Fragile Dreams Read online

  The shaking stopped.

  He could barely breathe, the pain unbearable. He groaned, gritting his teeth. There was a loud cracking sound, loud but muffled, down in the belly of the ruins beneath him, a monster’s belch.

  There were a few more splintering snaps, as if two-by-fours were breaking in half—SNAP—SNAP—CRACK-SNAP—and then everything beneath him sagged a few inches, and Matthew’s body sank along with the debris. Mercifully, the slab ramming itself into his spine did not lower, and the pressure released itself from his spine, guts and groin, as his body leveled out. Breath leapt into his lungs.

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he whispered in a hushed, torn voice, breathing in more easily now as the incredible pressure, threatening to break him, ebbed. He could feel the blood in his body racing to his legs and chest, free once more to flow.

  After a few moments of nervous gratitude, waiting for another aftershock, praying his body was not too badly damaged, Matthew took a deep breath and made an attempt to once again assess his position. He was still unable to turn or twist his body at all, the weight of the slab still resting on top of him. He imagined it was as if the Thing, that rock monstrosity from the Fantastic Four comics and movies, was resting his bony ass on Matthew’s spine, waiting for backup to arrive, and Matthew could do nothing but squirm and try to keep breathing beneath Thing’s bulk—a trapped, feeble villain.

  But at least the ground had ceased its final vibrations, and he was still alive. With the release of the sharp fear came cold despair, an icy blanket wrapping around him, filling him, and he sobbed like a child. Tears ran down his face and into the concrete. He realized, with no small sense of shame, he had pissed himself, whether from terror or the immense pressure on his bladder he did not know, but he could feel the urine cooling along his hip and thighs. He wiped his face with one dirty hand and then cried some more. The sobs became louder, more ragged, and soon pitched into the air as panicked screams. The weeping and cries of hysteria, of terror, of a person slowly, and quite painfully, dying.

  Am I really going to die? He desperately wished he could see what was around him. I’m so goddamn sick of the dark! he raged, straining to make out anything, any familiar shapes. How deeply was he buried, how precariously? Was he ten feet above ground, or twenty feet below? If above, would he collapse downward with the next aftershock? Sliding down and down into the bowels of the earth? And if below, what if the rescue teams because surely there were rescuers they always showed them on TV always always always brought in heavy machinery and accidentally drove over the rubble sitting on top of him, squashing him like a bug?

  He felt panic rise again and wanted so desperately to be able to just turn over and look above him. Would he see light? A pin-prick, perhaps? The proverbial ray of hope? Or would there be nothing but more darkness?

  Matthew began to hyperventilate. He had to get out. Had to get out. Get out.

  With a fresh surge of hysteria, he started to push and twist, cried out in pain as the edge of the slab on top of him dug deeper into his flesh. He felt skin tear and a warm gush of blood spill down his side, seep into the waistband of his boxers.

  He stopped. He was making things worse. “Damn it!” he screamed, feeling more helpless and alone by the moment. He tried to slow his breathing, tried to calm himself.

  He had slowed his heartrate, regained some of his composure, when something—something behind him in the dark—pulled at his foot.

  His head snapped up, eyes wide.

  He had time to think: Did something... when he felt another quick, sharp tug. Not his foot. His toe. Or, more accurately, the sock of his toe. It felt as if two tiny fingers were pulling at the very tip of his sock, teasingly trying to pull... it... off.

  Matthew wondered again how he could have possibly lost his shoes, when that something jerked the tip of his sock once more. He almost laughed through his misery, the sheer madness of someone pulling at his foot.

  His smile died. It died quickly, between one heartbeat and the next.

  The next tug was more insistent. More frantic. More needful. He felt a sharp prick, as if a pin had poked the skin on the bottom of his big toe.

  “Ow!” he snapped, then stopped breathing, focusing all of his attention on the sound coming from around his feet. He closed his eyes, listened to the dark.

  He heard his own heartbeat, the pulse of his life thumping steadily in his head. And then, so faintly he would have never heard it were he not focusing every fiber of his body to receiving the sounds made in the space around him, he heard a scuffling around his legs.

  He let out his breath. No.

  This time the tug of his sock was more certain. This time he felt the undeniable pinch of teeth sink into his toe. And then the thing was... and then the thing was chewing!

  Despite knowing he was defenseless and that his body was likely on the precipice of death, that the slightest jostling of his position could bring the bloody black-robed rider crashing laughing down upon him, he screamed. He kicked. He thrashed his one free hand, swiping madly, invisibly, at the blackness.

  “Get away!” he screamed in a guttural, broken cry. “GET AWAY!”

  He kicked his foot toward the scuffling sound and heard a satisfying, tiny squeak of pain. Or frustration, he thought. His breath became quick and ragged as he thrashed defensively. He knew his toe was bleeding, probably badly. He prayed the smell of blood would not bring more of them.

  How many would it take to eat all of him?

  “Stay away from me!” he screamed, his strained voice sounding alien and weak, any reverberation muffled, as if he were screaming curses from the inside of a padded cell.

  He stopped, waited, but heard nothing. He slowed his breathing, willed the panic to subside. He waited for the scuffling to come again, the scurrying of the tiny rat feet...

  “Hello?” came a voice.

  Matthew held his breath, cocked his head. A woman’s voice, he thought wildly. From where, from where...

  “Hello? Can you...” she said, the voice thin and wavering. The woman was somewhere... she sounded just beside him. No more than a few feet away. Was it possible that someone had been down here this whole time and he could not hear her? Could not see her or sense her presence?

  Yes, he thought, yes, of course it was possible. She was injured, unconscious, but alive, alive!

  Hope coursed through him and he forgot about the weight on his back, forgot about the foot, long-since fallen asleep and grown numb, intertwined within coarse hard metal. Forgot about his trapped shoulder, about the rat chewing on his toe... alive!

  “I hear you,” he said urgently, as loudly as he could. But his voice was so feeble. It surprised him. It was as if something inside him had gone wrong. As he strained to look through the dark, toward the voice, he was suddenly lightheaded, dizzy. What was left of his tongue was slimy with blood, and when he tried to spit he only managed to drool more slick fluid over his chin. He shook his head, tried to clear his thoughts.

  “Are you there?” Or am I going crazy?

  “I’m here,” her voice replied, from so close he felt like...

  He reached with his free hand, his fingertips finding dusty chunks of rubble, something coarse and metal, but nothing more. Just a shattered wall between him and whoever was speaking. He started feeling out the chunks of debris blocking him from the woman, straining his shoulder socket to its maximum flexibility to try and find a piece to remove. If he could dig through...

  “What are you doing?” she said, sounding panicked. Scared.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m trying, well, this is stupid, but I’m trying to dig to you.”

  “Please don’t,” she replied. “I’m afraid. I don’t want anything else to fall on me.”

  Matthew paused, let his fingertips rest on the rough, dusty barrier. They were such small pieces of rubble. He could feel around their edges, could imagine their shapes. Much of it was loose, not like the thing pressing him down, crushing him to
death.

  “Please,” he said, almost a whisper. “I’m so scared.”

  When there was no reply, Matthew wondered again if he’d imagined it all.

  “Hello?” he said, praying. “Lady?”

  After a moment—a long moment—she spoke.

  “I’m here.”

  Matthew felt sweat running into his eyes, tried to wipe it away, licked the blood and dust from his lips. “Are you... are you all right?” He could almost sense her taking stock of herself as he waited.

  “I don’t really know,” she said finally, and he could have sworn he heard her chuckle lightly. “I think my arm is broken. And my legs. I can’t feel them.”

  Matthew felt a cold wash through him, but stayed silent.

  “My head hurts terribly,” she said weakly, absently, as if she were trying to understand how she had become so badly injured.

  There was a long pause. Matthew didn’t know what else to say. He began to search for anything to tell her, just to keep communicating.

  “I think a rat was eating my foot,” he said finally, feeling idiotic but also needing to share the terror of the experience.

  For a long time, the woman did not reply. Great, she probably thinks you’re nuts, boy-o. She probably thinks she’s stuck down here, in the bowels of a destroyed building, with a raving lunatic. Some comfort you are.

  “I kicked it away,” he added, hoping the rational response would allay any fears of his insanity.

  “What’s your name?” she said, so softly and sweetly Matthew wanted to hold her and cry.

  “Matthew.”

  “Matthew,” she said, as if tasting it. Her voice rose a bit, more reassuring now. “Matthew, I’m Dee.”

  And now he did cry, the tears running hot down his face. He smiled, unconsciously covering his eyes with his hand. “Hello, Dee.”

  “I think it’s safe to say,” she said, her voice much stronger now, “that I wish we had met under better circumstances.”

  Matthew started to laugh, but a bubble of blood erupted from his throat and he gagged on it. Something in his stomach was burning, burning so badly and he prayed the works in there weren’t fouled up, prayed his liver hadn’t been crushed, that the contents of a torn intestine weren’t dumping out into the clean rivers of his bloodstream. He tried to respond, but could only cough.

  “You sound hurt, Matthew,” Dee said quietly. When he said nothing, could say nothing, she said, “You should rest now.”

  And when Matthew heard those words, he thought there was no better idea in the world. He lowered his forehead to his concrete pillow and immediately fell asleep.

  Chapter 5

  “Is it serious?”

  “What’s the phrase?” Robbie said into his ear, their connection beginning to crackle and fade as Diane drove them deeper into the mountains. “As a heart attack?”

  “Yeah, that does sound serious. Plus, you know, at his age, not the worst metaphor.”

  “Oh ha ha,” Robbie replied. “Let’s get it all out of your system now before we meet up. C’mon, here we go, please, cut loose,” he urged.

  “Well...” Matthew said, sparing a look at Diane’s focused expression as she wound the old Ford up the narrow tree-lined road into the frozen heart of Big Sur. She saw him watching and gave a half-smile, then put a hand on his knee while expertly steering with the other. “I did have a whole folder of daddy-issue puns I was planning on using this weekend.”

  “Uh-huh,” Robbie said drily, distracted now. “Whatever, Matthew. Tell Diane to keep you under control, please.”

  “Robbie wants you to make sure I behave in front of Stanley,” Matthew said to Diane.

  “Don’t worry, Robbie,” she said loudly, “he’s on a short leash.”

  “Great,” Robbie said in Matthew’s ear. There was a pause.

  Being best friends with someone since childhood grants certain superpowers. Such as the strength to raise them up when they’ve been knocked down. Conjuring the right joke to make them laugh, even when you know it’s the last thing they feel like doing. X-ray vision that tells you their heart is broken. Another helpful best friend superpower is the ability to read their minds, a sixth sense that tells you when something isn’t “all-the-way right,” as his grandfather would say. And best friends want each other “all-the-way right.” Every day. Every goddamn minute.

  “What?” Matthew said, probing. Diane’s smile flickered, her brown eyes darted to him, then back to the road.

  “It’s nothing,” Robbie sighed, morose now.

  “Oh, okay, great,” Matthew replied, sarcastically chipper. “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow. Bye!”

  Robbie said nothing for a moment. Matthew knew the fact he was not scolding him was a bad sign.

  So he waited.

  “Listen, let’s talk when I’m there, okay?” he said finally, quietly. Too quiet for Robbie.

  “Dude,” Matthew said, alarmed a little now. “What’s up? You’re freaking me out.”

  “You freak out far too easily, Matthew,” Robbie replied, but Matthew noticed his heart wasn’t in it. “Look, so you won’t make Diane crazy, it’s just... god, I really like Stan. Like, not the usual Robbie crushes I used to have in college, the ones that end in ambivalence and heartbreak for the poor sod I fell out of crush with, or whatever, but like a real deep thing.” He paused again. “God, I sound stupid.”

  “No,” Matthew said quickly, “no, man, you don’t. I get you. It’s good, Robbie. You should think of it as a positive. I mean, shit dude, real feelings? That’s pretty sweet, right?” He looked to Diane, smiled. “Our little boy is growing up. Puttin’ on big boy pants.”

  Matthew could feel Robbie smiling on the other end of the line and knew he had him right where he wanted him.

  “I’m proud of you, brother. Whether this works out or not, it must feel good to know you’ve got it in you to really care about someone. How cool is that?”

  “Very cool,” Robbie said quietly.

  “Okay then.”

  “Yeah, okay,” he said. “Thanks.”

  “It’s the sole reason for my existence, to be there for you. You know that.”

  “Good lord,” Robbie said, sniffing now, and Matthew could see him wiping his face in that weird way he had, with just the pads of his hands. “You’re really going for it.”

  Matthew laughed, missing him so much right then his heart hurt. “Listen, we’re getting up there in them thar hills, and Diane’s driving like a bat out of hell. Likely gonna lose you. You good?”

  “Yes, god, I’m fine.” Robbie sniffed loudly one final time, and when his voice returned, it was stronger. “So, do we need to bring anything or what? I don’t want to sit around all weekend drinking your cheap... if that’s...”

  “Robbie?” Matthew said, unreasonably alarmed. Hearing the struggle to keep reception, Diane slowed the car a bit. “Robbie?” he repeated, straining to hear. “I’m losing you.”

  “Yeah, whatever, we’ll bring booze!” Robbie yelled loudly, as if that would help the connection. “Kiss Diane for me, and I’ll see you tomorrow. Excited to... big... ay...”

  “Can’t hear you dude. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Good... Matthew, I...”

  There was a crackle, and the connection cut out.

  They arrived at the cabin a few hours later. Snow covered the ground all around it, and the tall crimson planks of its exterior were a broad red stain against the stark white in which it hunkered. Its hollow black windows watched them approach, the worn second-story deck, facing west for best views of the sea and sunsets, jutted toward them like a defiant chin.

  Once inside, Matthew built a fire and the young couple relished a night of sitting in the warmth of the blaze. Outside, the clouds dumped another couple feet of snow, enclosing them in nature’s dark wet bosom, where they twined and used each other for warmth, sheltered and safe.

  She’d made him dance. He remembered that so vividly. They had spun in front of the fire,
a Benny Goodman swing record spinning on his grandfather’s RCA Victor, the frayed cabinet speakers laying out the bouncing, whipping horns and rumbling drums while they did their best not to stomp each other in their semi-drunken attempt at never-before-used dance moves.

  Later that night Diane conceived. In the thousand days since, they’d gone over it time and time again, but the math worked out the same each time. Matthew wished it were not the case and tried to see grace in the timing, but all he could feel was guilt, as if this new life was a betrayal, one that would haunt him forever.

  * * *

  Matthew woke to the metallic shrilling of the cabin’s analog phone. He hadn’t heard an honest-to-god phone ringing in so long that at first he thought it was a fire alarm. He sat up quickly, looked around, taking a beat to remember where he was. He looked down at Diane, who glanced around sleepily, also caught in that daze of being somewhere unfamiliar when woken suddenly.

  He got out of bed, wincing at the frigid air attacking his naked body. The floors were bare wood but for a few large Southwestern-style rugs. He searched for something to cover himself with, then, knowing time was an issue, shook his head and walked briskly to the dining room, his flesh covered in goose-bumps, his arms crisscrossed around his thin torso, his teeth literally chattering. He smelled the old smoke from last night’s fire and decided they’d use the central heating today and keep the fire for romance purposes, because there was cold and then there was fucking freezing.

  He made it to the phone on the third ring, instinctively reached for it, then stopped. He was side-swiped with a realization that sickened him to his absolute core. His hand actually froze midway toward the green rotary phone, hovering, trembling, over the receiver as the bell inside the antiquated contraption pealed like devil’s wings.

  Only one other person had this number. His grandfather. This was his place, and the phone was kept alive because there was no cell reception. Matthew had time to think, why the hell is my grandfather calling me... he looked at the digital clock over the stove... at 6:45 in the morning?