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AMOS DIDN’T DREAM EVERY night, as far as he knew. “Everyone dreams,” he’d been told more than once, but for the most part, he couldn’t recall after waking up whether he had or not.
It was also true, on those rare occasions when he did remember, it wasn’t always dark or terrifying. Some dreams were just random, disjointed images which made little sense to the waking mind.
There was one notable exception, of course, a full-fledged nightmare which needed no embellishment from an over-active imagination. It was worse than a nightmare, truth be told, because it was real, his own private horror show set on infinite repeat.
He could (and did) employ all sorts of mental tricks to block it out of his conscious thought, and these proved successful—as long as he was awake. But his sleeping mind had no such safeguards.
There were a lot of things he’d prefer to purge from his memory. Military operations, for starters, even if they were indirectly connected to the bonds he’d formed with Garr, Don, and Doc Simon.
The discovery that he’d been Implanted was at the top of the list, compounded by the crippling dread of not knowing when his Implant might be activated. Add to that the deadly cat-and-mouse game they played with the Trackers.
More than anything, it was the constant reminder that an unknown person or persons—Hoarders, naturally—had invaded his body and embedded the loathsome Implant, making him a pawn in their unknown game.
But it was the Story he dreaded the most when he slept. He’d re-played it so many times, trying to wring some sense out of it, to envision what he could’ve done different, wondering if an alternative outcome was possible.
It was a pointless exercise, and he knew it—rehearsing imaginary happy endings was only a mind game, futilely designed to appease his guilt. In real life, it changed nothing. The Story remained.
As time went on, he’d been able to suppress the waking memories enough to get on with his life. Time heals all wounds, or at least, that’s what he told himself. Over and over again, as long as necessary. At times, it seemed to be working.
His dreams played by a different set of rules.
It happened again during the first night of their journey back to the cave. He and Don made excellent progress, covering more territory in a single day than Amos had hoped. As dusk approached, they set up camp in the forested hills outside the City, sheltered by a rocky outcropping they’d chosen as a windbreak.
They didn’t bother with a fire. It was too risky in such close proximity to the City. They’d packed trail rations which didn’t require reheating, and the nights were much warmer as spring gave way to early summer. Amos took the first watch, while Don curled up in a shallow cleft in the rock.
Amos held his position nearby, leaning gingerly against the trunk of a tree. His self-inflicted incision was still tender. If the wound was getting infected, as Sheila worried, Doc would be able to treat him in the near future.
Sleep while you can, old friend. Amos listened to Don’s slow, steady breathing. He felt the rough bark through his jacket whenever he shifted position. He welcomed the discomfort. It helped him stay alert. Don’t worry, I’ve got your back.
His inner voice couldn’t resist the opportunity. Yeah, right. You’ve got his back. Fat lot of good that did everyone at the Mission.
Amos bit down hard on the voice, and a sharp pain in his cheek answered. He tasted the coppery tang of his own blood, and spat it out on the ground. His stomach lurched as he remembered where he was and what was at stake.
Stung by his folly, he used his knife to scrape up the evidence, brushing the bloodied dirt into his jacket pocket. That was stupid! A Tracker would be on that in a second.
On the heels of his self-recrimination, he remembered Garr’s warning. You don’t have the luxury. He must keep his thoughts focused on the present mission. Second-guessing himself was a distraction, and potentially a deadly one.
Adrenaline coursed through his veins as a result of his unthinking mistake. It kept him alert and attentive for the remainder of his watch. The moon was high when Don roused himself and crawled out of the cleft, taking his turn at sentry duty.
Amos was grateful to relinquish his post, and adopted his friend’s earlier posture, curled up with his back to the rock wall. Sleep while you can. Don’s got your back.
His dreams, as always, played by their own set of rules. Nobody had his back. Nobody could. He was re-living the Story, one more time.