Nightmare City

At 3:45 AM, the young woman with three names and two faces, none of them her own, lies as still as a freshly exhumed corpse under the sheets, trapped in a dream of darkness.

It’s the kind of dark that makes her want to scream and tear her hair out. But when she tries to scream, no sound comes out. And when she reaches for her hair, she finds that she had no body at all.

The dark engulfs her, seeps into her. It’s a darkness that marks the absence of anything, a complete and utter void. A pit that sucks in all matter and crushes it into a pulp, no, less than a pulp, until the very memory of it is squelched out like putting a stopper over a candle.

She tries to string a thought together, to come up with some kind of plan to get her out of this black void of existence. But when she gazes into the pitch black, she sees nothing and she feels nothing and she hears nothing and she is nothing.

The woman currently known as Mona Reese wakes with a start, in a bed drenched with sweat and fluids. She throws the covers off and runs to the edge of the room and flicks the light switch so fast that she chips a nail, breathing a sigh of relief at the telltale fizzle of electricity and the sterile lights that flood into her cold apartment.

The man in the bed is jerked awake, and lets out a yell riddled with phlegm. “What in the hell?” he cries, turning every which way until he sees her naked form outlined in the door frame, trembling and hugging her arms tightly around herself. “Oh, oh. What’sa matter, baby?”

Mona shuffles back to the bed and lays back down, resting her head against the warmth of his chest, feeling his thick arms as they stroke her dusty brown hair. She lies there, under the glare of fluorescent lights, until her trembling subsides. “Nothing,” she whispers.

“S’ ok, honey. You can tell me.”

“No. No, I mean literally nothing. I had a dream about nothing.”

He snorts dismissively. “Baby, if I dreamed about nothing, hell, I’d be grateful. The kinds of nightmares I get sometimes...” He looks out the window at the lights twinkling in the city below, no doubt reflecting on the wartime.

“Huh. I bet. Sorry, uh...” She perches her chin on his chest and looks up at him with amber eyes.

“Walt.”

“Yeah, sorry. I’m not trying to make nothing of your dreams, Walt. I’m just saying, that for me...” she sighs, wondering how to explain it. “You ever had that thing, what’s it called... sleep paralysis?”

“Is that the thing when your eyes are open but you’re sleeping?”

“Uh, kind of. It’s when you wake up from a half-dream and you can’t move your body. You’re sort of trapped between the two states. Well, that’s what it’s like for me when I dream about nothing.” Her voice gets softer, and he has to focus real hard to catch her next words. “It’s like I’m in this black hole, and I can’t move or wake up. I just know that the nothingness is eating away at me, until it chews me up and nothing’s left. It’s the most terrifying thing I’ve ever felt.”

Mona presses up closer against his body and drapes her arms around him, and she sees that tears are forming at the corners of his eyes.

“What’s wrong, Walt?”

He wipes at his eyes with the back of a hairy hand. “Nothing. Uh... hell. I need a drink.”

“Well, that’s good. So do I, but I didn’t wanna be the only one.” She smiles at him, and he smiles back.

Mona stands up and stretches, then she goes to the desk by the window and pours them each a glass of scotch.

Walt gets up and takes the glass from her hand, and they both down their drinks. The fire goes down smooth and soothing, and they stand there watching the city lights until the soft glow of sunlight comes up from the hills and Walt announces that he has to get home before his wife wakes up. He puts on his coat and hat and slams the door shut, and Mona stands there watching the sunrise, feeling a strange sense of loneliness and satisfaction in the knowledge that she will most likely never see Walt again.

-----

Mona is already busy prepping vegetables at Guangzhou Palace by the time Mrs. Chau comes in. The matronly old woman is like a second mother to Mona, and she slaps her on the back with affection and hands her a cup of hot soy milk and a fried donut stick.

“Hey there, bao bao,” she says. “Come have breakfast with me!”

They sit down at one of the restaurant’s booths and dip the donuts into the steaming milk.

“So, where is everyone?” asks Mona.

“Pshh, I never know these things. My son’s living in two different universes, God knows what he’s always up to. But you know that already. And everyone else should be on their way, you’re just earlier to work than usual.” She raises her eyebrows at Mona, who shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “Want to tell me why?”

Mona covers her mouth with the cup and takes a deep sip, then shakes her head. “Not really. I just had a rough night.”

Mrs. Chau tsks at her. “You get up to more than a young lady should. It’s a good thing you’re not really my daughter, or I would have beaten your ass already for everything that you drag my son into.” She sighs. “But I know you’re not entirely to blame.”

Mona smiles dryly. “Yeah, he deserves at least some of the blame for his own actions.” She chugs the last dregs of soy milk from the cup and wipes the froth away from her lips. “Um, we should probably go over business for the day. Any new specials I should know about?”

Across the road, a man in a trench coat too large for his frame sits conspicuously on a park bench, scribbling down notes in his electronic notepad.

Guangzhou Palace

Chau family, association with young woman?

6:50 AM- woman has breakfast with owner

(?) Possible communist ties?

The cold wind whips against his neck, and he turns up his coat to shield himself from the brisk morning air. Chinatown residents pass by him curiously, trying to look over his shoulder to read his scrawled writing. He mutters occasionally, to no one in particular, “This fresh air is great, nothing like a morning park visit.”

The old men playing mahjong on the tables behind him just shake their heads in annoyance.

----

The rush hour goes by in a blur as customers order from the list of lunch specials, and Mona is forced to run around the kitchen to deliver food and collect the checks, all while balancing heaping bowls of noodles and stir-fries in her arms. The kitchen smells warmly of garlic, sugar, and roasting meats.

The man in the trench coat sticks out from the crowd out like shark in a school of fish, sitting alone at a booth, his eyes darting eagerly over each and every customer. Mona eyes him warily before greeting him with a smile, and she slides a laminated menu into his gloved hands.

“What brings you to Chinatown, sir?” It’s just a formality. Mona already knows the answer. These government types occasionally scour the ethnic regions of the city, hunting for possible communist agents and trying to root out black market operators. But, in truth, their presence poses more of a threat to Chinatown’s residents than these residents could ever pose to the government. It’s common for these agents to have local businesses shut down on nothing more than suspicion, and for residents to have their criminal records tarnished with false accusations. They spread fear and uncertainty wherever they go, and Mona hates them for it. Her own role at the restaurant isn’t just as the waitress, but as a welcoming white American face to set these officials at ease. And she takes her job very seriously.

“Oh, I just wanted a change in scenery.” The man flashes Mona a honeyed smile. He’s a small, wiry-looking man, dressed a suit that’s both custom-made and two sizes too big. His blonde hair is slicked back into a cow-lick, giving an oddly boyish impression to his weaselly demeanor. The man flips through the menu as if he knows what to order, even though it’s written entirely in Chinese characters. “What do you recommend?”

“Our most popular lunch special is the beef noodles,” Mona says. She smiles at him through gritted teeth, and he grins right back at her, his eyes blazing hot enough to boil soup.

He slides the menu back into her hand. “Well, then, I’ll get that. Thanks. And, uh, before you go, I was curious. What’s a girl like you doing working in a joint like this?”

Shit.

Mona decides to tell him as much of the truth as she dares. “The owner’s son, Ray, was one of my best friends growing up. He offered me the job, and I took it. This restaurant has always been like a second home to me, so it just seemed to fit.”

He nods. “Makes sense. Well, anyway, thanks for helping me figure out this menu. Your knowledge of Chinese is, uh. Well, it’s really something.” He chuckles, but his words sting with accusation.

Mona shrugs. “What can I say, I picked it up while working here.” It sounds like a shoddy excuse, even to her, but it’s all she can think of.

“Uh-huh. Well, tell the cooks to make it quick. I’m on a tight schedule.”

As soon as she’s returned to the kitchen and told the cooks his order, she balls up her apron and hurls it into the hamper, announcing loudly that it’s time for her lunch break.

The man has left a rotten taste in her mouth, and she has a feeling that her trials are far from over.

----

“Have you considered that maybe your qi is blocked?”

Ray and Mona stand with their legs propped up against the back wall of the restaurant, trailing plumes of nicotine vapor up along the narrow alleyway.

“Not really, but now I’m considering it. I didn’t know you believed in that stuff, Ray.”

He takes a deep puff of his stick, and coughs. “I don’t, really. But you could be a special case.”

Mona sighs. “It’s been four nights in a row of those god-awful dreams. Honestly, I’m up for trying anything at this point.”

Ray passes the stick over to Mona, and she inhales the menthol vapor with pursed lips. He looks up at the sky thoughtfully. “I can put in a word with my folks, see if they know anyone you can trust. I’ve tried acupuncture before, a few years back. It actually feels pretty fucking good.”

“If it’s no trouble to you, then sure. Thanks.”

“No problem, Reese.” He pauses, and shifts from one leg to the other, propping it up as he takes back the stick. “Hey, I saw you talking to that suit a little while ago. What did he want?”

She spits on the ground, and it lands on the asphalt floor of the alleyway with a cold thunk. “What they always want. Don’t worry about it, I don’t think he has anything on you. He didn’t even ask me about you or your parents.” She pauses. “I don’t know why, but... it seemed like he was investigating me.”

Ray grins. “That doesn’t surprise me. I’m actually more shocked they haven’t asked about you earlier, being a white girl working in Chinatown and all. The first sign of racial mixing, and the suits are whipped into a panic. ‘It’s a communist conspiracy!’” he exclaims, in a nasally, all-American voice. “‘The white will cohort with the yellow, and their offspring will be the spawn of Satan!’”

Mona snorts. “You’re such an idiot.”

“But you know it’s true. Those asshole suits always come in and wreck our town and terrorize our people. If anything, they’re driving us into the arms of communism, not away from it. It’s this damn government that’s the problem.”

Mona quickly puts a hand on his shoulder. “Jesus, Ray,” she whispers. “You can’t just say that kind of stuff openly. Anyone could be listening.”

He just scowls and shoves the stick into his pocket, exhaling one final, angry plume of mist into the air.

Mona brushes the wall’s filth off her pants and stretches her arms high into the air, ready to get back to work. “I swear,” she tells him as she turns away. “You’re the smartest guy I know, but you can be impossibly idiotic sometimes.”

-----

By the time Mona pulls a coat over her uniform and heads out the door, the sky has melted into a pale shade of purple. The walk back home through Chinatown always put her restless mind at ease. It’s a world that seems to exist in its own sphere of time, untouched by the technological innovations that plague the rest of the city. Here, she doesn’t feel like such an outcast, stuck in the world of the past. She’s just another wanderer trying to make a place for herself in this screwed-up country.

Mona’s apartment is just as she’d left it. Two glasses of scotch lie on the bedside table, and she sweeps them up and into the kitchen sink as she flips on the radio and sifts through the stations. The voices on the old machine crackle and fizz before coming into focus. Mona knows she should probably get an upgrade, but she won’t risk it. Observation chips are implanted into all new technologies these days, and Mona hates the thought of government stooges eavesdropping on her personal life.

“Are YOU the next Miss America? Apply today, and you can go on the adventure of a lifetime! Travel through the American empire, and meet the troops that make this country great!”

Flip.

“Looking for a special status boost? Sign up to be a part of one of the San Francisco Medical Center’s special experimental studies for that burst of recognition you’re looking for!”

Flip.

“‘Oh, Major Humphrey! Who’s that knocking on the door?!’ TAP TAP TAP. ’Why, it’s Captain-”

Mona shakes her head, and drains the last of the scotch from one of the glasses, letting the drips rest on her tongue and melt into flame.

Flip.

Finally, the station crackles to life with the soft sound of melancholy jazz music. She lets the melody wash over her, and sinks into bed with a sigh. With outstretched limbs and a total concentration of creative energy, she closes her eyes, focusing on the music and the blood flowing through the tissue of her nose and cheeks. With steady breaths, she slowly shifts the skin into a new form. She moves the weight of her face until her nose grows fuller and her cheeks more narrow. She feels the blood in her lips and slows down its flow until her lips are less pronounced and colored.

The keratin is tougher to work with. She spends over ten minutes imagining her soft brown hair condense into curls, its mousy color darkening into a shade of auburn.

Finally, she brings herself to the most difficult part: altering the color of her eyes. She has to focus the energy to a more small-scale, cellular transformation, until her eyes eventually shift into a mottled green.

When it’s all over, she runs to kitchen and shovels three containers of leftover restaurant noodles into her mouth, then washes it down with a few handfuls of tap water. The facial transformation process always leaves her starving. It’s an exhausting affair, but necessary.

The woman currently known as Donna Mays looks herself over in the cracked bathroom mirror one last time, making sure she’s gotten everything right. The mole at the corner of her eye, the thin lips, the piercing eyes. She’s no longer Mona Reese, innocent, hardworking American with a troubled past. Now, she’s Donna Mays, otherwise known as “Dawn”, an intimidating contract criminal with a heart of stone. She smiles seductively at her reflection, then pulls on a pair of pointed boots and a dark overcoat. She doesn’t have much time to spare, if she wants to make the rendezvous.

Donna sneaks a pistol into her purse as she slips out the door.

----

The night sky is speckled with stars, though the smog hides many of them from view as Lt. Greene moves through the empty city streets, hands burrowed deep into the pockets of his trench coat.

He doesn’t have anything on her, it’s true. But there’s something about the young woman back at the Guangzhou Palace that deeply unsettles him. Sure, she seemed like a nice young waitress. But her attitude was so hostile, her Cantonese pronunciations so flawless. And what was she doing working in Chinatown anyway? Young women shouldn’t be spending time in ghettos. Not to mention-

“Evening, Lieutenant.”

Lt. Greene whips his head around with a start. A man stands on the other side of the road. He is dressed in the strangest getup Greene has ever seen. A wide-brimmed cowboy hat is pulled over a thick mop of hair, with stirruped boots to match. A bandanna decorated to look like a skeletal grin is tied around his face to cover his mouth and nose, and dark goggles shroud his eyes, shining like the hollow bone of empty eye sockets.

As strange as it all is, this man somehow knows his rank. “Are you... here from the Bureau?” Lt. Greene calls, edging closer to get a better look. “I don’t recall authorizing any-”

Before he has time to react, he feels the cold muzzle of a gun press against the back of his neck, and a bullet from a silenced .22 pistol scatters his brains over the sidewalk.

Nobody opens the windows, nobody calls the police, until Lt. Greene’s blood lies in a congealed pool on the ground, and the two perpetrators have long since slipped away into the night.