Chapter 40
Chuck dreamed, again, about Nolan Ryan. It happened off and on, a whacked-out dream in a far corner of his brain.
Nolan Ryan, his boyhood hero, wearing his Angels uniform, on the mount at the Big A, only his jersey was too short and his stomach was showing. He had a rash or something on his stomach, but a nice tan otherwise.
He was pitching to Mario Lemiux, but Mario Lemiux was a hockey player . . .
. . . Mario, another sports hero. Pittsburgh Penguins.
But on a baseball diamond?
And he wasn’t holding a bat. No. He had a doorknob and a fish and a kite.
He better watch out! Chuck could hear himself saying that. Mumbling that in his dream.
Watch out Mario! Nolan has heat.
Here comes the pitch!
Somebody in the stands screamed.
It sounded like a man. A young man. A scared young man.
Chuck jolted awake in a chair.
Another scream.
Where was he? The smell . . .
The motel.
Another scream. It was his brother, asleep but screaming.
Chuck bolted to the edge of the bed and shook his brother. “Stan . . .”
Stan jerked to a sitting position. “Help!”
“Stan, I’m here, it’s okay.”
Before Stan could respond someone pounded on the wall next door and yelled an epithet-laced warning to shut up.
The digital clock read 10:04. Chuck’s head was soggy. He could hardly remember what had happened that day. Beaman with Wendy. Dropped her off. Meeting a clown. Oh yeah, the clown. Life was a funhouse with wild mirrors now.
“Chuck,” Stan said. “The wolf man was after me!”
“It’s okay. Go back to sleep now.”
“No Chuck! The wolf man was after me and he almost got me this time because you weren’t there. You weren’t coming!” In the dreams, Chuck had always been a presence that kept the wolf man from getting Stan. Sometimes, Stan had reported, Chuck just showed up and the wolf man ran away. Sometimes Chuck threatened him with a silver sword. Once Chuck had even flown through the air like Superman.
“It’s just your dream, Stan.”
“I’m scared!” Stan started crying, one of his fire hydrant cries Chuck called them. They burst out like water from a busted hydrant, and Stan jammed his head into Chuck’s chest, bawling into it. When he did that, as a kid, Chuck would just have to hold him tight until he calmed down.
Chuck held him tight. “Okay, okay, okay,” Chuck said.
Another thump on the wall, and another warning.
“It’s okay now, Stan, you hear me?”
“You . . . gotta . . . be there, Chuck. If they . . . get you in a . . . dream . . . you die.”
“No you don’t––”
“You wake up and you’re dead!”
Chuck squeezed his brother harder, patted the back of his head, let the rhythm of his breathing calm his brother down.
Stan wriggled free, wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “This time . . . it was real, Chuck! Like it’s . . . gonna happen.”
“Werewolves don’t happen, Stan. It’s—”
“Yes they do!”
The guy next door hit the wall again.
Chuck jumped over to the wall and hit it with his fist. Again. And again. “Why don’t you shut up now, huh?” he screamed.
Pound pound pound.
“Don’t, Chuck,” Stan said.
“Stop telling me what to do!”
“Chuck, you’re mad—”
“Do I look mad?”
“Yes!”
“Good call!” Chuck grabbed the nearest thing, a pillow, and threw it as hard as he could against the window. It plopped harmlessly to the floor.
Stan giggled. “You didn’t break the window, Chuck.”
“Want me to? Want me to dive right through it for you?”
“No, Chuck.”
“How about a chair? Huh?”
“No, Chuck.”
“Listen to me, Stan. Remember what I told you once? Werewolves are myths. You remember what a myth is?”
“A story,” Stan said quietly.
“Yeah, a story. But in myths there’s a hero, see? The heroes have to leave the castle and go into the dark forest.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know why! Because they have to rescue somebody, or go shopping.”
Stan giggled again. “Shopping?”
“Sure! Maybe they need to go check the specials.”
“You’re being funny now, Chuck.”
“But in the forest, see, there’s werewolves. And the hero has to fight 'em. But he gets help. He has a teacher or a good wizard or somebody like that, who gives him a magic sword or silver bullet.”
“Okay, that’s cool,” Stan said.
“Yeah, and that’s what he uses to kill the werewolf. Now the point of the myth, see, is to tell us we can kill the monsters.”
“Really?”
Really?
Did he actually believe this himself? After what he’d seen in Afghanistan? After that guy with the knife? He would have killed me, and maybe Stan, if he’d wanted to. He was big enough, he looked amoral enough.
Was there anything one guy could do to stop bad things? When he’d been cut in captivity—he wished he could see who did it, at least see him, but his mind kept crushing that picture into dust—was he able to do anything about it? No, he had to be rescued. But what if there’s no one to rescue you? What then?
But Stan had asked.
Really?
He had to get Stan to believe it, even if he himself did not. That was the only way to get Stan through the night, and maybe his entire life.
Chuck said, “When the time comes, you’ll be brave. You know why?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m telling you to, that’s why. And you always do what I tell you, right?”
“Right.”
“So now I’m telling you to go back to sleep. Okay?”
“Okay, Chuck. But what if I have the dream again?”
Chuck was drained. “Just tell yourself to be brave.”
“I want you to be in the dream, Chuck.”
“I’ll be there,” Chuck said. “As long as I’m not busy in some other dream.”
“What other dream?”
“The one where I go shopping in the forest,” Chuck said. “And I’m looking for DiGiorno’s pizza because my brother’s hungry and—”
A knock on the door stopped him. Chuck sighed. The complainer was upping the ante. “Just be quiet now, Stan. I have to tell this guy we’re sorry.”
Chuck went to the door. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s all right now.”
“No it isn’t,” the voice said, and knocked again.
Feeling with his left hand Chuck made sure the chain lock was in place, then opened the door a crack. The muted illumination of night light––mainly the amber glow from the motel parking lot—backlit the inquirer. “Look,” Chuck said, “it won’t happen again—”
The door slammed into Chuck’s shoulder. He heard the crack of splintering wood as he fell back. Stan screamed again, this time in fear of something very real in the room.
Two men, not one. And definitely not a disgruntled neighbor.
Chuck rolled to his knees and got up.
Stan issued a rat-a-tat of shrieks.
A voice said, “Shut him up!” The voice was tinged with accent.
Serbian . . .
“Chuck!” Stan cried.
In the dimness Chuck saw the other man rushing the bed.
Chuck charged him. He got hold of the man’s shirt and felt back muscles underneath as hard as bowling balls. Chuck pulled hard, tore fabric.
Then a snapping noise.
Something punched his kidneys.
And his entire body filled with electric shock.