by Dima Zales
No one shoots me dead with a gun.
Pressing the button on the grenade, I toss it into the apartment.
The sleeping gas hisses as it spreads throughout the place.
“That gas will go inert in two minutes,” I whisper for Felix’s benefit. “If there’s a dog in there, or if Bernard was awake, they’re asleep now.”
I unmute the earpiece in time to hear Felix grumble something about “decent plan.”
What he doesn’t realize is the most dangerous part of this job might well be coming up.
I tiptoe inside the penthouse.
Alistair—the guy who hired me to do this—must pay Bernard well. The place is spacious, especially for New York, where real estate is nearly as pricey as on my home world of Gomorrah.
Locating the bedroom, I step inside and look at the bed.
Phew.
Bernard is in there, covered by a heavy blanket.
“Doesn’t he look like Mario?” Felix whispers as I creep toward the bed.
When I first met Felix, we bonded over our love of video games, which makes his comparing a man to a digital plumber not as crazy as it sounds.
“To me, he looks more like Wario,” I say, looking over the pudgy man’s mustachioed face. “That’s Mario’s archrival.”
“I know that,” Felix says. “But neither of them has a scar like that.”
He’s right. The scar on Bernard’s forehead belongs on the face of an interdimensional warrior, not a guy who’s Head of Engineering at a VR company on Earth.
“So what now?” Felix asks.
“I have to touch him,” I whisper. “But not in a dirty way.”
Felix chuckles humorlessly as I examine my victim’s eyelids for rapid eye movement and find none.
Crap.
I pull off my gloves and do my best to prepare for the unpleasantness that is to come. Specifically, the least risky part of what I’m about to attempt.
Skin-to-skin contact.
The bead of sweat trapped by the scar on Bernard’s forehead doesn’t help, nor does the stench of night breath emanating from my target’s mouth.
“What are you waiting for?” Felix asks. “Is it your OCD again?”
“Caring about hygiene doesn’t mean I have OCD.” I touch the bottle of hand sanitizer in my pocket—my lifesaver in these types of situations. “Besides,” I lie. “I mostly hesitate because he’s not in REM sleep.”
“Which means you’ll have to do that dangerous subdream battle thing when you enter him?” Felix asks.
I huff. “That sounds way too rapey. I’m not going to ‘enter him.’ I’m just visiting his dreams. But yes, if the subdream battle thing kills dream-me, real-me will go insane.”
Actually, that’s an understatement. Not long before her accident, as a way to discourage me from using my powers, Mom showed me footage of what happened to one dream walker who died in the dream world. He went on a killing rampage, like a rabid puck, and even cannibalized his victims. I checked on this, and even years later, he has to be kept in a padded cell, in restraints.
“So you’re going to wait until he goes into REM sleep?” Felix asks.
“Ideally.”
“How long is that going to take?”
I sigh and look at my Earth phone. “Ninety minutes, if it was my gas that knocked him out.”
I hear Felix clicking away on his keyboard. Then he says, “I see that he takes Ambien. I doubt it was your gas that put him under.”
“Damn it.” I resist the urge to kick the leg of the bed. “That drug suppresses REM sleep. I might have to come back later or—”
“Oh, crap,” Felix says. “I think you’re about to have company.”
I spin around to face the door, my heart rate spiking as Pom’s fur darkens on my wrist.
“It’s vampires,” Felix rattles out. “Enforcers. They have every exit covered. Running would be pointless.”
Pucking puck. Why couldn’t it be any other type of Cognizant? Vampires only sleep if they want to, so my remaining grenade won’t knock them out—and I don’t have any other weapons at my disposal.
“Can I hide?” I say, mostly to myself, as my gaze falls on the walk-in closet in the corner of the bedroom.
“They probably have your DNA,” Felix says. “How else did they zero in on you with such laser precision?”
He’s right. Even I didn’t know I’d be here until I read my encrypted email an hour ago.
This is bad.
Armed with my DNA, a vampire could find me even if I ran to another world.
“What do they want?” I stroke Pom, trying not to panic.
“No idea,” Felix says. “But I doubt they care about your breaking and entering.”
“Arguable.” I turn back toward Bernard. “Sounds like I have no choice. If I want to keep Mom’s life support running, I go in, REM sleep or not.”
“And I’ll do my best to stall the Enforcers,” Felix says. “I think I can make the elevator run slower, and maybe even—”
“Thanks.” Ignoring the shaking of my hands, I pull out the hand sanitizer and judiciously apply it to Bernard’s hairy forearm.
“Here goes nothing.” I start reaching for the (hopefully) decontaminated patch of skin.
In a way, there are silver linings to this clusterpuck.
Firstly, if the subdream kills me and I go homicidally crazy in the real world, at least the vampires will put me down before I can cannibalize anyone.
Secondly, all this adrenaline is short-circuiting my usual thoughts of getting Staphylococcus aureus and other cooties as I touch my target.
I make connection with the sleeper, and the world of wakefulness goes away.
Dream Walker, the story of Bailey Spade, is coming soon! Pre-order it HERE, and sign up to my newsletter at www.dimazales.com to be notified when it becomes available.
About the Author
Dima Zales is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of science fiction and fantasy. Prior to becoming a writer, he worked in the software development industry in New York as both a programmer and an executive. From high-frequency trading software for big banks to mobile apps for popular magazines, Dima has done it all. In 2013, he left the software industry in order to concentrate on his writing career and moved to Palm Coast, Florida, where he currently resides.
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Please visit www.dimazales.com to learn more.