Seagulls dove, snatching up any scrap of food a child dropped, but it was only mid-morning and most lunches were still safely packed away. In the drop-off area, as one bus pulled away, the next would take its place. As the students exited the buses, they gathered in large groups, before dividing into smaller groups and heading into Navy Pier, most probably on their way to the Children’s Museum.
A bus took its turn at the front of the drop-off but instead of sending forth a stream of children, it just sat there. The driver of the next bus in line must have become impatient, for he blasted his horn a few times, but the first bus never moved. Mark’s first thought was engine trouble, or maybe a teacher was giving last minute rules to the children. He remembered those days of being a child and practically bouncing out of his seat in excitement and having to listen to the teacher drone on and on about staying with the group, keeping quiet, blah, blah, blah. He chuckled at the memories. Poor kids.
After a few more moments, he stepped closer noticing that something was different with this bus. The windows. That was it. They were empty. No excited faces peered out, no heads bobbed, there was no movement at all. Puzzled more than alarmed, he looked for a group that was already done with their field trip and ready to board the empty bus, but none of the groups paid any mind to the empty bus. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled and without realizing it, he began moving towards the bus, but it was like trying to sprint on a treadmill. He was getting nowhere fast. The door opened and Mohommad appeared in the entrance of the bus, scanned the crowd and appeared as though he was going to exit the bus. Just as he started to step down, his gaze turned towards Mark and after a moment’s hesitation, he scrambled up the step back into the bus. Had he seen him? How could he have? None of the other people seemed to notice Mark’s presence. Just then, a Chicago police officer strolled past Mark. Mohommad must have been looking at the cop, not Mark. Knowing it was futile, Mark pushed harder to reach the bus, but it was like swimming through pudding. A sudden flash blinded him an instant before the sound blasted through his body. He flinched but strangely, didn’t feel anything. The dream slowed to a quarter-speed as the wave of energy lifted people, tossing them like so many rag dolls, only to drop them in boneless heaps on the pavement.
When the image returned to normal speed, the bus was gone, as well the two flanking it. Only the axle of one bus remained. Shock and panic hit him at the same time. Above him, thousands of papers fluttered in the dense smoke-filled air. At first, there was just the sound of debris and the tinkling of glass, but soon, moans, cries and screams filled the air as terrified children and adults registered the explosion. Beyond the buses, on the side closest to Navy Pier, it was even worse. The wall of the Children’s Museum had disintegrated and twisted metal beams protruded through the brick and glass.
His instinct was to help someone, but all around him, bodies littered the pavement…or pieces of bodies. He covered his mouth, gagging at the sight of a lone sneaker-clad foot. Unsure what to do first or where to go, he froze until the moans and cries of the survivors spurred him to action. A woman crawled across debris, her goal, the remains of a stroller. One wheel spun crazily in the air. A moment later, the woman screamed. And screamed. The wail pierced into his brain.
Mark jolted up in bed, his hands tight to his ears as he opened his eyes, relieved to find himself in Jim’s spare bedroom instead of at Navy Pier. He’d been expecting the dream, but even so, it left him drained, and more exhausted than he’d been before going to bed. Hands shaking he lowered them and swung his legs to sit on the side of the bed. The wail still echoed in his head, amplifying the throbbing from his head injury. Remembering the ibuprofen Jim had bought, he headed to the kitchen to get a glass of water and down a couple more of the pain relievers. Still shaken from the images in his dream, he sat on the couch and flipped the TV on, turning it on low. He knew he should write down the details while they were still fresh, but he didn’t think he was in any danger of forgetting them. They were etched indelibly into his mind. An infomercial touting the magical cleaning properties of a hand towel came on and the sound increased. He didn’t notice until Jim came out into the living room. Mark did a double-take. Logically, he knew Jim wouldn’t sleep in an immaculately pressed shirt and tie, but he still raised an eyebrow at the faded pajama pants the other man wore. It didn’t fit the image.
Mark muted the TV. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Jim rubbed a hand over his face, creating a sandpapery sound as he plopped onto the edge of the recliner. “What’s wrong?”
“I had the dream.” Mark’s throat tightened making his next words inaudible. He cleared his throat and tried again. “It was…intense.”
Jim sighed and sat back, but didn’t recline. “Did you notice anything that might help us stop it? A time? A license plate?”
Mark shook his head. “Sorry. It wasn’t much different than the photos—just a long line of buses, then one that didn’t have any passengers. Next thing I know, it blows up and takes out the wall of the museum.”
“Did you get an ID on the bomber? A license plate on the bus? Anything?”
“It was Mo.” The shock of the dream started to wear off and anger took its place. “I saw him just before he blew the bus.” Mark glared at Jim. “How could he do that to a bunch of little kids? Goddamn innocent babies!” He rocked forward, rubbing his temples and mumbled, “Damn it! I can’t believe I was friends with him. I should have seen signs or…or something.” Disgust at his own ineptitude made his stomach churn. “I must be a complete idiot.”
Jim didn’t speak for a several moments, but finally he leaned forward, hands clasped in front of his mouth, almost like he was praying. “If this is Mohommad, he’s been brainwashed in a way, based upon what his sister recounted. He’s not the same man you knew and there’s no way you could have predicted what he would become. We had him for a year, and we didn’t predict it. If we had, we never would have sent him back to Afghanistan.”
“So we’re all idiots.”
Jim’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Yes, I guess so, but at least we have some warning. That’s going to make a difference, Mark. We’re going to stop this, just like we stopped the Wrigley Field thing.”
“But what if we don’t? What if you set up extra security like you suggested, and he just goes and blows the bus up somewhere else in Chicago? You didn’t answer that question. What’s to stop him? Hell—he could pick any school in the city and just wait for the end of the school day, and then blow all the students to smithereens as they leave the building.” He sat back with a growl of anger and gave the table a little shove with one foot. “Why didn’t I dream of him getting into the bus? We’d know where he started out and that information would have been a lot more helpful.”
“I agree, that would have been nice, but we have to work with what we have, which is more than we would have had if you hadn’t taken the camera back.”
Mark let out a deep breath, reluctant to let go of the self-loathing. His leg bounced, and annoyed at the nervous tic, he fought to control it, already embarrassed he’d lost control when he kicked the table. “Yeah, but…”
“Look, it’s only a little after one a.m. Try to get back to sleep so your head will be clear in the morning. We might need you to identify the bus and I don’t want your memory blurred by fatigue.”
“Yeah.” The yelling hadn’t helped the headache and he winced as he stood.
“How’s the head?”
“Fine.”
“Liar.”
“I just took some more ibuprofen. It’ll be fine soon.” Mark turned towards the hallway to go back to bed, but hesitated as Jim remained sitting. “What about you?”
“I have a few calls to make first.”
“Okay. Goodnight.”
* * *
After jotting down the details of the dream, Mark returned to bed, only to toss and turn for the next couple of hours. Jim’s voice carried to him, but he couldn’t make out what he
was saying. Guilt that he should be out there trying to help instead of lying in bed made sleep even more elusive. Around 3:30 A.M, his limbs became heavy, his breathing deepened and he felt himself drifting off.
The Ferris Wheel shone red and white against the crystal blue autumn sky. The laughter and squealing of children mixed with the occasional scolding of chaperones blended with sounds of traffic to create an undercurrent of joyful energy at Navy Pier.
Mark glanced around and tension coiled in his muscles, but he wasn’t sure why. Nobody else looked uptight. Buses unloaded children, and their joyful shouts and laughter should have helped him relax, but instead, it fueled his anxiety. People brushed past him, and he felt trapped, like he needed to be somewhere but wouldn’t be able to get there because of the press of bodies.
A bus pulled alongside the curb, but didn’t unload passengers like the ones farther down the line were doing. A police officer approached the bus and made a move along gesture. “Yo, Buddy! Unload or move before I have to ticket you.”
Whoever was in the bus didn’t acknowledge the cop. Feeling pulled towards the bus, Mark edged next to it, running a hand along the side of the bus as he moved from the back to the front. He glanced at the windows, but no eager young faces peered out at him. A sick feeling of dread washed over Mark, but he was powerless to stop his forward motion. He had been here before, only it was different.
The cop rapped on the door of the bus, and glanced over to his left giving Mark a ‘Back-off, this doesn’t concern you’ glare. Mark wanted more than anything to heed the unspoken threat. Not because he was worried about the officer, although he knew he should have been, but because the bus was going to explode. An image of the resulting carnage was imprinted in the front of his mind. He’d seen it. A warning lodged in his throat and no amount of working the muscles of his tongue or jaw would free it. The officer turned his attention back to the bus when the door squeaked open and an instant later, a shot rang out. The officer dropped in a boneless heap.
Shocked at the sudden violence, Mark wanted to recoil, but his feet continued their journey as if of their own accord, taking him right up to the downed officer. The door to the bus remained open and Mark leaped through it. Finally, his feet obeyed his signal and he stopped on the second step. Mo sat in the driver’s seat, his eyes wide as they darted to Mark and then beyond, to the body of the officer. He still held the gun, but the barrel was pointing at the floor of the bus.
“He shouldn’t have knocked on the door. He made me shoot him.”
Mark took another step up, his front foot on the top one, and darted a look into the back of the bus, hoping his earlier premonition was wrong and he’d see little children, but he knew the wish was just that—a wish. Mo wouldn’t have stolen into the country just to become a school bus driver. Instead of eager students, lined up as neatly as eggs in a carton, were a dozen gray barrels. Wires snaked along the floor connecting the barrels. “The cop made you shoot him? Then who forced you to make a bomb?”
The next few seconds were a blur as Mark lunged for the gun and knocked it out of Mo’s hand. It skittered into the back and he dove for it, but Mo landed on top of him before his hand could close around the weapon. Something struck the back of his head, knocking his forehead into the cold metal floor. Mo’s hands wrapped around his neck and fingers dug into his throat. Mark struggled to breathe. Mo’s grip loosened when the bus jolted. Mark froze in his efforts to escape and Mo’s grip fell away as the other man scrambled up and rushed to the driver’s seat. Was the bus getting ready to explode? Had the jolt been a warning? Jumping to his feet, Mark took a step towards Mo, but tumbled back to the floor when the floor dropped beneath his feet. It took him a moment to realize it wasn’t just the floor, but the whole bus. Water poured in through the open door, sweeping Mark hard into the barrels. Pain shot through his ribs on the right. Gritting his teeth, he attempted to stand, but the force of the water kept him pinned with his back against a barrel. Mo had smashed against the driver’s side window, equally helpless against the inrush of frigid lake water. Their eyes met and Mark saw fear and confusion that must have mirrored his own. The bus lurched and the water sloshed, changing direction and releasing Mo from its grip. It sucked him, arms flailing, down the stairwell.
The bus shifted again and Mark pushed away from the barrels, half crawling, half swimming as he struggled to reach the door. It felt like an invisible hand pushed against him, keeping him from reaching his goal. The water level rose until Mark’s head bumped against the roof of the bus, and the door was below him, fully submerged. No matter how hard he kicked, he couldn’t reach it. Exhausted, he tried to catch his breath and rubbed a hand against the window to see where the bus was and if help was on the way. The sliver of window above the water afforded him a view of the Ferris Wheel, the cages gently rocking but otherwise stationary. To his right, he heard the roar of engines. Water lapped at his nose. Panic raced through him as he tilted his head back and with the toe of his shoe pushed against the window ledge to get a few last breaths before his air pocket collapsed. Coughing and gasping, he fixed his gaze on the Ferris Wheel, a small part of him glad the bus hadn’t exploded, but angry that he wouldn’t ever get to ride the damn Wheel again. He shoved the heel of his hand as hard as he could at the glass, but couldn’t seem to make contact. Over and over, he tried to break the window out, but it was if the window was beyond his reach.
* * *
“Mark! Wake up! Quit swinging at me!”
Opening his eyes, Mark found his father leaning over him, one hand up in a defensive stance, while the other still shook Mark’s shoulder. “Where am I?” He turned his head to see the small desk and realized he was still in Jim’s guest room. He sat up as his dad backed away, slowly lowering his guard, but still giving Mark a look that mixed concern and annoyance.
“Are you okay? You were shouting and kicking and you damn near took my head off with a wild swing. I didn’t think I’d ever get you to wake up.”
Mark scrubbed his hands down his face and mumbled, “Sorry, Dad. Oh man. It was a doozy of a dream.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat trying to gain his composure as his heart slammed against his ribs.
“I thought you already had a dream last night? Jim’s been on the phone since I got here an hour ago. If things have changed, you better let him know as soon as possible. I think he’s called in the cavalry. ”
Mark shot a look at the clock. It was only 7:05A.M, but it seemed like days had passed since he’d awakened in the middle of the night. “I guess I was dreaming, but it was so real…I was on the bus…”
He thought of the whole dream and recognized that the hazy beginning was classic dream and the longer he was awake, the more unreal the dream became. Was it one of his future dreams or just a dream born of fear of failure? It had the hallmarks of his future dreams and enough similarities to the earlier one, that Mark couldn’t be sure. One thing he knew was that in this dream, he was there. He wasn’t just watching the events unfold, but had been part of the dream.
“I need to do a quick exam, especially since you’re exhibiting some signs of a mental status change.” His dad touched the wound on the side of Mark’s head, causing him to flinch and push his dad’s hand away.
“It was just a dream, Dad. I’m fine. I know where I am, who you are, and today’s date.” So, he was lying about the date, but he attributed that to his days on the run. If he thought about it, he could come up with the correct date. Probably. His head still hurt from connecting with the floor of the bus, and he rubbed it as his heart slowly settled into a normal rhythm.
“If you’re feeling so good, why are you rubbing your head?”
“It just hurts from hitting the floor of the bus.” The words were out before he thought about them. How could he have pain from an injury sustained in a dream?
“Okay, that seals it. You’re going to have to go in for some tests.”
Jim strode into the room before Mark could protest his fath
er’s suggestion.
“What’s all the commotion? I was on the phone with the Chicago P.D. I was able to get them to assign some extra patrols around Navy Pier today.”
Mark thought of the officer who had been shot. “Warn them not to approach any buses in the drop-off lane.”
“Excuse me? Isn’t that exactly what we want to do?”
“I just had another dream.” Mark stood, trying not to wince at the various aches and pains from the previous day’s flight from the diner. The pain in his head was just residual from the gunshot wound. That had to be it.
“What do you mean, you had another dream? Was it the same one? I’ve just spent half the night organizing my team and the Chicago P.D. on how to prevent the scenario presented in the first dream, and now you’re saying all of that was a waste of time?”
Mark shouldered past the two men, feeling claustrophobic in the tiny room. “I need a few minutes then I’ll explain.” He headed to the bathroom. As he splashed his face with cold water, his dad knocked on the door. “I brought you a change of clothing. It was too early to buy anything but a package of underwear at a drugstore, but my stuff should fit you okay.”
“Thanks.” He opened the door and took the bundle. “I’m going to take a quick shower.”
“Keep those stitches dry or—“
Mark turned the water on before his father could complete the warning. As he stood under the hot spray, he gasped and his heart pounded. The liquid hit his mouth and nose, making him gag as it triggered a sensation of drowning. He didn’t know if it was stress which triggered flashbacks to his waterboarding experiences or if it was the dream, but he rinsed and shut the water off as quickly as possible.
He toweled off, replaying the second dream in his head. His dad had awakened him before he came to the end, but he was pretty sure of the conclusion. Mark pulled on his clothes, trying to reason out a different outcome, but he couldn’t overlook the obvious. He braced his hands on either side of the sink basin and let out a long, shuddering breath. He had died in the dream.
Mark Taylor Omnibus (The Mark Taylor Series) Page 86
