Aaron Jeffrey Kincaid had barely laid his head on the pillow before the dream came. It was the same dream. The one he always had. The one that climbed out of the nightmares of his past and became the backdrop of life for him even when he was awake.
That’s how some dreams are. Whether you’re awake or asleep they just won’t let you go. They grow thick roots, threading their way through your hopes and desires, your past and your pain, your future and your days, becoming a deep and certain part of you. And even though he’d been dreaming the dream for nearly thirty years, the images hadn’t become foggy or clouded by time, just clearer and somehow more distinct. Sharper and more focused than ever.
He was ten when it happened.
The crack of gunshots rang in the air, echoing through the muddy compound before being swallowed by the nearby jungle. Following each blast came a burst of squawks and squeals erupting from the canopy of branches high overhead.
The boy ran with the sound of gunshots all around him. Ran. Trying to forget what he’d seen, what no one should ever see.
Ran. Ran. Ran.
So that’s how the dream started-with the gunshots by the jungle. He was out of breath. He heard the loud, loud guns. But those were nothing compared to the shrieks of the children. Mostly it was the younger children screaming. The little ones. The babies. Their cries intermingled with the slow music playing over the sound system; the humming, throbbing music almost like a death march, almost like a church service gone horribly wrong. Some of the people sang along, others were hugging and comforting each other. A few of the mothers cried. But it was the babies he remembered the most. The sound of the little ones crying in the dusk.
He ran, and the shrieks chased after him as he clambered over the fence and hit the ground running on the other side. Behind him, the two guards were yelling for him to stop. That everything was going to be okay! That he should just come back and join the others! That things would be better now! If he would just stop running!
But he didn’t stop. He ran like he’d never run before, eyes frozen in terror, down the road and toward the jungle where he could hide. Like an animal he ran. The trees loomed high above him now. He’d reached the edge of the world. He dove into the shadows, a thousand shades of green flashing past his face. Even the sting of branches lashing against his face didn’t slow him down.
The branch next to his left ear exploded.
In his dream, Aaron could almost feel the spray of splinters bite into his neck and face, just like they had in the jungle so many years ago. But he didn’t stop running. The crack of another gunshot cut through the dusk. Shrieks. Music. Babies. The river.
Just a little farther. Make it to the river.
He was almost out of reach now. Almost to safety. Just a little farther and everything will be okay.
Whatever you do, don’t stop running.
The boy hadn’t been there when it started. Instead he was off playing by himself as he often did, by one of the many rivers that threaded through the jungle surrounding the compound. He liked watching the waves ripple along, easing toward some distant village-toward the roaming sea out of sight somewhere. He would dream of all the places the river might flow, all the shores the ocean might touch. Faraway, exotic lands. Lands he could only visit in his imagination. Because once you came to this town in the jungle, you never left. Everyone knew that. Everyone said so. It became your home forever.
Even though no one was supposed to leave the compound, his parents didn’t seem to mind his treks into the jungle. They let him explore down by the river because they loved him. And because he wasn’t like the other children. He was different. Special. Destined for great things. He knew it was true. They’d told him so. He would follow in Father’s footsteps one day.
Even Father said so.
So they’d let him go to the river earlier in the day when the rumors started.
Everything was so tense, everyone so anxious. Whispering. Shaking their heads and then looking around to see if anyone was watching. And usually someone was. Someone was always watching. Or listening. Things would be different now that the congressman had visited, everyone knew that. The government was coming. It was just a matter of time.
So he’d gone off to be alone for a while. But then the music started and the screams started and that’s what brought him back.
It was already happening when he arrived at the pavilion. There were so many people lying in still rows on the floor that at first he thought maybe they’d been ordered to take a nap, and dutifully, unquestionably, they’d obeyed, positioning themselves on the ground.
To go to sleep. Sleep. Sleep.
Then he saw his baby brother and his parents on the ground. But they weren’t sleeping. They weren’t moving.
He watched for a while, trying to figure out what was going on, why the ones who lay down didn’t get up again. Some people lay down quietly and hardly moved again, others shook in ways that frightened him before they stopped moving for good. But none of the ones who drank the medication or accepted the needle got up again.
None of them. Ever again.
Run.
Keep running.
Have to keep running.
He jumped over a log on the edge of the jungle, and a bullet caught him in the left shoulder, sending him sprawling to the ground in a stunning burst of pain. He cried out but then caught himself, clamping his hand over his mouth, tears burning in his eyes as he lay on the jungle floor for a moment and tried to decide what to do. Panting. Breathing. Watching. If he didn’t move, they might think he was dead. Yes, that might work. But then again, they might check, just to make sure. What should he do? He wanted to wake up from the nightmare, but he was stuck inside it. You can’t wake up when you’re not asleep. And he wasn’t asleep. He wished he was, but the jungle was real, and so were the tears and the babies and the bodies. So many bodies. You can’t leave the nightmare when you’re living inside it. When it’s living inside you.
If he stood up, they’d shoot him again. Yes, he knew that much. He knew they would. They’d kill him. But he had to get up. He had to! He had to keep going to get away from it all. Away from the screaming babies. Away from the quiet corpses.
So he did. He stood. His breath ragged, a streak of bright pain clutching his arm, he shoved himself to his feet while the gunshot wound screamed at him from his shoulder.
“There he is!” called a voice from somewhere behind him.
The boy flew toward the underbrush as another bullet ripped into the shadows that seemed to be growing all around him. The sounds of the night were beginning to envelop the jungle now that the sun had sunk into the trees. Strange and primal sounds surrounded him: rare insects and wild birds and the haunting cries of the predators who preferred to hunt only in the dark. Heavy clouds hung on the horizon, dark and distant and swollen in the sky, growing more and more gray by the second.
He stumbled to the shore of the river and collapsed, dizzy with pain, the water gently whirling around him, taking his lifeblood downstream toward some distant, unnamed shore.
The voices of the men reached him, but they were fainter now, floating on air. “I got him. C’mon. Let’s get back. There might be others who try to run.”
He heard the words echo somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness, somewhere between sleep and death, between night and day. The boy couldn’t tell anymore where reality ended and the dreaming began.
And then, with the sky darkening above him, he closed his eyes and let the night climb in with its tawny fingers, sliding back the curtain and worming its way deep into the secret part of his soul.
That’s where the dream ended. That’s where he woke up every night now, dying beside the river, soaked in muddy, bloody water, as the night climbed into his heart.
He lay in bed, shivering despite himself. He wasn’t a ten-year-old boy anymore. He was a forty-year-old man. He listened. No gunshots. No screams. Just the gentle sounds of the house settling and sleeping all around him. And the autumn wind outside the house, prowling through the night.
He eased the covers down. A sliver of waning moon hung outside his window, but in the glimmering starlight his eyes found the evidence of the bullet hole on his left shoulder. The scar that told him it was all so much more than a dream. It was a memory.
“Soon,” he said to the darkness, “the circle will be complete.” With his fingertip he traced the ridge of the scar where the bullet had ripped into him. And to him it felt like evidence of his destiny. After all, he was bound for great things, and nothing could stop destiny. His parents had taught him that much, long ago. And Father himself had told him he was special; told him that he would carry on the work when the time was right.
Aaron Jeffrey Kincaid didn’t bother to close his eyes again. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep anymore that night anyway. Not after the dream.
He rolled out of bed and sat by the window, letting the starlight caress him, inspire him, complete him. In just a few days, everything that he had worked for would be fulfilled. The message would reverberate around the world. Until then, all he had to do was stay alert and aware.
Alert and aware.
Sharper and more focused than ever.