The Last Dreamer

by Nicholas Erik

  A package came down the conveyor belt and Devin reached over to grab it.

  “Travis,” his supervisor Mike said, spotting him for across the room, “arms underneath. You break it, it’s coming out of your paycheck.”

  “Whatever,” Devin said.

  “What’d you say to me, Travis? You giving me lip?” Mike stopped, like he was going to come over for a more in-depth discussion. That was the only way the work day could get worse. Talking to this walrus of a man, who hadn’t lifted anything more than a milkshake in twenty years.

  “No sir,” Devin said. “Arms underneath. Got it.” He made an exaggerated showing of being precise with the next box off the line, a bulk carton of diapers. Crucial that these were handled with care.

  “That’s it,” Mike said, and continued on along the warehouse floor to bother someone else.

  “He’s a real dick, eh,” Devin said once Mike had disappeared far down the warehouse.

  The girl next to him—the only girl working at Parsons Shipping & Processing—didn’t say anything. Never said anything to him, despite Devin’s best efforts. She gave him an eye roll, then brushed her long, blonde hair from her face.

  Kept working.

  Devin couldn’t figure out what someone this hot was doing working the belts with him and the rest of these bums in ninety degree heat. And it looked like he would never find out, since she wouldn’t talk to him.

  He turned to his right and grabbed another box. Loaded it on the truck. Then another one. Rinse, repeat, for four hours until his shift was over. More, sometimes, but not today.

  After punching his time card in the old-school office, Devin burst out of the stale warehouse. It was cooler outside. Would it kill Mike to turn on the AC once in a while? No, but it would cut into profits.

  Devin rubbed his fingers over his paycheck for the last couple weeks. A thousand bucks. Good money, by the hour, but it wasn’t a calling.

  Or fulfilling.

  A honk emanated from a paint-stripped truck. Tommy waved at him from the driver’s seat. Then he honked again, this time holding down the horn for a good long time.

  “All right,” Devin said, and rushed over, “just quit that.” He reached out to open the door. Locked. “Tommy, the door’s locked.”

  Instead, Tommy rolled down the window.

  “Not until you tell me about that fine lady you got working down your end.”

  “I told you about her last week. Name’s Sarah, I think. I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “She won’t talk to me,” Devin said. Not that he was a lady-killer, but most people would at least respond in some fashion when he tried to make conversation.

  “That’s because you ain’t got the smoothness, Dev.”

  “That right? You can teach me on the ride home, then. Open the door.”

  “You know what I think your problem is, Dev?”

  “No, but I can’t wait for you to tell me.”

  “You look so damn sad all the time,” Tommy said. “Look at the sun and that blue Texas sky, baby. How can anyone be sad about that?”

  “Don’t forget the dream job.”

  “And see, that too. You make enough for a couple beers, take a lady out to a nice dinner now and again. What else can someone ask for?”

  “No idea.”

  “It’s that college education that got you, man,” Tommy said. “Put all these dreams and expectations in that funny ass looking head.”

  Devin turned around and started walking away.

  “Where you going, Dev?”

  “I’m taking the bus.”

  “No you ain’t. You know how that shit smells during the summer.” Devin kept walking, further away. “All right, man, fine. Be like that. I opened the doors, you damn whiner.”

  Devin stopped. He didn’t want to take the bus, which was sure to be a miserable experience. Moms riding with their kids, dripping wet, coming from the public pool. Homeless people buying a fare, riding all day, sweating in the less-stuffy confines instead of dying in the sun.

  But then there was Tommy, whose prodding and exuberance for a mediocre life were almost too much to handle. Then again, the ride was free, and it’d be over soon enough.

  Devin turned around and got in the beat-up truck. The car creaked and bumped as it rolled over the pitted parking lot asphalt out onto the road.

  Tommy cranked the radio and sang along to everything that came on. Guns ‘n Roses, the Eagles, Nirvana. All in the same tone-deaf scream.

  Brutal, but preferable to the alternative.

  Devin stared out the window as the landscape rolled by. The town’s new strip mall, the one with a Best Buy. The shipping center sorted a lot of packages for them. He’d thought about taking a couple, but never had the balls. Had to be some good stuff in there—iPods, MacBooks.

  But Devin wasn’t sure what he’d do with any of it, even if he did jack it. This town didn’t have a thriving black market economy. Or maybe it did, and he just didn’t know about it. Either way, he’d be risking a lot for no tangible reward.

  So he never stole anything. Just day dreamed about a better job—what, he wasn’t sure, just that something else was waiting—and, over the past couple weeks, what Sarah would look like naked.

  A dust-whipped gas station whizzed by the window, and Tommy decided it was a good time to turn down the radio.

  “You been quiet today,” Tommy said.

  “Just thinking is all.”

  “You can talk to me, you know.”

  “The hell would I want to do that?”

  “Just trying to help out, little brother. You don’t want it, that’s fine.”

  “I don’t,” Devin said.

  That stopped Tommy for about half a minute. “I know this wasn’t what you expected,” he said. “But it’s only been a couple years.”

  “Three in December.”

  “No shit, it’s been that long?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You remember, Mom and Dad and me left you up at college. Make a college boy of you.”

  “Didn’t last long,” I said. “One semester. Some college boy.”

  “I know, I know.” His voice was a little quiet, just a touch subdued. “Just saying, time passes fast, is all.”

  “And I’m saying you need to count better,” Devin said.

  “Maybe,” Tommy said and cranked the radio again. Didn’t sing.

  Just listened to Eddie Vedder yelp about being alive.

  Sometimes it seemed better not to be.

  4 | Hacked

  “I’m heading out,” Tommy said, almost once they were in the door, “Becky, she wants to go out for a couple beers.”

  “It’s two in the afternoon,” Devin said.

  “We don’t have to work ‘til tomorrow morning.” Tommy grinned and threw on his Stetson. “How do I look?”

  “Like a fucking idiot,” Devin said.

  “Becky likes it.”

  “Becky’s also an idiot.”

  “You need a little more Texas in you,” Tommy said. “We’ll fix that yet.”

  “I went to UT,” Devin said as the door shut, “how much more Texas do I need?”

  Devin remembered the story, could almost picture it, even though he couldn’t possibly do it.

  They’d moved to Rever’s Point twenty years ago, right in a summer hot as this one. Because tuition was cheaper in state, and hell if baby Devin wasn’t going to be the first Travis to head off to college. Go to UT, because his dad liked the football team. It was all fate, and right from the beginning, the family was gonna do it right.

  And they took that truck down—not beat-up then, just plain, non-descript—the four of them, from Illinois, moved into this modest ranch home and that was that. He’d gotten in. Gone off to school in Austin. Fate and destiny were looking pretty good, until his parents had been clipped by a drunk driver not four months later, a few days before Christmas, walking back from the Alamo Steakhouse—it was like there
was a rule in Texas, every town had to have a restaurant named after the damn place—and that was that.

  Thinking about it all made Devin rush to the cabinet and down a couple Xanax. Tasted the chemical afterburn from keeping them in his mouth a few seconds too long.

  He sank into his desk chair and rolled around the room, nodding his head back and forth. Much better. Life was good. He clicked open his internet browser and went to his employer’s website. Parsons Shipping & Processing, Inc. For all your supply chain needs, small…or big as Texas.

  Devin wondered if Mr. Parsons had come up with that one all by himself.

  He scrolled over to the employees tab and entered his ID number. Even though only a hundred people worked there, each one was still just a number.

  His eyes scanned the worker list. Contact information, in case someone had to call out sick. Insomniacs needed the crap they bought on QVC at two in the morning, and they needed it fast. No shipping delays would be tolerated.

  Some of the workers didn’t have contact information.

  But Sarah did. Sarah Parsons.

  Oh shit. She was the owner’s daughter. No wonder she was working at the warehouse. Must’ve been a punishment, or as terms of some probation. Maybe Mr. Parsons had told the judge that he’d keep an eye on his daughter, keep her out of trouble.

  But Devin didn’t know that. He didn’t know if Sarah Parsons was a clean cut girl or a wild child.

  All he knew was that he was calling her.

  His heart would be beating fast, but the pills took care of that.

  “Hello?” Devin didn’t say anything. Just listened to her voice. That was her. Maybe it wasn’t. He didn’t know. She sounded hot. Must be her. “Look, if this is you, Kurt, I swear—”

  “It’s Devin.”

  “Who?”

  “Devin. From—we work together. At the shipping warehouse.” Nothing but silence. This was familiar. “I had on a blue shirt today—”

  “I know who you are. The hell do you want?”

  “Uh,” Devin said, and didn’t know. Then it came to him. “I was wondering if, like, maybe you wanted to get a drink, or something to eat, or just anything.”

  It didn’t take her long to respond. “No.”

  “Okay, I guess, if you change your mind, you know where I work.” He laughed, but it just sounded awkward. If he wasn’t riding a cool wave of Xanax, he’d get off the phone faster. But, right now, it didn’t matter.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said. The line hung open for a few more seconds. “Was there something else?”

  “Oh, nope, that was it,” Devin said. “You’re pretty and I wanted to ask you out. Have a nice day.”

  He hung up.

  What the hell was that line at the end?

  Tommy wasn’t kidding. He couldn’t even blame that one on the pills. Chances were, they’d made that train wreck better. Which should’ve been impossible. Smooth as a bed of nails.

  His computer beeped and then restarted. But Devin’s mind was running round and round on what he’d just done.

  Work the next day was going to be terrible.

  Maybe he just wouldn’t go. Call in sick. Yeah, because calling a co-worker had panned out pretty good the first time around. He’d tell Tommy to do it for him. He couldn’t go. No way.

  Maybe Sarah would tell her dad, and he’d be fired.

  Devin put his head all the way down in his lap and tried to block it all out. Maybe he just needed to sleep.

  The computer chimed, and he looked up.

  Wake up, Devin.

  White letters on a black screen. That was it.

  He tapped on the keys. Nothing happened. Jammed on the space bar. Tried to press the power button. The words stayed. Then another message, coming in one letter at a time.

  We’ve been waiting for you for many years.

  The message seemed familiar. A fear grabbed hold of Devin’s throat. He reached for the computer’s battery, catching a glimpse of the final message before he yanked it out.

  I’ll see you soon.

  The screen went black as he threw the battery against the wall, a shower of plastic exploding while he tried to figure out just what the hell was going on.

  5 | A Stranger Comes to Town

  “Yes, Miss Ena,” the young woman said into the phone, “I will be careful. I know it’s dangerous. But the Dreamer’s important.” She paused, listened to the older woman. “I understand. I haven’t seen any of them, but I’ll keep looking.”

  She left the tight payphone booth and looked around the bus station. An old woman and a Marine. Neither of them were part of the Lionhearted. But then, no one could be sure of anything.

  Her and Miss Ena had been hiding for many years. Since she was a little girl and Miss Ena was a young woman. That was why it had taken so long for the Dreamer to find them.

  And yet, despite the years, Miss Ena looked almost the same.

  The woman took a final look at the computer’s screen. A series of sent messages and a simple note from the operating system—connection terminated. Then she shut the lid and threw the laptop in her backpack. Got up, ready for the next step.

  The bus driver stepped off the bus, holding a spiral notebook.

  “Anya Sylvi?” He scanned the near-deserted station, first looking at the old lady, then at the young woman. He walked over to the young woman, and she backed up.

  One could never be sure of anything.

  The bus driver offered her the notebook. “You Anya Sylvi?”

  Anya stared down at his outstretched hand. Her name was scribbled across the worn paperboard front. She snatched it, and clutched it to her chest.

  “Some pretty complex stuff in there,” the driver said, “I wasn’t snooping, just…” He gave her a look, then shrugged and went back to the bus.

  Anya flipped through the pages to make sure nothing was missing. Her notes and equations were intact.

  She stared at the bus as it pulled away, around the corner, off to pick up more travelers on the way to more destinations. Her faint emerald eyes burned trying to see through the dark tinted glass, tell if the driver was one of the Lionhearted.

  It was no use. Paranoia was getting tiresome. Miss Ena was worried, but Anya had never found any reason for all the worry and anxiety. No one had ever found them. These Lionhearted were beginning to feel like a ghost story or the Devil.

  Just myths.

  Anya dropped her backpack to the ground and slid the notebook inside, careful not to bend or crease any of the corners. Despite its ragged appearance, she took great care of it. The notebook was worn through use and intense contemplation, not abuse.

  Then she picked up the bag and walked in the hot Texas sun, down the endless road, towards the town. A green sign told her that Rever’s Point was six miles.

  Remembering Miss Ena’s instructions—don’t hitchhike, child, never hitchhike—Anya took a sip of water from her thermos, tightened her backpack’s straps, and kept on walking in the summer dust.

  6 | No Corners to Turn

  Anya stepped into the general store, brushing her wet chestnut hair out of her dirt streaked face.

  Grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerated case. Hers had run out miles before, and her tongue now felt drier than the cracked road. Then decided, since Miss Ena wasn’t here, she’d try something else. The labels stared back at her. So many choices. She slid the water back and grabbed a Sprite.

  She walked to the front and held it out.

  “Be with you in a second,” the clerk said, and turned around to glance at her, “you can just put it on the counter.”

  Anya thought about it for a second, looked at the counter, then kept the bottle where it was. With her other hand, she rubbed the coins in her pocket. Counted them over and over to make sure she had enough.

  The clerk, an old man with kind eyes and a deep tan, finished making a sandwich and came to the register. Smiled when he saw that she hadn’t put the bottle down.

 
The bells on the front door jingled as another customer walked in. Anya jumped and almost dropped the bottle in her hand.

  “Don’t trust anyone, I see,” he said, and tapped in the numbers by hand into the register. No barcodes. No scanner. Just good old fashioned manpower.

  The mechanical numbers on the register spun, and the drawer opened.

  “A dollar ninety,” he said.

  Anya drew the coins out one at a time, placing them into his hand while counting them beneath her breath. She ran out at a dollar eighty.

  The man waited.

  She waited.

  “You got a dime there, young lady?”

  “It said a dollar seventy-eight.” The numbers flashed through Anya’s mind.

  “Sales tax,” he said.

  “Tax?”

  “You know what,” he said, and threw the coins in the drawer, “you look thirsty. It’s all right.” He smiled again. She stood there, unsure of it what to do. “It’s okay. Have a good day, now.”

  Anya pulled the bottle back and looked at him for a moment. “Thank you.” Everyone wasn’t as dangerous or mean as Miss Ena had said. This was going to be okay.

  She turned to go, and a hand came to rest on her shoulder. Not tight, but it was clamped down, telling her not to move, to stop.

  “You’re gonna take him to us,” a voice said. “Right now.”

  Anya dropped the soda, and it rolled away to the door.

  “Excuse me, young fella,” the clerk said. “Do you know this woman?”

  The hand didn’t move from her shoulder, and Anya didn’t say anything. Her fingers shook in her left pocket, trying to recall Miss Ena’s instructions for emergencies. They wrapped around the smooth plastic. Was this an emergency?

  “I do not,” the voice behind her said. “But I believe that we should meet. I’m Boyd Morrow.”

  “The lady don’t look like she want to meet you, son. Or go along with ya. Best get a move on.” From the corner of her eye, Anya saw the clerk’s hands drop beneath the counter, reach slow but steady for something in a well-rehearsed motion.

  “I wouldn’t do that, old man,” Boyd said.

  “I don’t think you tell me what to do in my own store.” The old man brought a double barrel shotgun out and pointed it forward. “You best be leaving now.”