The Hauntings of Playing God (The Great De-Evolution) (17 page)

35

However, the nightmare, or a similar one, does continue. And as the dreams have progressed—from an initial unidentified Block watching her in the night, to one staring at her, to one gesturing toward her—the pattern of what occurs is part of what she dreads: they are getting closer. They will continue to approach until they are close enough to do to her as she has done to them.

Why is it never the Blocks who have a right to be upset with her that haunt her nightmares? Why is it always the living? Part of her thinks the nightmares would terrify her less if they at least featured people who should rightfully be seeking revenge. At least that would make sense. At least that would give the episodes a purpose that could be explained away. But having Blocks appear whom she still cares for each day, who should be grateful to her, who have no reason to despise her, makes her even more anxious.

Her first thought after each dream is always,
Am I making the wrong decisions?
I must be doing something wrong.

She goes through the rest of her day trying to figure out where she could have done things differently. Surely, the Blocks would not be haunting her if she were doing what she was supposed to be doing. People don’t seek revenge without having a reason. By its very definition, revenge requires that she do some amount of wrong before they come to get their recompense.

The Block in this nightmare is Coelho, her Zen master. As she watches, Coelho’s head turns and stares at her. He props himself on one elbow, then looks directly into her eyes.

It’s okay
, Morgan thinks.
He would never hurt me. Not my Zen master.

So relieved is she by the identity of the man who occupies this night’s dream that she actually lets out a sigh. But her Zen master’s eyes narrow when she does this. Her comfort agitates him. There is nothing Zen-like about him in her dream, nothing peaceful. Even his breathing, usually calm and steady, becomes a series of angry huffs though his nose. Just looking at her is enough for him to forget who he is, for him to give up his tranquil nature. The same man who wouldn’t hurt an insect wants to see her dead.

Coelho doesn’t waste time putting his hand to his own neck to let her know strangulation is in her near future. Nor does he run his thumb from one side of his neck to the other to let her know how soon it will be until a dull knife is tearing chunks of flesh away from her throat. There is none of this.

Morgan has the gall to think,
Well, this dream won’t be too bad then.

Just as this thought enters her mind, she gasps. Coelho is getting off the bed. He is coming toward her. Slowly, as if unsure of his balance after being motionless on the mattress for so long, the Zen master lets one leg hang off the side of his bed, then the other.

She wants to yell at him that he has no reason to be angry with her, wants to tell him that she is doing the best she can. But of course not a single muscle will move, not even in her throat.

Once both feet are touching the floor, Coelho uses an elbow to push himself into a seated position so he is facing her. He doesn’t pause on the edge of the cot to threaten her, to growl, or to look for a weapon. These are all wastes of time compared to actually closing the distance between them and doing what all the other Blocks have merely threatened. Immediately, one foot moves ahead of the other, only inches, but enough to let her know he is coming in her direction.

And like that, Coelho is standing. His left foot creeps toward her. Then his right foot.

No matter how hard she tries to scream, no sound will come. Not even a gurgle or a groan. She tries to push herself off the bed so she can run and get away from him, but none of her muscles respond.

The Zen master’s feet shuffle closer to her. He is only thirty feet away. Now twenty-eight feet. His toenails, long and curled, scuff against the floor each time he takes a small step toward her. Twenty-six feet.

He’s going to kill me.

By now, she has witnessed all too frequently that what happens in her dreams happens in real life. This means that when Coelho chokes her to death in her nightmare…

He’s going to come over here and kill me.

Any comfort in knowing this is a dream has completely vanished.

She stares into his eyes. Usually, they are at peace. If the eyes are the gateway to the soul, Coelho’s usually reveal a soul who has found answers to all the important questions in life. But now, the eyes are different. They don’t sparkle. They are unflinching. They want blood. They want her to cry. And they never deviate from her, not even for a moment. He doesn’t look down to make sure the path is clear or to aid his balance after walking for the first time in all his life. He only stares right into her, cruelly, as if to let her know he may not have decided yet just how, exactly, she will die—maybe by being starved to death; maybe from blood loss after pricking her with a pin thousands of times and watching little drops of blood form from each of unseen hole in her old body. No matter what, though, she will be dying very soon.

One foot shuffles in front of the other—a patient zombie. Another foot closer.

He’s going to cut my ears off, sew my eyelids shut, put a gag in my mouth. He’s going to show me what it’s like to be a Block, to be helpless.

If she could yell just once, he would blink back into being the Zen master she knows. He would see how wrong this all is. Surely, he would know she hasn’t done anything wrong. Why can’t she scream?

Instead, she is crying. Tears pour from both eyes, streaming down her cheeks and onto her pillow.

Coelho’s feet shuffle closer. He is half the way to her now.

He wants me to be like him. He’s going to stick a pin in my ears and burst my eardrums so I go deaf. He’s going to force a spoon behind my eyes and pop them from the sockets so I go blind. He’s going to pull my tongue out, right as I watch, so I go mute. Please, no.

But if Coelho can hear her thoughts, he is not letting on. She cries and cries.

Another foot closer.

Her eyes burst open. Immediately, she darts upright and looks at Coelho lying motionless on his bed. Her face and pillow are soaked. Tears. Her throat is sore as if she has been yelling all the things she wished she could have screamed in her nightmare. Falling back on her bed, her neck is cold against the wet pillowcase. All she can do is sob.

“Even you, Coelho?” she says, unable to believe a man devoted to a spiritual life could be as brutally cold as he had just appeared to be in her dream.

Coelho does not reply. He, like all the Blocks around him, is asleep. Only Morgan is awake. Only Morgan is shaking and crying as the air conditioner kicks back on again.

36

Except for the continuing nightmares, the days following her illness are fairly pleasant ones. She is able to get through the chores each day while there is still sunlight out. This affords her a chance to step outside without the guilt of knowing someone is starving or sitting in filth and will be doing so until she returns to finish her list of duties.

The various oranges and reds that comprise the Florida sunsets always amaze her. The sky’s fiery colors take her back, so many years earlier, to the Grand Canyon. If there is a heaven, for her at least, it would have to combine the Florida sunset with the Grand Canyon’s rocks. Everything in front of her would glow like warm embers. The sky, the earth, everything.

Only one Block has died in the week since her illness and the mass of casualties that resulted from it. This one, Elaine had named him Clark, died from what Morgan diagnoses simply as “old age.” One day he was alive, seemingly healthy, and the next day he wasn’t breathing. At their age, with the human population coming to an end, it’s something she has had to witness more than any battlefield nurse or medic ever did. She has seen more death than a black-masked hangman or an executioner’s axe.

Clark’s death, while unfortunate, does not leave her in a somber mood the way she is each time she has to sacrifice someone from the group. This death was just part of life, the same as if she witnessed someone pass away in a hospital bed, without pain, after having a chance to say goodbye to their family and friends. She can deal with that.

An odd thing begins to happen, though: after days of having more time to herself, she finds herself resenting the hours she has to spend caring for the Blocks.

There are almost no other options for what she could be doing with her time. She knows this. Yet, a part of her resents that this is a situation she is forced into rather than one she chooses. If she is going to miss the sun rise each morning, if she is going to feel obligated to work nonstop each day until the very last Block is clean and has a full nutrient bag, she would like to think it’s because she has the option of not being there. Obviously, it’s physically possible for her to open the gymnasium door and walk away from the men and women who need her care, but it isn’t an idea she can entertain. The thought is so ugly to her that it makes her groan the way her mother used to when she had to step on a spider. She might as well be a prisoner within the gym. The doors might as well be padlocked from the outside, the windows sealed with chains or boarded shut.

As she makes her way from cot to cot, performing the same actions she performs every single day of every week of every year, she grumbles to herself.

“Don’t look at me,” one of her grouchier Blocks says to her. “I like being taken care of as much as you like caring for me.”

She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t entertain this Block’s self-pity. She moves to the next cot, to a college professor who specialized in the history and effects of the Great De-evolution, who has never been anything but pleasant and agreeable, even during the worst of times.

But the grumpy Block calls after her: “Do you think I want to be stuck in this bed? Do you think I wanted my whole life to be like this? You have an entire world available to you that I don’t have, and here you are feeling sorry for yourself.”

She looks to the congenial former professor for help, maybe just a subtle reaffirmation that Morgan shouldn’t listen to the taunts of the irascible Block two cots over, but the professor only stares happily at the ceiling until Morgan repositions her. No defense is offered on her behalf. No words are uttered to reassure Morgan that the grumpy Block might just be having a bad day and shouldn’t be listened to.

“You seem unhappy.”

She turns and sees her Zen master, Coelho. As opposed to the Zen master who visited her in her nightmare, this Coelho has always been understanding, has never held a judgment against her.

“Yeah, you could say that.”

“You carry a heavy burden.”

“That’s very true,” she says.

“You know, desire is the cause of all unhappiness.”

“I desire not to have to care for all of you for the rest of my life.”

“Touché,” the Zen master says.

She goes about cleaning one of the other Blocks in silence before looking back at him again.

“Tell me something, Coelho.”

“Anything.”

“Why did you come after me in my nightmare? I thought you were different from the others.”

“Different? How?”

“I thought you had everything figured out. I thought you knew true peace.”

“But, Morgan, I am only what you make of me.”

She is irritated by this type of response. She knows each Block is only what they are because she and Elaine assigned lives to them. It does no good to remind her of this, only exasperates her.

Coelho seems to understand how she interpreted his answer: “That is not what I meant, Morgan. What I mean is, who am I to say I am a Zen master or just some guy looking for answers? Who is to say Gault is an evil mastermind or just an unhappy soul? Who is to say any of this?”

She doesn’t know what kind of answer he is looking for, and so she says nothing.

“It is only you,” he says. “We are what you think we are. And not because we are Blocks. Elaine is as you remember her. If you remembered her differently, she would be different. Your reality determines everything. It is only because you think of me as a so-called Zen master that you think I should have these answers you speak of. If you didn’t respect what I said, well then maybe I wouldn’t be so wise after all. The same goes for how you think of yourself, the people around you, your actions. Everything.”

“Thank you, Coelho.”

“I only tell you what you already know. You had only forgotten, and I merely reminded you.”

“What’s going to happen when one of the Blocks gets their hands on me in my nightmare? Will I die in real life?”

“Not even the wisest man knows the future.”

“Coelho?”

“Yes, Morgan?”

“Why haven’t you answered my original question?”

“Which was?”

“Why were you in my dream?”

“Your reality determines everything. I did not come to you in your dream; you brought me there. If you hadn’t wanted me there, truly, I wouldn’t have been.”

“Do you really think I would want you to appear in my nightmares just so you can torture me?”

But Coelho doesn’t have anything else to say for the evening, and so Morgan moves on to the next bed.