Funicula, the song written by Peppino Turco to commemorate the first funiculare on Mount Vesuvius, led Drew to the room where Jose lay sprawled on the cheap, tan carpet. He looked as though he was completely immersed in Alexis’s play-world.

  When he noticed Drew at the doorway, Jose looked a bit sheepish, and stood up.

  “I always wanted a little brother or sister.”

  “We’ll be back,” Drew said softly. “It looks like we’ll have the time.”

  “My dad is worried about that.”

  “About what?”

  “The effects that this last conflict will have on the world. He wonders how much of Luzveyn Dred spilled into our dimension.”

  “But we won.”

  “Yeah, we’re safe for now, but Dad doesn’t believe Luzveyn Dred was killed. He claims he can still feel him. He’s afraid that Dred implanted something into his head and believes Dred somehow came to earth in human form. He wanted me to warn you to stay alert.”

  The top two buttons of the young man’s shirt were undone. Around his neck, a gold chain held something to his chest that was undoubtedly heavy.

  He’s wearing a medallion.

  “Jose, I just had a conversation with him. No offense, but all he can manage are one-handed waves, and scribbled notes. How was he able to communicate all that?”

  The teen just smiled, let the tip of his tongue rest on the bottom of his upper lip, and stared out the window, as if the decision on whether or not to reveal a secret was written in the azure San Diego sky.

  He looked Drew in the eye, paused before saying anything, and then smiled with amused certainty.

  “Dad visits me in my dreams.”

  *****

  Drew and Alexis walked along the beach. While most of the east coast continued to deal with winter temperatures, late February typically brought spring weather to San Diego County. The pair trudged on bare feet through the luminous sand that warmed all the way up to their calves. To cool off, they moved closer to the surf where invading tides of the Pacific rushed toward their toes. They danced along fizzing white bubbles, avoiding the brunt of the salty water.

  They were on The Strand, the beach north of the Oceanside Pier. Up ahead of them was Oceanside’s harbor, filled with tourist shops and restaurants. The port wasn’t completely ceremonial; whale watching ships and private boats docked along the wharf and, on foggy nights, a small, white and blue lighthouse would shine its beacon into the sea.

  In the coming days, Drew would more deeply mourn Nadia’s death, he’d worry what would happen to Alexis once Nadia’s mom discovered her daughter’s disappearance, and he would consider changing his name in order to stay one step ahead of the Sogno di Guerra. For now, grateful to be alive, Drew merely enjoyed the beach with the little girl.

  “Drew, come closer to the water!” she shouted.

  The tide had retracted. Drew lifted his arm as he advanced toward the edge of the shore. Her shoes were laced in his fingers; her socks buried in his pocket, along with both of their medallions. As Alexis crept deeper onto the packed, wet sand, he applied gentle pressure behind her shoulders. The nudge scooted her toward the white bubbles and crashing waves of the cold ocean.

  “Hey!” she screamed with a huge smile. Then, tiptoeing through the water, she let out her first big laugh in a long time.

  “You’re gonna get wet…” Drew singsonged. He followed behind, tickling her armpits.

  She giggled, turned around, and swatted at his hand, but he held the pose.

  “Now cut that out,” she said.

  Displaying a precocious grin, Alexis tilted her head back and removed strands of damp hair that had blown across her face. She peered at Drew and reached out, her tiny hand cautiously grabbing hold of his index finger. They stood there for a moment and then continued walking along the shoreline toward the harbor.

  - Acknowledgements -

  This novel was the result of a decade of work, and certainly not all of it was mine. I’m extremely grateful to an army of people. To Beth Levine the personal coach who taught me dedication to the process, and to Melanie Collins for reminding me that I didn’t need to take the journey alone.

  I offer my gratitude and official apologies to my original beta readers (and re-readers) Tom & Sandy Prosapio, Dave Knopp, Trevor Myers, Jake & Cheryl Jacobson.

  Several people kept me reasonably sane during the Gather.com contest notably: George Anderson, Pat Shaw, and Dale Cozort. Thanks go to readers who supported me during the competition and the Writing Wombats who kept me motivated afterward. To writers who’ve selflessly shared their experiences: Justine Musk, Geoffrey Edwards, Dana Fredsti, Sy Garte, Starr Ambrose, and Lisa Brackmann.

  Thanks goes out to all the writing and critique groups I’ve attended (especially the North County Speculative Fiction), to the Lopez family, the Moss family, and all the people on Casablanca Court.

  Thanks to my later beta readers: Judy Popp and Susan Prosapio. Michael Ross and Tammy Szkolny helped immensely with editing, but any mistakes are mine. Props to Matt Matchura for knowing more
about guns than anyone else I want to know, and to Dr. Michael Sheridan who helped immensely with my research of Vesuvius.

  Maria, Joe, Barb—thanks for having been my first entertainment audience, and for everything since.

  Lastly, undying gratitude goes to my marvelous agent, Taryn Fagerness whose encouragement keeps me writing in the face of all obstacles.

  To anyone I’ve missed here, I apologize and hope you know I appreciate your support more than my imperfect memory allows.

  *****

  - About the Author -

  Stephen Prosapio received his Bachelors of Arts degree in Political Science from DePaul University in Chicago. For several years, he reported for one of the nation’s largest fantasy football websites, Footballguys.com. Dream War, was a top-five finalist of 2,676 entries in Gather.com’s 2007 First Chapters contest. Stephen works as an executive recruiter and resides in Oceanside, California.

  He is currently crafting a paranormal mystery series beginning with Ghosts of Rosewood Asylum due out in Spring of 2011. A sequel to Dream War is planned and underway.

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  - Contact the Author –

  email:

  steve@prosapio.com

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  http://www.facebook.com/prosapio

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