by Glen Krisch
She didn't want to look up.
When she did, the man was smiling his ugly smile.
"Hello."
He shifted his weight as the L-train jounced against the rails. The side of his leg came in contact with her knee. He didn't move away when he righted himself.
She didn't respond to him, and after a few tense moments of silence, his leg wedged between her knees, spreading her legs slightly. She still didn't say anything, and could only look ahead, look ahead and hope this nightmare would end.
The tunnel blurred outside the window, becoming a dirty, milk-white sky.
Her hands were now quaking.
She wondered if she would be able to turn the dream-gun on this man to scare him off before she would inevitably blow her brains out.
The train shifted speeds, adjusting to climb a slight incline. The unnatural tunnel light was meshing with the day-lit sky. They were rising from the underground.
The first building she saw was on fire. Flames guttered from broken windows; black smoke billowed into the sky. For an instant, Juliet was distracted from the creepy man. She knew he was still looking down at her, and his leg was still pressed between her knees, but suddenly someone shattered an apartment window with their face. She couldn't tell if it was a man or woman. The flames had done too much damage. Just as soon as the building appeared, the train left it behind. Another building appeared, also on fire. The whole neighborhood seemed to be in flames.
"I like your eyes."
The man's gravelly voice ripped back her attention.
Before she could react, the train slowed as the hiss of air breaks punctured the steady hum of the ride. They were coming to another train stop.
The man quickly sat down next to her, and placed a hand on her thigh. She gasped. His grip hurt, but she didn't want to find out what he would do to her if she tried to move away.
"This was going to be our stop. It's near a secret place I know. Looks like that's out of the question."
As the train slowed, Juliet hoped she could make a break for the open doors. After seeing the burning neighborhood, and the people crowding the train stop, she'd changed her mind.
The doors opened and a handful of people filed onto the train. They looked like they had been through war. Their eyes were vacant, their faces grimed with ash. A man was crying into his hands.
The doors closed, and they were soon away.
"Don't worry." The man's hot breath licked her ear. "I know another place. A better place. Then we'll have time to get to know one another. Just keep on doing what you're doing. Everything'll be just fine."
A girl clung to her mother's arm. The mother was spacing out, her mind off to some saner place. But the girl was staring down at Juliet, staring at her, then to the crazed man. She looked worried.
The man noticed the girl watching them. He leaned over to Juliet, whispering, "Smile for the little girl. You're scaring her."
She did her best to comply. The girl looked away, not really satisfied by the gesture.
The man squeezed her thigh again, painfully, and said, "Good job, honey."
The young man imagined how he looked with his new lady. They probably looked like a young couple on a date. His hand squeezing her thigh, just one of those impetuous gestures of youth.
White noise, disinformation.
He smelled her auburn curls, trying to pin down its light scent. Couldn't place it. Puzzling--he normally could name the scents of shampoos, perfume, feminine hygiene sprays. His new lady was a mystery.
He had planned to get the girl off the train when it stopped, but there was no way he could wend his way with her through all that smoke. His secret room at the factory would most likely be in flames. The place manufactured electronic components. If looters hit any place, it would be that factory. In a way, he hoped they torched the place, sent it to the ground in gouts of fire and ash. He needed to find a new place; four months was probably too long as it was. The flames would clean the abandoned storage room of any trace evidence of his work. Would incinerate the blood-stained mattress, the tapestry of skins he'd left to dry on clotheslines.
The little girl glanced at his new woman, her face pulled taut with concern. She looked up to her mother, but sensed it was useless asking her for help.
His new woman's hands were shaking in her lap; he could feel it through the flesh of her thigh. He found her mounting fear arousing.
She turned to him, whispering through gritted teeth, "Don't hurt anyone. Please."
He purposefully laughed loud enough so everyone in the train car could hear. He leaned over to his new woman and kissed her on the cheek, again squeezing her thigh, this time playfully.
White noise, disinformation.
A couple of mousy women looked their way, then quickly turned back to face the chaos sweeping the city. They were quite obviously seething with jealousy.
The two women looked at Juliet with sympathy; a sad look that reminded her of Sophie Marigold's expression when she would come to visit her in her enclosure at the museum. They sensed something was wrong, Juliet could see it in their eyes, but there was little they could do.
The L-train left the warehouse district to cut through a neighborhood of old brick apartments. It looked like the buildings would have been in sad shape even before the tenants had taken up arms against one another. As the train blurred by, Juliet caught a glimpse of a handgun held pointblank in someone's face. Then, somewhere at street level, gunshots resounded like scattered firecrackers, punctuated by occasional explosions of automatic weapons' fire.
The other passengers instinctively ducked down, and she imitated them. The man took this time of confusion to grope her breast.
Juliet slapped his hand away, and he exploded with oily-slick laughter.
"You're right, honey. Such displays are impolite in public. I can wait until we get home."
The train quickly left behind the battle zone neighborhood, and for the time being, it was quiet.
When Juliet sat back in her seat, her hand was trembling. It was going to be soon. In an instant, a gun would appear, and then she would add one more fright to the day of these strangers.
She overheard bits of a conversation between the women who had earlier looked to her with concern, "I heard she's covered in rats."
"Me too! They cover her like a winter coat."
"And she doesn't seem to be bothered at all by them."
"Can you imagine?"
"I think I would die."
"So would I. I just can't believe what the world is coming to."
"Don't worry. The mayor will call the president. The military will swoop in. Everything will be back to normal in a week."
"I hope you're right."
"I know I'm right. Dream creatures running wild through the city? Who would've ever thought…"
Juliet looked to her clasped hands resting in her lap. It was time. In the blink of an eye, the heavy steel appeared in her sweaty palm. She felt her arm begin to raise the gun.
The sunlight outside brightened, the gray cloud cover instantly burned away. Clear, warm rain peppered the train's windows.
"Well, would you look at that?" one woman turned to the other. "The sun's out, and it's raining. Some day this is turning out to be."
The man noticed the gun. His brow tightened, perplexed.
"What the hell?" he blurted, pulling his hand from her thigh and sliding away.
The air brakes hissed as the train slowed. The passengers didn't notice the gun. They all seemed intent on leaving the train. They gathered at the closed doors, waiting for the instant they could leave the train and then do whatever they could to make sense of what was happened to a once sane world.
"Don't touch me. Ever again."
The doors split open a second after the train stopped, and the people spilled through the opening. Juliet's rain clouds pushed under the corrugated metal ceiling of the train stop, pushed clear through the doors and into the train car. The man watched all of thi
s happening, then turned his gaze to Juliet.
She was struggling against the suicidal impulses guiding her hand. The gun was at shoulder height, cocked towards her head, moving jerkily towards her temple. She was fighting it, fighting it and losing. The car was once again empty but for the two of them.
Understanding swept over the man's features. His crow's feet deepened, and his hair seemed somehow grayer than just moments before.
"You… you're one of them! You're a dream-woman!" he shouted accusingly at her.
Juliet stood and backed away from the man. Back all the way to the still-open doors. She exited the train, but held her arm inside the doorway. The doors slammed shut on her wrist, and just as she hoped, the dream-gun fired directly at him.
Of course, he was unharmed--her dream-gun could hurt no one other than herself--but his hands flew up to his chest anyway. His horrified expression shifted to one of defeat. The train pulled away, stripping the gun from her grip.
Juliet saw a group of policemen disembark from the train a few cars ahead. They wore riot gear--helmets with visors protecting their faces, shields held out as if they were medieval knights--and they were heading in her direction. One man broke ranks from the rest, approaching her.
She was on the verge of running when the man spoke to her, his brown eyes like pits of chocolate buried behind the visor, "Are you okay, ma'am?"
The dozen or so riot-ready police officers continued walking by before turning up a set of stairs, ready to face whatever craziness they would find above.
"Ma'am?"
"Yes… fine. I'm fine. Thanks."
"You should get to safety. There's a curfew, you know. Eight o'clock. I'd escort you myself, but things are starting to get out of hand."
"Thanks. I'll be fine. Really."
The policeman nodded, then left, hurrying to catch up with the others.
Juliet was reenergized by the exchanged. She felt confident. Maybe not nearly to the level of the woman who had led her to the subway, but perhaps enough to allow her to get by in this world. Hopefully long enough for her to track down the only man she could ever love.
Chapter 20
When Kevin left Sophie's apartment, he had no clue about where he would go. Fear gnawed at him again, the security of his new friends left behind. He just kept moving--down Sophie's street, turning at random, zigzagging through blocks of residential homes and mom and pop businesses. He still couldn't get the image of Andrew's mural out of his head. The image of the tranquil fields was appealing. He had to get away from the city. There were too many hiding spots from which Mr. Freakshow could swoop down on him. He thought about the painting, and he suddenly knew where he should go. Instantly he understood, yet it was so obvious he felt like kicking himself for not thinking of it sooner.
Kevin was going to go home. All the way to Warren Cove, Kevin was going home.
But the logistics of it seemed far too daunting. First, he had to accomplish the simple act of finding the bus station. And then he would need to buy a ticket and ride for hours on end without blowing his cover. How he would pull off every step of the journey without Mr. Freakshow finding him, he hadn't a clue. He felt like running, but he didn't know which way to find the bus station.
He watched the early morning people as they walked by. A man shambled in rags for clothes, his scraggly beard hiding the details of his face. All Kevin saw were his dark eyes, and the uneasiness they caused made Kevin offer a wide berth. People enclosed in their own little worlds hurried down the sidewalk, on their way to work despite the curfew and increased police vigilance to track down the dreams. A mixture of spray starch, hair spray and toxic amounts of cologne trailed them like Pigpen's dirt cloud. He avoided all of these morning people. Either they were too busy to be bothered, or not busy enough. He didn't feel comfortable in either case.
At the next intersection, with the rambling L-tracks overhead, the pillars and rails blocking the sun, he came across a newsstand. Inside the wooden shed was a short man, nearly as short as Kevin, his bushy gray eyebrows like ancient caterpillars resting on his forehead. His expression was not too busy or not busy enough at all. Somewhere in between. Kevin reached into his pocket and handed over some coins for a Sun Times. Stolen water fountain coins.
"Where's the bus station?"
"Which one?" the newsstand guy barked.
"I don't know… the closest one?"
"End of block, first left, another block, turn right, four blocks down." The man sounded like he had recited this bit a thousand times.
"Okay, thanks."
The newsstand guy helped the next customer, someone buying a Crane's Business and a sickly brown banana from a wooden bowl sitting next to the cash register.
As Kevin walked away, he ran through the directions in his head and realized he had forgotten most of them. It probably didn't matter. The station was somewhere over there. It would be big and loud, hard to miss. If those office buildings weren't in the way, he would probably see it from here.
He lost his bearings more than once, doubling back several blocks in the process, but eventually made it to the bus station. It was a steel and glass structure with long corridors with Plexiglas cases on the walls with ads for the U.S. Army, and the National Bank of LaGrange. The morning sun shone through the girder and glass roof, throwing a web-like shadow across the floor. These station people seemed to be in more of a hurry than the pedestrians just down the block. A dozen people bumped him, pushed him, and griped at him by the time he reached the enormous waiting area. Row upon row of wooden benches lined the white tiled floor. Caged-in ticket windows dotted the waiting area at odd intervals. The place teemed with people, like ants scurrying over garden soil.
A policeman walked slowly through the crowd, giving people the eye. No one bumped into him, or griped at him about how slowly he walked. He moved at his own pace, scrutinizing everyone in his path. Kevin imagined the police department having a sketch of him, that they had put out an APB on him, whatever that was, all because he stomped on that policeman's foot yesterday. He spied an open spot at a wooden bench and sat down quickly. He opened his newly bought Chicago Sun Times, and waited for the heat to blow over.
He figured it would be no time at all before the cop ripped the newspaper from his hands and cuffed him. But nothing happened. The young couple next to him stood up to leave and a woman with three kids filled the empty spot on the bench. She swayed a bundled boy in her arms, trying to calm his cries. Kevin tried to ignore his new bench neighbors. The headline from the newspaper caught his attention. Actually, he was surprised he hadn't noticed the huge block letters before now.
A CITY TERRORIZED!
He didn't read beyond the headline. Didn't want to. Lucidity was on the other side of the city, yet he could still sense the tension in just about everyone he came across. Since he left Sophie's apartment, he'd overheard people mumbling about riots and random violence, of dream-creatures attacking people, and people banding together to fight back since it seemed like the police didn't know what they were doing.
All because of him.
He folded over the paper quickly, as if trying to capture a cockroach, and the woman next to him gave him a dirty look for further upsetting her crying child with his noise. Kevin gave up his spot and went to the nearest ticket window.
"One one-way ticket for Warren Cove."
A sleepy-eyed ticket agent looked down at him. "I.D. please."
"What for?"
"Security. You're too young to buy your own ticket."
"I don't have I.D."
"No I.D., no ticket."
Kevin could see his plan crumbling before his eyes. If he couldn't take the bus to Warren Cove, how was he going to get home? An idea popped into his head.
"Mom sent me to buy the ticket because she's kinda got her hands full." Kevin pointed behind him, indicating the woman with the crying child. "Believe me," Kevin's eyes went wide and he lowered his voice, "You don't want to mess with my mom. She's got PMS."
He hoped he had his terminology right. From what he saw on T.V., women just get angry sometimes, terribly angry, for no other reason than PMS. Whatever that was.
The sleepiness lifted from the ticket agent's eyes. He leaned forward, giving Kevin a knowing look. He watched the woman holding the child, and he shook his head. She was bouncing the baby in her arms, a little too roughly, while staring daggers at Kevin. Obviously, he ruined her day by ruffling his newspaper. The other two children, boys or girls, Kevin couldn't tell by their neutral clothes and blunt haircuts, were dancing in a small circle, one of those square dance routines Kevin remembered having to do in gym class.
"Should I get her to pay for the ticket?"
"No, I guess if she's right there. We don't want to bother her. Warren Cove, right? That'll be $23. Bus boards in… let's see, twenty minutes."
Kevin pulled one of Sophie's crisp twenties from his pocket, along with three dollars in quarters from his water fountain treasure.
The ticket agent gave him a too friendly smile and slid him the ticket.
Kevin felt empowered holding the ticket. He didn't know he could think on his feet so quickly. He held the ticket in his hand, not trusting it out of sight, and walked back toward the woman. He stood just behind her, close enough to appear to be her son, far enough away that she couldn't swat him with an angry paw. The ticket agent watched him before helping his next customer. The man still shook his head sympathetically, and then the shifting crowd swallowed him from sight.
Kevin scanned the ticket for his departure gate. He left his bogus family and sat on a wooden bench closer to where he would board the bus.
He ate five of Sophie's cookies while waiting for the departure time. As people began to board, he dusted the crumbs from his lap, lifted his backpack to his shoulder, and waited for the line to thicken. He thought the bus driver would challenge him as he came aboard, but she didn't even give him a second glance. The driver was middle aged with greasy blond hair plastered to her head. From the narrowness of her head, she widened all the way to her waist, until her ample thighs overhung the plush captain's chair. She smelled like fast food chicken, and Kevin was glad when she handed him his ticket back. Another step taken. A few more steps, and he would be home.
