somewhere to hide until Sera came.
He stepped out, looking both directions—all clear—and since he could sense that the majority of the sleeping Darkside revelers were off to his left, he went right to find a way out, where the administration and offices were likely to be, and beyond that, the exit. A hand to the wall, he shuffled forward as quickly as his racing heart would allow without black spots swimming in his vision. Sweat slicked his skin and dripped down his spine, yet the floor was cold on his bare feet. And his dick still prickled on the inside from the catheter.
He was concentrating on breathing deeply, so when a tall shadow flickered nearby, raw instinct flattened his back against the wall.
The nightmare was naked, its skin that familiar alien-gray clay. Its eyes were Steve’s own, though it didn’t spare him a glance as it passed, uninterested in what little humanity Steve had left. His body shook with weakness. He wasn’t afraid of the nightmare. Not afraid of the Sandman, either. He simply, deeply, didn’t want to be like them—dark, feared, solitary. Like that demon child again.
“Go back,” Steve told the nightmare.
It didn’t respond, just continued silently stalking down the hallway seeking prey.
Steve couldn’t let it pass. He looked around for something to chuck at it—that’d sometimes worked in the past—but the nurses’ station was too far away now.
On the wall. The fire extinguisher.
He wrenched it from its wall mount. Its weight made his arms go cold and weak, but he hefted it up against his chest, pulled the pin from the handle, approached the nightmare, and sprayed.
The nightmare’s hunched back was coated, milky white and dripping. Steve leaned back and kept spraying frothy suds borne under pressure.
In a sudden splat, a mass of liquid foam slapped the linoleum floor, the nightmare gone.
Steve whipped around to survey the hall going the other direction. It might just reappear elsewhere in the building. Or it might really be gone. No way to tell.
He transferred the fire extinguisher to one arm, but he wasn’t strong enough to hold it and the thing fell to the floor with a loud clang. Breathlessly, he watched it roll on its side until its nozzle stopped it.
Still, no one came.
They had to know the world as they knew it was over.
“You suffer from a chronic and potentially fatal form of seriousity,” Maisie had said once while straddling him. The ity had been an awkward add-on. “I know just the cure.”
“ Seriousity is not a word,” he’d told her, enjoying the view of her breasts, the mess of her hair. Loving the feel of her.
“You just confirmed my diagnosis, Steve-o. It’s a word, because I say it is. Now I’m going to melt your brain with sex and hope for the best. Your prognosis isn’t good.”
“Ongoing treatment, then?”
She’d rolled her eyes and huffed a huge sigh. “I suppose. Seriousity is a terrible way to go. The weight of the world crushing you slowly. Lots of…ooze.”
Steve swallowed the gritty lump in his throat and shook his head. Seriousity—that’s what this was. He must have relapsed. He had to go back into treatment for sure.
The fastest way to get back to Maisie, to feeling human again, was to be ready for Sera—and anyway, so what if he was a monster? According to Maisie, the monster thing had never been his issue.
Sera was coming, and if she were discovered, the Oneiros wouldn’t hesitate to kill her. So he had to do something .
Steve moved toward the multiple sets of doors that led to reception. Another nurses’ station was tucked into a wall across from a closed doorway tagged with the number 1. He tilted his head to sense the telltale ripples of a dreaming reveler but got nothing.
He eased the door open—it was a private room—and lying on the bed near the window, sunlight burning between closed blinds, was a reveler. A man. And since Steve couldn’t sense his dreams, it meant that the reveler had been lost
He stepped out, looking both directions—all clear—and since he could sense that the majority of the sleeping Darkside revelers were off to his left, he went right to find a way out, where the administration and offices were likely to be, and beyond that, the exit. A hand to the wall, he shuffled forward as quickly as his racing heart would allow without black spots swimming in his vision. Sweat slicked his skin and dripped down his spine, yet the floor was cold on his bare feet. And his dick still prickled on the inside from the catheter.
He was concentrating on breathing deeply, so when a tall shadow flickered nearby, raw instinct flattened his back against the wall.
The nightmare was naked, its skin that familiar alien-gray clay. Its eyes were Steve’s own, though it didn’t spare him a glance as it passed, uninterested in what little humanity Steve had left. His body shook with weakness. He wasn’t afraid of the nightmare. Not afraid of the Sandman, either. He simply, deeply, didn’t want to be like them—dark, feared, solitary. Like that demon child again.
“Go back,” Steve told the nightmare.
It didn’t respond, just continued silently stalking down the hallway seeking prey.
Steve couldn’t let it pass. He looked around for something to chuck at it—that’d sometimes worked in the past—but the nurses’ station was too far away now.
On the wall. The fire extinguisher.
He wrenched it from its wall mount. Its weight made his arms go cold and weak, but he hefted it up against his chest, pulled the pin from the handle, approached the nightmare, and sprayed.
The nightmare’s hunched back was coated, milky white and dripping. Steve leaned back and kept spraying frothy suds borne under pressure.
In a sudden splat, a mass of liquid foam slapped the linoleum floor, the nightmare gone.
Steve whipped around to survey the hall going the other direction. It might just reappear elsewhere in the building. Or it might really be gone. No way to tell.
He transferred the fire extinguisher to one arm, but he wasn’t strong enough to hold it and the thing fell to the floor with a loud clang. Breathlessly, he watched it roll on its side until its nozzle stopped it.
Still, no one came.
They had to know the world as they knew it was over.
“You suffer from a chronic and potentially fatal form of seriousity,” Maisie had said once while straddling him. The ity had been an awkward add-on. “I know just the cure.”
“ Seriousity is not a word,” he’d told her, enjoying the view of her breasts, the mess of her hair. Loving the feel of her.
“You just confirmed my diagnosis, Steve-o. It’s a word, because I say it is. Now I’m going to melt your brain with sex and hope for the best. Your prognosis isn’t good.”
“Ongoing treatment, then?”
She’d rolled her eyes and huffed a huge sigh. “I suppose. Seriousity is a terrible way to go. The weight of the world crushing you slowly. Lots of…ooze.”
Steve swallowed the gritty lump in his throat and shook his head. Seriousity—that’s what this was. He must have relapsed. He had to go back into treatment for sure.
The fastest way to get back to Maisie, to feeling human again, was to be ready for Sera—and anyway, so what if he was a monster? According to Maisie, the monster thing had never been his issue.
Sera was coming, and if she were discovered, the Oneiros wouldn’t hesitate to kill her. So he had to do something .
Steve moved toward the multiple sets of doors that led to reception. Another nurses’ station was tucked into a wall across from a closed doorway tagged with the number 1. He tilted his head to sense the telltale ripples of a dreaming reveler but got nothing.
He eased the door open—it was a private room—and lying on the bed near the window, sunlight burning between closed blinds, was a reveler. A man. And since Steve couldn’t sense his dreams, it meant that the reveler had been lost
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