by Mark Tufo
“I am going to eat something. Let me know when they find it. And Major, I don’t think killing it right now would be wise. In fact, actively ignoring it might be the best idea.”
“You’re a lot smarter than you look, Captain. Enjoy your MRE.”
“Enjoy? Not likely.”
I went to the nearly empty mess tent and headed for an open box of the meals. I was halfway reaching when my hand began to betray my true condition. I grabbed the traitor with my left to steady it. A low buzzing in my ears accompanied the tremor.
“Talbot, you all right?”
“Fuck!” If jumping out of your skin was a thing, I would have looked as if I’d instantaneously molted. “You’re entirely too big to be acting like a ninja, BT.”
“Ninja? I shouted at you from the other side of the room before I walked over here.”
“You shitting me?” I asked.
“Mike?”
“Fine, I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine. You’re even pastier colored than usual.”
I wanted to talk to BT; he was my best friend, my brother in arms and now a family member by marriage. If ever there was a person I could confide in, this was the one. But, since he was my best friend, my brother in arms and a family member, it was my duty to protect him, to keep him out of harm's way, and if I was in the midst of a break-down, that was a duty I couldn’t uphold. If I told him, he’d force me to sit this one out or worse, tell my wife what was going on, and she would make sure that I was off the active roster indefinitely. And once I lost the confidence of my squad, it would be unlikely that I’d ever get it back. It would always be in the back of their minds that I could falter at any moment, like an off-brand Chinese-made chainsaw, spinning wildly out of control and hurtling chain links into space.
“Too much booze.”
BT either believed me or wanted to believe me and said nothing further regarding it.
“What did the major want?”
I related the meeting. He had the same initial reaction and ultimately drew the same conclusion I did.
“Has he found anything yet?”
“I don’t think he’s even sent the patrol out.”
“Mike, I don’t want to ruin your meal…”
“It’s beefy goulash made by the lowest bidder. I don’t think there’s much you can say to make it worse.”
“The zombies on the ship, what if they’re not leaving because they’re guarding something.”
“The ship, yeah, I thought of that.”
“Not talking about the ship.”
I stopped pushing the food around. “People? You think they’ve got people onboard?” BT was right, the goulash suddenly looked unappetizing—wait that’s a stretch. On the best of days, the goulash looked like the evacuated innards of an e. coli victim. That about sums it up. Add to that, the idea that the zombies could have humans stockpiled for food sailed way past unsettling, not even sure the limited breadth of my language skills could conjure up a suitable rejoinder. “But how could they have so many, I mean, are they rationing them? Breeding them, maybe? Is that something zombies could even conceive of?”
“Just thinking out loud.”
“Well don’t.” I stood up. I had to walk away before the shaking in my hands spread throughout my entire body.
I don’t know where I was, headspace wise, but it was far from center. I’d almost walked entirely past my squad before Kirby shouted out. They were stowing and checking gear: Grimm, Kirby, Harmon, Winters and Stenzel were with Dallas doing some basic hand-to-hand combat lessons.
“Hey, Cap…I heard that the mission has been scrubbed, is that true?” Kirby asked.
“First I heard,” I told him.
“You all right, sir?” Stenzel had stopped giving Dallas a beat down and was watching me. Well, they all were. Winters even heading my way with a forehead scan thermometer.
“Right as mud. I think that vodka sent me for a loop.”
“Can’t imagine why.” Grimm laughed. “You drank half of it by yourself.”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
BT lightly grabbed my shoulder. “You heard right, Kirby. Mission’s scrubbed for now. Talbot, why don’t you go sleep off the effects.”
I was a heartbeat away from berating him. I can’t imagine how a full meltdown aimed at my Top in front of my unit would go. I throttled back on whatever had my engine burning so hot and nodded. “Yeah, yeah, that sounds like a good idea.”
“Want an IV?” Winters asked. “It’ll hydrate you back up, helps with hangovers.”
“Captain is just going to get some shut-eye.” BT steered me away like a parent might a grumpy child heading off to bed. I was thankful he didn’t press me but instead led me quietly back to my office. There was a small glance between him and Tracy; I was cognitive enough to see it but distracted enough not to care.
I got into bed by myself, which was a plus. I was about ready to close my eyes when I noticed that BT was still in there with me, a concerned look on his face as he stared.
“Not going to be able to do this with you watching,” I told him.
“Right, right, sorry.” He shut the door quietly like I was already unconscious and he didn’t want to disturb me.
I fell asleep so damned fast I was more than half-convinced it had genuinely been a hangover that had affected me so negatively. Then it took a turn. But not a good turn—you never hear someone say that otherwise, like, “Oh yeah, he was in stable condition but then he took a turn for the better, got the fuck right out of bed, did a little jig, then went on home.” Nope, that turn taken is always down, heading off-road, plummeting over the edge of a hundred-foot sheer cliff and into the icy waters of the River Styx, and nobody was going to be there to grab you by your Achilles heel, either. I was having a lucid dream, that is, I knew I was dreaming and I could influence the events of said dream. I used to have them a lot when I was younger, but as the years ground on, they had been less frequent. My success rate with manipulating them back then was moderate at best, because, come on, if I’d really been any good at it, I would have dreamt myself into as many compromising situations as I could. This time, I watched myself from above and slightly behind and to the left, much like a video game player following his avatar. We were in a large valley surrounded by mountains. The day was bright, the sun was shining, and the path ahead was unencumbered.
“Well, this is cool as shit,” myself as the watcher said. The me walking turned and looked up at floating me, placed his index finger up against his lips. I wasn’t concerned; this was my dream. If I came across something I didn’t like, I’d shoot it with my ray gun or some equally as creative weapon. Maybe I’d have the world’s first handheld railgun. So, there we were, walking along, well, part of me was walking around, the part watching was, I suppose, floating. Although, when I attempted to look at myself, I realized I was more spectral than physical. Again, not something that bothered me; I was very comfortable with the role I was given as an outside observer, I mean, unless the me down there started to get into some freaky shit and then would I be jealous or embarrassed? For better or worse, that never became an issue because before I could stop it, the discorporate me was wrenched inside the me-body I’d been watching. For a brief moment there was a duality to our thoughts before they were integrated. I did not like it at all; before all the thoughts were, well, mine, I caught the glimpse that the Mike with boots on the ground was wary of something. Thus I was too, now. I didn’t see anything, just had a feeling. Golden grass about knee high was swaying in the breeze; I smelled pine and maybe juniper, thinking it was extremely odd that I could smell anything. Even for a lucid dream this seemed a bit much.
I was walking along the path, the scenery breathtaking, yet I kept waiting for the overtones of ominous music to set a new mood, one of fear and suspense. Nothing like that, not yet, anyway, just the screech of a far-off bird and the chirping of crickets. All seemed as normal as could be in this nightmare in the making. With what I
was dreaming right now, the thought of this turning into a bad dream seemed as likely as a wonderful date night with copious amounts of flirting and innuendo ending up with a dysfunction. Sure, it could happen, but the odds were against it. This was the point where I wanted to change up the genre, from a horror to a porn. It was my dream, why not? Then another factor decided against it. The other player had finally shown. It was a man, an incredibly tall man. He was dressed all in black except for a white tie that shone with a brilliance, brighter than the sky. He stood off to my left. He’d been looking into the distance before turning his sallow gaze my way. A streak of cold blistered its way up my spine and cascaded across the top of my skull. The freeze intensified when I realized that not only was he tall, he was floating.
He was immaculately dressed, except for his feet, which were bare yet somehow still matched his suit's color, (though his face more closely resembled the tie). He carried a cane, which made no sense for a being that clearly did not need one. A rictus smile played out across his face, teeth as yellow as old lemons and much too large for his mouth were on full display. Had to figure this was where he would come for me and I would then find myself mired in mud or deep snow, struggling to run as fast as I could, my muscles exhausted and unreactive. More than once I’d had bad dreams where I was on the ground doing my best to pull away from whatever demon had decided to invade my thoughts. But he didn’t do anything; he just hung there watching. Then he pointed off into the distance. It was a building, a large green building, much like the one I now found myself sleeping in. The more I peered, the more I realized it didn’t just look like the building, it was the building. I had, unbeknownst to me, been heading for it on my stroll. It looked completely out of place in that mountainous retreat, as did the figure with me.
“What do you want?” I shouted in question. I was puffed with bravado, figuring all the cards were still in my hand. That’s how these dreams are supposed to work. His arm came up—or what was left of it, the tips of his fingers down to the first knuckle were sun-bleached white bones; loose flesh hung from the rest of the hand and appeared to be one good washing away from looking like the fingers. His incredibly long pointer finger unfurled and again pointed at the building some distance away. Realization hit me like a sucker punch to the temple. This guy was some kind of harbinger of death or even death itself, and he was going to the building to get his due and seemed pleased about the prospect. But that didn’t make sense. Death generally went about its business in a very professional manner, doing its job, collecting those who had passed with no more emotion than a custodian has picking up discarded wrappers in the hallways after classes.
So, if not death, what? Did the answer matter? Clearly it was something that wanted to cause harm merely for the sake of doing so, and it was headed for the most important place in my life. I didn’t know what I could do to stop it. I tried conjuring a flame thrower, didn’t get so much as a book of matches. If I couldn’t stop it, at least I could warn the others. I looked at the thing and back to the building. I figured this was where I found my feet entangled in roots shooting up from the earth, hindering any chance I had of running. Instead, I had air whistling past my ears as I ran as fast as my legs would allow, which, when everything you care for is threatened, tends to be pretty fast. I was racing along, the horror to my left was matching pace though his feet never touched the ground. Whatever invisible force propelled him along appeared to be effortless, like he could have been reading a book or eating a sandwich rather than threatening my entire reason for existence.
We were nearly dead even, instantly regretted the pun. The thing pulled slightly ahead and had a better angle. I wasn’t sure if I was going to be able to beat him there. Worse, I wasn’t sure of the exact reasons as to why I needed to get there first, I only knew it was paramount that I did so. I didn’t know if I could find another gear past flat-out hauling ass, but I was looking for one. For a dream, I found it strange how my lungs were burning as I fought to shove as much oxygen as I could into them. My breathing was labored, my heart was slamming blood through my system on all cylinders, my legs would be a blur if I took the time to glance down, something I didn’t dare do. I kept my eyes on the prize. I can’t say he seemed concerned, as that would mean I’d spent a moment to look, but I did notice the position of his body had changed—he was leaning forward as if looking to reduce wind drag. Hardly seemed fair that I had to run against something that flew, but when was death fair? Maybe I had pulled ahead, we were still far enough away and the angles were off so I couldn’t tell, but, hooray if that was the case. Unfortunately, I was unsure how long I could keep this up.
I had somehow made up the difference and was making distance. Our lines of approach were converging to the point where we weren’t more than ten feet apart. Through my peripheral vision I began to see the specter change into his true persona and the cane became a scythe. Long, black, tattered robes flowed behind him, his hood-shrouded head lost all vestiges of skin and muscle, becoming the all-too-familiar skull. Somehow, in some twisted way, this was a more comforting vision, the devil-you-know type of thing. We were a hundred feet away. I could see people crowding the doorway and the lower windows, watching as we raced. Death extended the scythe; it was just long enough that he was, again, in the lead. And I had no doubt in my mind that the tip of that was an extension of him, just as deadly as if he’d reached out and touched something with that boney digit.
We were close enough now that it wouldn’t have been difficult for him to shift over and grab me. Wouldn’t have been a thing I could have done to avoid it, and there was a good bet the sleeping body of mine would suffer a widow-making heart attack. Maybe that wasn’t the rules of the game; they say you can’t cheat death, so maybe death can’t cheat you, for whatever that means. Tracy was out front, frantically waving her arms in a “hurry the fuck up,” gesture. I wasn’t sure if I could do it, I glanced at the shining edge of that scythe used to cut down so many people. If I lunged, I could grab it, drive it into the ground, maybe send its owner spinning head over heels, but to what end? There was a chance that would be the exact same thing as placing the muzzle of a Colt .45 into my mouth, and not the beer, although, that could be just as bad. One blows your head off, the other blows your ass out.
I had inches, maybe less. Whatever the amount, my competitor didn’t like it at all, and while direct intervention was maybe off the table, that didn’t mean he wasn’t without his tricks. He swung the scythe, a semi-circle of desolation was laid out before me. What had been lush, fertile, flora-covered ground became scarred with a thick line of barren, rocky dirt. It was enough of a change that I stumbled. What little lead I had was lost, and with so little distance left, there was no chance I could make up the ground. Somebody, somewhere, must have been pissed off at the change in gameplay or the rules of engagement or maybe I was finally able to tap into the lucid part of this shitty dream, because I received some help in the form of Trip. Although, it was hardly the Trip I remember. He was dressed in a tuxedo, all of white, replete with tails and a top hat, which, of course, was made from orange felt. No matter where Trip was, he was still Trip. I heard the twang of rubber stretched taut and released; this was followed almost immediately by a heavy thwack sound. My opponent veered suddenly closer from the impact, and the course deviation was enough to put me mere millimeters back in front. With only feet to go, the victory was mine for the taking.
Tracy and those that had been outside were now in and the door closed. I could not pull up; it was full speed ahead regardless of the concussive collision upcoming. I hit the immovable door with not, unfortunately, an unstoppable force. If the race itself or the thing chasing didn’t kill me outright, it was likely the sudden encounter with the steel plate would. I beat the blade's point by an inch, less. Unlike me, my opponent stopped moving forward immediately. I had been ricochet-slammed back five feet and was now on the ground looking up at the sky. Wasn’t a part of me that hadn’t suffered from the blow. The sun was
blotted out as Death stood over me.
“You have won this day. That will not always be the case.” And as suddenly as he had appeared, he was gone. I’d somehow averted a crisis I had not known was in the making, but he was right; the time would come when there would be nothing I could do to win the race. This day, however, was mine and I was going to make the most of it. That was all I could do. That was all any of us could do.
3
Mike Journal Entry 3
I awoke with a start, my heart jumping wildly within my chest. Even though the dream was an intense one with potentially horrific results, there was a lightness to my being that I attributed to it. Something weighing heavily upon me had been removed. I had my feet on the floor and was staring at my hands held out in front of me. They were both steady, not rock-steady, mind you, but the earlier tremor was all but gone. I made my way out to where everyone was.
“Jesus, Talbot, you were in bed! What the hell happened to you?” BT asked. He was looking at my forehead, tentatively reaching out to touch it.
I pushed him away and did it myself. I had a knot, dead center, the size of a golf ball, and it was tender to the touch.
“Can’t even go to sleep without hurting yourself. I’ll get Winters.”
“That bad?” I asked.
“Looks like your third trimester and this is no kind of world to bring a baby into.” Even as he walked away, he repeatedly glanced back to look.
“Any idea how you did this?” Winters studied my injury like a movie director might a particular scene as he’s figuring out the best way to film it.
I had an idea, but telling him was not an option. No way he’d believe that something I’d done in the dream world had somehow transferred over into the real one.
He pulled out a penlight and checked my pupils. “Good news is you don’t look like you’ve got a concussion.”
