My eyes flash open.  The cold sweat burns my warm skin like acid.  My lungs pump feverously, as my throat chokes on the excess of air.  The heart beat threatens to beat through my chest.  Goose flesh rises on every inch of my glistening flesh.

    I lay on my pillow a moment, my body attempting in vain to calm itself.  The night is silent, through the shut windows.  The thick sheet glass erases any remembrance of the city called Chicago.  The only sound that gives me pause, is the rhythm of breath from my girlfriend, Dian Belmont.  That too is the only comfort I’ve ever been able to find, even through the horrors of my endless nightmares.  She has been there to protect my sanity.  For each nightmare I have, is a premonition of a crime that will occur.  I watch this crime night after night; as the crime’s moment edges closer and closer… the dreams become more and more intense.  First I can barely make heads or tails of the images.  They are blurry and foggy—gray scaled.  However, soon I am plagued with more and more details, until my ears bleed with the screams, my nostrils burn with the smell of sweat... and I can FEEL the cold edge of the weapon dive into my still beating heart. 

    This my friends… is why the Sandman doesn’t sleep.

   
    Wesley Dodds carefully pulls his body from the ashen gray sheets that surrounds the king sized bed.  His left arm stretches to his left.  His fingers fumble over the smooth wooden night stand grasping his glasses.  He sits up, the sheets sliding off his abdomen and pooling to his lap.  He slowly slides the glasses home onto his face—more out of habit, than the need to use the coke bottled lenses in the dark room.

    Wesley lets out a soft breath as he turns to the silhouette of his girlfriend—her deep breathing allowing a smile to cross his mouth.  Slowly he steps out of the bed, his tawny feet finding the cold wooden paneled floor, as if he’d not felt the same sensation so many times before, it might have just caused his body to quiver.  Instead he follows sliding the rest of his body out of the bed. 

    He softly steps across the bedroom floor, his hand lifting to finger through the mess of brunette hair.  Wesley pauses a moment as he passes the window.  He pulls at the curtains only enough for a hairline crack to separate, showcasing the city outside the house.  The lights of Chicago seem to barely hold their own against the dark night and its grey soup of fog.  He doesn’t look at the looming towers, or the flashing neon signs very long.  Just long enough for him to take in the colors of his native city. 

    He backs up from the window, the curtains sliding once again in union, to rid the lights of the town below.  He turns his back to his city and continues his slow walk out of the bedroom, and away from the love of his life.

    The entire home is dark; Dian has always made sure to flip off every light before going to bed.  It’s only through habit that Wesley is able to skillfully navigate himself through the hallway.  After making this sojourn every night for two years, he has gotten used to taking his walk, even in absolute darkness.

    He stops at the end of the hallway.  His hand grips a hold of the cold brass door knob and turns.  The door slides quietly open, and with a swipe of his hand, the lights click on, canceling the darkness of the hall and beyond… with the orange glow of incandescent illumination.  The orange rain of light glitters over the cluttered walls filled with hundreds of news articles.  Some small obituaries; others full page spreads.  Amongst the catalogue of newsprint, one can easily spot red circles marring the otherwise untouched clippings.

    Tonight Wesley slides quickly into his study.  His bespectacled eyes lifting up as it does every night to look at the newsprint, his eyes instantly finding those circled in red—the crimes The Sandman did not stop.  He turns his head ever so slightly from the walls, and instead directs his attention to the lab table situated in the center of the room.  Green and blue fluids bubble softly through the glass, only the beginnings of a new formula for the gas guns, which The Sandman now wears—the science of Sleep, that idea is always a thing that makes him laugh.  He-- an insomniac of the very worst caliber making others sleep with his device.  Ludicrous.

    He walks on past the old World War Two trunk, which remains closed.  Its deep green metal absorbs all the radiated light, which falls upon it.  Inside its ancient walls, a gas mask lays against a smoky gray Fedora.  Perhaps one day, the Fedora will be as iconic as the gas mask. Yet in these days like it’s always been, on these cold winter nights in Chicago, a gentleman always wears a well made Fedora and a warm well tailored long coat.  It just wouldn’t be acceptable in polite society to be any other way.

    He finally comes to the end of his sojourn at the rest of a simple chair. The chair is pushed against the onyx work table.  A type writer has been shoved aside, to make room for a simple quill complete with a left uncapped vial of ink.  Many of the pages have been marred with words. We get a smile finally as he remembers writing every delicious word.  For you see this Wesley Dodds, is not so much a masked vigilante, as so he is a dreamer.  For as long as he’s remembered he’s always wanted to be a writer.  Of course he gave that up the day he father died.  It’s now at most a hobby, a dream that will never be fulfilled.  “Perhaps one day” he kids himself…

    His thick fingers grip the back of the awaiting chair and he pulls it free from the desk.  The legs screech for only a moment as the seat is pulled free from the desk.  He looks at the dark seat for only a moment. Then his body slides into the comfort of its slate grey cushions.  Gently pulling the seat close to the work space he bends over the onyx desk, his fingers reaching out to the littered pages. He scoops them up reinitializing the stack in uniformed corners. Skillfully he sets them at the upper left corner.  Pulling out but a few clean sheets of paper, he reaches for the quill.  –tap-tap--  The quill is buried in the liquid ink for a few short beats, then pulled free, the liquid shimmering as it rests in a single blob in the canal of the nib.

        It has now been two years since I’ve had a restful night’s sleep.  I’ve learned to spend my unsleeping hours here in my study writing down what I’ve seen in my dreams.  Trying to focus on the detail, trying to predict where the crimes will take place.  And what I need to do, in order to stop them.  Many times it is more of a mystery and by focusing on the details as they become closer the mysteries begin to unravel themselves.

    I research in the night, every night.  My eyes are forever burning, with fatigue. Sometimes I wonder if it’s the lack of sleep that makes me believe in these visions, perhaps there is something in my head.  But I’ve learned to listen to these dreams.  I learned early on, that I can’t live with myself knowing that these crimes are happening.  I feel there is a reason I see them-- for it is I, whom must stop them.

    The News clippings circled in red are my biggest fears, awakened truth that what I am plagued with are not figments of a deranged mind.  I’ve seen every one of these crimes in my limited sleep.  I’ve seen every one of them, and I failed to stop them.  Failed to save people, when I could have, not even Dian knows the bitter truth of the Sandman.

    I remember when they first started, that week in April.  I stupidly thought that it was just a nightmare, a simple nightmare—but I was wrong.  I soon learned the bitter truth of my destiny.


Mon-El
Starring...

smt

“The Fear of Sleep”

An EARTH 2 Event
SHOWCASE #26 - June, Year Five by Jae Lizhini

Two years ago…

    It was the same quiet morning, repeated in ritual at the Dodds Mansion.  The large kitchen was alive with the incandescent illumination spraying from wall to wall of the wood paneled room. The singular room knocked out the darkness of the early morning, and lightless home.  Dian Belmont stood pouring the water from the whistling kettle over the bag of black tea.  Though there was hired help able and ready to perform the task of the morning tea, Dian insisted she do it herself.  It was habit for her.  Of course her father the famous D.A Larry Belmont, enjoyed coffee with his morning toast; it was the principle behind it.

    Her body turned from the powder blue kitchen counter, holding the saucer and tea cup warming her hand with its steam.  Her slender almost almond shaped eyes took in her love as he sat motionless at the table.  His white shirt and red tie, counteracting the muted colors of the kitchen’s morning glow.

“Did you manage to get back to sleep last night?”  Dian asked, in a concerned voice. Her lithe hands softly set the saucer and teacup beside the rolled newspaper.

    Dian’s voice echoed the concern she had always had over him.  Perhaps it was her motherly instinct in regards to the man she loved.  However, it could also be the fact that he had given up his dreams of being a writer to take over his father’s company—so he could support her while she went to college to pursue her own goals… as a journalist.  She had only been out of school for two years, but her achievements writing for a small art magazine were more than she could have ever hoped for.  She owed all of her success to the sacrifice her lover made.  He never thought twice about, giving her what she wanted… even at the threat of his own ambitions. 

    The son, of the wealthy business man, Edward Dodds, lifted his red rimmed eyes up towards the sun kissed face of Dian. He let a tired smile stretch from cheek to cheek, narrowing his burning sleep depraved eyes.  “No, I didn’t.  It’s okay though, I’m sure that it’s just a passing thing.  Insomnia can be like that.  First you can’t sleep, then your body rights itself.”

    The young woman lashed her head back around. Her short blond curls swung across her high forehead, before coming to a stop at her golden arched eyebrows.  “You should see someone about it.  A few days are one thing, Wes.  But it’s been almost two weeks.”  She sighed. “Two weeks with the same nightmare, its not healthy to be going on like this.”

    Wesley nodded, pushed the tea gently to the side, and unraveled the morning’s post.  His eyes widened to twin saucer cups as he made out the stark black letters that stamped across front page.  “CHICAGO GOVERNOR FOUND DEAD.”

    “Oh my god… oh my god... no.”  He whispered his right hand pulled at the uncombed mess of brunette hair that carpeted his all to round scalp.

    “What is it honey?”  Dian asked, the hem of her polka-dotted dress sweeping across her pudgy knees, as she strode back towards Wesley.  “What’s the trouble?

    “Is this real? Am I still dreaming?  This can’t be.”  He moaned… tears ran down his crimson cheeks.

    Her small hands slapped across the wooden table in a thud.  The force was enough to cause the steaming coffee to seep in rivulets over the sides of the porcelain mug.  “Talk to me Wes, what’s going on?”

    “The Governor… like my dream… he’s… the details are exactly the same… What does this MEAN?”

    Dian rushed to Wes’s side. Her brightly painted lips turned to a frown as she laid her palms against his broad shoulders.  Her neck craned down beside his neck, to get a good look at what he was reading.  However her mind was still clouded to his reasoning.  “Shhh honey, you’re not dreaming.  What is all this. Talk to me.”

    The young businessman turned his head from the haunted words, his glasses facing her as best he could.  “Look it’s nothing.  Just those… those dreams I’ve been having.  It’s nothing to worry about, honestly.”

    “Don’t do this Wesley.  Don’t play that Hemmingway character with me.”  She leaned in closer; her round featureless nose almost touched the sharp point of his.  “This is going on too long. I’m calling Dr. Madison, and you’re going to go see him.”

    “Madison?  That bloody quack. I’d rather… “

    “You’d rather what?  Continue not sleeping until you waste away into a pile of dust?  I mean look at you.  You’ve got bags under your eyes that we could put the contents of the pantry in.  And your skin is as white as marble.  And where I’d say you could lose some weight, a month ago… look at you now!  You need some help.”

    Wesley lowered his head. His large shoulders bowed into slack.  “Okay,” he said weakly.  “I’ll go see him.  Maybe he’ll prescribe me some lithium.”

    “This isn’t a joke Wesley Bernard Dodds!  I’m calling him and you are going to see him TODAY!”  She wailed, her brown eyes glistened with the threat of tears.  “Do you understand me?”

    Wes stood up from the table, his body slowly turned to the woman he loved.  He slid his arms across her waist and pulled her close to him.  “I’m sorry I acted like an absurd ass.  I’ll go.”

    “Today,” she whispered.

    “Today,” he said and drew his thin lips to hers and slowly kissed her mouth.

    “Good.” She smiled as she slowly pulled away from the sweet embrace.  “Good.”

    The famed Psychologist Dr. Julian Madison had his office in the heart of Chicago, maintaining his practice from the top floor of the Roebuck Tower, a large shimmering glass covered super-scraper, situated on the posh 13th block of South Street.  The shimmering building sat like an over sized needle amidst dark colored office buildings of the Chicago cityscape.

  The waiting room of the famed psychologist was one that would put most people to awe.  Large twenty feet ceilings were painted in stark beige; only hidden by the golden framed paintings of the postmodern era.  Large bay windows sat at two corners of the goliath room, threatening to dwarf out the bronze hanging lamps that dotted the textured ceiling.

    Wesley Dodds had waited silently in one of the many burgundy colored velour couches that lined each of the beige walls for nearly twenty-five minutes.  His head was craned down flipping through one of the quarterly magazines that littered the glass table that sat a few feet in front of him.

    “Mr. Dodds, the Doctor will see you now,” the receptionist called, in a husky voice. 

    Wesley turned up from his magazine, turning to the open door.  His eyes took in the waiting stare of Dr. Madison, through his coke bottle lenses.  He felt a dry swallow in his throat. Absently his fingers laced across the felt brim of his cobalt fedora.  “Jolly good.”

    As he rose, he bent over neatly placing the quarterly on the stack of periodicals, and then lifted his head towards the door.  Carefully he held his hat against his left hip. He took in a deep breath and walked towards the doctor.  Neither set of eyes hauled their sight, as the stalky business man trekked across the crimson carpet. Wesley’s shining old leather shoes, padding as skillfully and as slowly as he could muster.

    “I say Wesley, dear boy, it’s so strange to see you outside of a gala,” the doctor began, in his impressively deep voice.  The sharp blue eyes of Madison bore down on the shorter businessman.

    “Tell you the truth I’d thought I’d… never live the day to take you up on your offer Julian.”

    “That makes two of us old man,” Madison spoke as he struck Wes’s back with a loud clap.  Wes only paused a moment to straighten his back, before following the doctor through the doorway, into his office.

    It seemed to Wesley as he walked through the doorway of expertly carved blond wood, that most of the designer’s salary was reached in the waiting room, and the good doctor himself, made all the designs of his own office.  The beautiful carpet ended at the door, and continued with dark wood paneling.  The walls of the cubical office were painted the same beige as the waiting room. However instead of magnificent pieces of art work with golden frames, the walls were instead filled with certificates of honor, plaques, and of course what Wesley assumed was a clipping for every time the good doctor had been in the Chicago Tribune.

    “Come, come,” Madison spoke persuading Wesley to walk deeper into room, before the door snapped shut.  The sound of closing door cancelled out the bright illumination. All the shades of his office were drawn and only two small overhead lamps gave the darkness a run for its money.

    “Have a seat Wesley,” Madison spoke indicating to the dark blue couch that sat in the center of the dark room, “and let’s here what troubles you.”  The doctor himself took a few strides ahead of the businessman, taking his own prescribed seat in a matching sofa chair.  He drew one leg over the other and turned slightly to his side.  His nimble head peered as the shorter businessman took his time padding across the wooden floor, each step from his stylish dress shoes clapping an echo for each of the four beige walls.

    Pulling at the knees of his lagoon green slacks, Wesley took a seat in the voluminous cushions of the couch.  He leaned back and sat his hat across his lap.  “So where should I begin?  I’m so bad at focusing, I’m afraid I might just ramble on.”

    The doctor leaned back and let out a sizeable chuckle.  “Will you now?  I believe hearing you ramble would surprise me.”

    “I see,” Wesley said.  “Oh… you’re good.  I’ve always heard that you shrinks do that.  Turn every question back on the patient.  You almost had me Madison.”

    “Okay, how about you tell me what brings you here.  Dian unfortunately just said you haven’t been sleeping.”

    “That’s really about the gist of it.”

    “You know perfectly well, that I mean to ask, why haven’t you been able to sleep?”

    Wesley let out a sigh, and let his eyes fall closed.  “I’ve been having nightmares.  Nightmares that wake me up to the point I can’t go back to sleep.”

    “I see,” Madison spoke and leaned forward, letting his expression do little the job of covering his excitement.  “Tell me about these dreams.  Why do they scare you, so that you can’t sleep?”

    “The nightmares, are vivid, increasingly so.  Many times violent, and it’s as though I watch these violent acts, feel the victims’ pain, the intensity of the perpetrator.  But I am not there.”

    “I see,” Madison repeated.  “And how does this make you feel?”

    “Frightened. I believe we’ve been through this.”

    “I think there is something more to these dreams you’ve been having.  Perhaps you feel defenseless in your work, and all you can do is watch as things occur.”

    “I’m sorry but I feel this is a waste of time,” Wesley spoke rising from the sofa.

    “You’re not ready to open up just yet are you?  I understand, but these dreams will not go away, until you work through your stress.  You’re angry I can tell, and no prescription or words of advice will be able to help you, until you embrace your problems.  You have to admit to them.”

    “Yeah,” Wesley spoke through his clamped teeth, “well look, thank you for seeing me, and giving me your thoughts on the problems.  But I should really be getting back to work.”

    “Wesley,” Madison spoke, as he rose from the sofa chair he was sitting in.  Wes stopped his trek near the door.  His rotund skull turned across his shoulder looking at the psychologist.  “Please, if you need any help.  If things get too bad… come see me again.  I want to help, as soon as you let me in.”

    “Thank you again, Julian,” the businessman spoke in the kindest voice he could pull from his lips.  He generally believed that Dr. Madison was being genuine, just his problem had nothing to do with stress.  There was something deeper at work.  It was at this moment, that Wesley came to terms with this.

    The day after Wesley Dodds left the Psychologist, Dr. Madison’s office—a new dream sprang into his brain.  Night after night he tossed and turned in his sleep. Each night, like before the dream got more and more vivid.  First all he saw was a blotchy building in dark grays and blacks.  But as the nights went on the building became more and more clear.  It was a week into the dreams, when he began to hear the voices, feel the sweat, and his heart couldn’t take the slumber.  Again, he began to spring from his sleep.  Again he began to wonder what it could all mean.

    It was the third night of sleeplessness, which as he sprung from his sleep… his vision was clear.  It was the Chicago state building.  And the building was going to be blown up, tonight.

    He slowly slipped from the covers, careful not to wake Dian as he did so.  He grabbed his glasses from the nightstand, slipping them across his watering eyes.  He drew in deep breaths, before he padded his bare feet across the wooden paneled floor.  His heart beat painfully in his chest. He opened the bedroom door, and carefully navigated himself down the wide staircase.  His shaking hands clamped the cold railings, as he made his descent to the living room.

    Like the rest of the house at night, the living room was completely devoid of light.  Carefully he felt the clammy walls for the light switch.  Finding it his fingers drew it up, causing the electric hum to fill the room. Before his eyes the entire darkened room faded into an illuminated spectrum.  Wes blinked his eyes a few times as they adjusted to the new brilliance.  He turned his head towards the beige rotary phone, which sat in the center of the ivory coffee table.  Without thinking his feet strode forward carrying his waiting body to the center of the room. 

    Slowly he bent down, his fingers quivering as he brought the receiver to his ears and mouth.  His free hand’s index finger spun the dial.  As the dial tone rung, he felt nauseous, tremors of thick bile running up his throat.  What would he say…?

    --Hello. Chicago police department, Officer Petty speaking.--

    Wesley had breathed in quickly, and had exhaled just as hurried.  “H-hello this is uh... this is Wesley Dodds, I want to report a crime,” he spoke; his voice grating with nervousness.

    --Mr. Dodds, okay.  You seem a little nervous.  So just calm down and please tell me a few things.  Can you do that for me sir?--

    “Y-yes… I believe so.”

    --good.  Now at about what time did the crime take place?--

    “That’s the thing it hasn’t happened yet.  It’s going to happen.”

    --So you heard a crime was to take place?—

    “No… well in a matter of speaking I sort of did.”

    --Can you explain this more Mr. Dodds?—

    “I… I dreamt it actually.”

    --Look I don’t know what you’ve been drinking but I’d advise you to stop.-- 

    “It’s not a joke.  I know it sounds crazy, but you have to believe me.”

    --You are going to hang up right now; if you persist I’m going to have to send a patrol car to apprehend you.  Do you understand?--

KLIK.

    Wesley felt the phone slide from his face, his mind reeling at the finality of it all.  For the span of a few moments he looked at the phone, his eyes not blinking. Slowly, he turned away from the phone, his legs bowing, his body shivering.  People would die tonight, if something was not done.  More so the entire city would be in a panic--if the state building was destroyed.  But what could he do?  What could he do if the entire city, would not listen?

    He slowly flipped the switch of the over head light, dissolving the room’s light.  With unsteady steps he turned and walked towards the stairs, slowly making his way back up the flight, towards his bedroom.  His steps were slow but hard, he felt as though his entire world would collapse.  He never thought… that he’d have to deal with this nightmare in the waking world as well.

    He came to a stop at the top of the stairs.  He turned his head swiftly to the open bedroom door.  He paused a moment, then looked to the other side of the hallway.  He couldn’t see Dian now, she wouldn’t understand.  No one could understand.  Instead he walked towards his study.  A room he usually only used when he needed to write, and right now--writing appeared to be the only thing he could do.

    He slowly walked the hallway, as though he was being driven by someone other than himself.  His hands had barely touched the walls for guidance, and but a simple swipe of his hand once more he had unlatched his study and walked through the awaiting doorway.

    He flipped the switch on the wall, cascading the usual incandescent flood of light across the simple book lined room.  His bare feet stood at the doorway for a moment looking in.  In all his years, Wesley Dodds never felt as defenseless and helpless as he did at that moment.  Slowly he allowed himself to walk in. 

    As he walked into the room and shut the door behind him, he felt the pull away from the oak desk which sat in the corner of the small room--away from his paper and quills.  Instead he felt himself staring at the dark green trunk that stood on end at the far end of the room, under a series of framed photographs and a plaque.  Slowly he walked towards the display.  His bespectacled eyes looked at the photos slowly, his eyes glancing at the blotchy gray scale images. He felt a swell of pride as his younger self stared back at him through the glassy frames.  Then suddenly he stopped his walk, a few feet from the display of the Great War. 

    Suddenly his answer stared back at him, through his own younger body.  His skull looked at him through the large round glass holes in the rubber mask he wore--His gas mask.  And like a light came on in his eyes he dropped to his knees and pulled the trunk free from the wall.

    The metal box crashed, to the ground.  And for a moment he went silent, carefully listening, making sure that Dian hadn’t been awakened.  He took in another deep breath before his eyes fell on his battered military trunk.  The aged metal sheen cast a warped reflection of himself back into his eyes.  Slowly his fingers fell against the latches and in two metallic ‘TINK’s they snapped down.  Greedily he opened the old trunk.  His eyes glazed with memories.

    Though his short and stalky physique, didn’t show it—during the Great War he was drafted into the military.  Back then he was broad shouldered and muscled.  Not the same man he was now.  But as he looked into the trunk, his hand felt the tweed uniform that was neatly folded on side of the trunk, his military training rushed back to him in an instant.

    He was enlisted into a Marine Corps division.  They were a third tier infantry to clear out remaining forces, with gas grenades, and biological agents.  Slowly his head turned to look at the gas mask.  He could hide himself with this mask.  He wouldn’t need to even wait for the cops. He could deactivate the bombs himself!  The memories of his dreams were like a blue print.  He knew where all the bombs were placed.

The State Building
Downtown Chicago
11:15 PM

    It took Wesley Dodds the better part of two hours to find the right mixture of clothing, to keep him hidden.  Part of him wondered if he was insane, as he chose a dark green over coat, to keep himself hidden in the dark building, to do what he knew he had to.  But the moment he slid on the old rubber mask, and slid the black fedora hat over its crown; something inside him clicked.  His mission was clear, and no one else in the world could ever know what secret he discovered this night.

        The masked figure felt the sheering wind through his pinstripe slacks as he swiftly clambered across the deep gray rooftop.  His heart pounded even still as his featureless form crouched in the shadows, focused not just on his entrance through the building’s fire exit, but to where each of the explosives was planted.  To avoid detection and unwanted violence he would try to gather each bomb one by one.  Three bombs at the building’s foundation, two bombs on the top floor.

    Wesley stopped at the aluminum door jutting out from the rooftop.  He was prepared to pull out his small lock picking set, but realized the flimsy latch had already been crushed, and splintered.  He knew full well, that every motion he was making was the same trail the villains in his dream had taken.  But there was no other way.

    He pulled the broken door open. He dropped onto the metal ladder that extended from the small crimson doorway.  Even before his gloved hands and steel toed boots caught the frigid ladder-- that snaked down the wall into the main hallway of the top floor—he felt his body slipping into the inky blackness of a lightless building.  He shook the fear from his head, and carefully climbed down the steel ladder.

    It took him all of fifteen seconds to carefully creep down the ladder, and softly land on the linoleum floor.  A soft clap of heels echoed like a warm breeze from dark wall to dark wall.  He silently plunged his charcoal-gloved hand into the deep green over coat, circling with his thick fingers the long neck of his aluminum flashlight—another part of his military effects. 

    With a clumsy declaration, his index finger found the power switch and the small lamp hummed to life, the neck he hung to, grew warm in his numbing fingers.  The yellow band of light cut through the inky fog of darkness like a spear, and he illuminated the path he was to take.  He both had to hurry and be undetected.  He was sure that the criminals were already on the ground floor, but he also wondered about the security guards, they would still be about, wouldn’t they?

    Carefully his steps took him along the deep hallway, with the entrenching darkness. He felt like he was walking in a catacomb.  The entire floor was silent as the dead, and the featureless shadows the surrounded him, gave him even more recourse to fear the vulnerability that he indeed had felt.
   
    The path of his memory was all that guarded his hurried soft steps, and led him through an office door, which of course had its lock smashed, just as the fire escape had.  The second door however was more sloppily done.  The thin blond door was loosely hanging from its former hinges and thick cracks had spider webbed across its surface.  With a paranoid flick of the flashlight he stepped into the room.  His footfalls were soft, even across the soft lime carpeted floor.  His eyes skillfully flicked across the room; through the bulky mask he had called his own.  The flash light scanned across the room several times.  It was the fourth time through the room that he spotted the blinking LED light, situated near the room’s drawn shades.  He took a deep breath and pointed the flash light at the wall.

    He watched the blinking metal box as his careful steps took him towards its placement on the wall.  He felt his breath shallow as he neared it.  The simple charcoal casing looked flimsy at best.  The Sandman bent down to his haunches, his long coat flooding the floor like a blanket.  Skillfully he drove a hand into the voluminous pockets of his coat, and pulled out a small sandy colored pouch.  He took another deep breath before unrolling the tool pouch onto the floor.

    Even as he pulled the red handled screwdriver from the minute pouch, he felt a tinge in his gut.  If he slipped in the dismantling of the unit, the entire floor would be gone.  He brought his hand up and slowly unscrewed the casing from the rectangular box, exposing the spaghetti of wires underneath.

    He felt another wave of fear.  He looked through the wires… knowing if he touched the wrong thing he’d be in trouble.  He scanned over the wires, and saw what he was looking for.  A small metallic cube on the left side of the bomb—a radio transmitter—stuck out amongst the wires like a needle in a haystack. 

    ~So there isn’t even a timer on these bombs~ The masked vigilante thought to himself ~All I must do is find the central timer.  If I stop that then the bombs won’t detonate~ With those words he rose up from the dismantled bomb.  He didn’t bother to put the casing back on.  He didn’t have a lot of time to locate the central unit. 

    He focused on what he knew in his dream, as he walked back through the broken door.  His mind replaying the flashing yellow timer, he saw countless nights before… flashing to zero right before the entire building exploded. 

    ~The basement.  It’s in the basement.~

11:30 PM

    The main staircase was on the other side of the floor.  Though he needed to be careful through the inky shroud of darkness, he had to hurry.  Time was not on his side.  He knew that he had spent too much time getting to the first bomb.  And traveling to the basement level would prove to be more of a problem, in quick efficiency as he didn’t want to use the elevator.

    He hurried himself as well as he could down the broad hallway. The Sandman was careful to step with his ankles, to keep his echoes to a minimum.  He hadn’t a lot of time, and if he failed now he would die in the explosion.  He questioned to himself as he continued forward.  He wondered what he was thinking, taking on criminals; he didn’t even have a weapon.  The war was fifteen years ago, and he was out of practice in all the martial abilities he had practiced as a child growing up in China.  But he had little choice.  He couldn’t let another nightmare become reality.

    “IS SOMEONE HERE?” a voice called, splintering as it crashed into the darkened walls on either side of the vigilante.

    The Sandman turned his head sharply to the mouth of the hallway.  Switching off his flashlight like a reflex.  His light faded into the still darkness, and he leaned up against one of the walls.  He knew that the criminals would have not called out. They would have attempted to silence him if they saw him.  This man was definitely not one of the criminals he was out to stop.  But he couldn’t be discovered. 

    The security guard’s light cut through the darkness like a lance, as he made his way down the darkened halls.  His eyes peeled at the spots his flashlight illuminated.  In his twenty years working this job he had his fill of adventure.  But something felt different about tonight to him.  He couldn’t put his finger on it… but something chilled him to the very bones.

    “You!” the guard called out when his light uncovered, a stocky form covered in an olive colored over coat.  The form looked up at the security guard, its face covered by a black rubber mask.  The forms eyes were glass circles reflecting the yellow stream of artificial light. The nose rose from the mask like the end of a large salt shaker.  The security guard felt his sandy mane of short clipped hair stand on end, as the sinister form in the shadows presented itself.  His hand milled to his holster grabbing the handle of his pistol.  His shaking hand drew it as fast as possible yet it wasn’t fast enough.

    The strange perpetrator took the five feet that separated them in two.  The Sandman’s over coat spanned behind his dashing form like a moth’s wings. The black gloved hand swam forward, followed by the rest of his body curving to make room for the crumpled fist.  The fist smashed dastardly into the security guard’s chin causing him to lunge a step back. 

    The Sandman didn’t stop with the first strike.  He twisted his body to the shocked guards left side. The black leather gloves gripped the security guard’s wrists and thrust them hard against the wall.  The metal gun impacted the wall in metallic thud.  The guard grimaced at the pain, but didn’t let go.  The vigilante smashed the hands against the wall a second time using all his force.  He felt the wrists pop in his grip as the gun was released.  Next with the grace of a man who had not practiced fighting skills in more than six years the vigilante spun to face the security guard, and spread the man’s damaged arms out wide.

    “I’m  SoRrY.”  The almost mechanical voice called through the metallic vents of the gas mask.  The Sandman stepped forward smashing his mask into the guard’s skull.  The point of impact rocked the vigilante more than he thought and he let his hands release the wrists of the security guard.  The old man fell limp as soon as the grasp was released, collapsing into a human pile.

    The Sandman shook his head clearing the throbbing feeling which echoed across his skull. Finally he bent down, taking the dropped gun into his hand.  He turned the light gun in his hand examining it.  He slid his hand across the bridge, flipping the release lever of the gun, exposing the chamber.  Inside he saw the cartridges that lay loaded into the gun’s onyx bridge.  “Tranquilizers almost too fitting…”  he whispered to himself.

    The Vigilante stood up slowly.  He didn’t have much time.  Pocketing the gun into the waist band of his slacks he grabbed his flashlight and hurried down the hallway. He prayed that there were no more surprises.  His foot falls clapped across the linoleum floor and took off into a hurried gait.

11:45 PM
   
    The Sandman took no small measures as his shoulder slammed into metal door, at the end of the great hallway.  The blue door squeaked open hard and slammed against the concrete wall in a devastating thud.  He took in a deep breath. Stepping forward, his every footfall echoed from each end of the concrete incased flights.

    He placed his hands on the railings and he ran down the stairs. He used his palm to guide his descent taking three steps at a time and leaping around every curve, as the staircase snaked him down twenty flights.  The vigilante could feel his lungs pumping as he ran his body to its limits, trying its best to keep up with the brain’s need to get to the bottom. 

    When he hit the last platform he finally stopped for a few moments. His hand leaned against the door.  He took in deep breaths, swallowing as much as he could.  He was not a man who was in shape.  He knew that if he was continuing this life, he would need to get back into shape.  It would be a sad day when a staircase hit harder than the criminals he was trying to stop!

    He pressed open the door, with a deep squealing of old tired hinges and stepped onto the basement level.  The stream of his flashlight lit his trail as he walked onto the cold level.  He leaned against the wall as he made his way down the much narrower corridor.  His mind trying to remember where the timer would be—yet also knowing that in his dream, that the criminals would be passing down this corridor during their exodus, and they were armed.

    Slowly he made his way down the hallway one hand on the flashlight the other resting above the pistol he had still stuck in the waist band of his pants.  His eyes raffled visions as he continued; he felt the call of his memory as he walked leading him along the path to where he needed to be. 

    He came to a stop at a gray painted door.  His flash light danced off the thick paint when he bent down to look at the brass knob.  He brought his dark gloved hand to the knob and pulled the door open.

    His ears took in a sudden shift of clothing from inside the vast room.  His eyes barely had time to take in the ash colored concrete floor, or the large shelves that vivisected the room, before his free gloved fist struck the light grid.  A small crackle of electricity snapped, before the entire room went dark.

    “What the…” one unfamiliar voice called in the darkness.

    “I’ll get my flashlight,” another called.

    “Shut up,” a third snapped. 

    The Sandman, took in the voices as his body dove into the darkness.  It wasn’t until just that moment that he felt the comforting pull of the darkness.  His hands swam out feeling the shelves as he passed them.  His ears took in the voices that panicked, his own mental map, from the dreams directing him to their location—like radar.

    “Damn flashlight,” a frustrated voice called.  “Wait, here we go,” he called before the yellow spear of light ignited the darkened scrape with a yellowish hue.  It was as he directed the light in front of him that a singular face was uncovered.  The circular glass lenses of a gas mask reflected the yellowish light.

    The eerie visage twisted his body towards the light bearer.  The drab overcoat flung towards his station, and the eerie masked form swung his right arm towards him.  The criminal’s eyes grew wide as he was faced with the barrel of a pistol.  Surprisingly there was no bang.  Just the squeak of a leather glove and the soft hiss of condensed air, as the dart hummed towards him.

    The criminal with the flashlight felt the sudden sting as the dart impaled his neck.  He reached up to feel the dart, but his limbs grew suddenly heavy.  He felt the dart bulging from his neck, as his legs gave out.  The flashlight fell to the ground in a tink. 

    The other two had seen him easily, in the thirty second span that he shot the first.  A fist impacted his stomach as the flash light fell.  Wesley let out a groan when he felt the sharp pain.  His legs stepped backwards rolling with a punch.  It was only as his momentum stopped that he heard the sound of a pistol fire.

    The burst lit up the room for a fraction of a second, the reddish flurry of the bullet screaming over his head.  “Did I get him?” one of the voices called.

    “No but I managed to get a punch in,” the other voice called.

    “I WiLl nOt… LeT yOu…SucCcEed!”  The Sandman said through his heavy breathing.  The punch still stung his stomach.  He drew up his gun. The sleeves of his over coat made little noise of ruffling as he let his excellent mind remember where the two were standing in the short blast of light only moments ago.  They had not moved, he surmised thanks to the voices they shouted out.  And now that he spoke they too knew he had moved.

    He aimed his hand and fired the tranquilizer pistol.  The air condensed chamber hissed as the dart, was expelled.  He heard a groan and took not a second moment, to pull the release on the pistol and aim a third time.  It was the sound of another firearm discharge that pulled The Sandman to his senses, a shock that caused him not to squeeze the trigger.

    A short tinge of pain raided his senses, as the bullet caught his right shoulder.  “Ugh!” he called out, the warm sensation of pain, breaking his concentration.

    “Sounds like I got you,” the rough voice of the singular criminal called out.  “But this is senseless.  You haven’t got the time to find and dismantle the timer.  By then we will be gone.”

    “nO.” He spoke before his thoughts were scattered by a sharp sound.

    The Sandman went low at the sound of the bullet.  His body narrowly being missed by the shot, however the brief moment of lightening again allowed him to map out the room.  He raised his firing arm and squeezed the trigger.  The dart hissed across his ears as he heard a second groan, followed by a body collapsing onto the floor.

    His celebration was short lived however; instead a fist smashed into his mask.  The blow caused the heavy breathing spout to smash against his mouth, with a devastating force.  He felt his legs give out and he crashed to the floor.

    “You’ve really made a mess of things buddy.  And you’re going to pay,” the last of the criminals called out to him in the darkness.

    The Sandman shook his head and leaned up on his hands.  He felt the blood of his bullet wound streaming down his left arm as he pushed his body upwards.  He had lost the pistol in the fall.  He would need to think fast. 

    When he rose back to his feet his hand went for large pocket inside his over coat.  Pulling out the thick flashlight he fumbled with the switch.  He wasn’t sure if the last of the criminals had a gun, but he had to make the risk.

    “There you are!” the criminal called from the hero’s left side.  The Sandman turned his body around shining the light on the rushing body.  A fist came forward through the darkness cutting into the flashlights stream.  With his right hand he brought up his forearm, in sweeping motion batting the lethal fist in a judo styled block.

    The block caught the criminal off guard, twisting the weight of his upper body to his left foot.  With a second, motion he swung his left hand as hard as he could into the criminals face.  The heavy flash light collided with bone in a thunderous force.  The criminal let out a groan as his teeth bit into his tongue.  The vigilante didn’t stop with the first attack however.  He brought his right hand forward once again, crunched into a fist, smashing the man’s nose in a heavy swing. 

    The criminal wind-milled his arms as he felt his balance leaving him, his body crashing onto the floor.  The Sandman turned his light to the criminal’s position and walked towards him.  With little regard to the man’s health he slammed his heel into the man’s solar plexus rendering him unconscious.

11:57 PM

    The time it took him to dispatch the criminals was made clear as he made his way across the large room to rotary clock which hung above a dark black box.  He eyed the clock with a desperate fear.  He didn’t have much time, when that timer went off the radio signal would cause the bombs to activate.  He had to act fast.

    Making his way across the darkened room, he crouched down before the large clock.  He set the thick military flashlight in the crook of his neck, careful to direct the yellowed trail of light against the onyx metal box.  The Sandman’s black gloved hand sunk into the over coat’s inner pocket, digging out the pouch of tools he had used on the top floor almost forty-five minutes before.  He pulled the small bag from his coat he swiftly drew it open, unrolling the contents onto the floor.  The metal clanked softly against the linoleum.

    Selecting a screw driver he brought the tool to the outer casing of the box and swiftly got to work.  His wrist steady turned in quick short succession, pulling each of the four scrolls out of the casing.  Carefully he removed the black outer shell, exposing the chaos of wires that existed inside.  He grabbed the flashlight from where it poised at his neck.  Letting the light skim with his eyes across the array of wiring that existed inside the bomb’s insides.

    He breathed hard through the gas mask’s nozzle as his fingers leafed through the wires.  His mind racing at how was the best way to diffuse the bomb.  He let the light shine on the pair of diodes that connected the clock’s alarm to the main circuit.  And began to look at the wires that connected to it, one of the wires he knew had to be the one that would break the circuit, which would cause the bombs to explode.  The other three that were connected there, had to exist for voltage, and for the changing of the current when the clock struck its mark. 

    He looked at the connections again.  He traced each line into the spaghetti of wires checking to where they entered the circuit board.  His heart was racing.  He had to make a decision and quick.

11:59 PM

    “ThE GrOuNd WiRe!” The Sandman spoke as he traced the yellow colored wire back up to the pair of diodes.  Hurried he tossed the flash light to the floor.  His fingers traced the pouch and slid the wire cutters free.  With his left hand still holding the wire he cut the wire.

    He felt his heart beat hard in his chest after the wire was snipped.  It was only a few breaths later he heard the alarm on the clock.  It was midnight.  The State Building did not explode.  And Wesley Dodds was still alive.

12:15 AM

    The cops arrived fifteen minutes after the bombs were to go off; they were dispatched through an anonymous tip.  They had found the store room scene after a short walk through the building.  I was long gone of course.  I read about it the next day in the newspaper.  The Police Department was embarrassed about the whole situation.

    They found the bombs deactivated, and criminals sound asleep.  And they truly were baffled, until one of the detectives found a peculiar origami duck near the bomb timer.  When it was unfolded a simple three lined poem was written in tight serif print.
At the very hour of fate
The Sandman will bring sleep.
 If the cops are late.

    One of the security officers described the man who assaulted him as a dark garbed man, with the face of a devil.  The criminals testified that they couldn’t clearly see the vigilante who stopped them.  All they remembered was the Fedora and the strangely shaped face.  Of course the case files of the vigilante known as “Sandman” would get quite large in the years to come.

Present Day…

    Wesley Dodds stands at the corner of his study, sliding his short arms into the sleeves of the green over coat.  His gloved hands flex as he straightens the sleeves against his skin.  He turns his body to the desk, where his twin chrome gas guns sit. They cover the writing he had finished moments before, his gas mask, and hat covering the rest of the paper as though it was planned.

    He walks carefully across the study, stopping at his desk.  With trained precision he picks the guns by their bridges and spins them in his gloved hands, sitting them with a whisper of leather, into the shoulder holsters tucked under the tan vest.  He smiles, to himself feeling the familiar feeling of the gas guns pressing against the white dress shirt right below his armpits.

    He drops his hands finally, palming the gas mask with both hands.  He lifts it to his face.  He looks at it a moment like he always does, staring into the eyes of a friend, before he slips the mask over his head.  He takes in the familiar smell of rubber and metal as he rights the large eye circles with his glasses, adjusting the breathing nozzle with his mouth and nose.  Finally he scoops up his ash gray Fedora, and carefully pats it onto his head.

    Tonight is the night; my latest nightmare will come true. An enraged man, I have seen for weeks—butchering a woman… his wife of fifteen years.  It is not as dramatic as the bombing of an important building.  But it is important enough for me to stop.

    The Sandman raises his hand and twists the knob on the door.  He simply walks out of Wesley Dodd’s study, his dark clothed form being swallowed by the darkness of his house.  Only the soft footsteps of his boot heels follow him, until even those echoes into nothing.

    On the desk where he wrote, his first adventure an origami swan sits standing erect.  If one was to unwrap its sharp folds it would read…
There is no place beyond the law
where criminals rule with fear as power!
’Tis but a dream from which evil will awake
to face their fate at this horrible hour!



EARTH 2 continues in future issues of Showcase!

Story © 2007 Jae Lizhini and may not be reproduced without permission