Dream Riders

by Taylor Kole

“Are you ready to go watch a man die?”

  “Can you really do that?” He asked as he leaned forward and made the connection.

  “We’re going to find out, but I’m starting to think, once we’re in, I can do anything my heart desires.”

  Corey had been so shaken by the idea of them being treated like lab rats if their talent was ever discovered by the government, the possibility of confronting the Jinni had slipped his mind. The moment the swirling grit of dreamland embraced him, however, that possibility was back, front and center. His grip on the dream loosened.

  Standing on a four feet by four feet patch of green grass, Marci emoted her annoyance, which helped stop Corey from pulling them out of these shark infested waters. A pit was dug in the ground in front of Marci. A grave, to be precise. Corey stood on the railing of a billboard for a local ice cream parlor. He pulled on his ponytail and waited for Marty.

  Marty materialized in the center of a downtown setting more appropriate for 1950.

  No Jinn shared his perch, which lessened his worry.

  Focusing on the dream drew Corey in. Marty hopped on an old Schwinn and pedaled down the paved road.

  Marty’s foot slipped from the pedal. The surrounding dream environment flickered. Marty struggled to find the spinning pedal and maintain his balance. Failing at the latter, he tipped in the direction of the street and spilled forward. The bike vanished as a car appeared, driving fast. Marty’s head slammed into the grill with extreme force and a sickening crunch. His body spun head over heel horizontally, blood splashed out.

  A ripple of energy surged outward. Red lightning strikes crackled around the dream.

  Corey had to concentrate to keep the dream going, despite immense pressure to evacuate the dream, coming from Marty.

  Slowly, the emotional pressure to escape the dream softened, but most-likely Corey was defeating the pressure.

  Marty lay at the base of a brick building, dying.

  Corey urged Marty to stand—he didn’t want to feel a man surrender to death—but the spreading pool of blood around the body and growing blackness around the dream environment’s edges told of finality.

  If natural death occurred as a result of dream death, and Corey held Marty inside the dream as he tried to wake, was he killing him?

  As if sensing his reluctance, Marci pleaded with him to hold strong, and trust her. Corey ignored that the emotional currents betrayed Marci’s uncertainty and did as asked.

  Darkness started around the end of the dream stage and moved inward until it enveloped the town, the buildings, the road, closing in around Marty, blanketing him, making him gone. That was it—they’d killed him. They’d wake up any second now holding a dead body.

  Moments before he released his grip, in case Marty needed medical help in the real world, the dream skipped in rapid succession, like a stone cast across a pond. As the stone sank in the center of the stage, the ripple effect pushed back the dark, revealing a woodland at dusk.

  The body of Marty Carnes rested on a slab of treated cedar. His arms were crossed over his chest. His eyes were closed, his hair parted. The funeral pose was illuminated from over head. Then his skin began to dry, his lips cracked, his body decayed along an amplified timeline.

  As Marty’s clothing dropped and settled to fit the lessening form beneath, Corey worried the disintegration reflected Marty’s true state, and this time, if he held the dream and Marci kept them on course, allowing the body to return to atomic dust, Marty would perish. Corey was too wrapped up in this moment to leave.

  The dream current carried many emotions. He detected Marci’s fear; suspected she sensed his in the same manner. Yet he felt her determination to satisfy their client’s wishes. He felt all of their curiosity and wonder.

  The body turned to dust. Rather than blow away in the steady breeze of the dream world, the granules formed a pile. The soot darkened and then shifted from inner movement. The head of a young bird pushed out, stretching human arms the size of an infant’s. Then, like a slideshow set to fast forward, the infant grew into a nude Asian man.

  The new Marty Carnes—for that was who stood center stage—had been reincarnated as a Cambodian who practiced Theravada Buddhism.

  The new Marty radiated compassion and charisma. He suddenly wore a saffron robe.

  The Cambodian Theravada Buddhist version of Marty had grown from the soil, and been birthed from its source. Corey felt like this man had the potential to be born within the next few weeks. If allowed, the birth would occur in a small shack twenty miles north of Phnom Penh, Cambodia’s capital city. Also, this Marty Carnes would become a leader to its people and faith, guiding them to prominence.

  The Asian Marty stayed in that moment for some time, absorbing the potential of his future, and then the dream jumped. Marty reverted to Marty, swimming in frigid arctic water. A slab of ice floated past. As he mounted the disc, he transformed into a polar bear, shook his fur, and dove back in.

  Marci’s abilities were impressive. They had answered the questions of whether a man could survive a dream death. Now, he wondered, had Marty been shown a deeper message?

  EIGHT

  He found Marci on their couch talking on their phone to Marty. She’d done that a lot over the past weekend.

  “I’m eager to read it,” Marci said. Noticing Corey’s interest, she gave him a thumbs up. “But you’re putting too much into the specifics of the dream. It was complex, and if you give me two, maybe three days to work it out, I believe we’ll uncover a hidden meaning in the symbolism. It will reveal something specific to the life you’re living now.”

  Corey took in her conservative skirt that draped past the knees, dark blouse, hair up, light makeup, and heels. She looked great, but Corey always felt lipstick, eye shadow, and blush stole from her natural beauty. She looked best barefoot, in comfy cotton pants and a sweatshirt.

  “I understand, but we enhance a dream’s realism. All I’m asking is that you wait until you hear my interpretation before taking a final stance.” Another pause. “Thank you very much. He’s right here. I will. Okay, two days of open-mindedness.” A small laugh. “Bye now.”

  She returned the phone to its cradle and dropped her smile. “That guy’s insane.”

  Corey grinned. “What makes you say that?”

  She motioned at the mounted television. “Bring up Dreamriders. He said he needed two days to leave us the perfect review, but it’s posted. He said to tell you thanks again.”

  Corey brought up the comment section and read Marty’s review. It was long and in-depth and filled with nothing but praise. This was exactly the sort of comment that would draw new customers in. The two typos made the review more authentic and helped show they didn’t pay for reviews. With a successful ride—meaning no Jinn stalked the balcony—the goal of financial independence had resurged. The past weekend, where they grilled burgers, played in the sprinkler, and watched Finding Nemo, had reflected the good time-vibe.

  Marci rattled off the high point of the review. “Changed my life. Best experience of my life. I learned who I was. I became a polar bear and swam with whales.” She giggled. “See, he’s crazy.”

  Corey smiled. “Totally bonkers.”

  “What do you think about bumping the price to two-fifty before I go to work?”

  “I think that’s premature.” Sensing her annoyance, he added, “How about we agree to bump it after we get two more positive reviews?”

  Marci thought for a moment and said, “We’ll bump it by fifty dollars every five reviews until we see the results suffer.”

  “Fair enough.” Nodding to the house phone, he asked. “How’s he doing?”

  Marci heaved a breath. “He’s still taking the dream literally. He’s convinced that when he dies, he’s going to come back as the savior of the Cambodian people.” She shook her head, “He is crazy.”

  Corey adjusted the holder on his ponytail. “It did feel that way.”

  “Don’t start with me, Corey. The content
was manifested by him. From start to finish, every object in there signifies something of importance.” She motioned to the closed notebook, which he knew contained many of the events and objects from the dream, and her working theory on how they complimented one another. “Starting with the bicycle. It differs from almost all other modes of transportation because they owe their motion to the rider. And for the most part, bikes can only move forward.”

  Corey thought, like dying as motion and being reincarnated as moving forward.

  “From there the meaning splinters, but dreaming of bicycles normally indicates psychological isolation brought on by egocentricity inhibiting social integration.”

  “Just tell him that.”

  She pursed her lips at him and glanced at the wall clock. She was five minutes behind schedule. “I’ll soften it up, but you saw how he behaved. He needs counseling. It’s going to take another ten hours, at least, to decipher the full story.” She pulled the keys from her purse. “I should warn you about something.”

  Corey saw mischief in her eyes.

  “What?”

  “I’ve been drafting letters to submit my two-week notice.”

  “That's great! We’d love having you here.”

  “You might get your wish, and soon.” She left.

  Each time the door closed during the week, his body sagged at the idea she provided for the family. The man of the house should do more than dishes.

  He spent fifteen minutes fiddling around with dream interpretations with no progress before an email arrived through Dreamriders.com. Seeing that it had been sent from Walt was like a jab to the gut. Knowing it carried value, he opened it.

  Good morning, Padesky clan.

  I’m back home, submersed in my old routine. Our inability to connect this weekend disappointed me, yet I understand it was poor planning on my part.

  I just finished reading Mr. Carnes’ review and must congratulate you on enlightening another person with your talent.

  I want to schedule an appointment for your services. I am not the pestering type, but I CAN NOT stop thinking about that night. I know being located on opposite sides of the country creates a challenge for us. To encourage things for you, and to bring your business to a more appropriate level, I’d like to invite you to Chicago, and pay you more.

  I’ll provide a one-thousand dollar per diem for each day you are here. If you can stay one week, and provide me with two, maybe three rides, I’d love to book the week from you.

  Seven-thousand dollars paid upon arrival, plus your usual Dream Riding fees.

  I am amenable to your schedule and motivated to reconnect with you. Should you find any challenges with my proposal, please list them and we will arrive at a fair arrangement.

  Patiently waiting,

  Walt Zimbardo.

  Corey retrieved the phone from its cradle, intending to call Marci. A check for seven-thousand dollars could be enough for her to submit her two-week notice that afternoon. His vote would be for her to simply flip the bird to everyone in view and storm out.

  His thumb hovered over the “phone” button. He was ready to call her. This was amazing news, but he remained paralyzed, as if in deep concentration.

  He closed his eyes and saw a mucous green man with red symbols rolling across flesh. Those big pupilless ivory eyes seemed both intelligent and wicked beyond comprehension.

  Corey’s heartbeat thumped louder and faster as he thought about giving Walt a Dream Ride. He imagined standing across from the Jinni and it lunging with lightning speed. He’d scream as a pointed claws stabbed and burrowed into his chest, digging through muscle and bone until they burst out his back.

  He tried to fight off the image with thoughts of Marci working hard while he stayed home, often scanning the desert across the street for a Zebra-tailed lizard that liked to race on two legs.

  Despite his extreme fears, he pressed talk on the house phone. Marci deserved a break. In the quiet living room, the dial tone blared like a barge horn. After seconds of indecision, he pressed the phone button a second time, ending the signal. He needed to think this decision through. There was no rush. Calling in twenty minutes would bring the same positive news as calling now. He needed to be sold on the idea so they could both celebrate.

  Maybe there had been no Jinn? Even if there was, it could have moved on by now. With ten days between him and the incident, the specifics were foggy.

  He set the phone on the cushion. He wanted to stand, but only stared at the email that looked large on the big screen. The text blurred. He maneuvered the mouse over the only words that stayed clear: “Delete.” Clicking this would constitute a betrayal of a woman he loved more than himself. Taking a deep breath, he clicked the icon, and deleted the evidence of Walt Zimbardo’s offer.

  NINE

  From their living room, Corey listened to the rattle and chug of the garage door. Each chain link that rose raised his guilt. He’d messed up. He was willing to bend and accommodate and do almost anything to help mend his wrong, but he wasn’t going to tell her about the seven grand.

  When the interior handle turned, Janey stopped twirling her cat toy in front of Smokey and ran to greet her mother.

  “Mom. I’ve been training Smokey to do back flips.” She displayed the stick with the pink ball on an elastic-string. Smokey watched it dangle, and bob. The cat charged from behind Janey and leaped. She jerked it away. “No, Smokey. No tricks outside the circus ring.”

  Corey wanted to laugh but was too worried about Marci’s seeing through him and forcing the truth out.

  “That’s nice, honey.” Marci took in Janey’s impromptu circus ring, a hula-hoop. She then plopped onto the couch, dropped her hands into her lap, and tilted her head back until it rested on the top cushion.

  “Did we get any messages?” Marci asked.

  He needed to simply tell her; just get it off his chest. After a brief spat, she would understand his panicked decision. They would then email Walt, ignore how the message had been lost, and accept his offer. Marci could quit working eight hours a day and getting jammed in rush hour traffic. He swallowed and said:

  “Mr. Labarge sent us a payment of two-hundred dollars and requested another Ride on any of three nights, which he listed.”

  “If he leaves a second comment, it will count as one of the five comments so we can hike the price.”

  “Absolutely. He wanted to do something different than visit his father, but said he would explain it in person.” Corey lowered his voice. “I hope it’s not S E Xual.”

  “We might as well get ready for it. We will wow people in that department.”

  He grunted in dismay. Having listened to volumes of off-putting male/female configurations and ambitions during his years on campus, he preferred to shield her from twisted male fantasies.

  “What else?”

  “A lady from Denver wanted a little more information about Dream Riding. Another, more promising one came from the owner of a construction company out of Virginia”

  “Maybe he’s a friend of Walt’s,” she said. “I’ve always assumed the wealthy are a close-knit community.”

  Simply hearing Walt’s name sucked moisture from Corey’s throat. After a difficult swallow, he said. “There was another one.” He gathered his nerves. The notion of coming clean conjured images of the anger to follow. Just tell her about the money you selfish bastard. “From Marty Carnes. I left that one for you as well.”

  She huffed. “He texted me three times today. I told him I would have a full report tomorrow and to be ready. I’m going to share some jarring things that I hope will calm him down. He’s seriously losing his mind. On the plus side, I’m pretty sure after my interpretation, he’ll want to schedule more Dream Rides.”

  “What’s he texting?”

  She rummaged through her purse and tossed him their phone. A few taps brought him to the messages. The first provided a smidgen about Theravada Buddhism. The second pointed out how only twenty-three percent of Cambodians
had access to potable water. The third asked if she knew Cambodians had a life expectancy of fifty-six years?”

  “Well, you’re learning about another country,” Corey said with a sly grin.

  “Whoopty-do.” She reached for the mouse and opened the emails.

  He decided to start on their dinner. Halfway to the kitchen, the home telephone rang, freezing him. If that’s Walt calling, I’m a dead man.

  The receiver remained on the cushion, near Marci. Since Walt shouldn’t have their home number—the possibility he was calling blotted out all others. Corey used all of his willpower to resist running to the phone, wrestling it from Marci, and racing outside to answer. During his indecision, she answered.

  “Hello,” a glance at Corey while she listened. “Why, yes he is.” She extended the phone.

  He shook his head and scrunched his nose. Pain erupted behind his eyes. He blinked forcefully. “Who is it?”

  “A man,” she pressed the phone closer.

  With a deep breath, he accepted the receiver.

  “Corey?”

  The voice carried a familiarity that eased much of his worry. Strange, since he couldn’t remember having a casual conversation with anyone in months. “Yes. Who’s calling?”

  “It’s Justin, from Hope’s Corner.”

  The image of a pressed flannel tucked into crisp jeans entered his mind. He grinned. “Hey, Justin.” He smiled at Marci, who rolled her eyes playfully. “How are you?”

  “Good. Now I don’t want to start off scaring you. I’m a normal, happily married man, but you were the first thing I thought about this morning.”

  Corey chuckled, “Is that so?”

  “Yes, sir. So I drove to Hope’s Corner and dug out your welcome cards. As fate would have it, your house is down the road from my current job. Having just knocked off, I thought I’d shoot you a call, see how life’s been treating you.”

  An image of the Jinni flashed in his mind, another of him deleting a lottery ticket email, then of Janey playing with Smokey. He glanced at Marci, who alternated her attention between an email and scribbling notes. “Good. Things are going good for me.”