The Waking Dreamer Read Online Free PDF Page B

Emmett felt his head lighten as he crossed a high, steel-framed bridge in Orange that led to Vinton. He focused his eyes straight ahead until he reached the other side. Perhaps it was his usual fear of heights or maybe it was a sense of foreboding as he left Texas behind, but whatever the cause, Emmett wiped his hands and urged the car forward with mixed anticipation and disquiet.
    Seeing the sign welcoming him to Louisiana, he kissed his index finger and rapped his hand against the dashboard. “One down. Three to go.”
    Hundreds of miles of low-lying marshes escorted him on his journey. Navigating the knotted overpasses of Baton Rouge, Emmett bypassed New Orleans on Interstate 12 and took the shortcut toward Hammond and on to Slidell. The sun seemed to set almost as an afterthought along the horizon as he passed Gulfport and began to see highway markers for Pensacola, the first hint of his destination.
    As the darkness heralded twilight, Emmett shook his head and stymied the first of several rolling yawns; his eyes felt as if they had swallowed too much light, but they finally adjusted to the approaching dusk.
    The interstate grew sparse and unlit as he reached the Florida Panhandle. Void of landmarks or roadside diversions, mile markers ceased counting down. The fatigue of the previous weeks coupled with his usual insomnia finally caught up to him, and Emmett began to wonder if he could safely finish the long drive.
    He considered stopping to sleep. The yawning had grown altogether irritating, as if reminding him that he had erred and not thoroughly planned the drive. He had researched it thoroughly, of course, ensuring that the roads he would take were all public and not under construction. He had budgeted enough money for gas and food, but an unplanned motel charge simply wasn’t an option. Emmett resolved to finish the drive, somehow, on sugar and the promise of a sunrise over poetic unknown roads not yet traveled.
    He rolled the radio knob searching for George Noory, finding only static-laden hissing in the deep wilderness. It was the perfect late-night hour for radio: conversations about monster hunters, wielders of dark magic, and people who dream of the future.
    Without the radio to distract a mind that did not readily quiet on its own and his phone’s battery long since drained, he tried having a conversation with himself but felt absurd for doing so. He quickly found himself passing the time by cataloguing the different rattles coming from the old car. It was all an effort to keep his mind occupied long enough to delay thoughts of money, job-seeking, and apartment-finding. When he was certain that he had nothing else to do but think on these things, he looked down and was oddly relieved to find the gas gauge’s slightly shaking needle holding steady below E.
    “Fail at math, Emmett,” he said aloud.
    Yet he felt thankful for something to focus his attention. The last interstate gas sign was at least twenty miles behind him. With so little gas left and the next major city, DeFuniak Springs, nearly forty miles away, Emmett decided it was prudent to pull off the interstate at the next exit.
    When he reached the exit ramp, he shifted gears and coasted in neutral to save what little gas remained in the tank. The county road leading to the gas station quickly wound away from the highway and snaked deeper into the thick tree line. A sign marked the edge of Blackwater River State Forest, a vast stretch of feral wilderness that filled a huge swath of the northern Panhandle on Emmett’s printed directions.
    A small opening in a copse of towering evergreens revealed a makeshift gravel driveway that led down a slight incline to a rundown gas station; its sign along the road was unlit but the station windows still showed interior lights. Allowing inertia to carry the car the remainder of the way, he slowly pulled up to the only pump, idling for a moment before turning off the car. The gas pump sat under a handwritten