Ex-Purgatory, Peter Clines [top ten books of all time .txt] 📗

A soldier’s shooting at me. The man—the huge man—stands on top of the white truck I glimpsed earlier. It’s tipped over, so he’s standing on its side. The soldier has a video game pistol, something too big and bulky to be real.

As I look at the pistol, the soldier fires another burst at me. I flinch away, but all the gunshots just feel like punches. They knock me around and hurt a bit, but I can tell they aren’t doing any real damage.

“Please stand down, sir,” calls the huge soldier. The words echo out across the silent dreamscape. He has a good, deep voice. “I don’t enjoy doing this.”

It’s stupid. I know this. The soldier and I are on the same side. We’re supposed to be fighting the monsters. It’s all a misunderstanding.

The wires I’m hanging from sag as the dream bullets hit me. I dangle down enough for the monsters below to reach me. One of the taller ones wraps its dead fingers around the toes of my boot. Another one brushes my heel.

The light grows brighter. Part of me wonders if it’s one of those moments in a dream when night suddenly becomes day or you go from inside to outside. But I’m already outside in the early morning, so I’m not sure what’s changed.

Then I see the other man. The other man hanging in the sky. The soldier turns to face him, too, and fires more dream bullets that do nothing.

At first I think the new man is wrapped in tinfoil. He’s nothing but reflections of the sun. Every now and then the brightness shifts and ripples, as if threads of even brighter light are racing across his odd outfit.

He’s very bright.

Then the gleaming figure speaks. Its voice sounds like static. Or a distorted hum. It takes an effort to understand the words, but I do understand them, because that’s how things work in a dream.

Well, says the glowing man. He holds up his hand and it gets even more brilliant. It’s like the tinfoil man is holding the sun in his hand. Even the air ripples and twists from the heat around his fingers. That was all pretty impressive up until the part where you got here.

GEORGE WOKE UP with a headache.

The fan chain tick-tick-tick-ticked against the side of the fan. The beads wobbled back and forth and tapped the motor housing again and again. He couldn’t block out the sound.

He focused on the chain of beads. There was something wrong with it. And then his eyes focused past the chain and he saw the dark mildew stains stretching across the stippled ceiling. He blinked and sat up in bed.

While he slept, someone had destroyed his apartment.

His television was gone, along with his DVD player and his pathetically small collection of movies. The squat bookshelf the television lived on had been smashed and collapsed into moldy sections of particle board. The closet hung open and empty. Shoes, shirts, all of it gone. Even his—

What did he keep hidden in the back of the closet? Something important. Something he was proud of, but didn’t want anyone to see.

The futon he was lying on was damp. He could see white threads of mold stretching across one corner like cobwebs. The opposite corner looked like it had been ripped open. Maybe chewed open. His blankets and sheets and pillow were gone. They’d been taken off him during the night.

They’d been taken out from under him during the night.

The room was covered with dust. The window was smashed. Even part of the frame was gone. There was a puddle on the floor beneath it, and a damp wind blew in from outside. The paint peeled off the walls in thick strips. Where they weren’t peeling, the walls had the glossy sheen of condensation spotted with mildew.

He heard a scuffling noise from behind him. He flipped around on the bed and got a glimpse of his intruder. He saw outstretched arms, pearl-colored eyes, bared teeth, and then the dead woman lunged at—

George woke up with a headache.

He stretched his arms out from under the blanket and covered his eyes. Another night of too many vivid dreams and not enough restful sleep. The chain of beads tick-tick-tick-ticked against the side of the fan. The beads wobbled back and forth and tapped the motor housing again and again. The noise accented the awareness that he wouldn’t be getting back to sleep, even though the clock said he was awake more than an hour early.

His arm was sore. It tingled and felt a little raw. He wondered if something had bitten him during the night. A few people in his building had complained about bedbugs and demanded the managers spray or fumigate or something. Up until now, George figured he’d dodged that particular bullet.

He stepped off the bed and yawned. For now he had an extra hour to kill before heading in to work.

Like most people in such a position, he turned to the Internet.

George checked his e-mail and Facebook and skimmed a few articles on Yahoo! News. The President was coming into town for an appearance on one of the late-night shows. Things were still at a constant near boil in the Middle East. The big weekend movie was being savaged by critics and bloggers.

Halfway down the entertainment section was a picture of Karen Quilt wearing a long black dress and making it look casual. She was taking part in some charity gala in Los Angeles tomorrow night. She was also using the time to tour the Jet Propulsion Lab out in Pasadena. Aerospace engineering was one of her hobbies. The article phrased her interest in a condescending way, like a parent explaining that their child wants to be an astronaut when they grow up.

He wondered what Miss Quilt thought about that particular reporter.

The folded-up copy of Maxim was on his desk. He’d tossed it there when he came home the other day and