The Seventh Age: Dawn

by Rick Heinz

  “Yeah. I’m tellin’ you, what I see is real. When I push myself, right when I’m hanging there on the edge, I can see them. The world changes for me. Becomes this sort of . . . shadow world? It’s even clearer if I do it near a haunted place. Speaking of that, I’m going to the theater where Dillinger died this weekend. Wanna go?” Mike asked. He realized he was talking with his hands again. This presented a problem with the food delivery system of chopsticks, and he paid more attention to devouring his foul meal.

  “Nah. If the dead were real, Mike, the entire world would know. There are nearly seven and a half billion humans, living people who do things like go fishing. Everyone accepts tragedy in their own way, and that the dead stay dead. As your therapist, I can give you a clinical diagnosis. As your friend, I’m just going to tell you that you are insane. You already know this of course. However—”

  “You know this is why you don’t have any clients, right?” Mike cut in.

  “Why would I need other clients when I have you? I could write a book about you.” He got up and moved to a whiteboard and started writing names down. “As I was saying, every time you find a place where tragedy happened and pull off a death-defying stunt, you get these visions. Let me take an educated guess about today. You have been working on accident-prone job sites. It’s why your company gets the high-risk work. This job site is no different, correct?”

  “Yup. Three-man accident. One survived, two didn’t. Every one of them family men. I worked with one of them on a few different jobs. He had a temper and rode everyone pretty hard, but was a saint at heart if you could avoid talking politics with him.” Mike paused and stared at the names appearing on the board. “Why?”

  “I want to focus on something here, so follow me, if you will. You’ve mentioned the names of the ghosts you talk to. There is a pattern. All of them are people who nobody would notice. Janitors, cab drivers, the lady at the security desk, and so forth. Yet all of them have the same last name. O’Neil.” Doc kept writing names on the board from memory; it showed in his handwriting. Twenty-one of them, Mike guessed. Doc ran his fingers through his hair and started picking at loose neck skin while staring at the board. “I think you see them in these roles because you respect them. You value the common man, the working class. To you, the world ignores them and sees their lives as tools to be used. Dead things. But this isn’t just coincidence, and has not been for a while. Tell me again what they ask you.”

  “Well, they’re always asking me to meet him. They’re always vague, just that he runs this city and he is being polite by waiting. This time, one of ’em reminded me I have seven days left?” Mike counted on his fingers. “November thirtieth, right? Anyway, I don’t talk to all of them. Sometimes I just see them in the distance. Always disfigured or dead in some way. The worst is when they’re kids or the pizza delivery guy. Creepy as shit, really, even though I’ve become jaded.” A tingling sensation started creeping through his hands as he remembered flashes of his encounters. Jaded my ass. I wish I could help them.

  Mike slid a small end table in front of himself and put his dusty boots on it while Doc’s back was turned. “Here’s the thing, though. It’s never during the daytime. Always at night, like I said, horror movie. They keep giving me a deadline, and I’m running out of time. It started after—” Mike could not stop his hand from shaking. “It started after the drunk cabbie ran the red light.” He wasn’t sure if fear or nervousness made it difficult to talk about it so honestly with someone who was not dead.

  Doc lowered his voice. “Are you still positive that you want to hold on? You are not taking any truly suicidal actions, are you? I do have some obligations to uphold about your mental health.”

  “I’m still afraid to die, so not there yet, Doc. No reason for Linden Oaks—currently.” Mike elected to leave out that this day had a closer call than usual due to some unfortunate wind.

  Doc continued staring at the board while writing down numbers. Then he put dates on the calendar in illegible doctor scribble. “December twenty-first. They say the world is going to end on that day. Maybe you want it to happen. It could be that you are getting wrapped up in all the hubbub about it.” He circled November 30. “This day, however, seven days from now, is completely insignificant. Did you know anybody who died on that day?”

  Mike closed his eyes, trying to jog his memory, counting with his fingers. Doc watched him reset the count more than a few times. “Nope.” Mike said. “Nobody, which is a relief. Maybe I should make that day a holiday.”

  “I think you should. Make a special day for you and take some personal time. Call it Mike’s Fiesta of the Not Dead. I also think you should do something else, though. Something unusual for me to suggest.” Doc sat down and leaned forward, putting his elbow patches on his bony knees with an excited look on his face. “I’ve been doing research into the ghosts you only see versus the dead ones that actually talk to you. You, my friend, might have stumbled onto a conspiracy.”

  “Uh, Doc, I’m talking to . . . dead . . . people. The last time we had this session, you went on about how I do what I do in trying to prove I’m still alive. Which, hey, actually makes some kind of sense. Took over a year to get to that point. Now you are shifting gears into conspiracy?”

  “Perhaps it’s all in your head, yes, and Senator McCarthy saw communists everywhere as well. My father was his therapist in confidence during the worst of it. I’m continuing the family practice, and after reading his notes, Dad concluded that allowing McCarthy to radically play out his fantasy was the best method of therapy for him.” Doc’s feet began to twitch with anticipation. “The private session notes are missing, unfortunately. Wish they weren’t confiscated . . .”

  “This isn’t one of your fish stories, is it? Besides, McCarthy ended up trashing the entire country. Hell, man, he even added under God, to the Pledge of Allegiance.”

  “Actually, that had more to do with Eisenhower and potentially a conspiracy with the Catholic fraternities for a few decades.” Doc waved his hand in the air frantically to prevent himself going off on a tangent. “Unlike McCarthy, you see the dead instead of communists. You imagine that one man runs this city, and the working-class dead end up in his employ, that they want you to join them.” Doc reached behind him and pulled out a folder. “The O’Neils. It’s a common enough name, particularly here in Chicago.” He started holding up pictures of strangers to Mike. “Now I know you’re not the type of person to put in late nights going through newspaper reels. So I did. The thing is, the more I started digging into dead people you’ve specifically named and encountered, I keep finding real people who went missing or who died of unknown causes. In a few cases, they died of outright murders.”

  Doc produced an old 1920s picture of a curly-haired policeman with round cheeks and spots of freckles. “Patrick O’Neil. Every single person you have named is somewhere on this man’s family tree, despite their ethnicity. The dead you see are all maimed or disfigured. I think he is faking deaths or burying secrets. I think you should go see him. I think this is your him.” Doc smiled ear to ear, his glasses nearly falling off his nose.

  “Patrick O’Neil? Really? The imaginary leader of the dead that runs Chicago from the shadows . . . You want me to see him?” Mike smirked in doubt and began looking away from the photos.

  “Somewhere in your subconscious is a buried connection. Maybe hypnosis is something we could look into. The mind works in curious ways, and humanity has barely begun to understand how it works. I not only think he’s real, but he’s connected, and you’re seeing ghosts and projections because your subconscious can’t rationalize what you’ve seen. Maybe he’s behind all the accidents?”

  They looked at each other in silence. The only sounds were sirens outside rushing through the city. Mike let the information on the whiteboard flow into him. Despite his best efforts every day to forget the names, he always found them wandering into his thoughts like tiny maggots. He would try to forget after each encounter happened. Lik
e an addict, though, he kept coming back and placing himself in death-defying situations, and afterward, the encounters would happen. His fists began to unclench from the stress of uncertainty as he slowly nodded in acceptance. The Chinese food’s pungent odor reminded him of his surroundings and that he was no longer ravenously hungry. Hunger is the best spice.

  “Okay. Why not? There aren’t many things left that can hurt, right?” Mike said at last.

  “Excellent!” Doc raised his hands above his head in triumph. He reached over and patted Mike on the legs. “By the way, if you put these ratty boots on my table again, I’ll stab you with my swordfish. Then you’ll have your final answers about the afterlife.” The doctor extended his hand, helping his friend off the couch and patting him on the back, causing concrete dust to fly off as they walked into the waiting room. “I’ll keep researching to find a location for this Patrick fellow before then. Meet back here on the thirtieth. You said at night, right? Let’s do dinner first. Chinese?”

  “Nice incentive. Real nice. You know that place will kill you faster than my smokes, right? See ya then.”

  Mike took the stairs two at a time and stepped out into the cold, already fumbling in his pockets for a lighter. Across the street, he saw a man in a long coat with a cabby hat dodging around the corner. Nah, can’t be the same guy. Everyone wears that style of clothes now. Fucking hipsters. Mike looked back at the building, the neon glow of a noodles sign providing the only light on its facade. Doc did good research, though, and if it’s real and he’s causing accidents . . . Well, I don’t have anything else going on tonight. Mike began a slow jog across the street after the man.

  CHAPTER 3

  The pace picked up after Mike rounded the corner about two blocks away. Mike saw the man flick a cigar and start running into the street after Mike began catching up. That’s gotta be him. Oh, shit. Doc was right! He was waiting for me to fall today! Motherfucker. His boots pounded on the pavement as he worked to close the distance. It was the only sound he focused on. Running through a red light, a beat-up car came to a screeching halt, its duct-taped bumper just two inches away from Mike’s shins. It’s all or nothing. Jumping onto the hood of the car, leaving another dent in the car’s body, Mike committed to the chase. Ignoring the inevitable stream of vulgarities, he kept running. Gasping for air as his lungs burned, Mike threw one foot in front of the other as he broke into a full sprint. Gotta quit smoking. I can’t keep this up.

  His pace started to falter as his legs began to burn too. For an old man, this guy can keep a hell of a pace. I guess that says something about me. Mike could see him a half block up, his brown duster coat flapping in the wind like a superhero’s cape. He held his hat from the wind, and his checkered scarf was pulled up around his face.

  The man bolted into an alley at a frantic sprint. Mike, running like a freight train, tried to round the corner and slammed into the wall with his shoulder, the impact forcing his breath out in a loud grunt. His momentum shattered, Mike turned down the alley to refocus.

  “Hey!” Mike shouted. “Dude! I . . . just . . . wanna . . .” By now his lungs had given up, and Mike put his hands on his knees to catch his breath. He looked down the alley, but there was nobody in sight. Metal-halide floodlights gave the space an orange glow. Garage doors along the lane were closed. Garbage Dumpsters were filled to the brim with trash bags. Empty beer cases were stacked near their sides. He couldn’t have made it to the other end in that time. He’s gotta be hiding.

  Mike straightened himself, popped his knuckles, and stretched his arms to crack his back. Satisfied with the noise and the release of tension, he readied himself for a back-alley brawl. He took cautious steps, wary of anyone coming out of hiding. At each Dumpster, Mike leaned back and kicked it before walking along its side. Hoping that the noise would give tell to a hiding coward. Hey, it works for the raccoons that hide in mine. What if he’s got a gun?

  His breath was visible in the air, and his lungs were still sore, but the cold no longer bothered Mike. In the middle of the alley, Mike smiled to himself and picked up an empty beer bottle. He smashed it open as he continued. Inch by inch, he eliminated places to hide. His fingers tingled with anticipation, blood coursed through his limbs as his muscles braced themselves for any surprise movements. With a running start, Mike kicked the last Dumpster as hard as he could. Rusty wheels creaked in protest, and a black garbage bag hung like a limp wrist for a second before dropping to the ground with a thud. No signs of movement. No creepy old cigar-smoking man flushed out from the other side. Disappointed, Mike looked around the alley, finding nothing, and took a deep breath. He threw the broken bottle back into the Dumpster and began walking back the way he entered just in case he missed something.

  A red-and-blue flash of light caused Mike to stop in his tracks. The quick pierce of a siren echoed off the walls, warning him that it was time for an unpleasant conversation with a cop. He turned around with a dejected look on his face. He knew he fit all the profiles, with a bandanna, ripped-up jeans, and hands that smelled of spilled beer. My arrest record for obtrusive protests isn’t going to do me any favors either. He placed his hands up.

  A barrel-chested officer stepped out of the car. Does this guy spend every waking moment at the gym? Mike watched his partner, a shorter woman with her hair pulled back in a knot and a warm smile on her face, hold out her hand for him to stand down as she stepped out.

  “Easy there, sir. Everything okay here?” she asked.

  Mike looked at both of them and relaxed his arms. “Yeah, peachy. What can I do for you?”

  “Noise and vandal complaints. You mind stepping over here for some questions? Have you been drinking? Hands on the car, please,” she said.

  As Mike walked up to their car and put his hands on the hood, he caught a glimpse of the checkered-scarf man across the street, putting his cell phone back into his pocket. The cops slammed Mike down face-first into the patrol car before a sound could slip out of his mouth. The metallic embrace of handcuffs and their ominous clicking as they tightened brought back memories. After a little rough handling, they thrust him into the back of the car. Great way to start a night. I fucking swear that cops put these damn handcuffs in a freezer before throwing them on people. While the door slammed shut, he twisted his neck to try to get a better view of the man across the street. He stood between streetlights and had the audacity to tip his hat to Mike before walking away. That son of a bitch . . . I know where you work, at least.

  “Hey, why the hell are you guys arresting me?” Mike asked as the pair of cops got into the car. They didn’t say anything and just started driving. “I mean, come on, guys, at least give me a clue. Aren’t you supposed to read me my rights? I think I saw a guy recording everything on his cell. You’ll be on YouTube soon enough. Chicago’s famous police brutality.”

  “Just relax, sir.” The man’s voice displayed a small hint of nervousness. Mike caught a glimpse of his eyes in the mirror, full of sadness and sorrow.

  “Everything will be okay, Mike. Just enjoy the free ride. A concerned friend said you haven’t been taking your medicine,” the woman said before picking up the radio to inform dispatch that everything was okay and there was no one at the scene.

  “Ooookaaaay . . . yeah, this doesn’t jibe with me. Obviously you know more about me than I do you. What’s this? A shakedown or something? Guys, this really perpetuates the stereotype of corrupt cops. Did I interrupt your coffee break?” Mike looked through the metal grate at the laptop. Next to his arrest record, a mug shot of him grinning from ear to ear with a black eye and a broken nose stared back from the small coffee-stained screen. Yup. I’m fucked. “Okay, listen, the arrests were all for minor incidents and protests.” He tried his best to sound appeasing.

  “Like we said, Mr. Auburn, we’re taking you home,” the male said. “Enjoy the silence for now. You’ve caused a lot of noise today.” He flashed his partner a look, and she shook her head. That silent language two people have after working
together for a long time was all the communication they needed.

  Mike sat back and resigned himself to the car ride. He put his head on the window, fogging it up as they drove. This is the longest and slowest way home possible. They came to a full stop at every red light, even when making a right turn, which caused Mike’s eyes to roll in frustration. He resisted the urge to be a backseat driver. Last time I had a tour of this type, it was for “gerrymandering” the homes of a few congressmen in protest over voter suppression. Heh, that was a good time. Allison was stunning that night, all covered in red paint as we divided their houses to match their districts.

  After a full tour of Chicago, they finally rolled their cruiser in front of his apartment. A three-level flat in a neighborhood where finding parking was impossible any time of the year. The female officer let Mike out, removing his restraints. By now every bone and muscle ached in his body and his wrists had nice red marks from the day’s activities.

  “So that’s it?” Mike asked.

  “You tell us. Is it? Go inside,” she said as she leaned on the back of the car.

  CHAPTER 4

  Mike reached into his pockets for his pack of smokes as he climbed the steps to his apartment. The door dangled, bouncing off a wall with the breeze, its handle broken. He stopped the rattling and held it open. Cigarette hanging from his lips, he stood in the doorframe and stared at his violated home. Great. Just great. No matter where I move, this happens every year. Why do I even bother?

  The streetlight cast a small bluish beam inside. Mike flicked his lighter on, revealing everything he already came to expect. A trashed apartment. Cheap lamps lay shattered in the middle of the floor. His old, ratty couch had been upturned, and homemade shelves were thrown to the floor, their contents strewn about like the splattered brains of a murder victim. Mike took careful steps, trying to avoid crushing things that might be important. Picking up a lamp and turning it on caused a small shower of sparks. Lighter it is. They better not have broken my pool cue.