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an entirely different dream of existence. As strange as it
sounds, the malefic metropolis actually chose to invade this
wretched world.
As we approached the city, its ruined flesh was already
peeling back, exposing overturned military vehicles filled
with old bones and crusted blood, mass graveyards, sour
winds stitched together from countless last breaths, and
wandering patches of strange, sweet-smelling twilight—
the Deadworld was hemorrhaging nightmare. Here was no
symbol for dream, only dream itself, open and free. However,
New Victoria held no hope for mankind. Its dreams were its
own.
“I can’t fuckin’ believe you really want to be here,” Mr.
Grimes said.
“I have need to be here,” I replied, “and despite everything
I know—I want to be here. These things are clearly not our
dreams, and must be nothing but the predatory nightmares
of things that dwell beyond the shallows of human sleep.
However, regardless of their malevolence, beauty is beauty.”
Strangely, I found myself enjoying my conversation with
Mr. Grimes. Words are so often nothing more than thoughts
hidden behind masks of noise, but when speaking with the
killer, I found my words pleasingly free of disguise.
“Uh, yeah,” Mr. Grimes said, “Well, I’m only here cuz
I hafta be. You gotta be crazy to think there’s anything
beautiful about this freak-zone.”
I hadn’t considered it before, but I wondered if that
invisible force—the one that draws people to abandoned
places and gifts them with dreams pressed into yellowed
paper—was still aiding in my journey. Surely, those things
that dwelt in the City Beyond Sleep wouldn’t see me
coming—the deathly bus, now festooned with the ornaments
of a butcher’s red holiday, couldn’t be taken for anything
less than a conveyance for pilgrims of nightmare. Perhaps
Mr. Grimes was sent to assist me.

44 | Mark Anzalone