Sandmen

by Lucas Alpay

“What happened?” he said this rather calmly, as if he were really sincere on the events that had happened last night. “Tell me exactly what you saw…”

  Mark and Fritz looked at each other and tried to remember everything that they could. It was Mark who first talked; it was always him, the mouth in their tandem.

  “They were… as if they were systematic,” he said. “They didn’t flinch when they were killing Ethan... And when they saw us they didn’t hesitate,” he clapped his hands, “just like that, they followed us with those bloody weapons. Literally bloody. Like dripping fucking crimson.” He pulled out a cigarette from his pocket and lit it with shaking hands. Fritz could see the dark of his eyes wobble as if he were high on cocaine.

  “How many were there?”

  “Two, there were two… I’m sure,” this was Fritz, he thought of anything that he could add, but his mind was blank.

  Wilder finally sat down. He pulled out a pen and a paper and started scribbling some notes like he was a real reporter trying to investigate a murder.

  “Give me descriptions,” he said.

  “We thought at first they were these samurai warriors,” Fritz said, “but after a few glances, they were these level III dreams… more specifically, um… ninjas…”

  Wilder didn’t laugh in the word, he remained stoic and kept writing. It was uncharacteristic of him; in time immemorial, he was always like the Hulk of the whole office. He wasn’t reserved in keeping his opinions of their workmanship for himself. He would say what he wanted to say every time with bulging veins on his neck and forehead.

  “How did they kill?”

  It was Mark who summarized to him how, and how fast they’d dispatched of Ethan.

  Wilder bowed down and touched his forehead and whispered a “goddamnit”. He was just there, staring at the piece of paper, looking problematic, looking like the giant Atlas who carried the world on his tired shoulders.

  If Wilder was like this, Fritz had every right to be scared himself, actually, be more scared than last night. Because there was still the fact that those assassins were still out there, hiding, and more so could be killing few civilians. For the very first time in so many decades, they failed in their jobs.

  “So, what are you going to do, boss?” Mark asked.

  Wilder looked up, “It will take precautions.” He looked out of his office and to the desks of his employees on the floor. “Everyone of you will have body armors tonight while I contact all necessary people to work on this.”

  “But what is this?” Fritz asked, “in all the years I am alive I’ve never seen anyone like it.—Yes, I saw griffins, I saw unicorns, giant snakes, I even saw few assassins and murderers, but all of them couldn’t distinguish between a person and a fucking wall, and they weren’t directed for a single purpose. I mean, those assassins felt like they were made exclusively to kill sandmen…”

  “Yeah, it felt like that,” Mark supported. “Maybe if only Claris, then I would believe that they were random dreamed-assassins. But, dude, no. Immediately after we found her… You know the story.”

  Wilder looked at them first in an ample amount of time, a serious glance for each of them until he spoke: “This is about secrecy, about control, about preventing chaos happening in the whole world all over again. Why do you think in ancient civilization that there were gods, legends, monsters?” he paused, a dramatic effect pause. “Because we weren’t there…”

  “What are you saying? That there is a rogue elect?” Fritz asked.

  “It’s not possible, man. All the elects swore not to use their powers in their own gain—no, that’s not right, I forgot they can still break the—what I mean is, And what gain would they have if they kill us? No, this is a different thing,” Mark said.

  “Whatever it is, we need to prepare. Whoever is this person dreaming these assassins… I’m sure he could dream anything. I’ve seen it once, and it never ended up pretty,” said Wilder.

  On the seventh floor, they were all fixing the body armors to be used tonight. They were also preparing their weapons used for many centuries; these weapons were morningstars, katanas, claymores, broad swords, anything you could think of that was pointy and could slit the throat in one clean maneuver.

  Fritz and Mark helped, of course. They were the ones who were assigned to remove the dust accumulated by these weapons. Mark, as he was doing his task, was sneezing every second—it made Fritz stand a good 7 feet away from him. Mark didn’t like that and so he tossed a dagger towards him which almost took off his heart if ever he didn’t duck.

  “What the hell, man!” Fritz said, holding another dagger himself.

  “Eat this douche bag,” he raised his dirty finger proudly.

  And so Fritz and Mark continued with their cleaning, with a thought disturbing Fritz’s mind: Why did I duck? He had an affinity for death, hadn’t he? Why did I duck…

  They were granted three hours of sleep for the day. But as Fritz lay on his bed, he was thinking of what would happen tonight, what the armors that would be covering their bodies would do if the dreamed-entity they would be facing was a myth. Because that was the scary thing if a myth had a purpose, such as killing sandmen. They wouldn’t stand a chance, they would be stepped on like tin cans with ketchup inside. They would be cleaned up by other offices surrounding the city. “Stupid office 78” they would say, weak and stupid could be added to that. They would die and be forgotten but be remembered in their own history books as the office that had been killed by myths created by an elect… A possible rogue elect in Fritz’s opinion. Because Fritz couldn’t think of anything but that.

  Fritz stayed awake until the alarm next to him sounded off. He stood up and everyone assigned in the night shift left their rooms and went to the seventh floor to wear all of their defensive apparel. When Fritz got there, it felt like war. He remembered World War II by this. He recalled that each night they had had to wear hard hats that had been once exclusive for the military. Because during that time, men, women, and even children were dreaming of Nazis, and there were Hitlers too. And every one of them had guns, every one of them prepared to kill anyone that wasn’t white. It was a nightmare back then…

  As Fritz wore his gear, he saw Wilder enter the floor. He was also wearing his own armor, which was a black suit that seemed to be a hybrid of a medieval armor and a SWAT suit. He also had a helmet, a shotgun behind him, and a long sword on his side. Printed on the armor on his chest was the face of Betty Boop blowing a kiss.

  Wilder hit a metal rung, calling everybody’s attention.

  “Alright, ladies. I want all of you to hold on to your compasses. If it reacted on something, assess first your surroundings and move on. You don’t just kill, but you’d be smart in how you would kill. We don’t know what is out there, people. We don’t know what will happen to us after tonight—if someone will die or this crap is a one-time thing. But I know for all over these years, all of you are survivors—

  “He sounds like he’s saying goodbye…” Mark whispered to Fritz.

  “—So I order you all to not die tonight. We need every man and woman we could have in fighting this possible dreamer,” he said the word dreamer as if it were a wrong choice of call, and he said it carefully. He then looked at Fritz and Mark. He called their names and ordered them to come closer. “We are going to find the dreamer,” Wilder continued, and then announced, “while all of you, I want you to do your jobs still. If there is even a nonthreatening myth, I want you to call for backup. The mop up team is available at your disposal.”

  A hand was suddenly raised. “Sir, have you called the other offices?”

  “I already did. They’ll be sending to us some of their reserves to assess the situation.” After a moment of chatters, Wilder said, “All right, let’s move.”

  Chapter 6

  They all went outside with their rings on their fingers, the air cold, and the wind blowing to torture them more. They were all cautious this time as they stepped those steps, they all felt that th
eir immortality didn’t matter in the following hours, they all felt they would be joining Claris and Ethan. They walked slowly towards their area of territory, their eyes looking above the buildings, the silence squeezing their hearts. There were not that many people passing by, no vandalizing teenagers to see, nothing and only a few. It was as if the whole city was a barren place.

  Fritz and Mark watched them disperse. They stayed longer on their doorstep with Wilder. Wilder didn’t say anything after his grim announcement. You still couldn’t feel any anger in him, you couldn’t feel any emotion as a matter of fact. Fritz secretly wished that Wilder wasn’t like this (and he also discovered in that moment that he was more comfortable if Wilder was this boss of them that wanted to kill them in every unfollowed order; it seemed peculiar, but Fritz wanted his fingers on his throat). But you couldn’t blame him, it was just that Fritz knew the guy for so long that the abrupt change of his countenance shook Fritz in his very foundations.

  Still smoking, “So? What are we supposed to do?” Mark asked, his weapon with him wasn’t a sword but a rifle and a M10 semiautomatic, and behind him he was carrying a shield that could stop fire and various sharp objects. “Stand here?”

  Wilder suddenly reached for his pocket and revealed to them a very old military Compass. It wasn’t like the military Compass of today, this one was bigger and had insignias covering its metal jacket. What insignias? Fritz and Mark didn’t know, but Fritz reckoned they were before their time and could be made by the first generation of sandmen.

  “This is a dreamer-hunter, the name alone should explain to you what it is,” Wilder said and opened the Compass. Its single hand started moving north. “Follow me and hold on to your weapons. Be alert…”

  And just like loyal dogs, they paced behind him.

  “There are many dreamers in this area, obviously, how do you think that would work? How do you think it would choose the one who’s doing this?” Mark asked.

  “This is something ancient, around 800 BC. It’s been used to choose an elect. And in the things that happened, we might as well hunt for an elect.”

  “Because only an elect is capable of doing this?” Fritz asked and whispered, "Of course it is.”

  “Correct,” Wilder said, still with that grim tone.

  So they walked on the dark streets of San Francisco and watched few cars pass by like men counting sheep before they go to sleep. The Compass moved left, moved right, almost as if leading them to nowhere. But after a few minutes, the Compass finally stopped and led them in front of a deserted building. The hand of the Compass twitched as it pointed towards the structure’s barricaded door.

  “Of course it’s an abandoned building,” Fritz said lazily. “Why is it always an abandoned building?” he asked Mark.

  Mark only shrugged at this. He now looked equally drear as Wilder beside him. He wanted to punch him in his gut and shout snap out of it because being afraid isn’t funny anymore. They’d been in more dangerous situations. Whatever they were facing now only had a dangerous possibility, and it wasn’t still a situation.

  “Who’s going to go first, who’s going to be our lady?” asked Mark.

  Wilder held onto his arm and pushed him forward. “You first, Princess,” he said, his eyes still looking at the building. And so, they followed Mark’s lead, which in turn sent them at a backdoor.

  Mark pulled out his rifle and hit the knob of the door. It easily opened and revealed a dusty and dark inside. Wilder pulled out a flashlight from his pocket and started to give light on their path ahead. What they saw there were only a few chairs, some shards of glass, cabinets, and a few dirty sheets that could be owned by a homeless person (and they were indeed from a homeless person; they still stunk when Fritz went closer to it). Other than that, there was nothing out of the ordinary. Yet still the Compass insisted that there was something, someone here with them.

  After turning off the flashlight, “Get ready…” whispered Wilder. They all stood back to back with their swords and guns held tightly, ready to pull the trigger and ready to hack away.

  Suddenly, a flash of light came from one of the rooms near Fritz. It was this tiny yellow light, and when Fritz looked closer, it was actually a lighter giving amber to a cigarette.

  “You know that these little white sticks would kill me,” someone said, “but I can’t get over them, just can’t get over these little babies.” His voice was like sandpaper to a metal plate, it was so hoarse it sounded like a rev of a 30-year-old, poorly maintained motorcycle.

  “As of today, you can call me Frank,” this someone continued. “I like the name of Frank, I think it’s an independent name, a name that can get you things, a name that can make things happen, whatever things they might be…” He started producing steps, steps towards their way.

  “Don’t shoot,” Wilder said with his sword pointed at Frank.

  “Fuck with that!” this was Fritz, and after that phrase a gunshot came out from his revolver.

  Wilder immediately held Fritz’s hand down and stared at him with those fiery eyes. But he didn’t speak, he just stared back towards Frank and assessed if he were still alive. And yes, he was. They could still see the burn of amber from his cigarette, burning in the dark, giving them few clues on what his face looked like.

  “I don’t die easy, bub,” Frank said. “To be honest, I don’t think I could die at all.” He finally stepped out of the room and revealed himself in the little light seeping inside the building.

  He wasn’t a man at all. He was something else. His face, his whole head, was a bleached skull. There were no eyes in those eye sockets, no tongue behind those teeth, no brain to be used in thinking. But his body was complete, he had a musculature of a man standing in 5’11” in height, but his whole body was covered with these black, shiny wraps. He looked like a rock ‘n roll mummy from the neck down.

  Frank breathed in his cigarette and blew smoke. Something that was impossible in Fritz’s perspective.

  “Oh, don’t look too surprised,” Frank said. “I thought you men are experienced in this kind of thing. Haven’t you seen anything like me? What am I then, a myth? Class III, right?” He laughed. “Maybe. But I guess not, if my memory serves me right, I think class three is a dream that tries to kill, it has the possibility to be dangerous. But, people, I’m not a danger to your world.” He went closer and pulled out a gun from nowhere.

  BANG!

  Mark was shot on the left shoulder and fell down to the ground, to the dirty sheets, and then it was followed by gunshots and war cries that came from Wilder. Fritz immediately pulled Mark out of the way and went inside one of the dark rooms. Fritz didn’t check anymore if there were some of Frank’s cohorts inside, he just decided to enter and take cover. What would happen next would happen.

  “Wilder!” Fritz yelled and pointed his gun towards the door in case Frank entered. He called again.

  But the only reply given was the sound of sword bashing into something, and the laugh of a man with a very hoarse voice. After that there were more gunshots, there was a yell, and there was the symphony of bones crumbling into tiny little pieces. Or maybe they were the shards of glass…

  And then silence.

  “Fritz! Mark! Help me with this crap,” Wilder called, but they could still hear Frank laughing.

  When they rejoined Wilder, they found Frank on the floor, his hands on his back, and his skull cracked but not penetrated. Fritz immediately pointed his gun to his head and cocked it.

  “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you,” he said to Frank and moved the gun closer to his head.

  With a hand on his wound, “Dude,” Mark called his attention, “we still need him…”

  Fritz looked at Wilder and observed if he and Mark were on the same page, but what Fritz found on Wilder’s face was indifference. He didn’t care what would happen to Frank. But…

  “He’s right, we need him…” Wilder looked at Frank and Frank said -

  “Just give me a cigarette a
nd I’ll tell you everything I know.” He coughed. “And what I know is every one of you will be dead,” he chuckled, “tonight or otherwise.”

  Before any of them could reply in this threat, Wilder’s phone suddenly rang. He picked it up and Fritz and Mark watched his eyes go wide moments after, and then, finally, he screamed.

  Chapter 7

  With words of expletive nature, Wilder ran to the entrance and ordered, “Mark, you come with me. Fritz, stay here and call anyone who is still at the office.”

  Mark looked at Fritz worriedly and said, “Good luck.” He then glanced at the boneheaded Frank as if he were going to crush his skull. Which he did, because he stepped on his head immediately afterwards (no skull had been crushed though).

  Fritz didn’t flinch and watched the two men go out the building, leaving him in the dark with this nightmare near to his feet. He put the nozzle of the gun on his head and sat down. He tried to think of a question, any question that would shed some light on the things that were happening.

  “Who the hell is doing this?” he asked with a one hard tap on the back of Frank’s head. “Who?!”

  But Frank still laughed, and that made Fritz think that whatever he would do to him, he would always find humor in every pain. Maybe it was the way he had been created, to be that jolly thing everyone loved to hate.

  “Why do you think I would tell you that?” Frank said and looked at him with those hollow eyes. “You haven’t done this for a very long time, have you?”

  Another tap on the head. “Just answer me, you dumb shit! Your creator killed two of our men!”

  “What’s in it for me? Eh? Do you have a witness protection program, do you have some asylum I can go to?” He sniggered. “Although if you still have all of those, I’m still not yours. I can’t be bribed. And besides, whatever you do to me, I can’t die.”

  “Wanna bet on it?” Fritz shot him point-blank in the head. Frank’s skull immediately shattered into this expected white little things, but Frank still had his face, he still had that triangle nose and two of his round eye sockets. The only thing that was broken was a good half portion of the back of his skull.