Sleep Revised

by Wright, Michael

  “Turn around! You have to turn around! What are you doing?”

  He looked at her, screaming and reaching for the wheel., and he looked back at the windshield. A line of trees was in front of him, and he was bumping along the grass towards it, the car rocking and shaking, fighting against the rough terrain.

  Clark slammed on the brakes, and the car lurched to the side, fishtailing on the grass, leaving long and heavy streaks, throwing dirt to either side. He could feel the frame struggling against the force around it, trying not to flip over. He begged God not to let it roll.

  The engine screamed against him, and he felt the front wheel hit a rock, the back fishtailed back just enough to hit it on the way back as he turned the wheel desperately trying to get the vehicle to right itself. He felt the last of the force give out, and the frame tipped once, twice, setting it on two wheels, and just as it began to roll, behind him he saw Jon, Carol and a shadow staring back at him from the back seat. All of them were laughing hysterically.

  The GPS spoke again, although he couldn’t make out what it was saying.

  Sam continued screaming. Clark was certain that he joined her at one point, but he was unable to tell when.

  The sound of the car rolling was thunderous, glass cracked and splintered around them, sending shards into their faces and on their clothes, grabbing onto them with thin burrs that gripped tight like tiny fingers.

  Clark saw a tree to his right, and it all went to black.

  As his vision faded, he could still hear the laughing from the back seat.

  The orb clicked again.

  7

  He felt motion. In the distance he could hear screaming. There were images. He saw, Samantha, laid over a shoulder, being pulled along. His own body rocking. Gray pain in his head. Blood on his eyes. Someone behind him. Another in front of him.

  He could feel bits of sunlight. Then nothing.

  Out of the white he felt rocking, intense and rough. He thought he might have been being carried. Then he went back to white.

  In the white he wandered for a long time, fighting the gray pain that was so deep inside of him. He heard his name. It was from so very far away. He couldn’t see anything, only white. He couldn’t feel much, only throbbing.

  When the white shrank around him he was in a dark corridor. It was wet. Slimy. All around him he could see and hear the shadows moving. They were far more. So many more than before. Their voices were droning, overlapping each other, filling his ears with awful rumbling though they were only whispers. His head was throbbing, he could feel each whisper bouncing around in his head, thick and heavy. It pained him to be there. He tried to block it out, cover his ears, but to no avail.

  He looked around the corridor, and saw that it was the same one as before, only it was lit no longer with candles giving a dull yellow glow but it was lit by a dim light coming from the end of the hallway, a wide room, like a sanctuary that hadn’t been there before. The shadows were coming from there. They were moving slowly in and out, each one stopping to look in the rooms as they passed by. He could feel pleasure coming off of them, a sick and deranged enjoyment at the what they saw.

  Clark knew he had to look into the rooms, but everything in him told him not to.

  Don’t look in, you won’t like what you see. He told himself, trying to fight back the fear that was creeping in his stomach, burning in his throat and pounding with his blood. His heart felt like it was working in overdrive. He could still see the white on the edges of his vision. He pushed past the pain, trying to ignore the shadows and the sounds they made, bumping into them left and right. They were cold and damp. Moist. Like defrosting and rotting meat that had been sitting so long in the fridge it had taken over the entire enclosure.

  He knew he was out. He knew he was in a dream, but it felt more real to him than the world outside. He struggled to remember where he had been, what he had been doing, but it wouldn’t come to him. It was like something was blocking him, holding him there, denying him access to his own memories that seemed to hang just barely out of reach. He could sense the edges of it, a dull echo in his mind of a car, of something in front of him, of laughter—but it was too far away for him to get to. Another lifetime ago.

  The slime on the walls was thicker. It was colored. A dull white that seemed to be waxy and layered. He tried his best to stay away from the walls where it was oozing out, bleeding out the the grout and onto the floor in thick streams. Ahead, he could see that it had started to change color. It had grown more red up there.

  From the rooms on all side he heard whispers and moans. Men and women, the terrible in-between pitch that came from the shadows. A dull, sexless sound that seemed to grow more and more unidentifiable, more disjointed as it went on, bouncing around his skull, a terrible noise that was so much deeper, much older than anything he had ever heard before. He looked to the side and saw a man dressed in a black robe standing over a woman on a stone table, just as before, only it was a human, instead of a shadow. He held a knife, and he was running it across the surface of her skin. He teased it down her stomach, circling her navel, then drawing back up, running it between her breasts and to her neck. She groaned when he did. He held the tip down hard on her neck, she gasped with pleasure when he pricked the skin. Blood ran thick down her neck and he slowly brought it back down her body, to the end of her thigh, pricking her again. Clark could almost hear the skin pop beneath the cold blade tip and she gasped again. It was an anxious, expectant gasp. The man began to bring the knife back up again when Clark finally was able to pull himself away from the sight, the gray pain in his head forgotten for the red sickness that stemmed from his stomach.

  He heard a voice, a woman, dull and distant, so far removed from his world, so terribly far away. She was calling for him. Calling to him.

  Samantha.

  He pushed past a shadow that was moving past him, being shoved back as he did so.. Hitting them was like hitting a wall. They were solid and unmoving, soft as they brushed past him however. They were bracing up to his pushing, holding him back from the large room at the end of the hall..

  The voice called to him again. He felt a burning on his cheek and placed a hand there.

  Nothing. But it was burning as if someone had slapped him.

  The slime around him began to change color, from white to a thick and brilliant red. It was a sickening red, the kind one gets if you cut deep into the body.

  The whispers continued, pushing him, pounding him with endless repetition. He couldn’t make out the words anymore. They were not words he knew, they were another language, the syllables were jumbled and syntax seemed confused. He realized it was an old dialect. Perhaps one that hadn’t been heard on Earth in thousands of years.

  It terrified him.

  He could feel his pulse raging, and a deep pain in his chest as his heart continued pounding. It ached, and his veins burned with the pressure as it rushed forward, pushing him deeper and deeper.

  White began to appear at the edges of his vision.

  The fluid was all running red, thick and bright, almost fluorescent in the strange light that broke through from the room at the end of the hall. It began to cover the floor, and he felt his feet slip in it as he moved, turning around every which way as the shadows bumped him, now just as solid as the one he had tried to push past. They thumped him and pounded, leaving what felt like bruises on his arms and shoulders. He tried to move forward through the sludge.

  The voice called out to him again. Though faint, he knew it was Samantha. He had a brief flash of her being carried over the shoulder of someone, legs flailing helplessly—desperately, fighting against whatever it was that had her.

  There were more moans in the rooms around him.

  The white grew brighter.

  He felt a stabbing in his eyes, and the pop of his eyeballs being pierced by it, followed by a sharp, ripping pain that started burning at the back of his skull, unzipping him around the middle of his head until all he could see was
white.

  Then black.

  8

  Sam was standing over him. Her face was filled with fear.

  He felt stones beneath him, cutting into his back, a harsh and unforgiving surface. He looked around.

  Where am I?

  “Clark?” she said. Her voice was raspy. Thick and husky, though it had been kind of low before, there was something about it that made it sound like her voice was worn and tired. Exhausted from effort. She was fighting to speak.

  “Yes?” Barely a whisper.

  “Are you awake? Clark?”

  “Yeah.” Another coarse, grating sound came from his throat. A cough? “Where are we?”

  “I don’t know.” She sounded smaller, then. In his mind he pictured a young girl, watching her mother being assaulted, trying to be brave for her little brother. That girl was there, deep inside of her somewhere. “They brought us through the woods. I couldn’t see much.”

  They. “Who?”

  She looked back at the wall behind her, a door, he guessed.

  “Who?”

  “The men in black. I don’t know who they are.” She turned to him. “They were wearing masks. Like ones for Halloween. White masks. Their clothes were black, I don’t know where they came from, I woke up in the car and they were there.”

  “Where is the car?”

  “Wrecked. You were out for a long time. We hit a tree. I don’t remember much but that. It was getting dark and they came for the car.”

  Who? Who had come for the car? Dull, painful terror crept into his veins. “Where are we, Sam?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where are we?” He sat up. The room around him was made of stone. It was solid and thick—and it was dark. More of a deep gray stained black by the darkness around them. Behind him was a table. He realized his head had been in Sam’s lap. She had been cradling it. There was warmth on his cheek still, it was a slap. She tried to slap him awake.

  That was when the pain returned, a deeps splitting at the back of his skull—like a cleaver had been set there and left for him to suffer. He could feel a pressure, something not supposed to be there at the back of his head. He might have a concussion, he didn’t know.

  He shook the feeling from his head, and rasped again. He knew where they were. He knew exactly where they were.

  “God help us.” He said. “I know where we are.”

  Sam’s eyes widened. “Where?”

  He tried to stand, but the energy he was searching for had not returned yet. He remained sitting. “We’re at the end of the map.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “How can we be at the end of the map? We had hours to go when I fell asleep, it’s not possible for us to be there. How are we here, Clark? How are we here?” The pitch in her voice rose, it was reaching maddening levels. Desperation tainted it. He could taste fear from it, settling deep in his mouth. He realized he had the same flavor coming from him.

  “But we’re here. Now what do we do about it?” He looked down at his watch. It was dead, cracked glass obscured the face of it. He reached for his pockets, not surprised to find them empty. He had no phone, no way of telling time. “How long was I out?”

  “How are we here?”

  “Sam!”

  She jerked.

  “Focus with me. We won’t find out anything if you let that feeling that you have right now take over. We have to get out of this. Now, how long was I out?”

  “Maybe a couple hours.”

  “What do you remember about where they took us?”

  She paused. “I don’t know. Somewhere in the woods. I remember trees. There were leaves all over the ground, like they had just fallen. But there was a path, it wasn’t paved or anything, but it looked like a lot of people had been walking on it. There’s a building above us. We went down some stairs, to get here. The old building though, I think it’s an old church. We’re underground, I know that.”

  He could smell the dirt, fed by decay and worms. She had that part right for sure.

  “How deep you think?”

  “It was a lot of stairs.”

  “They carried you?”

  She nodded. “It was a big guy. He had me and another one had you. He wouldn’t quit touching me. He kept putting his hands…” She stopped. “They set us down in here and whispered something to each other. There are other rooms down here. No doors on them though.”

  “Crap.” He muttered.

  “What? What does that mean?”

  “It means that this room was specifically designed for us.” He looked over at the door and felt a trickle of terror creep down his spine. “They were expecting us.”

  [Transcript of Session from the Case File of Jon Morgan]

  Bell: Are you okay, Jon?

  Jon: Yes.

  Bell: We don’t have to go on all at once, if you don’t want to. It is optional.

  Jon: I want to finish.

  Bell: Go ahead.

  Jon: I ducked into the hallway. Sam was out there, like I said. I didn’t see what she had then, I didn’t know.

  She walked out there, she had it pointed at him. It was a pistol, I figured that out as soon as he started shouting at her. He still had a gun to Mom’s head. He must have been waving it or something, Mom started screaming. Crying for Sam to leave, to take me and go. Crap, I started to feel so bad then. I felt my legs start shaking though, so I couldn’t go out there and help her. I was too scared. Too freaking chicken to get out there and stop it all. I still hate myself for that.

  He started screaming at her to stop and put the gun down. Sam told him to back up, and he started laughing. He stepped back I guess. I heard the buckles on his belt jingle, I figured out later he put his pants back on. Mom was still crying. He told her to stay down.

  I heard Sam say something loudly, then I heard the gunshot. It was loud, nearly broke my eardrum. Gah, my head still rings with it most of the time. I can hear it, the dull piercing ring in the back of my ear, like right on the eardrum. It hurts sometimes, but only when I dream.

  Bell: Is that all?”

  Jon: That was when Sam screamed and Mom stopped screaming. I knew then what happened. But I didn’t want to think about it, like admitting it to myself would be the end, you know? He yelled at Sam, and then I heard a second gunshot, more muted because the first one was still ringing.

  That was when I found the strength to round the corner, I looked in the kitchen and saw Sam standing there, she had her arms stretched out in front of her. The guy was in front of her. He was holding his chest. There was so much blood. I saw Mom, her head was gone. I could see the black of her hair and then it all disappeared into goo and red. He blew her head right off.

  Sam shot the man again. That time, she got him in the head. He exploded. That’s something they don’t really do right on TV, you know. The head exploded out of the back, like literally exploded. There was crap all over the wall, and Sam was just standing there, holding the gun.

  Me? I peed myself. I remember seeing Sam standing there, and blue lights bounced off of her, then it all goes fuzzy.

  But that look on her face the next time I saw her…that was something I can’t really forget. The cop came in and took the gun from her, but she looked dead. Like nobody was home.

  Sometimes I think she still looks like that after that night.

  [End of Excerpt]

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  1

  Sam walked around the small room, feeling the walls with the tips of her fingers, trying to find something, anything that might be of use to them. Clark still sat on the floor, dizzy and nauseous. She was sure he had a concussion. There was no doubt in her mind about it, a time around motorcycles and more than a fair share of crash victims gave her all the info she needed for it. She didn’t say it out loud. She didn’t want to worry him. They had more than enough to deal with at the present moment.

  The walls were tight and cramped. They felt more like s
omething that had been put up with the intent of having the occupants standing the whole time. There was a small cot that Clark had been particularly wary of that crammed most of the room, and a small table. It was empty, but there was a clear space of slightly different color. She knew something had been used on. Dried brown stains marked the walls and cot. She chose not to think about those.

  A feeling of intense paranoia still clouded her. Even after she had woken on the shoulders of the monster that she supposed might have also been a man, tied from behind so she couldn’t move her paranoia had increased. She felt like they had targeted her in particular. When they had come for the car, they said that they pulled her out first. The man had been careful with her, handling her as if he were handling something that was actually fragile, unlike Clark who they slung around like he was a bag of sand.

  There was something going on that she didn’t like. When she managed to calm down her heart and focus her mind she was able to begin searching the room. She needed to find something to defend them with. Otherwise they were dead in the water. She knew that, he knew that. No loose bricks had presented themselves and she supposed that she wouldn’t find any.

  What had Jon gotten them into? What had they walked into? Like stupid sheep waltzing into the slaughterhouse at the slightest offering of food, they had followed the map all the way to the end, and where had it gotten them? Hell. That was where it had gotten them.

  She turned around. “You still with me?”

  “Wouldn’t dream of leaving.” He rasped back.

  Clark had come out of unconsciousness different than he had been before. He kept looking over his shoulder, as if he felt someone was there sitting with him. He jumped at every noise, and most of all he kept whispering to himself. She couldn’t make out what he was saying, it all seemed jumbled and scared. She knew that it was, ultimately, but there was a contagious terror in it that made her want to crawl into a corner and disappear.