by Ron Savage
Table of Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
EPILOGUE
About the Author
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The Dreaming Field © 2013 by Ron Savage
All Rights Reserved.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
To Janny, the angel who matters.
PART I: THE AGREEMENT
“Kill a man, and you are a muderer. Kill millions of men, and you are a conqueror. Kill everyone, and you are a god.”
—Jean Rostand
In vain I have struck down your children;
They accept no correction.
—Jeremiah 2:30
ONE
I
Snatch sat beside the old hanging elm in Washington Square, watching the city burn. He could smell the sooty residue on his jeans, his gray T-shirt and black leather jacket. Ash had gathered under the nails of slender fingers. And washing yourself didn’t help. You’d scrub three, maybe four times a day and still feel the goddamn grit. After a while, the bathing stopped. Okay, not altogether, only the compulsive shit.
What’s the point, right?
He had been condemned to the city ages ago, the years vague to him now, and nothing ever changed, not him, not the city. Even his features were a condemnation, a perpetual baby-faced young man—nineteen, twenty—embarrassingly wholesome, complete with freckles dusting the cheeks and nose. Uh-huh, cute enough to make you puke. He’d actually tried cutting his face, tried acid, tried leaping head first into numerous fires, et cetera, et cetera. ANYthing for a little character, you know? I mean, gimme a break. But that sadistic freak, the Asshole-Who-Is, the Infinite Twit, (and don’t think he didn’t know the responsible party) healed him as soon as the damage was done.
Hair seemed under his control, though. Except for its persistent length and color, inky black and an inch below the ear, he had unconditional style rights, and the style currently leaned toward Elvis, including sideburns.
Watching the city burn: the night endless, the skyline glowing orange from small scattered fires; along dark streets, the broken windows of tall, empty buildings, flames quivering across rooftops, smoke rising into a thick, starless firmament. Like a goddamn warzone, Snatch thought, a phrase picked up while traveling among the Feebs—an ongoing enterprise, prospecting for residents, persuading the doubtful— like Hiroshima and Dresden, the big war. Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Mr. Destructo in full gear. Love those big-ass wars. But Dresden had a morning, an afternoon, the occasional cease-fire. Dresden had the sun. That was the difference, no truces and no sun.
Just the night.
And the fires.
He stood, fingertips at the small of his back, and stretched.
Elvis is leaving the park.
Snatch headed down Thompson toward Bleecker. Not the real Bleecker, of course. And not the real Manhattan. Damn close, though. The Keeper had done this, through illusion, through slight-of-hand, who the fuck knew how the guy did what he did; and if you valued your tranquility or whatever, you didn’t ask the son-of-a-bitch.
The real abyss was below the subways.
Oh, he’d heard them. When the night got quiet, you could hear them. All that screaming shit; all that pleading. Like Keeper might suddenly get a humongous case of teary-eyed compassion; saying, You’re right, you’re right, everything’s a mistake. I’ve been an absolute jerk. How silly of me. We’ll send your fried little tushies outta here this VERY minute. Please, accept our deepest apologies.
Uh-huh.
In your best wet dream.
But there was talk about doing away with the abyss. Snatch had heard rumors. Yesterday, he’d gone beneath the subways to the dreaming field and located Old Kati. The place like totally creeped him out. Even Keeper had said it, “That’s one sweet hole you don’t want to get lost in, Snatcharoo.” But Old Kati knew the poop. When he entered her dream, a dumb yet necessary risk—the dreams of the dead left even the immortal vulnerable to wounds; and at worse, an eternity in the field and his own private nightmare—he found her squatting on the glass-strewn floor of an abandoned warehouse, maybe Bank Street or Greenwich. She sat there, picking her gray, peeling skin, unquestionably a disgusting chick, her hair charred into brittle short curls, flakes of bone floating down from her skull like dandruff as she talked.
“You put da thing in here, and Old Kati’ll tell all.”
“Da thing” was his cock, and he did fuck her, hands gripping her thighs, feeling the cold, petrified muscle, kissing what remained of her mouth and finding neither teeth nor tongue. Man, I must be crazy. Humping a dead Feeb. But he damn well fucked her, the bitch, amid flame and shadow, the odor of her rotted flesh, done the deed on broken glass and a hardwood floor, the heat surrounding them strong enough to barbeque his “thing.”
Afterward, Old Kati laid sprawled under him, legs spread; muttering, “Whoooweee, whoooweee,” and patting his shoulder with her claw-fingers.
“Now tell me,” he said, standing, zipping his jeans.
“Give da lady a chance to catch her breath, won’t ya?”
Snatch knelt in front of the woman, the bones and brown rags; grabbed her throat and squeezed. He saw her cataract eyes go big, a milky blue fog deep inside dark sockets; her mouth, opening and closing with no sound.
Let’s get serious for a moment.
“A lady?” Quietly hissing the words: “Is that what you think you are? A lady?”
Old Kati’s arms and legs began to flap, trying to fly.
He smiled his sweet baby-face smile. “You’re not a lady, darling, you’re a dead bitch; and if you don’t tell me everything you know, I’ll make you a headless dead bitch. Am I clear?”
Kati nodded.
“Good. So we have an understanding?”
A rapid series of nods.
Snatch released his grip. “Speak…lady.”
Then he couldn’t shut the bitch up. Yada yada yada, on and on, what this one said to that one. Twice, he’d seized her throat and advised her to inhale.
“Just give it all up,” Old Kati squawked, the words racing together, j’stgiveitallup.
Cupping his hand over her blistered lips, he whispered: “That’s the part I want to hear. Say it slowly, darling. Alright?”
Another vigorous nod. “They had a talk, y’know, and—“
“Who? Who had the talk?”
“Keeper and the One-Who-Is. And the One-Who-Is says to Keeper, he says, ‘We don’t think it’s workin’.”
“That much I got.” Snatch felt his patience thinning. “Now what’s not working?”
“This,” she said, her claw-fingers waving frantically about the empty warehouse. “All of this.”
“You mean the abyss?”
“Yea-huh, dis whole forsaken place.”
“…go on.”
“The
One-Who-Is says it don’t matter how long they punish us—‘cept they call it ‘tonement—the One-Who-Is says, we—y’know, us Feebs here—we just go back and do da same shit. They say maybe we’d improve ‘tonement up there. Maybe it’d rub off.”
“…rub off?”
“Yea-huh, change our at’tudes, it would.”
“The One-Who-Is said that?”
“Yea-huh, both did. Both say it. Said it exactly like I’m talkin’ to you now, ‘cept better, probably.”
He was sure she’d spoken true. The field had given her the dream of knowing all. The field also had given the old woman to Snatch, mainly to torture her.
“You’ve been very helpful,” he murmured, and stroked Kati’s cheek reassuringly, bits of dried gray flesh crumbling beneath his fingers.
She seemed anxious, staring up at him, those milky blue eyes in shadowed sockets, the skin a sheer parchment.
Snatch stood; gazed down at her and sighed. Then he lifted his foot, sending the toe of his hobnail boot into her head. The skull popped from the body and made a crunching sound against the broken glass as it rolled across the floor.
Fuckin’ Feebs.
II
Candle-length flames wavered through the cracks of the sidewalk. Snatch didn’t know how long he’d been looking at them and thinking about Old Kati. A guy had to have a few diversities or the crazies came and got you. He was sitting on the curb in front of Bleecker Bob’s Golden Oldies—glancing off to his left, occasionally—waiting for Keeper. The asshole.Steam rose from the gutters. Little fires dappled the windows and roofs.
What’s that movie line?
Oh, yes.
“I love the smell of napalm in the morning.”
The whole city smelled of it. No mornings, but you couldn’t have everything. Snatch missed the movies. And Feebland. Feebs actually planned a meeting—say, four-thirty, five, whatever—and if the guy didn’t show, well, too bad for him.
Eternity, on the other hand, truly sucked.
Couldn’t suck enough, actually.
Not that you’d leave if Keeper told you to be there. No, never a good idea to dick around with The Man.
Snatch felt an abrupt change in climate, the night denser, the temperature raised a notch. Roughly thirty yards to his left, he saw a figure, more of a distorted quiver in the air, the way heat can drift off a road on a hot summer afternoon, a goddamn tall figure, close to seven feet; unmistakably, The Man. Then the quivering air appeared in front of him, a yard or two away.
“Snatcharoo,” it murmured. “Dear, dear friend. Waiting long?”
“Good to see you, Father.”
“How…nice.”
“You’re well, I hope?”
“Do you?”
“Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I?”
“I could’ve sworn you called me an asshole. Or thought it.”
“Me, Father?” All innocent: Snatch, squinting at the liquid shadow, attempting to find detail, but seeing only the vacant warehouse across the street. “W-Why would I think such a thing?”
“Calling me a liar?”
“Never.”
The quivering air dissolved and immediately reappeared, inches from his right ear, the heat intense enough to cause pain.
“What a wicked boy,” it whispered, and seemed pleased. “Your father has a task for you, something requiring your…how shall I say?…your skills.”
“I’m here to serve.”
Could you see a shadow’s smile?
Snatch thought so, a distinct image emerged: the grin of an animal with wet, yellowed teeth; the eyes, frosted orange surrounded in blackness. He felt tension harden the muscles of his shoulders.
“Oh, you will serve,” it said quietly. “And if you fail, I’ll take you to the ninth level and throw you into the deepest pit there. Forever. I’ll leave you screaming with the rest of our friends. Do you believe me?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Time for a journey, then. A brief get-away. You’ve been wishing for this, haven’t you?”
“I suppose…yes.”
“See? I delight in granting your wishes.”
“I’m grateful.”
“You’re my favorite, dear Snatch.”
“An honor, Father.”
“Now go to the Feebs. That’s what you call them? The Feebs?”
“I do.” His ear and neck felt feverish from Keeper’s breath. He smelled the meaty, putrefied stench of him. “What’re you after, exactly?”
“A selfless boy to do a selfish deed.”
“…interesting,” Snatch muttered to himself, remembering Old Kati’s rambling gossip, a particular bit of prattle that he’d ignored.
A selfless act from a selfish man, that’s what they want, da’s the truth, I swear on my soul, I do. The One-Who-Is—he’s sayin’ to his friend—he’s sayin’ how we got the weak at’tude, how nobody cares ‘bout shit, only theyselves. And his friend’s sayin’, if the worse can change for da good, then we be okay, we all be saved.
Praise the Twit-Who-Is.
Keeper obviously had his moments, thought Snatch. He could hear the argument: So a selfish man does a selfless act. What does that prove? We’ll show you a good man doing the despicable. Rape, perhaps? Or Murder. How about the destruction of the world? Nothing’s changed. Don’t you see? It’s ALL in the learning. We need your help, your guidance.
And the abyss will be closed.
I’ll…go…home.
Finally…
…home.
You had to give credit to the asshol—
Snatch squealed, feeling the back of his neck heat up and blister.
“Shit, hey, I didn’t mean nothin’.”
“Pay attention,” Keeper said, nearly a purr.
“Okay, alright.”
“Find our warrior and give him counsel.”
“How long to finish, Father?”
“Twenty-three years. You understand the concept of a year?”
“…yes.” Snatch almost thought the “A” word again, but stopped.
“A young Feeb has been picked for us, a righteous boy. Very decent, I’ve been told. You’ll develop his…potential.” The vacillating shadow stood in front of him now. Fires backlit its shape, along the expansive shoulders, the muscled arms and legs. “I need a persuader, the Feeb capable of driving his world to panic.”
“Sure, sure,” muttered Snatch. “No problem, Father. A make-over.”
“—A what?”
“Just an expression. Too bad I can’t go and do it.”
“My choice, too, dear friend. But I have an agreement. Unfortunately, I’m bound to certain rules.”
Since when do you follow rules? That thought gone before he could squelch it.
Laughter came from the shape, trembling the pavement, the curb where Snatch was seated. He felt the vibration travel through his body; watched the shadowy fluid become turbulent.
Again, the hot breath on his neck: “I follow rules to get what I want.”
“Understood, Father.”
III
When Snatch heard that Benjamin had been given a Feeb to oppose him, to turn a selfish man selfless, the task became more than a solution to the unrelenting night and a final passage home.
He was still sitting on the curb in front of Bleecker Bob’s Golden Oldies—alone, thank you, alone—thinking about Benjamin: a fucking relic, that’s what buddy Ben is, a goddamn relic. When was the last time he visited the Feebs? Not in THIS century, you can bet on it. You’re definitely a has-been, Benny. I know the Feebs better than anyone, know what they want, all their nasty little secrets. I’m not drugged-out on the “light” like some: when you’re down here you scheme; when you’re up there, you dream.
Benjamin…
Who’d had him cast down into this dismal shit.
Who’d shared private—very private—conversations.
Who’d betrayed him.
Benjamin…
His buddy.
T
he son-of-a-bitch.
Ain’t it funny how the screw turns.
What goes around comes around. Yes, sir. Yes, sir. I always liked that saying, Benjamin.
Snatch regretted the punishment, but not the crime, never the crime. “You must stop,” Ben warned. “We have rules, you know.” But Snatch felt ready to burst; he needed to tell somebody. And hadn’t his friend asked, his only true friend? “You’re different,” Benjamin said. “You seem filled with cheer. Absolutely joyous. Tell your good news.”
Oh, yes.
Hadn’t you asked me, Benjamin?
Snatch confided everything. His first and only drunk: a night of much too much ale, perhaps to relieve the loneliness, head all woozy, staggering among the Feebs. He’d been attacked in an alley off Delancey Street by five men, maybe one or two more, Philadelphia a young town then. They beat him without mercy, taking his money and leaving him for dead. Had he ever been so passive and naïve? Difficult to remember. Snatch did kill them, of course; systematically, a Feeb a night, ripping each heart from its chest, stuffing blood and organ into surprised mouths, cutting off a cock or two. But that revenge came later, close to a month later, after he had met Dora.
She found him in the alley, most of his wounds already healing, except for a broken bone, the white ragged edge of the left femur visible through a torn pant leg. When Snatch saw the girl, he reached up and touched her face.
He couldn’t help himself.
Dora…
Black hair done in loose ringlets past the shoulders, her eyes brown and large, such incredibly kind eyes, and she took his hand from her cheek, holding his fingers between her own hands. The warmth of this woman, this girl—no more than eighteen—that warmth filled him with a bliss he never thought possible.
Dora…
He instructed her: how to put the femur back and set it. A proper job, too; not a protest, not a question.
