Sweet Dreams

by Aaron Patterson

  He still wondered how the men got into the hallway. There wasn’t any other door. No other way in or out of the shower or bathroom. The hallway ended with a metal wall just like all the others. Nevertheless, there they were, covered with black, skintight outfits and masks pulled over their heads like creepy gang-bangers.

  He’d given up on the mystery of the door a long time ago. He had bigger things to think about, like how not to go crazy just sitting all day, every day, on a fifteen-foot disc. To keep himself sharp and strong, he made use of his free time—which was pretty much all the time—to exercise, just in case the opportunity to escape presented itself.

  First, he did push-ups and sit-ups for approximately half an hour. This was easy enough, but the pull-ups proved a little more challenging. He would make his way to the edge of his round home, look over the edge at the hundred-foot drop, bend and grab the edge, which was only about two inches thick, just enough to hold onto.

  Then the fun part. He’d lower himself over the side and hang from his fingertips. The first time he tried it, he fell and broke both legs. He woke up on his disc with a cast on each leg and an ache in his back.

  After a few weeks, and after the casts came off, he could stand up and move around without much pain, so he resumed exercising. Once a day, at least that’s how it felt to him, someone would lower the disc about twenty feet above the floor for approximately an hour. That’s when he’d do his pull-ups.

  He had tried to escape half a dozen times, but this always ended badly. The Creepers seemed easy enough to take out, so the first time he tried, he threw a left hook at the taller of the two. A cracking sound shattered the silence, then a mist shot from his gray jumpsuit, filling the small room in seconds. He was instantly paralyzed and awakened on the floor of his circular home with a splitting headache.

  The agony that shot through his body when he regained use of his limbs was nearly unbearable, like a million fire ants crawling and biting the ends of every nerve with sadistic pleasure.

  This day was no different from any other. He started with push-ups and sit-ups. After a lot of practice, he was now able to do handstands on the edge of his metal disc and hold them for the length of a song. Today, he could hear the words of Ride the Lightning from Metallica’s lead singer fill his mind as he held his legs straight up in the air. His one-pack was all but gone, and he could tell he was about thirty pounds lighter. Every muscle felt like a rock.

  The sound of the lights popping on brought him to his feet as he waited for the weekly announcement.

  “Good day, Mr. Weston. We have a special treat for you today.”

  The voice was the only one he’d heard for over a year, and it was the only thing that brought him any comfort. He felt like he knew the person behind the voice. Though the man was his captor and his enemy, he was his only friend.

  “You may not be aware of it, but today is a special day. Christmas Eve. You have been in our care for over a year now.”

  The pit of Kirk’s stomach turned as he realized how long he’d been there. He’d known deep down, but hearing it confirmed, made him nauseous. “As a token of the Christmas spirit, we are releasing you.”

  Kirk stood motionless as he heard the news, then began to rock with dizziness, the disc wobbling beneath his feet. His mind warred with possible outcomes—none of them were good. They were going to kill him. Or, maybe they would leave and let him die of starvation. Or kill him when he stepped outside under the long-forgotten sun and breathed fresh air for the first time in months. This was some kind of sick joke.

  “Do you have anything to say?”

  He was silent.

  “You may speak, if you like.”

  He opened his mouth, but his voice cracked due to lack of use. He swallowed, but all he could do was squeak out a noise that sounded like a cross between a grunt and a squeal.

  “Not to worry, Mr. Weston. You will have plenty of time to recover.” The disc started to lower, then came to a rest on the main floor. The door to the small hallway opened, and, for the first time, no Creepers stood guard.

  The lights hanging high above the floor flickered and pulsed like a movie screen. The silver walls shimmered like a desert mirage. He blinked his eyes. What was happening?

  Then, in one swift motion, the walls that had comprised his prison disappeared. Behind them, large magnets twisted in a circle, humming like the smooth, greased motors of a mad-scientist’s machine. Those were what held him in the air?

  He started to shake, and his knees gave out. He fell onto the disc but felt dirt beneath his hands. He looked up and could see past the wires and cables running all around his magnet prison to the warehouse beyond. The second-floor window, where he assumed the voice had come, from was a suspended office that looked like a cargo container sitting atop thick, steel beams.

  The place looked vacant, but he knew they were watching him. He pulled himself to his feet as two Creepers stepped out from nowhere. They motioned for him to follow them as they made their way through the door and down the hall to the back wall, where they stopped, turned from him, and walked through the wall.

  He walked toward the wall, a sinking feeling rushing over him. He could have at any moment walked through the same wall and out to freedom. His mind had kept him there, imprisoned for months upon months. Just like an addict, the only thing standing in his way was himself. Suppressing the urge to vomit, he followed the men.

  When he walked through the hallway wall, he found himself standing inside of what looked like a giant warehouse that stood over one hundred feet tall. Bright, blessed sunlight streamed into the building through a huge, open door at the opposite end.

  He squinted as he walked toward the door, shading his eyes from the burning, yellow light. When he reached the door, he turned and looked back at the place where he’d spent over a year of his life. It was a scary but beautiful sight. The engineering and the work put into the building was incredible. He looked one last time, then headed out into the sunshine.

  As he stepped into the morning air, he was overwhelmed with emotion. Too afraid of what his captors might do next to celebrate, and too happy not to celebrate. Either way, he was free, even if for a moment.

  His eyes slowly adjusted to the new light, but as he looked around, his heart sank. Sand. Nothing but sand every direction he looked. The desert was the last place he thought he might be. Maybe the city, or in some outbuilding in the woods, but not the middle of the desert.

  He walked a few hundred feet, then turned one last time to look back at the building that had housed him for the last year of his life. It stood monolithic in the sunlight. How did they do it? Why? Squinting, he studied the building. Would he be able to describe it? To find it again? Would anyone ever believe him? No, they’d just assume he’d lost his mind.

  As he scrutinized his prison, it suddenly vanished. He blinked. Like a wisp of hot air rising off the desert floor, it was there, and then it wasn’t. He shook his head in amazement.

  No wonder they let him go without blindfolding and transporting him somewhere else. He’d never find a nonexistent barn. On the other hand, they’d left him to die in the desert, so maybe they figured he wouldn’t live long enough to go looking for them.

  Off to the west, if he still remembered directions, something glinted in the sunlight, burning his eyes. The more he stared, the more it looked like a city of some kind. He’d heard that desert travelers saw mirages. Was this one of them. Should he stay put or—? There was no or. Stay, he’d die. Walk, he might die. “Well, why not?” He croaked.

  Though he was hot for the first time in months, he resisted the urge to tear off his clothes. He knew he could die of sunburn and dehydration before he made it two miles. The morning sun was already heating up the earth, and the sand was warming under his bare feet. This was going to be hard to explain to his boss back home. If he ever made it home.

  * * *

  MARK DROPPED MARIA OFF one level up, then took the elevator down to the second f
loor, where he normally parked. He looked around the mostly empty lot as he walked toward his car. Most of his coworkers were home sipping cider with their families.

  Family. No, he wouldn’t go there. Not tonight. Maria was coming over, and they would have a good time together. For her sake, he wouldn’t ruin it doing the wallowing thing.

  He eyed the few other cars parked here and there. An old Ford coupe with the license plates hanging crookedly took up two spaces, like the driver was worried someone might dent its already rumpled exterior. Then he noticed the black Lexus. He had seen it several times before and figured it belonged to someone in the building. But something made him feel extra wary this time, like someone was watching him.

  The lights flashed with a beeping sound as he unlocked the door to his BMW. He started to toss his briefcase to the passenger side but saw a packet on the driver’s seat and stopped. Strange. No one else had a key to his car. Well, maybe Hank. But, he would have said something, unless it was a Christmas present.

  Then he saw the symbol and sucked in a quick breath. Now his sixth sense was at full attention. He glanced around the darkened parking lot, then back at the parcel. WJA. The package had been left by the same person or persons who left the note in his car right after the accident.

  He scanned the garage, searching for the letter-carrying messenger, but saw nothing suspicious. He walked around the car. Like last time, the doors and locks looked fine. Again, he surveyed the all-but-empty garage and peered at the Lexus with renewed interest. Somehow, it seemed out of place. He knew the cars of the workaholics who stayed late, holiday or no holiday, but he didn’t know the owner of this car. His heart pounded as he walked over to the black car.

  He cupped his hands, trying to see through the dark tint on the car’s windows. Nothing moved on the other side. He stepped back, worried someone might see him and think he was up to something.

  He walked back to his car, tossed the mystery package onto the dash, started the ignition and pulled out of the parking space.

  His tires squealed on the ramp to the first level. He considered tossing the package out the window for the first curious skateboarder who came along. He was always finding junk beneath his windshield wipers advertising free weight-loss pills or other products of equal importance. However, the WJA symbol spiked his curiosity, and the fact that it was inside his locked car made him nervous. Might not be something a kid should pick up.

  He exited the building wondering what the package contained. It looked too bulky to be a mere note like the last time. Picking it up, he squeezed it and shook it, reminded of the techniques he’d used as a young boy to figure out what was inside his Christmas gifts.

  It was lightweight but solid. Maybe a CD or DVD. He tapped the package against the dash in time to the music on the stereo and admitted to himself he was burning with curiosity. Was this connected with the note? The note that read No Accident?

  He couldn’t stand it any longer. He steered the car onto a side road and parked in front of a diner under an old street light. The moment he stopped the car, he tore open the parcel and turned it upside down. A disc inside a clear, plastic case fell into his lap, along with a small note that read:

  Surveillance Footage / Super Mart. The date printed on the DVD was the same day of the explosion.

  His vision blurred and his heart began to pound so hard he could barely breathe. For months, he had fought to not think about that horrible day every moment of every day, but now it all came crashing back.

  He grabbed the gear shift and threw the car into drive. The BMW lurched into the street.

  Who did this to me? Who do think they are messing with my mind like this?

  No matter who they were, he had to get home, had to see what was on the DVD.

  CHAPTER 9

  KIRK TORE STRIPS OF cloth from the legs of his jumpsuit and tied them around his feet, but the makeshift shoes didn’t do much to protect his feet from the scorching sand. The backs of his white hands began to blister. Too many days living in the dark like a sewer rat. And, though he squinted, the bright sunlight stung his eyes. And he could tell his forehead was burning.

  On the bright side, he was finally free and, though his long hair was hotter than blazes, it protected his cheeks and his throat from the merciless sun. He trudged forward, telling himself being lost in an endless desert was a whole lot better than being trapped for months on end on a chunk of suspended metal. He shielded his eyes with his hands, trying to see how much further it was to the city.

  The buildings of the city looked to be about a mile off—unless he was seeing a mirage, so he kept walking, dragging each step through the hot, heavy sand. Soon he would be back to civilization and water. The thought gave him new strength. That was another positive. If he hadn’t used his imprisonment to get in shape, he wouldn’t have made it this far.

  Finally, he stumbled into a small town. From the looks of the stucco-and-stone buildings and the dark-skinned people who stared at him from beneath white headdresses as well as black burkas, he was in a Middle Eastern country.

  Water. He had to find water. Several yards further, he found himself in the center of the food market. The colorful fruit and vegetables displayed on the bright rugs looked incredibly delicious and juicy. His dry mouth watered.

  He looked around. Everyone was staring at him. He raised his bent fingers above his mouth as if drinking, then held out his palm. Surely someone would feel sorry for him and offer a pale, burnt, ragged gringo a drink. The vendors looked at each other. Finally, a grizzled man stepped toward him, stopped in front of him and reached into his robe.

  Kirk stiffened and moved back as the townspeople circled him. The man was going to shoot him. He couldn’t run, he couldn’t hide. And, maybe after all he’d been through, it didn’t matter. At least he’d die free.

  His gaze never leaving Kirk’s, the man slowly pulled his arm from the folds of cloth.

  Kirk couldn’t help but drop his gaze to watch the man’s arm motion.

  Before he could blink, the man thrust a plastic water bottle at him, his dark eyes bright and wary.

  Kirk nodded and took the bottle. Was he seeing things? Water bottles with Arabic lettering on the side in an impossibly small desert town? But the thin plastic felt real. He removed the cap, tilted his head back, and drank the entire liter. Hot water had never tasted so good.

  He twisted the cap back onto the bottle and handed it to the man. Who knows, maybe the town had a recycling program.

  The crowd dispersed, evidently satisfied he was human, despite his appearance. He looked around. Phone... He needed to find a phone. He glanced up and down the dirt street that ran between the run-down buildings but saw nothing promising. No phone booths. No cell towers or satellite dishes.

  He spotted an uncovered, curly-haired head above the noisy market crowd and realized he was looking at a tall white man with a camera strap around his neck.

  Maybe the guy spoke English. Knowing he could be a reporter or one of the Creepers, he hesitated only a moment before hurrying toward him. At this point in the game, it didn’t matter.

  Up close, the Caucasian’s hair looked like a wild bush. His beard was patchy and clumpy, growing in some spots and bare in others. Kirk touched his arm.

  The man stared at him, one eyebrow raised as if he was trying to determine what he was seeing.

  “Do you speak English?” Kirk croaked.

  “Yes. Are you okay, sir? You look like someone drug you across the desert.” The man had an accent Kirk couldn’t place.

  “Something like that. I need to get to a phone right away. Any chance you know where there’s one I can use?”

  “I have one back at my Jeep. It’s a satellite phone, the only type of phone that works out here in the middle of nowhere.” He jetted out his hand. “My name is Geoff Martin, National World Magazine.” A big smile crossed his face.

  “Kirk Weston, Detroit PD.” He shook Geoff’s hand, glad to meet someone with whom he could f
inally communicate. Talking felt good after so many months of silence, despite his painfully parched throat.

  “Oh, a police officer. What brings you to the United Arab Emirates?”

  “The UAE?” So that’s where he was. “How the… uh… well,” he stuttered. “I’m working on an investigation. Can’t talk about it.” The last thing he needed was to end up as lead story in a magazine or newspaper because of some dumb reporter—if that’s what this guy was.

  “I understand. I have not seen much of anyone from the States, but no worries. Follow me, and I’ll get you that phone.” They walked down a side street in between two apartment buildings. The clothes on balcony railings hung limp and lifeless.

  They came to an open lot with a handful of cars. He saw a Jeep off to the left. He could tell it didn’t belong to one of the locals due to the oversized tires and Warn winch on the front.

  Geoff opened the door, reached into the glove compartment, and pulled out a large phone with a thick, foldout antenna. After dialing a few numbers, he handed the phone to Kirk. “Just dial the area code, then the number of the party you’re trying to reach, and push this button.” He pointed to a green button near the top of the phone.

  Kirk thanked him and walked out of earshot of his new friend. For a long moment, he stared at the keypad. Finally, the number came to him and he dialed. Wow. It had been a long time since he’d made a phone call.

  The phone rang twice before his boss answered. Jacob C. Michelson was a veteran in the DPD pushing thirty years of service. His crabby attitude showed every year of his miserable life.

  Kirk swallowed to wet his throat. “Hi, Chief.”

  “Who is this? Speak up.” The chief’s voice was as firm and commanding as ever.

  “It’s me, Chief… Kirk, Kirk Weston.” He could hear Michelson gasp.

  “Kirk? Holy cow, man. We thought you were dead. Where did you disappear to? What are you doing? Why did—”