Midnight In The Garden Of Dreams, Chapter One

There's a problem in the city. No, not that problem. Not the problem of crime - though vagrants and petty thugs stalk the streets with impunity, cloaked in choking darkness. Not drugs - though the morgues fill daily with new victims of the needle, the pipe, the bottle. Not even corruption - though brown paper bags flit through city hall like birds across an open sky. There's a problem in the city. The children sleep.
In a neat cube of an office, bathed in the glow of halogen and government spending, a man yawns. He stretches his arms, blinking against the exhaustion burrowed deep behind his eyes. He nods and rises from a plain desk overburdened with files and plastered with post-it notes. Out of the office, down the hallway, around the corner. The squat machine extends a paper cup on a mechanical arm. The man accepts with a resigned sigh. It's hot, it's liquid, it's full of caffeine... just gulp it down.
Fortified, he returns to his office, leafing through anything in reach. He’s seen it all before, knows it all by heart. Their names, their faces - their favourite TV shows for Christ’s sake! He knows the kids. He can’t do a damned thing to help them. He’s looked at this from every angle, printed reams of diagrams and artist’s impressions, called in every favour from every colleague he’s ever known. This sickness, it’s not like the others. He knows that much, and he knows he’s never sleeping again. The man is tired, he needs to clear his head.
There’s a park by the Complex, all trickling brooks and meandering meadows. It’s fake, of course, but isn’t everything these days? The man walks, his sleep deprived frame bordering on delirium. He smiles and giggles to himself, wrapped in a joke so private not even he can understand it. Night air whips about his face. The midnight breeze smells faintly of starlight and a distant storm.
There’s something about the number three. The man feels this. This is his third straight night without sleep, his third night on the case. Tonight everything changes. The man leaves the narrow concrete path, strangely compelled to an artificial clearing set amidst the pines. Thick clouds, heavy and pregnant, blot out the full moon. The man is unperturbed, his bare feet crunching over leaf litter to the very centre of the clearing. The man produces a cheap orange lighter from his back pocket and waves it high in the air. He weaves the flickering pinpoint in an intricate pattern, one as old as humanity itself.
The man pauses. His flame dies. The mark has been made. He collapses to the ground, plummeting into sacred sleep.
“You became weak.”
The man nods dumbly, alone on a wooden boat of uncertain dimensions. He feels the ocean’s swell beneath his feet, tastes the salty spray.
“You became weak, and I became strong. Strong enough to control you.”
The man screams. He understands now, understands everything. On the other side of reality, in an artificial clearing to an artificial park, the body of Mark Arden staggers to its feet. The body of Mark Arden stumbles, its limbs jutting at unnatural and painful angles. Over time, the body of Mark Arden quietens. The Master has a feel for this collection of sinew and bone. The Master makes a decision, and the body of Mark Arden sways back to the Complex, each step more fluid than the last. The Master is pleased and the body of Mark Arden smiles, laughs. There really is something about the number three…1

Cassandra hasn’t taken a breath in the last half hour. Her parents are afraid. They’re afraid their little girl won’t ever breathe again. More than this, deeper than this, they’re afraid their little girl doesn’t need to. Her father stands to one side, his modest black bible limp amidst so much medical equipment. The doctors would have put her on life support or called time of death long ago, but something stopped them. Someone. The Master feels every inch of Cassandra’s tiny sleeping body. It’s time to start the show.
In the children’s ward of an inner-city hospital, the lights go out. The corridors and visitor’s lounges fill with orange light as emergency generators rumble into life. A pre-recorded message urges all patients to remain calm, to remain where they are - in a hospital, with doctors and machines and trained medical attention 24/7. What could go wrong?
Cassandra’s lips move. In the children’s ward of an inner-city hospital, the glass shatters. Countless tiny jagged shards tear through flesh and bone, propelled ever outward by some unseen hand. On the sidewalk, a million serrated snowflakes tumble down from windowpanes and streetlights above. Cassandra’s lips move, and her emaciated frame lifts ever so slowly from the hospital’s starched sheets. Her eyes flicker open. But Cassandra left long ago, and in came the Master. Cassandra’s body smiles at her parent’s corpses flayed apart by tiny flecks of glass. She floats out the 13th floor into the sky above. She is not alone.
All around the city, skeleton-children take their place in the sky. They are gaunt and pale, speckled in bed sores and splattered in cold vomit. The Master plays them all, jerking this muscle and stretching that bone as necessity and sheer pleasure dictates. They arc ever upwards from pockets of spreading chaos. This is only the beginning. Emergency switchboards are swamped, flooded, entirely overwhelmed by bizarre and terrifying reports. Whole streets burst into flames while old women are gnawed to death from the inside out - this is only the beginning. Like it or not, the churches are full to the brim. They’re shutting doors and saying prayers, sobbing and terrified and secretly glad. But this isn’t the end. This is the beginning. 2

Time passes, and an overhauled Boeing 747 leaves a crisp vapour trail in its wake. It banks steeply, and a private from the mid-west throws up noisily into a paper bag. The others cheer, relentlessly seizing any opportunity to lighten the mood. They’re kids straight of high school, mostly. In a seat by the window, Lieutenant Peterson can’t help but laugh. A few months back and you couldn’t get a nail file onto a Pan Am flight without the requisite permit. Now they’re shuttling more M16s than were used in the Gulf War. Shit, probably more than both Gulf Wars combined.
“Not long to go now,” mutters a gunner, nervously toying with in-flight brochures.
Funny, thinks Peterson, all those old stories about D-Day and nobody mentions how goddamn boring travel is. He gazes out of the plastic porthole, tries in vain to stretch his legs. An air hostess wheels a stainless steel trolley down the rows of seats.
“Nuts?”
Lieutenant Peterson shakes his head, silently irritated. If he wanted a packet of salted cardboard he’d ask for it. He settles back into his plush seat, vainly trying to drift off again. It’s hopeless, of course, but less painful than having a conversation with these idiots. They just don’t get it. This war isn’t like the others. From the moment it broke out, humanity’s place in the scheme of things changed forever. This isn’t another Hitler, another Stalin. This is a goddamn miracle and there’s no way he’s missing out. He’s getting some answers. 3

It’s just gone dark when the descent begins. The pilot announces local time and temperature before requesting all seats and meal trays be returned to their upright position. Almost as an afterthought the 747’s speakers crackle their sole concession to recent history: give ‘em hell, boys. There is no response. The men are tired. Do heroes feel numb? Do they need coffee? There is so much to live up to.
The airport has run hot for two weeks solid. Every strip, every terminal, every ounce of traffic control’s nerve strains almost to breaking point. Beans, bullets, and bandaids literally rain down, hastily disgorged from helicopters anxious to refuel and start it all again. Fighter jets trace computer designated patrols across the sky, and military satellites peer down from higher still. In an open field, civilians are searched by men with serious expressions and serious hardware. Yes, you’ve got a press permit, but it doesn’t apply to this location...
Lieutenant Peterson is alone amidst the throng of warm flesh and cold metal. He bears the weight of an M16 slung over shoulder with resigned discomfort. For a man fundamentally ill-suited to military life, promotion has come easily. Is he so clever? Is the fighting so bloody?
“If you could just sign here, thanks.”
Peterson takes the proffered clipboard and casually signs the dotted line. One way or another, everybody signs. Reading the small print only makes you nervous - actually, so does the large print. In the President’s own words, this war is a disaster utterly unprecedented in their great nation’s history. Who was he to refuse some yellow pills?
“Thank you,” the clerk glances up, “Sir. Proceed through the left hand corridor.”
Lieutenant Peterson passes most of the night in a sweat-stained bus. It’s standing room only, and packed like a rush hour train in Tokyo. War may be hell, but shit - this is still America isn’t it?4

Beneath a sky perpetually drenched in acrid smoke, Paradise City. It has been described by philosophers and scientists alike as a nexus between this world and the next. As far as Dan Lachlan can tell, philosophers and scientists alike are full of shit. Paradise City is death, pure and simple. You can smell it in the air - and that isn’t being poetic. It’s the eye watering stench of corpses rotting by a corner store.
Still, you can’t say that on television. There might be children watching.
“To be honest, Sarah, I do think this war can be won.”
Obscured through the glare of network television lighting, Dan thinks he can see her nodding. “What makes you say that?”
“Well, it’s simple,” he shifts his weight, leans a little towards the camera. “I may have seen a man throw up so hard and for so long that his throat burst open. I may have spent three whole days in a ditch feeling like it’s fourth of July in my spine and everyone’s invited.”
“What’s your point?”
“At the end of the day, none of that matters. If you destroy the brain, it’s game over for those bastards. We all know that. But what I don’t know is why we keep getting sent in with cap guns against the fucking storm!”
Sarah sighs, this isn’t what anyone wants to hear. She turns, and the cameras stop rolling. They’ve seen enough.
“You know what I’m talking about!”
Soldiers glance over from cleaning rifles or slurping down formless slop in stainless steel bowls. Some nod in agreement while others look away. Right or wrong, the man has respect. He’s earned it.
“That’s it lady, you piss off where you came from! But you’ll be right back here tomorrow, just like the rest of us. We’re all here until someone in Washington grows the balls to nuke this hellhole once and for all!”
But she’s gone, and the barracks-hum returns. It didn’t achieve anything - the networks aren’t stupid enough to broadcast soldiers live, no matter how famous - but damn it feels good to vent. Those smug bastards with more brass than spine don’t have any idea what they’re dealing with here. Maybe nobody does, but at least he’s trying to do something about it. For the past six weeks, reality’s come apart at the seams like a cheap football, and who descends from Air Force One, saluting like a boy scout on heat? The Secretary of Agriculture. What the hell do they think this is, a nasty spate of mad cow disease? Dig some holes, burn some cattle, slap a fine on McDonalds?
But this is just wasting time, and God knows how long they’ve got. Dan returns to the night. He leaves the sea of green tents far behind. Like it or not, he’s not like the others. Not any more. This close to Paradise City, on a six lane highway strewn with rusting SUVs, anything is possible. It’s nothing to be afraid of. After all, night is for hunting. 5

Heavy boots upon the road, a timeless drumbeat. Soldiers deep in Paradise City move with mechanised anxiety, keeping to the shadows, eyes forever darting, forever searching. In the final analysis it’s probably useless, but a man’s got to do something. Surely he isn’t so powerless? If he keeps on his toes, plays by the book, there’s got to be a way out of here.
The soldier taking point stops, barely perceptible in the gloom ahead. The moon is, as always, veiled behind a thick pall. Up ahead, a fist is risen against the night. It gives the silent command to fan out, to seek cover. There’s something up ahead. In Paradise City, the United States Army has orders to shoot on sight. Whatever it is, shoot on sight.
An old man shuffles vaguely through the debris of a newspaper stand. He rummages through a stack of Vanity Fair, but doesn’t seem to find what he’s looking for. He leafs gingerly through Time, but it just isn’t there. A plain black suitcase swings from his right arm, overflowing with the debris of city life - old newspapers, a yellow raincoat. Maybe it’s just an old man.
Shit, this is Paradise City.
It isn’t clear who opens up first, but maybe that doesn’t matter. From a dozen standard issue rifles, a staccato of small arms fire tears the man’s face clear in two. It’s a scene straight out of the textbooks. Nobody knows if they hit or missed, nobody has to ask the question. In Paradise City, it really doesn’t matter. You move out, you watch your step, you pray to God you make it back.
So far, so good. They slink past the old man’s crumpled form. One stops to make the sign of the cross and silently ask forgiveness. The others just keep on walking. As far as they can see, God’s the one should be apologising. 6

“Our main priority, of course, is containment.”
Peterson curls his toes, grits his teeth, but keeps a calm and professional exterior. Eye rolling is frowned upon, but he didn’t sleep at all last night, and now this moron’s decided to tell them all exactly what they could have learnt from CNN.
“The enemy, whatever he may be, is presently entirely contained within the conflict zone - that is, within Paradise City. Let me assure you, the term is not to be taken literally.”
Was that supposed to be funny? The military’s version of middle management laugh politely, a small concession to the idol of rank. There are almost two hundred of them, perched on row after row of uncomfortable folding chairs. They have come to a refurbished school hall about 12 miles from the front line for a series of audio-visual presentations. So far these have mostly consisted of blurry images already clogging up internet forums, and a pre-recorded speech from the President.
“Homeland defence relies squarely on each and every man here doing his duty to the utmost. You should consider every street of Paradise City to be your own, for this is what failure means. In terms of tactical dominance, the textbook is still being written. However, we aren’t fighting entirely blind. Ongoing contact has yielded some intelligence about the enemy and, as the first officers commissioned since the outbreak, you stand at the cutting edge of an emerging science.”
Yeah, cutting edge alright. There’s a stack of pamphlets on the right as you walk through the door. Destroy the brain, pursue containment at all costs, and never - ever - fall asleep in Paradise City.
Lieutenant Peterson looks about the room, at pale faces and cold sweat. Sleep shouldn’t be a problem. 7