The Dreaming: Dark Star (Book 5)

16.3. Reunion

I heard him before I saw him - the door slammed against the wall with a bang. "I'm... coming... with you," he said, panting.

No one said a word - we were all shocked.

Hello?" he strained. "Did you hear me? I want to go with you, please!"

Nike immediately got up and ran off down the hall, into the living room, or my bedroom, presumably.

Michael looked at me, his eyes wide with fear, and I groaned and got up to greet the broken thug.

He looked bad - still the same fat ole Money, but he looked bad. He was limping, dragging his leg, clutching his chest with both arms. I assume his arms still weren't working properly, maybe never would. He stared up at me through paper slits for eyes, black and blue and puffy and oozing white blood cells. I wouldn't be surprised if he lost vision in one or both eyes.

"I told you not to come down this hall," I said, my hands on my hips. I had no patience for this guy, even if he was broken.

"Please don't leave me," he cried like a blubbery babe.

"I told you not to come down here," I repeated.

"I don't want to be alone," he cried, leaning against the wall,

I heaved a sigh. What should we do? I gave Michael a look, like, what the hell?

He shrugged his shoulders. I don't know, he mouthed back at me.

Jesus! I swore silently. "Stay there," don't move a muscle," I told him. "You hear me?"

He cried and slowly sank to the ground, crying out in pain. His whole body must be beaten and bruised.

I walked up to him and retrieved the baseball bat I kept behind the door and walked back and passed it to Michael. "Here, watch over him. I'm going to talk to Nike."

Michael stood watch over Money, taking the same stance he'd seen of Lietenant Riggs a few days earlier. His feet shoulder width apart, the bat at his side.

I rolled my eyes and walked down the hall, leaving Michael to his fantasy, and started looking for Nike.

"Nike, where are you?" I called out, passing through the living room. I peeked into the bathroom and there was no Nike. That left my bedroom. I entered and said, "Nike?"

Silence.

I assumed she was hiding under the bed like all children have done since time immemorial. But I was too damn stiff from walking all day the day before to kneel.

So I sat instead, on the bed. And I started talking. "We gotta take Money with us."

Silence.

"He's not going to hurt you."

Silence.

"It's the right thing to do."

Silence.

"I can't leave him here. There is no one to take care of him, and he's scared of being alone. What if that gang comes back?"

"They'll kill him," she replied in a whisper.

"Exactly," I replied. "And even though he's done some very bad things, he doesn't deserve to die."

"Yes he does,"

I smiled. She was showing some backbone, at least. I didn't say anything, and stared instead around my bedroom, still shocked at seeing the white walls. It was all white - like the original, like before I'd moved in. All my books, all my artwork, even my quilt was gone. All they'd left were some blankets and pillows, the rug and dresser with my clothing.