The Bleeding Season by Greg F. Gifune Read Free Book Online Page A

 “Alan.”
    “You all right, man?”
    Dry, chapped lips parted slowly.  “I don’t know,” he said groggily.  “Are you?”
    I crouched next to the recliner.  “How could we have the same dream?”
    His eyes rolled about for a moment, then he blinked rapidly and seemed to focus somewhat.  “I never believed in an afterlife, Alan, you know that.  I…I never believed in any of it.  You did but not me, not me…But…but this—I don’t…I don’t understand what’s happening.”  He tried to sit up and nearly passed out.  He wouldn’t be conscious much longer.  His bottom lip quivered.  “I don’t even quite know why but I…I’m frightened.”
    “So am I.”  I looked at the near-hysteria in his bloodshot eyes and wondered if mine looked the same.  “It’ll be all right.  There’s a reasonable explanation, we just have to find it.”
    “You didn’t have to come over, I—I shouldn’t have called you like that, I…I’m sorry I—”
    “Take it easy, man, it’s all right.”  Past experience with Donald’s binges told me he’d only have limited memory of all this anyway.
    He struggled to smile, but the alcohol and exhaustion took him, leaving him slumped forward in deep sleep.
    I grabbed an old afghan from the back of the couch and gently covered him with it, then went to the phone and dialed our apartment.  Toni answered on the second ring.
    “It’s me.”
    “Where are you?”
    “I had to come over to Donald’s for a minute.”
    “Is everything all right?”
    “He had a little too much to drink, just wanted to make sure he was OK.”
    “Something new.”  When I offered no response, she said, “I thought you’d be here when I got back from the store.”
    “So did I.”  An old black and white movie flickering from the TV set distracted me.  “I’ll be home in a few minutes, all right?  Just heading out now.”
    I quickly tidied up the living room and brought the ashtrays into the kitchen.  As I emptied them into the wastebasket, I noticed the stack of pictures Rick had found in Bernard’s duffel bag fanned out across the counter.  They looked as if they’d been frantically shuffled through several times.  The photograph of the woman none of us knew was on top.  I don’t know why, but I tucked it into my jacket pocket and returned to the living room.
    Though Donald was out cold he was breathing normally.  Even in alcohol-induced sleep his face bore an emotional torment that never fully left his expression, but he looked about as peaceful as he was likely to get.
    Satisfied he’d be all right I quietly headed for the door.
    *   *   *
    The aroma of roasting chicken wafted about the apartment, reminding me I hadn’t eaten since the day before, and that, coupled with a lack of sleep and the events of the day thus far, had left me in a less than jovial mood.
    While Toni prepared a salad to go with dinner, I took up position at the kitchen table and explained the situation as best I could.  Donald and I had somehow shared a nightmare, and even before we realized we’d had the same dream, it had taunted us both as much while we’d been awake as it had in the throes of sleep.  She listened patiently; refraining from comment until I’d finished.  For what seemed an eternity, she sliced a cucumber and added it to the bed of lettuce, nibbling her bottom lip throughout, a signal I had come to recognize meant she did in fact have a response but was thinking it through before voicing it.  Eventually, she looked over at me, brow knit.  “Alan, when Dad died I had that dream about him, remember?  And a few days later when I spoke to my mother I found out she’d dreamt about him too.”
    “This is different,” I insisted.  “You both had dreams—but you didn’t have the same  dream.”
    “Honey, neither did you and Donald.”
    “I’m telling you—”
    “Listen,” she said, “in my dream my father came to me, talked with me and told me everything