Dream Chasers (Dystopian Scifi Series Book 1) (5 page)

Voices hammered around in his
head, calling for him to wake up, to stop whatever he was doing. The desperation
in the calling voices was noteworthy, something Peter’s brain had registered
even before consciousness had taken hold. His eyes were closed, and even though
a part of himself told him to open his eyes, he knew it wasn’t possible, just
knew it. His whole head felt like a heavy, burning rock. His vision behind
closed eyelids was of colorful dots: pink, yellow, green, and every color
imaginable, all flickering around him, sparking and exploding brightly, like
fireworks up close. He could smell something burning nearby, thick, black
smoke. Maybe it was a house … something big … he could hear the roof collapsing
inward, destroying all the contents inside in a loud smack. The voices around
him danced, asking him to wake up, demanding that he do so before consequences
kicked in.

What consequences? Peter
thought. It was the first thought to make it through his brain in clarity, like
cold water on a hot forehead. He tried opening his eyes and failed. He felt hot
liquid sliding down his nose and realized it was blood, a lot of it, spilling
in droves down his nose and lips and chin. And then he remembered where he was
and where he had been. He had successfully infiltrated someone else’s dream, a
man called Noni Makaratzi, a worker at … at … some tall building in Upper City.
The images were still drifting around his memory, vaguely, bright spots of
color appearing and disappearing, only to come back when he mustered enough
willpower. Blood from his nose trickled into his lips, his mouth filling with
red, hot liquid that tasted of matured wine, the dry and bitter kind. The urge
to cough the blood from his mouth consumed his thoughts. He had to do it now or
die the worst way possible – drowning and gargling in a mouth full of hot blood.

Open your eyes, a thought told
him, or maybe it was someone else. Open your eyes, a thought said again, and
this time he knew it wasn’t his own but someone else’s. The voices around him
urged – screamed – for him to wake up, or else … he was going to die. The
voices were muffled in distant sound, and it reminded Peter of having his ears
under a heavy pillow. Or maybe that’s because something was pressing on his
face, squeezing his nose inward.

Was something wiping the blood
away from his face?

No, that something was a hand
squeezing his throat. He couldn’t breathe. Air turned into thorns, the big,
sharp ones, which trundled up his throat, scraping the insides. He needed
water. Something to make the dryness in his throat go away. And he was in luck
– warm blood spilled down his throat, coating the inside muscles like chocolate
spread on cake.

‘Open eyes or die!’ a voice
screamed next to his ear. The screaming holler awoke color in Peter’s dark
mind. First, there was a single white dot idling in his black vision, far on
the horizon of nothingness. Second, the white dot exploded in size, turning
from a dot to the size of a house. Then, whiteness overwhelmed his dark vision,
shunning every bit of dark shadow until there was nothing but bright white.

Peter woke up. He opened his
eyes and jerked forward. While coughing for fresh air, he noticed the pool of
blood on his lap. Please let it be not my own, he thought. Please fucking
please. Fucking please.

‘Inject him with the sedative,’
Midori Kuro said, standing under a dim, bronze light, the dragon tattoo on his
arm alive. The dragon spewed a listless fog from its mouth, and the listless
fog twirled around Midori’s arm. There was evil in the room, and Midori was it.
How could a tattoo be alive? Peter thought. Something like that wasn’t
possible. Or maybe he was seeing things. Yes, this must’ve been the case.

He woke up strapped onto an
upright bed. He could breathe like a normal person, and for that he was
grateful. The heaviness in his head was no more. The blood on his clothes gone
(the pool of blood on his lap, gone). Unfortunately, gratefulness was short-lived.

The men had taken off their
black coats and were playing basketball on the court, and by the look of them,
they’ve been playing for some time. Their faces drenched in sweat, having a lot
of fun. And here he was, Peter thought, strapped on a bed, wishing he had never
come here. He looked up at the ceiling of the retired gymnasium and heard rain
falling, and that’s what he thought until he saw the ventilations, which were
making a clattering noise. Peter was deep in thought, trying to understand and
remember what had happened. A voice spoke next to him. He looked to his side,
startled. It was
him
, the homeless guy whose dreams he’d infiltrated. The
realization made Peter choke for words.

‘You are …’ Peter said. The
homeless man had his face caked in dirt. Curly hairs hung over his face like
snakes’ dead skin. His eyes were barely open, a bit dazed, trying to locate the
voice that was speaking to him. ‘But,’ Peter said, ‘you look so different now.
Your name is Noni Makaratzi.’

Homeless looked up – his turn
to be startled. He was looking at Peter as if he were a ghost. ‘How do you know
my—’ Homeless sneezed snot over his chin. He shook his head a few times and
studied Peter. ‘You saw my dreams. You saw my past. Didn’t you?’ Before Peter
could answer, Homeless shook his head again and sneezed. ‘My name is not Noni.
I am not him, not.’

Peter forgot about everything
around him: the fact that he was strapped in a bed, his friend who had been
shot, the Yaramati gang members playing basketball, and the painful excitement
of him Dream Chasing for the first time.

‘Then who are you?’ Peter
asked.

Homeless Man shut his lips and
chewed on them like a giraffe chewing on leaves. He cocked his chin down and
smeared his nose on his tattered shirt. Satisfied that the mucus was gone – the
other line of mucus already crusting on his chin – he raised his eyebrows.
‘Don’t suppose your Asian friend has any more of that white stuff? You know,
right? The good stuff. Makes you feel good.’

Ohko was long dead, a forgotten
memory, or maybe a memory forced away for later inspection. ‘No. No I don’t
have any more of that stuff.’ It was clear that Homeless wasn’t in the best
frame of mind. Maybe they had done something to him as well, but Peter knew it
was his fault, because he was the one who had infiltrated his mind and dreams,
and in the dreams he saw the real Noni Makaratzi, not the man sitting here in
front of him.

Doors clapped open. Footsteps
approached. Peter tried looking over his shoulder, but there was no point –
they were already behind him, a fresh batch of men wearing black coats and
automatic weapons.

‘Glad to see you awake,’ Midori
said. He had a different shirt on, another white, but this one was different
because it had a logo with the letters
T.K.M
in black on the right side
of his chest. His hair appeared glossier as well, black with white reflected
lines. Maybe he had a shower, Peter thought, or maybe he’d killed someone and
had to change his shirt.

Midori walked around the
upright bed and tapped his fingers on the steel. ‘You didn’t die. Good.’

‘Am I free to go?’ Peter asked.
The casualness in his voice must’ve been really funny for these guys. Everyone
burst out laughing, except Midori, who was smiling. He glanced over his
shoulder and asked, ‘What do you guys think? Shall we let the man go?’

‘Not when he’s our ticket to
power,’ someone said from behind.

Ticket to power? He looked at
Homeless, who had no fucking idea what was going on, probably still wanting the
white powder. ‘What’s going on?’

Midori made his way around the
Dream Infiltrator. He waved two fingers in the air, in an inward gesture, and a
man approached holding an expensive looking black case. Midori took it without
looking at the man, and the man bowed and walked away. ‘Peter, oh Peter.’ He
pulled a chair closer, legs screaming. He sat down, laid the black case on his
lap, and touched Peter’s knee. ‘I’m afraid you’re Yaramati’s property now. And
no one, I mean no one, messes with Yaramati’s property.’

Peter felt the pressure on his
knee disappear. He was trying to understand what was going on, and he had a
pretty good idea already. Damn you, Ohko, Peter thought. Why did you bring me
here? He also thought about his mother, who he was supposed to see that day.
She was probably at the train station right now, looking around with a broken
heart for her only son.

‘You must still be confused,’
Midori said, staring at the case on his lap. He reached for it and gently
stroked it. ‘Let me assure you that no harm will come over you.’

‘Tell me what’s going on.’
Peter looked to his side and saw eyes staring at him. Those weren’t caring
eyes; those were abiding eyes.

‘Do you know what a farm is,
Peter?’ Midori clicked the latches on the case.

‘I want to—’

‘Excuse me,’ Homeless said,
scratching his chin on his chest. ‘I need a go, you know.’ Laughter came from
the men with the machine guns. Homeless laughed with them, and returned his
focus to Midori. ‘I need the toilet. Think I’m going to, if I don’t.’

Midori looked at two of his
men, who had their coats open and hands in their pockets. ‘Escort our guest.
You know what to do.’

With faces devoid of
expression, they nodded and made their way over. They began untying the ropes
from Homeless.

For some odd reason, Peter felt
his chest constricted. His breathing quickened. He heard laughter in the
background, but maybe that was in his mind. They were going to kill the man.
They were going to take him out somewhere and shoot him in the head. No, Peter
thought. ‘What are you going to do with him?’

‘Thanks,’ Homeless said,
rubbing his freed wrist. ‘My head’s still a little woozy. Think I’m going to
throw up, you know. Need to get out.’

Midori smiled at him.

‘No, wait.’ They started
escorting Homeless past them. ‘I said wait!’ Peter screamed. That made them
stop, and that made Midori look. ‘Where are you taking him? You are going to
kill him, aren’t you?’

Homeless looked at his
escorting partners, questioning them with his eyes. Surely they wouldn’t do
such a thing to a man who needs the toilet? Homeless must’ve been thinking.

‘Why don’t you lower your
voice,’ Midori said, eyes locked on Peter. Midori pointed at Homeless while
keeping his gaze locked. ‘What we do with him doesn’t concern you.’ They began
escorting Homeless again.

‘Wait!’ Peter yelled. He knew
he was playing with danger, but a part of him believed that he had some
leverage over these men, especially after Midori had said something about him
being property of the Yaramati. Peter was going to play his trump card: ‘If you
kill him, I won’t do shit for you, and – and I mean that.’

For the first time Peter saw
concern break over Midori’s face, which didn’t last long. Midori stood up. The
metal chair whined. He gently laid the black case on the chair, and that’s when
his whole body jerked with movement. He made his way to Homeless, ripped him
from the escorts, and pulled the pistol from his waist. He pressed the tip of
the steel against Homeless’s neck. This was not the Midori from a moment ago.
Peter saw a vague image in his mind, an image of Midori’s dragon tattoo coming
alive, smoke drifting around his arm.

‘Here is your first lesson
about the Yaramati.’ Midori pushed Homeless away, hard enough for Homeless to
stumble over his feet and fall to the ground.

A part of Homeless must’ve
known, a deep part inside. ‘Wait – my name’s Noni Makaratzi. I can help with the—’
Midori fired his pistol three times:
clap! clap! clap!
Three bullets
spilled into Noni’s forehead. One went all the way through his skull – spilling
blood and cracked bone away from his head. The other two bullets stayed in his
skull. Noni’s head fell on the ground. A snap. Breaking parts. It didn’t take
long for blood to paint the floor in a wave.

The men standing behind
Midori’s stretched arm were finding this hilarious. They were chanting:
Ma
name is
– they waved their hands around like scared girls –
Ma name is
Already Dead
. Midori, however, the man who had shot someone without
flinching an eyebrow, smiled humbly. He lowered his arm, got out a napkin, and
wiped the gun’s nose and trigger.

Peter had the urge to retaliate
with words, but what was the point? He could scream all he want, protest, tell
Midori what he’d done was cruel, but what the fuck was the point? He was bound
against the Dream Infiltrator, unable to move his arms and legs. Screaming
would only waste energy. Peter took a deep breath, let it swirl around his
stomach, let it cool the hurtful emotions, and released the air through his
nose, a long and frustrated exhale. ‘Why did you kill him? What was the point?’

Midori waved his two fingers in
the air. The men behind trickled away, some leaving the building, some going to
the hoops to play a round of basketball. When it was just the three of them,
one being the dead Noni Makaratzi (his face barely recognizable, glazed in
blood), Midori reached for the three-legged chair and screeched forward.

‘There’s a saying,’ Midori
said. ‘Action speaks louder than words. I just showed you an action. The
Yaramati shows, don’t tell. Words are hallow trunks invested with woodworms.
And I hope, truly hope, that you understand me when I say—’

Peter knew it was a mistake but
did it anyway. He spat – a slimy, warm yellow that came from deep inside his
throat – on Midori’s face. Peter wasn’t a spitting person, had never done
something like this before.

There’s a first time for
everything
, a voice cackled in his head, which sounded
like an old dying woman.

Midori fished the napkin from
his back pocket, the same one he had used to clean the gun. While wiping the
dripping gunk from his cheek, his right eye twitched like one of those angry
characters in a cartoon show. Peter saw that some of his saliva (more mucus
than water) had landed on the side of Midori’s lips. In fact, now that he was
looking a little closer, he could see that a lot of his saliva had landed everywhere
like a shrapnel bomb.

‘That’s for killing my friend
and the homeless man,’ Peter said, trying to act overconfident, because only
overconfidence could mask what he’d done, to make what he’d done seem a little
less. He knew he wasn’t in the best place to bargain. Peter saw Midori look at
his gun and felt a new level of fear build inside of him. It was a special type
of fear only the unlucky ever got to experience. The fear was devoid of color,
not even black, and it made a person think he or she only had a few seconds to
live. Peter had to say something, and he said something stupid: ‘Let me go and
I won’t tell anyone.’

Stupidity paid off. Midori
threw the snot covered napkin onto the ground and broke a smile. The chair
screeched a little closer. He grabbed both Peter’s knees. His grip felt like a robot’s
hand, a rotary machine holding an object firmly, and it was tightening. ‘What
makes you think you’d ever leave, boy? I’ve already told you, haven’t I? You are
property of the Yaramati. And there’s no leaving, not until you’re dead.’

In the background, a ball
bounced around and fell through hoops. Voices, enthusiastic ones, shouted for
the ball, urging for team play.

Peter saw a vivid image in his
head, a strange one. He didn’t watch much TV, but he’d once seen a documentary
on Western farm animals, something titled
Animals R Us
, and they showed
how cows were squeezed into a pen and hooked up onto these long, spaghetti-like
tubes that were used to extract milk – at lightning speed, and the machines
made a loud gurgling sound, like an old truck trying to start up in winter.  

Peter was the cow. The
gymnasium was that pen. Everything made sense.

Midori ran his hand down his
slicked hair. He had his composure in check again. He reached for the floor and
picked up the black case. The case was a glossy black and no bigger than a
spectacle holder. Midori rubbed his hand across the shiny leather, looking at
it as if it were an item from god.

‘I still need to show you
what’s inside, Peter.’

For all Peter cared, he could
throw the case away. Peter looked away and at Homeless’s body, or Noni
Makaratzi as he was once called. The blood from Noni’s face had made its way
down to his knees, where the pool of red glimmered under the gymnasium’s dim
lights. Peter had wanted him to stay alive, because he’d seen Noni’s dreams,
had seen him in the tall building where he’d received his promotion up the
ladder. Peter was going to ask the man a question: what’d happened? Because in
the dream, Noni was a healthy, promising man, who seemed to have a lot of
potential. He wasn’t supposed to be in the Lower Part of the city, especially a
homeless man; he was supposed to be living in Upper City, working for an
important company. What’d happened? Was it something to do with his father?
Because the last question Noni had asked in the dream was of his father, that
if he could come over to Upper City as well. The boss man had said yes, he
could, so how did Noni end up homeless? Did his father not want to come over?
Did it force Noni to stay in Lower City? Maybe, a big maybe. But these things
did not matter anymore. His mind and eyes were too occupied by what’d happened
not too long ago. His friend, Ohko, shot in the head. Noni Makaratzi, the man
whose dreams he’d infiltrated, shot in the head three times:
clap! clap!
clap!
And what were the men in black coats doing now? They were shooting
hoops, running around like teenagers on a high school playground.