Night of the Dreamers

I haven't slept since I was thirteen years old.

Having a few extra hours in the day or night might sound nice. But there's a toll to your brain never having to slow down and shut up. Your eyes burn from too many hours under the city’s neon holograms. I could drown in coffee without feeling fresh.

Work and music keep me sane. I still get tired, but only collapse now and then. Being too exhausted to go out with friends in the narrow windows between shifts saves money, at least. Eventually they stop asking.

I've always felt my “talent” has been more of a curse than a gift.

Until the Night of the Dreamers.

I envied the people with brain chips to do most of their thinking for them, bought at a discount for the simple price of selling their dream space to ad companies.

Called the Dream Machine by its corporate creators, it was supposed to be a comprehensive language learning algorithm that would embed advertisements during sleep, so deep into the subconscious the consumer would think they were totally original thoughts when they woke.

But the Dream Machine was corrupted by a virus, creator unknown.

And along came the Nightmare Program.

On the Night of the Dreamers I walked from my second job to my third, slurping up to-go noodles with music blasting in my ear implants.

Some cities boast that they never sleep, but in my experience right around four AM, things are as dead as a corpse save for the criminal element. I don't pay mind to the distant sirens. Something bad happening to someone else, somewhere else.

No one on the street. Just me. Just…me. Until it isn't.

The current fashion trend is holomasks. Change your style at a whim. So when the Dreamers charge at you their head is wrapped in a display coming straight from their dreaming mind. Sometimes it's just colors. For others an entire scene plays out, with moving portraits of elongated figures. But the worst of all is when you actually see a face, with too big eyes, skin like wet paper and rotting teeth.

The first dreamer I see has a clock for a face. The arms spin around the circle in a blur. It chases a woman whose only holographic adornment is a pair of purple cat ears. The horror in her eyes is all her own.

I don't know what this is at first. The smart move would’ve been to start running myself.

Instead I throw the noodles. Seven years without sleep does things to you. The girl ducks, and the noodles hit the Dreamer. The noodles only slap across the poor sap’s body. The trash can I throw next manages to knock the Dreamer off its feet. In retrospect I should've led with that.

I wonder for a second if I've been alone too long and started hallucinating.

Then the Dreamer pack spills out onto the street. The only faces I pick out are the floating stack of money, a bright blue flame, and a foaming canine maw. My body's fight or flight decides it's real enough. I fall in beside the cat-eared girl and we run.

She opens her mouth but before she speaks I say:

“What’d you do to make them mad?”

“Me?” Cat Ears balks. “I couldn't sleep ‘cause my AC broke. Next thing I know the neighbors are breaking down the doors and they look like that!” She flicks a thumb over her shoulder.

Emergency alerts flash in the corner of my vision.

Unprompted attacks all over the city. Details unclear, many city officials are unreachable. Seek shelter.

She taps the chip linker behind her ear and I can tell she's seen the same.

The street ahead has the din of disaster. Driverless cars swerve and crash avoiding the Dreamers flooding the street. The panicking conscious folk are set upon by the Dreamers. After being knocked out or choked out, they rise as new Dreamers. An army of the unwoken, dragging others kicking and screaming into their realm.

We don't stop.

“You know a place to hide?” I ask.

She shook her head, wiping it of sweat. “Work from home. S-software dev.”

“Load of help that is.”

She scowls. Seven years without sleep. You’d be irritable too.

“I know a place,” I say. “Energy drink bottling line. Just ended my shift there. Big warehouse, metal doors. Should be able to wait whatever this is out.”

I take a shortcut through a holographic soda ad, into the alleyway behind. Our pack of dreamers follow. They don't snarl or scream. Their pursuit is too quiet.

We’re out onto a narrow street, at the end of which waits the warehouse. An enemy stands in the way. One Dreamer ahead, too many behind. I close shaking hands into fists. I’m not much of a fighter.

“Shut your eyes on my cue,” Cat Ears says.

“Why?” I’m almost upon the Dreamer at the door. He’s got a face like a broken mirror, reflecting twisted features. He’s moving to meet me.

“I can overclock my holomasks brightness and you don’t wanna die, that’s why. Now!” Cat Ears orders.

I shut my eyes. Something flashes beyond my lids. I open to the image of the Dreamer stumbling aimlessly. I body check him to the ground and slap my wristband into the door panel. It opens inward.

Cat Ears and I slide in. I slam the door behind and lock it. The Dreamers beat the door like it owes them money, the thrum of their thrashing overpowers the whining machine sounds behind.

I turn around to find that Bruce, the only man to show up for third shift, fell asleep on the job.

He stands halfway down the warehouse, his face a fearsome machine of swinging servos, and tubes spitting out glowing liquid.

Poor guy even dreams about this place.

He’s got a beefy body and a metal forearm multitool. Had to be the shop mechanic. He turns towards us.

“Wanna try your trick again?” I ask.

She nods. “Shut your blinkers.”

I shut them and there’s another flash.

Bruce advances, unphased. Must have worn his welding goggles to hide his sleeping. Despite the factory heat, I’m chilled. We’re trapped.

“Crap.” Cat Ears says. “I'm not much of a fighter. Think we can take him?"

I laugh. “No. But you're a coder and this seems connected to holomasks. Any idea what’s making people act like this? If there’s a way to stop it before he creams us?”

She tilts her head. “Holomasks are managed by chip linkers,” she taps her own on the back of her ear. “And the linker operating system does most of the work interfacing with our brain implants. Smart money is on the problem starting there. If we remove his linker…”

“...might shut him down.”

“Software developer,” She says with a prideful chin uptick. “Might be a load of good after all.”

I laugh with a touch of hysteria. “Might be.”

Bruce weaves around machines that fill cans with green liquid, from a vat of the stuff suspended from a network of catwalks above. He prowls like a grizzly.

“If I distract him,” I say. “Do you think you can come up behind him and pull out the linker?”

She looks ill at the idea. But she doesn't lack mettle and nods.

“Up the catwalk, now!”

She sprints up the stairs as I grab a can off the line and throw it. Bruce slaps it, spraying syrupy liquid onto a machine. I grab two more cans as I dash up the stairs.

When Bruce follows I roll the cans down the stairs. He trips on one, and I make the catwalk with a headstart.

The metal grating makes a circle around the vat of green liquid, which is open. Must’ve planned a servicing. I race to the platform leading in above the vat and snatch the one weapon available: a two-meter long stirring stick. I make it back to the catwalk circle as Bruce closes in.

I hold nothing back as I swing the stick.

Bruce, monster that he is, blocks it with his metal arm, grabs hold with his meat hand, and tries to wrench it out of my grip. I barely keep hold. Bruce unfolds a pipe cutter from his metal hand and snaps the pole in two.

I back away with my half and he advances, raising his. We both swing. When the poles connect, the impact feels like it’ll shake my tendons from my bones.

But the machine in place of Bruce’ face churns on, unimpressed. His next swing knocks my pole from my grip, clattering off the catwalk to be chewed up in machinery. On the third swing his pole collides with my skull and I go down seeing stars.

For a blissful moment everything starts to go dark. Maybe this was enough. Maybe I can finally sleep.

Then, like I've been shocked, my vision clears and I'm up gasping.

I remain a stranger to sandman.

Bruce pulls back to try again but Cat Ears has circled around behind him. True to her nickname she pounces on his back, clawing at his ear. Her hand comes away with his linker and his holomasks vanishes, leaving his slack, goggled face. I meet eyes with Cat Ears. We think we've won.

But then Bruce swings the girl off his back with all the emotion and effort of swatting a bug. The railing clangs as her head hits it on her way down.

Cat Ears’ guess was half right. Just not the right half.

I scramble to my feet, trying to drag her with me. At first she's limp, but then her hands hold onto me with rising strength.

“Come on, we gotta go for the back…door…”

Her cat ears disappear right as her hands begin to close around my throat. The holomask becomes a figure of a girl huddling alone in a small burning room.

Cat Ears was knocked out by that blow to the head and now she's joined the Dreamers.

Despair pulls at my guts like gravity. Couldn’t save her. Probably can’t save myself. For a shameful moment I envy her. She gets to rest.

But while I want to fall and give up, I’ve felt like that for years and it hasn’t stopped me yet. I swing my arms down, breaking her grip before I lose too much air. Bruce pushes past her and I flee.

Feet rattle the metal grating behind, drawing closer with every spent breath. My brain is still hazy from beating. But I know I need to circle back around the catwalk to get to the stairs. I consider jumping but the flexing machines might do worse than the Dreamers.

Too late I notice Cat Ears ahead. She's doubled back to cut me off. Her fiery face ahead and Bruce’s bulk behind, I'm corralled into a corner: the platform dangling over the vat. I kick out as I retreat but fail to stall them.

My lower back hits the safety railing. End of the line. But it's narrow enough they can't both rush me. I throw a haymaker at Bruce's face and he blocks it with the metal hand. I think something breaks, but pain is dull behind the adrenaline.

He grabs for my neck but I dodge. Then he wraps me up in a bear hug, which I don't dodge. He smells of sweat, whiskey and overwork. My joints pop and my heart hammers. Cat Ears crawls up his back and wraps her fingers around my throat again.

I knee Bruce in the ribs, then the groin, but pain is far from him. Trying to push away gets me thrown back against the railing. I want to scream but I can't get any air out. I see spots, but don't pass out. Perhaps, because of my condition, I'll remain conscious right up until the moment of brain death.

I look around for any item of salvation. But there is just metal grating, machines below and the energy drink pool behind.

Somehow I knew I'd die at work.

I stare at Cat Ears’ holomask as I get light headed. It's a pretty enough image to die to: the silhouetted girl in a room of vibrant flames. I'm reminded of her broken AC. She still hasn't really had much chance to cool down.

It's a sick joke to now die of the closeness to others that's so long eluded me.

But the last cohesive thought of a dying brain fights to be heard:

Cool down.

I grab hold of my attackers as they grip me, I try to push away again and again I'm thrown backwards. But this time as I'm pushed, I kick off the grating and swing myself over the railing, dragging Bruce and Cat Ears with me.

We fall and I wonder if I'll make it to the bottom. Time slows when you're being choked to death.

We plunge under the green surface, wreathed in bubbles of carbonation. My eyes burn almost as bad as my lungs.

Everyone's grip breaks. I kick away and barely have the breath to swim to the surface. When I do I'm gulping the stale factory air like it's sweet as sugar.

Speaking of sugar, I'm covered in the highest legal limit of the stuff you can put in a drink sold to minors. Can't believe it saved my life.

As two heads burst past the surface I throw up both hands to fight, albeit awkward while floating.

But Bruce and Cat Ears aren't coming after me. They're gasping, eyes whirling around like they don't know where they are or how they got there. Cat Ears has her cat ears back.

“What ..how…?” She sees me and blinks, then widens her eyes. “You woke us up!”

Not sure if it was the fall, the plunge or both that did it, but I'm grateful, for once, that I work here.

I laugh. “Gotta be the most good energy drinks have ever done for me.”

“What happened, and why does my crotch feel like someone took a hammer to it?” Bruce groans.

“Sorry about that,” I say.

“We know how to stop this now,” Cat Ears says. “We just gotta find a way to wake people up.”

I hear the distant banging on the entry door, helpless people breaking their hands or arms, driven to do so. I probably would’ve been content to stay safe and wait the nightmare out. But the look in her eyes says she wouldn’t dream of such a thing. She's better than me.

“Not sure how easily we can lead the pack up here,” I say. “Bruce, can you hook up the pump and water hose for cleaning out the vat?”

The man is still confused but nods. Cat ears looks at me in silent question.

“You wanna help those people, Cat Ears? Let's see if fire hosing the lot wakes them up.”

“Kayla.” She says. “My name is Kayla.”

“Ah, right. I'm Ray.”

“Nice to meet you, Ray.” And with a grin she adds, “It's cold in here.”

***

“You can’t sleep?” Kayla, says with wide eyes. “Ever?”

“I can't sleep. Ever.” I confirm.“At thirteen I went in to get my first brain chip. Turns out that particular model had a pretty severe defect. It malfunctioned the first time they turned it on. Doesn't work at all as a normal chip. But it does keep my brain running twenty-four seven with electric stimuli. Too risky to remove it, might fry me on its way out. ”

It's hours later and the three of us sit in adjacent hospital beds in an overstuffed ward. A nurse-bot is already putting Bruce under to factory reset his brain chip, the only real way to eliminate the corrupted code. His limbs are restrained.

“After seven years I’m surprised you’re sane,” Kayla says.

“It's a near thing sometimes.”

"What’s it feel like?”

“Like a race where you never get to the finish line.”

She winces with sympathy. “And no working brain chip, either.”

“After tonight, don't think I’m missing out.”

Her head dips in an almost nod. “You know, I used to draw cats when I was a kid. But chips just make it so easy to generate an image straight from your thoughts. I’ve thought…it’d be nice to dream my own dreams and draw with my own hand. Maybe after all this I’ll have them take my chip out.” She says it like it's a joke but her eyes tell the truth.

There's a commotion deeper in the hospital. Probably the cops bringing in another batch of Dreamers to be reset. The crisis isn't completely over yet. I see the anxiety in the tensing of her shoulders. I feel plenty of it myself.

“I have a favor to ask,” She says.

“Hm?”

“Could you be here when I wake up?” Her cheeks get rosy from the request but I'm the one who's embarrassed.

It feels frightfully long since someone wanted me around. My condition isn’t good for much. But I can keep watch.

I nod. “I'll be here.”

“Thanks.”

There are some people that can look past the baggy eyes and irritable attitude.

The nurse-bot approaches Kayla. I slide off my bed so they don't charge me and sink down into a visitor’s chair. I don’t put on music. I just sit, and some of the tightness leaves my muscles.

What a day.

I decide working myself to death to not think about my lousy lot isn't the answer. I could at least stand to take on less hours. Drag myself out to see people sometimes.

An alert in the corner of my eye tells me my next shift starts in five minutes. I turn it off.

“Goodnight,” Kayla mumbles as the nurse bot plugs into her linker port. The girl's eyes close.

I hope you’ll forgive dark humor because I replied with: “Sweet dreams.”