The Last Dreamer

by Nicholas Erik

  But before she could say anything, reach out, like they did in the couple of movies she’d seen, Devin had said, “We’re here. Time to go.” And slid out of the seat, gentle, so her head wouldn’t fall, and then picked up his bag, and was down the stairs, then outside her window, jerking his thumb towards the bus station, telling her to come along, finish what she’d started.

  And now, Anya was trying to hold that feeling, that memory, while staring at the ceiling. Just a fragment, a shadow of it, but it still felt like her body was hooked up to a current.

  This was what it meant to be alive.

  She’d asked Miss Ena a couple times over the past month how Devin was doing, but Miss Ena didn’t want to talk, and even Anya could see that the subject bothered her a whole lot.

  So she was doing some digging on her own.

  The computer chimed and Anya popped up to look at the screen.

  CONNECTION TERMINATED

  She skimmed the command line logs. Getting better. The connection had been successful this time. Been inside Chimera’s network for almost a quarter minute.

  Not long enough to do anything. But long enough to prove it was possible.

  She cracked her knuckles and set to typing again. Tapped in a series of IP addresses, ones she’d found were vulnerable when she’d done her preliminary probe. Then she hit enter and leaned back down, until she was flat on the floor, staring at the ceiling again.

  She’d figure out what Chimera was doing with Devin Travis.

  Miss Ena might not want to tell her, but Anya would find it all out, just the same.

  24 | Earnings

  “You’re saying the tests have been inconclusive.” The man paced back and forth, his thousand dollar shoes squeaking against the black marble floors in his office.

  That had been his decision. To let visitors know that they were now on his turf—and whatever credentials and advantages they held in the rest of the building, with its gleaming white marble that looked straight out of Ancient Greece, all that power was moot when they set foot in here.

  This was a different realm.

  His realm.

  “Yes.”

  “Dr. Stanton—Mark,” the man said, and sat down in his plush chair at his glass desk, the only two objects in the entire expansive office, “I’ve given you a month.”

  “It’s a complex problem,” Mark said, “the young man, he’s a genetic anomaly. It’s to be expected that the tests, and the genetic sequencing, it would take some time to unravel.”

  “And yet, you have unraveled nothing. No progress. No conclusions. No closer than before to our end goal.”

  Mark shifted on his feet.

  “Are you getting tired, Mark,” the man said, “is that why you have proven so fucking incompetent over the past thirty-two days?”

  “No, I—”

  A fist came down on the table, went through the table, sending a cascade of glass crashing to the ground. The man looked down at his hand, dripping a steady stream of blood, and shed his custom Italian made suit jacket, used it to wrap the wound.

  “Are you familiar with investors?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what do investors want?”

  “A return,” Mark said.

  “And what do they do when they don’t get a return?”

  “They invest their money elsewhere.”

  “So you’re not a complete moron,” the man said.

  “No, Mr. Ena,” Mark said. “I’m not.”

  “I never did see what my daughter saw in you. Bullshit wishy-washy idealist that she was.”

  Something inside Mark stirred, but he didn’t act upon it. Just said, “Yes sir.”

  “Do you understand what I’m saying, Mark? Or am I going to spell it out for you?”

  “You want results. Something we can use.”

  “This is big, Mark. For the general public. For the military. For our company.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Mr. Ena said. “Now get the hell out of my office.”

  Mark scurried out, head bowed low, wondering just how he was going to get the results Mr. Ena needed. The sun was setting, its glow just illuminating the path to the elevator.

  Whatever the solution was, it’d have to wait until tomorrow.

  The Dreamer needed sleep.

  25 | Not So Sweet Home

  When Devin had moved in to Chimera Headquarters—more like kidnapped against his will—he’d half-expected his room to be littered with pamphlets like “Dreaming and You: The Science Behind Your Spectacular Ability.”

  But no one told him shit, and there were no welcome folders like on the first day of college. And, with all the repetitive tests Dr. Stanton had been doing, Devin had a sneaking suspicion it was because the powers-that-be didn’t know anything about him. Or his abilities.

  Devin spun the mouse on the desk in boredom. Even the horizontal scratch on its rubber grip was the same.

  “How the hell did you do all this?” Devin had asked when he’d moved in.

  And the technician had just told him, “We’ve been watching you for some time.”

  He thought of guys in white coats—or trench coats, maybe—in the dead of night, coming through the window, snapping pictures of his room, taking notes on the state of everything. Whether he got a new basketball or a new pair of Nikes.

  All in the name of science and realism.

  Devin walked over to the bed and sat down.

  Funny thing was, this room, despite being the same as his in every way, couldn’t be more unnatural, more uncomfortable, more unlike his former life. The familiarity just exposed how strange everything had become, smacked him in the face every time he was locked in from the hours of seven at night until seven in the morning.

  It was like living in a fish tank. The water was the same, maybe the coral reefs were the same. But the fish had to realize, somewhere in their small, stupid minds that they were getting played.

  Being cooped up for twelve hours at a time, Devin had taken to practicing some things. He slowed his breathing, his heart rate going with it. Closed his eyes.

  And listened to the images within his mind.

  A glimpse of a boy running alongside the road, a balloon in his hand, his bedraggled mother jogging behind.

  A shot of an older woman, walking in a nursing home, pushing her walker, cut up tennis balls on its feet, across the gray carpeting.

  And then, a feeling. A heart flutter. A nerve firing, a synapse responding. Here it was.

  His next dream.

  Devin wasn’t sure why this was the one, why he’d never know more about the old woman, or the boy. Perhaps they weren’t near the end of their lives, not today. Or maybe he just couldn’t help them, connect with their minds.

  As the image faded into focus, a familiar scene, Devin’s eyelids jolted open with a start, and he felt sick.

  Was she going to die?

  Devin slid his shoes off and attached the EEG sensors to his temples.

  Time to go to sleep.

  26 | Rever’s Point

  Devin dropped into the body with a jolt, like the air had been knocked out of him.

  He shook off the confusion in a minute. He’d gotten better. He’d been dreaming more in the past month. Twice since that Bob Merriweather excursion.

  Maybe that was how frequent they’d been before. He couldn’t remember.

  This was the third time he’d been in control, now. And he was better prepared, since he’d started the meditations, began channeling the imagery as a pre-sleep ritual. It seemed to prime his conscious mind for the physics-shattering imminent leap into another mind.

  He looked down at his feet.

  Couldn’t see them; a thick, rolling belly poking out of a XL polo shirt obscured Devin’s view of the floor.

  Sarah wasn’t going to die.

  It was Mike, his old supervisor.

  Devin took a step forward, out of the manager’s office at Parson’s
Shipping & Processing. Each one felt like he was stuck in a tub of Jell-O. No wonder this was Mike’s last night on Earth. Most people’s hearts would have given out years ago.

  Devin waddled towards the conveyor belts. A team of overtime workers hauled boxes between the belts and the trucks. Back and forth, rinse, repeat. Devin wasn’t sure which was worse: his old life or his new one.

  Neither was very good.

  He searched Mike’s brain for clues. Checked his watch. Almost midnight. That was late, even when the company kept holiday hours. In the middle of September, the pace and extra work seemed strange.

  “Let’s keep it moving, people,” Devin said, as Mike, and clapped his hands together. “Pick things up.”

  No one looked all that enthused, but their footsteps did quicken a little.

  But pick things up for what?

  Devin dragged Mike’s body outside. By the time he got into the starry night, the polo was drenched in nasty, foul smelling sweat. Jesus, this guy needed to get it together.

  Not that he’d have the opportunity.

  In the moonlight, Devin saw the outline of a man.

  “Hello, Mike,” the man said, and stepped into view.

  “Mr. Parsons,” Devin said, voice shaky, and extended a sweaty palm. Mr. Parsons shook his hand, a brief look of disgust snapping across his face upon touching Mike’s fat, clammy hand. “I’m sorry, I sweat a lot. Hard work.”

  “No need to apologize, Mike, you do good work.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Parsons.” Devin thought hard, but couldn’t find the reason why the shipping warehouse was still open this late and working at full capacity. “If you don’t mind me asking, sir, why are we running full tilt this late?”

  “To make sure our customers are satisfied, Mike.”

  “Haven’t they been?”

  “Yes, and we’re going to keep it like that until the last ones.”

  “The last ones?”

  “Don’t tell me you’re getting sentimental about the old place,” Mr. Parsons said. He made a motion like he was going to throw a hand on Mike’s shoulder, but then rethought it. “Although you’ve been with us since the beginning.”

  “Twenty years, sir.”

  “Has it been that long? My, my. Whoever thought I’d be in the middle of nowhere in Texas for twenty years?”

  “Sir?”

  “Sorry, just waxing nostalgic. My little girl grew up in this place. Sarah.”

  “I know her, Mr. Parsons. Good worker.”

  “No need to bullshit me, Mike. I know she’s a spoiled little drama queen. Hates working here. But it’s good for character, for a kid to work, pick things up with her hands.”

  “I’d say so,” Devin said, but didn’t sound convinced. Yeah, this place sure crafted strong characters. Tommy, him. The other dozens of bums who couldn’t get work anywhere else.

  “We need all the orders fulfilled by tomorrow morning,” Mr. Parsons said. “The lease is up at the end of the week. We’re gone after that.”

  Devin nodded and headed back inside.

  Parsons Shipping & Processing was closing. Just like that. Maybe they couldn’t stand the thought of going on without him or Tommy’s diligent work.

  They’d have to finish by tomorrow.

  Devin looked at the boxes coming off the line. All the trucks.

  That’d be a tall order.

  He headed towards the manager’s office.

  Sarah Parsons was standing in the doorway, leaning up against it, smoking a cigarette.

  Devin cleared his throat.

  “There’s no smoking in here.”

  “Whatever,” she said, like her father owned the place, “I’m here.”

  Devin slipped past her, Mike’s belly just missing her curvaceous form. She looked disgusted by the whole thing, but didn’t make an effort to move.

  He pulled up the timesheets on the computer.

  “You’re not working tonight.”

  “You called me, remember? Said you needed all hands on deck, and that I needed to get my little entitled butt down here?”

  Devin concentrated, and he drew up the memory of Mike grabbing the phone, asking her to come down. Telling her to come down.

  I guess Mike had gotten bold, seeing as how his job was up in a couple days.

  “Right, I remember,” Devin said. “We’ve been real busy.”

  She was staring at him like he had three heads.

  “When you’re finished that cigarette, if you wouldn’t mind.” Devin extended a fat finger towards the conveyor belts.

  “Yeah, fine. Whatever, I’ll get started. You’re the boss.” She flicked the cigarette into the trash can and sauntered onto the floor.

  The trash can started smoking, and Devin heaved over to it, stomped out the little fire starting to brew.

  Then sat back down, gasping for breath, wondering why the hell he’d ever wanted Sarah Parsons to talk to him, anyway.

  27 | The Last Shipment

  The last truck went out around five in the morning. The workers started to file into Mike’s office, collecting their most recent paychecks, making sure their mailing addresses were up to date for their last ones.

  “That ain’t my address,” Corey said. “I got this new one. New apartment.”

  “What is it?” Devin said, and waited. Corey didn’t say anything “Well?”

  “I’m thinkin’. Don’t rush me, Mike, damn.”

  “No one’s rushing anyone, it’s just that there are a lot of people—”

  “I ain’t gonna remember it better with you yammerin’ in my damn ear, Mike.”

  Devin peeked out around Corey, to the line extending out of Mike’s office. It stretched well past the belts. Maybe Mike was going to die of boredom. That seemed the most probable scenario; Devin had gotten used to the wheezing and waddling.

  “Corey?”

  “Don’t bother me.”

  “Why don’t we let Jerry go while you think, all right.”

  “Fuck that, Jerry ain’t taking my spot. I ain’t waiting after I been here for thirty minutes.”

  Devin sighed and stared at the ceiling. Behind Corey, the line was starting to get impatient, fidgety. Maybe it was a riot.

  Devin heard a sound.

  The warehouse’s truck entrance was closing. Slamming together, crashing, like someone was in a hurry.

  Corey said something, but Devin brushed him off.

  “The hell is going on out there? Stop messing around with the truck entrance. You know not to close that.”

  A quiet murmur brushed through the line, the general gist of which was no one had done anything.

  Devin got to his feet.

  “Hey, you enter that address?”

  “Not now,” Devin said and brushed Corey aside. “Come on people, move out, let me see what the hell’s going on out here.”

  He starting to get Mike down, was channeling him good.

  Waddled out into the middle of the warehouse.

  All the doors had been closed, not just the truck’s doors. Even the dingy windows were shut.

  “Who did all this?” Devin said, turning around to address the group. “A couple of you guys being proactive for once?”

  “We didn’t touch nothing, boss.”

  “Yeah, we just been waiting to get paid.”

  “That’s all, just want to get paid.”

  “When we gonna get paid?”

  “I gotta get home to my wife. This gonna take long?”

  “Just shut the hell up,” Devin said. “All of you. You’ll get paid once we get these doors open.”

  Everyone stood in line, unwilling to give up their spot.

  “You don’t help, it takes longer to get paid.”

  With a few grumbles, the line of men disbursed and fanned out across the warehouse. Devin walked over to the truck entrance and flipped the motorized switch.

  Nothing. The doors didn’t part.

  He flicked it back and forth, but still nothing.
<
br />   He walked over to the nearest emergency exit and tried the door. Nothing. He threw all of his weight against the bar, to see if it was stuck, but even with Mike’s three hundred pounds of leverage, the door didn’t open. Not even a crack.

  It was like they’d been sealed in.

  “Hey.” Devin called out across the warehouse, at another one of the guys. “What’s your door like?”

  “Stuck.”

  “And yours?”

  “It ain’t moving either, boss.”

  The report was the same from everyone: the doors were shut tight. They were locked in.

  The group reconvened around the conveyor belts, a growing paranoia surging through the panicked ranks.

  “Guys,” Devin said. “It’s just a mistake. I’ll call Mr. Parsons.”

  “Fuck that, man,” Corey said. “Who put you in charge?”

  “Yeah, who put you in charge?”

  “This is fucked up man, it’s like they’re putting us in prison.”

  “Like we haven’t given enough to this shithole.”

  The voices rose and congealed into a ball of endless noise. Devin tried again to quiet them, but someone socked him in the gut, and he dropped to the dirty floor, wheezing, his stomach burning.

  And that wasn’t the only thing burning.

  He smelled gasoline.

  And smoke.

  Someone was burning the warehouse down.

  The shouts quieted as the rest of the group realized what was going on. Then the frenzy elevated to new heights, as screaming men streamed towards the doors, kicking and pounding against them, hurling equipment and anything not bolted down at the exits.

  Devin staggered to his feet and surveyed the scene.

  Smoke pouring in from the far end of the warehouse. Orange tendrils began to peek out from behind forklifts and empty crates, started to climb the walls of the old building. With accelerant, it wouldn’t be long before the building was a tinderbox.

  He tried to think, tried to figure out if Mike had known that someone was going to burn the warehouse down. But why would Mike be inside, show up to work at all the night before? No way Mike knew.