The Fog of Dreams

by Justin Bell

  ********

  William Strickland sat on the floor of his kitchen investigating his wounds. The injury on his chest was deeper than he originally thought, but it was just a groove through the flesh, with no bullet inside. His shoulder wound was also bullet-free, thanks to what seemed like a ricochet off his shoulder bone. There were no broken bones, surprisingly, but he was still in a constant state of pain throughout most of his body. His leg had taken the hardest hit, and he could tell the slug was still buried in the meat of his thigh. He had been working at the wound with his combat knife for a few moments, a tight grimace of pain splitting his face; much like the knife blade split the skin on his leg. As he navigated his body looking for further injury, he noticed an odd gouge pattern on his left arm. It appeared to be actual text there, faint, but definitely readable.

  He raised his arm and brought it closer to his face, noting that this wasn't a tattoo; it was actual letters carved into his flesh. Squinting at his arm, he noticed three simple letters and a series of numbers.

  DNB 455.

  His eyebrows furrowed as he looked at the simple lines etched into the skin on his forearm. Was it a license plate? He shut his eyes, trying to resurrect some kind of memory around this strange arrangement of characters, but came up with nothing. Pushing the thought to the back of his mind, he continued his makeshift surgery, and after a few moments, he dug the bullet out of his thigh, dropping it onto the wooden floor. A few minutes later, he had bandages applied, and stretched his arms and legs to get some feeling back after sitting in an awkward position for so long.

  He stood up, a little too fast, and closed his eyes as a head rush hit him hard, making him dizzy. Right on the heels of the head rush came a surging slam of red fog. Then he saw the strange woman again, and the creature, and hearing the cold, wet snap of her broken-

  "No!" he opened his eyes suddenly and caught his balance using the kitchen counter as a crutch. With the onslaught of that nightmare, Strickland decided it was time to venture out of this rat hole of a cabin and towards some semblance of civilization. Anything to resurrect his scattered and broken memories.

  Walking over to the pile of equipment he had seen earlier, he methodically checked each magazine of each weapon, and then pulled the vest on over his shoulders, tying off some of the torn straps and broken buckles. He grabbed the weapons, sliding both pistols into holsters, and hung the submachine gun from a strap over his shoulder, then walked to the door. Swinging the door open, he exited the cabin. His hand rested on the holster on his right thigh while his eyes scanned the surrounding woods, both foreign and strangely familiar to him. Glaring sunlight beat down upon his face, forcing his eyes to squint under the unyielding brightness.

  As he closed his eyes, the rest of his senses compensated, and that's when he heard it. A whispering cough, coming from at least a hundred yards away. Only it wasn't exactly a cough, and the sound he heard now was a humming buzz, punctuated by the occasional flap of leaf. The buzz drew closer and closer, and then the leaves stopped flapping because whatever buzzed was in the open air, and the only open air was immediately around him and something was coming-

  He swiveled slightly at the waist just as a small blue dart whistled past his chin and struck the side of the cabin with a resounding thunk! A second whistle cut through the air just behind him and he dropped to the grass in a very low crouch, slipping his pistol from its holster right as the second blue dart slapped against the cabin, joining the first. Strickland pushed from his crouch into a dead run, bolting across the grass. Swallowed by the surrounding trees, he had heard two more coughs as he ran, but they went wide. Strickland brought himself to a halt and looked back, shocked at how far he had travelled in those few seconds. Had he always been this fast? Clutching his pistol in his right hand, he bent low and walked through the trees. About sixty feet ahead of him, he saw a well-built man in black tactical gear with a pair of sunglasses and a thin white communications device sticking out of his ear. A silenced rifle was over his shoulder and he now held a small pistol, which didn't look like standard issue to Strickland. Continuing his slow walk forward, he kept the man in his sight and his pistol lifted slightly. The next cough and buzz was a much shorter distance away and Strickland barely saw the other man along the wall of the cabin as he raised his pistol and fired. He knew he couldn't avoid it so he jumped back and twisted, letting the thick pouches on his flak vest absorb the dart harmlessly.

  Strickland backpedaled as the two men approached with their weapons raised.

  "Mr. Strickland, I'm Agent Carr with the National Security Agency," said the large man in a calming voice. "We just want to bring you in for your own protection."

  Strickland didn't buy that, and decided the time to backpedal had ended. He took one last step backwards in his low walking crouch, and then surged forward, firing a quick gunshot between the two men. The sound sent them scrambling for a split second, and in a flash, Strickland was on top of Agent Carr, his pistol spun around in a hammer grip. A thick crack to Carr's forearm forced his fingers to fly open and the tranquilizer pistol fell silently to the grass even as Strickland whipped his right hand backwards, bringing the pistol shattering against the side of Carr's face. Carr stumbled backwards and Strickland shifted, charging then towards Agent Gonzales.

  Gonzales already had his pistol drawn and he fired another strange dart, but everything around Strickland moved in slow motion. As he charged, he turned slightly, slipping past the blue projectile as it crawled through the afternoon air just past his hurtling body. A second later, he was on Gonzales, swinging his gun arm again, but this agent was ready for him. He brought his own arm up in a defensive posture and drilled Strickland right in the base of the hand, which knocked his own gun free, and then he followed up with a left punch, catching Strickland under the chin. Strickland stumbled just a bit, but it was enough for the other man to deliver a sidekick to his ribs, throwing him roughly against the cabin wall. Gonzales charged in again with a backhanded chop, crashing his knife hand into Strickland's neck, and almost knocked him to the ground. He caught himself on the corner of the cabin and bent slightly, grabbing the knife tucked into the sheath on his boot. His enemy turned to strike again, but Strickland brought the blade around and slammed it hilt-deep into Gonzales' thigh and he screamed, backing off suddenly.

  "You son of a bitch!" he shouted, grasping at the handle of the knife, his eyes wide and unbelieving.

  Strickland wordlessly grabbed him by the collar with both hands, then spun around and slammed him hard into the outside wall of the cabin. He held him there, his feet dangling a good ten inches off the ground as Strickland's eyes narrowed and looked deep into his soul.

  "What do you know about my family?"

  "I? I don't know shit, man. Honestly."

  Strickland pulled him off the wall and then slammed him back again, hard.

  "Wrong answer." The bald man continued to hold Gonzales up with one hand and with the other, reached down and grasped the knife hilt sticking out of his leg.

  "No, no, no, dude, come on?"

  Without the slightest hint of mercy, Bill tore the blade from the man's meaty thigh with a squirt of blood. Next, he pressed the blade tightly to Gonzales' throat, just below his bushy beard.

  "My family. Where?" The word was a cross between a growl and a shout, as he could see a thin red mist floating into his eyes. Suddenly, a large black blur was airborne, striking him like an unexpected ocean wave, and Strickland released the man, stumbling backwards under the weight of the other large NSA agent. Considering his size, Carr was surprisingly fast, and before Strickland could react, he'd received three swift punches to the face, and now had an elbow on his neck.

  "We tried to do this the easy way, man," said the NSA goon who kept his large bulk on top of his opponent, keeping him pinned down.

  Strickland looked up at him. The thin veil of red continued to settle, almost like broken blood vessels in the white pools of his eyes. With a sigh, his body grew
limp, and Agent Carr shifted just enough to give the man on the ground the opening he'd been waiting for. Strickland spread his arms out wide, throwing Carr off balance, and he tipped forward as the bald man threw his own head forward at high velocity. The top of Strickland's smooth, bald head cracked loud and hard against the bridge of Carr's nose and he screamed out in surprise and pain. Weight shifted, and Strickland drew his knees in close, and then pushed off, sending the second NSA agent flying backwards onto the grass. In less than a second, he was back on his feet, walking towards the agents. Without hesitation, a fist drilled directly into Agent Carr's solar plexus and he dropped like a rag doll suddenly without its stuffing. Continuing the purposeful march, Strickland approached Gonzales, who charged clumsily on his bad leg, but Strickland merely spun backwards and kicked him behind his right knee. Gonzales fell into a painful kneel in the grass, and Strickland finished him off with a sternum-cracking elbow to his chest.

  Heavy breathing spewed from Strickland's lips as he stood in the grass looking over the two unconscious men. Slowly unclenching his fists he willed the red clouds to drift out of his field of vision, and after a few moments, he felt like he could focus once again. Scooping up his fallen Glock, he slammed it back into his thigh holster and continued walking south from the cabin.

  Agent Grace wasn't happy with what he saw, but he was happy that he was seeing it. For the first time since this operation began, he had satellite coverage and control, as Director McKie bumped the mission up the priority chain. He saw the familiar green/gray human blobs as they moved about outside of Strickland's cabin. He shook his head as he saw the Strickland-shaped blob move slowly away from the two NSA Agent-shaped blobs that lay on the ground, throbbing monotonously. Thankfully, Director McKie hadn't arrived in Grace's office yet.

  Agent Grace flipped a switch to open the communications link down to Fort Meade. "Satellite four-three-niner, pull back five-hundred meters."

  Before his eyes, the scene drew back and he could see the Strickland house emerging from the south as the man himself trudged through the wooded area between the cabin and his home.

  Just off in the distance, Strickland could see the tan house looming above the grass surface of the ground. Emerging from the trees, he fished around in his left pocket and found a set of keys, which he turned around in his hand and looked at carefully. He saw a car key, what looked like a house key, and a mysterious small silver key.

  He reached his house and slid the key into the knob of the back door. With an agreeable click, the doorknob turned easily. Strickland smiled at the presence of the heavy bag and weight bench in the basement and climbed the stairs quickly, opening the door to the second level, emerging into the kitchen. Looking into the open living room, feeling a strange, serene moment of peace, Strickland grinned at the thought of sitting on the couch and looking out the large bay window at deer feeding on the grass. He could almost remember a time when he and his wife eagerly pointed out the two animals to two excited little girls, whose squeals scared away the very animals they hoped to watch ? but then a flutter of wings appeared in his mind and the memory scattered.

  Bill Strickland felt at ease. He was calm and settled, his alert level finally backing down to reasonable human levels. It was a nice feeling, and suddenly all he wanted to do was curl up on the couch, go to sleep, and bask in the memories of his missing family.

  As it turned out, in William Strickland's line of work, it didn't pay to lower your alert.

  The first indication of trouble was the slight creak, as if the house was settling in a gusting wind. He stopped and cocked his head just slightly, his internal alarms now at a dull roar, and he heard another slight creak of wood coming from the front of the house just outside the door. The sounds were surprisingly clear, considering the walls of plaster and wood between him and them. Without warning, the Size-13 combat boot slammed through the front door. It lurched open, with a geyser of wood shards and lock set screws. Strickland stepped back reflexively just as the windows in the kitchen behind him exploded inward, a thin shower of broken glass scattering across his back and neck.

  Two men clad in black flew through his windows, weapons strapped to their torsos, and landed smoothly on the hard surface of the kitchen floor. Strickland moved faster than the intruders expected him to, kicking out with his own right combat boot, and catching one of the men directly in the chest. He sprawled backwards, skidding across the floor and pounding into the cabinet beneath the sink headfirst. The second man now stood and started to draw his weapon, but Strickland reached out, clutched his refrigerator door, and swung it open, blasting the second man with a vicious metallic whack. Two salad dressing bottles shattered on impact with the floor, but Strickland ducked behind the kitchen counter, and smoothly snagged a third, then spun it in his hand so he held it neck-first. The door-kicker opened fire with his silenced submachine gun, and the granite counter that Strickland ducked behind exploded as live rounds pounded into it with the force of a dozen small sledgehammers.

  Apparently, these guys weren't showing the same restraint as the two dart-launchers he had met in the woods earlier. Waiting for a momentary lull that signaled an empty magazine, Strickland stood up from his crouch, arm cocked back, then unleashed, throwing the third salad dressing bottle at high velocity. It struck the shooter full in the forehead in a splash of broken glass and light honey mustard. Strickland was on the move. As he broke into his run, he looked outside the large bay window and could see an assortment of black cars out on the road and on his front lawn, men in tactical gear already storming towards the house, with weapons drawn. He eyed a large black SUV. His run picked up speed as he crossed the living room and unsheathed his Glock.

  As more men charged in the front door, Strickland threw himself into the air, tucking his knees up into his waist and bringing his arms up in front of his face. His 260-pound frame erupted through the window directly in front of him, exclamations of surprise from men who had been approaching the house. Gunfire exploded as he hit the lawn in a low crouch and propelled himself into a full somersault, thick fountains of dirt and grass spewing from the ground around him. He tumbled onto his feet, and launched himself back into a full sprint, keeping his eyes on the large black truck. As bullets tore around him, he dove behind one of the smaller cars parked on his lawn, sparks dancing across the metallic surface. Instinctively, with the submachine gun in his hands, he popped up from the car, rattling off return fire.

  Just as two men went sprawling under his spray, he ducked down again and swapped out the magazine with one in his tactical vest, then thrust himself forward into another sprint, breaking his cover to scramble towards the SUV. He drew close to the large vehicle, close enough that the truck caught a lot of the machine gun fire, leaving thick pockmarks and dents throughout the side of the vehicle. He heard large American V8 motors roaring to life and several shouts of encouragement. Trying to anticipate the rate and direction of fire, Strickland slid on the dirt road, skidding roughly on stone and gravel in front of the SUV as more bullets drilled into the hood and grill, with sparks flying. Popping back up on his feet on the opposite side of the large vehicle, he threw open the driver's side door and slipped inside. Sitting low behind the steering wheel, he tossed his submachine gun in the passenger's seat. As he figured, no keys remained in the ignition. As he glanced outside the passenger's side door, he saw three sedans firing across the grass, bearing down on him. His hands gripped the loose panel below the steering wheel and tore it off, and he dug around inside. Much to his own surprise, he successfully started the vehicle. He couldn't even remember what he had for lunch yesterday, but he knew how to jump-start a truck. Go figure.

  Strickland slammed on the accelerator and the SUV spat gravel as it tore off down the dirt road. He allowed himself a quick glance in the rearview mirror, only to see two of the sedans whipping sharp right turns and coming in fast pursuit. A third sedan and what looked to be a Ducati street bike came flying over the bumpy lawn in front of his
house, and suddenly there were four of them, bearing down on him at a rapid pace. He was surprised at the rider's ease with which he handled the sleek road bike on these rough roads. Shortly, Strickland's house was outside of view and he hauled the wheel to the left, rounding an unexpected corner, but all four vehicles still followed closely behind.

  Upfront, he could see a small lip, and he slammed the accelerator, sending the SUV airborne for a brief second, until the front tires pounded roughly back on the dirt surface. The vehicle recovered, and he looked in his rearview mirror, seeing a trio of sedans and the motorcycle following while someone in tactical gear leaned out of the passenger side window of the front car. Clutched between two tightly gripped hands was a large Taurus Magnum .44 caliber pistol, which barked sharply. With an explosion of gelled glass, the rear windshield of the SUV disintegrated, and Strickland swerved hard to the left to avoid the next shots following the path of the first. Three loud claps signaled the strike of bullet against hard metal on the outside of the vehicle, all high up in the rear.

  Strickland's heart thumped rapidly in his chest with trees turned to spinning green and brown blurs as he eyed a familiar fork in the road up ahead. He immediately took his foot off the gas, and the vehicles narrowed the gap, but he eyed the fork ahead, then slammed on the brakes, and yanked the wheel hard to the left. Rear wheels on the SUV locked hard, digging thick gouges in the dirt road as the SUV spun, pulling a full 180-degree turn. Three-quarters of the way through the turn, he released the brake and slammed the accelerator to the floor, and then with a lurch, the large black truck roared forward. He looked in the rearview mirror and smiled, as one car couldn't quite navigate the turn, slamming broadside into a thick tree, rocking back on its right two wheels. The last two cars and the bike heeded the warning of the lead car and slowed enough to spin around the corner, and then sped up towards the truck again. Leaning out the window, this time was a dark-skinned man, with an assault rifle in firing position. The rapid whacking of automatic fire ripped from the barrel of the assault rifle, and stitched small, puckered holes along the right hand side of the large SUV.

  As Strickland steered with his left hand, he reached over with his right and dropped a full magazine on the passenger seat. Reaching over further, he skillfully popped the latch on the magazine in his UMP. Then he swept the gun into his lap and skillfully loaded the magazine as he frantically steered the large, lumbering vehicle. Behind the SUV, the two pursuit cars and the blur of a street bike drew even closer and a second shooter leaned from the open window with a similar rifle in his hand, releasing a barrage of gunfire as well. Strickland pressed his finger on a release switch and lowered the passenger side window. Satisfied that the weapon was ready to go, he returned his second hand to the wheel as a vicious swerve came up ahead. He navigated the large SUV around a nasty fishtail that both pursuit cars successfully followed. A few rapid thuds signaled more gunfire bearing down on him. A shot whizzed close by his right ear and impacted the front windshield with a spider-web crack, causing Strickland to flinch. The SUV nearly collided with a tree. He almost overcompensated, swerving the other direction, but the tires caught loose dirt and held fast, bringing the SUV quickly back on its straight course.

  Without numerous side streets or alleyways to lose the pursuit cars, sooner or later, this smooth dirt road was going to change into a riveted, muddy logging trail, and then he might as well just surrender himself. In the two cars, gunners leaned out the side windows ready to unleash another volley. He reached over and grasped the UMP submachine gun with his right hand as his left hand steadied the steering wheel. He placed the weapon on his lap and fingered another button, opening the moon roof above his head. A series of bullets whipped just above the SUV at that exact moment, with a pair of them crashing off the metallic roof around the now empty space. Slamming on the brakes and cranking the steering wheel hard to the right, the SUV lurched, caught on the dirt, and began a wobbling spin on the gravelly surface of the road underneath. Carefully balancing pressure on the brake pedal and the steering wheel, Strickland kept it in a controlled skid, and everything around him ground to a halt. He could feel the wind thrashing through the front cabin, sucked in from the moon roof and the open passenger window as he braced himself against the wheel and seat. The large vehicle shuddered as it completed its skid, now jerking sideways in the middle of the road. Before the vehicle had even stopped moving, the bald driver swept his UMP up in his right arm, bracing it with his left, and opened fire out his empty passenger window, which was now facing the approaching vehicles.

  His first target was the man leaning out of the lead car with the SCAR in his hand. Strickland leaned on the trigger, hoping the quickly approaching vehicle would fall within range of the submachine gun.

  It did.

  Sparks erupted from puckered metal along the top right hand side of the roof, and then the side of the man's angry, grimaced face evaporated into a puff of crimson smoke. Seeing the first gunner go down, Strickland brought his legs up, and then thrust violently upward, catapulting himself right up through the moon roof. As he launched into the air, the two sedans hurtled towards the stopped and sideways SUV at breakneck speed. Close behind the sedans, the Ducati still screamed along. Strickland crested his jump and as he came down, he unsheathed the Glock 22 pistol holstered at the small of his back. Both black cars smashed headlong into the large truck blocking the road in a resounding crash of imploding metal and exploding glass. Both sedans thrust down into the ground with the force of the impact, throwing the rear of the cars up in the air, and crushing all three vehicles together by sheer force of physics. The punch of the impact belched smoke and fire as Strickland came down towards the racing motorcycle. The Ducati had begun a sideways skid of its own, with the driver pulling out his own pistol and brought it around. The falling man's Glock squeezed off a rapid series of single shots towards the motorcycle driver, a nice grouping pounding him in the upper torso, with one round tearing through his throat just under his chin. The man tumbled backwards violently, striking the dirt road just as Strickland completed the jump, flying well clear of the violent collision. He stood up and looked back to see the tangled mass of vehicles, just one large metallic wad smoking in the middle of the road.

  Strickland stood there for about three minutes then when no movement came from the wreck of metal, he moved quickly and quietly, retrieving weapons and gear from the dead drivers and gunners now scattered across the ground.

  Four minutes later, he walked calmly from the collision and approached the fallen Ducati with its dead rider sprawled a few feet away. Taking another quick, curious glance at the DNB 455 carved into his arm, he scooped up the rider's helmet, thrust it over his head, and lifted the bike. Within seconds, he had taken off south, back down the dirt road, the motorcycle engine surging in his ears.