Broken Angels

68

In his dream they have no faces. In his dream they stand in front of him, statuary, statuesque, unmoving. In his dream he cannot see their eyes, but nevertheless knows they are looking at him, accusing him, demanding justice. Their silhouettes cascade into the fog, one after the other, a grim, unflinching still-life army of the dead.

He knows their names. He recalls the position of their bodies. He remembers their smells, the way their flesh felt beneath his touch, the way their waxy skin, in death, did not respond.

But he cannot see their faces.

And yet their names echo in his dream-chamber of remembrance. Lisette Simon, Kristina Jakos, Tara Grendel.

He hears a woman crying softly. It is Sa'mantha Fanning, and there is nothing he can do to help her. He sees her walking down the hallway. He follows, but with every step the corridor grows, lengthens, darkens. He opens the door at the end, but she is gone. In her place is a man carved of shadows. He draws his weapon, levels, aims, fires.

Smoke.

Kevin Byrne woke with a start, his heart pounding in his chest. He glanced at the clock. It was 3:50 AM. He looked around his bedroom. Empty. No specters, no ghosts, no shambling parade of corpses.

Just the dream-sound of water, just the knowledge that all of them, all the faceless dead in the world, were standing in the river.