Lucid Dreaming (6 page)

I tried taking his hands. “It's okay, Teddy, it's over—”

Nothing.

Have you ever watched someone you love twitch in terror in their sleep? This was like that, only ten times worse. He kept screaming and crying, and I didn't know what to do. I tried a light slap, but he just howled more.

I couldn't stand this. My mind was racing furiously. How could I get him out of this?

Of course.
Prolixin
.

I knew it probably wouldn't help this nightmare—it needed a couple of days to really kick in—but it would stop this from happening again. So I cradled him until it was over, crying with him, rocking him gently. Then I slid two of the pills into his mouth and made him drink some bottled water.

Since we weren't in any big hurry, I decided to hole up in Kingman for a few days. I would have preferred somewhere else, but I thought being in a quiet, comfortable place would make the transition back to sanity easier for Teddy. I found us a decent three-bedroom up on a hill, with a little (dying) garden and nice furniture, and we moved in.

The
Prolixin
worked. Teddy actually slept through the night, which was new because the people who had the dream sickness didn't really sleep.

He woke up the next morning, not long after dawn. He was groggy, but fairly lucid. I told him where we were, and why we were there, and where we were going. He kind of nodded, then drifted away.

I spent the day just goofing around. Exploring the house. Eating. Drinking. Reading.

It was late afternoon, and I was cooking up a box of macaroni and cheese I'd found in the kitchen when Teddy shambled in. I took one look at him and knew he wasn't dreaming.

“Hi,” I said cautiously.

He sat down at the kitchen table. He was frowning, and trying to remember.

“Do you know where we are?” I asked.

He nodded. “You told me this morning, right?”

“Yeah. I wasn't sure if you'd retain it or not. I gave you some of my medication, this stuff called
Prolixin
. It seems to stop the dreaming.”

“Okay,” he said.

“How do you feel?” I asked, spooning
mac
and cheese onto a plate for him.

“I don't know. Weird.”

“Maybe this'll make you feel better.”

We ate in silence, and drank canned fruit juice.

When we were done, Teddy said, “Do we…can I take a bath?”

I nodded. “Yeah, there's enough water in this house. We can heat some of it, and—”

He cut me off. “That's okay, I don't mind.”

He picked up a five-gallon jug and started to lug it towards the nearest bathroom. I got to my feet. “Do you want help?”

“No. Let me do this.”

Uh-oh.

An hour later, Teddy emerged from the bathroom, wearing a cotton robe he'd found. He looked better (and, frankly, smelled better), but his expression was still clouded. He sat down by me on the couch. The sun had just set, and the room was lit only by the glow of a few candles I'd set up.

“You need to know who I really am,” he said.

And then he told me his story.

His name was Theodore
Wittell
, and his family had been upper middle class; they were set up nicely thanks to an import/export business that'd been started two generations ago. They had plans for Teddy to take over the business; but, unfortunately for those plans, he'd discovered at a young age that he liked to draw. His parents tried to pressure him into the family biz, but Teddy's passion was his art, and he was finally allowed to major in Fine Art at a prestigious school. Upon graduation with his Bachelor's Degree, he had several major gallery exhibitions and a coveted lead article in an influential art magazine, and he became kind of a celebrity in the art world. He was, for the first time in his life, happy. He loved being an artist, seeing people react to his paintings; he'd even been touted as “the first great African American artist of the 21st century.” He had a girlfriend he was nuts about, and figured they'd get married some day.

Then it all fell apart with the rest of the world.

The last thing Teddy remembered was sitting in his loft near downtown L.A. and listening to news reports of something called “the dream sickness.” Then everything just kind of blurred together, like snatches of half-remembered dreams. Me…the supermarket…our time together in the mansion…the drive east… waking up…

Oh Christ. I'd had nothing, and he'd had everything. We were really not an ideal match.

Teddy looked pretty glum. “I'm glad you found me, but I… this really isn't…”

“It's okay,” I told him, trying not to cry. “I'm glad you told me. And I want you to know that whatever you decide, I'm okay. If you want to split, I'll understand…”

He looked up at me sharply, then took my hands. “Oh God no, that's the last thing I want. You're my strength now.”

I choked back a little happy sob. “You could paint again, you know. We could find an art store, get whatever you need…”

Teddy shook his head. “No. What's the point? What I loved about painting was being able to share my dreams with everyone. There's no one left but you now, and you don't need any more dreams to contend with. No, that's gone. My life is gone.”

“But…there's still me…”

He did smile then, but sadly. “Yes. And that's why…I've got something to ask that'll sound crazy, and I know it's not fair to you, but…”

“What, Teddy? Anything…”

“I don't want to take any more
Prolixin
. I want to go back to dreaming all the time.”

I should have been shocked, or argued with him. But truth be told, I liked him better when he was dreaming, too. He might not be very useful, but he'd been happy, and I'd never had to worry about arguing with him, or if he'd run off with some other girl, or want me to do crystal meth with him.

He'd been the perfect boyfriend.

Teddy must have mistaken my silence for shock, when really I was thrilled. “I'm sorry. It's really selfish of me to ask—”

“No, it's not,” I answered quickly, cutting him off. “And it's okay. If that's what you want, then it's what I want, too. No more
Prolixin
.”

He smiled, and it wasn't sad this time, it was real and pleased, and I was happy to see it.

He kissed me, and then moved his lips up to my ear and told me he wanted to make love as long as he could. We did, then, by the light of the candles in that house, and at one point I blurted out that I loved him, and I think he was even still awake when he told me that he loved me, too.

It was probably the best night of my life.

When I woke up in the morning, Teddy was sitting up, watching the sand blowing outside, and murmuring about all the people at the party.

The
Prolixin
had worn off, and he was dreaming again.

And we were both happy.

We hit the road again the next day.

I'd restocked our supplies of food, water, gas and candles, and thrown in a propane cook stove. I'd even found some stores of
Prolixin
in a pharmacy, and added them to what I already had.

We headed east on the 40 again, blasting the AC during the day and singing along with whatever was in the CD player—She Wants Revenge, or Garbage, or some oldies like
Siouxsie
and the Banshees.

We crossed the state line and found ourselves in New Mexico first, then a day later Texas, heading for Amarillo. Desert gave way to flat plain with little splatters of green, and the interstate became easier to drive on, less covered in sand. I stopped the CDs long enough to scan the radio stations, just in case, but came up with zero. Texas seemed as asleep as every place else.

We hit Amarillo, and decided to do some scavenging for supplies. It was strange—there was plenty of gas to be had, but the stores here were stripped pretty clean. Even the pharmacy shelves were barren, nothing but a few bottles of rubbing alcohol and aspirin left.

God, was I stupid. That should've tipped me off, that Amarillo was stripped so clean. If I'd been thinking, I would've turned around right then and gone back. I had the road atlas, we could even have picked a different way…

Stupid. And both of us almost paid
bigtime
for that little lapse of thinking on my part.

The trouble came the next day. We spent the night in a hotel in Amarillo, then continued east on the 40 as soon as the sun was up. It was almost fall now, and the days were getting shorter. I didn't like traveling at night, so we tried to make the most of the daylight hours and be on our way not long after sunrise.

We were maybe an hour outside of Amarillo, it was a bright morning with a few streaky clouds overhead, and I was doing eighty along the asphalt.

Until I saw something up ahead.

I started to slow, and at first I thought it was a big accident of some kind, that a bunch of cars had piled up in the center of the freeway.

Then, as we got closer, I saw the cars were grouped around a big semi that was positioned almost perfectly across the highway, so that all lanes were effectively…

…
blocked
. As in roadblock.

I jammed on the brakes, and as soon as we were done screeching to a halt I slammed us into reverse.

Too late.

Two guys with guns were stepping onto the asphalt right behind us. If I kept reversing, they'd probably just shoot out the tires.

So of course you know what I did:

I floored the accelerator in reverse.

And they shot out the tires. And the rear windshield. And the entire back of the SUV. Those assholes had automatic weapons, and they just
creamed
my car.

Fucking Texas.

The SUV thudded to a stop on the two rear wheel rims, and I threw myself over Teddy because glass and shit was flying everywhere. Suddenly the front doors were jerked open, and the guys with rifles now stood on either side of the car, pointing those automatic weapons right at us.

“Get out of the car NOW!” they screamed.

“Okay, all right!” I let go of Teddy and jumped down from the driver's side.

“Get on your knees!”

I did.

“Hands behind your head!”

No screwing off with these guys. I locked my fingers at the base of my neck and tried not to imagine half-a-dozen close-range slugs burrowing through my body.

“How much
Prolixin
you got?”

That took me by enough surprise that I just gaped for a minute. “What?”

The asshole over me said, very slowly, as if talking to a child: “You're driving on the interstate, which means you're taking
Prolixin
. How much do you have?”

It all clicked together in my head: Of course. These guys were awake enough to arrange an ambush—of course they were on
Prolixin
. They were the ones who'd stripped Amarillo clean. And what better place to wait for more
Prolixin
than the main cross-country interstate?

I actually dared to look up at my captor. He was a weathered-looking guy, in his forties, with sandy hair and the beginnings of a bushy beard. He was honestly wearing a big cowboy hat. Beneath the hat, his eyes were hard.

“A lot,” I answered. “Look, you can have it all, just let us go…”

He barked a harsh laugh, then went on in that clichéd-sounding drawl. “Well, now, see, if you'd done the reasonable thing and stopped when you should've, we could've just taken your stuff and let you go. But since you made us shoot up your car, what're you gonna go
in
?”

Fuck.

“Nah, you're gonna have to come with us now,” he said.

“Hey,” called the other man from the far side of the car, “is this boy retarded or just dreaming?”

He was talking about Teddy. I leaned over and could see under the car and to the far side, where Teddy was on the pavement, curled into a trembling fetal ball.

“He is not a boy, and he is
NOT
fucking retarded,” I snarled.

“Oh, we got us a potty-mouth here,” said the guy over me.

Suddenly an incoherent yodel of joy sounded from the other side, and the second guy called out, “We hit the jackpot, Hank! They got enough
Prolixin
in here to keep an army awake!”

Hank looked down at me, squinting, and finally moved the gun slightly to the side. “Okay, get up.”

I did.

“Turn around.”

This didn't sound good. “Hey, c'mon, Hank, we can talk about this—”

Then my arms were yanked back, I felt something cold on my wrists, and there was a sharp CLICK.

I'd been handcuffed.