Sleepwalker

Hello. My name is Quinn Ellison.1

There. Our introduction is over. Wasn’t that easy? No one takes the time to introduce themselves anymore. But I did. You remember that. If anybody ever asks you what you think of Quinn Ellison… Tell them that he’s a gentleman. I guess, at this point, that’s the most I can hope for.2

The prison is a steel monster of paranoia and confinement, almost begging to devour me as I am escorted through it. I have rotted here for three years. I have no intention of staying any longer. There are men in the cells we pass, each one exhausted and beyond hope. They haven’t slept for two days, just like the guards escorting me, just like the scientist I’m about to see, just like the world.3

Welcome to my life.4

Finally, the metal corridor ends abruptly at a small door. One of the guards knocks, and it responds by opening.5

Have you ever seen a movie called Disruptor?6

It came out in 2031. I doubt you’ve seen it. It was a box office flop, and it got terrible reviews. Even so, I saw Disruptor on one of my days off, and I bring it up because it has relevance to my current situation. In Disruptor, the plot hinges around a scientist whose invention of a time portal leads him to insanity. His lab begins as a neatly kempt domain of study and experimentation, but ends as a room full of complex machinery, scribbled notes, and scattered debris. The room I am currently in looks like the lab at the end of Disruptor. Except, instead of a time machine, some sort of strange suit of armor sits in the center.7

The other major fixture of this lab is a scientist. His name tag says “Dr. Matern”, and I trust it. His eyes are bloodshot and swollen, and small bags have taken up residence beneath them. He speaks slowly and deliberately.8

“Get in the suit, please.”9

Now I take a closer look at the “armor” which I had noticed before. The exterior appears to be some kind of fortified plastic, while a small digital readout has been built in at the top. I can’t see what’s on the screen. The whole suit emits a faint electronic hum, reminiscent of a large digital clock. It is an outfit in and of itself, with leg, arm, torso, glove, and shoe-parts built in. The suit is black.10

“Get. In. The. Suit. Now.”11

Irritable.12

Just like all the others.13

As I proceed cautiously toward the suit, it splits down the middle and opens before me. I step in so that my body fits into the necessary places, and it closes tightly. The interior texture is actually quite comfortable. I walk around, testing the new weights and inhibitions, when suddenly, it whirrs, and the digital readout illuminates. It says, in all capitals: “Not in containment zone. Suit deactivated.”14

“This is your containment suit,” Dr. Matern says. “It’s black to be visible in daylight. It will turn white after six o’clock. It tracks your whereabouts, and monitors vital functions such as heart rate and blood pressure.”15

I just stare at him.16

“We’ll know where you are at all times. If you leave the designated containment zone, you blow up. Got it?”17

Silence.18

“Man of few words, aren’t you?”19

One of the guards steps forward, offering himself up. This confrontation has gone on long enough.20

“Thank you, doctor. I think we can take him from here-”21

“I’ll need a few moments to fine tune the suit. If you two could just wait outside…”22

The guards are obviously suspicious, but also probably too exhausted to care. The one who had spoken nods, and leads the other one through the door they had come in.23

The doctor doesn’t walk back to his control console. He just looks at me, like a very tired hawk. 24

“Listen to me carefully: I don’t have one iota of faith in this plan. If I did, I probably wouldn’t be clothing you in something that could kill you.”25

What a surprise. He doesn’t think I can do it. That’s pretty interesting: Neither do I. We should start a club.26

“Regardless of this, I have only one piece of advice for you: Don’t screw up. Don’t lose your temper. I read your case file, Quinn. If I could choose anyone for this job, you’d be the last guy on my list.”27

See? Another similarity. This is going to be quite the club.28

“I don’t know why you’re the only one who can sleep. And believe me, I envy you. But that’s not important. Just remember that there’s a hell of a lot riding on this… This is your chance, Quinn. You have a lot of freedom here. Use it wisely.”29

The opening of a door, the arms of the guards, and a long conveyor belt all result in me being stuffed into a big metal pod.30

Freedom.31

What does it mean to be free? 32

I don’t think I know. I don’t think I’ve ever known, my entire life.33

It seems like I’ve spent all of my existence in one cage or another. Crappy friends. Crappy family. Crappier job. If a writer tried to tell my life story, he would probably become too depressed and horrified to get past my college years.34

I can hardly see anything. The pod I’m in is just barely big enough for a human to fit in, and I can hear machinery carrying it through some abyss of darkness and steel. My stomach shifts and tilts… Better not to concentrate on it.35

When I was seven, my mother locked me in a space this small. I don’t remember that very well.36

Now I’m twenty-eight.37

Twenty-eight is divisible by seven, four times.38

Does that mean I have only four times as much wisdom? Four times as many experiences?39

I apologize. There is little to think about when the only sights you see are darkness, and the only sounds you hear are an odd mechanical whirring.40

Comforted by my metal womb, I drift into a deep, dark sleep.41

~0~42

Gavels.43

When did they get rid of gavels?44

That is what comes to Quinn’s mind as he sits in the chair he is strapped to. A plastic sign, designed to look wooden, sits near it, and it says “defendant”. The space on the right hand side of the judge’s desk seems curiously empty. 45

“Mr. Ellison, have you nothing to say for yourself?”46

If he does, Quinn does not feel comfortable expressing it to the weasel-faced lawyer. Quinn stares at him, with the intensity of a white flame.47

“You haven’t even defended yourself, Quinn. You didn’t even ask for a lawyer.”48

No, he didn’t. And he never wanted one.49

Not that it matters anymore.50

“That’s enough, Mr. Gaiman. I think the jury is ready to deliberate.”51

What the judge actually means is “fuck Quinn over”, but that’s not what he said. Quinn has been sitting there for hours, and the heat of the room has already caused him to sweat through his shirt. The jury probably interpreted this as nervousness.52

The brief recess that the judge announces is very brief indeed. The jury comes back, and when they proclaim their verdict, the whole room is quiet. No tears for the murderer. A woman at the very back even claps in approval. She is alone, but Quinn doubts she is the only one with that sentiment.53

“Mr. Ellison, you have been deemed guilty of your crimes beyond any shadow of doubt or redemption. I sentence you to life in prison.”54

An icy stare.55

“And may God have mercy on your soul.”56

Yes, he actually said that.57

The court room was host to an eerie silence. Maybe if the judge had a gavel, it would have been more dramatic.58

Quinn closed his eyes, and waited for the events that he knew would come.59

~0~60

A bright light seethes angrily above me, glaring so that the insides of my eyelids turn a fleshy red. I open them, and instantly regret it. I close them again.61

“Get up, Quinn.”62

I know that voice. I can feel that I’m still sitting in the pod, and any restraints that were previously locked are now open.63

“You’re here. Move.”64

The voice is female, and it doesn’t sound very kind. Slowly and carefully, I open my eyes.65

Gina Moore is a sight to behold. Full red lips and straight brown hair down to her shoulders draw attention to her already attractive face, her figured mired only by a little extra baby fat that has stayed with her through the years. Gina always looked tired: Being a police officer in the city takes balls and connections, only one of which she started with. But her resilience brought her far, and Gina soon gained a reputation for her strategic mind and grim pragmatism. Her left arm hangs limply from its shoulder, where I shot her. 66

Gina’s beady eyes remain trained on me as I stand up.67

“Hello, Quinn. Get up. I’m watching you.” That’s all she needs to say. I rise sheepishly from the metal pod, and hear it retracting back into whatever network of tunnels lay behind me. How far had I traveled, and how long had I been traveling? At least a few hours. 68

Gina motions for me to follow her. Her anger is clear by the sharpness of her words, and her footsteps seem deliberately heavy. Probably in part due to the sleep deprivation, but also because of the obvious.69

Why does Gina despise me? Is it because of the wound I have inflicted, or because of all the fruitless years she spent trying to apprehend me? Maybe it’s just because of the crimes I’ve committed. I doubt I’ll ever know for sure.70

I follow Gina out of the room as my eyes finally adjust to the light. I look around: The hallway I’ve just stepped into is colored onyx, and made of some sort of plastic designed to imitate stone. Fluorescent bulbs hum lazily on the ceiling, and the hall has an empty, almost haunting feeling to it. It smells of iron and snow. I imagine the room I just walked out of was similar.71

Where are all the people?72

The sharp descent of Gina’s shoes lead them into a modern looking elevator, complimented by buttons that glow a deep shade of blue. The whole building feels like a museum during the night, uncomfortably empty and quiet. I wonder whether the workers had started leaving after the second day or the first.73

“Why you?” I ask. Cold silence.74

“Because I’m the only one who didn’t quit.”75

I nod, in silent understanding. Two days without sleep isn’t enough to get her down. Maybe others, but not Gina.76

When the doors slide open, I realize two things: Firstly, the people in this building stopped working after the first day without sleep, and not the second. If they had left on the second day, the custodians would have at least been able to go through and pick up all of the discarded garbage and stray debris. Secondly, I am not who they are expecting.77

The room I enter is grand and awe-striking, almost cinematic in its beauty. It is made of the same onyx colored plastic as the rest of the building, but clearly serves some more important purpose. In the center of the room: A very tall pillar hooked up to perhaps a hundred different electronics, all glowing and humming as though they were alive. The pillar is rectangular in shape and completely translucent, made of some kind of glass or plastic. Lying in precisely in the middle, on a simple cot, is Tara.78

Tara Brown.79

Born in the Bronx, never left the city.80

Aged ten and a half.81

The most powerful psychic the world has ever known.82

For many, gazing at Tara is supposedly a religious experience. For me, staring at her sleeping form is just awkward, and so I turn away.83

Standing directly in front of the pillar are two old men: One has gray hair, a beige suit, and a developing pot belly. His name is Mr. Roger Perlin, and I have already been briefed about him. He looks… Peeved.84

The other man looks even older. He wears strange, raggedy clothing and has skin that is almost as black as licorice. I have no idea who he is. He nods at me slowly, seemingly calm.85

Mr. Perlin speaks.86

“You are Quinn Ellison.” I nod. Perhaps he saw the news story a couple years back.87

“They sent…. You? A convict?” His hand flares in the general direction of my containment suit, and I nod again. He seems to share Gina’s sentiment to a lesser degree.88

“I’m the only one who can sleep, sir. I don’t know who else they’d send.” His bloodshot eyes peer at me curiously from behind their spectacles.89

“Hmm. Very well then. I am Roger Perlin, the administrator of this facility, and I welcome you to The Merrick Research Center. I hope your stay here is… Productive. Any concerns you have should be directed to me. Needless to say, there should be no, er….” Does he really think I’m going to start killing people at this place?90

“Discrepancies of behavior. Do you follow me?” My head bobs loosely on its hinges once again.91

“Excellent. We plan to commence the first operation immediately. Are you ready?”92

“As much as I can be, sir.”93

“All right. Let’s-” Mr. Perlin turns toward the pillar, but then sees the other man behind him.94

“Oh! I must apologize. This is Mr. N-”95

“Carl, please.” The man has a rich voice, like smoke seeping out of a forest. Unlike Mr. Perlin had, Carl reaches for my hand. Slowly, I extend mine and shake it. He smiles.96

“Carl will be… Transferring you. Your mind, I mean.” Carl nods, and gestures toward the pillar. I walk to it.97

What I hadn’t notice before: Wires. So many wires. They stretch and weave like a tangled mess of serpents, slithering into the giant computer consoles they all lead to. The consoles are all connected to the pillar, and a couple of the wires are connected to Tara. They are aware she’s not a cell phone, aren’t they?98

“If you would, Mr. Ellison.”99

Mr. Perlin points to a plastic chair in front of one of the consoles. Feeling the burn of Gina’s disapproving stare, and the counteracting softness Carl’s meticulous gaze, I sit.100

A flip switches from behind me, and a computer starts to hum. Carl quietly places some kind of electronic pad on top of my head. It stays there.101

“Please begin, Carl.”102

Carl is a dream psychic. He will be bringing me into the foreign lands of Tara’s mind, and I can’t help but feel a little nervous as he puts his hands on the back of my head.103

“Three.” Carl’s smoky voice.104

“Two.” The loudening hum of the machine.105

“One.” The impatient tap of Gina’s foot.106

All three dissolve, and then I am somewhere else.107

~0~108

Quinn was not flying.109

That was the first thing he noticed.110

As Quinn lifted his eyelids, he came to realize that the light and wispy feeling he was experiencing had nothing to do with being in the air. On the contrary, Quinn had his feet planted firmly on the hard pavement, and felt only the slightest bit of wind on his face.111

He looked around.112

Quinn was in a city. A cold, mysterious city. Sky scrapers were on all sides of him, with windows that seemed to mirror the eerie moonlight. Quinn started to walk, taking in the perfectly crafted metal and stone, the streets with no pot holes or cracks. No cars, no buses, no streetlights or stoplights. Quinn soon realized that there weren’t even any doors. But then, Quinn looked up.113

Stars.114

Infinites stars.115

He was looking at pitch black sky full of holes, from which light was pouring through. There were thousands. Quinn hadn’t seen the stars in a good ten years, as light pollution had taken its toll just about everywhere. But Quinn remembered what they looked like, and these stars were perfect.116

And so he walked. Quinn seemed to be in the city’s center, and there was an ornate fountain. He sat at its edge, and dipped his hand into the crystal clear waters. Quinn began to ponder. What kind of mind would create a city like this one? And how do I find Tara?117

The second question seemed to answer itself.118

Abruptly, some kind of massive white object passed by overhead. It was like a plane, only… Organic, and beautifully silent. 119

Because it was a dream, and low gravity seemed to be the law of the land, Quinn leapt onto a rooftop with ease. It was very quiet there.120

Quinn breathed in deeply, and stared up at the sky. He stared for a long time.121

Soon, a gentle flapping of wings brought the white thing back, and Quinn saw that it was a bird. It’s wings were huge and snowy and featherless. Quinn could hear its soft breath above the eerie silence of the city, and it did a magnificent turn around the building.122

Tara waved at him from on top of the bird. When Quinn opened his eyes, he was sitting behind her.123

“…Hello.”124

No response. Quinn now saw just how huge the city really was: Rooftops had sprouted in literally every direction, infinitely.125

“You’re… Tara?” The back of her head went up and down, suggesting a nod.126

“Are you here to rescue me?” The sentence had the lilt that only a ten year old’s voice could give to it. And maybe Quinn was imagining it, but she sounded even younger.127

“Yes… I’m here to wake you up.”128

Now she looked back at him. He had never seen her with her eyes open, and he almost regretted it: She had eyes like huge pieces of dark chocolate. And this incarnation of Tara didn’t seem to have any acne.129

“I knew it….” She faced forward once again. Quinn assumed she was referring to the fact that she was in a dream.130

The bird’s every movement was like a ripple, a wave of energy that Quinn could feel beneath his legs. He was almost proud of Tara for designing such a complex illusion.131

“How are you here?” Tara asked.132

“They used someone… A psychic, like you, to put me in your head. When you went to sleep, Tara…” He struggled to formulate a coherent sentence, and one that a ten year old would understand.133

“You’ve been asleep for over two days. Since you fell asleep, no one else can sleep. No one in the world… Except for me.”134

A pause, then:135

“I’m sorry. I didn’t... I didn’t mean to…” She sounded hurt, like a child who had just broken a vase.136

“It’s not your fault. Nobody blames you; nobody even knows why it happened. But they sent me because I was the only option.”137

“Is ‘option’ the same as ‘choice’?”138

“Uh… Yeah.”139

As the bird ascended higher and higher, Quinn began to get the feeling that he was out of his league. Silence filled the air once again, and he realized that he had absolutely no idea how he was going to wake the most powerful psychic in the world up.140

“So… Where were you when you went to sleep?” 141

Suddenly, it was as though reality had fluxuated, and the bird was instantly much wider. Tara pat the new space next to her, and Quinn sat down.142

“At our apartment. In my bed.”143

“Our?”144

“Me and my mom’s. Well, my dad’s. But he’s not there anymore.”145

“…Oh.”146

Quinn was starting to realize that he was not well suited to a career in child psychology.147

“Did anything… Happen? Anything bad?”148

Tara wrinkled her nose.149

“I heard a noise… Like this.”150

With the wave of a small hand, sound exploded in the sky above them. It looked like a sort of organic firework: A tiny red sphere, blown in every direction by Tara’s gesture. Quinn recognized the explosive patterns as sound waves, but the noise was neither the cacophony of an explosion nor the whine of a traveling firework: It was the sound of a slamming door.151

Deeply unsettled and surprised by the break in the uncanny silence, Quinn felt himself slide off the ever-shifting bird, clutching wildly to regain his position.152

But it was no use.153

Soon, he was falling through the air, staring up at a fascinating girl and her magnificent subconscious creation…154

~0~ 155

I would like to blow this building up.156

I would like to plant dozens of C4 explosives at the foundations, incinerating the fake-plastic-onyx, metamorphosing The Merrick Research Center into a pillar of flame. I would like the police offers and paramedics to exhaustedly stumble through the wreckage, almost sleepwalking as the ash and soot invades their bloodshot eyes. And when they find Tara’s teeth fused into her charred and unrecognizable husk, they will know. They will know: Quinn Ellison was here. They will weep: We will never sleep again. And then they will collapse, perhaps in days, perhaps in weeks, but only closing their eyes at the last moment. Dying, but never resting. Sleeping, but never dreaming.157

That is what I would like.158

~0~159

We are sitting in an empty café, watching the waitress scrub the same table over and over again, when he asks me.160

“What do you want?”161

“I would like to be free,” is what I say. Carl’s lips form a sort of half-smile, like a child who has hidden a toy.162

“Really? I had you figured as a little deeper than that, Mr. E.” He sips his coffee, occasionally stirring it with a white plastic spoon that he materialized from his pocket. I wonder what kind of person carries a plastic spoon around with them, and then I think “a psychic”.163

“Well sir, I think it’s a pretty reasonable wish given my situation. What would you want?”164

“First,” replies Carl, taking another sip, “can the ‘sir’ crap. I’m not your father. And while I like fresh air and the smell of daffodils just as much as anybody else, the best you can come up with is that you want to be out of prison? You’re the last man on Earth who can dream, I mean really dream, and you invent the most obvious one of all.”165

I don’t respond.166

Carl’s skin is worn but not frayed, weathered but not delicate. The dark brown flesh of his hands is old and wrinkled, which is clear every time he grips his coffee mug as though it will slip through his hand. When he invited me to lunch, I thought at first he was kidding. But my containment suit has yet to explode.167

“What I want most, right at this moment… Is to be on the beach.” Carl’s eyelids droop over his eyes, his finger idly stirring the black liquid.168

“I’ve got a place down near Myrtle Beach where you could hear the waves crashing from your bed. Of course, my nephews tend to be running around the house like little hooligans whenever I’m in the neighborhood, so it’s not like I get any peace.”169

Carl’s laugh is a sharp contrast to his sumptuous voice: It comes out in a quick and wheezy rasp, almost like a punctuation or final comment. In this case, the comment is probably “don’t smoke”.170

“Don’t smoke,” says Carl, catching his breath.171

I nod. After I left Tara’s mind, events went quickly. I told Mr. Perlin about the door slamming. Gina yelled at me for not finding anything useful. Mr. Perlin stuttered nervously. I stared Gina down. Carl pulled me out.172

“Are you going to bend that?” I pose this question as Carl holds his small plastic spoon, twirling it around his dexterous fingers. His lips curve upwards.173

“We can’t all do that.” He puts the spoon down.174

“Oh?”175

“You’ve got to know you’re psychics. I’m just a Class 1, I have a single thing I can do and that’s all I’m good at. You’ve got your Class 2’s, they can influence the physical world; those are your spoon benders. Class 3’s are the ones with abilities Uncle Sam thinks are ‘dangerous’, like pulling fire out of thin air. 4’s have more than one ability but less than five.”176

“What’s Tara?”177

“Class 5. The only one. As far as Perlin can tell, she’s got ‘em all.”178

How does a ten-year-old wield such power? I can only imagine what trips to the mall must be like. ‘What do you get for the girl who can do everything?’179

“When I first found out about mine, I figured I should do some research. I wasn’t in the first wave, but I was just a kid when the media frenzy started. You know they first started finding us in the strangest of places? There was a whole village in Peru, all psych’s. On Indian reservations, there were a lot of dreamers, like me… The good ones, the ones that could actually interact with each other through dreams, they called them sleepwalkers. I hear the Navajos had over a hundred different words for every different kind of psychic.” 180

“So what’s the word for someone who walks around while they’re asleep?” Carl pauses.181

“They don’t have one.” We both laugh.182

The way the waitress moves might even be funny if not for the circumstances: She staggers around like a drunken cartoon character, almost as though her center of gravity is in her weary face, and could plummet to the ground at any moment. For now, only her feet hit the floor, bringing her to our table.183

“Thank you, Alice.” Carl hands her his mug as he reads her name tag. For a moment, she just stares at him.184

“You’re… You’re a psychic, aren’t you?” Carl nods.185

“Yes ma’am, but I was only reading-”186

“It’s your fault. All of it is your fault.” Tears slowly begin to stream down her face. She grips the mug, her knuckles growing red.187

“If that girl… That stupid little girl… This is your fault! Your damn people caused this! If all you freaks were dead, we could all sleep easy!”188

The woman practically spits venom as she screams. I stand up, placing a hand on her shoulder.189

“Miss, please,” I say as soothingly as I can, “we don’t want any trouble.”190

“Get away from me! This is YOUR FAULT!!!” 191

The ceramic mug smashes into Carl’s face, coffee congealing in slow motion with blood and flesh.192

Everything goes black.193

~0~194

When you’re in Quinn’s line of work, you have to have rules. And he does.195

Don’t get caught.196

Don’t get arrogant.197

Be prepared.198

Don’t take unnecessary life.199

Every man is free.200

These are the rules he told his men, the rules that those united under his beliefs recited over and over again, adhering to them at all costs.201

But secretly, deep down, Quinn has his own set of rules. Rules that he never told his men. Rules that exist like stitches at the back of his mind, keeping him together, preserving his sanity in a neat and orderly fashion.202

Think, don’t feel.203

Keep yourself in check.204

Commit actions for righteousness, not for revenge.205

And this above all, the most important rule, The First Rule:206

Don’t lose control.207

Quinn only broke The First Rule once.208

~0~209

“Alice Holmes, a waitress and restaurant manager from the Lower West Side, was found dead in her café after being brutally murdered by known terrorist, Quinn Ellison. She was covered in scratch marks. While there were no witnesses to the crime, there has been recent public outrage over Ellison’s temporary release Metropolitan Correctional Center in order to assist with the much-speculated Tara Brown situation. While no official reason has been given for his release, it is known that Mr. Ellison is currently being held in The Merrick Research Center, an institution set up to study psychic individuals. Quinn Ellison is best known for his-”210

Mr. Perlin turns the TV off, allowing the room to be filled with the roar of the crowd outside.211

I peer out the window, staring at the sea of enraged faces. Some people are holding signs, signs with words on them like:212

“No murderers at Merrick!”213

“Alan Kaplan. Maria Jiménez.”214

“KILL TARA BROWN”215

“Julia Goldstein. Tricia Naylor.”216

“We want sleep!”217

“Daniel Rickman. Sophie Martin.”218

“NO MORE PSYCHICS”219

“President Ryan Ackerman.”220

“WHY QUINN?”221

I close the blinds. I, too, want sleep, but I don’t see much of it in my immediate future.222

Mr. Perlin just stares at me, seething.223

“Do you… Do you have any idea, young man, what your behavior has cost us?”224

“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t remember the events.” This is the truth, but it does not seem to set Mr. Perlin free.225

“The government may cut our funding. We’re the last chance Quinn, and you may have ruined it for all of us!” He storms out like a toddler, slamming the door behind him.226

I must admit, perhaps my actions were somewhat rash.227

I have a recurring problem when it come to emotions of extreme rage: I simply cannot face them. I have no trouble admitting this, and it would not be difficult for a psychologist to accurately diagnose me. The precious few times in my life when I’ve encountered such feelings have been disastrous, and they are extremely hazy in my memory. In today’s case, it is like a blank spot in my consciousness, a scratch on the disk of my mind that will be forever unplayable.228

Carl told me I attacked Alice. I scratched enormous marks into her body. I almost ripped her apart. Not that I would know.229

I have dealt with protestors in the past. For the most part, they are pathetic shadows of what they should be, human beings who choose to harness their outrage by making signs instead of taking action. They do, however, raise a valid point. Why me, after all that I have done? Why am I the only one able to sleep? I have spent much time pondering this question, and I have no answer. A second question does follow, however.230

Why did I do what I did?231

I have never written any manifesto, but if I did, it might look something like this:232

I would like to think of myself as a logical man, and there is a logical solution to every problem. For example: If your house is on fire, use water to put out the fire. If you are sick, see a doctor. If the entire human race is unable to sleep, send in a deranged and unfeeling terrorist to solve the problem. Wait, scratch that last one.233

…I’m sorry. I’ve never been very good at humor.234

In any event, my point is that logic is the foundation of our society. When reason fails, so does civilization. When people allow their emotions or personal needs to consume them, they become uncivilized and place others in danger. They place the very notion of society in danger. So, I present you with another logic problem:235

Let us say for a moment that, after a global war and major economic upheaval, the most powerful country in the world lies in ruins. What is the logical solution? Elect a new president, an excellent president, to restore the nation to its former glory. To uphold the values of justice and freedom and to bring the country back to prominence through tireless efforts.236

This is not the president that America elected.237

In this hypothetical realm, let us say that the new president begins making decrees. He decides to start another global war, one that will bring the spoils of victory to America. He decides to fuse the military with the government, and begins repealing constitutional rights. What is the logical solution? Public uproar. The impeachment of the president. A full-scale rebellion.238

This is not what America did.239

Finally, the theoretical president decides to do away with elections all together. He decides to crush efforts to elect new leaders, and appoints only governors that are partial to his views. He ends free speech. He “severs” groups that speak out against him. The populace is helpless under his iron grip of the military. People begin to disappear. Other nations have long since abandoned us after our reckless invasion of other countries. What is the logical solution? The assassination of The President of the United States.240

This is what I did.241

I killed Ryan Ackerman because it was logical. Because he deserved his fate, and America deserved better. By cutting off the head, I sought to kill the snake. That was righteous. It is for my other crimes – the ones I committed on the very same night - that I deserve to roast in hell.242

“Evening, Mr. Sleepwalker.”243

Carl saunters in, shutting the door quietly behind him. I sit on my bed.244

“Had quite a day, didn’t you?” I nod.245

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that to happen.” He waves hand dismissively.246

“Quinn, you don’t owe me anything. In fact, you may well have saved my life. Besides, I know there’s some things we just can’t control.” He sits down next to me, and his sinuous voice abruptly stops. Silence.247

And it’s not even uncomfortable.248

“So, Mr. Sleepwalker, have you given any more thought to my question?”249

“Question?”250

“What exactly do you want?”251

I think. I think very hard.252

“I would like to be free.” Carl frowns. I add:253

“But not just out of prison.” Carl smiles.254

“Well, I suppose that’s a start. But what’s freedom? What does that even mean?” I cock an eyebrow.255

“I had no idea you were a philosophy major, Carl.” He rolls his eyes.256

“Can it. What’s freedom?”257

“Freedom is… The ability to make your own choices. To not have anyone tell you what to do.” I am no wordsmith.258

“Sounds great if you’re a textbook. What’s freedom to you? And don’t tell me it’s just living outside of a six by ten cell.”259

“To be free…” I have trouble beginning.260

“Go on.”261

“To be free is to not have anything tying you down. It’s the ability to look around you and say, ‘I’m done with this’. To start over. To do something new. To escape, I guess.”262

Carl just nods, and smiles. His smoky voice seeps out of his mouth.263

“You know what you want. So what are you afraid of?”264

“Psychology, too? You must have been quite the student.” His brown eye gleams.265

“You could say that. But answer the question. Spiders get me, personally. And heights. You’re lucky I pulled you out of that girl’s dream in time, or else you might have gone into a coma when you hit the ground.”266

Do I trust this man?267

I’ve never had a friend. Not really.268

“Don’t laugh…” I say. He nods.269

“Babies.” And he laughs. And I laugh. And it’s all right.270

“There must be some story behind that. What, you think they’re going to throw up on you or something?”271

“No.” His smile fades, and the conversation dies.272

“Well, Mr. E, I think the savior of humanity needs his rest. After all, I can’t put you into that girl’s mind if you can’t get to sleep. I think I’ll see how the other zombies are doing.” Carl goes to the door, gripping the silver handle.273

“Carl?”274

“…Thank you.”275

My friend winks.276

~0~277

Before the shooting, before the press and the branding, before the exploding buildings, and before anyone had ever heard of a terrorist named Quinn Ellison…278

There was just a man.279

No one would ever believe Quinn about the death camps. Not for many years, anyway. The people knew Ackerman had gone too far, but no one dreamed he could have gone that far. He was a tyrant, but he was no monster. Or, at least, that’s what the papers said. The papers that he owned.280

Besides, it’s not like anyone noticed a few less minorities on the streets, or when the gays (“perverts”) or cripples or autistic children (“invalids”) started disappearing. It was like they hadn’t even been there. As though they were ugly stains that had been quickly and effectively washed away.281

Quinn walks down the halls as his soldiers place explosives, blowing doors open and swarming inside. We’re like insects, thought Quinn. Invading a dead animal and taking what’s left inside. A man named Bradley, who is Quinn’s second in command, walks up to him.282

“How many?” asks Quinn.283

“Two hundred and forty three so far, sir. Most are starving, and a good third are children.” Those are the lucky ones, thinks Quinn. In the distance, gunfire rattles. A loud explosion blows the main gate open.284

“Good. Have we found the manifest yet?”285

“Yes, sir. We’re still looking for about forty live ones.”286

“Very well, Bradley. Continue with operations. I want these people out of here as quickly as possible.” This is the understatement of the century. It will be literally minutes before the military burst in to end the “liberation” and burn all evidence to the ground.287

“One more thing, Quinn. We think there might be a crematorium down this hallway. You could be able to find some ID on some of the bodies, get us an idea of who we lost here.” Quinn nods.288

“I’ll check it out.” More gunfire. Bradley runs off to rejoin his unit.289

This was the second of the raids. There would be three more before the “Sons of Liberty”, as they called themselves, would be incinerated in the fire-bombing of San Diego. Quinn and Bradley will be in Washington at the time.290

He has reached the end of the long hallway, and arrives at a pair of enormous steel doors. Quinn is about to lay down explosives, but as he pushes the door on his left, it swung open silently. The room that lies beyond is pitch black.291

Switching on his flashlight, Quinn carefully walks forward, gingerly checking the ground for any surprises the guards might have left form him at the last minute. The first thing he notices is the smell. The whole room carries the pungent odors of ash and feces, mixed together into one disgusting aroma. Quinn’s light shines on the wall in front of him, and it is then that he sees it: The furnace. It looks large enough to burn perhaps a dozen bodies at once, but there seems to be something… Off about it. As though Quinn can tell instinctively that there is something wrong. Quinn pulls out his short-wave radio.292

“Attention units, I’ve found the crematorium, I need four able bodies, no pun intended.” Quinn chuckles at the grim joke, and steps to the furnace. Now he can see, there is definitely something wrong: The furnace is designed so that at the bottom is a sort of iron drawer, presumably where a row of bodies could be inserted. But the drawer is slightly ajar, like a dresser stuffed with too many socks. Quinn grips the metal handle at the bottom, turns it, and pulls, looking into the drawer.293

Quinn staggers back.294

Strewn about the drawer are bodies. All charred black, some missing limbs, some almost completely burned away. Some are bigger than others, but at least twenty had been forced inside the drawer.295

Infants.296

Every single corpse is an infant.297

Quinn covers his mouth with his hand, but he cannot scream. Cannot vomit. One dead eye seems to be staring directly at him, peering into his soul with tiny retinas that have almost melted into their eye sockets. It is now that Quinn sees the source of the smell: A pile of discarded diapers, stacking almost to the ceiling in the corner to his left. He drops his flashlight. He can no longer look at the bones protruding from the tiny cadavers, or the ashy skin that litters the bottom of the metal grave. He does not want to see what is in the other drawers.298

Dimly aware of being dragged out by his men, fleetingly sensing the bombs being dropped that would incinerate the camp and any hard evidence of the atrocities, Quinn knows he will never hold another baby.299

~0~300

I am not one to offer advice, but I would strongly recommend that you – no matter what the circumstances – avoid being pistol whipped. In strict accordance with popular belief, it is not the least bit pleasant.301

“I’ve been waiting four years to do that,” says Gina, wiping the sweat off of her gun. I reach up and feel my face. No blood. Lucky me.302

“Of course, we probably could have put in an alarm clock, but how do we no you aren’t a heavy sleeper?” Gina smiles. She actually smiles. If my containment suit only had a camera…303

“You’re in a good mood,” I respond, sitting up in bed. She nods.304

“I just got some very good news,” she starts, “It looks like that woman you killed brought you over the line to death penalty eligibility. So even if you do fix this shit-storm, the best you can hope for is the rest of your life in prison sentence!”305

I breathe. I will not dignify that with a response. I will not give this woman the satisfaction of a mental fight.306

“I take it it’s time for another session in Tara’s mind?”307

“Sure, if you want to call it that… I wonder if they need any volunteers for the firing squad.” I get up and walk out.308

My Spartan room is a short walk from the main chamber, or the “Central Hub”, as the fire escape plan calls it. I imagine this is the room where the major tests occurred, before the world simultaneously got out of bed three nights ago. It is unsettling to see it, the computers and wiring, the grand pillar, and to think that dozens of psychics were here being poked and prodded, analyzed and injected before my arrival. Of course, The Merrick Research Center has become far more humane since the days of Ackerman, and it is my understanding that it is now privately run. I suppose the moral here is that assassination can’t fix everything.309

Carl stands waiting for me, while Mr. Perlin seems to be discussing serious matters with another gentleman. I say these matters are “serious” because the gentleman is clothed entirely in Kevlar, and is carrying an enormous automatic machine gun. He takes one look at me and scowls.310

“Good morning,” I say.311

“Maybe for you,” snarls Mr. Perlin. “This man has just informed me that the mobs outside are only getting bigger. People are starting to die of exhaustion.”312

“He’s working as fast as he can, Roger,” says Carl, ever the peacemaker. I imagine that if Carl were given a sword, he would probably feel compelled to beat it into a ploughshare.313

“That isn’t good enough,” interjects Gina, having followed me from my room, “if these people don’t get some sleep soon, we’re going to have a lot bigger problems than one mob. Why the hell doesn’t somebody talk to the kid’s mother? Don’t we have that slamming door lead to go on?”314

“Not possible,” the Kevlar-clad man remarks. “She’s in intensive care. She’d slit her wrists when we found her.”315

“Do it,” says Mr. Perlin. He points to the same plastic chair I sat in before.316

I recognizes the sounds of a flip switching, a humming computer. The electronic pad goes on my head.317

“Doesn’t he need, like, VR gloves or something?” inquires the gun-toting gentleman.318

“Shut up,” says Gina.319

“Three.” Carl’s gentle hands on the back of my head.320

“If he dies in there, does he die for real?” asks the guard.321

“Two.” The distant shouting of the crowd outside.322

“Pretty much,” says Gina. “He’ll go into a coma and he won’t come out.”323

“One.” Tara’s beautiful face.324

I escape.325

~0~326

Quinn could smell the ancient wood before he even opened his eyes.327

When he did, the lighting was dim and pleasant, comforting and almost sensual. The room was very small, but not cramped. It was cozy almost like the pillow forts he could remember building as a child. Five rows of pews stretched in front of him on either side, while at the end of the wooden seats was an ornate stained glass depiction of the sermon on the mount. Christ looked especially serene.328

Kneeling in the third row, her hands pressed to her face in prayer, was a young girl.329

“Hello,” said Quinn.330

“Shhh,” said Tara.331

He walked to her, feeling the perfectly smooth wood run along his hand as he strode, careful that his steps didn’t make too much noise. 332

Quinn sat next to her, and waited in silence. Perhaps for a few minutes, perhaps for an hour.333

“OK, done,” she said, scootching up to sit next to him.334

“What did you pray for?” asked Quinn, genuinely curious.335

“To wake up,” she replied flatly. Then she added: 336

“I knew you’d be back. I missed you. A little.”337

“Thank you,” he responded.338

“I only said a little.”339

“Oh.” More quiet. Quinn realized he could hear organ music playing softly in the distance, but he saw no instrument.340

“That doesn’t look fun.” Tara pointed to his containment suit, which Quinn suddenly realized he was still wearing. “Is there anything under it?” Quinn blushed. 341

“Yeah. I just can’t take it off.” Tara shook her head.342

“This is a dream. You can do anything you want.”343

“But this is your dream, not mine.”344

“Not really. I guess it’s both of ours now… Wish it away.”345

Curious to see whether she was right, Quinn closed his eyes. Focusing his mind, Quinn imagined the suit dissolving, slipping off of him and into the ether of his subconscious…346

“Cool!” exclaimed Tara. He opened his eyes. The suit was gone.347

“It just kind of melted,” she pointed out. “But why were you wearing it?”348

“I… Uh. I did something bad, so they made me wear it so I can’t get away. Sort of like jail.” Quinn would have had trouble explaining his assassination of the president to a sophisticated adult, let alone Tara.349

“What did you do that was bad?” He decided to spit it out.350

“I killed someone. A few people, actually.” Tara snorted. For a moment, she was quiet.351

“Was it someone bad?” Apparently, he hadn’t wrecked her fragile and innocent mind.352

“The one I really meant to was. Very bad.” 353

“OK. Well, you know what you’ve got to do, don’t you?” Quinn shook his head.354

Tara pressed his hands together into the shape of a steeple. She reached up, and he felt her small hand push his head down so it touched the back of the next pew. Quinn smiled.355

“I only know one prayer.”356

“So say that one.”357

Quinn closed his eyes.358

“God… Grant me the serenity…” He had always liked that concept. Serenity seemed like a mixture of happiness and peace, two emotions that were both wonderful and completely alien to him.359

“Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference.” Quinn stopped, realizing that his problem tended to be that he did know the difference. Shooting the president took a lot of courage, but very little wisdom.360

“Living one day at a time; enjoying one moment at a time; accepting hardships as the pathway to peace…” Quinn remembered the camps. And the bullets. And the furnaces, drawer after drawer, dead eye after dead eye peering into his mangled soul…361

“Taking, as He did, this sinful world as it is, not as I would have it…” Quinn couldn’t go on. Tara was smiling.362

“You’re crying,” she observed. He wiped his face.363

“I don’t cry,” he claimed.364

“Well, I think that should be good enough for Him, even if you didn’t get all the way through. He’s not picky. Or at least, that’s what mom always said.” Quinn chuckled.365

“So why did you kill them?”366

“…I got angry. I let go.”367

“That’s bad.”368

“So why a church, anyway?”369

“Dunno,” Tara began, “I always liked going with my mom. It was quiet. And nobody noticed me as long as I sat in the back.” He pitied her: The celebrity status had undoubtedly brought more trouble to her young life than good.370

“I know what that’s like,” Quinn added.371

“I didn’t always get what they were saying, but I like the stories. I think I sort of know what He was going through.” Quinn laughed. Coming from anyone else, it would have been pretentious and offensive. Coming from Tara, it just felt like the truth.372

For a while, they just listened to the organ music. It was a sort of amalgam of comforting hymns and songs, a pretty melting pot of tunes ranging from “Amazing Grace” to “Jingle Bells”.373

“We’re running out of time,” Quinn interjected, breaking the quiet. “People are very tired. They’ll start dying soon.” Tara shook her head.374

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do,” she pinched herself, for emphasis. “I do want to wake up...” Quinn was at a loss for words.375

“Although I guess I could get used to it. No cold winters here, and I kind of like how this version of me doesn’t get pimples,” Tara remarked. Quinn smiled.376

“You look nice too,” she continued. “Your hair is very neat, I like how your fingernails are so short.”377

“They made us cut them in prison.”378

“Oh.”379

Finally:380

“Is there anything you can think of? Anything that might help?”381

Tara thought for a moment.382

“It’s hard. Like the way you can’t remember a dream when you’re awake. Maybe you should talk to my therapist. My mom said it was good for me. Every other week-”383

~0~384

“God damn machine!”385

It is unsettling to hear Carl swear as the haze of the dream wears off.386

“What happened? What’s wrong?” Mr. Perlin is frantic. An assistant has rushed in, and seems to be fiddling with the interior of one of the monolithic machines that was attached to me via the electronic pad.387

“I can’t get a connection without it. The link just cut out,” explains Carl. I stand up. Why is this happening? Why now?388

“Probably took on too much stress,” says Carl, pointing to the device. “He can only stay in there for so long.”389

“She mentioned something about having a psychiatrist,” I put in. “That could be useful.”390

“Get him out of here!” storms Mr. Perlin. Gina grabs me by the arm, dragging me into the hallway.391

“If I find out you had anything to do with this…” she accuses, still pulling me along.392

“Why would I want to sabotage this?” She scowls, opening the door to my room.393

“I have no idea. I’m not a psycho. I didn’t kill Ryan Ackerman.” Gina pushes me in.394

“Ryan Ackerman was a tyrant.”395

“Ryan Ackerman was the president.” She locks the door. 396

I walk to my window. The crowd is monstrous, and now the signs are different.397

“We’re not Tara’s slaves!”398

“KILL THE GIRL”399

“KILL TARA BROWN”400

“Death to psychics!”401

“PUT ELLISON IN THE ELECTRIC CHAIR WHERE HE BELONGS”402

“KILL BROWN”403

“No more psychs!”404

I lie down on my bed.405

~0~406

“God grant me the serenity 407

to accept the things I cannot change; 408

courage to change the things I can;409

and wisdom to know the difference.”410

Over and over again he repeats it, fusing it into his brain like a trained animal. He runs. Running from the police, from the military, from the secret service. From himself.411

The night is pitch black and ice cold. It will be another hour before they find the President’s body, the blood seeping out of his forehead and into the plush carpeting of the oval office. But Quinn doesn’t like taking chances. The gun is still tucked neatly into his black winter coat.412

Leaping through traffic, bounding over bushes and pushing passersby out of the way, he struggles to get to the “safe zone”. Of course, the safe zone is only a bar, but The Phoenix Tavern is far beyond the area any federal agents will look for an assassin. To pedestrians, Quinn is just a man eager for a drink. To himself, Quinn is a murderer on the lam.413

Panting and heaving, Quinn pushes the door open, bringing in the biting winter air with him and attracting a dozen suspicious stares. In the corner of his eye, Quinn can see Bradley beckoning, a drink in hand, a stupid grin on his face.414

“Glad you could make it.” Quinn pulls up a chair, still wearing his coat and completely disregarding the server’s attempts to seat him.415

“It’s done,” he remarks.416

“Well, it’s a damn good thing we got something right tonight.” Bradley takes another swig of his liquor, clearly drunk. 417

“What do you mean?” Quinn catches his breath.418

“You didn’t hear about San Diego?”419

“No.” Bradley puts his drink down.420

“It went up in smoke, buddy. That op is finished.”421

“What?” Quinn leans in.422

“Apparently Uncle Sam decided it was a military target. All our guys were there, so I guess that means no more Sons of Liberty.” Bradley drinks. Quinn stares.423

“No.”424

“Oh chill out, Quinn. You always were so melodramatic. We did what we could, that’s what’s important. So what if our guys are dead. It was a fun ride while it lasted.”425

Quinn breathes in.426

And breathes out.427

“Look, you killed the president. Nice job planning that. Give yourself a pat on the back for that one. But I told you. It’s not that simple. There’s some things you just can’t blow up, can’t end by shooting somebody in the back of the head.”428

Quinn grips the edge of the table.429

“…The snake. I cut off the head to kill the snake. Ackerman is dead. That means-”430

“That means jackshit, pal. It means they replace him with somebody a little nicer, and America is really sad for a while, and then they all go back to buying crap and masturbating and killing each other. That’s the way it always is. That’s the way it will always be.”431

Now his heart is pounding. Now he’s starting to understand. Don’t forget The First Rule.432

“Why the hell are you taking this so well?” Bradley laughs. He actually laughs.433

“Please. You were just about the only person who couldn’t figure it out from the beginning. The only one who couldn’t see that in the end, it would all be for nothing. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I was happy to play along, it sure beat sitting around and watching people get executed on the evening news. But I knew I was just playing soldiers. You didn’t.”434

The tavern is growing blurry, fading in and out with every heartbeat, going in and out of focus like a poorly tuned TV.435

“You know I went down to Lincoln Camp the other day, where we did one of our big ‘liberations’?” Bradley makes lazy quotes in the air with his fingers. “The place is a crater, Quinn. They’ve got it listed for ‘munitions testing’. What America wants, she gets. And she wants us dead. Probably won’t be too long before she gets us, too.”436

“Stop.”437

Quinn can feel the rage growing inside of him, scraping his insides like a hungry wolf. Ballooning and ready to burst. 438

“You got to play the hero. I’m sure that was nice for you. I mean, you were the one who always talked about freedom and the American dream and all that bullshit.”439

TheFirstRuleTheFirstRuleTheFirstRuleTheFirstRule440

“Well congratulations, Ellison. This is it. This is your big moment. So live it up! It’s not like you should care that we’re just a couple of terrorists. Not like you should care that the population isn’t going to rise up, or rebel, or bring back some kind of fairy tale country like you’ve always wanted. Oh no, this is Quinn Ellison’s moment of glory!”441

Quinn can feel the cold metal gun hiding under his coat, calling to him, biting him with its steel jaws, seducing him with its icy trigger, telling him to feel, telling him to lose control…442

Don’tLetGoDon’tLetGoDon’tLetGoDon’tLetGo443

And Bradley stands up, drink in hand. And shouts:444

“A toast! To Quinn Ellison!”445

And Quinn lets go.446

It happens like a lightning bolt. The gun flies into Quinn’s hand, loading itself, squeezing its own trigger over and over again and spitting bullets into the back of Bradley’s neck. By the time there are screams, Quinn can’t hear them. By the time there is blood, he can’t see it. The gun is a part of him now. It is everything that he is and nothing that he isn’t. And the bullets don’t stop spraying. They keep soaring out of the gun like tiny missiles, finding their innocent targets and ending their lives with frigid precision. And when Quinn loads in clip after clip, unloading every single bullet into Alan Kaplan, into Julia Goldstein, into Tricia Naylor and all the guests of The Phoenix Tavern, black, white, old, young, rich, poor, and everything in between, it is only then that he realizes he will never be free. Not from America, not from God, not from humanity.447

It is only then that Quinn Ellison realizes he will never be free from himself.448

~0~449

I disclose something to you now that I have never disclosed to anyone:450

I hate dreams. Strange, I know. Ironic, given my situation.451

I don’t like the idea that my subconscious is creating fantasies I’m not in control of. Dreams force me to confront what I don’t want to, they are a hidden part of my mind telling me to feel, regardless of my opinion. And I can never remember them.452

I don’t know what woke me, but it must be the middle of the night. I can hear the crowd roaring outside, perhaps a thousand angry souls on their fourth night without sleep. I pity them. And in the distance, I can hear talking…453

“Where’d the cop go?” Gina.454

“I sent him out to search Ms. Brown’s apartment,” Mr. Perlin. “I’m hoping he can get the name of that therapist. And ‘the cop’ is named Officer Vaughan, by the way.”455

“Whatever. He gives me the creeps. I don’t know why anybody would need to carry that huge gun around all the time.”456

Wrapping the pillow around my ears, I return to my slumber.457

~0~458

“Alice Holmes, a waitress and restaurant manager from the Lower West Side, was found dead in her café after being brutally murdered by known terrorist, Quinn Ellison. She was covered in scratch marks.”459

“You look nice too,” she continued. “Your hair is very neat, I like how your fingernails are so short.”460

“They made us cut them in prison.”461

“Oh.”462

“Not possible,” the Kevlar-clad man remarks. “She’s in intensive care. She’d slit her wrists when we found her.”463

Wait.464

Quinn recognized the explosive patterns as sound waves, but the noise was neither the cacophony of an explosion nor the whine of a traveling firework: It was the sound of a slamming door.465

“Carl, please.”466

“So what are you afraid of?”467

Tricia Naylor-468

~0~469

“Showtime, Mr. Sleepwalker.”470

Carl towers over me, his hand extended. I take it, and he pulls me out of bed.471

“It’s now or never. They’re saying any minute that crowd is going to break down those doors and bust in here, so we’ve got to move.”472

The night is still black, but the moon is just beginning to creep over the horizon. I would be unable to see the faces of the crowd, were it not for all the torches. It seems as though the mob has grown tired of signs and traded them in for guns and flaming weapons. A more classic approach, I suppose.473

Carl pulls me along, down the hallway made of fake-plastic-onyx and into the Central Hub. I can hear gunshots. I can hear them banging on the doors. Gina bursts in.474

“We don’t have enough manpower to keep them away! The doors won’t hold much longer!”475

Mr. Perlin steps out from behind a computer console.476

“For God’s sake, get him in there!” Gina pushes me into the plastic chair, attaching the electronic pad. I hear a loud, steady pounding coming from outside.477

“This is the end,” whispers Carl. He places his hands on the back of my head.478

“Three.” The flip of the switch.479

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Officer Vaughan burst in. He seems to be shouting something.480

“Two.” The deafening roar of the mob ready to kill me. Ready to kill Tara.481

“NAYLOR! THE THERAPIST’S NAME WAS CARL NAYLOR!”482

“One!”483

The machine sputters and sparks. The hum stops. The lights blow out.484

“Damn it!” Gina screams. The doors burst open.485

The mob flows in, firing bullet after bullet, first into Gina, and then into Tara, and then into me. Piercing me, tearing through me, through my chest and my legs. And I can feel myself crumpling, my blood pouring out of me as though I were a sponge filled with water, my body hitting the floor and ruining the fake-plastic-onyx. And the lights begin to dim, and the sounds begin to drown out as member after of the sleepless, angry, blood-lusting mob tramples over me, destroying the equipment, snapping Tara’s neck.486

And I can feel the life leaking out of me, taking me away, bringing me to serenity…487

And I know this is the death that I deserve.488

But then I see something.489

It’s Tara’s face.490

There are no pimples.491

“This is a dream. You can do anything you want.”492

And her lips. Her bloody lips just barely start to move…493

“Wish… It… Away…”494

I close my eyes, but I stop fading. I open my mouth, but no blood comes out. And I focus. And I try…495

And the bullet holes are gone.496

y o u b a s t a r d497

I can hear someone speaking. A voice in my head, a voice that isn’t mine. A very angry voice. I pull myself up. My legs are solid. My chest is fine.498

y o u t o o k h e r a w a y f r o m me499

With all of my might, with whatever feeble mental power I may have, I push the mob out. I dissolve them. They melt away, and so do Gina and Officer Vaughan and Mr. Perlin. And Tara’s neck snaps back into place, and she sucks in air as though she’d been under water.500

n o w y o u h a v e t o d i e501

“Quinn, it’s him! This is his dream!” Tara calls out, pulling the wires and monitoring devices off of herself and getting up from the table.502

M O N S T E R503

And Carl is standing there, suddenly. And the room goes blank. Like a dead channel. Perfect white, as far as the eye can see.504

“You’re Carl Naylor.”505

“And you’re Quinn Ellison.”506

“You did this. You put Tara to sleep, just like you’ve been putting me to sleep, just like you put Alice Holmes to sleep so you could murder her.”507

“Please, Quinn. You of all people should no we have certain urges we just can’t control. I just wasn’t stupid enough to take them out on the President of the United States.”508

Bullets fly out of the ether, this time ripping through my arm. Now I know how Gina feels. The pain is deafening.509

! ! ! W I S H T H E M A W A Y ! ! !510

“SHUT UP!” screams Carl, “I sent you out for a reason, little girl!”511

I concentrate. The bullets are gone.512

But now we’re back in the Hub.513

“Don’t let him!” Carl pulls a gun from his pocket.514

He aims it at Tara. I lunge, pushing him out of the way, feeling the force of the impact as it takes us both to the ground.515

“Why?”516

“Because you killed her. You killed my Tricia.”517

“But why all this?”518

“Because it was the only way I could get to you.” He grits his teeth.519

“Once I figured that out, it was just about getting to the girl and using her as an amplifier for my own little tricks. Not that it matters.”520

He pushes me off…521

And now we are in Tara’s city, filled with buildings, gleaming and ethereal, but not beautiful. The buildings are exploding. The fountain is spurting blood. And the white bird is a black monster, huge teeth ripping through the blood red sky.522

! ! ! D I E ! ! !523

The monster dives for me, enormous claws outstretched and ready to embrace me and slice me to ribbons, ready to eviscerate me…524

No.525

This is not how I will die.526

“Face me, Carl.”527

The city melts.528

“Fine.”529

The church. The pews. I stand in the back. He stands in front, silhouetted by the stained glass.530

“It’s really a shame I had to wait this long, but I knew if the crowd burst in here it wouldn’t look like I did it. Just the way it looked when Tara’s poor old mom slit her own wrists.”531

This man is making me angry.532

“Of course I couldn’t let her live, it wouldn’t have taken them very long to put two and two together and figure out she was paying some ‘dream therapist’ to come in and fix her mental shit for her. Not that Tara ever knew, she was always asleep by the time I got there.” He grins.533

“Still, I don’t regret taking the time. It also didn’t hurt that I got to watch your dreams while you were dreaming ‘em. All that touchy feely crap was cute, but it did serve a purpose, you know. Wanna see?”534

I try to materialize a gun, but I’m not fast enough. The church dissolves like paint and I’m… I’m…535

Oh no.536

I know this. I know-537

~0~538

Quinn knew the place, recognized it like he could recognize some hideous spider in real life. The room was huge, and black. Pitch black. 539

To all sides of him were furnaces.540

“Have fun…”541

The drawers swung open, and out crawled his nightmares. Hideous and charred, dead but breathing, millions of them reaching out for him, their infant teeth razor sharp and their eyes all crimson. Quinn staggered back, only to feel something grab his foot. He was being buried. They were crawling up him, sinking their teeth into him-542

! ! ! N O ! ! !543

“Quinn you can’t distance yourself, you have to be there, you can’t escape, you can’t get afraid, you have to face it, you have to get mad, Quinn…” Tara…544

They were crawling on him… On me… But I throw them off. I wave them away.545

“Quinn, he can only win if you stop caring, you have to use your anger against him, you have to let go…” And I focus. But then I stop. Because I realize this isn’t the time to focus. This isn’t the time for logic, or rationality, or anything else.546

I can feel the hate. The wrath. Seething inside me, bubbling up like it will snake out of my mouth and kill him. And that’s exactly what I want. I want to fucking kill him. I want him to die. And I don’t fucking care how angry I get because he’s not going to win. He’s not going to kill Tara. Because I won’t let him.547

“It’s working…”548

And she’s right, because we’re back in the Hub. And there he is, standing, no gun, no monsters, no fucking dead babies to come attack me. And he’s completely powerless. And completely surprised. He looks around.549

“Quinn… Calm down. Think about this. You don’t want to kill me. Look what happened the last time you killed somebody. It’s never good.”550

“Shut up, Carl.” I make myself a gun. He’s desperate, like an insect, a rat trapped in a maze.551

! ! ! s t o p i t ! ! !552

No.553

He’s furious. He tries to escape, but he can’t. Because he’s trapped. By me, and by Tara. And I aim for his head.554

“This is my dream, sleepwalker! MY DREAM!!!”555

And I say:556

“Not anymore.”557

And I fire.558

~0~559

Sunlight.560

That is the first thing I notice. Light pouring in from the windows, bringing in the morning. Then I notice the noise. No banging on the doors, no roaring crowd. Just a strange noise, like bees buzzing. I get up from my plastic chair and turn around.561

In front of me is a heap of bodies, all living, almost all snoring. I can’t help but laugh at the throng, guards and protestors alike, heaped together, Mr. Perlin on top of them, all of them dreaming, about love and death and war and power and money and magic and all sorts of beautiful things. But then I see a door open.562

Gina staggers out, shaking, still clutching her gun, tears pouring down her face from exhaustion. She stares at me.563

“You… You did this?” She looks at the heap. I shake my head.564

“You… You…” She aims her gun at me. But then she sees behind me, and faints, landing on top of Mr. Perlin.565

“None of them are having bad dreams,” says Tara, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.566

“That’s good,” I say.567

“You’re crying,” she observes. I laugh, and wipe my face.568

“I don’t cry,” I lie. And she laughs.569

I see Carl, on the floor. He looks very pale.570

“I’ll take care of him.” And she looks at me. She looks into me, with her big brown eyes.571

“Thank you, Quinn.”572

“You’re welcome,” I reply.573

“I’d like to give you something.” She waves her hand, and I hear a strange beeping. I look down at my containment suit. It turns black, then white, then black again. It slides off.574

“Thank you.” She nods.575

“Go.”576

As I walk out of The Merrick Research Center, I see the sleeping crowds, businessmen asleep in their cars, salespeople asleep at their desks, waitress asleep with their customers. And I laugh. I can feel the breeze on my flesh, a breeze I haven’t felt in three years. And I can see the big yellow sun in the sky, and I feel the serenity wash over me.577

Freedom.578

What does it mean to be free? 579

I don’t think I know. I don’t think I’ve ever known, my entire life.580

But I’m about to find out.581