The Sleep Thief

Greetings friends, I the Stranger am almost a free man.  There is only one, very short, assignment left for me to do and after that... the sweet sweet sound of a not busy type-writer.  At any rate, the newest addition to my "friends" list is a blog that I administrate.  It has been created in light of my fiction writing class.  The idea behind it is a giant, cooperative story in which a very, very large portion of land has been set aside to the sole use of an amusement park.  Not just any amusement park either, this park has sections within which is an independent nation of people who are typed into a specific genre.  These people are, like in the Truman show, without knowledge that they are in fact NOT free.  That's the context, now we just need a story and characters.

This is where some of you can come in.  If you're interested in participating then leave a comment saying which genre of fiction you would like to do.  Example, Science fiction.  Sounds like fun huh?

At any rate, here's a VERSION of a story that I'll be turning into a book sometime.  Enjoy.  It's called 

The Sleep Thief 

 “Your hormone levels are normal, none of the abnormalities that are sometimes present in women, and we’ve run every test we can think of and made up a few others.  There is no abnormal activity in your brain, nor are any of your organs malfunctioning.  From a purely biological standpoint you’re healthy, except of course the lack of sleep.”  Dr. Avignon, his annoying, chipper voice rang in my ears like a tambourine.  Normal, healthy... hah.  “I’m going to recommend you get a psyche evaluation.  I know you’re opposed but... we’ve got to cover all the bases.  If we can’t find anything at all unusual about you then... well we’re going to have to experiment.”

                Please sit down, he said, please have a cookie, he said.  Don’t worry, I’m a professional, he smiled through his hot tea.  Then came the childhood, normal really – except the part where I had to force myself to lie still when I felt my body growing.  After that came the hallucinations, yes I see things – no I don’t listen to the hallucinations... I told you already they’re because I don’t sleep so the dreams just barge right into reality.  You’ve never daydreamed before?  Around and around we go if we’ll stop we don’t know!

                After three months and countless questions the psychiatrist was stumped.  Dr. Ricardo’s smooth Latino voice continued, “Your mental health is phenomenal.  Really, you should be in a corner rocking back and forth giggling like a maniac.  This kind of insomnia is unheard of and theoretically you should be stark raving mad from the sheer pressure of it.  But you aren’t... it goes against everything we know about the human body and our need to rest.  It’s almost as if...”  As if what my dear doctor?  “As if you were made specifically to never sleep.”  I almost slapped him.

                Their spectacled heads floated beside me, talking of just how unique I was, when I decided to continue on the mountain path I was on.  It was a clear night but my tired eyes couldn’t see much of the stars or the blurry road.  Not far in the distance lay city lights.  I had taken a few hours to rest my legs when the hallucinations came again.  “Look!  She’s getting up already.  Marvelous, her stamina is astonishing really!   Dr. Ricardo, don’t you think that any normal girl would have given up already?”  “Why yes Dr. Avignon!  Her tenacity is almost super-human.  I wonder if she’s an alien who’s been engineered to appear human to every test...”  At this point the floating heads turned green and sprouted antennae and they spoke in unison, “It is time Joan.  We have sent you this message to tell you to resume your awesome alien form!”  The two doctors began to cackle as I walked down the mountain slope, happy that I was finally going downhill.

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                Briarpatch City was aptly named by the colonial settlers who first discovered the valley.  There was a lazy river the town had grown around which had cultivated a rather belligerent briar bush affectionately referred to as the “border fence” by locals.  The city had evicted most of the prickly pests but a few were kept in a sort of briar garden in the central plaza of the city, as if to say, “We’re stickin’ through this!”  And so, I was a little surprised when I saw no one at all from the time it took me to walk from the city entrance to the center of the city.

                Sky scrapers surrounded me like brooding giants, a statue of a military commander stood amid the briars in the square.  Underneath the nearby City Bank there was a quarter machine for the Briarpatch Thorn, their city newspaper.  I did need information...

EXTRA – THE SLEEP THIEF HAS STRUCK AGAIN

This just in from our crack reporter john r. Johnson

The sleep thief has finally done it and pulled the ultimate heist.  Over the past few months there have been 200 reported cases of stolen rest-discs and it has been speculated by authorities during this time that the thief was only able to keep up the rapid pace of burglaries due to the fact that he no longer needed to sleep at all.  We thought that with all the accumulated sleep, estimated at about 40 years, the thief would be satisfied and leave everyone alone.  However, our hopes were too high and this uncanny and nigh prescient burglar did the unthinkable.  He waited until everyone had been panicked enough to deposit their precious rest-disks at the maximum security Bank of Dreams where neither the guards nor the cameras sleep.  Then, when all thought their precious stored hours of sleep safe he managed to disarm the security system of the bank, sneak around the highly trained guards, and make away with every single rest-disc in the city with one pass!  It’s unbelievable but to our horror it is true.  With the amount of rest the black-hearted thief now has he could go 20 lifetimes – 2000 years – without ever needing to sleep.  Now the city will literally sleep, myself included, as everyone is totally bankrupt of their rest-disc and will need to catch up on the sleep they have been taking for granted all these years...

            “I had heard of the mind-boggling technology that the Bank of Dreams had come up with about twelve years ago.”  Commented the voice of my father, “It was a breakthrough for humanity; we could now theoretically live every moment of our lives awake... if we were willing to pay the price.”  His face came into view on top of the newspaper.  “There were two ways to get sleep stored on your personal rest-disc.”  He droned on.  “One was to sleep extra hours when you could and program the machine to siphon that energy from you while you slept so that when you awoke having slept twelve hours of real time you could feel like you do when you sleep seven.”  I began to look for mention of food in the newspaper.  “The other was to buy hours from the Bank of Dreams.  They held a machine that could convert other types of energy into rest-units, but the conversion process is expensive because no one has found a way to make it efficient.”

                One ad said, “Come to Begel’s hometown restaurant where our fresh-made meals will chase your nightmares away!  45 West Market Street.”  I’m sure that the ad was at least being clever, if not downright sarcastic.  Begel’s was anything but homey, the building was tiny and squished like so many downtown businesses are and it looked like a man with the imagination of a box had designed the interior with its cube tables, stools, and salt-shakers.  If this is homey then I had to wonder who the proprietor’s mother was.  Like the rest of the town it was deserted, the door unlocked.  There were two levels, but the upper one had a sign in front of it which said, “Staff only” and the lower one quickly transformed into an open kitchen.

                I rang the service bell, which was the size of a coconut, and a loud dinging resulted.  “What have we here?”  Said an unfamiliar, deep, male voice.  I waited, listening and the door closed.  One, two, three steps louder than the bell sounded on the wooden floor.  He wore nice shoes and I thought he was probably taller than I was.  Four footsteps – they stop and I felt my hackles rise as the sound of fabric moving filled my ears.  I catch the smell of Old Spice and then I ducked, turned sideways, and tackled him at the waist.  “Atta girl!  I knew I taught you how to tackle like a pro!”  Encouraged my father’s floating face.

                For whatever reason, he was wearing an expensive suit.  In his suit jacket’s chest-pocket was a business card, and before he got his breath back I picked it and leaned against a cube-table while he climbed up to his feet again.  “Why on earth did you do that for?”  Irritated voice, cultured city tones, not a threat.  I ignored him, “John R. Johnson” I muttered, “That’s the second time I’ve read that name.”  He looked at me, befuddled.  “John, didn’t you say that everybody was going to be sleeping?  Now why would an honest crack reporter like you be up and about when everyone else - and I mean everyone - is in their house asleep?”  He didn’t answer, blood left the face, lips firm, nostrils wide open.  “Are you the sleep thief?”

                He blinked.  Oh, how telling that blink was.  It was like the blink of a thousand nods.  Slow, inexorable, the lashes descended across his eyes.  I could tell he didn’t want to blink, tried his best not to blink, and was so disappointed when he did blink.  In that space of time I knew beyond doubt that this man could answer all of my questions.  My father’s voice laughed grimly and I smiled a little, cruel smile like the way the moon looks when it’s at its thinnest silver crescent.  “You have no proof.”  There was barely enough air in his voice to warrant a sound, much less a whisper to his words.  I smiled a little bigger than before, leaned forward, and cowed him with my eyes... I the skyscraper and he the briar-patch general.

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                A large dull clock droned on and on somewhere hidden on the floor, tick, the sunlight fell in from the west windows, tock, the sound of something sizzling on the stove, tick, water pooled around my glass on the table, tock, and an air vent moaned its pitiful chore.  I sipped the cold, sweet water and listened to the sound of expensive shoes clop around upstairs.  The dining room was separated from the stairs by a living room around the corner, and the stairs wound up with more than half of it out of sight.   “I never would have thought my daughter would sit so calmly in the house of strange man.” Mother’s voice, silken, low, disappointed.  “I really thought I taught you better than that.”  Her voice faded as the shoes came down the stairs.  They stopped halfway; I heard rapid breaths, a muffled click, and a deeper breath.

                I slipped away from the table, leaving the condensation on my glass, and waited at the back of the stairs where a wall covered the guts of the steps.  The shoes began, more quickly this time.  “I have a disc for you to try.”  Said his voice, he tried to mask the fear with a triumphant tone.  He did not even look as he walked directly past me, his gaze so focused on the room around the corner.  He held a bird gun, double barrel, and two shots only.  My shoes matched the sound of his shoes as I shadowed him to the next room.  He stopped in shock when my glass spilled its secret, still crying from the loneliness.  I saw his hackles rise and before he could react further I clobbered him at the back of his neck.

                The expensively dressed potato sack drooled on the floor while I sipped my glass of water, bird gun across my lap.  On the table the promised rest-disc was winking at me with its throbbing lights.  I pressed the button labeled, “take rest” and held it down.  “So this is what it feels like to wake up.”  I said with the wonder of a child.  I felt my eyes relaxing, shoulders falling, breath deepening.  Waking up is like being loved, the body responds with love and the spirit quickens.  The potato sack rolled on its back and the expensive shoes didn’t remember how to get off their sides for a while.  “I really dislike you.”  Said John R. Johnson.

                “Mr. Shoes,” I began, “a few of my more pressing questions have already been answered.  But there are a few more things you will tell me.”  My voice took the edge that men associated with strong women.  “How does this work?”  He didn’t even acknowledge my question.  I aimed the bird gun at his head, the trigger was heavily wound and thereby you could pull it back quite a ways before it actually went off.  I eased the trigger back a bit and watched his face rain with sweat.  “Ask – the Bank.”  He forced it out of his mouth like vomit.  “No one knows but the inventors, I’ve only just been able to start studying them but... so far the only thing I’ve learned is that they are designed to resist curious minds.”  His eyes had the look of someone telling something very close to the truth.  I stood and used the gun’s stock to club his chest.  “Try that again.”  It wasn’t a request.

                He coughed a bit and his lungs took their time getting over the blow.  After his body was over the shock he raised his head and looked at me with terror in his eyes.  “Listen, I don’t know that much about the system.  It absorbs thermal and electric energy in a way natural to the human body.  It’s almost as if these things were tiny people made to swap around our lives... it’s less like a machine than you would think.”  He stunk of fear, eyes were wide and honest, and his breath was paced now.  “Next question.”   He heaved a sigh of relief. “This machine was designed for people who sleep.  They trade times when they are sleeping for times they are awake and vice versa.  If, in theory, there was a person who did not have the ability to sleep would that individual still be able to give rest to the machine as well as take it?  Even to the point where their incapacity was overcome by overwhelming exhaustion?”

                He thought about it.  The clock struck eleven and whatever food had been cooking was long burnt.  I emptied my glass.  “I’m not sure.  The machine would almost certainly be able to take rest from those who can do likewise.  The question is whether or not the person is truly incapable of sleep.  If he simply cannot sleep then the machine would continue to take rest from him until he collapsed.  But he wouldn’t fall asleep, he would just be so exhausted that he might as well be asleep even though his eyes don’t close and he never enters REM.”  This time, I blinked.  “He’s probably right about that.” Chimed in the chipper Dr. Avignon.  “You should just take a bunch of these discs, leave town, and be happy with what rest you have been given.”  “You shouldn’t listen to him!”  My father’s voice, as well as head, flew to my ears.  “Not only did this man do a terrible crime but he tried to kill you!  You should tie him up, go to the police station to figure out where a few of the officers are, and give them some rest discs so they can get this city moving again.”

                I stared at Mr. Potato Johnson.  He studied his expensive shoes.  So many options... but when the clock hit the half-hour I finally said, “Take me to the Bank of Dreams.”

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                Perhaps the architect of the Bank had been given strict instructions to keep the building as dignified as possible.  I had expected something other-worldly, science-fiction even.  In the end a bank is still a bank, no matter what currency it holds.  We entered the simple, but elegant, glass doors and his shoes made glorious echoes on the marble floor.  “Which way to the office of the President?”  He pointed to a nearby elevator.  “You’ll need a key card to access that floor.”  He said with laughter behind his voice.  I smiled at him and fingered the barrel of the gun.

                Soon I was at the top floor and the reporter had returned to his potato ways – giving the marble floor on the first level a bath while he remained unconscious.  The President’s office was locked and the card I had didn’t open it.  Fortunately, wood still couldn’t stand up to buck shot.  The door, newly withat a handle, opened to my gentle touch.  There sat the most valuable thing in the whole world, a PC.  Envious, I woke up the sleeping computer and waited for it to get out of bed.  Password protected.  I inspected the office.  There were no pictures of family, no calendars, no books or bookshelves, and all of the drawers in the desk were locked – by different keys.  It was almost like the President intentionally kept his office free of any clues or hints.  I sank back into the only luxury, a plush captain’s chair and suddenly knew where to look.  The chair was constructed so you would normally need to use screwdrivers to pull up the cushion, but the cushion was already loose enough to be moved.  On the underside of the cushion was a factory tag upon which a note in sharpie read, “artificial sleep before my dream.”  Smiling, I entered, “Coffee.”  Success.

                Search-box, C:/Userdoc – search field “rest theory”.  No hits.  “Blueprint”.  No hits.  “My dream” 1 hit.  It was a text document.  I read it like the bloodhound reads the scent of a wounded deer.  The President wanted to take back what the industrial revolution had stolen from the world – our pleasant sleep.  He rambled on with high rhetoric and deep philosophical ideals for a few pages.  Finally, he wrote something of interest.  “After many years of toil and on the verge of insanity through failure and the lack of that which I most sought for...  I found the engineer.  Not just any neo-physicist no, he was truly the smartest man who ever lived.  No puzzle could contain his fervor, no problem withstand his pencil!  Once I told him my dream it also became his, the biggest puzzle since the breaking of the atom.  He had the intelligence, wit, imagination, and energy of the entire Manhattan project rolled into a single man and he solved this enigma in only two years.  His name is Chris Glanco and he now lives as a multi-millionaire in Foxfield, Colorado.  Spending his money on more puzzles to solve and sell.  May he crack a bigger problem yet than the sleep cycle.”

                “Road trip!”  The chorus of disembodied heads swirled around me like a parade as I glowed in the discovery. I was a step closer to meeting the man who could change my life.  “Erik Mantel.”  I tried the name on my tongue and for the first time in my life, I think I had a crush.

To be continued

Dt