Excerpt: Dreamtime

The stairway down to the station yawns ominously up at her. The darkness is highlighted by sickly yellowish-green lights. They do nothing to relieve the murky dark. A stench wafts up the concrete stairs from the bowels below. She doesn't know how to describe it other than foul and stale. Still, she knows she needs to get on the train. It will be here soon. Cautiously, she steps onto the first step and descends from street level. Making her way down the steps, she notices the ragged posters on the tiled walls. Most of them are ripped or have graffiti scrawled across them – rude messages obliterating the logos and tag lines dreamed up by clever ad-men in their suits and posh offices.

(Bryl Cream! A little dab'll do ya!
I'd like to buy the world a Coke.
Virginia Slims – You've come a long way, Baby!
Secret – Strong enough for a man, but made for a woman.)

She reaches the bottom of the steps. She looks behind her. The street level entrance is a tiny rectangle of light far above her. She faces front. There is light here, but it's dim and sickly, casting a greenish tint to everything. She looks at her hand in front of her. Sure enough, there's a yellow-green cast to it, making her skin look like wax. She swallows thickly and moves forward, dread pooling in her stomach.

Ahead of her is the cashier's booth and a turnstile. She is strangely relieved to see a short line of people. She puts her hand in her purse and joins the line at the end. As she rummages around in her purse for her fare, she examines her soon-to-be fellow passengers. There's an old man, grey hair peeping out from under a tweed flat cap, palsied hands shaking as he hands over his fare to the cashier. There's a woman behind him - college-age, dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, knitted scarf wrapped around her throat. Behind her is a tall, thin black man, dressed nattily in a suit and carrying a briefcase. He glances around idly while he waits. Then there's the man behind him, wearing jeans and a pullover. His hair is dark and wavy. He has a faintly foreign cast to his features, but is obviously American in his dress and stance. His head bobs to the music he hears through his headphones. Finally there's herself, average height, long auburn hair caught up in a low pony tail. She tugs a little at the hem of her sweater, not confident that it's not riding up past her curvy hips.

The line advances as the old man shuffles his way through the turnstile and disappears to the left. She notices the police man then. He stands off to the left of the turnstile. He looks like a beat cop in his street blues, his badge winking jauntily now and again as it catches the light. He's a tall man, nearly 6' 3” by her estimation, broad of shoulder. His expression is neutral, but she senses wariness and caution rolling off him in waves as he scrutinizes each potential passenger as they pay their fares.

The college student seems to glide through the turnstile and the line advances again. Now she can see the cashier in her little booth. She's a middle-aged African American woman, her tightly curly hair cropped close to her head like a cap. The transportation company's standard uniform fits ill on her slightly too thin frame. She accepts the fares and makes change with a modicum of interaction.

Headphone-guy pays his fare and starts through the turnstile. She steps up to the window, fare in hand. Behind her there is a sudden flurry of movement and the cop pulls his gun as he bellows out a command to Headphone-guy.

“Hold it right there!”

Headphone-guy turns around slowly, his hands raised outwards in front of him in a placating fashion. “Is there a problem, officer?” His voice is cultured and accented, but she can't make out its origins.
“Yeah, there's a problem, all right. Put your hands above your head and keep your eyes down!”

“But..” the man starts.

“Do it!”

The passengers who had arrived after her, swarm back up the stairs. The cashier in her booth ducks down out of site, a phone to her ear. She can hear her speaking to someone in urgent, hushed tones. She can't quite make out what's being said. Frozen in place, she hyper-focuses on the scene playing out in front of her. She doesn't know what to do.

“Okay, okay,” Headphones says to the cop. “I don't want any trouble.” His hands are over his head now, his eyes lowered to the ground.

“Too late for that, buddy. You bought yourself a world of trouble when you came here!”

“Excuse me, officer?” she interrupts. “But what's he done?”

Headphones flashes her a look, but keeps his eyes downcast. The cop looks at her in disbelief.

“You're kidding me, right? Why are you even still here? Why didn't you run?”

“I have to catch the train,” she replies timidly. She slides a sidelong glance at the man.

“On this line? Are you crazy? Normal people don't catch this train,” the cop says.

“Normal...?” She's confused. She had heard the stories about the line, how people almost routinely went missing from the world above when they caught this train, only to return days, months, sometimes years later – the same, but changed somehow.

“Yeah. So go back above and take a cab. Or the bus. You don't want to ride this train, girlie,” the cop responds. As he does, Headphones starts to slink away.

“Oh no you don't!” the cop shouts. Then there's an explosion as he pulls the trigger. The gun shot reverberates through the tunnel as the train screams into the station and comes to a stop with screeching brakes. The man slumps to the ground.

She rushes to his side and crouches beside him. “You shot him!” She accuses. “What kind of man are you? You shot him!”

“Yeah. Had to be done. Can't have scum like him roaming the city, preying on good, decent normal people. Now hold on a sec. Let me call somebody and then I'll take you home. Deliver you to your people. Why they let you out unprotected, I don't know.”

“But he's – what did he do? Why did you shoot him?”

“He wasn't like you or me. Listen you don't want the long, long explanation. Trust me. Just rest easy because he can't dine on sweet young things like you anymore. Go home and forget all about this.”

“Forget? Forget!” her voice rises hysterically in the echoing chamber. “No! I demand your badge number and...”

“Oh, Christ. Lady, you don't understand. You really need to go. Now.”

Just then, two men arrive, a gurney gliding along silently between them. “Hey, George. How's it hangin'? This our guy?”

“Yeah, Mak. Thanks for getting her so quick. Bag and tag him. Send him back to where he belongs. I need to get this civilian back to her people.”

“Sure thing.”

The two men bend and lift Headphones onto the gurney. The cop turns to her and grabs her elbow. “Come with me, miss. You need to get back to where you belong.” He starts to force-step her towards the stairs.

“But... he... that man...” she twists to look behind her. The men and the gurney are gone. All that's left is the cashier in her booth, reading a paperback novel. The light flickers uneasily and the train pulls out of the station. The cop pulls her along a little more forcefully and marches her up the steps towards the light.

Jess sat up in bed with a start.