Randy White - Dead of Night

Dreaming again…

Warm air flooding a sealed space. Inflate, deflate, chest rising.

A kiss: Inhale. Exhale.

Another: Inhale. Exhale.

A woman’s eyes, shampoo scent of hair, whispered words above propeller rumble.

“Nice, your lips. I found a photo of you. I’ve wanted to try this.”

A kiss. Another. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.

“Do you like? There was a fairy tale when I was a girl. Awakening a prince with a kiss. You’re probably the closest I’ll ever come. You almost killed me-you bad, bad boy.”

Lips joined, two bodies breathing. Touch of fingertips on chest, unbuttoning, moving downward, skin touching skin, fingers spreading, flexing. Cat paws searching.

“This isn’t right… the drug shouldn’t… unless that idiot gave you another shot. Can you hear me? I straightened your glasses. Open your eyes. Try. I’m here.”

Fuzzy image of a woman’s face, short blond hair, Slavic cheeks, sharp chin. Attractive, in a feral way. Familiar… a memory just beyond reach.

“Doctor Ford. Marion. Wake up. We don’t have much time.”

Kissing again, breathing as one, the woman suddenly naked, pushing her pear-curved breasts to my lips, hips seeking. The sound of a zipper, fingers slowing, touching experimentally as they find me. Tracing, lifting, positioning.

“Hello, my yieldak. Yes. Keep me company while your large friend sleeps.”

Pleasure dream; unreality becoming reality…

“I have something here. You might feel a little sting. Nothing serious. It’s not dangerous.”

Blurry image of the naked woman standing over me, something in her hand, legs wide as she squatted. “For now, though, you’re doing just what Dasha needs you to do…”

I awoke in a yellow shard of sunlight, eyes squinting, head pounding, groaning in pain. My chest and throat felt as if I’d swallowed glass. For a confused few seconds, I thought I had the all-time worst hangover. A taste in my mouth. Metallic, disgusting.

Then a jumble of dreams came tumbling back. My sluggish brain struggled to separate what was real, what wasn’t.

Hospital parking lot, Tomlinson hurt. Big hands grabbing me from behind, a stabbing stiletto pain. The irksome realization that I’d stepped into a trap, that the fatal error was mine, no one else to blame.

The only friend you don’t take care of is yourself-the only friend I think you’re capable of hurting.

Tomlinson’s warning words.

I touched my neck. Swollen, crusted with blood.

There was the memory of drowning panic, of suffocating, a chemical dispersal-dying.

Bad judgment-a variety of suicide?

Then… what? I was on a plane.

Yes.

Flown where?

I tried to roll to my feet; collapsed. Had to lean against the wall to keep from falling, I was so dizzy. I was in a small room made of coral rock, morning sunlight streaming through the only window. Bars on the window. Two metal doors. Box-sized cages stacked floor to ceiling, a scamper-tittering from within. Stink of urine and dust.

My eyes were open but not focusing. I realized my glasses were tied around my neck with fishing line, as usual. Fitted them over my ears. One lens was shattered, yet the world sharpened. I saw that cages were filled with rats, white mice, grain and turds scattered across the floor.

There was a spiderweb in the corner, a skeleton of a bird suspended within above a sprinkling of feathers.

I checked myself-saw that I was naked. Filthy. Grass and sand in coated chest hair; arms bruised, backs of my heels raw.

I’d been dragged.

I stumbled to the window, looked out.

A rain forest mountainside. Silver beach, turquoise bay. Scent of frangipani and diesel. Low cliffs on the opposite shore, roofs of buildings showing red tile through foliage. A narrow cut, quarter mile wide, where current boiled in gelatinous whirlpools, waves breaking outside the reef.

Beyond, water darkened where it deepened. A crowded boat was outward bound: stacks of furniture, strawhats and bright umbrellas, brown faces suspended above the deep.

People fleeing.

I was in the tropics, possibly the Caribbean. An island. In a room made of rock slabs with bars-something from pirate days.

There were sheds nearby, tin, rock, and wood. A portion of open field that might have been part of a landing strip, a small harbor where a barge was also churning water, struggling against heavy current, its high bow pointed seaward. There was something hidden beneath camouflaged netting on the vessel’s cargo deck.

I saw four distinct rotors. Wedges of red metal above aircraft tires.

Helicopters…?

Four helicopters, drone-sized, incongruous in this Third World setting. One man in the elevated wheelhouse, two deckhands coiling lines astern.

Who? Why?

The vessel was headed north, morning sun to starboard.

“I’ve been waiting for you to wake up.”

I jumped, surprised by a woman’s voice behind me.

“You’re in the Bahamas, only thirty miles from Cuba. We’ve got to get out of here. They’re coming to kill us both.”

I turned to see a long-legged blond woman curled in the corner. She was dressed in a khaki-colored blouse and shorts, pressed and pleated. A uniform. It looked as if she’d been dozing. It had to be uncomfortable with her hands tied behind her back, ankles bound with duct tape.

Not tied-handcuffed. I saw the cuffs when she rolled to her side, tried to stretch.

“Even if you tell them everything, they’re going to kill you. They’ll make you tell them. No matter how tough you think you are. Soon as they find out you’re alive, they’ll go to work. We’ve got to move now.”

Russian accent, a face linked to a specific memory. A dream? Possibly. But also something real. It took a moment.

The woman who was torturing Jobe Applebee.

I tried to speak. Gagged with pain. Tried again. Coughed and grabbed my neck.

“An animal named Aleski stabbed you in the throat with a needle. He drugged you, but I saved your life. Did CPR for an hour. Hurry-get this tape off my ankles.”

CPR? I’d had a strange, unsettling dream. Mouth-to-mouth. Erotic images… Could that explain it?

“You helped me?”

“Only because there’s a chance you can help me. Now I’m glad I did.”

“Where… are…?”

“Your clothes are in the corner. What they left you. Over there.”

Canvas shorts, that was all-shirt, shoes, wallet, cell phone, and keys missing. I pulled them on. Turned my back before zipping, a pointless modesty.

“I managed to hide your shoes. Under that crate. They didn’t want you to have shoes.”

My running shoes. I knelt to tie them as my tongue found moisture. Swallowed, swallowed again, words beginning to form. Started to speak, but was interrupted by a strange, distant wailing. The sound had a primal resonance, a shriek of terror, the scream of nightmares.

Perhaps a monkey suffering out there in the rain forest, dying. A primate being devoured.

A question exited my mouth as a constricted whisper. “What is that?”

The woman had begun to crawl toward me, inching over tile like a caterpillar. “A crazy man named Dr. Stokes. He’s infected with a parasite. African worms. Every man on the island will have parasites, but Stokes has a phobia. The fear, I guess, it’s driven him crazy. Last night, I was trying to help him when his brain finally snapped. Nothing I could do. They locked him in a room, hoping he’ll-”

She stopped. That terrible sound again: a falsetto howl rising, then falling, a werewolf’s scream. I turned my head slightly, attempting to decipher something human at its source. An anguish of torn vocal cords, a creature dangling above flames. Torment.