The Dream

My office was predictably warm, and I was grateful for the small electric fan on my desk. It was the height of the tourist season on the island, and the hotel was swarming with wealthy New Yorkers who reveled in their ability to escape the chill that time of year rewarded the northeast corner of the mainland. Of course, other parts of the northern U.S. were just as cold, but never have I ever heard people other than New Yorkers—we secretly called them “the two-one-twos,” referencing the area code—complain the most about their weather.

         “Mr. Kincaid?” said a voice behind me, and I turned around to see one of my valets, standing outside my open office door, as if afraid to enter. He sported a sheen of sweat on his light brown skin, and the top of his collar had a darkening ring. I’ve been told that people who grew up in Puerto Rico had an innate ability to withstand the severe island climes. A few natives, I’ve discovered, are unfortunate enough to not possess that trait, and Raoul was one of them.

         “Yes, Mr. Jimenez?” I asked, getting up from my seat. I ran my hands over my suit jacket to relieve it of wrinkles.

         “We have a missing suitcase,” he said, a look of concern painted on his face. “The guest is very upset.”

         I didn’t skip a beat. “Did you check the marina?”

         “The marina?” he asked.

         “Yes,” I said. “We always find missing luggage there, somehow. You should check there.”

         “Yes, sir,” said the valet, and disappeared on the other side of the door. A few minutes later, the familiar chirp on my two-way radio prefaced the elated voice of the young Puerto Rican reporting that he had indeed found the missing suitcase at the marina, and that he was thankful I had suggested checking there. I responded that it was my pleasure to assist.

         And, it was never “You’re welcome.” It was always “My pleasure.”


The gunmen yelled an assortment of mantras as they continued rampaging through the hotel. I had crouched behind the Concierge Desk, and tried to recall how many of them I counted before ducking for cover as gunfire erupted in the Lobby. What I do remember was that Malinda and Gabby had been behind the Reception Desk when it all started, and would’ve been in the direct path of the first hail of bullets that flew through the air. I’m certain they were no longer alive.
         
         “Quiet!” roared one of the gunmen who had lingered in the Lobby while a number of his other comrades wreaked havoc at other parts of the hotel. I took a cautious peak from a side edge of the marble desk to see that a small group of people—hotel guests, mostly—had crowded at a corner of the Lobby Bar. The recipient of the command was a middle-aged, heavily-tanned woman who momentarily ceased her weeping. Beside her, propped against the wall, was a pink-faced, rotund man, bloodied from the neck down, breathing heavily.

         “Let us go, please!” she pleaded. “My husband… He’ll die if he doesn’t get help. Please, you must—”

         “Shut up!” the same gunman yelled before pointing his pistol at the woman and pulling the trigger. She fell backwards violently as the bullet pierced her skull. Her husband shrieked in horror, and the gunman shot him in the neck, abruptly—and, dare I say, mercifully—ending his short-lived grief.

         I stifled my own instinct to scream upon witnessing the barbaric scene, but could not look away. The gunman swung his weapon around at the rest of the group, who had begun to simultaneously wail and cower, pressing themselves more deeply into the corner, fully ignoring the futility in the act.

         “Enough!” barked another gunman. “Stop killing the hostages, you idiot!”

         I slumped back under the marble desk. My mind raced with possible scenarios as to how to escape the circumstances I was in. If I could only sneak into the storage room behind the Concierge Desk, I would then be able to exit the hotel through the secondary door that led directly outside onto the porte-cochere. But, the storage room’s door was shut, and I immediately regretted having nagged the bellhops in the past about accidentally leaving it ajar. It detracts from the ambience in the Lobby, I would constantly tell them. We need to always present a refined aesthetic. God, how that backfired on me!

         A loud boom suddenly registered above us, and a series of pops blasted through the air as the windows of the Main Entrance began to shatter in sections. Two of the gunmen who had been standing guard by the doors dropped to the floor like marionettes after having their strings severed. Snipers?! The thought passed quickly through my head, and my heart started racing anew. The remaining gunmen yelled hysterically at one another, both in English and in their native tongue. The small group of hotel guests in the Lobby Bar had begun to squeal in unison.


My outstretched arms held the gunmen aloft nearly fifty feet in the air, as their leader watched in horror. With a purposed wave of my hands, an invisible force flung them through the windows of the Grand Ballroom, and they all cried in brief terror as they plummeted six stories to the ground below. I doubted any of them survived the fall.

         “You monster!” yelled the gunmen’s leader, as he, in a last-ditch effort, emptied his M-27 at me. But, as his former comrades realized prior to their own demise, the bullets were useless against an imperceptible shield that miraculously repelled them within inches of my body.

         I started to walk in his direction, and a resolute fear flew across his face. His jeans darkened around the crotch area as his anxiety quickly engulfed him. You should be afraid, I thought, as I held his terrified glare.

         Suddenly...



Written for 2015-02-01 prompt of "The Writer's Cramp" 
Word Count: 993
Prompt: Write a story or poem titled: The Dream.