The Fever Dream

by Sam Jones

  “We killed too much time with our surveillance,” he said.

  You’re fucking up.

  Again.

  He scanned around the house with a defeated look on his face. “Fuck! We shouldn’t have come here. We need make a move on the airport,” he said.

  “Roenick will know we’re coming,” Cassie replied, saying it more with a factual tone, rather than one of resistance.

  Black’s urge to have a cigarette hit a dangerous level.

  He shook off the feeling.

  “We have to try,” he said.

  Cassie headed for the Mustang.

  American Airlines flight 969 from Miami to Las Vegas had arrived. The sun was rising and so was the spirit of Doctor William Gibson.

  William Gibson was a middle-aged man with a short frame and wide body. His only effort in exercising was the half-mile walk he took on his private beach in Florida every day at dawn as well as the illicit, though intermittent, ‘lovemaking’ sessions he would soon make over in Carson City.

  His thinning, brown hair was deliberately uncombed and shaggy. A pleased grin stretched across his face the second he stepped foot off the plane. Flip-flops, bright blue shorts, and a white polo shirt with a jockey on the front completed the image of a middle-aged white man on vacation.

  Gibson hotfooted his way through a sea of traveling citizens, past the glowing ‘Welcome to Las Vegas’ sign, down the escalators, and towards the baggage claim area. He quickly identified the carousel for his flight and waited for his overpriced Versace bag to spill out onto the circular track made of metal blades.

  Gibson frequently had dreams where his genitals would somehow get caught in the blades and become severed.

  It wasn’t difficult for him to diagnose the psychological meaning behind the nightmares.

  Two minutes passed before he heard a bing noise followed by the carousel coming to life and turning counterclockwise. As luggage began to slide down and gather together, another passenger, a bigger man with a bushy-beard and war-torn eyes, posted up about three feet away from Gibson.

  His combat boots were the first thing Gibson noticed.

  The two men locked eyes, and Gibson felt a cold chill run up his spine. The same chill he felt when a man named ‘Roenick’ had once contacted him.

  Just then, Gibson felt a quick onset of fatigue, followed by the fluttering of his eyes and loss of mobility that always preceded a hard night’s sleep.

  The man with the bushy-beard and the war-torn eyes approached him and grabbed him by the arm as Gibson began to sway. “You alright there, Doc?” the man with the bushy-beard asked.

  Gibson went to speak, but his mouth simply drooped, as well as his eyelids.

  Behind him, Roenick’s lap dog, Prophet, pocketed an empty syringe and gripped onto Gibson’s other arm. They had their own Weekend At Bernie’s situation going on.

  “Hello Doctor Gibson,” Prophet said in her rich, Palestinian accent as the man fell fully asleep.

  The man in the combat boots, Kaplan, grabbed Gibson’s bag as it slid onto the carousel. He and Prophet then hauled Gibson out by the arms; the other travelers that passed by them assumed that the unconscious doctor was just some poor old geezer who couldn’t handle Vegas.

  By the time Cassie and Black arrived at McCarran Airport, Doctor William Gibson was gone. They checked every place within access, and after fifteen minutes, they knew the chances of him being there were worse than slim.

  Finally, with a last sweep of the sidewalk, Cassie called it—

  “He’s not here. We should have come here first.”

  Black spotted an old guy in a cowboy hat to his left, hacking on a cigarette.

  Wonder if he’ll loan me one…

  He shook the feeling and looked at Cassie. “We should have come here first,” he said.

  “That’s why I just said,” Cassie pointed out to him.

  “Sorry,” Black replied. Lingering hints of the cowboy’s cigarette trailed through the air around him. “Got distracted.”

  Cassie began to pace, the mental countdown going on inside her head felt like it was starting to run out. “Roenick’s definitely moving the location of the operation,” she said. “I just don’t know where else he could be going.”

  Somewhat defeated, Cassie headed for the parking garage that was connected via a catwalk, one of several. Black followed, Cassie walking slightly ahead of him due to her rising temper.

  They passed by a group of three, solemn looking young men, who were red from too much exposure to the sun. Eyes glossed from too much sauce. The way they were partially dragging their feet towards the departure terminals somehow wreaked of shame.

  “Roenick didn’t mention a Plan B?” Black asked Cassie.

  “He kept me in the dark about a lot of things,” Cassie replied with disdain.

  During the three-minute walk to the parking garage, the two of them threw out theory after theory of where Roenick and Amanda could be and the fact that they should have started at the airport instead of checking the house.

  This one’s on Cassie.

  I told her we should’ve started here.

  According to Cassie, from what she knew about the plan with Gibson, the sleeping aid would have knocked him out for an hour. By the time he came to, Roenick would give him an additional hour to adjust to his situation and prepare for the surgery.

  It was 5:18 a.m., and the operation was set for 7:15 a.m.

  “If he’s sticking to the timeline,” said Cassie. “Which I’m sure he’s not, Roenick’s going to cut open Amanda’s chest within the hour, most likely.”

  They weaved through row after row of parked cars and arrived at the Mustang, Cassie taking one more look around in a vain attempt to spot Prophet hauling away an unconscious Gibson.

  “We’ve got no fucking leads,” she said, hands now in her pockets.

  Black himself was lost. He felt like he did the first time he allowed Amanda to slip away back in LA. “There’s a solution here,” he said to Cassie, though his tone was uncertain. “We just have to keep thinking.”

  Cassie looked towards the ground. “Yeah,” she said. “I’m sure it’ll just come to us…”

  Her eyes began to mindlessly wander around. Eventually, they settled on the tires of the Mustang and the nearly faded paint streaks on the treads. She recalled the time that Roenick and Prophet had gone off-roading on some ‘errand’ before she broke the news to him that King escaped. It was also right before Amanda killed O’Reilly.

  Wherever they had been, they got paint on the tires.

  Where did you go that day, big brother?

  “The Mustang has a GPS,” Cassie said.

  “Awesome. Glad to hear it,” replied Black, his mind falling back to the cowboy with the cigarette.

  Cassie produced the keys and unlocked the car.

  “What are you doing?” asked Black.

  Cassie hopped in the driver’s side, started the battery through the ignition, and began fiddling around with the touch screen GPS in front of her.

  Black leaned in through the passenger’s side and watched her play with the map for a few seconds before bothering to pry. “You looking for a place to eat?” he asked.

  “Roenick was driving this car around,” she said. “I saw white paint on the tires at one point. When I asked him where he went, he wouldn’t tell me.”

  “Okay. What are you trying to do then?”

  Cassie hit a button on the screen that said HISTORY and said—

  “I’m trying to get lucky.”

  Only one location came up: a gas station off Route 318, an hour away. She pointed a finger at the screen and looked at Black. “There,” she said.

  “That’s not a lead,” he replied.

  Cassie started up the engine. “It’s our only lead.”

  She’s right.

  To hell with it…

  Black pointed to the radio.

  “Can you pull up a specific song on that thing? I got a request.
”

  Cassie rolled her eyes and blew an elongated raspberry as she started the engine.

  A silver Land Rover was parked all alone off of Nevada State Route 318. The road was smooth and the surrounding area was a barren flatland of green and yellow weeds and grass. A couple of dirt and semi-paved roads led to a few shacks and homes that looked they were rooted here sometime during the Depression. The surrounding mountains engulfed whatever handful of residents that lived in the area.

  Prophet stood outside the driver’s side door of the Land Rover with her pistol gripped at her side. Directly ahead of the Land Rover was a stop sign, the recently painted white line in front of the sign had tire tracks running through it, smearing the paint job. Two tire track lines lead away from the sign for about fifty feet.

  Roenick, despite his nearly flawless style of execution, never anticipated that the state would repaint this particular stop sign at this particular point in time.

  It was that one twist of fate and that one mistake he made of not clearing the history on his GPS that would end up costing him.

  The man with the bushy-beard, aka Kaplan, sat in the back seat of the Land Rover next to Gibson, whose wrists were bound with zip ties. His senses slowly crept back as his eyes groggily peeled open. “Where… am…” Gibson said as he felt himself dozing.

  From a half-mile away, Prophet could make out the sound of a large-motored automobile. From the slow build of the rumbling, it was clearly a monster of a vehicle with multiple tires and a lot of weight.

  Prophet heard a pop followed by a hiss. The trademark sounds of an eighteen-wheeler switching gears.

  The groaning, monstrous noises grew somewhat deafening. The vibration of the approaching beast shook the Land Rover as it honked its horn. Prophet could feel it inside her chest.

  The vehicle appeared from over a dip in the road: a dark green and black military-grade, retrofitted semi-truck that looked like it ate smaller, commercial semi-trucks to fuel itself. The cab was even larger than a standard unit and required an oversized pair of steps in order to reach the door. The driver, another muscle-headed mercenary that Roenick had looped into the mix, kept a stern gaze on the highway and a firm grip on the steering wheel.

  Outside the truck, Prophet nodded to Kaplan, who grabbed Gibson by the arm and pulled him out of the Land Rover. The truck came to a dead stop just inches from Prophet, the tires of the semi practically the size of her entire body. She caught a glimpse of the after-market shock absorbers behind the tires that Roenick had installed.

  Not the slightest bump in the road was going to shake this baby.

  A thick, bulletproof sliding door on the right side of the semi opened with hiss. A platform extended out and Roenick stepped out and onto it. Prophet could spot fresh gauze over Amanda’s claw marks on his face as he walked down the platform in a Vader-esque stride.

  Prophet approached, and Kaplan hauled Gibson towards the side door on the semi. The doctor quickly sobered up the moment he found himself looking into the eyes of Roenick. Sweat started to form in thick beads on his brow as the sunlight casted a red glow on Roenick’s face, his steely blue eyes cutting through the red tint like diamonds.

  “It’s nice to finally meet you in person,” Roenick said to Gibson.

  Gibson trembled at the sound of the familiar voice, the reality of his situation fully settling in. For Roenick, it was right on top of his (newly adjusted) schedule.

  Roenick stood aside, a hand motioning towards the interior of the semi.

  Kaplan took the hint and hauled Gibson by his up arm onto the platform and into the truck. Gibson, to his amusement as well as horror, found himself staring at a young woman in a medical gown, lying flat with her legs and wrists bound on a bolted down operating table in the center of the semi’s belly. A barrage of medical equipment surrounded her: IV’s, monitors, tubes, et cetera. The entirety of the semi had been converted into a fully functioning ER unit, complete with three guards sporting sub machine guns along with the necessary set of tools required for open-heart surgery.

  The doctor looked at the woman (which he now realized was unconscious and sedated), then back at the equipment, then back at the surgery tools.

  He put two and two together, and it caused him to turn pale.

  Kaplan patted him on the back.

  “There’s a sink with disinfectant over here, Doc. Time to wash up.”

  Kaplan shoved the Doctor towards the sink.

  Outside the semi, on the road, Roenick was speaking with Miss Prophet—

  “Any sign of Black or Palizzi?” he asked.

  “No,” she replied. “They weren’t at the airport.”

  Roenick’s thoughts went to the Mustang and the irresponsible and fool hearted decision he had made the day prior, when he used the GPS to locate a gas station and forgot to clear the history.

  “They’ll figure out we’re here,” he said as he saw Kaplan handing Gibson a pair of scrubs. “We need to get started soon. Are the rest of our people in position?”

  Prophet nodded.

  “I have myself and a backup unit covering this road and two more over on 93, in case of any surprises.”

  “Expect them,” said Roenick as he got back inside the truck. The platform folded up and the engine started, the boom of it causing Prophet to lightly shudder as she slipped into the Land Rover.

  The door on the side of the semi slid shut with another hiss, then the truck gained momentum and continued straight up the road. The tires passed over the white paint lines, smeared from when the Mustang passed through the day before.

  Prophet followed not far behind the semi, her pistol on her lap and at the ready.

  She was aching for Cassie Palizzi to show up.

  Inside the semi, Roenick sat down on a stool in front of Doctor Gibson, who was now dressed in scrubs and finishing the process of washing his hands. Roenick then nodded towards the set of tools that had been placed near Amanda’s unconscious feet as he pulled out his Walther PPK out and let it rest in his left hand.

  Safety disengaged.

  “Let’s get started, Doctor Gibson.”

  Martin Black checked his watch—

  5:55 a.m.

  We’re running out of time.

  He looked out of the window at a barren landscape. For the past thirty minutes, they had found nothing on or off the highway that looked like a sufficient enough location for Roenick to proceed with an on-the-fly medical operation.

  Cassie was pushing eighty-eight on the needle and only slowed twice in the course of their drive to pass two commercial vehicles operating off the speed limit.

  “There’s nothing out here,” she said.

  Black kept scanning and spotted a farmhouse, but as the Mustang came closer, he saw it was dilapidated and hollowed out.

  Not a soul in sight.

  “Where the hell are you, Roenick?” he asked the air.

  He checked his watch again—

  6:00 a.m.

  Then a thought popped into Martin Black’s head. It was an out-there theory, but knowing what he knew about Roenick, it was an entirely viable one.

  “What’s the chance that Roenick would go mobile with this?” he asked Cassie.

  “Do the operation on the move?” she asked, her mind thinking the same thing as Black’s. “It’s possible…”

  She put her foot down on the gas and the needle went past 90.

  Doctor Gibson stood with stiff composure. Amanda Dubin’s unconscious body was in front of him. In the final prep for her surgery, Kaplan adjusted one of the nozzles that controlled the flow of oxygen to the breathing mask around her face. Everyone in the semi turned their attention on Gibson as they waited for him to make a move.

  “Well?” Roenick asked. “What are you waiting for?”

  Gibson looked at the unconscious girl and then back to Roenick. “I can’t do this,” he said. “This… this is wrong…”

  Roenick, not the slightest bit pleased, stood up and walked over to Gibso
n. The semi was so still under his footsteps that one would have thought it wasn’t moving.

  “Wrong?” Roenick asked as he stepped towards Gibson.

  “Don’t you cheat on your wife?” he added.

  Without warning he buried his fist into Gibson’s gut. The doctor hacked and wheezed as he fell to his knees.

  “We’re running on a tight schedule, Doctor Gibson,” said Roenick. “Want to try again?”

  Gibson eyes, red as hell as his stomach twisted in pain, saw the light glint off of the metal of Roenick’s Walther an inch away from his sickly face.

  The clock hit 6:04 a.m.

  That’s when Black spotted the only other car on the long, lonely stretch of road: a silver Land Rover about one mile ahead of their Mustang.

  Hope overcame his senses in a glorious wave.

  “Cassie,” he said.

  Cassie leaned her head forward and took a better look at the vehicle they were closing in on. “Prophet…” she said with a toothy grin as her faith was restored.

  Black rolled down his window and rested the butt of the MK 18 into his right shoulder.

  “I’m going to slow it down,” Cassie said.

  “Pull up alongside her left,” Black told her.

  Cassie rested her shotgun across her lap as she slowly accelerated the car, breathed, and readied herself.

  “You got your phone on you?” Black asked her.

  “Why?”

  “Dial up Roenick for me, will ya?” Black reached his free hand towards the radio and began fiddling with something he preset on it about twenty minutes earlier, despite Cassie’s objections.

  Cassie pulled out her phone and dialed.

  Doctor Gibson rallied his nerves and stood up. Roenick waited behind him like a professor giving grades for a physical exam. “Begin,” he said.

  Gibson walked with slow steps around Amanda and approached her chest area, Roenick trailing behind. Gibson reached out a shaky pair of hands towards her and prepared to remove her gown…

  That’s when Roenick’s cell phone rang.

  Gibson paused in his tracks as Roenick answered the call.

  “Yes?” he asked.

  “Hey, jackass! Martin Black here! What’s up? How’s things?”