Dream Job (The Dreamwalker Chronicles Book 1)

by Pettit, Gregory

  It’s almost fun and certainly rewarding (for certain values of fun and rewarding) to stake a vampire, cut down a horde of zombies, or kick the shit out of some wife-abusing asshat. However, the dream I was seeing tonight was one that made me question whether my dreamwatching was a gift or a curse.

  I walked over to the young man and put one hand on his shoulder in as comforting a manner as I could while holding out the other. “We’ll get him out, you and me.”

  The young man looked up at me, his eyes swollen and red. Snot ran down his nose, and his sobbing hadn’t abated enough for him to talk, but he took my proffered hand in a firmer-than-expected grip. I hoped that grip indicated strength of will and mental resilience because that’s what it was going to take to get the best result from this situation.

  In front of us was a smoldering wreck of twisted metal and dribbling fluids. Some of those fluids were coming from an older version of the man now standing beside me—clearly his father or some other close relative. The car had rolled down an embankment, turning over at least half a dozen times as it plunged over the side of the road before coming to rest, smoking and wrapped halfway around a tree. If that were all that was wrong, I’d have simply righted the car, extricated the passenger, and called it a night. Depressingly, as was so often the case in dreams of this sort, the older man was horribly mangled but still alive, in a way that never could have actually occurred in real life, with large branches skewering him in several places. He, of course, was a fiction of his son’s imagination, but the young man didn’t know that. All he knew was that his father was in horrible pain, likely to die, and it was his fault.

  I don’t know what it is in our subconscious that makes scenarios like this one come out so often. Maybe it was repressed guilt, or maybe the dreamer actually had accidentally hurt someone. But whatever the cause, I experienced them at least once a month, and I’d not yet found a really satisfactory solution. Before she disappeared, my mom always used to say, “Do your best. Angels could do no better.” I’m no angel, but I would certainly do my best to take care of this situation.

  Holding the young man’s hand in mine, I walked toward the mangled vehicle: some kind of family hatchback, as far as I could tell, but it was impossible to be sure. When we were ten feet away, flames crept out around the hood of the car; the young man yelped and tried to rush forward. If he panicked, the Dreamscape would almost certainly pick up on it, and then the fire would flare out of control. I’d taken the young man’s hand for just this kind of eventuality, and while holding him back, I put my plan in motion.

  “Hey—I think it’s going out. You’d better call for help,” I said calmly and clearly while expending a sharp burst of willpower and imagining the fire being starved of oxygen. The flames immediately retreated while I pulled a phone out of my pocket. I always kept my phone in my left front pocket in the real world, and it obediently appeared there in the Dreamscape.

  “Remember, dial 999, and don’t worry about the address. They’ll be able to track the phone’s position,” I lied to the young man. A few moments later, he was absorbed in speaking to the “operator” on the other end of the phone. With any luck, my suggestion and the ingrained expectations of society would produce an ambulance in short order and without me expending any further effort. This next part was going to take some real heavy lifting, mentally and physically.

  I’d arrived in my customary trench coat, and long years of building up my own mental expectations around its toughness meant that it would handle anything short of a werewolf or large-caliber rifle without conscious intervention on my part, so I wasn’t particularly worried about the fire. However, the trick to resolving this situation was going to be in extricating the older man without doing anything that would spook his son, and doing it before the ambulance arrived and he could start imagining dire pronouncements from the EMTs. If I could pull that off and use the paramedics’ arrival as a distraction during which I could heal his injured father, I figured that tonight’s work would be done as well as I could manage.

  Closing my eyes briefly, I imagined an aura springing up around myself, invisible to everyone around me but light blue to my sight. I then pictured “energy” flowing from my surroundings into the aura, which then sank into me, making me better…stronger…faster. This had been easy when I was a kid, but as I got older and understood what “energy” really was, it had actually become more difficult. Nowadays, it took a serious act of concentration to sustain the effect for just a few moments. Damn you, science.

  When I opened my eyes, I saw the last flickers of aura vanishing inside my skin, and I felt nearly invincible. Knowing that this wouldn’t last, I dashed the final couple of steps to the car, doing my utmost to ignore the barely conscious whimpering of the impaled man. I placed my hands on either side of the largest branch, careful to avoid gray, shiny loops of intestine, and squeezed. Even though the piece of wood going through the man’s side was as big around as my thigh, I didn’t have any trouble literally crushing it, compacting the wood between my hands to half the original size. My muscles flexed again, and the wood splintered and cracked; then, with a sharp twist, I snapped the branch off, tossing it twenty feet through the air to land with a ground-shaking thud in the undergrowth. I quickly repeated the feat with the other pair of offending branches, and although I didn’t take more than thirty seconds to accomplish the work, I had to strain until my chest hurt and my head swam to crush the final limb as my imaginary strength waned.

  I finished just in time; I picked up the wail of a siren at the edge of my hearing and felt the young man walk up behind me. I had to time this just right, or it wouldn’t have the desired effect.

  “Is my dad all right?” The quaver in his voice was barely under control, but I could tell that the act of summoning help had successfully restored a measure of composure to him. When I glanced over my shoulder, his blue eyes were glistening. I kept my bulk between him and the unresponsive form of his father. There are some things that people shouldn’t see any more than they need to.

  “I don’t think it was as bad as it looked. I think he’ll be fine,” I lied straightfacedly to the young man. “You better go guide the ambulance in,” I continued, pointing toward the road. He nodded his tousled head and walked up the embankment, waving his arms frantically. Now that I had an opportunity, I reached under the man, cradling him like a child. I braced my legs, gritted my teeth, and lifted. He didn’t move. I could hear the ambulance clattering over the edge of the road. I kept straining. I heaved until the muscles in my neck stood out like cords. With the rasp of wood on bone, he rose off the impaling wood. Blood fountained, and I stumbled backward.

  Exhausted, I dumped him on the grass, and the man’s eyes rolled back in his head. I surveyed the damage, seeing holes in his side just below his ribcage, in his shoulder, and through his thigh.

  The easy way out of this would have been to imagine him whole and well, but there was no way that my latest charge would believe that. I knew from experience and instinct that if I tried to manipulate his sleeping mind in that way, he’d start pushing back against the imposition and might simply wake up. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if that happened, but I thought that there was more good that I could do here. I imagined finding a first aid kit in the back of the car, grabbed it, and quickly bandaged the man’s wounds. The prompt I’d provided to the young man was affecting the dream; his father’s wounds lessened noticeably in severity with each passing moment.

  I’d just finished tying off a strip of gauze when the paramedics tromped out of their vans. I couldn’t be sure what the young man had been watching on television recently, but the guys standing across from me looked suspiciously like George Clooney and Noah Wyle. I gave them a wink, but got no response as they robotically loaded their patient onto a stretcher and into the back of the ambulance, stopping to reassure the victim’s son that everything would be fine.

  I helped the young man into the back of the ambulance and then climbed in a
fter him. I knew that wouldn’t be allowed in the real world, but his mind wasn’t focused on that kind of detail as he took his dad’s hand between both of his, and he began quietly crying and muttering, “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry…I ruined it all, Dad,” over and over. I didn’t like where this recrimination was going, and then a few different things clicked into place in my mind.

  “Hey,” I said to call attention to myself. “You did a good job. There was nothing you could do about this. This isn’t your fault.”

  The young man looked up and started to speak: “But I did this, the—”

  I cut him off. “It’s not your fault that you’re gay. I’m sure your dad was just surprised. Deep down, he loves you.”

  The inside of the ambulance disappeared, and we were standing in a field. The young man looked larger than he had before, and I looked on silently as he embraced his father, holding on to him as his body was wracked with sobs of relief. The rainbow overhead was—maybe—a bit much.

  CHAPTER 16 0745–0845, Sunday, August 2, 2015

  ***Julian***

  I came to consciousness slowly, and as my eyes opened, I was surprised to see Dana still lying next to me. Olivia almost always woke us up before my alarm, and if I was going to get to confession on time, I needed to get ready in a hurry. I grabbed a fresh towel from the chest of drawers in the corner and tiptoed out of the bedroom.

  After I had my contacts in, I was happy to note that my bruises seemed to be fading nicely; it only looked like I’d been jumped by a pack of muggers and not like I’d been hit by a truck. Still, I wouldn’t be winning a beauty contest anytime soon. Some things never change.

  A few minutes later, I was in the living room, dried off from my shower and slipping a sweater over my head, when Olivia finally got up.

  “I’ve got shoes on, Daddy,” the little girl said to me with a wide smile on her face. I looked down and saw that she had a pair of fuzzy bunny slippers on and smiled. I walked forward and swept her up in my arms. After a hug, I deposited her on the couch. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that they were on the wrong feet.

  “Can you stay here and watch cartoons while I make us some breakfast, sweetie?” I asked while grabbing the remote control and switching on the TV, knowing ahead of time what the answer would be.

  “Yes, Daddy. I want toast,” the blond-haired girl replied, her attention already fixed on a particularly obnoxious dancing cartoon pig. While I prepared toast from slices of the bread Dana had baked the night before, I reflected on just how British she sounded nowadays and wondered if she would grow up feeling any sense of Americaness.

  When I had breakfast ready, Dana came out of the bedroom and plucked the toast from my hand with a wink and a laugh.

  “Thanks, babe,” she said, sashaying past in a sheer silk kimono. I thought back to the argument we’d had yesterday afternoon and then felt my heart pick up pace as I remembered how we’d “made up” later that evening. Given the time that I’d spent in hospital, we’d both agreed afterward that the time we’d spent together making up had been long overdue. However, I knew enough not to kid myself and realized that a few hours (okay, a couple minutes) of sex wasn’t going to fix the underlying issues in our relationship. No, it was going to take me devoting more time to our family and less to work…as soon as I took care of the conference center bid and figured out what was going on with OMG.

  “Thanks, I probably could stand to lose a few pounds anyhow,” I quipped sarcastically to Dana as she poured a glass of orange juice. You can take the girl out of Florida…I thought before continuing: “Hey, can you finish taking care of Olivia? I need to get to church in about five minutes if I’m going to make my appointment with Father O’Hanrahan.”

  I was already putting on my shoes by the time I heard her reply in the affirmative with a quick, “Yup,” and a nod.

  “Bye, girls, see you soon,” I called over my shoulder as the door shut, and I emerged into another sweltering summer morning. It seemed to be too early for anyone else to be out and about, because I didn’t hear any arguments wafting from the open windows that dotted the street. It was only a five-minute walk in the direction of Greenford Broadway to reach Our Lady of the Visitation, and I was soon letting myself in by the side door.

  The main doors wouldn’t open for Mass for another hour and a half, but I was pleased to see that Father O’Hanrahan had already opened up a side door for confession. Looking at the pews in front of the confessional booth, I saw that there was an old man in front of me in the queue, and presumably someone was in with the priest already. Instead of sitting, I spent the time until my turn came reading through the various bits of information posted on the church bulletin board. I mentally made a note that there was going to be a jumble sale in a few weeks, looking forward to the opportunity to potentially donate some of Olivia’s old toys and clothes.

  After about ten minutes, Father O. called out to me with a pronounced Dublin accent that forty-five years away from the country hadn’t softened. “Good morning, my son. I’m very glad to see you, Julian.” The older man’s blue eyes twinkled as he extended his hand to greet me.

  “I’m glad to see you too, Father O.” People usually called him Father O. in recognition of the name he’d gone by when on missionary work, which he joked had saved the locals from needing to get their tongues around O’Hanrahan. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to discuss some of my recent…issues with you this morning,” I replied, gesturing toward the open confessional booth.

  Most non-Catholics picture confession like it is shown in the movies, with the priest and parishioner separated by a screen, but I didn’t know anyone who did it that way. I always figured that if a man didn’t have the guts to look another man in the eyes while laying out his sins, then he probably wasn’t ready to take responsibility for them.

  Father O. turned and led the way in, but his face took on a slightly worried look as he glanced over his shoulder and inquired: “Julian, I’ve never known you to be in any trouble, but I can’t help but ask if part of the reason that you’re here is related to all of the bruises I can see on you? If you don’t mind me saying, lad, you look like you lost a fight with a herd of wildebeest.”

  “Well, Father, I don’t want to upset you, but I’m afraid that they are related to my problems…” With that, I relayed the story of increasingly odd behavior by my colleagues, the attack that Phil launched on me, the detective looking for a way to pin a charge on me, and the lie I’d told to Dana the day before. I’m not an especially religious man, but I do believe that the act of talking to another person usually helps, especially when that person is someone that I respected as much as Father O’Hanrahan.

  When, after approximately ten minutes, I’d finished telling the story, Father O. simply sat looking at me with a sympathetic but keen gaze for nearly thirty seconds before saying:

  “Julian, I think that there is something you aren’t telling me. I heard you saying that you think that the new firm you’re dealing with is mixed up in your colleague’s behavior, but what I didn’t hear is why you think so.” I started to open my mouth to respond when the old priest held up a hand to forestall my interruption. “I’m neither saying that you’re lying nor that you’re trying to deceive me. I think that instead, there’s something you’re afraid to tell me. Open up, son,” Father O. implored. His words and kindly smile as he finished speaking almost caused me to crack.

  I’d spent weeks driving myself mercilessly at work, both for my own personal advancement and also to make time for my family. Instead of being rewarded for my hard work with a gentle ramp down before going on vacation, I’d been: thrown into a chaotic project, hounded by an increasingly delusional boss, given a savage beating that had left me in hospital, and placed under suspicion of a serious crime, and I was pretty sure that somehow a potential new supplier was behind all of it. On top of that, I couldn’t forget the blackness in Phil’s eyes as he muttered about OMG while trying to choke the life out o
f me. My mouth opened to voice my true suspicions…and I couldn’t make a sound.

  I’d never told anyone, including Dana, about what I did at night. Without admitting everything, there was no way that I could explain the basis for my suspicions, no way that I could tell him that my coworker had seemed to be possessed, and no way to marvel about how I’d seemingly magicked a weapon from thin air to protect myself.

  “I’m sorry, Father,” was all I said in reply. I watched the smile fade from his face and felt shame well up inside me.

  He shook his head, but there was still a strange eagerness in his eyes as he sighed and said: “My door is always open for you, Julian. Even if you can’t tell me everything, I believe that your contrition for the things you have told me is genuine. For what it is worth, I don’t believe that you’ve done anything wrong in defending yourself. The good book may say, ‘Turn the other cheek,’ but it also says, ‘No one can enter a strong man’s house and plunder his goods, unless he first binds the strong man.’ Stay strong, Julian, and do fifteen Hail Marys and ten Glory Bes.” With that, the priest rose to his feet, and I matched him.

  “I will, Father,” I replied, and he dipped his head before opening the door for me. I could see a bland-looking man in a well-tailored brown suit waiting on the pew, and I felt slightly embarrassed at how long I’d been in the confessional booth. I vaguely wondered both what the man thought I had spent so much time confessing and what he himself would be sharing. I glanced at my watch and saw that I still had forty-five minutes before Mass would start, so I decided that was plenty of time to head back home to help the wife get Olivia ready.

  The morning had gotten even warmer while I’d been inside the cool, dark house of worship, but I didn’t pay much attention to that as I covered the distance home. Instead, I felt ashamed at having been too afraid to open up to the priest. I’d been busy since waking up in hospital, and although I had felt an instinctive certainty that OMG was behind the increasing strangeness, it wasn’t until now that I’d truly realized the weirdness of all of the little things put together. I felt a chill run down my spine as I thought once again of a black-eyed Phil’s breath washing over my face as he muttered about me ruining his chances with Kelly and tried to choke the life out of me. I vowed to spend the afternoon reaching out to the contacts that I’d looked up the day before; I was going to figure out what in the hell was actually going on.