Chapter 7

Randy is hunched and heaving and bloody, but he is here, and if the splintered door beneath his feet is any indication, he is more than capable of finishing the job he started in Dream.

Will gropes desperately for the last threads as they fade out of reach.

Janelle leaps up, marble-filled sock in hand, swinging it at Randy's head. It connects, splitting open, marbles flying everywhere, spilling and bouncing and rolling.

The force of the blow makes Randy stagger a step, but he regains his balance. He grabs Janelle by her robe, shaking her by the front of it; the fabric rips, but not enough to free her from his grip. His other hand swats across her face like a baseball bat, snapping her head sideways. He then half-turns and throws her into the corner like a broken toy discarded in a fit of rage. There's a glass table in the corner; Will hears it shatter.

Will snapped awake. His body screamed at him; his head filled with molten lead, heavy and dull and oozing.

The gun.
It won't do any good.
It might. Look at him.

Will rolled/fell off the side of the couch, crashing to the floor on hands and knees. Coughing set fire to his midsection; he saw blood spattered beneath him.

It took all his concentration to remember the gun. The desk was too far away.
No, not the desk. Under the couch.

Will forced his hand to the right. A little further...
He collapsed to his side; his lungs wheezed.
There, just reach...
Got it.
Now LIFT.

Will sighted down the barrel, the world beyond a shifting blur. He rolled onto his back, feeling every bone protest as it shifted and settled. But his arms somehow came up, and the dark blur came to be centered. Will blinked; his vision cleared somewhat.

Randy was no longer bleeding, no longer hunched. He rolled his shoulders back, his chest broadening. "Go ahead," he growled, "see if it matters."

Will pulled on the heavy trigger, and pulled, further...

Something hard and fast swatted the gun away just as it fired.
"You took too long," Randy spat.

The shadow grew longer over Will as Randy dropped to one knee, menacing over him. Will coughed a breath, feeling bloody spittle shower his chin and neck.

Randy lunged forward, slamming his fist against Will's temple.

And everything faded to black as Will let go...

The soft vibrating hum of the road is soothing. He was asleep, but he's awake now.
He's in the back of his parents' car. Before the accident.
They said afterward that Will only survived because he was asleep, totally relaxed, and even then it was some kind of miracle.
But in the dream he's always awake. He always sees it coming.
There is a faint glow in the car, not from the dashboard, or the headlights beyond, but next to him.
Janelle is here.
She looks at him, worried. Her lips don't move, but he can hear her speaking to him.

Tell them to stop. There's going to be an accident.

Will's brow furrows. This isn't the way it happened. But he's so tired...

She seems to blow a hazy glowing breath in his direction; suddenly he's awake. So he wasn't awake before, he just thought he was -- a dream. The car is dark now; she is no longer there. She was just a dream. But he remembers her warning.

"Dad, stop."
"We're almost home."
"Dad, stop. Something's going to happen."
His mom. "Shh. Go back to sleep, honey."

And then everything goes sideways. Metal crunches as the seats and doors and pillars and roof realign themselves; he feels cold glass pebbles pepper his face; then a hot wind suddenly fades to cool silence.

He feeels a smooth stillness surround him; everything seems lit by a faint glow. The car settles, the violence of impact played out. Janelle is again sitting next to him, but the glow is no longer just around her; it is like he is looking through it. She puts her finger to her lips, then tells him to sleep, then touches her finger to his forehead...