by Lucas Alpay
“He just kept saying and saying that he can’t die,” Wilder said and then nodded at one of the sandmen inside.
Suddenly, the water in the glass tank was drained with the use of metal tubes attached at the back of it. It made a loud whoosh that vibrated the ground, tingling Fritz’s knees. Frank dropped like a wooden marionette, it was as if his body wasn’t flesh anymore but calcified makeshift of arms, legs, and torso. For someone who couldn’t die, he looked pretty much dead.
Fritz tapped the glass again. Taptaptap-clinkclink.
“Stop doing that,” Wilder said and went closer to him. “This isn’t playtime, Fritz…” He sniffed and suddenly got irritated. “Have you been drinking?”
“Of course I’ve been drinking, why the hell wouldn’t I drink especially in the time like this? Drinking should be for a celebration and tragedy.” He made an imaginary toast. “The only time you shouldn’t be drinking is when your life is boring.”
Wilder then grabbed his arm hard and shoved him down on a seat. He appointed one of the sandmen to look after him, to not let him stand because he might punch him in the face if he did anything more. Wilder then strode towards Frank and asked him again.
“Everything will be over, we won’t hurt you anymore.—” That’s obviously, hilariously, a lie. Do you think Frank would believe that? Jeez, Fritz thought. “—Just tell us who created you and why this person is doing this.”
Still without the laugh, Frank moved his head and looked at Wilder with those empty sockets. With his broken skull, it seemed that they were all looking at a mask.
“Give me a fucking cigarette first… I love me some.”
Wilder pulled out his cigarette pack from his chest pocket and threw it above the glass tank, making it fall next to Frank. Frank then sat up and reached for it, and then followed the lighter, this time it came from Gordon.
Frank gingerly pulled out a cigarette stick and lit it up.
“You know I don’t get,” Wilder said, “I can’t get someone like you has the capacity to smoke. You don’t have an airway to pass air through your lungs…” It seemed that Wilder wanted to laugh but stopped himself in case of unprofessionalism, besides, he was a head officer, those kinds of people didn’t laugh. “So, you now going to talk? If not, then we all have the whole day. And the next…”
“What about the night?” Frank said, the smoke miraculously being breathed in.
Everyone didn’t talk. They didn’t know what to respond to that, because honestly, none of them knew what would be lurking in the coming, insidious darkness. What nightmares came-true would attack them. Would kill them.
“How long since you’ve been born, boys? How old are you? Don’t you think it’s now time for a better class of dreams?” Frank said. “Wait a minute, not dreams, nightmares. It’s natural for an old species to die and be replaced by a stronger one. And I, my friends, am stronger than you. Those who attacked you were stronger than any of you, more infinite. Yes,” he nodded in agreement, “you did kill them. But stay tuned for the tonight show.” And then he laughed, a long hoarse laugh that surrounded the whole basement. That laugh. “Wilder, my man, aren’t you curious that your compass, your special—” he quoted the air at the same time “—compass, moved towards my direction?” He looked at everyone. “Anyone of you has the compass, the normal shitty compass, the one you are all using to track dreams and nightmares?”
Slowly, everyone suddenly, automatically, started to pat their pockets until someone produced one.
“Don’t be shy, open it.”
And so the sandman did. He looked, and looked, and looked again; the hands of the compass weren’t moving.
“No… It’s…” He swallowed. “Nothing’s happening…”
It was all crickets in the head of Fritz.
Everyone was frozen. Everyone suddenly had no strength to look at Frank.
“I was informed that your special rings cancel out, exclude you from the detection of the compass. And I was also informed that every sandman should always carry such a ring. Yeah? And my favorite, something that I should not forget, it also makes you invisible to the mortal eyes,” he chuckled. “Very convenient piece of jewelry if you ask me. I want one someday, or maybe tonight… Yeah, I prefer tonight.” Frank looked at them one by one, he looked at their hands as if there were rings. “Four of you are wearing your rings. I’m betting that all of the remaining have their rings in their pockets.” He smoked. He breathed out. He was now laughing, he was now throwing insults at their thunderstruck faces. And most of all, he was, in all meaning of the word, impossible.
Gordon was the first one to react. He moved over to the glass tank and asked: “What are you?”
Chapter 10
Somebody called for Gordon and Wilder after the session of interrogation. The sandman said it was urgent, and they should get going to the main office of the building.
“Who the hell is it?” this was Gordon who had his hands still in fists. And although it was a gesture of anger, Fritz could still see them shaking, he could still feel the adrenaline moving through his system. There was fear mixed around there.
“It’s the California elect, sir, he wants an update…”
“Tell the old man I’ll update him if he sends a reserved battalion,” he then moved away but immediately returned and added, “and tell him it wouldn’t hurt to dream up a new set of sandmen. We are already outnumbered here. And lastly, tell that son of a bitch to have a goddamn heart.” He mumbled again. None of them good. “Fucking elects.”
“I think we should go,” whispered Wilder to Gordon, “It’s the elect for chrissake.”
“That’s it, sir, he is calling you two because there has already been an attack in Los Angeles, in the light. They have… casualties.”
Frank laughed as he heard this. He cursed of joy and told them they should now pack their things and hide. “Hide to your caves, idiots.” Because his creator was now coming and would get to them one by one, would destroy their hidden empire brick by brick, and would do so nightmare by nightmare.
Fritz looked at Frank, I will shoot you with a goddamn missile, let’s see if you still live.
When the two head officers were already gone, Fritz told the sandmen in the makeshift interrogation room that he would be calling his partner, Mark. “I’ll fight my way through if you don’t let me,” he added, “and besides, I won’t be a problem anymore if I’m not here.” They reluctantly agreed to his request (but more so of a threat) and went back to their mediocre guarding of the monster Frank. He could feel that they also wanted to get out of there, to get as far away from the boneheaded nightmare. Fritz couldn’t blame them, he was also afraid, but it wasn’t because of Frank, it was because of the possibility he held.
He was suddenly, surprisingly, unexpectedly, afraid to die. But that shouldn’t be the case here, because he had already thought of killing himself these past years (he already had a list on how to commit the act). But because of this sudden event, these killings of immortals-dreamt, he found himself cowardly clinging for life.
He then searched for Mark in every level and found him at the cafeteria, now drinking a bottle of bourbon straight from the intricately decorated bottle. When Fritz approached him, he was looking outside, looking at those clouds drifting slowly and the birds flying up and down, sideways, all of them with no particular destination. They were freedom. It was calming. It was a temporary solace.
“Hey,” Fritz called and shared the table with him.
“Hey back.”
“The California elect called. There has been an attack in Los Angeles in daylight. Can you believe that?” Fritz noticed a pack of cigarettes on the table and took it. He got a stick, put it in between his lips and asked if Mark had a light.
Mark said he has and summoned a lighter from his jacket’s pocket and gave it to him.
“Good,” Mark said, “that’d make him panic, that could make him dream up another group of sandmen, preferably stronger ones…” He a
dded, in a whisper, “We’re getting too old for this.”
Fritz lit up his cigarette and blew smoke. That’s what Gordon said. He suddenly thought of running away just as what Frank had suggested. He wouldn’t hide though, he would just run. He would just try to live a normal life every human had. There were a couple of sandmen who had escaped in their secret history, who had become AWOL from their eternal responsibility. Fritz didn’t know what happened to them—they didn’t die under their Night Law (or any law of their kind), that was for sure, because there was no punishment in abandonment, you wouldn’t be hunted down; the only punishment is that you wouldn’t be able to go back in the sandmen society. The only thing that was keeping him here was the idea of boredom. What would he do outside these walls in the first place? The thought was enticingly sweet for a short period of time, but in the long run it would be hell. He wanted out, desperately, but if he imagined his life, what would he become if he went out and left for good… well…
What would I become then?
He would fall in love, that would definitely happen. He would have a job, a normal one without killing anybody, and preferably a.m. shift. And then what? He couldn’t have a family. As a dream himself, he was sterile. All of them were. But if he found a girl who loved him enough to stay with him alone, would he be strong enough to see her age and die? And if he were strong enough, was his stomach able to take repeating everything again. Find a girl. Have a life with her. Watch her be a grandma and die. Repeat. Except that for the possible love of his life (who would be watching him be ageless for years, he couldn’t share any of his experience to her, to any mortal actually. He could, but no one would believe him. No one in this era would believe such extraordinary story, and at the same time a true one, even if his condition was extraordinary itself. Ageless? There was now a medical call for that, something objective, something that had been studied, something that would disprove that creatures like him existed. It was the miracle of science.
So here he was, deciding against the idea of running away. Deciding against Frank.
“Fritz, Mark,” someone suddenly called behind them.
When they looked at who it was, Fritz saw the same sandman who had imparted the news from the California elect. The messenger of the day.
“You’re both being called in the main office.”
When they entered, they saw Gordon and Wilder looking down, they didn’t even flinch, didn’t even acknowledge their presence. It seemed to be that they were in deep thought. Six Starbucks ice cold coffees were sitting on the table of Wilder. Cigarettes burned down to their butts next to them. The room smelled like a bar in New York during the 70s. Dirty and honest.
“Sit down, both of you,” Gordon said, his eyes still on the ground, his fingers fidgeting.
So both of them sat. Fritz reached for one of the Starbucks coffees, but it was empty, and when he tried the others, they were all empty as well. Dammit.
“Fritz has been ordered to go to Los Angeles immediately,” Wilder said, his eyes finally found them. “The elect asked for all the investigators of sandmen. Anyone who has experience in an unpredictable event. Anyone who has actually solved the case. The first person that popped in my mind was, of course—”
“Me,” Fritz said rather loudly, “you know I’m done with that thing, I can’t—”
“It’s not only you,” this was Gordon. “The elect said there will be someone in San Fernando to help you, and he also has an investigator of his own. You will not be alone in this. And if things get ugly, you won’t be the one to kill unlike what happened last time.”
Fritz waved his hand for them to stop. “Shut it. I don’t want to fucking remember that.”
“Why am I here?” Mark suddenly asked.
“You are here to be a temporary head while Gordon and I go to Chicago to dig deeper in the history of the elects,” said Wilder.
“We’ll review anything, an event that has a similarity to this one,” Gordon said. “Also, we will be asking for any reinforcement in every nearby state. We’ll go directly to the elects.”
“Are you both smoking dope? I will lead this thing?” Mark asked incredulously. “What if somebody attacks us tonight? What will I do? Goddamnit, I’m not prepared for this kind of shit!”
“How long are you alive?” Wilder asked with a calm demeanor.
“I don’t know… 460 years I guess.”
“Then you can handle it. If you are below 100, you still haven’t seen everything, but 300 and up, that means you’ve seen close to everything.”
Mark protested again, but when Wilder punched the table, he shut up and went still like a scared dog.
“Accept an order, Mark,” Wilder said, “those who are older than you are incapacitated to lead. You are the only one right now, and I assure you if Christopher is not in a fucking breathing apparatus then he would be leading, not you. Understand?”
Mark only nodded, his eyes looking sideways, his body shaking.
“Do you understand?”
Mark finally looked at him. “Yeah, I do,” he said, every syllable precise.
Wilder then pointed at Fritz and said, “Pack your things, the elect would be expecting you tonight.”
Chapter 11
Fritz had packed light. The only things in his bag were two shirts, two pants, and two suits. He had no weapon with him, no protection. In his right pocket he carried a compass for finding dreams and nightmares. That was all. But now, as he was in the verge of playing “detective” again, there were more things, more baggage that his mind was conjuring every meter he trekked. It was uncomfortable. They were the memories he was avoiding since that night of darkness in blood, the night of England. Yet you should know that these were untouchable objects owned by William and not Fritz. But still, Fritz was the one who inherited such memories—and no matter what he did, he had still been William. The killer of small things.
No escape… he thought.
Once he was in the plane, he had no strength to go to sleep, because every time he closed his eyes, nightmares kept pulling him to wake. So instead, with the small screen in front of him, he watched a movie from the past months and drained himself with its story. It was about sex and murder. Just the way I like it.
But he hadn’t got the chance to finish it. Exactly an hour after, they already arrived in their destination. He went outside the airport and ordered a cab to bring him in this mansion just near the edge of Los Angeles. And before he knew it, he was already there.
He stood in front of two huge, black gates that were attached to red-bricked pillars—glowing lights were lit above them even though it was still afternoon. Beyond them he could only see countless trees moving minutely in the blow of the wind. And between the trees, there was an unpaved pathway straight towards the mansion. Fritz could only see a glimpse of the mansion itself; a white patch of marble and metal. He suddenly didn’t know what to do. In his entire life he had only seen an elect once, and that was a long time ago where the word electricity was still a new thing.
He then searched for a doorbell but found nothing. He was now planning to climb up—but no, that would be William’s characteristic, because William would do anything to get answers, to get the job done as fast as possible. He nodded to himself. William would climb this, no question about it, but not Fritz. Fritz would do the civil thing and act within good manners. So he went old-school. He shouted if anyone was in. “Hello? Is anybody there? My name is Fritz from San Francisco office—one of them, anyway.” He added the last one as a whisper.
And he kept shouting hello over and over again until he found a movement from afar that came from the patch of mansion in his sight. It was this dark slit in reality, walking towards him. It had a reeking aura to it that Fritz couldn’t place. He then wondered if it was a dream conjured by the elect. Because that would be obvious. Once you were allowed to create things from your dreams, you wouldn’t stop, you would take that power for granted, you would abuse it, and you would happily do so
every day.
And he was right. It was a dream. They would put it in level III category if ever it was on the streets. This was a myth.
It was a giant man covered in armor and a black cloak, and when Fritz looked up, he couldn’t see his face because of this big helmet. But, as he examined him further, there was no face. It was as if the helmet was hollow.
“My name is Fritz from the San Francisco office. I think your elect called for me if I’m not mistaken,” he said. “Please tell me I’m mistaken.”
The Giant Man shook his head and pushed the black gate to open. He then lifted his hand and pointed towards the mansion. Fritz considered this as an order.
He moved through the pathway with the Giant Man just behind him. As he walked, he noticed that the trees weren’t tended to, cared at. Fallen leaves were all over the place, their brown, decomposed flakes being lifted by an occasional wind. Farther more, he saw a well on the far corner of the property that made him think of ghosts. There was also a small tower that could be a pinnacle of any castle in Europe, standing like a sentinel near the mansion. It had a single window that contained only darkness. And you know what darkness held? Fritz knew. Darkness contains almost everything depending on your imagination. At this time, his imagination dictated that there would be a headless Rapunzel there, waiting for a prince to let down her decapitated head’s hair to.
And finally, the last but not the least, a desolate playground. There were slides, a seesaw, swings, and everything a child would fancy. The colors, though, were all sun-drenched, and the whole place had beaten up by time, making it a shell of its former reason. There were rust on the metallic support of the slides, cracks like spider webs clung to the plastic of the seats of the swings like birthmarks. Everything looked unstable, unplayable.
Except for their footsteps, the whole place was silent. Only a few sunlight passed through the roof of leaves above them, giving a lowlight in the middle of the afternoon.