White — everything was white — except for his hands and feet, his blood — and it were precisely these things that gave him the precious foothold of perspective he needed to orient himself and not go mad with vertigo. It was still hard to focus, but as he looked up, he saw a little girl holding one of his hands while she anchored an arm, a little boy holding the other. They couldn’t have been more than six years old.
“Hello,” the girl whispered, calmly, intently looking to him.
Mel coughed. “What’s happening?” he said, wincing from his jaw injury.
“You can get out of this,” the girl said. Mel saw tears running down her cheeks. Looking to the boy, he saw the same thing.
“What’s happening to me?” Mel yelped, feeling and hearing broken jaw bones grind in his head. Keeping his jaw still, he gritted his teeth and focused on just moving his lips. “Why are they beating me up — what have I done… what have I done? Who are they?”
“We want to tell you,” the boy said, “but it’s difficult.”
“He’s difficult,” the girl added. “He knows we’re here and isn’t allowing it… or is trying not to…”
“Who? Allowing what?” Mel asked, wincing in another wave of pain.
“Us helping you. It’s taking all we can just to be here like this,” the girl said.
“Why? Why all this?”
“He thinks you know where he is. That man. He doesn’t realize you don’t,” the boy said.
“He’s going to kill you if you don’t tell him,” the girl said.
“We’re trying to help you. Just hold on — don’t let go.”
“It’s going to get worse — just don’t let go. Hold on to us — no matter what.”
“We’ll be right by you,” said the boy, “all the time—”
Mel lurched. He really needed to throw up.
“I don’t feel good,” Mel said, tears running down his face. “I don’t understand—”
“Hold on,” the girl commanded, looking into his eyes.
“To us,” the boy reiterated. “Us.”
Mel again jerked. His stomach roiled like a train wreck.
“What’s happening?”
“Please,” the little girl pleaded, “hold on — look at us. We’re trying…”
“Oh, no,” Mel said, again feeling the powerful impact of a locomotive ramming into his midsection, his back. “I don’t think… I don’t think I can…”
Something was wrong with his stomach, and it needed release. Moaning and groaning, Mel prepared for the inevitable. No longer able to speak, and a cold, clammy sweat running off his face and into his eyes in sheets, he squeezed the hands of the two six year olds in a death grip. They were full-on crying, pleading for Mel to stay with them — to not let go — their own faces swollen and puffy.
Mel seemed suddenly to be standing outside himself as he opened his mouth and turned his face away from the children, hoping not to spray either of them with his latest release of bloody vomit…
The torrent of vomit Mel unleashed did nothing to ease his pain. Something continued to assault him. He opened his eyes to partial slits, skin cold and clammy, and saw he was now restrained — but by two different individuals — the white-clad ghost figures from before. Another stood before him, wasting no time in again winding up and wielding what appeared to be a pure-white baseball bat.
BAM!
Into his stomach.
BAM!
Through barely open, semi-conscious eyes, Mel saw nothing but white glare, tasted the blood-and-vomit mixture in his mouth, and inhaled its revolting odor. There was also a warmth draining down his legs… and a bowel movement…
Yet, somehow, through his pathetic haze he noticed how all three ghostly figures had managed to avoid any contact with the spoils of their torture. It was getting harder to stay conscious… his attention wand—
BAM!
Following another delivery of the white bat came short strikes (and flashes of white light) to his head and face with the narrow end of the stick.
Hold on to us…
Had he dreamed up those children? Where were they… how could he look to them if they weren’t here?
As Mel was continually pummeled… and the white baseball bat came crashing down upon his left arm with a brutal, distinctive snap that finally blacked him out in a blinding flash of white-hot pain… what were left of his thoughts drifted to the calm and peace and tranquility of what had been his home… to a mother and father he no longer had — nor remembered; to the birthday cake he’d found in the kitchen and which his mother had to have made; to the Vernors soda in the refrigerator… and to the warm and pleasant late-night conversations he’d had with Lizzie, in the comfort and safety of intimate familiarity…
If they were going to do him in… could they please get on with it, so he could finally meet his parents… he had so much to ask them…
2
Travis awoke sweating, hyper alert, heart hammering away in his chest. It was shortly after one a.m.
Something wasn’t right. He didn’t feel well. Why didn’t he feel well?
He lay back in bed, eyes open. Something to do with a dream? He had to bring it back, before—
BAM!
White!
BAM!
Red!
BAM!
Black.
A boy… a boy was being beaten!
Something about a kid getting the shit beat out of him? Pleas for help?
Travis’s stomach revolted.
Queasy, he got out of bed and headed to the kitchen.
A glass of water.
But, nauseated and clammy, his legs wavered… and he lost it. He vomited into the sink — not once, but several times — until all he could do was grip the sink, repeatedly pumping out one dry heave after another and praying for the painful regurgitations to end.
Pale and weak, Travis clung to the sink. His vision blurry and wet, he unsteadily reached for a glass, filled it from the tap, then took a trembling sip, but ended up coughing it out; barely returned the glass to the counter without dropping it. He collapsed to the kitchen floor, gasping for air. Cradling his stomach, groaning and hunched over, he wiped his mouth.
The phone rang.
Still grunting in pain and unable to move any kind of fast, he let the answering machine get it.
“Travis… are you there? Travis? It’s Gina. Pick up — we’ve got to talk—”
Travis crawled over to the phone, smearing vomit across the floor on his way over to the wall phone. He grabbed a broom that leaned against the wall and clumsily swiped at the handset until he knocked it free from its cradle. Travis then batted the handset about like a drunken cat, until he finally grabbed it.
“Gina—”
He again retched a dry heave.
“Travis?”
“Vomited… just vomited… feel I broke some ribs…”
Gina said nothing.
“Don’t think they’re actually broken… but this dream—”
“A boy… savagely beaten,” Gina said.
Travis’s response was another bout of dry heaves. Gina waited patiently until he could recompose himself.
“Any better?” she asked.
“About as much as anyone can be… like this.”
“If it makes you feel any better, we all went through what you’re going through. We’ve all had the same dream.”
Travis said nothing, experiencing another set of dry heaveus interruptus.
“I’ve already talked with the others, Trav. We all had the exact same dream, the exact same reaction. Lee, Ryan, and Cory — everyone.”
“Great, feel better already,” he said, dryly. “White room, white figures… that fucking baseball bat?”
“That fucking baseball bat — all of it. Believe me, I’ve never had anything like this ever happen before. It scares me.”
Travis took a couple deep, painful breaths — spit — then gritted his teeth.
“Right now, I g
uess I’m a little too sick to be scared.”
“Is it a message?”
“Considering we’re all getting it… I’d say so,” Travis said, lying down on the floor. “Providing no one else is messing around with us.”
“Agreed.”
“Does anyone know who this is?”
“Nope. Who’s ‘Lizzie?’”
Travis grunted a “don’t know.”
“You thinking the same thing I’m—”
“We’ve got to. What about this call?”
“I checked it out before calling. No one’s listening. I’ve been up for a while. I’m actually surprised you’re only just getting this.”
“Someone has to pull up the rear.”
Gina chuckled. “This is pretty weird… but we gotta find this boy — and is this even real, or just a dream?”
Travis just continued groaning.
“But there’s something odd about it…”
“You mean besides the men in white, doorless room, and two ghost kids? That fucking bat? We need to look into this — ourselves,” Travis said.
“On our own?”
“Yes.” Travis again grunted. “And, you’re right, there is something ‘wrong’ with the whole thing… but we have to rule out The Center, first. Keep it among us.”
“Travis… what am I thinking of right now?”
Travis continued to wince from waves of the continued aftereffects of his filling the kitchen sink. “Come on, Gina, not now—”
“What am I thinking of?” she insisted. “We have to see how in tune we are with each other. It’s imperative — now, more than ever. You know what I’m thinking, don’t you.”
“Yes…”
“Tell me.”
“It’s not exactly the most appealing thing to me right now, given—”
“Oh, right, sorry. Okay — try now.”
“You’re thinking about some three-legged cat you saw crossing the highway the other day. With a field mouse in its mouth — no, a vole. Highway 29.”
“Damn—”
Travis’s stomach finally began to settle, making its weird little gurgling-and-groaning sounds.
“Your turn.”
“Go.”
“You’re thinking… about a model you built as a kid? A, what was it called — The Invaders, television show?—you built a silver flying saucer model when you were twelve. Red slits — lights.”
“You got it. Too bad we’d never tried this before. Coulda helped me in my divorce.”
“A couple of us played around with it, but were always too busy; we’re always too busy.”
“Maybe that’s how they want it. Keeps us out of other people’s knickers, if you know what I mean.”
“Maybe whatever’s happening — or going on with this kid — is somehow, I don’t know… accelerating things. I mean, we’ve been doing this for how long, and are only now able to read each other’s minds on this level? We were never able to read minds this good. There’s something else going on, here.”
“Or maybe all our work has finally paid off. This is what we do, Gina. We’ve just never bothered to check it out.”
“True.”
“Can you read, say, Cory’s mind, right now?”
“Yeah, and so can you. I know you can.”
“He’s eating Cheerios.”
“Honey-nut.”
“So, I guess, nothing’s sacred anymore,” Travis said.
“This could get quite embarrassing.”
“Yeah,” Travis said, grunting.
“No time to waste. Don’t know how much time he has.”
Both fell silent.
“I’m remembering dreams,” Travis said, “right now, as we speak.”
“Dreams?”
“Yeah… I just had a flash of some dream classes…”
“Wow… it wasn’t until you said that that I just recalled some of my own. I hadn’t been sleeping very well, lately. Anyway, there’s this guy in charge—”
“He doesn’t have a name, does he?”
“Yeah — I mean, no,” Gina exclaimed. “A large amphitheater? This man — oh, this is sooo weird…”
“We need to get together. ASAP. Home in on this kid and what’s going on. Who’s doing this. Whoever’s doing this is somehow involved with us, I feel it. I can’t nail down a face, but get the definite feeling he’s—”
“Now, isn’t that weird? Why can’t we pick up on him?”
“Don’t know. I’m sure we’re being blocked — which makes no sense.”
Gina went silent.
“I’ve got an idea,” Travis said, “it’s a little out there, but what the hell. We’ve played around with this before — why don’t we all meet up in the dreamstate?”
“I like that.”
“Yeah — and if it works, then we’re just that much further along, and if it don’t, we meet tomorrow? Before work.” Travis glanced to the clock. “I guess that actually means this morning.”
“Should I call the others?”
“No… at least, not the way you mean. Send out the call mentally. A request to meet each other after we go back to sleep. Let’s see how far we can go with this. See if we can come up with anything in the morning.
“Man, my ribs really feel broken.”
“Mine are still sore, too.”
“Okay — after we hang up, put out the call, and we’ll meet in a little bit.”
“Hope this works.”
“For his sake, I hope it works; I really don’t think he has much time left, but I don’t know where else to start. It makes me sick just thinking about it.”
“Okay, then.”
“Good night, Gina — and thanks. For calling.”
Chapter Twenty-One
1
Kennedy again found himself sitting in the amphitheater, but this time not alone. In fact, it was packed with people, all talking and laughing and seemingly having a good old time. There was an infectious undercurrent of excitement running throughout the entire carved granite stadium’s gathering. Kennedy turned to a group of men and women sitting beside him. “Hello,” he said, “we must be dreaming.”
“Yeah, we are,” one woman returned. “I love dreams — everything’s so much more real!” She returned to her conversation.
Kennedy knew her name to be Gina.
“Excuse me, but I know you, don’t I?” JFK asked.
Gina focused her full attention on him. “I’m sorry, what were you saying? Oh, yes — you do,” she said, touching his arm. “We all know you, too.”
Kennedy nodded. It suddenly dawned on him that he also knew everyone else in the amphitheater.
It felt very comfortable here.
“Wow,” Kennedy said, looking skyward, “it’s absolutely beautiful tonight. The stahs…”
Gina looked up. A long sigh escaped her. “I wish every night could be like this…”
Kennedy reached out and put his arm around her. Gina, looking to Kennedy, smiled, and snuggled up beside him. Together they lay back on the granite steps and stared into the night sky.
“What do you think it all means?” Gina asked.
“Don’t know. Nevah gave it much thought — I mean, we all give it some thought, ovah the years, but life usually gets in the way. I’ve just tried to, ah, live life the best way I knew. I’ve always felt destined forah something great—”
“You were president; have this incredible family.”
Kennedy didn’t immediately answer. “I guess so… and I had a lot of impact in the world. But I always felt therah was something… morah… still out therah. I thought bringing peace to the world would actually be my calling, to tell you the truth.”
“You are doing that,” Gina said, snuggling up closer.
Kennedy paused, as if suddenly remembering a forgotten memory. “Hm. Guess I am. That was weird. How could I have forgotten that?”
Gina smiled.
“It’s pretty weird knowing you’re dreaming, while you’re dre
aming,” Kennedy said, “That happen to you a lot?”
“Yeah, actually; part of my job.”
Kennedy nodded.
“Hey — and that’s another great thing you did! You got us started!”
“Now, I do remember that! I was a little worried, at first, you know, that things would get out of hand, but it seems to have worked out quite well, hasn’t it?”
“It has — we all love our work… except for one guy—”
“Black.”
Gina sat up. “I just don’t understand how people like him… well, you’ve taken care of that, anyway…”
Kennedy also straightened up on the granite step. “You mean it worked? Really worked?”
“You went back and changed things. You didn’t hire him. You kept him out of the program for a long time.”
“You say that as if—”
“Sorry, sir, but he did manage to sneak back in.”
“Wait a minute, I’m confused… I thought you just said I’d taken care of him?”
“I’m sorry, sir, it is a dream… and sometime we say contradictory things. It’s all about probabilities.”
“Damn!” Kennedy said, shooting to his feet. “How’d he do that? How’d he get back in?”
“Not sure. Maybe that’s why we’re all here. All I know is that he’s still involved with us, but how, I’m not entirely sure.”
“You know, when I ran into him — back thereah — he did seem to know something was up. It was in his eyes. The way he looked at me. And I took this away from him,” he said, bringing out the pen he’d snatched from Black back in The Center conference room.
“What is it?”
“Oh, it’s an Agency-developed pen-gun. Quite ingenious those people. I wrestled it out from his jacket pocket. To think he was actually going to try to off me — right then and thereah — tells me how important all this is to him. In ways I probably can’t even, ah, begin to imagine. All I know is that he’s evil… a cataclysmic event waiting to happen, and I don’t know how to stop him! Damn him,” Kennedy again said, not knowing what to do with himself, but unable to pace the crowded stadium. “This really pisses me off!”
Gina stood and reached out to him. “Well, don’t worry just yet, sir. You still have all of us, you know. It’s not just your battle. Look around.”
Psychic Page 22
