Free Dreamwalker by Russell James Page B

oxidation of the old Atlantic City from tarnishing the glittering casinos. An Island Cab zoomed past. The crossed palm insignia flashed by waist high. The car hit a pothole and the doors rattled in their frames.
    Pete dashed across the street and crossed an empty lot to the city’s signature attraction. At this hour, in this season, the famed boardwalk stretched out deserted. On top, two rows of angled gray boards formed an arrow that pointed south, to the wealth promised by the glowing towers of the Showboat and Taj Mahal casinos beyond.
    Pete ignored the invitation. He descended a ramp on the far side and crossed the dunes to the beach. The onshore breeze picked up and salt mist speckled his lips. A stone jetty knifed out into the ocean. Waves beat themselves into oblivion against the dark rocks. He stopped short of where the sea spray dampened the boulders, sat down on the edge, and looked out at the ocean.
    He took deep draughts of the crisp, invigorating air and enjoyed the tangy scent of the sea. The Steel Pier Amusement Park sat silent to his right, closed for the season. The skeletons of the Crazy Mouse coaster and the Ferris wheel stood out against the bright blue background. The passing cab on Atlantic Boulevard popped back into his head.
    The two crossed palm trees came into focus. One black, one white. He remembered the crossed snake insignia on the doors of the Jeeps that machine-gunned Twin Moon City. They were identical designs, with Twin Moon City’s fanged snake heads replacing the palm fronds of Atlantic City. He shivered inside his jacket.
    His dreams frequently took events of the day, chopped them into pieces, and rearranged them in convoluted combinations. But yesterday’s quick glimpse of the crossed palms on passing cabs would not have merited a repeat run at the Subconscious Drive-In. A pretty uneasy coincidence.
    The tender spot on his scratched forearm twinged. He awoke with an identical injury as the one he’d sustained in Twin Moon City. Non-coincidence Number Two.
    Then there was Rayna, strange item Number Three. From their first dream encounter during the summer, they shared an instantaneous, spiritual connection. She was always more real than the rest of the dream. Everything else was a movie, but she had three dimensions. Everyone else was cold inside, but she had a heartbeat.
    He’d figure all this out. There were lots of pieces, but he’d put them together. Something drew him here to put those pieces back together.
    He had a feeling there was a deadline.

Chapter Eleven
    â€œPetey,” shouted Papa D from the back of the prep line. “Potatoes.”
    Pete stepped back from the grinding noise of the dishwasher. It was only 6:30 p.m., but an errant use of the spray hose had already soaked him through his jeans. He looked down the line at Papa D with a quizzical look.
    â€œDownstairs!” Papa D said. He pointed past Pete with one hand while he browned meatballs with the other. “Get potatoes. Fifty pounds.”
    â€œYou got it.”
    Pete left the kitchen for cool storage in the basement. At the base of the stairs, he threw a light switch. Rows of dry stores stretched under the building. There were pallets of sugar and flour, cases of spices and canned goods, and a rack of wrapped bread. Some stacks went from the concrete floor to the low, unfinished ceiling.
    Something banged at the far end of the basement. It sounded like a small can hitting the floor and rolling a few feet.
    An image of an enormous rat popped into his head. It would be no surprise in this neighborhood. His skin crawled.
    He saw a broom leaning against the wall. He picked it up to tip the scales in a man/rat struggle, if it came to that.
    He crept down the length of the basement. The cold from the block wall seeped through his damp shirt. His knuckles went white against the broomstick he held up and over his shoulder. Scenes from a half-dozen bad horror films flipped through his