That had been his first clue that he was probably passed out and dreaming. The whole thing was just so surreal. It wasn’t the type of dream he normally had, but that was probably a good thing. Maybe he’d actually sleep for more than a few hours before being torn away. This was probably just a demented twist on the usual. Maybe tonight he was going to fail to save his family from the apocalypse; forced to watch them turn into nothing but mindless zombies.
The weight of his gun was heavy against his hip. He’d been surprised at how easy it had been to get one, especially considering the amount of alcohol that had been in his system when he’d gone. No asking why he needed a gun, why he wanted one. He wondered what he was going to need his gun for in his dreams. Maybe he hadn’t been that far off in the apocalypse theory.
He found a door to the building he’d been circling, and was surprised with how easy it was to open. He had to do it with just one hand, as his brown bag purchase was in his left and he had no intention of putting it down. He eyed the bag then, thinking it strange that even here he’d be reluctant to put down the ambrosia. He was usually a better person in his dreams. His old self, before everything was taken from him.
The thought made his body shake, still halfway inside and halfway outside. He kept the door wedged open with his hip as his free hand moved to uncap the bottle, the welcoming scent of vodka engulfing him as his fingers fumbled, the cap dropping from his grasp and rolling away. Who needed the cap, anyway? Without another moment's hesitation the bottle was being brought to his lips, and the liquid was burning a path down his throat, and into the emptiness inside of him.
A blurred movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention, and he slowly turned his attention fully to that area. He’d already been drinking earlier, and he was feeling the fuzzy tingles all through his body as if his limbs weren’t really there. Blissful detachment was what it was. It was devastating to his reflex time, though. The figure coming his way was shuffling, looking even slower and more unsteady than he was on a bad day. What was left of their clothes was torn into shreds, and Corwin just stood there for a moment staring. He was in a damned zombie movie.
The thought brought out a burst of hysterical laughter as he just stared at the continued slow shuffling towards him. He wondered if getting eaten by the zombie would make him wake up, or if that myth was true: if you died in your dreams, you died in real life. The thought sent a momentary sensation of relief through his body, before he was gripped in a debilitating fear. If he was dead, how could he save them? He needed to be able to save them.
The creature had gotten closer and closer with his internal debate, and now the gun was feeling even heavier at his hip. With a shaky grip, he un-holstered the weapon and aimed it at the monster. His vision was still blurry, and his hands shook with tremors as he pulled the trigger.
~*~
The bottle was gone. He hadn’t even gotten to finish it. He’d thrown it at the wall when that voice had continued to taunt him. How do you get haunted in your own dreams? And where was his family? He was supposed to save them. They were in danger. He couldn’t fail them again.
He ran from the building full of zombies, only to stumble back down into the damp maze he’d come from. His reactions, so much slower than before, hadn’t even attempted to break his fall. The result was him landing harshly on his feet, before falling backwards and banging his head against the damp wall.
A while later he woke up, groggily, only to find himself still on that damn floor. Was this the nightmare that never ended? He stood up, crying out as he put weight on his left ankle. His shoulder leaned against the wall as he took the weight back off for a moment, before taking a hesitant step forward. The limp was severe, but he could do it if he used the wall to help him stand. With each step on the injured foot pain shot up his leg. Maybe he’d drunk himself into a coma, and wasn’t ever going to wake up.
~*~
He’d lost track of time as he wandered aimlessly through the pits of hell. Well, not really the pits of hell - it was too damn cold, evidenced by the constant shivering he was doing now. Maybe he wasn’t drinking as much as he thought he was - he’d been under the assumption that alcohol in your blood was supposed to warm you or something.
The thought died off as a woman turned the corner, nearly colliding into him. Or at least, he was fairly sure it was. She was completely bald, and also completely naked - covered in nothing but strange tattoos. He brought his hands up to rub at his eyes some, sure that this was definitely not happening. Women did not shave their heads and run around naked in... well, this wasn’t actually happening anyway, so women could probably do whatever they wanted.
She glanced at him, and the smile that came over her face made him uneasy. Or maybe it was the naked thing. It was probably the naked thing. Her voice was low, and he was finding it hard to concentrate. Not because he was too busy eyeing her assets, but because the fact that they were there was very uncomfortable. Was this his punishment for failing his wife: being stuck in a never-ending dream with bald naked women who were not her? The thought made him shudder in a not good way.
“You can fight back....... save them.” Nothing else that the woman said mattered. Corwin’s broken psyche fixated on those two parts, completely missing the overall picture as his hands reached forward, gripping the woman’s arms as he latched on to the hope she was giving.
~*~
They were naked. All of them. Men, women. All naked. All tattooed. What was he doing here? He tried to move but he was being held down. What if he got the call, what if he heard their screams? How was this helping him save them if he was tied down?
The voices echoing around him grew louder and louder as he continued to thrash. Then there were bodies holding him down as well while searing hot pain erupted over different parts of his body. Torture? They were torturing him? This was definitely his punishment for failure. For their death.
He finally relaxed, accepting the pain for what it was as the naked bodies moved away from him, releasing him. He thought maybe that was the end of it, but the ritualistic voices continued, and the pain continued to grow. It was like they’d set little fires all over his skin with whatever they’d done. Fire’s that got hotter and hotter but somehow didn’t spread. He couldn’t stop the screams that tore from his throat.
~*~
His throat was dry, and felt raw. The fires were gone, though his body still felt warm and he could feel the layer of sweat coating his skin. The demon from the sewers was walking back towards him, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut - his current position gave him a view he really didn’t want to see.
The ropes holding him down were slowly released, and he could feel the blood rushing back to his extremities. The ropes must have been tighter than he’d realized. The demon’s voice wasn’t nearly as quiet and luring as it had been before - she’d already gotten whatever she wanted. She kept going on and on about the gifts they’d given him, but he just wanted to laugh in her face.
He fled as soon as he could, making his way through the city to his lonely apartment. The smell of alcohol permeated the whole place, and there were clothes and food wrappers everywhere. He hadn’t made the bed: he never made the bed. He didn’t bother taking his clothes off, just flopped down and closed his eyes. Maybe if he went to sleep in his dream world, he’d be able to wake up in the real world.
