I reach for my ribs, but can't feel them. To say I was unsettled would be putting it mildly. And just as I was ready to give up, I heard a soft voice,
“ . . . not yet.”
And within seconds I was back behind my eyes, again. The room still shaking and blurry. The room slowly quieting. The vibrations eventually stopping. And everything back as it had been. The sky was no longer between dogs and wolves. It was a bright amber, with orange fingers of light spreading across my apartment.
I heard trucks and birds and people and refrigerators.
The clock on my wall, the one that was pregnant and melted just seconds ago, it was now circular and functioning, again. And it said, 7:17 am.
I sat up the second I could feel my body, grasping at my chest. My white t-shirt was soaked with sweat, and looking through it I could see that my incision was gone. My chest was fine.
Whatever it was that wrestled away control from my madness, it came in the form of that voice. Not yet, she said.
Not yet.
I went right across the room, looking at the Book of Sighs in the normal wooden chair. I grabbed the regularly-shaped phone and dialed Dr. Smith's number. Perhaps I need to have a more candid and honest conversation with my caseworker.
I don't know what's happening to me. Magic, brain disease, voodoo, prophecy? Maybe I'm going nut-bag fucking crazy. Jury's still out.
But I need help.
Licensed help.
Chapter 16
Saturday morning.
10:08 am . . .
“Let me tell you what I think is going on,” Dr. Smith said, leaning back in his comfortable leather chair as it squeaked a bit. I was on the couch this time. Last night put me in the class of patients that lay on the couch.
“You're having lucid dreams.”
“Can I take a pill for that?” I asked, my hands folded behind my head.
“No, no. This is actually very good,” he explains, having been told about the vibrating universe that was my apartment last night. I might have left out a few of the minor details—the spooks, the Book of Sighs, the dead girl in my kitchen. But he had enough to go on. You have to spoon feed these doctors, or they'll figure out you've been lying to them the whole time.
He went on, “ . . . this is quite a wonderful point in your mental healing. Your brain is rewiring. Fixing itself. The fact that your dreams are so vivid means that you have much more REM activity than we originally thought you would have.”
“So,” I posed, “ . . . what, exactly, is going on in my head? Because this feels a lot like crazy.”
He laughed. No, no, he said. This is a good thing.
What's happening, he explained, is that I was experiencing NREM—Non-rapid Eye Movement sleep—sometimes. And at other times, my REM sleep—where the dreams happen—is in overdrive.
“You need to understand that because you are actually getting good, quality sleep most of the time, your REM sleep is on . . . well, as if it's on steroids. That's a bad example.”
“I get what you're saying,” I said, a bit confused. “NREM, that's without the eye movement?”
He goes on to explain that NREM sleep is conventionally subdivided into several different stages, on the basis of EEG (Electroencephalograph) criteria. In the adult Stage 1 is observed at sleep onset, or after momentary arousals during the night—like when the spooks start crawling around—and is defined as a low-voltage mixed-frequency EEG tracing with a considerable representation of a theta-wave.
“A what?”
“Theta wave,” he replied. “Four to seven hertz, or, uh, cycles-per-second of activity.”
Stage 2, he said, is a relatively low-voltage EEG tracing characterized by intermittent, short sequences of waves of 12-14 hertz—also called “Sleep spindles”—and by formations called K-complexes. Those are biphasic waveforms that can be induced by external stimulation.
“Like sounds in the night?”
“Sure,” he answered, nodding slowly, “ . . . could be anything that's introduced and processed by your mind. Some of them occur spontaneously in your sleep.”
Stages 3 and 4 consist of relatively high-voltage (more than 50-microvolt) EEG tracings with a predominance of delta-wave (one or two hertz) activity.
“You guys have to memorize all of this?”
He shrugged, “It's easy because it all makes sense.”
Right, sure.
After the transition from wakefulness to NREM sleep, most functions of the autonomic nervous system decrease their rate of activity and their moment-to-moment variability. Thus, NREM sleep is the kind of seemingly restful state that appears capable of supporting the recuperative functions assigned to sleep.
“It's recovery sleep,” he says with a cheery grin.
“Then why am I dreaming all these horrible things?”
“That gets us back to your REM sleep being on overdrive!” he said excitedly. “I would like to run some tests on you, but my theory is that your dreams are uber-realistic.”
I'm not sure if he was making fun of me, cussing me out, or explaining the intricate fabric of my nightmares.
REM sleep is a state of diffuse bodily activation. It's EEG patterns are at least superficially similar to those of wakefulness. So I would think my visions were real. Most autonomic variables exhibit relatively high rates of activity and variability during REM Sleep. He told me that my heart-rate would be higher, and my respiration-rate would be elevated—hence the sweat soaked t-shirts.
My blood pressure would increase. I might even experience full or partial penile erection. So that's an added bonus. The dead will see me with a hard-on.
In addition, he said that I might have a low rate of gross body motility, but with some periodic twitching of the muscles of the face and extremities. Add to that high levels of oxygen consumption by the brain, increased cerebral blood flow, and higher brain temperature. And my cerebral neurons . . . they would be firing like a marching band.
My neurons could, in theory, be more active during this juiced-up REM sleep, than during the times when I'm awake. That and some bursts of rapid eye movements pretty much summed it up.
“Your NREM, recovery sleep, is enabling you to have lucid dreams during your shortened, but heightened REM sleep stages,” he said, straightening himself in his chair. He had an anxious look on his face, and his right hand reached down to his waist, somewhere—thank God—obscured by his desk. He took a quick breath, and his face softened in such a way that I knew I didn't want to shake hands with him ever again.
I still had a few questions for him. To challenge his theory.
I wonder if my uber-REM is what's warping the world around me?
If that's responsible for the creepy-crawly spooks and the Gatherers?
For the giant gash in my chest?
For the dead girl in my kitchen?
But out loud I say, “Well, I guess that makes sense.”
He folded his hands on the desk in front of him, content that another patient had been saved by his prowess.
“Are you absolutely certain that I'm not going crazy?” I said, almost a bit sad.
He glanced down at my lab results, EEG, EKG, and other tests that had been performed last week. His lips receded until I could see both rows of his pearly white squared teeth. The kind of teeth that chew sideways, like a herbivore. He made little shush-shush-shush sounds as he studied the printouts.
Then he clicked his jaw together a couple times and smiled, his lips hiding his big cow teeth. “Jack, I think you're fit as a fiddle.”
I uncrossed my hands from behind my head and folded them over my chest, where, for reasons I can't explain, my chest is stinging. Stinging right there where those gatherers cut me. Where I almost fell out of me.
“Fit as a fiddle,” I echoed. “Not exactly a medical term.”
Dr. Smith laughed, “You're tired. Frustrated. I understand. Hey, I've got two kids in college, so I know all about it . . . ”
Really, doc? Do you kno
w all about it?
“ . . . my son is doing his pre-med with a degree in biology at UT . . . ”
How many dead people walk around in your apartment?
“ . . . and Sara, my daughter, that's a whole other story. She's dancing at Julliard. So you can imagine . . . ”
Yeah, Dr. Smith. You and I are just alike. Two peas from the same pod. Two cheerios floating around the cosmic milk, together.
I smiled, nodded, and sat up. “Hey, Dr. Smith?”
“Yes, Jack?” he said, scooting forward, his back straight, giving me his full attention.
I pointed, “There's a spook staring at you.”
“A what?” he said, his eyebrows folding in as he looked around the desk.
“A little creature that climbs out of shadows and looks at things that are dead or dying.”
He half laughed at me, turning from side to side, trying to figure out what the heck I was talking about.
“Just kidding,” I laughed. And I winked at him.
He pointed at me, a big smile forming on his face, “Youuuuu got me, Jack. Nice one.” He laughed, “Shadow creature, that's good.”
“I'll see you Tuesday, Dr. Smith,” I said, remembering not to shake his right hand. And then I stood up and headed out of his office.
Two more spooks ran past me, towards his desk. And I had this funny feeling that Dr. Smith might not be my caseworker much longer.
Chapter 17
Southbound on Central Expressway.
Saturday afternoon . . .
I swear that when Ricky is driving, it's like he's just stolen the vehicle. Like we just did a bank job. Like there are naked girls waiting at the finish line of a race he's imagining in his head. The other cars are so slow, relative to us, that they look like fixtures on the road. Obstacles we have to weave in and out of to avoid.
We're heading to the Aquarium, in downtown Dallas, near where the old Reunion Arena was. I don't know what that means, but Ricky explained it to me with a sad air of nostalgia attached to it, so it must have been a landmark.
Why are we violating the laws of velocity in physics to get to the aquarium? Because Rupert called Ricky on his cell phone, sounding like some CIA spy with his cover blown. He told us that we had to meet him, and the location had to be somewhere public and innocuous. Ricky said that he once made out with this girl at the Aquarium, and that it was a nice place for a quiet discussion. Why those two things fit together I'm not exactly sure.
Anyway, we have to meet Rupert. He wouldn't say what it was he needed to discuss, because they were on, and I quote, “ . . . non-secure lines.” So this is just like that Robert Ludlum book that I read, where they're all super-secret agents, and everybody does everything cloak-n-dagger. It was kind of exciting, but also a bit unsettling.
Obviously, it had something to do with the book.
While we drove, I tried to explain what had happened last night and earlier that morning. Ricky mostly nodded while I mostly talked. It was hard to describe all of it, but he got the gist. I outlined my evaporating sanity for him.
“That's insane, Jack,” was all he said.
“I think I'm on the verge of a mental breakdown,” I offered, without emotion. More as an afterthought.
“I don't know, dude,” he said as we weaved around a small Honda something-or-other. “Go green, bitches!” he muttered under his breath. “Thirty-five miles a gallon . . . but at what price? Those cars are designed by emasculated Japanese men with no testosterone.”
“They seem like a nice choice, based on gas prices.”
He glanced at me sideways, like I'd just burped up a gallon of earthworms. “We, me and you, have drive. Ambition. Guys that design and drive cars like that—environmentally friendly cars—they've never seen a ghost. They've never seen a two-thousand year-old book that may parallel Christianity. And they've never, in all their years, seen monsters clawing at their soul through their chest.”
“I guess,” I shrugged.
“We're living, Jack. Good or bad, our adventures here and now . . . they will mean something, someday. People will look back on all of this, and think, hey, that's where it all started. That's when the legend began.”
“You really think all this amounts to something?” I asked, turning to face him. And it was difficult because my body was pinned, by acceleration, to the front seat.
He nodded, “This ain't band camp, bucko. We're not exploring our feelings. This is serious, life changing shit, here. It's our quest.”
I had never thought of it like that.
Now, in addition to being nut-bag crazy, my wingman has handed in his share of grey matter. This should be fun.
Dallas Aquarium . . .
Six minutes and eighteen seconds later we were heading down a hallway that led to the shark tank. Rupert surprised us from behind, saying, “Gentlemen,” very softly.
He was wearing a long, brown trench coat. I was waiting for him to mention James Bond, even if only peripherally, but he was much less jovial. He had this air of uneasiness about him that made me a bit nervous, myself. His eyes were darting around suspiciously.
“Are you kidding me?” I said. But neither he nor Ricky smiled. I shrugged and we kept walking.
When we got to the shark tank, we were surrounded on all sides by crystal blue water. The glass walls of the tank ascended several stories high, and encircled you so that we might have been trapped thousands of feet underwater, in some special government facility where secret things are going on. Experiments maybe, with nano-stuff and alien stem-cells. Sci-Fi Channel stuff.
Out in the water, cruising slowly back and forth were several different species of sharks. There were placards all around the area, showing small pictures of each shark, and their characteristics. But you could learn so much more by just watching them.
Rupert's looking like he either needs to tell us something important, or he's got to use the bathroom. All of this water is giving me the same urge—to discuss important things, I mean.
“Sharks,” Rupert said grimly, “ . . . are the last creatures on the earth that are a predator, but not a prey. They're prehistoric, nearly unchanged by time. Sex and hunger drives them.”
“Is it true they never sleep?” Ricky asked.
Rupert nodded, “In a manner of speaking, yes. They sleep one hemisphere of their brain at a time. That way, they are always active, constantly fanning their gills with fresh water and oxygen.” English guys tend to preface important things with segue material. This is that, I guess.
The sharks really are amazing, though. Magazines don't do them justice. You suddenly feel very helpless in a place like this. I noticed that this blue—the color of the water in the tanks—that it was the same as the the color of my dreams. The same blue as the time between dogs and wolves. I hope that this glass doesn't break.
Ricky took a half step forward and looked at the placard marked 'Blue Shark', glancing up at the tank trying to spot one. “Prionace glauca, also called the Great Blue shark. Found in all ocean waters, from warm temperature to tropical waters. Also known as the Blue Whaler. It has attractive, deep-blue coloring contrasting with a pure-white belly.”
Rupert pointed, “Right there, over to the left is a Blue.”
We raced all this way to talk about sharks?
We watch this long, slim shark with a pointed snout, teeth that looked sharp enough to split hydrogen atoms, and long slim pectoral fins. This one was about 10 or 11 feet long.
“She likes to feed on the carcasses of slaughtered whales,” Rupert said as we watched her swim by. She's a bit of a scavenger in that aspect. But don't be fooled, she'll eat a man just as well.”
Sharks, they probably fall in my list of horrible ways to die, right around the number two spot—right behind drowning. They bother me, these sharks, because they don't look the least bit afraid of their predicament. It's as if they know that, at any time, if they chose to, they could blast on through the glass walls and gobble us up in the confusion.
>
Rupert looked nervous. Fidgety. Cautious.
“What's up, Buddy?” Ricky said as he took a step back. He's much more tactful than I am.
Rupert nodded, took a tentative breath, and began, “Yesterday I received a call from some people who claimed to be in Washington. Said they were following up on our request for information about the Book of Sighs. I, having already given a name on the request for reference, told them I had been the one to send the query.”
We expected that, I said.
“Yes. Of course we did. Well, they said that they would be making further inquiries into the book, and that if I got another chance to study it I should notify them immediately.”
Ricky crossed his arms, “ . . . but, you didn't do that. Right?”
Rupert looked hurt, “Bloody hell, no! But that's not why were talking here in the middle of a fish tank. About an hour before I left the library this afternoon, two men approached the front desk looking for me. As luck would have it, I had already checked out, and the receptionist said as much. They left their card, after asking several more questions about both myself and the book. When they had gone, I was paged by the receptionist and she seemed unsettled by the entire affair.”
Unsettled, how? I asked.
“Well,” he said, his eyes glancing back and forth around us to make sure nobody was listening, “ . . . it seems they made the claim that they were 'Federal Agents.' But their business card only gives a name and number. And it doesn't look very official to me. I believe they want the book, and I don't think it's safe to carry it around, anymore.”
“We're going to keep it locked-up, now,” Ricky assured the nervous librarian. “They're not going to get a chance to put their hands on it.”
I studied Rupert, he looked like he was hanging on by a thread. Strange waves of white and blue light—reflected waves in the water—crossed past his face. “Maybe you should take a few days off, I proposed. Call in sick?”
See Jack Die (Part 1 in the Paranormal Series) (See Jack Die Series) Page 9
