by Lucas Alpay
Rowan finally failed in exhaustion and let his eyes rest. And he did all of this with a smile.
Outside the interrogation room, a misty being suddenly materialized. There were no sandmen around so no one had seen it, had been alarmed in its presence. And when it was completed, when it was solidified, it had chosen to form Rowan Wood.
“They messed me up that bad,” Rowan said, looking at the door of the interrogation room. He walked a little farther and saw five sandmen sitting around and watching football on the television they’d installed. Not far from them was one of his assassins, all shackled up and probably also had been tortured.
He thought of ways on how to handle his escape, what were the things he could come up with to finally destroy the sandmen in this city. He looked around for inspiration. The only things he could see there were metal tubes on the ceiling, and hard concrete floor, nothing much to cultivate his creative mind.
“How about…” he raised his hand, “a lion.” Orange mist suddenly appeared in front of him. They were forming wisps in the air, threadlike and sharp. It formed a four-legged being yet into its completion. “10 feet in four legs.” It became bigger, and with a wave of the hand, and the formation of the fist, a lion it became. Every bit of detail it formed into perfection, and something more.
The giant lion looked at him, its eyes identifying their maker.
“You know what to do,” Rowan said and watched his creation move to the un-expecting sandmen.
Screams were the immediate noises he heard. They all reached for their weapons, their guns, but it was all too late. One tried to run, but the lion stepped on him and bit his body to a snap. Rowan watched the blood squirt out of their necks as claws swiped their faces into shreds. It wasn’t a battle; it was a massacre. And Rowan knew that that would be the same case for everything else.
He crossed his arms and thought of what next. He looked at the darkness at the edge of the room and thought of assassins. A sound of wind radiated inside, and the next thing he knew was that his imagined assassins were now pouring out of the shadows, all of them already armed, already clothed for war. Once they saw him, the gesture of the lion was repeated—they identified who he was.
He ordered one of them to free and take care their fallen brethren, the assassin that was shackled up. “Just get ready, I have many dreams to think of… And don’t worry, we have all night.”
Chapter 29
They heard glasses breaking, and somewhere between all there were bellows of the dying. Fritz was just about to ask Natasha to repeat what she had just said, but he hadn’t had the chance as he saw her eyes look out. So he followed her gaze and saw blades puncturing and passing through bodies. There were black spilled on the ground outside, caused by hundreds of assassins doing what they were made for.
Fritz grabbed her hand and shouted, “Run.” They found their feet going upstairs, Fritz was now calling for everybody to save themselves. Many asked them why, but he didn’t answer and just continued on where he would go. Natasha let go of his hand and went the other way, went to her room. Somewhere in the chaos Fritz heard Jack and Cynthia calling him. He turned and saw them running towards them. “Jack, follow Natasha!” he went to their direction, “Cynthia, you’re coming with me!”
They followed his order, and they separated. He could now hear the steps of the killers reaching inside the mansion. He ran faster.
When he got to his room, he grabbed the revolver and a few bullets for the road. Survival didn’t enter his mind, the future should be nothing when one was in a situation like this, one should be here now, at this moment.
Behind him, Cynthia shot one of her guns. He looked behind and saw an assassin on the floor. They went out with their weapons held high.
Rowan stood patiently outside as he watched everything be destroyed. He was still thinking if he would keep this house or just burn it to the ground and build another, grander home. It seemed so small for his taste, especially with all the dreams he had already done for himself. And there were the dreams Melissa would be doing too… so yes, burn it he would.
With his hand behind him, he walked to the front door. The bodies of the old sandmen were littered. Some were still breathing, moaning for help. He went to one of them; it was a woman, her torso sliced on the side and he could see her innards poking out slightly, still shy for the world.
He looked at her blue eyes and smiled. It wasn’t impish, it wasn’t like he was enjoying what he was seeing, it was only a smile, a real one, a smile you would make when hearing a baby laugh.
“Do you see what I’m doing?” he asked, “I’m looking at you, I’m remembering your face. That means I’ll recreate you… your body won’t be destroyed, and then you’ll live and serve me. Die for now, dream, your life is yet Erik’s.” He was grinning now. “Die.”
A single tear went out of the dream’s eye, and then her gaze went forwards, the expression on her face already gone. Rowan looked back at the mansion, there was fire now in one of the rooms, there were gunshots, voices of wrath, but the most prominent thing of all was the blades of his sandmen.
He closed his eyes and thought of a butler, chairs facing each other, and a table. And when he opened them, there they were, created for his amusement. The butler offered him a chair to sit, he gladly took it and asked him if he could bring him the dead sandwoman with the blue eyes.
“May I ask where, sir?” he said, his accent thick with Irish influence, a result of his subconscious dreaming perhaps.
Rowan pointed at where she died, and the butler dragged her to him.
“Put her on the chair, make sure she won’t fall.”
As he waited patiently for the body to settle, he saw a little of her intestine flush out of her body. He didn’t wink and just thanked the butler after he successfully did what had been said. That’s a good butler for you, he thought.
“What do you want to call yourself?” he asked, smiling at him.
The butler seemed to think, “What options do I have, sir?”
“You inherited my vocabulary, you choose, just think of it and it’ll be there.”
His eyes drifted to the side, making him look exactly at the dead woman. “I want to be called Ewan, sir, Ewan Flint.”
There’s a surname, “Very well, Ewan it is. Now, Ewan, I have something more to ask you…”
They fought their way to the battle. There were dead sandmen on the hall, their mouths bloody and their eyes now soulless—but they were soulless to begin with. Fritz’s face had blood from those he had killed, there was no gun in his hand now but only a sword he had taken from one of the assassins. Cynthia on the other hand still had her bullets; it seemed that Erik had created her as a dream with an incredible good shot, because she didn’t waste her bullets by firing and hoping it would land and kill an enemy, she aimed perfectly before firing, and the result was every bullet had found a head or a heart to stop.
It was faster than Fritz had imagined. Almost only five minutes had gone by. He could fight some more, that was a dire fact, but surrounding them now were countless black-clad killers, their weapons pointed at them. He would be killed, he said to himself as the moment sunk into him, he would finally die after all of these long years and decades and lifetimes—none of them seemed to mean anything now, he had gotten no accomplishments and his names would only be words on paper, nothing more. There was nothing to be proud of, so he stood there and accepted what was about to happen.
Cynthia behind him seemed she was ready too. Fritz thought of him, that he was the lucky one between them, because he had lived. It might not be pretty, but his life had its moments of color around the gray.
He thought if Natasha was still alive, if she were in the same position like him, surrounded by killers and waiting for last breath. Could Melissa be alive too? That would not be possible, he thought, because she was the next elect, and if Rowan wanted to have the whole California to rule, he needed any form of obstacle to be gone. That was what Fritz would do. It was
the safer route.
He was about to drop his swords until something at the edge of the hall stopped him.
“Natasha…” he whispered, seeing her unharmed, afraid. Next to her was Melissa. She was holding her arm, guiding her mother towards the staircase. Then Tora followed behind… she was dragging something, and when it was revealed, Fritz saw the body of Jack. There was a knife on his forehead.
“What’s going on here?” he asked, the sun finally going down the horizon, the dark eating up the skies.
Right now Rowan had his dead company complete. Opposite to him was the mutilated body of Erik, and also the blue-eyed lady was still with them, still dead. Ewan also granted his request of food on the table. There was now a roasted ham in front of him and a bucket of chilled wine.
“Thank you, Ewan,” he said, “Have a few minutes to yourself.”
Ewan bowed, “Sir,” and then he left.
Rowan stood up and went behind the blue-eyed lady. He held her shoulders and brushed her strawberry-blonde hair. He closed his eyes and suddenly the whole body of the woman dissolved, but not completely. She just turned into a misty fragment of herself, as if she were a statue made of soft chalk being drowned in crystal waters. You now couldn’t see her injury, only a figure and the major colors she was made of: black and her creamy skin, and that hair.
She was finally solidified. She was finally completed. She was reborn.
When Rowan opened his eyes, the woman breathed in. She struggled for a bit but finally relaxed as she saw Rowan. She now had a different dress, not the common robe Erik had created her with, but a real dress made for a formal occasion.
“What do you want to be called, dream?”
The woman cried and looked at him. “You’ve kept your promise…”
“What can I say, I’m a good man.” He went back to his seat. “It’ll be a lot of work but I think I’ll manage reviving you all. So answer my question, dream, what do you want to be called?”
“The name I’ve chosen for myself was Samantha—”
“Change it, that’s what this sucker had given to you,” he pointed at Erik, “I’m letting you choose a name directly in your mind and not something written on paper,” he reached for a fork and helped himself with a slice of a ham.
The sun was finally gone, and right on cue, the lights outside were opened for him. He looked at the mansion and saw Ewan. Rowan waved and gave him a smile of appreciation.
“I want to be called Laura…”
“Laura… that’s a good choice. Now, I want you to go inside because what will come next might be disturbing. You’re too young for it.”
He waved Ewan to come, and he led Laura inside.
Chapter 30
Rowan whistled to the air; this would be the call that would beckon his lion, a dreamt-predator he now jestingly named Max (just like how he would call a dog). A growl came next somewhere in the mansion, and then there were footsteps, banging heavily on the ground like iron mallets, sending an invitation to anyone to make way. The mammoth of a lion finally emerged, its light brown hair failing to hide the great, terrifying muscles underneath.
“Stay put,” he ordered, and it sat. He closed his eyes and revived the girl Erik had been screwing next to him. When he opened his eyes, she was now wearing a white dress, a color counterpart of Laura’s. He asked her what she wanted her name to be and told her not to choose her old name because this was her new life now. She said she wanted to be called Fiona.
He smiled and requested Ewan to guide her inside. Max growled next to him, his big eyes to Erik’s bloody face.
Rowan reached for the bottle of wine and poured it in a glass. He drank. “I’ve never really done this to a person before. But there’s a first time in anything I suppose,” he picked up a napkin and wiped his mouth with it. “Ewan, come here, please.” He did. “I want you to hold his neck—use a chokehold.”
“Sir,” he acknowledged and stood behind Erik and did what had been said.
“He would turn air for a minute so I want you to be steady as possible,” he said. Ewan nodded.
He closed his eyes once again, leaned over and concentrated the hell out of reviving him. This was, of course, a human being, a thing not made by a mind but by a sperm that met an egg inside a uterus—and indeed, this was a complicated venture. Rowan felt for every molecule of his body, every blood dripping from his face, every doughy curve of his skin. He imagined all of them returning to what they were yesterday, he thought of his brain being able to create bioelectricity again, his heart pumping blood and delivering oxygen in each cursed cell. He imagined him to live.
When he opened his eyes, a big gulp of air came from Erik. His eyes were wild as he found himself in the situation. He immediately grabbed Ewan’s arms and tried to pry them away.
“Oh my God, it’s so nice meeting you again!” Rowan said and drank some red. “What do you think?” he presented to him his mansion and the dead bodies around it. “I think I’ll be doing some renovations once you’re gone.”
“You son of a bitch!”
Rowan bit to the thin champagne glass, breaking it in the process. A cut was now on his lower lip, but instead of blood, wisps of air came out. “My mother is not a bitch!” he broke the glass completely and stabbed Erik’s arm with it. Erik yelled. “My mother… is not a bitch…” he said again and touched his lip, “Look at what you made me do.” He imagined it to heal and it healed.
“What did you do to me?!” He struggled. Ewan made his hold tighter.
“Don’t worry, you’ll die in a short while. Reviving a human being is not like reviving a dream. Death for your kind is permanent, and this life I’ve given you will fade. Tough break.” He drank. “How’s the afterlife, by the way? Heaven or hell?”
“Let me go!”
Max roared. Erik stopped his struggle.
“There are two choices for you. First is let Max here eat you, or the second, which means you’ll enjoy this meal, until the dreamt-part of your body fades. Either way,” he shrugged, “you still die.”
Erik forcefully hoisted up and successfully freed himself of Ewan. He then ran for it towards his trees.
Rowan looked at Max. The lion stood in four and leapt for Erik, Erik in turn stopped and faced Rowan in his nakedness.
“Maybe we should let Max eat this one,” Rowan said to Ewan. The butler then nodded and excused himself. “Sit back here, asshole.” He looked at the mansion of assassins. “Can anyone please bring me some rope!” he yelled.
A minute later, two assassins produced a rope. “Tie him to the chair,” he ordered, and they followed. “We don’t want him now anywhere.”
“Fuck you!”
“And that’s the way you treat your son? No wonder you’re still not married. Oh, I forgot, you were married… to a… masochist? Correct me if I’m wrong, she is a clinical masochist, right?”
“Fuck you!” spittle came out of his mouth. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, boy!”
With a napkin, he removed a little spit that had landed on his face. “These are the last words you’d say to me? No ‘I love you, son, and I’m sorry for not being there’? No shit like that?” he laughed.
“You’re not my son! You don’t know how many likes of you come here every year! You are all fucking cons!” a slice of skin suddenly produced blood on his belly. He yelled in pain.
“That’s my dream in you fading,” he grinned, “I’m going to enjoy this greatly.”
Erik squirmed and yelled as all the injuries that had killed him came back in perfect sequence. Blood squirted out of his body until they shaped perfect stab wounds. His expletive curses towards Rowan were then changed into the sound of choking as his neck suddenly opened up in dirty, fleshy strings of gashes, making blood come out like a cherry waterfall.
Rowan stood up as he felt the dreamt-part of Erik completely fading. He moved in front of his face and let him stare at him, he wanted him to be the last thing he would ever see.
&n
bsp; “Yes… I think you’re going to hell…” he smiled as Erik’s cheek fell off and created a lopsided grin.
Fritz was shaking. Beside him was Natasha, and sitting on the sofa in front of them were Melissa and Tora. Tora was still with that blank face, as if her mind was concentrating on her surroundings, translating the noises around her by using a hyper-developed human sonar. The girl on the other hand, Melissa, was silent and looking at her red sequined shoes, just like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. And the odd thing about her was she wasn’t at all scared, even in the silence she’d been sporting, a child like her should be terrified at least, should express this subtle sentiment and movements that signified everything was not fine. But no. And when she giddily swung her feet up and down, it was the moment that made Fritz think something was wrong.
He could now hear Rowan laughing outside, clapping. Oddly, just before that, he could swear he’d heard another voice, Erik’s voice.
Natasha was holding his hand, and it tightened when Rowan started rejoicing. Her eyes were on her girl, the not-terrified-girl that might, in any moment, imagine a yellow-bricked road. Fritz was still taken aback whenever he remembered the fact that Melissa came from Natasha, because what Melissa was made of then? Half dream and half human? A dream with a…
“A soul…” he whispered in realization. And then he remembered, he remembered about the hunch he had, that the attacks couldn’t be done by a single entity, that there were probably be two. She has a part in this…
“Mr. Fritz,” a butler at the entrance suddenly called. “Master Wood wants to talk to you.”
One of the assassins moved towards him. “It’s fine, I can handle myself.” He stood up and followed the butler that made him think of Batman’s Alfred. He even had the accent.