The Evers Chronicles by Carolee Ross

Chapter One:

Harry Evers was having some strange dreams lately. He'd wake up disoriented, scattered, with the taste of fear in his mouth, hot, dry and bitter.

The dreams were all the same; he was sitting in the passenger section of an old, pre-1900 train, the only passenger. The seats were old, brittle leather that crackled when he moved. Outside the window, there was only white -- no buildings, no trees, no life. Only white, everywhere. The sky, the ground, the air, were full of white nothingness as if he were moving through a cloud.

There was eerie laughter, coming from somewhere above his head. It would subside for a while, then, when he thought everything was still, it would start again. It sounded a lot like his friend Doug, who'd died next to him in Nam. Harry would call out, "Doug? Is that you?" But there was never a reply. Not that he expected one. Doug has been gone since '71 when he'd walked into a landmine. That was one image Harry had never forgotten. The explosion, the screaming, that same rotting taste of fear.

The train smelled as if someone was cooking in the next car and he was hungry. His stomach rumbled and he swore he could smell his Mom's Sunday pot roast. As plain as day, as good and as tempting a smell as he could recall. He used to make frequent visits to that kitchen, hoping to get a taste of the gravy, but mostly to get a glimpse of his pretty Mom. She had long hair, just like the movie stars, and long, slim legs. When she smiled, it was as if it was just for him, her son, Harry. He could feel her kissing the top of his head and it felt good, comforting.

He touched his head to scratch it, and found a peculiar hat, made of a fabric he'd never known. He took it off, looked at it, and saw writing he didn't recognize. Down around the sweatband, he saw ants swarming and threw the hat on the floor. When he did this, the train would screech to a halt and he would be thrown out of his seat, out of the train, on to the tracks below.

And then he'd wake up. In spite of his trembling, he managed to get up, drag himself to the bathroom and take his first morning piss. He looked in the mirror, lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and thought about the dream for a while. He was still hungry and walked downstairs to the kitchen.

There was nothing but an ashtray full of butts, a half-filled coffee pot and a dead mouse. Harry put on his sweats, and still scratching his head from the dream, went to get some breakfast.