Poet Anderson ...Of Nightmares (9 page)

They walked into a small square office with only a desk and computer and a couple of leather chairs across from it. Jonas eased himself into the seat, and rubbed his palms over the knees of his jeans.

“I've had a chance to examine your brother,” Doctor Moss said as she set a file in front of her. “The hospital also sent over his records, and the good news is that there hasn't been any change in his condition.”

“That's the good news?”

“In a sense, yes. Despite their fears, on closer inspection, it's clear his condition hasn't deteriorated—he's stable. The big test was when we moved him. We expected at least a dip, but Alan is very strong. To be honest, the initial results indicate that he'd be able to survive without the ventilator.”

Alan wasn't going to die—that was what she'd just told him. Jonas closed his eyes, lowering his head while he got control of himself, not wanting to cry in front of her.

“Understand,” Doctor Moss said, her voice sympathetic, “that the caregivers at the hospital weren't wrong in their assessments, but they weren't optimistic. They don't take into account the same factors that I do.” She ran her hand down the words of the file, scanning it. She smiled encouragingly. “We're going to run some more tests, but there's no reason why your brother can't be admitted here for long-term care while we figure out what exactly is keeping him unconscious. Seems he's trapped in a state of REM.”

Jonas looked at her, a sudden sense of dread falling over him.

“Rapid Eye Movement,” the doctor continues, “is when we believe a person dreams most. Like others, coma patients experience dreams, but without the ability to wake, they can be stuck there. Dreaming indefinitely.”

Jonas swallowed hard, scared to hope too much. “Hypothetically speaking,” he started, crossing his legs and trying to appear sensible, “if Alan is trapped in this REM state, if he were to realize it was a dream, could he wake up?”

“You mean lucid dreaming?” she asked. Jonas nodded, wondering how much this center knew about that sort of thing. “It's certainly possible,” she said.

Jonas took a shaky breath, nearly overcome. “So you think he can recover?”

Doctor Moss smiled. “Of course. I wouldn't have taken this on if I didn't believe I could help him. Now,” she closed the file, “if you don't mind, I thought I could give you a tour of the facility and then we'll stop by and visit with Alan for a bit to discuss his arrangements.”

“That'd be great,” Jonas said. He stood, realizing how much he'd missed his brother. It'd only been a little while since he'd seen him, but it felt like an eternity. He just had to know that Alan was okay.

After touring the offices
and the cafeteria, Doctor Moss brought Jonas up to the third level that was used for patient rooms. Like the other areas of the building, it was dull and lifeless—so bland it actually made him want to sleep. But it was certainly clean, so Jonas wasn't going to complain about the décor.

“Not all of my patients are coma patients,” Doctor Moss said as they stepped off the elevator. Her shoes tapped and the sound echoed off the walls. “Some are here for sleep trouble or sleep studies. A few have been living on the streets because their sleep patterns prevent them from holding down a steady job. I try to help them manage their afflictions.”

A door opened and an older man came out of a room. He had a scruffy salt-and-pepper beard and puffy black circles under his eyes, and he was wearing a hospital gown that was still open in the back.

“Oh, hey,” Jonas said, diverting his eyes when he saw a flash of the man's bare ass.

“Hello,” the man said to both Jonas and
the
doctor, seeming unaware of his disheveled appearance until Doctor Moss took him by the shoulders to turn him around and tie his gown closed.

“This is William,” the doctor said. “He came to us a few months ago. William, this is Jonas.” Doctor Moss stepped back and Jonas figured it was safe to look.

“How's it going, dude?” Jonas asked politely. William's eyes got large, and he licked his lips like he couldn't wait to talk.

“You're Alan's brother,” he said, excitedly. Tingles raced over Jonas's skin and he looked between him and the doctor.

“Yeah,” he said. “How'd you know that?”

“He told me,” William said, still smiling.

Jonas's gut hit the floor. “What?” he asked.

“Sorry,” Doctor Moss interrupted, stepping between them and crashing Jonas's wave of emotion. “William is part of our sleep study,” she said. “One week awake, one week asleep. He…he gets a bit confused around this time.”

“I haven't slept in six days,” William said, grinning. “But sometimes,” he leaned in and Jonas noted a sour smell, like medication seeping from his pores, “the sleepers, they talk to me.” He nodded, but Jonas took a step back, swallowing hard.

“William likes to talk with the coma patients,” Doctor Moss said. “He's one of the members of our dream team.” She put her hand on his shoulder. “We're testing the effects of sleep deprivation on dreams. And so far, the longer a patient is awake before sleeping, the deeper they can go into their dreams. Fascinating stuff.”

“Lots of nightmares,” William said, still staring at Jonas in a kind of awe that made him supremely uncomfortable.

“The down side,” Doctor Moss added, “is that participants sometimes experience hallucinations. The inability to distinguish between a dream and reality. Luckily we're in a controlled environment.” She turned to William. “We're safe here.”

“Oh, yes,” William said, his posture straightening as if his mind had cleared. “Since I came in three months ago, I haven't had any outbursts. Aside from the occasional writing.” He smiled sheepishly at Doctor Moss and she laughed.

“Yes, for a while everyone called him Shakespeare because he would write sonnets on the wall of his room,” she said. “It was great stuff, though.”

“Now I have a journal,” William told Jonas, encouraged by the doctor's praise. “I write everything down, especially my songs. I don't forget anything anymore.”

“You've made amazing progress,” the doctor told him, but Jonas considered his statement. A journal, a dream journal—maybe it could help him remember his dreams, and in turn, help him find Alan.

“Well, it was nice talking to you, William,” Doctor Moss said. “Jonas and I are going to visit with his brother. We'll talk more in therapy.”

“Yes, ma'am,” William said, bowing a goodbye. The doctor started down the hall, and Jonas held up his hand in a wave to William, but as he passed, the man reached out to take his arm. “It was nice seeing you again,” he said with a private smile.

“Uh, yeah,” Jonas said, furrowing his brow. “Nice meeting you, too.” He disentangled himself and jogged to catch up with Doctor Moss. When he turned back, William had gone inside his room, his door clicking shut.

Jonas shook off the weirdness and Doctor Moss indicated a room near the end of the hallway. “Just to reiterate,” she said, pausing with her hand on the door handle. “There hasn't been a change in Alan's condition. We'll know more after the CT scan, so I don't want to give you a false impression.”

With his heart a little heavier, Jonas told her he understood. The doctor pressed her lips together sympathetically, and she opened the door and walked inside. Jonas followed, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans when he saw his brother, still hooked up to a ventilator, but somehow looking more comfortable.

Jonas took a seat and watched as Doctor Moss checked over Alan's machines. He noticed the heart monitor was set to silent, the only sound in the room coming from the ventilator. There was even a large window overlooking the parking lot.

After another moment, Doctor Moss grabbed a chair and brought it over to sit closer to Jonas. “I know these past few weeks must have been terrible for you,” she said. “I'm sorry for what you've been through.”

“Thank you.”

Doctor Moss took out a page from her folder and laid it on top of her clipboard. “This is the agreement for us to treat your brother. One of the stipulations for the research grant is that there can be no changes in variables, changes in location or treatments. We would need custody of your brother's body.”

Jonas sat forward. “Custody? What exactly would that mean?” he asked.

The doctor looked down at the paper, measuring her answer. “It means we would have legal guardianship and he couldn't be removed from our care unless he regains consciousness, dies, or unless we release him. If left to personal finances, the treatment can be very expensive. This assures that Alan will get the absolute best care the facility can provide.”

Jonas wondered if he really had a choice. He'd come this far—it wasn't like he could just take Alan out of here, bring him home. He didn't have a home.

In that moment, Jonas desperately missed his parents. He hadn't thought of them much, most of his grief reserved for his brother. But now he would have given anything to hear his mother's voice. Smell her perfume. He would give anything to see her again. Jonas looked over at Doctor Moss and she smiled softly.

“It's okay if you want to think about it,” she offered. Jonas shook his head.

“You'll start treatment immediately? Figure out how to wake him up?”

“We'll start this very day,” she assured him.

Jonas shifted his eyes to Alan—watched the rise and fall of his chest.
I'll see you soon, brother
, he thought. And Jonas took the doctor's pen and signed his name on the agreement.

Doctor Moss told Jonas
she'd get the paperwork started and left him alone to spend some time with Alan. She suggested he come by tomorrow around dinner, since that was usually the best time for visitors. The doctor left the room and Jonas moved his chair closer to his brother, searching for any signs of recognition. But Alan was still gone. He'd be back, though. Jonas knew he'd be back.

“I started at the Eden last night,” he told Alan. “Just a heads up—our boss is kind of an asshole, but I like him. And I'm sure he'd love you. You'll probably show up the first day and be employee of the month by the end of your shift.”

Jonas smiled and eased back in the chair. He rested his cheek on his fist, his eyes feeling heavy. The ventilator kept up its rhythmic hiss, soothing him.

“The people who work there are nice,” he said sleepily. “And last night, there was this lady.” Jonas chuckled. “You would have been like one of those Looney Tunes cartoons, eyes bugging and tongue rolling out like a red carpet. Fuck. She was even British.”

The missed night of sleep began to creep up on Jonas, and with each blink, his eyes stayed closed a second longer. “Can't wait to have you back, man,” he murmured to Alan. “Hurry up.” His eyes stayed shut.

Jonas's shadow was projected on the wall, and suddenly, like a puff of smoke, a new shadow came into focus—large, with a heaving chest. A monster loomed, its claws raised to strike. In the hospital room, the space behind Jonas was empty.

“Poet,” a man's voice whispered, sounding far away.

Jonas's eyes flickered open, and he found the room and Alan unchanged. His shadow was alone on the wall. Jonas's body felt weighed down. He was so exhausted. Emotionally. Physically. His consciousness faded again.

“Poet Anderson,” the deep voice called, louder this time. There was a rumble, and Poet jolted, his feet kicking out. He darted his gaze around the room, only this time, the hospital bed was empty. The sky outside the window dark and filled with stars.

“Alan?” Poet yelled, stumbling as he rushed to the bed, running his palm over the sheets. The monitor continued to beep as if connected, and there was the rumble of a motorcycle in the distance. Poet spun, confused. And then he heard another sound, something closer, in the hallway.

Panic bubbled up and Poet grabbed the umbrella hanging off the edge of his brother's bed and pointed it toward the door. He winced at the noise outside, a high-pitched scratching—like a long, sharp blade cutting tile. Poet took a step back, his muscles tensing. He knew, without seeing, that the darkness was closing in. The wall around the edges of the door began to peel, rotting away. Black mold spread over the white hospital walls, wearing away the plaster.

“A Night Terror,” Poet murmured, rolling the handle of the umbrella over his fingers and then winding up to loosen his muscles. He'd either have to fight his way out of here or jump headlong from the third-story window. He wouldn't survive the fall.

Poet shook his head, trying to focus. “These are my dreams,” he called to the door, the sound of heavy breathing on the other side. “And I control my dreams.”

Poet thought about the times with Alan, the way he'd changed things. He began to channel his anger, his fear, and felt electricity in his fingertips. He lowered his head, umbrella outstretched. His eyes traced the wooden handle, imagining it was cold steel in his palm. By the time he thought of the trigger on his fingertip, Poet was holding a gun. He smiled.

The door in front of Poet began to disintegrate, the wood turning black as it rotted. He held his breath, ready to fire, while behind him, the rumble of the engine got louder. He turned quickly and saw the rot hadn't yet reached the far wall. With a quick glance at the door, he turned back and aimed his weapon at the wall. He began firing, shot after shot in a wide circle. Bits of plaster exploded off, exposing the beadboard and dismantling the wall. It was his way out.

He continued firing, but when he heard the beast snarl from the other side of the door, his concentration broke and he was out of bullets. He cursed, knowing he'd have to be smarter, faster. He gritted his teeth and then ran toward the unfinished hole in the wall, ramming his shoulder into the beadboard and exploding through to the other side. He toppled, and skidded across the floor of an empty room. He looked up. No doors. No windows.