My name is Michael, and I dreamed that I was a WWII soldier who stormed a two-story house sitting on top of a hill. It was a bland-looking house; it looked like its architect took inspiration from a six-year-old's drawing that had been hung up on their parents' fridge. There was something rather haunting about that house, but I surmise that it could have been its age of 2+ centuries.
We were led by Sergeant Archer, who handed out our orders from the bottom of the hill: “The mission is simple, boys.” He pointed to the house. For reasons I didn't understand (and didn't question until I had awoken), he referred to me as Tandey. “Tandey will be the one to storm the front door and search for our target inside. The target shall be referred to as Jeremiah. Rome will cover him in the trees to our left. I'll take up a position in the trees to the right. Barrett'll provide sniper cover for the rear of the house. Tackle-box will guard the front. You boys understand?”
“Sir, yes, sir!”
“We take out our target and we'll have saved countless lives. Graduate to men and make me proud!” Save for myself, they all dispersed for their assigned positions. It wasn't until Sergeant Archer signaled me from the cloak of the forest shadows that I headed up the hill. And when he did, I raced up without a thought debating on how horrible of a plan this was and without a single eye darting to the windows to check for enemy soldiers. Yet despite our position to fend off our adversary and the gnawing feeling that I was in constant danger from receiving a crippling bullet to pick-a-body-part, I made it to the front door without any sound besides the bouncing of my equipment.
I suppose I should take a moment to reflect on how in this dream I could hear things. That sounds like a “Well, duh” sort of thing, but if you think back to any other dream you've ever had, sound doesn't exist. It was kind of like a silent movie but with color and telepathy instead of a black and white film grain and intertitles.
With little regard for my safety once more, I opened the door and peered inside without taking any sort of caution. I couldn't see it, but I knew that I had a Thompson in my hands. I like to think that I was aiming it while scoping out the foyer, but I wouldn't be surprised to find out that it was lowered or slung across my back.
The foyer was dark and dusty. There was a single wooden table set in the middle, with a few chairs pushed underneath, but that was all there was furniture-wise. There was a fireplace, too, though I'm not too sure where the smoke released, since I saw no chimney from the exterior. Almost directly across from the front door was a staircase to the second floor, where the walkway overlooked the foyer. The archways to the other rooms of the house from the first floor were cloaked in darkness, and the only light peering through them was the sunlight through the distant windows. Aside from the table and few chairs, the only thing occupying this house were the countless dust particles layering the wood paneling floor and swirling in the few beams of light.
Sergeant Archer's voice spoke through the radio in the presence of static: “Jeremiah is on the second floor, Tandey.”
Orders from a superior or not, I wouldn't have stepped foot into that house. The place chills me more now that I'm reflecting back on it, though I'd be lying if I didn't say that it didn't unease me in my dream. I could sense an evil presence, but I couldn't identify what. If I were to visit that house in reality, my imagination might conjure up images of nightmarish beasts fit for a Lovecraftian story. I'd tell myself that I was being ridiculous and perhaps childish, even, but I still wouldn't set foot in that house, if only for fear of it collapsing on me or suffocating on the countless specks of dust.
But in my dream, either my 'nads had bloated to insane proportions or my brain shriveled to resemble a raisin, because I charged for the steps and ascended them, skipping a step at a time, with the persistent thought on my mind that once I reached the top, I'd be safe. Like I was playing a child's game where a tree or a garden was a base, and anyone in it couldn't be tagged “out” or whatever. But once at top, I relaxed as I pulled my radio up to my mouth to speak to the Sergeant: “Sir, I'm on the second floor now.”
“Jeremiah should be in a room at the far end of the hall. Be quick, but be careful on your approach.”
I replaced the radio on my belt and started for the far door to my right. To my left was that cloak of darkness that seemed more like dark walls by that point than anything to be feared. This short walk was the most logical section of my dream, since my steps were slow and careful, but that'd be like saying this kid who failed his high school test better than that kid over there. There were doors to my left, but I didn't check or keep an eye on them. I guess I was lucky that the only living beings in the house were myself and Jeremiah.
Now here's where things got strange. Everyone knows how in a dream you move on your own without any input from your conscious self whatever; it's kind of like watching a movie in that regard. But once I opened the far door and stepped inside the room, that's when my dream lost that “dream mysticism” (that surreal quality that only dreams seem to have) and I had control over my actions once more. I suppose I was still weighed down by some aspects of a dream, because not once did I question why I was in some stranger's house or why I was dressed like a WWII soldier. I just accepted the situation for what it was and peered around the room as though I were a guest in the owner-less house.
Despite there being only one window, the room was brightly lit. It was pretty bare, too, much like the rest of the house, and its furniture setup looked to be done more so by a lazy tenant than one who didn't exist. Set up against the wall to the left was a dresser, and in the corners to the right were a nightstand and a crib, which was opposite a lonesome window. Its best quality by far was the lack of a snow-like blanket of dust.
“Sir, I'm in Jeremiah's room, but there's no sign of him.”
“Is there a crib in there?” the Sergeant asked.
“There is.”
“Check in there. Jeremiah should be in there.”
It was a curious hiding place, I thought, though it's a good one, if you can manage to pull it off right. I mean, who would suspect a grown man hiding in a crib or stuffing himself into the mattress, right?
I walked up to the crib, my gun's dull ironsights raised for the first time, and I expected to find, like I said, a man hiding beneath a blanket or a noticeable lump sloping across the mattress surface. Instead I found inside, tucked under a blanket and lulled fast asleep, a baby.
I lowered my gun and raised my radio. “Sir, Jeremiah's not here.”
“That can't be right. Have you checked inside the crib?”
“I have, but there's nothing but a baby in here.”
“That's our target! That baby is Jeremiah.”
The radio nearly slipped through my fingers as they flushed with sweat. I slowly returned the radio to my mouth and said, “I think I misheard you, sir. Could you repeat that?”
“I said that that baby is Jeremiah. Kill it and we'll have accomplished our mission.”
My shoulders sagged, and my strength and motivation drained from my body as I had a Heroic BSOD (Blue Screen of Death). I had become a living computer that had blue-screened. I came to my senses as the Sergeant's voice grew louder and more impatient in the fizzle of the radio channel.
“—better smother that baby and put it out of our misery!” Despite his high volume, the baby slept without a fuss, and it could probably sleep through a bomb going off beside its head (which was a thought best kept away from the Sergeant, lest he get any ideas).
“Sir, I don't understand,” I finally said. “Why do I need to kill this baby? It hasn't done anything wrong.”
“It's not what it has done wrong, it's that it will do wrong.”
“How can you be so sure? I highly doubt that this baby will grow up to be a serial killer or abusive spouse.”
“I know for a fact that that baby needs to die before it can mature, because that baby sleeping so innocently in its crib is Adolf Hitler.”
My eyes narrowed for a few seconds before I said, “Are you insane? Hitler's dead! He's been dead for over seventy years!”
“If he's dead, then why is he sleeping in that crib before you?”
“My God, you are insane,” I said with my thumb off the push to talk button. I ran over to the window, unlocked its hatches, and looked out to see if there were any features like some crates or an awning conveniently placed so that I could make my safe escape with the baby. As expected, there was nothing of the sort. The drop wasn't something I would attempt in real life, but in a dire situation such as that one, I was willing to take a risk or two.
“Tandey! Tandey, dammit, you had better kill that child before I come up there and do it myself!” I threw the radio to the ground and hurried to the crib to grab the baby. “And if I come up there, that baby's neck won't be the only one I'll wring.”
I also had to toss my gun to the ground so that I could cradle the baby in one arm. He cooed and made some unhappy noises as I lifted him from his crib. He flung his meaty limps about, and I had to hold him tight as I pulled a grenade from my belt. I gave the pin a good tug and then tossed the explosive into the hall. I guess I was too used to the explosive power of grenades from video games, where a nuked could be dropped on a town but the only things destroyed were your adversaries and wooden crates, because I wasn't expecting the shards of debris that blew into the room, some of which imbedded themselves into the wall. My feet also shuffled an awful dance, because I had lost my balance. But once I had recovered, albeit with a ringing in my ear, I swung one leg out the window, then the other, and in seconds I was clinging to the window sill for dear life with one arm. My physical strength is something that barely exists, so I knew I wasn't able to rappel myself any further without my arm giving out. So my only solution was to drop down and try my damndest to not break a leg or sprain an ankle.
Just watching someone, even a fictional character in a game or a movie, fall from a great height always got my heart racing, but that drop, though it wasn't too far, had my heart leaping out of my chest. What I felt even more was my collision with the ground. Most of the pain was in my knees, tailbone, and elbow, which I had used to keep the baby safe.
I hurt, but no broken bones or sprained ankles. The baby was crying, but he was safe. I picked myself up and started away from the house. I sometimes wonder if the Sergeant had planned for my going postal or expected it, because I hadn't gotten too far from the house before something shot through my knee. I collapsed the ground, and when I looked at my knee, there was a hole burned into my pant leg, with splotches of blood painted around said hole. It wasn't until then that I remembered about Barrett.
I had landed with the baby beneath me, and I was worried that I had hurt him. He was crying even louder now, but he looked unharmed, at least for the moment.
I pulled out my pistol and scanned the landscape for Barrett, seeking out the glimmer of sunlight I had read which betrayed a sniper's position. I didn't find it, but a bullet found my pistol, and I winched as it vanished from my hand.
With my last weapon gone and a hole drilled into my knee, I could only cover the baby and hope for some sort of miracle as the Sergeant approached with Rome and Tackle-box
“I'd say it was admirable how adamant you are on protecting that bastard, but then I'd be lying to you,” the Sergeant said. His rifle was lowered, but Rome and Tackle-box had theirs raised and aimed right at my temple.
I returned to the Sergeant only a glare as I pondered what to do in a situation where I was surrounded and outnumbered and my only hope for escape was a deus ex machina.
“Unless you're looking to spill your brains all over that child, I suggest you surrender it to me. Then I complete the mission and we all head home without any more conflicts. Sound agreeable?”
“As agreeable as the fact that this child is Hitler.”
“So you'll give him up?” he asked in a pleased tone but one that held shades of mockery.
“Like hell.”
The Sergeant sneered, then kicked me in the ribs, and I fell onto my side. He planted his boot where the sole had dug and said, “You talk tough for a trapped rat. If you're supposed to be a spy, I should ship your ass back to your boss with a note attached that recommends that you be tossed to the streets without a penny to your name.”
“What evidence do you have that this baby is Hitler, huh?” I asked. “How do you know this baby won't grow up to become the next Norman Borlaug, who's saved over a billion lives?”
He made a disgusted face and removed his pistol from its holster. “Never heard of him.” He raised the pistol and pulled the trigger.
That's where my dream ended. It's sad to think that even in my dream, I couldn't save one human life. But I can't help but to debate whether or not the Sergeant was right. What if that child was Adolf Hitler or what amounts to someone labeled as the next Hitler—the next man to slaughter millions for seemingly no reason whatsoever? I can't help but wonder who was in the right.
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