VEXED TO A NIGHTMARE

by Phantomimic
All rights reserved © RAGG
 The air inside the ramshackle house was unbearably hot and humid
creating an atmosphere so thick that it could have been sliced with a knife.
The only light was that of a naked light bulb shining through the haze of
cigarette smoke in a space that in its heyday could have been called a living
room. But today its four walls of faded wall paper and crumbling chunks of
plaster betrayed years of neglect. A man was lounging in an old sofa that
occupied one corner of the room. He was wearing shorts and a discolored T-
shirt that proclaimed "Sic Semper Tyrannis". A swarm of crushed beer cans
and cigarette butts littered the space in front of him. He finished his last
cigarette, snuffed it out, and threw it, hitting a television monitor that lay on
its side with its screen shattered into a thousand pieces scattered on the floor.
The only sound in the room was the one of the radio. The voice of a
notorious talking head boomed away warning the listeners about how their
rights were being taken away from them, how THEY were encroaching on
our liberties, our independence, and our way of life taxing us and spreading
socialism.
The man listened intensely, alternating between enthusiastic
expressions of agreement and curses. He screamed out loud, "The God-
damned fools that voted for him don't know shit about what they are doing.
They are being used and they don't know it. And the others are no better, no
sir, people voted for them and they don't have the balls to stand up to him
and bring him down. Idiots and wimps, fuck them, fuck all of them!"

Turning and turning in the widening gyre

The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world
 The man lit another cigarette, shook his head and thought about the
last few days. He had been proud of his group and he had had confidence in
their leader. He had always thought of his group and many others like them
as the last line of defense. But what happened when THEY had come for the
members of a fellow group? His group leader had refused to get involved.
The man scoffed. If he had known, if he had received the other's calls for
help he and his buddies could have made a difference but by the time he
found out it was too late. Most of the people in the other group had been
arrested, and the stupid media had had a field day reporting all the stuff.
Some people had called them "fanatics" and "nutters" and accused them of
plotting to "overthrow the government". The man laughed, "Well, duh!
What else are the people to do if they are betrayed?" His eyes glanced in the
direction of a small coffee table on top of which lay two worn books with
titles that read The Turner Diaries and Unintended Consequences. He
thought to himself, "Indeed, what else."
The phone rang. The man turned off the radio and answered. A voice
on the other end said, "Hi John, ready for our game?" The man replied,
"Yeah, got the cards and everything ready, just come on over." and hung the
phone. He smirked, this was their code, in these damn times of cowards and
traitors you never know who may be listening. The man sat again on the sofa
to finish his cigarette while with his other hand he patted his rifle lying next
to him.

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
 After a minute he got up, closed the living room shades, and walked
over to a large cedar chest. Above it a faded dusty plaque proclaimed:

"The tree of liberty must be watered from time to time with the blood of
patriots and tyrants."

He opened the chest and removed his fatigues. For a while he felt
them in his hands as if absorbing their energy. So many times he had trained
preparing himself for the moment he would be called to fulfill his duty and
now, the day had come. He donned them, picked up his rifle, and waited by
the living room window. Outside it was a clear summer night with a full
moon. After a short while three vehicles wound their way down the gravel
road and stopped next to his house. The man headed for the hallway that led
to the main door. He paused before opening the door to rummage through
the pockets of his vest and make sure he had all he needed. It was then he
was startled by movement in the shadows to his right. He instinctively
turned and pointed his gun in the direction of the movement. There in the
twilight of the corridor he could discern a hazy shape opposite from him that
now lay very still. With comprehension the man reached for the switch and
turned on the light. As the light flooded the hallway he found himself
starring at his reflection in the hallway mirror.

Surely some revelation is at hand;

Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight:
 He did not laugh, he did not even smile. His eyes became fixed on his
image. When was the last time he had observed his reflection in a mirror?
Yes, observed, not merely "looked at" but observed. He approached the
mirror and focused his attention on the reflection of his face. It was like
looking at a stranger. When was the last time he had shaved? He had grey
hairs, and creases and spots in his skin he did not remember seeing before,
as though he had aged too much too soon. But most of all he centered his
attention on the eyes. Bloodshot and with their whites stained yellow he
found they still had the power to take him back, back to happier times when
he had a family and a steady job. As he looked into those eyes the memories
started to play as though he were sitting in a theater watching a movie.
Emotions he had not felt in a long time filled his being and he shed a tear.
For a brief moment he connected to his former self, for a brief moment he
reconsidered.
Suddenly the man looked away from his reflection his facial features
hardened in a grimace. The brief connection to the soul had been severed by
something stronger than himself, something that now reasserted itself.
"NO!" he screamed, "It's THEM! It's THEY who did it. THEY have taken
away what I had and now THEY are coming for the rest, NO!" He took a
step back and shot the rifle. The center of the mirror exploded in shards and
the upper and lower pieces collapsed to the ground.

somewhere in sands of the desert

A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
 As he stood there gasping for air, the man regained control.
Something wrapped its coils tightly around his consciousness, blunting the
few centers in his brain still willing to sound alarms. His reason was rocked
back into slumber and he was again filled with a fierce sense of
determination. He opened the door and was met by men in fatigues pointing
their guns at him. One of the men asked, "John, what the hell happened?"

"It's nothing" he said, "Just an accident, let's go to the trucks, we have

work to do." All of them entered the vehicles and were soon on their way.
The man asked another, "What do we know?"

The other answered, "Our contact says THEY are staying at the hotel
and will be gathering in the meeting room soon, he also says there is almost
no security. He will meet us in the dirt road in the woods and lead us to
them."

The man smiled, said "Good" and thought to himself, "Today we will
strike back; today we will set the example for others who will come after
us." As the three vehicles approached the outskirts of the city the silvery orb
of the moon was hidden by a foreboding mass of dark clouds.

The darkness drops again; but now I know

That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
 A homeless man who had fallen asleep by the hotel garbage bins
suddenly woke up for no apparent reason. In the dim light of a couple of
lamp posts he saw a dozen gun-wielding figures in military style fatigues
crossing the hotel parking lot. But as he watched them enter by the back
door something else caught his attention. He looked up and through a break
in the clouds he saw the disk of the moon stained blood red. He also noticed
the light around him was dimming. The lampposts appeared to be in
working order, still shining, but it seemed that their light was being
devoured by the darkness around them. The man then felt an unseasonable
icy-cold wind that began to blow harder and harder rocking the nearby trees;
the kind of wind that blows ahead of something massive that is rapidly
coming in your direction. All around him an ominous noise of rustling
leaves, mixed with what appeared to be hisses and growls, filled the
landscape.

Stricken with terror the homeless man started running, but not because
of the gunshots or the screams coming from the hotel. He was running
because he had sensed in the cold encroaching windy darkness that now
surrounded him a presence. Something had come. Something had come to
stay...

...and spread.

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,

Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
The image of "Saturn Devouring his Children" by Francisco Goya from
Museo del Prado and the poem "The Second Coming" by William Butler
Yeats are both in the public domain.