Hutch Nightmare Men

by L. J. Vickery

  What did her voice sound like? He imagined soft, southern intonations, although there was no way of knowing.

  The dream scene shifted.

  Cross-legged, playing cards. She dealt then slapped cards while a young girl across from her did the same. The two were laughing. They were both dressed in shorts and cropped tops, their bellies showing. Although his subject retained her older appearance, he imagined she saw herself as young, a peer of her companion.

  He looked around the room they occupied. A rough pine floor with stacked logs for walls, although the roof was missing. The companion stood and walked up into the air through the open roof, still laughing, her cards fluttering down as she disappeared. His subject leaned her head back and stuck out her tongue, catching the cards which turned to snowflakes as they fell.

  Then she was on the street. The street she’d traversed the previous night when her dream had taken on a sinister feel. The unsettling miasma returned, and once again Hutch cried out. “Turn back! Don’t go there!”

  Too late, even if she heard him. The vortex appeared and sucked her forward.

  This time he forced his eyes away from his subject and concentrated on things surrounding her involuntary path. Discarded scratch tickets on the sidewalk, slowly liquifying in filthy puddles. A trash-filled, narrow alley to the right of the battered glass door, and the sign above the shop. Arkie’s, it read, its neon long ago burned out. The place wasn’t familiar, but that wasn’t a surprise. It could be any city, anywhere in the country. Not necessarily Chicago, which he called home.

  Events continued unfolding as they had before. She opened the door, attended the coffee, nodded to the man behind the counter, and took his place. By the time she fumbled with the papers, eyes glued to the door, Hutch’s muscles were bunched in anticipation. Unable to remain static, he moved forward and beat on the separating membrane.

  “Get out!” he bellowed. “Leave. Now.”

  It did no good.

  Two men walked in, the anticipated beating took place, the robbery ensued. And once again the red-haired woman lay on the floor in a pool of her own blood.

  If sheer will could break down barriers, the one keeping him from her would have shattered.

  Blackness. Then he awoke.

  Leaping to his feet, he raged in impotent anger, screaming at the sky. “Why?! Why show me this when I’m powerless? She needs help! Don’t you understand?”

  And then came the first indication he wasn’t alone.

  “It’s easier to solve people’s problems with a pill than to dig too deeply. When patients complain they still don’t feel better…up their dosage.”

  A female voice, harsh and dusky, cut through the void.

  He stood, stunned. Those were his words.

  He swallowed the bile that rose in his throat.

  “Okay,” he finally managed. “Now I know why I’m here.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Darby sighed. Something had changed. Not the nightmares, but the tenor of the nightmares. For the past two nights, the visions came, still horrifying, still relentless, but she didn’t feel quite so…alone. It was tough to say, awakening in the same sweat and the same tangled blankets, but if she had to name it, she’d say a tool for salvation lay close at hand, just outside her grasp.

  It was an odd, fanciful thought, but after experiencing the nightmares for nearly four months, perhaps the night-terrors’ grip was loosening. She didn’t know much about the lingering psychological effects of physical trauma. Any trauma she’d known before the attack had been mental, and she’d gotten over it.

  Maybe the therapist in the hospital and the one at the walk-in mental health center had it wrong. Pills weren’t the answer, time was.

  She pushed up the blinds and peered out her only window. Dark now, but warmth and sunshine forecast today. Maybe a portent of better things to come? She snorted. Don’t count on it. January, despite a few good days, had February and March lurking around the corner. That was a metaphor closer to the arc of her life.

  Half an hour later, bundled up, she walked to work, a container of pepper spray clutched in her pocket. Before the attack, it hadn’t occurred to her to carry it. After the robbery, it became part of her daily attire, because if she suffered injuries outside her workplace, her meager savings would be wiped out with the ensuing medical expenses.

  Thank God Arkie followed some of the rules. Workmen’s Comp had paid her hospital bills after the in-store attack, and had given her a small but insufficient stipend during her recovery time. Not that she’d taken much time off. A concussion, three broken ribs, internal bruising, and over two hundred stitches had been good for about three weeks, but bills and boredom had her back to work before the doctors cleared her. Screw them. They didn’t have to worry about the rent.

  An added incentive, Arkie had threatened to replace her. Which was shit. There weren’t many jobs within walking distance of her apartment, and no apartments she could afford in a better section of town where better jobs might be. So even though her ribs ached, her scars itched, and she remained terrified of working alone in the dark morning hours, she’d sucked it all up and returned.

  Which didn’t account for her feeling…less alone this morning. She shrugged. Must be hormonal.

  Pushing through the door, she bit back a groan.

  Arkie’s nephew Cy was here. She didn’t dislike many people, didn’t hate but a handful. Cy topped the list of the latter. The arrogant prick had asked her out two months ago, and when she rebuffed him, the dick hadn’t heard “no”. The more she turned him down, the madder he got.

  Over the subsequent weeks, he’d gotten more aggressive. He invaded her personal space at every opportunity, grabbed her, or brushed his creepy hands across her ass whenever he could.

  She’d made up a gym-rat boyfriend, an over-protective father, and a communicable disease, but his persistence and anger continued until the taunting sneer on his face became permanent. He kept insisting she was “his”, and he’d have her soon, whether she gave in quietly…or not.

  This morning, feeling better than she had in a while, his presence sucked.

  “If it isn’t Miss I’m-better-than-everybody,” he jeered.

  “Good morning, Arkie, Cy,” she said evenly.

  “It would be if you’d blow me.”

  “Hey.” Arkie slapped the back of his nephew’s blond head. “Watch your language.” He went back to counting the drawer while Cy leered.

  That’s the extent of the support she’d get from her boss.

  She picked up the coffee pots and headed to the back, spending more time rinsing than normal before returning to the coffee station.

  Fucking great. He was still there.

  The front door opened and a young man walked in.

  “Seth. Good.” Arkie pointed her way. “That’s Darby. She’ll be training you today.”

  She let out a sigh of relief; she’d forgotten about the new kid. Punching the drip button, she turned to shake his hand. A healthy grip, not an asshole one. Big, too. Maybe Cy wouldn’t hang around.

  “I’m takin’ off,” he told his uncle.

  Yes!

  “See you real soon, doll.”

  His sleazy stare was lost on Arkie, but the kid scowled. Maybe this was someone who’d stand up for her. Too bad they wouldn’t be working the same shift.

  She showed Seth the code and buzzed them in. After Arkie left, she picked up a bundle of papers and whumped them onto the counter. “This is where we start.”

  The morning went fast. The kid was a quick study. He was personable with the customers, asked good questions, and didn’t crowd her. So what the hell was he doing here?

  During a lull, she asked. “You new to the neighborhood?”

  He shrugged. “Living with my grandmother for a while. She’s a few blocks away. Has health issues. Gotta make some money, but stay close in case she needs me, you know?”

  She made an offer because he seemed nice. “If you’re working
and she has an emergency, give me a call.” She scribbled her number on a beer flyer. “I’ll cover your shift.”

  “Thanks,” he said, tucking the paper into his pocket. “Hey, uh, you know any good places around here that do takeout?” It was nearly eleven.

  “Restaurant three doors down makes a decent meatloaf.” She pointed in its direction. She’d been there once.

  “I’ll try it. Thanks.” He regarded her and looked like he wanted to say more.

  “What?” she prompted.

  “That guy. The one who was here this morning.”

  She knew who he meant. “Cy? He’s Arkie’s nephew.”

  “He hitting on you?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Why do you want to know?”

  “It’s just…you’re nice, and he’s, like, an asshole.”

  A staccato laugh slipped out. “Yeah. You got that right. I don’t encourage him, but he’s not a good listener.”

  “Watch out, okay? I seen him punch a kid in my building a few days ago. He’s bad news.”

  She’d known he bullied everything that walked, but hearing it first-hand sucked. Cy was a prick who talked with his fists. She stifled a sigh. Maybe it was time to take her nest-egg and move on.

  She’d been thinking about it for a while, but kept pushing it off. Starting over would be a risk. As rough as this neighborhood was, there were people here who knew her. Most were down on their luck like her, but in a pinch, they’d have her back. It had been a couple of regulars who had found her unconscious the day of the robbery and called the cops. In a new place, strangers might have fleeced the shelves and left her to bleed out.

  She’d bide her time, but Cy deserved watching. His threats had gotten more and more overt with time.

  “Thanks. I’ll be careful.”

  Beatrice walked in, waving breezily. “Who’s the new guy?”

  “Seth, this is Bea. Bea, Seth.”

  “Hope this one lasts more than a week,” she mumbled as they buzzed out.

  Grabbing their coats, Seth pushed the door open and held it for her. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  “Yeah. It’s my short day. Two hours, then you’re on your own. Think you can handle it?”

  “No problem,” he grinned, and loped off toward the eatery she suggested.

  Damn, meatloaf sounded good. She ducked in to the butcher shop and where she’d normally buy bone-in chicken breast at ninety-nine cents a pound, but splurged on the ground beef. She could almost taste it.

  Head down, stuffing change in her purse, she reached the street and her package was knocked from under her arm. “Shit.”

  When she bent to retrieve it, a large boot came down on the brown paper. “Oops.”

  She knew that voice.

  Straightening, she looked up into Cy’s smirking face. “Clumsy today, huh? But that’s my good luck. Now you’ll have to eat with me.” He took her arm in a hard, unrelenting grip, clearly enjoying the pained expression on her face.

  She yanked back, ineffectually, knowing there’d be bruises. “Not interested,” she hissed. “I have peanut butter at home.” …although the brown wrapper on the meat hadn’t broken open. If she could pick it up, she might be able to salvage it.

  “Uh, uh, sweetheart, be nice to your boss’s nephew.” He leaned down in her face, snarling, his breath rancid. “Or you might get fired.”

  “Let go of my arm,” she said through her teeth, turning from his fetid exhale.

  “Not happening. You’re coming with me.”

  Thank god a patrol car was parked at the end of the block.

  “No, Cy. I’m not. I’ll scream, and you’ll spend the night with the MPD.”

  “You wouldn’t, bitch.”

  “Try me.” She didn’t blink.

  “Cunt,” he growled, giving her arm a painful twist before letting go. “I’m not finished with you. You’re mine. Remember that.” He turned and stalked off.

  The shaking she’d held at bay made it hard to pick up her meat, but she managed. And by the time she reached her apartment and triple-locked the door she felt more like throwing up than eating, but she forced herself to cook.

  This was the reality she had to deal with.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  He’d thought long and hard since the disembodied voice confirmed his greatest fear. This could easily be Hell. But now, where did his biggest concern most currently lie? With himself or with the dream-woman? Her nightmares were from trauma. His nightmare…he was living it. Trying to find a way out of his difficulties might be more than he could handle.

  That voice had shaken him up. A female voice. It confirmed his suspicion that his cavalier attitude with patients was what had brought him here.

  “What do you want me to do?” he questioned the void. “If I promise to listen to my clients, can I leave?”

  Silence met his questions. He hadn’t expected anything different. He looked at his watch. Just after three in the morning. Troubled but tired, he settled down on the sand and fell back to sleep.

  Vibrations.

  Hutch blinked himself awake.

  Under his ear, pressed to the ground, vibrations like… Oh, my God! Footsteps.

  He leaped to his feet, spinning around, squinting off into the darkness. He saw nothing.

  “Hello?” he called.

  “Hello,” came an answer. A male voice.

  “I’m here! By the fire!” His voice broke. A real person! He shuffled from foot to foot in excitement. Was this someone who would help define his penance, allow him back to his life?

  A singular, pale shape formed between molecules in the darkness, growing slowly larger. “Where am I?”

  In the man’s voice he heard panic, and his stomach sank.

  Not salvation, then. Another hapless victim. Still, a welcome diversion from his previous solitude.

  “Come,” he called out. “I’ll explain.” At least to the best of my abilities.

  A tall, business-dressed man walked guardedly into the circle of the fire’s glow. Like Hutch, he appeared to be in his thirties, tall, and well-built. And like Hutch when he arrived, he emerged from the shadows, confused and afraid.

  “Who are you? Did you bring me here?” His fists clenched, the tremor in his voice aggressive, dangerous.

  Hutch backed up a few steps. “The name’s Hutch, and I’m not the one responsible. I was brought here, just like you.”

  The man snorted. “You expect me to believe that?”

  “Look at me.” He glanced down at himself and noticed he wasn’t all the worse for wear. His feet were bare, his pants rolled up, his jacket and tie lay nearby on the sand. But he wasn’t dirty, his clothes remained unwrinkled, and… Just for the hell of it, he ran a hand over his face. No stubble. In real life, he’d have a hell of a beard by now. His appearance wouldn’t prove anything.

  Hutch pointed at the churned-up sand. Hours’ worth of running and pacing were evident, as well as his notes. “If I were in charge, I’d have a better canvas.”

  The man blinked. “Then why?” He looked around and shook his head, thankfully accepting what Hutch said. “Why are you here, and why me?”

  Hutch pointed to a rock. “Take a seat, and I’ll tell you what I can.”

  The man cautiously walked over and sat, his eyes growing wide. “The fire… It doesn’t…”

  “Yeah. All flame and no heat. It never changes.” Hutch sat, two rocks away. “You got a name?”

  “Paxton,” the man answered, clearly shaken.

  “Okay, Paxton, here’s what I know. Or what I think I know.”

  “Wait. How long have you been here?”

  “Three days.”

  “Alone?”

  Hutch remembered the disembodied voice. “Yeah. Physically. But there was a… Never mind. Let me start at the beginning. I’m a licensed psychiatrist from Chicago. Three days ago, I was in a parking garage, walking from my car to my office, then I was here. Not by the fire, but out there in the dark. I saw the light a
nd walked toward it.” Saying it out loud, it sounded like a near-death experience.

  “Me, too,” Paxton replied, still shaking, but settling down. “I work for a retail chain and scout new locations for stores. I was getting out of my car in a suburb of Tulsa, and the next thing I knew, I was here.”

  “How far away did you, uh, land?” Hutch eyed the blankness from which the man appeared.

  “No clue. But I walked, then ran for at least an hour.”

  “With no sweat,” Hutch pointed out.

  Paxton’s eyes grew wide. “Shit. I hadn’t noticed. But now that you mention it… Jesus Christ! Where the fuck are we?”

  Hutch scrubbed a hand over his face. “As far as I can tell, this is some kind of hell or purgatory.”

  His companion leaped to his feet, horror in his face. “What the fuck? I don’t belong here. I haven’t killed anybody. I haven’t committed any crimes…” His face fell. “That model airplane I stole when I was eight, I got caught and worked it off.”

  “That’s not what our situation here is about.” He shook his head. “Not, I believe, physical crimes.” Hutch switched to his doctor voice. “Sit again, and I’ll tell you everything that’s happened to me. Maybe something will come to you.”

  Reluctantly the man sat.

  “The first night I was here I fell asleep and encountered…more of this. Nothing. No dreams. I’ve been trying to keep busy by running, kickboxing, and taking notes.” He gestured to his scribbles in the sand.

  “Notes of what?”

  “I’ll get to that. But first I’ll describe what I know about this place. Which isn’t much. There’s no noise, no weather, no light except from this heatless fire. We have no needs. No thirst, no hunger, no pissing, no beard growth.” He ran a hand over his smooth chin, again. “But this is where it gets interesting. The second night I was here, I entered what I believe to be a woman’s dreams. But as a spectator, unable to get involved. The redhead, my subject I’ll call her, experienced typical sleep-manifestations from which I’ve been extrapolating the circumstances in her life which may have led to them.