Vignettes From A Dream

A Novel by Charles Adrian Trevino
Copyright December 2024

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DAMNED MAN'S ROULETTE

Mikel Iliya sat motionless on an uncomfortably broken and tilted wooden chair, looking out of the hotel window disinterestedly. Although his present situation demanded his full attention, his melancholy thoughts were beginning to wander aimlessly about again, looking for a place to sit and fester.  The cold afternoon sun was casting a gloomy backlight on the drama unfolding outside, a light that seemed perfectly approriate for the setting. His mood was calm, despite the fact that he was stuck in an uncomfortable and paradoxically strange position; he had just been rescued from a war-prison camp, in an incredibly brazen and unexpected coup de main mission led by his most despised personal enemy... a man he had wished dead.

A distinct odor of smoke permeated his room, but it was not tobacco that he was smelling; it was something far more troubling. Although Mikel didn't care for tobacco, he briefly visualized himself sitting there dejectedly with a smoking cigarette in his hand, like a character in so many of the movies he had seen in his younger days. The beginnings of a wry smile began to brighten his sullen features; it had taken a while for him to learn that the constant cigarette smoking in all of the movies was a deliberate ploy by the tobacco industry to influence young movie-goers to buy their highly-addicting product.

The smile that had tried to form on his face quickly disappeared. Mikel simply could not escape the gravity of the situation that kept pulling him back down to earth. In an elaborately planned operation, he'd been plucked from his prison camp and spirited away through enemy lines to the old dilapidated hotel room he now sat in. And he was still behind enemy lines, and hardly out of danger; the daring final phase of the rescue mission was the most dangerous, and would soon be underway. But all things considered, he was still in a much better position than he had been for many years. He suddenly remembered that wise old adage, "the lord works in strange ways" -- it seemed to be holding true once again. Looking down at the bare wood floor for a second, Mikel smiled again... just for a brief moment.

The son of a highly-decorated officer of the Emperor's navy, Mikel had steadily and honestly risen through the ranks to become an influential military and political advisor to the Emperor himself. It had been a heady flight with various ups and downs, but had most often proceeded upwards... and swiftly. Then the present war had come and his career had been cut short, along with life as he had known it, on the day he was captured behind enemy lines. He would always regret remaining in a dangerously vulnerable area that he should have departed from, but under bizarrely contorted circumstances, he'd felt a damnable moral obligation to linger behind... and had paid dearly for his honorable morality play. However, his relatively short prison sentence hadn't been the only problem vexxing him -- in fact, it was nothing compared to the emotional pain that would frequently strike hard, twisting up inside of his chest; the pain in his heart that had made life almost unbearable for him.

His fortuitously acquired pistol rested patiently in his lap, ready to play its role again in the sick game he had become addicted to while imprisoned. It was a potentially fatal addiction he indulged in, but one that he had fed several times. The pathetically sad truth, he had to admit, was that playing the game helped him in a strange sort of way; it made him better appreciate any meager crumb that life deigned to throw his way.  It also provided the enticing possibility of a quick exit, a release from an existence that had grown too morose.

Outside his window, he could see the bright green, open-top car that was to transport him and his fellow general on a dangerous flight to a relatively safer place, beyond the confines of the besieged city he had been taken to; a city which was now under heavy missile bombardment. What was ironic was that the strategically valuable city of Catrinska was being fired upon by his own comrades-in-arms, in a desperate attempt to recapture it from a force of ruthless mercenaries known as the Bulsheteks, an army underwritten by a consortium of very well-organized international financiers. Mikel had served as a highly-decorated, greatly esteemed general and close advisor to Alexandreas III, the Emperor of Norvikia, his beloved native country. In the course of the war, after his capture and imprisonment, Mikel had learned that the Emperor had been deposed and villainously executed -- a victim of the many devious, clandestine conspiracies and ignoble intrigues constantly swirling around him. Concurrently with the fall of Alexandreas had come a wave of governmental as well as social changes: inexplicable, mandated restrictions and absurdly-tolerant civil liberties, unlike anything the centuries old Empire had ever seen before. It appeared that a new low standard of cultual depravity had truly come to pass, as if in punishment to the slightly more genteel population for their collective venial sins... but the punishment seemed vastly out of proportion to whatever crime they had committed. The country Mikel had known and once loved, and had fought bravely for, was now seemingly in its death throes.

Loyal fragments of the late Emperor's army were still resisting the devastating onslaught the country had suffered at the hands of the Bulsheteks, The psychologically battle-scarred Mikel felt certain that these few remaining patriots of the old Empire were fighting a noble but hopeless battle, one that was doomed to failure. The enemy had simply acquired too much money, through ingeniously deceptive means; malevolently organized money, which they were adept at converting to power. These incredibly callous financial kingmakers were hell-bent on gaining full control over every important aspect of life the wide world over, utilizing ancient methodologies combined with the newest technologies. They had heretofore been alarmingly successful in this campaign. From what Mikel had gleaned in the prison camp, they were mercilessly crushing all resistance now, hunting down and butchering whatever remained of the opposing forces, taking prisoners if expedient -- as was the usual manner of such awesomely empowered, but sadly lacking arch-tyrants.

Ivan Shottsky was the name of the general who had been most unwillingly dispatched into the field to oversee the dangerous mission of freeing Iliya. To say the least, he was no friend of Mikel's, nor had they ever been on even civil terms. In fact, the two high-ranking officers had been at odds with each other from the earliest days of their association, and had argued violently many times over ideological as well as military matters. That the Emperor had always favored the much-better educated Mikel's military and other strategies over Shottsky's had done little to douse the flames of Ivan's jealousy. And Shottsky had not appreciated suddenly and rudely being called upon to do a younger, lower-ranking soldier's job, especially to rescue Mikel, viewing it as an insult to his rank and standing. It also did not help matters that some time before his capture, Mikel had married Ivan's former girlfriend, a beautiful actress named Ravina, after she'd parted ways with the brusque general. She had said goodbye to Shottsky abruptly, expressing deep contempt for the general's shallow and manipulative ways; that had delighted Mikel, but had also caused him some worry. He knew that he had unwittingly become a very painful thorn in Ivan's side; the crude general had made it obvious to him many times. Shottsky had also made it clear that he'd taken Mikel's last "victory" over him, his marriage to Ravina, as a devastating personal blow.

It had not been intended that way at all. Mikel had known and coveted Ravina long before she had "gone astray" and become a successful actress, largely through the useful but highly-suspect connections of General Shottsky. He had blamed himself for neglecting her needs, because of the incessant demands of his career. After quickly correcting that error though, things had gone along quite well for Mikel and his re-captured prize; eventually the couple had arrived at a point where they could forgive one another for the "vile offenses" they'd dealt each other; and had gotten married. It had nothing to do with revenge against anyone -- but Mikel had begun contemplating Ravina's security more seriously, and his own as well. There had been many private barbs and spats between he and Shottsky, and in spite of any determents Mikel could conjure up, louder public confrontations had erupted... with the rivals nearly coming to blows. But that had all happened back in the good time... before disaster struck, and he had been taken prisoner.

In truth, Mikel had made a vow to himself that he would kill Shottsky, if ever he were to somehow escape from his confinement. He had made the murderous oath after a new prisoner had arrived at the camp, a friend of Mikel's, bearing devastating news. His wife Ravina had attempted suicide after being told by Shottsky, in the general's usual cruelly direct manner, that Mikel had been captured and presumably executed. She had failed in her suicide attempt, and a short time later had mysteriously disappeared; no one knew of her whereabouts. It became known that shortly before her disappearance, General Shottsky had again tried to acquire her as his own wife... and had been firmly refused once more. Upon learning this, in a confused state of grief and rage Mikel had blamed Ivan for everything, and had made the solemn vow of murderous revenge -- even though he seriously doubted that he would ever get an opportunity to carry out such an act. Thusly, when a team of highly-trained elite soldiers under Shottsky's command had suddenly appeared at the prison camp to rescue him, it had seemed ironic almost beyond comprehension, until Mikel came to realize that Ivan was very unwillingly acting under stern orders from his superiors... and was clearly resentful for Iliya's having dragged him into this life-threatening situation. Tensions had erupted into arguments, almost immediately; in fact, Mikel had wryly mused, it appeared that it was he himself who ought to be more worried about being murdered.

The old sparks had indeed begun to fly again... but this time Ivan was dealing with a changed man. The only thing that had prevented the inwardly-seething Mikel from killing Ivan outright, and then himself, was that he wasn't certain whether Shottsky was really guilty of foul play or was innocent. It was easy to forget that Shottsky's "crime" was just a suspicion that had taken root in Mikel's despairing mind, one that he had cultivated and nurtured himself. There could be a dozen other reasons for Ravina's disappearance. But Mikel knew Ivan Shottsky too well to put such an unremarkable thing as kidnap or murder past the general's palpably jealous, corrupt mind... and it would be a pathetically easy thing for him to get away with. After all, the man had rightfully been accused of war crimes... and had beaten every scandalous charge brought against him in court.

So Mikel had decided that if he were to succeed in this risky flight from hell and re-establish himself, he would sit and wait for a certain period of time... how long he didn't know... to see if any damning evidence presented itself against Shottsky. If not, he would give the idea up, and put it out of his mind completely -- at some point. But all of the above depended, of course, on the outcome of the game he was about to play.

By an almost unbelievable stroke of luck Mikel had acquired a fully loaded revolver gun while in prison, when two constantly quarreling guards had gotten drunk and engaged in a gunfight between themselves. One guard had quickly dispatched the other, then panicked and attempted to cover up his crime by hiding his rival's weapon and blaming the murder on an unknown prisoner. Mikel had discreetly witnessed the entire thing, and had retrieved and hidden away the pistol himself at the first opportunity. It was then, while desperately trying to stave off suicidal dejection and steadily losing ground, that he had begun to play the game known as Damned Man's Roulette... which consisted of spinning the cylinder of a revolver loaded with a single bullet, pointing the muzzle at one's own head, and pulling the trigger. To Mikel, the irresistible appeal of the addiction lay in the cerebral flood tide of thoughts and emotions that surged through his hyperventilating mind, just before and after he pulled the trigger; it was as mood-altering as a government-forbidden narcotic, and every bit as diverting. And so he was preparing to indulge his horrible addiction yet again.

After the special rescue operation, Shottsky had very riskily brought Mikel to the beseiged city of Catrinska, which lay nearby. They were to follow a detailed plan to flee from the endangered locale at a specified time... which was fast drawing near. The excrutiatingly high-risk final leg of the mission had been carefully crafted, of necessity due to complex circumstances. The strategically important Catrinska had been seized by a small detachment of the Bulshetek army, and was in the process of being recovered by the late Emperor's forces. Fatefully, a large number of the top Bulshetek intelligentsia had met and were gathered together at a nearby location, deliberating their future direction. Their capture or destuction en masse would be a worthwhile thing indeed, but they were hardly unprotected; this explained the heavy Norvikian missile bombardment now taking place, which was intended to flush the major players out into the open. Most of the populace had fled to bomb shelters or more distant havens, having clearly seen that time-honored rules of accepted military conduct were being abandoned... the opposing forces were going for each other's throats in a horrifying display of wanton viciousness. Norvikian snipers were placed in an elevated position at the arched city gates, the only avenue of escape now available, with orders to shoot any enemy troops... especially officers attempting to escape the carnage. But they had been instructed to allow the late Emperor's two valuable generals to pass through safely at a specified time, in a car painted bright green. Ivan and Mikel would be daringly driving right alongside any desperate enemy combatants attempting a last ditch escape and, judging from the intensity of the missile barrage, there would probably be many. In the thick, confused heat of battle, the chances of being shot themselves due to communication failures were alarmingly high... and Shottsky was breaking under the pressure.

The distressed general had temporarily left Mikel alone in an upper room, while he attended to some last minute matters. His special aides would be remaining here to assist the invading Norvikian forces, acting as snipers from the hotel and surrounding buildings themselves; brave souls, Mikel thought to himself. But as of this juncture, he had no particular interest in helping them, nor of his own escape; Mikel had simply lost the will to go on with the insanity of his life -- what it had turned into. And so he just sat there staring out the window, in calm resignation of whatever fate God had in store for him... waiting for that despairing feeling to manifest itself again, the urge that always compelled him to start playing his dangerous game.

It was that familiar sense of hopelessness that had prompted him to empty the bullets from his gun, save for one, and once again begin his pathetic pysching up process... but he was running out of time. Ivan would be back soon, to accompany him to the car that was waiting below with one of his brave but very nervous aides sitting at the wheel, dressed in Bulshetek officer's red so as not to arouse suspicion from enemy combatants. Mikel could see him from the window, a slender young blonde-haired man looking from side to side, obviously frightened by the tumult surrounding him. He was probably praying that the snipers would not mistakenly shoot him as he drove his privileged passengers through the city's famous, once-beautiful arched gates.

It all seemed so surreal; the sound of the missiles exploding nearby, their smoking residues rising above the rooftops all around him, and the forlorn abandoned streets, devoid of their usual crowds. The sky itself seemed to be expressing resignation also; a gray, lifeless ambience pervaded the entire scene. It seemed like an appropriate time to pick up his revolver and partake in his sad game of chance, perhaps for the last time.

He brought the gun up to eye-level and stared into the barrel for a moment, hesitating. Bizarre, stream-of-consciousness thoughts began flowing through his mind, as they always did right before he played. Often he found himself reflecting on the cruel fickleness of existence itself -- he had observed for instance that a person could be very well off materially, and still feel quite unhappy for some reason or another, trivial or otherwise. Also, how profound that everything possessing life was naturally compelled to compete with or consume some other form of life, just to keep going; even plants competed for sunlight and stole water from one another. Why did everything have to be so competitive, Mikel wondered. It all seemed to boil down to the reality of the hunter and the hunted; a bid for survival that extended from the highest forms all the way down to the lowest. In his imagination he could picture tiny differently-colored atoms competitively vying for one another's orbiting electrons, trying to align with some cosmic electromagnetic command they obeyed. And yet somehow everything meshed, and everything fought or harmonized with every other thing in some way, and it all seemed to work, and one could find happiness in it all, if one could only find one's place. There was truth in this imperialistic struggle he was engaged in, a natural truth that was a bit hard to swallow... but even harder to abstain from practicing.

Mikel had been raised by parents who believed in an all-powerful creator, and they had taught him to respect other forms of life -- even when they had taken him out to the wilderness on hunting trips. Anything he killed had to be carried away and laboriously skinned, and then eaten and/or otherwise used. Thus he had never killed an animal merely for sport alone, although he had quite enjoyed the back-to-nature experience of hunting, and even killing for his food. He'd always felt a mild contempt for people that did kill solely for sport, although he hadn't obsessed on it; but he himself had needed a reason to excuse the act of killing, and using the aftermath of the kill provided a good enough one. But respecting a deer didn't necessarily bar one from killing it, of course.

For a few brief seconds, incredibly clear images of his happier youthful days flowed strongly through his mind, invigorating him... then all too soon faded away, pushed on by compulsive new thoughts. He thought of the struggles between different classes and races of people, and of racist tendencies themselves. He had alway tried to feel and show respect for people of other races, as long as they weren't over-imposing; he could see that it took many ingredients to make an aesthetically diverse, appealingly spiced world. Although proud of the accomplishments of his own race, Mikel had tried hard to refrain from expressing the contempt some of his fellow Eurlandians felt, and openly displayed, toward the "inferior" peoples. His parents had taught him that such crude behavior was contemptible in itself, and he believed that was true. The people that he saw indulging in that sort of thing always seemed to be guilty of some fault, some obvious defect that made then insecure about their own worth. His despised savior, the blustering General Shottsky, appeared to be a perfect example of this type of bully -- the unwanted baggage whose offensive weight would always drag the more restrained people, and everyone else as well, straight down.

The act of war was something that Mikel had come to view as a necessary part of living; it seemed that there would always be an encroaching enemy coming to attack, kill or enslave someone else, and so he had accepted it. Invading another territory for the sake of gain had been part of his history also, but such were the necessities of life; it was something he didn't like to dwell on, although he sometimes did in his more soul-searching moments. He had always come to justify such aggression as being necessary, concluding that man was just another form of animal life, a relatively higher form but still subject to the same territorial imperatives as the lesser animals. Man, however, was seemingly poised half-way between savage but innocent animals and some mysterious, little understood God... an inexplicable, all-knowing God that had created his world, and the worlds beyond it. This created quite a moral dilemma for man, as it gave rise to natural divisions and borders between men, and naturally-occuring social orders that were perhaps better not disrespected... but all one could do really, while playing the confusing game of life, was to try hard not to enjoy cruelty for its own sake. And Mikel had tried hard... not just to be merciful, but to be an honorable human being, for his parents' sake if nothing else.

But perhaps he had not tried hard enough. The tragic turn of events that had befallen him, and made him want to reject life itself, seemed to be some kind of test of faith... a test that he had apparently failed. Perhaps he should never have pursued a military career... he had many talents in other promising areas, and would probably been fairly successful in any endeavor he attempted. He'd begun to suffer guilty feelings after beginning to chart a more lucrative, non-military domestic path, leaving the dirty fighing work to other patriotic unfortunates, but something had made him stop, reconsider -- and then switch careers. Had he made the wrong choice, then? Could he have just learned to deal with his guilty conscience, and been happier in civilian work? He would have avoided a lot of his present day problems if he could have done that, but how long would his country stand if he didn't fight to defend it? Any way you looked at it, life could be confusing enough to drive anybody mad... and oftentimes it was.

Bringing the revolver to his open mouth, Mikel spun the cylinder once. He began to breathe hard, and felt his heart pumping faster, like it had so many times before... but this time something else was happening. As his finger tightened on the trigger, he could hear the sound of a rapidly approaching freight train, its steadily increasing clamor combining with the painfully loud blaring of its horn. The din grew louder with each passing second, until it became unbearable, threatening to burst his eardrums wide open. Grimacing as if in pain, Mikel pulled the trigger.

His body recoiled as he heard and felt an explosion that rocked his senses. It seemed that he'd lost his sense of sight, and could see only a bright glaring light that quickly diminished to a flicker, then nothing at all. He slumped down in his chair, and felt his arm falling down to his lap, still holding onto the gun. He remained motionless.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he felt his senses returning; he could hear himself breathing. Then he opened his eyes.

He was still alive. The gun had not fired at all... but he had not heard the usual dull click, because of the incessant roar that had been going through his head, which had now ebbed completely away.

After a few more seconds, Mikel sat up straight in his chair. Looking out the window again, he could see smoke rising just outside. The explosion he had heard had been a missile, striking somewhere very close by... just across and down the street from the hotel Shottsky had brought him to. Hearing the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps in the hallway outside his room, Mikel quickly put the gun in his jacket pocket. A second later Ivan Shottsky burst into the room, breathing heavily.

"Mikel, what are you doing? Didn't you hear that? Damn it, they were not supposed to bomb near this area! The goddamned fucking idiots!" Shottsky's face was registering intense alarm, and for good reason. As he stood there glaring at the inexplicably calm Mikel, another missile exploded violently, again very close nearby. Shottsky started to duck down, then caught himself and straigthtened back up as the windows rattled slightly; more smoke began to drift by outside, seeping into the room.

Mikel looked expressionlessly at his distraught comrade. "Perhaps they're having equipment failure... that has been known to happen, you know," he replied nonchalantly.

Shottsky stared back at him in disbelief, unnerved by Mikel's composure. "What? Did your brain go soft in the camp, or... why the hell are you so fucking calm?" The obviously distressed general made a supreme effort to compose himself, but he was visibly shaking now. "We've got to get out of here, now! If that red albino monkey outside is still able to drive... if he isn't, you can. Get the hell up from that chair, we're leaving now! We were supposed to be at the gate by now, it may already be too late..."

Mikel turned and glanced out the now cracked window again. Down below on the street, Shottsky's red-suited aide seemed to be lost in despair; he was holding something in his hand, his head bowed as if in prayer. Mikel suddenly realized that he was holding a cross, which seemed to be attached to a barely visible chain he was wearing around his neck; the Christ.

Mikel turned back to look at Shottsky again. Shrugging his shoulders, he rose up and stretched, then found himself inadvertently yawning, in spite of the dangerous situation developing outside. This seemed to annoy the already agitated general immensely.

"Get your ass out of here! I've got to get our fucking papers, in case we get stopped by Bulshee's... I put them somewhere, goddamnit... remember, we're war correspondents, don't forget. Iliya, get you're ass down those stairs now! And be ready! I'll be there in a second." Shottsky whirled around and ran out of the room.

Mikel looked out the window one last time; their driver was still sitting there with bowed head, clasping his Christ necklace ornament. He was obviously scared out of his wits; Mikel realized that he might have to drive after all, as Ivan had just suggested. Turning away, he walked robotically out of the dreary room and down the hallway to a nearby stairway, feeling no hurry or fear whatsoever... just the grim feeling of resignation that he had lately grown accustomed to.

Walking at a moderate pace out the hotel's front entrance, Mikel headed toward the green car that was parked a short distance away. As he approached, the driver turned to look at him and began to salute... then thought better of it, and lowered his hand. Mikel nodded, briefly taking in his facial features. He had blonde hair and light-colored eyes, with a slightly atavistic look to his physiognomy. Mikel at once realized why the mean and boorish Shottsky had called him an albino monkey; just another ignoble display of presumed superiority from the graceless, ill-bred general, based on race as well as rank. He felt a sudden wave of sympathy sweeping over him; the aide was clearly badly shaken, managing his fear admirably in the terrifying situation at hand.

"At ease, soldier. General Shottsky will be here in a second... are you fit to drive?" Mikel asked in a kind, non-authoritarian tone.

"I think so... I mean, yes sir! But we better leave soo... uh, excuse me, sir," he stuttered. "Yes, I can drive, I can drive!" The aide was making a heroic attempt to emulate Mikel's composure, but was obviously quite rattled, as his speech made clear. As Mikel opened the car door and stepped inside, another missile could be heard in the distance, screaming their way; seconds later it exploded ominously, a block or two away. The aide inadvertently ducked his head again for a moment.

As he sat down in the seat next to the trembling driver, still another missile announced its coming, hard on the heels of the previous one. As it sounded its all-too familiar shrill cry, Mikel turned and saw Shottsky come out of the hotel's front door, carrying a small black suitcase. As the now thoroughly alarmed general broke into a full speed run, the wail of the incoming missile became terrifyingly loud; a second later the front of the building next door to their hotel exploded into rubble, spewing hard jagged debris all around. Mikel instinctively covered his head with his arms; when he dared look up again, Shottsky's body had disappeared from view in the blackish-gray smoke that suddenly enshrouded the street, billowing towards their car. As the smoke cleared away enough to see the sidewalk again, Mikel could see Shottsky's body lying face down, detached parts of arms and legs spread horribly askew around him. He wasn't moving, and Mikel could see his blood and guts spilling into the gutter -- his despised enemy had been killed instantly by the flying debris.

Gasping in horror, the aide looked at Mikel, who was still taking things in rather stoically under the circumstances. Then he quickly turned and scrambled out of the driver's seat -- in an act of amazing courage and valor, Shottsyky's top aide was going to try to help his commanding officer. Mikel felt compelled to stop him; the young man obviously couldn't see that Shottsky was clearly dead.

"Don't go, soldier... they're bombing us now, by mistake. The general's dead, man, don't go! You'll be killed... save yourself!" Mikel marvelled at the surprisingly high tone of his own voice. The aide's noble bravery had touched him deeply, and he was very slowly beginning to feel something again; some sort of long-lost emotive sensation that he barely remembered. It was something that he'd subconsciously yearned would come back to him again... the ability to care.

The brave aide hesitated, confused; he stared at Mikel for a few seconds, looking into his sympathetic eyes. Then turning away, he began to run towards the dismembered Shottsky's pathetic carcass... but abruptly came to a frozen stop, upon hearing the menacing scream of a third incoming missile. Mikel glanced up at the sky; from the sound of it, this one was coming in even closer than the one that had just annihilated his unlucky rival, and would probably hit their sorry hotel building directly. He felt compelled to duck down in his seat, covering his head with his arms. He heard another fearfully loud explosion, gritting his teeth as debris began raining down into the car's unprotected interior, hitting his head and shoulders. He hunched down even further in his seat, bracing himself.

When the overhead barrage had ceased, Mikel lifted his head and looked around. Through billowing dense smoke he could see the torn remains of the brave aide's red-clothed body scattered about the street, but he could no longer see Shottsky. A thick film of blood suddenly ran down his forehead and over his eye, partially obscuring his vision. Wiping the blood away, his eyes fixed on the set of keys hanging from the car's ignition plug, and he was suddenly seized by an overriding imperative... to save himself, and fast.

Mikel quickly slid over into the driver's position and grabbed the wheel. As he twisted the key, he felt an almost giddy relief as the engine roared to life; it was still in good running shape, although its once bright green sheen had been transformed into a much duller shade by all the smoke and dusty residue. Kicking a small piece of rubble out of the way, he threw the car into gear and stomped on the gas pedal. The now dark gray-green vehicle launched violently forward as he wrestled with the steering wheel, trying to bring the car straight. Within seconds he was speeding away from the glowering strike zone and its sad remains, down the wide avenue that led to an even wider main road, St. Jonathon Street; Shottsky had told him this street ran in a straight line directly to the city gates. Even as he approached it, Mikel was already starting to wonder whether he was making the right move; but he didn't know of any other safe place to run, besides out of this bombarded city through its historic, celebrated gates... the gates that were only an enticing half-mile away.

Upon accessing the main road, he didn't see too many other cars at first... but as he sped warily along, he quickly began noticing more and more of them appearing from surrounding side-streets. He couldn't tell who was civilian, soldier, or officer, and didn't care at this point; there were going to be a hell of a lot of cars for the sharpshooters to differentiate between, and they'd probably be very busy -- too busy to be keeping a real sharp lookout. Also, if the snipers were looking to spare a man dressed in a red suit driving a bright green convertible with two passengers, they wouldn't recognize him as such now; Mikel was now alone and not so colorfully attired, and his car wasn't bright green anymore.

He kept speeding onwards toward his rendevous with fate. A few more moments passed before he began to register upon the gruesome scene of horror playing out before his eyes, just a few blocks ahead of him. Speeding cars were veering crazily to the left and right, some trying to avoid the fire from the elevated snipers' guns, others completely out of control, their drivers already hit by the ceaseless barrage of bullets. And Mikel was accelerating right into the midst of it, along with everybody else. He started to calculate his chances of getting through the gates alive, and decided not to think about it any more... the option of turning back dissipated into nothing as he began hearing the high whistling song of bullets flying by, crackling as they struck the cars and street around him. Intimidated, he momentarily took his foot off the gas, but realized that it was too late to turn around on what had become a one-way thoroughfare. His first and only other option, storming the gates, now seemed all too inevitably simple. Bracing himself physically, he made up his mind... and stomped on the gas pedal again.

As he approached the ornate bridge that arched proudly over the wide boulevard, he noted that it was of a thankfully high-backed construction design; once he exited its backside, the incessant bursts of gunfire issuing from above would be greatly reduced, if there were any snipers even positioned that high up. As he careened down the road, swerving violently to avoid other out-of-control vehicles, for a brief moment he thought he could make out a narrow pathway seemingly clear of any veering cars, running straight down the center of the avenue and under the bridge. On the other side lay the relative safety of an empty, more peaceful looking St. Jonathon Street. He had only gotten one quick glance at the tree-lined avenue, but it was all he had to go on... it was a vision of hope, like some beckoning heaven-sent angel of salvation urging him onward.

Mikel steered to the middle of the road. Aiming his car straight ahead, he locked both his hands firmly on either side of the steering wheel. Ducking his head as low beneath the shelter of the dashboard as he could, Mikel mashed the gas pedal all the way to the floor once again, barreling onwards in a completely blind flight. The roar of the engine mixed with the whistling sound of bullets flying by; some were striking his car, penetrating metal and shattering the windshield. He clamped his eyes hard shut and absorbed all the sounds for a few moments, in a much less calmer mood than he had displayed just minutes before. He was still alive, and glad of it; he had not been hit yet, and he felt an inexplicable certainty that his gamble would pay off; in a few seconds he would be through the gates, driving full-speed down St. Jonathon Street outside the borders of the city, a free man again.

He could feel it, as he passed underneath the bridge unscathed; a euphoric sense of release. Something was telling him that he would make it all the way, get away from his captors, get back to freedom... whatever that freedom was still worth. But he knew now that he really did want to try again... more than ever. He was experiencing a renewed strength, and a growing will to confront all the crazy, but still-pressing realities: his missing wife, his crumbling country, the ongoing war, and everything else that outrageous fate might throw at him. His future was not bright at all... but it was there. He had not only seen the cold, deathly alternative to life, he had lived it... and survived.

It might just all work out again... this business of living. He could even visualize himself kicking his Damned Man's Roulette habit, if he made it back. Anyway, he knew for certain now -- he was sick and tired of dying.

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Vignettes From A Dream - Copyright January 2024 by Charles Adrian Trevino.