The Dream Hopper (Those Whom the Gods Wish to Destroy Book 2)

by Shawn Mackey

  “Okay,” she said dejectedly. “I was going to listen. I was just waiting for you to say please.”

  “Please don't put yourself in danger for the sake of fish,” I said. “Even if they are your friends.”

  “A prince would understand,” she said, leaning against the boat. “They're always of pure heart and magnanimous. It takes a noble soul to hear silent screams.”

  “Or an addled mind,” I muttered.

  “I'll stop sabotaging the ships. I have only one condition,” she said. I nodded, and she went on: “They'll only come out at night.”

  “I don't think—”

  “Please!” she begged, squeezing my hand. “It’s not right to let them dry out in the sun. Let them suffocate, but don't let them wither. I'd rather die!”

  “I'll tell them,” I said, drawing back my hand. Her eyes welled up as she shivered. She succeeded at tugging my heart strings. “Cheer up, princess. I don't want to leave you crying.”

  “I'm not,” she said after briefly submerging herself.

  A pinkish blob rose to the surface. Again, I shot back in terror, seizing my oar. Lady giggled and approached the gooey mass, which extended a suckered tentacle and affectionately caressed her hair. The creature's head fully emerged, exposing a pair of bulging jet black eyes that seemed about to burst. Its sharp beak clicked hungrily as its two other limbs surfaced.

  “Lady,” I said, gripping the oar tight.

  She was oblivious to the creature’s guile. Before I could act, a black viscous fluid shot from its beak. Lady sprang backward in alarm as the substance splattered onto her scaly tail. She let out a heart-rending shriek as it started to spread and her tail sizzled. The octopus drew closer and tightly wrapped a tentacle around her waist. I punctured its eye with the butt of my oar, filling the water with more of that black fluid. The beast immediately withdrew, leaving the water a cloudy black that became increasingly dark.

  I grabbed Lady under her arms and dragged her on board. From her waist down dripped a bubbling oil that roasted and cracked, emitting an acrid smoke. Lady’s excruciating cries left me temporary frozen. They communicated a pain I could feel in my bones. Two slender legs burst from the scaly tail, literally in flames.

  “It burns!” she howled.

  The ocean had transformed into a mass of oil. Fortunately, my oars moved as though it were regular water. I was forced to watch the flesh on Lady's legs char to the bone. Her anguished screams only increased as I rowed to the beach. When we finally hit solid land, the fire had extinguished, leaving two charcoal logs attached to her hips.

  She ceased making sound as I dragged her onto the beach. I knelt by her side, clutching her hand. There was nothing I could do.

  “Where are my legs?” she asked. “They feel numb.”

  “Right here,” I said, carefully touching one with the tip of my finger. It felt like coal. “Did that hurt?”

  “What?”

  “I touched your leg.”

  “I didn't feel anything,” she said, her lips quivering. She tilted her head to the side and then broke into quiet sobs.

  Not far from us, the waves crashed against a rocky cliff. On top of this cliff stood a tall house that overlooked the ocean, and at the highest floor of the house, I spotted an open window. If one were looking from that height, they would be greeted by a picturesque sight of the vast sea—nothing but white foamy waves for miles and the sound of only the tide and an occasional fishing boat for company. Lady caught a glimpse of this house and let out a whimper.

  I stood and finally saw her full body. She looked more like a grown woman than an adolescent. Her bony ribs seemed about to poke through her thin frame with each breath. Her eyes were sunken, the lids a sickly brown. Gazing at her pale flesh in the sunlight blinded me. She gazed back, her countenance etched in utter shame. Her earlier vitality had been entirely drained. I opened my mouth to console her, but couldn't find the words.

  I noticed the beach was crowded with sailors and various townsfolk. Many mumbled words of sympathy. “Mercy on the poor girl,” an old woman said. A few watched and jeered. “That one's cunny fried up like bacon fat on a fiery pan.”

  Lady stared at the sky, soaking in every word. She seemed resigned to lay there for the rest of her life.

  “Come on,” I said, scooping her up. As we distanced ourselves from the others, a glimmer of cheer sprouted on her face in the form of a faint smile. It disintegrated at the sound of incoming voices. The words were incoherent but their tone more than apparent.

  “Where are we going?” she muttered hoarsely.

  “Away from here,” I said, letting her climb onto my back.

  I carried her all the way back to the docks. The old man from earlier acknowledged us with a scowl. Lady stammered an incoherent protest, tapping me on the shoulder as I headed for them. The old man pretended not to see us and wandered off. I took the rope tied to the boat I used earlier and used to make a harness, strapping Lady to my back. I also bound her knees to mine, so that they moved in tandem. If she remembered the fire that took her legs, she could remember how to use them. In the meantime, it was going to be a long and uncomfortable walk.

  “Why are you doing this?” she said, choking back a sob, then whispered: “This is humiliating!”

  “I know.”

  We walked across the beach, the crowd still pursuing us with hushed chatter. Lady continued to weep, begging me to put an end to the ridiculous spectacle. The voices gradually waned, and their presence dulled to a shadow. Eventually, it was just Lady, me, and the tide. She had long ceased to cry, but her disgrace was apparent in the way she clutched my chest.

  The walk went on for an indefinite amount of miles. I estimated three hundred, only to realize I had estimated the same number five hundred miles ago. In a state of dementia, I hallucinated a wiggle in one of Lady’s toes. With a blink, it shifted back to a charred nub. I stared at that foot for a thousand miles, waiting for another sign of movement.

  “Lady,” I said, my voice so raspy it made me cringe. “Do you remember how to walk yet?”

  “No.”

  “Keep trying,” I said, sighing. “How long is this damn beach? And does the sun ever go down? I could use a drink.”

  “There's a whole ocean right over there.”

  “I wasn't talking about water.”

  “You can stop whenever you want.”

  “Who said anything about stopping? Not until you let go.”

  I started to loathe the beach about a hundred thousand miles back. At three hundred thousand miles, my shoes had worn to dust. At five hundred thousand miles, my skin was so caked with sand that I probably looked like some twisted mud creature. At eight hundred thousand miles, I had worn the soles of my feet to the bone. I didn’t feel any pain; I'd grown accustomed to the feeling at six hundred and fifty thousand miles. We were pushing on a million, and my legs were ready to give out. The gulls overhead seemed to scoff at us with every squawk. Just to spite them, I planned to crawl another million miles. I'd see the other end of this damned beach before I drew my last breath.

  And then the gulls ceased their mocking and the tide went still. My face planted into the hot sand. I couldn't muster the energy to move, let alone breathe. The dream was going to end, and my life with it. I closed my eyes and let me body go lax. As I felt the last of my consciousness drift into the familiar black void, a strong jerk pulled me back.

  My eyes shot open. Something on top of me flailed wildly, as if controlled by a spastic puppeteer. Tiny fingers pierced my shoulders, tearing at my shirt in an attempt to lift me into the air. I managed to wipe the grains of sand from my eyes and, with blurry vision, saw Lady standing over me. She brushed black chips from her leg like dry paint.

  I flipped onto my back and watched her run a dozen circles around me. She jumped and flipped with a vitality that seemed superhuman compared to my condition. With a final burst of energy, I managed to gather myself into a slumped over sitting position. The inexhaustibl
e had become exhausted, immortal no more. I fully expected to die right there, with this little girl circling me like a cross-country runner.

  “Mister sailor,” she beckoned, kneeling by my side. “Let's hurry up. We need to get back before dark.”

  “I can't.”

  “You can lean on me if you get tired,” she said, throwing my arm around her shoulder. She hoisted me with little help. “You deserve it.”

  And so we walked. Little did I know, we were only halfway there.

  Chapter 7:

  Angels and Nightmares

  I found myself in a moonlit city. Though the bell tower clock showed it was well past midnight, the streets were packed with people. They whispered to each other as though in some kind of collective conversation, passing a secret into the ear of their neighbor. I walked a block, passing the same convenience store at least four times. I reached the corner and was about to cross the street when the light went red. There weren't many cars, but I decided to wait anyway. As far as I knew, there was no rush.

  “Somebody help me!” a voice screamed in the distance.

  A man barreled through the crowd, shouting and flailing his arms in mad desperation. Not a single passerby paid him any heed, even as he knocked one onto the pavement. The moment my eyes met his and lingered, his face brightened and he quickened his pace. I had been saved the trouble of finding him.

  “Help me!” he shouted, nearly buckling into me. “He's after me! You've got to help!”

  “Take it easy,” I said. “Who's after you?”

  “Shadow,” he said, gasping for air. “I need help, damn it!”

  “And I'm willing to help,” I said. He was already irritating me. “Who's Shadow and why is he after you?”

  “He's a killer.”

  “Okay,” I said, nodding. I waited for him to elaborate. Nothing. With a sigh, I asked: “Why does he want to kill you?”

  “Are you a cop? You look like a cop. You're either a cop or a gangster. Which one is it?”

  “Neither,” I replied, gritting my teeth in frustration. “I'm about to go home. If you don't need—”

  “I owe him money. I didn't know he worked for the mob. I swear!”

  “So, what do you want me to do about it? Sounds like you dug your own grave.”

  “I need a place to hide. You said you were going home. Can't you let me stay at your place?”

  “I don't even know your name.”

  “Jimmy,” he responded, finally collecting himself. He extended his hand, which I shook with a slight smile. Something about his buffoonish demeanor—maybe the big ears or droopy brow—softened my prior irritation. “Shadow is a real mean bastard. They were telling me he likes to torture folks before doing them in.”

  “Who told you this?”

  “The guys,” he replied. “Are you sure you aren't a cop? You ask a lot of questions.”

  “You were begging for my help just a minute ago,” I said, unable to suppress a sigh. “I'm trying to get an understanding of the situation. So, who are these guys that know Shadow? Maybe they can—”

  “Oh,” Jimmy muttered. His eyes went huge and his jaw hung slack. As I opened my mouth to question him, a loud pop came from behind.

  Jimmy fell on his back, fresh blood flowing from the gaping hole in his forehead. I quickly turned around to see a black hand pointing a smoking gun out a car window. As the vehicle sped away, I caught a quick glimpse of the shooter's face in the moonlight. His countenance was pitch-black and stony, as though etched in obsidian. I turned back to Jimmy to find him twitching in a seizure.

  “Somebody call an ambulance!” I shouted. A few seconds after those words left my mouth, a truck sped down the street with alarms blaring and stopped at the curb.

  Two paramedics carrying a gurney rushed from the back of an ambulance. They tossed Jimmy onto it with no care whatsoever and carried him into a nearby truck. I swiftly leaped into the back as they were shutting the door. The car sped away, alarm blaring again. One of the paramedics stuck a needle in Jimmy's arm and injected a clear fluid.

  “It’s going to be okay, Jimmy,” I said.

  “It hurts,” he grunted. His face was utterly drenched in red. Through the hole in his skull, I could see the white gurney, which stayed remarkably bloodless.

  The paramedics sat cross-legged, as still and uncaring as statues. Jimmy continued to shake back and forth. Everything had gone horribly wrong. Consumed by pangs of guilt, all I could do was gently pat the dying man's hand. He drew it back in anger.

  “Don't touch me,” he said. Despite his condition, he certainly sounded normal. “Shadow killed me. That son of a bitch killed me!”

  “No he didn't,” I said. “He shot you, but you're fine. How many fingers am I holding up?”

  “Two,” he replied. “Am I really fine?”

  “Jimmy,” I said, grinning with a chuckle. “You've never looked better. At worst, you'll have a scar. Women love scars.”

  We continued to ride in silence. I felt a sudden ache in the back of my head. It subsided as quickly as it sprouted, leaving me perturbed. The feeling was familiar, as though I'd been in the back of this same truck, in this same exact scenario. Deja vu, I supposed. I tried to shake it away, but it only intensified. Jimmy curiously watched me.

  “What's the matter?” he asked. Considering the gaping hole in his forehead, still spouting fresh blood, I appreciated the concern.

  “You have a lady waiting for you somewhere?” I asked.

  “My mother,” he replied. “And my sister.”

  “Want me to call them at the hospital?”

  “Am I dying? Is it really that bad?”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head with a reassuring smile. “If it'll make you feel better, I can call them.”

  “Okay,” he said, closing his eyes.

  The paramedics sprang to life when the truck came to an abrupt halt. Jimmy almost spilled off the gurney as they haphazardly carried him into the hospital. I followed closely, ready to catch the poor man in case of an accident. We rushed right through the abandoned lobby to the emergency room. A doctor and two nurses ran to his side, oblivious to my presence. One of the nurses stuck a needle into Jimmy's arm, injecting more of that clear fluid.

  They placed him on a table and wheeled it into the nearest room. I sat in a chair while two more doctors entered. Within a minute, he was hooked up to an IV, which pumped more fluid into his wrist. A nurse wrapped his head in bandages so roughly that he cried out in pain. She gave him an agitated glance before finishing up and storming out of the room. The doctors strapped a cable around Jimmy's neck and plugged it into a nearby machine that monitored his breathing. After completing all of this preparation, only one of the doctors remained.

  “It doesn't look good,” he mumbled. “Not good at all. He may never wake up.”

  “What does that mean?” Jimmy asked. The doctor merely shook his head and left, closing the door behind him.

  “Don't put too much thought into it,” I said. “You're fine. Just take a few days to rest.”

  “Am I dying?” he asked. I lowered my head in frustration.

  “No,” I replied tonelessly. I was certainly sympathetic to his plight, but his babbling grated my nerves. “I've never seen someone so far from death's door. You're the epitome of perfect health. I bet you'll be up and walking in a day or two.”

  “But am I dying?”

  It wasn't worth the response. After another minute of inane chattering, an aged plump woman and an average-looking brunette in her mid-twenties entered the room in tears. The former threw up her hands with a loud cry, while the latter consoled her with a strong hug. The woman broke the embrace and knelt by Jimmy's bedside, her large chest heaving in deep sobs. The girl caressed the woman's shoulder softly, her lips curled slightly in disgust as she looked down at Jimmy.

  “Mom!” he shouted. “Lisa! I'm dying! I'm sorry! I'm dying!”

  “He's not dying,” I muttered.

  Neither seemed t
o hear us. A doctor entered, staring impatiently at the weeping woman. When she rose to her feet, rubbing her teary eyes, he shook his head grimly.

  “He's alive,” the doctor said, then continued with a disinterested shrug: “But we're not sure when he'll wake up. It could take days. Maybe years. He might never wake up.”

  “No,” the woman bellowed, breaking into fresh sobs. “My poor Jimmy!”

  “Listen to me, Mom,” Jimmy said.

  The three left the room as the sun rose. After about an hour of daylight, darkness quickly engulfed the sky. This night lasted minutes, as did the next day. Eventually the sun and moon rose, only to set within seconds. This happened countless times. I must have sat in the same seat for an actual day, listening to Jimmy's blubbering. Doctors and nurses came and left. The whole situation was as boring as it was hopeless.

  The dream should have ended by that point. Between Jimmy's raving, the zombie-like doctors, and the lightning-fast days and nights, stability was scarce. Sitting in the hospital chair left me feeling lousy. I was way too passive. I wanted to do something, but by then, even Jimmy seemed completely oblivious to my presence.

  And then the sun set, leaving the sky pitch dark. Gradually, the moon lit the sky. Jimmy quit babbling and closed his eyes, his chest slowly rising with each breath. I often thought maybe he was on the verge of waking, only to slip into an even deeper slumber.

  Something was wrong. I had an overwhelming urge to check the window. Slowly, my heart pounding ferociously in my chest, I rose from my seat and crept toward the moonlight. I peered out the window to find the street empty, except for one person. To call him such was a stretch. He was a man in form only. Donning a long brown coat and wide-brimmed hat, he stoically watched me. The two of us locked gazes for what had to be an eternity.

  Shadow beckoned me with a wave of his hand, then turned and walked across the street. I went straight for the door, only to return to Jimmy's side.