The Oneiro Rangers: First Night (4 page)

While Clint explained, Roland noticed a girl watching one of the
asylum rooms closely. Her hair was unlike anything he’d seen in Normlock: black
with two pony tails straight down, her short bangs parted. Two blue streaks
crossed through the middle of both bangs and pony tails, forming a makeshift
“X” on the top of her head. Her large crimson eyes were surrounded by eyeliner,
even more makeup covering her gaunt face to make it as white as the hallway. A
slim figure fit tightly in her small Gothnia-styled black dress, tiny buttons
lining the left side and a corset-laced back. Fishnet-stockings and sleeves
covered her arms and legs; fingerless gloves over her hands.

She stiffly glanced at him, sensing Roland’s eyes upon her. He
gave her a friendly wave with a warm smile. She turned away, mouth frozen in a
permanent frown. Keeping her attention on the morpheus, the girl followed the
rest of the class around the next corner. Roland stayed in place, watching her
follow everyone else around the corner. It wasn’t until the last ruffle of her
dress disappeared pass the wall that he noticed Errol beside him.

Errol nudged his chin forward. “Who’s the dame? Someone you know?”

Roland shook his head. “I don’t know, but there’s just something
about her.”

“Look at her clothes.” Errol groaned softly, crossing his arms.
“She’s from Gothnia. Forget about it. To think, we have at least one in each of
our classes. Soon this place will be overrun with them. Imagine, more of those
things with us all year, stinking up the joint.”

“Don’t talk about her like that!” Roland poked Errol’s chest furiously.
“With talk like that, I say you’re on the wrong side of the glass in this
asylum.”

Errol grabbed his finger, tossing it aside. “All right. Jeez,
don’t bite my head off.” He saw they were the only ones left in their corridor,
the others already moving on. “Come on, we better catch up with the rest. The
last thing I need is to get in trouble because of ya.”

“You’re right; morphy’s just dying to send the dogs on us. Let’s
vamoose!”

Roland jogged to regroup with the class, Errol walking close
behind. He kept a slow pace, taking in his surroundings to the fullest while
his friend disappeared with the rest of them. “The wrong side of the glass... I
hope Angelica is having a better time than I am.” Errol shook the thought out
of his head, picking up his pace. As he caught up with the rest of the class,
the muffled screams began to leave his earshot, but they would never leave his
mind.

Chapter 5

Angelica held her head, elbows on the desk, fighting to stay
awake. The rest of the class shared her state of mind, a few in the back curled
up like cats, sleeping deeply in their arm-pillows. Every time the teacher
whacked the blackboard with her pointer stick, everyone seemed to flinch in unison,
going back to gradually dozing off. For as much charisma the young Mrs. Muart
tried to pour out in her words, it still wasn’t enough to keep the kids
attention during Skepsi History class. A lesson in dreaming is bound to make
anyone feel drowsy.

“Skepsi,” Mrs. Murat lectured on, “the land of dreams. Sound’s
peaceful, doesn’t it? A place you can just lay back and let life wander on, not
a care in the world. But alas, ‘tis not so.” She pointed at a crude sketch of
an evil-eyed creature growling and standing on its arms and legs like a
gorilla. “Skepsi is home mostly to Nightmares, or ‘creepy-crawlies’ if you want
to be cute. Personally, I like creepy-crawly more. It makes it sound less slimy
and revolting.”

Giving the blackboard a sharp whack, she woke up some of the
sleeping students, clearing her throat to continue. “Now, we all know the story
of how Nightmares get into our world. Someone has a nightmare, that poor soul
happens to be a Somnus–one of the few and unfortunate–and that person brings
their Nightmare into our world and the thing is free to run wild in the
streets. Or crawl, or roll, or fly, or hop, or teleport, or whatever that
Nightmare can do to get around.” She opened the massive book on her desk and
slapped the pages to the right one. “With that little recap out of the way, I
want all of you to turn to page twenty-six where we will discuss
The Mara of
a Nightmare
...”

Angelica blew her hair upwards and fiddled with her pencil,
anything to keep from dozing off. Glancing up at the clock to the right, she
saw that class had barely begun and already she begged for the ending bell to
ring. A touch of blue caught her eye, and it was then when she noticed the girl
to her side stood out from the rest of the class. She was busy writing
something down, filling the paper with words. Every few lines she would stop to
glance up and put her fingers to her mouth; her black nail polish gleaming.

“Are you seriously taking notes?” Angelica whispered, leaning
towards her.

The girl didn’t take her eyes off the paper. “No.”

“What are you writing then?”

“Poetry.”

“Oh, can I read some?” Angelica held her hand out, ready for the
girl to share with her.

Glenda slammed her pencil down, twisting her head to stare in
disdain, her red eyes burning like a silent fire. “...
No
.”

Angelica eased back, holding her palm up in defense. “Okay, no
sweat.” She sighed, turning her head to look the other way, mumbling in secret.
“... Jeez, some people.”

The girl returned to her writing, as if the conversation never
happened:

Why won’t the rain go away?

Why does the pain come to stay?

Hopes and dreams come to fade

To wither and die before they’re made.

The cold within will forever swell

Leaving us as a hollow shell

Is this all the world can do?

Make us wait until death ensues?

The teacher continued talking as Glenda lifted her head up to
think of more to write.

.  .  .

“
Glenda
,” the shooting instructor sang. “I’m not leaving
this spot until you get to a booth.”

The instructor held her hands on her hips, tapping her foot,
waiting impatiently. Sizzling gunfire filled the indoor shooting range, loud
electronic blips coming from all of the bullseyes being hit by the other
students in the gun class. Glenda was the only one still by the doorway,
leaning against the hard concrete wall. Her eyes were down on the floor, arms
crossed — not a hint of her wanting to participate. When Glenda was certain
that Mrs. Slovak’s glare was not going to go away on its own, she finally looked
up, nibbling on her lip.

“... I don’t like guns,” she said awkwardly.

Mrs. Slovak pushed her glasses back up to her brow, letting out an
irritated sigh as she did. “Well, I’m sure the cooks here don’t like all of the
food they have to serve. And yet, they still serve.” She shook her head.
“Believe me, I don’t want to have to send you to the headmaster’s office for
something as petty as this. But if you don’t get to a booth right now, then
I’ll simply have no choice.”

Glenda dropped her arms with a defeated huff. “Ugh! Fine, I’ll go
to the stupid booth.”

Smiling, the instructor stepped aside to let Glenda by. “There we
go! That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Glenda didn’t reply, stomping her boots with forceful speed. The
other kids laughed and cheered — two of the boys having some friendly
competition, shooting the hanging metal targets in rapid succession. The
friends of the opposing teams cranked the control levers back and forth; making
their targets move back, forth, up, down, side-to-side, and all kinds of crazy
angles. Heading as far away from the crowd as possible, Glenda found a booth
near the wall, far enough for the gunshots to drown out the voices. At least
the booth had a dense concrete pillar standing between her and the rest of the
class, covering the sight of them as well.

The gun sat on its side, waiting for her. A thick electric cable
connected the bottom of the pistol’s grip to a power box, allowing the shooter
to go on as long as they wanted without the need to reload. Red numbers flashed
on the face of the box, her hit count at an impatient zero and the time she had
ticking away. Glenda’s hand hovered over the training pistol for a few seconds.
She closed her eyes, grabbing it like she was plunging her fingers into boiling
water.

Mrs. Slovak watched everyone from the back of the room.
“Remember,” she chimed in, “your final score will be your grade for today, so
don’t mess around.”

Even though the gun was light and hollow, Glenda had to force
herself to lift it up, using all of her strength. The gun rattled violently,
her hands losing control. The gunshots around her faded to a long droning ring
— like a flatline . Aiming down the sights, she couldn’t see a thing. She shut
her eyes, but the tears kept coming.

Pounding on the bathroom door, locked from the inside.
 Sitting in the shower, dripping wet. Gun barrel tucked under her chin.
Her daughter would have to find out the hard way. And in the pull of a
trigger... she was gone.

A shot went off, a cloud of sparks hitting nowhere near the target.
Glenda hurled the gun at the power box, having it clatter to the ground.
Struggling to breath, she ran right out of there, the other students turning to
see her speed by. She wanted to scream, to run farther than ever. Fighting off
the urge and the chance to embarrass herself further, she sprinted for the
exit, not looking back for a second.

Busy observing the small game that was going on between the two
competing boys, Mrs. Slovak didn’t see Glenda until she already swung the door
open. “Glenda, where are you going?” She tried to follow, but was too late to
do anything. “Glenda!” She put her fists on her hips, shaking her head. “That
girl is just too much!”

The hallway was empty, nothing but the sound of Glenda’s boots
pounding away. Nobody followed her. She couldn’t breathe, the past holding on
tight. Reaching out to one of the large windows lined up along the wall, she
tugged it wide open, letting in the peaceful noon-night air. The half-eaten
moon watched her pant and gulp from afar; almost time for the night sky to take
its four hour break.

Fresh air entered deep into her lungs, the stuffiness of the
academy escaping right out the window. Looking down, the mouth of the Withering
Woods shifted in the breeze, four-stories down. Far enough to fall out and
break every bone in her body. Far enough to fall wrong and never get back up.
She hung over the sill, arm swinging loosely... thinking.

Tempted.

A soft metallic chime got her attention, sudden enough to make her
jump. By the time she could turn around, a dark blob flashed down the stairs —
or at least, she could swear something did. All she could visually register was
the beaten tip of a wide-brimmed hat disappearing behind a wall. She couldn’t
hear any footsteps; the entire stairway a booming racket whenever someone sets
foot on it. Cautiously making her way up to the stair’s railing, she kept an
ear out for any more activity, eyes wide and searching.

She was only halfway when a loud bang came from the floor below,
Glenda letting out a startled gasp, doubling back. It sounded similar to a door
slamming so hard that it flew right off its hinges, but there wasn’t a
follow-up of any shouts or scuffle. Fighting off the encumbering urge to
shiver, Glenda crept onward, expecting the worst. Grabbing onto the finely
polished knob of the rail, she hesitantly peeked her head down into the lower
level. The small view of the hall below was just as barren as the one she was
on, the only sound coming from her own mouth in short breaths.

“Glenda!”

She nearly flipped over the railing, fumbling her hands to hold
herself in place. The dreadful sight of her shooting instructor staring down at
her caused her heart to sink as quickly as it was beating. Irritably tapping
her foot, Mrs. Slovak cocked her head to the side and now it was her turn to
have her arms crossed. Glenda just stood there, mouth shut tighter than needed.
She still couldn’t decide whether another person with her was good or bad.

From the stern look she was given, it was bad either way.

“Glenda,” Mrs. Slovak said with a huff, “the headmaster wants to
see you in his office.”

“I think something’s going on down stairs,” Glenda stammered.
“I-i-it might be a Nightmare.”

Grabbing Glenda by the wrist, Mrs. Slovak yanked her down the very
stairs she spoke of, completely ignoring the warning. “Sure,” she said
unamused, “a Nightmare just happened to avoid the outer defenses and is
wandering around the halls willy-nilly. What a hoot. Keep it up — it’s just
more to tell the headmaster, concerning your disobedience.”

“I’m not making it up,” she defended, trying to lose the adult’s
grip. All it did was have the instructor nearly toss her down the steps.

“There’s over a hundred faculty member and over three thousand
students in this academy,” the women stated confidently. “I highly doubt a
measly little Nightmare will be able to survive for long in here,
even if
it managed to sneak in.”

While they walked off of the steps, the broom closet behind them
was closed, but the keyhole was large enough to see through. A single blue eye
glowed in the dark, watching the two hurry down the steps. A wisp of light
through the keyhole showed a bit of grey skin, bone exposed where the eyelid
should be. The two had no idea they were being watched. Mrs. Slovak’s angry
voice continued to echo in the hall as they entered the second floor.

“Just wait until he hears about your nonsense. Why, if you were a
boy, you’d be beaten by now. You girls get so many privileges and you have to
use up every single one of them. Never in my seven years of teaching have I
ever had a delinquent such as you. In my day, we respected our teachers and...”

Once the instructor’s rant faded away, the blue eye eased away
from the keyhole. Flesh split apart and bones softly cracked out of place.
“I’ve seen enough of this place. From what I’ve seen, nothing could go wrong.”

What responded spoke in a hushed, raspy, hiss. “Return, Nyxus.”

“I’ll be back, all right. Expect me soon. If Asteria is done by
the time I arrive, the Oneiro Rangers will be nothing but a memory by the
night’s end. Over and out.”

The door squeaked open. Nyxus left in a silent stride, already
knowing every in and out of the academy. From the hinges being worn out from
years of use, the door slowly swung open wider. A man’s head dangled painfully
over his feet, his body trapped within what remained of the wall, folded like a
letter. He didn’t move.

And just like a letter, he’d give the message–to anyone who found
him–about what is soon to come.