The Last Dreamer

by Nicholas Erik

  The sign as they drove underground, into the lot, indicated that Devin was entering Chimera MedCorp’s Headquarters.

  Whatever that meant.

  21 | Gone

  Tommy heaved against the front door, and it swung open, scattering the avalanche of mail across the room. He stepped inside, wincing just a little as he put weight on his still-healing leg, and tossed the keys on the table.

  “Make yourself at home,” he said.

  “Not much of one,” Boyd said.

  “Hell, you try inheriting the debt my parents had, and then come talk to me.”

  “Never had no parents besides Samuel,” Boyd said.

  “Then you don’t know nothing about trying to pick up all their shit. Beer?”

  “We gonna stay here that long?”

  “Well, I figure if he ain’t around here, he’s at work or something. Devin’ll be back in a couple hours, I had to bet.”

  “And he just left that stack of mail for you as a welcome home present.” Boyd walked over to the coffee table and examined the whiskey glasses. Picked one up. It stuck to the table, and he had to pull real hard. Left a ring where it stripped the finish.

  “What the hell you doing,” Tommy said, two beers in hand, offering one to Boyd, but Boyd shaking his head nah, “you’re ruining my table.”

  “Ain’t no one been here for some time,” Boyd said, and sat down on the sofa. “Weeks.”

  Tommy didn’t want to admit it—didn’t want to think where his little brother had gone. But he’d known it the instant he couldn’t get the door unlocked. Devin was never that messy. Never clean, but wouldn’t just say fuck it like that.

  If Devin was as special as the Reverend said he was, it made sense that maybe someone else was looking for him.

  Devin’s laptop was on the ground, screen cracked. Devin wouldn’t let that happen, couldn’t go a couple hours at home without playing some weird ass useless game.

  The whole situation made Tommy feel queasy, and he downed the beer in a gulp, hoping it would help.

  It did, a little, and he set to work on the next one while Boyd gave him a look.

  “What? Ain’t like you a teetotaler.”

  “We got a job to do,” Boyd said. “Should be investigating.”

  “Then investigate,” Tommy said, and swung his arms all around the room, “it’s your fucking oyster. Go nuts.”

  Boyd creeped him out. The Reverend was all right, a little bit of a zealot, but okay, even with the darkness lurking in the shadows. But this guy wasn’t right in the head.

  Boyd was a sinner, through and through, but he was a believer, and that was the worst type of man—the one punishing everyone else for his own damn flaws.

  Boyd got up and looked back down at the sofa. A little bit of dried blood.

  He looked underneath, swept between the cracks of the cushions with his fingers. A sock.

  Belonged to a girl.

  “This yours?” He held it in front of Tommy’s face.

  “I look like a cross-dresser to you?”

  “You never can really know a man.”

  “No you can’t,” Tommy said, and finished the second beer. Was about to start in on the whiskey sitting on the table, but stopped when he saw Boyd sniffing the sock, about to lick it. “The fuck you doing?”

  “Investigating.”

  “Shit man, give me that.” And yanked it from Boyd’s hand. “Goddamn pervert.”

  Boyd licked his lips, but said nothing.

  “It ain’t from a girl I know. They all more sandal and heels types. No socks. See here,” Tommy said, and pointed at a monogram on the sock, “this mean something to you? AS?”

  Boyd reached for it, but Tommy held tight, like he could look, but he wasn’t going to do any of that sick shit in here. Boyd crouched down and looked at the monogram.

  “I don’t know,” he said, but was beginning to put together a theory. “I’m gonna look around some more.” Boyd might’ve been crazy, impulsive, but he wanted to get things right this time around, since he’d screwed everything up in the general store. Delayed them an entire month.

  And now the Prophet was gone, leaving behind a stack of mail and a quarter bottle of whiskey.

  Boyd slammed both of his palms onto the kitchen island in frustration.

  “Hey, don’t be breaking nothing in here,” Tommy said.

  “Wouldn’t want to make it any uglier.”

  “Just cool it.” An uneasy silence settled over the room. Boyd walked in a circle as Tommy watched, unsure what the man would do. Boyd flipped through the mail and grabbed one of the pieces.

  “It seems little brother got curious.” Boyd came back to the couch and handed Tommy an open envelope. Inside was the cashier’s check for ten grand. His monthly stipend from the Lionhearted.

  “Shit.” Tommy looked at the check, harder than he had before. “It don’t say anything on it, though. He couldn’t tell where it’s from.”

  “How much you make down at that shipping shithole?”

  “Twenty, twenty-five an hour.”

  “There you go,” Boyd said. “Your brother dumb?”

  “Smart as a whip.”

  “Then he knows that money didn’t come from your shitty little job,” Boyd said. “And maybe this little AS, that’s short for Anya Sylvi, and she convinces him that he shouldn’t stick around here no more, since he don’t know his big brother as well as he thought. And now Chimera’s got him.”

  “Could be,” Tommy said, and stared at the whiskey. “What now?”

  “We drink,” Boyd said. “And we sleep, and tomorrow, we return to Samuel. And we find this girl.”

  Tommy didn’t like the thought of a sleepover with Boyd, but he just shrugged.

  The drinking might make it palatable.

  22 | Blink

  “Blink,” Dr. Stanton said.

  “I just did,” Devin said.

  “Again.”

  Devin blinked. Again. And again and again.

  “See anything helpful, Doc?”

  Dr. Stanton peered out from behind the eye examination machine. “Keep still.”

  “I am still.”

  “Don’t talk. Blink again. Look up the right.”

  “What are you even looking for?” Devin said.

  Dr. Stanton pushed himself away from the machine with an exasperated grumble, the plastic wheels of the chair squeaking as they glided across the waxed marble.

  “You wouldn’t understand,” he said.

  “We’ve done this test every day,” Devin said. “And I’ve been here for four weeks.”

  “I created a baseline and now I’m comparing these new samples to it for deviations—as I said, you wouldn’t understand.”

  “Thanks for trying, Doc,” Devin said, and stood up to leave.

  “Where the hell are you going?”

  “To my room.”

  “The tests aren’t done. You will retire to your quarters when they are finished.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  Dr. Stanton wheeled around in the chair and glared at him. “I wouldn’t.”

  A month of this shit, and Devin has been poked, prodded, tested and re-tested without so much as a word explaining just what Chimera was trying to do. While the exterior of the facility was blasé, its labs were all pristine, straight from a science-fiction movie: white walls, white coats, brushed chrome furniture, marble polished and waxed so bright it could blind you.

  Devin’s room was an exact replica of his one at home. Down to the dusty air duct in the corner that hadn’t been cleaned in years. Or looked like it.

  This one, after all, was just a replica.

  First couple days, he’d hung out in a nice suite that was like a fancy hotel.

  And then boom, he was in his home away from home.

  No one would tell him why that was, either. Maybe it had something to do with Dr. Stanton’s mysterious baselines—his attempt to recreate normal experimental conditions within the confines of
this pristine, anti-bacterial lab.

  Devin had his doubts about the effectiveness of the approach.

  He watched Dr. Stanton roll over again.

  Got ready for the next words.

  “Blink,” Dr. Stanton said.

  Devin blinked and then asked, “When do I get out of this place?”

  “Blink,” Dr. Stanton said.

  Devin brought his hands up to the machine, its metal lever arm, and swung it back at Dr. Stanton, knocking the suited man onto the ground, opening a gash in Stanton’s head that stained the floors red.

  Two guards rushed in, and another guy in a suit—the boss, the head honcho, from what Devin could ascertain—followed them inside.

  Devin’s heart hammered, but he didn’t move.

  “What seems to be the problem in here,” the boss said, his dome out-gleaming everything in the room.

  Dr. Stanton moaned something unintelligible, his words blocked by the arm shielding his face.

  “He blinked first,” Devin said.

  And then he flashed a fuck you prankster’s grin before the guards hooked their arms underneath his and dragged him off to his room.

  22 | Old Friends

  Tommy watched the scenery roll by through the Explorer’s passenger window as Boyd drove, speaking to Samuel the whole time.

  Tommy tuned the conversation out. It was a religious circle-jerk, the two men engaging in a twisted treatise and sermon on the merits of God, miracles and this oracle from Heaven.

  His brother. Devin. The Dreamer. The Prophet. A seer.

  Samuel and Boyd preaching to each other’s choirs, nodding along, while Tommy just watched the endless reddish dust.

  There was something mystical about this Arizona land, like the gods of people long dead were still infused in its soil, rose up into the ether from the dry, arid cracks. Not like Texas.

  Texas was desert, looked damn near the same, but it was like the Disney Land of deserts. Commoditized.

  “What you thinkin’ there, Travis,” Boyd said. “You look like you’re thinking.”

  “Just looking.”

  “Me and Samuel was just talking about what she deserves.”

  “What who deserves?” Tommy averted his eyes from the landscape and turned them on Boyd.

  “The girl,” Boyd said. “For interferin’ with God’s work. Twice.”

  “Guess that’s up to the Reverend.” Tommy glanced in the rearview, tried to catch Samuel’s eye, give him a look like don’t do nothing crazy. But Samuel wasn’t looking, and Tommy gave up. “He’s the boss.”

  “So boss, what do you say?” Boyd said, eager for a verdict.

  “The girl is just carrying out orders. It’s the woman we want.”

  “Miss Ena? That old bitch, she don’t—”

  “Boyd,” the Reverend said. “Settle down.”

  “She just work me up is all. It ain’t right.”

  “People will believe what they want to believe,” the Reverend said. “Isn’t that right, Tommy?”

  “I guess so, sir.”

  The car rolled on, Boyd took an exit, and Tommy braced himself.

  Jamestown, Arizona.

  Knock.

  Knock.

  Knock.

  The Reverend’s hand rapped against the weather-beaten door at the end of the alley. Boyd and Tommy stood at the ready, pistols drawn, pointed down, but primed to fire at a moment’s notice.

  No answer. The Reverend rubbed between his knuckles. This arthritis was killing him. Had made him shorten his recent sermons.

  He was getting old.

  But, now, Catalina and her little girl, they’d led him to the Dreamer. After twenty years of keeping eyes on them from afar, watching their movements, he’d found this Dreamer. The last Prophet.

  The Reverend looked about the abandoned alley.

  Mark wasn’t here. Wasn’t protecting Catalina any more. She was alone, vulnerable.

  The door creaked open, bit by bit, and the Reverend put on his best smile.

  A small child stared up at the Reverend.

  “Hello, mister.”

  “Hi.” The Reverend took a step back. This child, she was far too young to be Anya Sylvi. He hadn’t seen this little girl before. He peered down at her, said nothing.

  “Who the hell is this, Samuel?” Boyd said. The Reverend held up a hand, calling for silence. Smoothed his frock, the creases in his jeans, and readjusted the smile on his face.

  “Hello, child,” he said, and got down on one knee, “is your mother home?”

  “Mommy,” the little girl called, and ran to the back of the house, leaving the door open, “there’s a man here to see you.”

  A young woman stepped into the afternoon light, closed the door behind her.

  “What can I do for you?” She looked at the three men, glanced at the pistols, but didn’t seem bothered by them. Someone who had been through a lot, Samuel reckoned.

  “Sorry to bother you ma’am,” the Reverend said. “Hot day, isn’t it?”

  “They’re all hot,” the young woman said, “you came to see me, means you looking for someone.”

  “I am, ma’am, I am,” he said. “And I could use your help.” His bright white teeth glinted like fool’s gold in the sun.

  “Well, shoot,” the woman said. “I have to feed Clara soon. Kids, you know.”

  “I know that well,” the Reverend said, and glanced at Boyd from the corner of his eye. Children—adopted or blood—were always a handful. “I am looking for a member of my flock, a troubled woman who has lost her way.”

  “You a preacher, then. Figured as much.”

  “I’m afraid my dress betrays me,” the Reverend said. “This woman, she used to live at this residence—your residence. A Miss Catalina Ena.”

  A light of recognition flooded into the woman’s eyes. “Stay out here for a second,” she said.

  The Reverend, Boyd and Tommy waited, even though they didn’t have to wait for anything. Could’ve just walked in and taken whatever they needed. Beat it out of her.

  Instead, the Reverend folded his hands above his broad silver belt buckle and stood still until the door opened once more.

  “She said to give you this,” the woman said, and handed the Reverend a plain white envelope. The old man took it between his fingers, but didn’t open it. “She’s a real good lady.”

  “That right?”

  “Said she read about my father in the paper,” the woman said with a shrug. “I never met her before, but she gave me this place, signed it over the other day. Comes to my motel room, knocks, and just like that, I own it. No mortgage, no nothing. Just outright.”

  “That’s a sweet story, ma’am,” the Reverend said. He mimicked a tip of the hat, even though nothing covered his hair. “Thank you for your help.”

  “I hope you can help her,” the woman said, “said you two were old friends.”

  “Over twenty years,” the Reverend said, and gestured for Tommy and Boyd to follow him up the alley. “Goodbye, now.” The door shut, and the trio walked back to the SUV.

  The Reverend ran his finger underneath the seal as he walked, tearing it open with a broad finger. He paused for a moment, right where the alley merged back into civilization, and read the letter.

  Crumpled it up and tossed it behind him.

  “Let’s go,” he said, and got in the back seat.

  “What’d it say, Samuel?” Boyd said. The engine sputtered and started, but the car stayed still. “Where we headed now?”

  “Still got the fire,” Samuel said. “She’s still got the fire.”

  “The hell does that mean?”

  “It means she’s cleared out of here,” Samuel said. “Packed up and left after you two idiots spooked her little girl.”

  “We said sorry,” Boyd said. “At least, I did. I don’t know about Tommy.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” the Reverend said. “Just drive.”

  “Where to?”

  The Reverend told
him where to go and Boyd nodded, a devilish smirk creeping across his face.

  The Reverend cracked a slight grin as he leaned back in his seat, thought about the letter’s contents.

  It was nice to hear from you again, Samuel, after what happened twenty years ago.

  Shame we couldn’t catch up in person.

  -Catalina

  P.S. Go fuck yourself.

  Still had that fire.

  Time never changes who we are, just what we do.

  That was always Catalina’s problem.

  And that’s what would get her this time, too.

  Too much fire, too much passion, burns everything to the ground.

  23 | Not Long for This New Life

  Anya laid back on the mat covering the hardwood and stared at the ceiling.

  Less cracks then their old home, but still quite a few.

  She closed her eyes and daydreamed about riding the bus with Devin, most of it quiet in a pleasant kind of way, the kind she liked—but wasn’t sure he liked—but a single moment just replayed in her mind, over and over, like a record on repeat.

  A good record. Like early Offspring, not now Offspring. Anya had tried to figure that out, why bands always were better in the beginning, how they lost it. Didn’t make sense. Shouldn’t they get better with more time? She’d written an algorithm, but some things in life couldn’t be explained by ones and zeroes.

  This moment, it was one of those things.

  She’d fallen asleep on the bus. There was nothing to do, nothing that needed to be done. She’d completed the task Miss Ena had given her. Devin was there. All the preparation, information gathering, monitoring—years of it—had led to this.

  Had led to her waking up on his shoulder, waking up on the shoulder of this boy she knew so well, knew everything about, but didn’t know at all.

  And he was looked straight into her eyes when she did, and for once, she hadn’t freaked out. Hadn’t been, well, her. And she’d just stared back.

  And then Devin had said, “It’s like your eyes see everything,” which she didn’t believe, because to her, it was like she saw nothing, could see nothing that everyone else saw. But she’d gotten this feeling, this tingle, this electricity that had shot up her nerves like morphine.