Rushed by Brian Harmon Page A

find. 
    Now and then something would flit around in the field, and once a pair of crows shot up and took flight, startling him into another fit of cursing, but nothing more showed itself.  The creatures were either uninterested or they were biding their time for some reason. 
    In the dream, he recalled feeling nervous about the corn, about all the things that might be hiding in there, just out of sight, watching him.  He remembered hearing a lot of noises in the field, but hadn’t seen anything to justify his fears.  The strange hybrid of coyote and deer had still not shown themselves. 
    Apparently, Dream Eric had arrived on time like a good boy and therefore didn’t have to deal with all this extra crap. 
    Noises taunted him, the corn rustled threateningly, yet he somehow made his way along the road to the cluster of buildings without being set upon by ravenous beasts. 
    As he walked out into the overgrown yard, he realized he was standing in some sort of abandoned campground.  The six smaller buildings were cabins, the larger likely contained a meeting room and cafeteria, probably an office or two.  He could see the posts where a volleyball net used to be, an old basketball court, a half-dozen picnic tables and several concrete fire pits. 
    There was also an old, cheesy-looking totem pole displayed at the center of the yard.  Most of the paint had faded or flaked away, leaving much of it unrecognizable without a close inspection, but the one on top was clearly a bird of prey with boxy, outstretched wings. 
    As he looked around, everything he saw came back to him.  Just like with the barn and the bridge, he had been here in his dream, which meant that this was precisely where he was supposed to be.  But where, exactly, was he supposed to go from here?  Grant had only told him to follow the path, which he did.  He even crossed that stupid bridge. 
    So where to now?
    Looking around, he caught sight of a hefty bald man in a pair of baggy shorts and a dirty tee shirt.  He was walking out from behind one of the cabins and was now crossing the tall grass toward the front door of the main building. 
    Taylor. 
    Eric broke into a jog.  “Excuse me!  Hey!” 
    But the man walked into the building without acknowledging him. 
    Assuming he hadn’t been heard, Eric hurried after him.  He had almost reached the building’s front steps when he suddenly realized that something was wrong. 
    He stopped running and stared into the open doorway.  This was remarkably similar to the man he’d seen leaving the barn and then entering the house.  The residual man. 
    He had followed that one into a place he wasn’t supposed to go.  And here he was, chasing this person, merely assuming that it was the man Grant told him to expect. 
    His eyes fixed on the darkened doorway, he began to back away. 
    “Wise choice.”
    Twirling around, uttering an incoherent cry, he found himself face-to-face with an elderly black man with kind eyes and a gentle smile. 
    “Sorry to startle you.”
    “No, it’s fine.  You’d think I’d be getting used to it by now.”  He glanced around the empty courtyard.  “Where the hell did you come from?”
    “I was in cabin four when I saw you run by.”  He gestured at one of the smaller buildings. 
    “Oh.”
    The old man was dressed in worn jeans and a light work shirt, not that different from Grant, he realized.  There was a tool belt around his waist that appeared to contain very few tools, a stark contrast to the similar belt he’d so often seen Paul wearing while at work.  His always looked so laden with heavy tools that he should barely be capable of walking. 
    “I was hoping to catch you before you did something stupid, but it looks like you’re already onto that trick.”
    “Yeah.  Fell for the residual thing back at the barn.  Lucky for me, Grant saved my ass.  I take it you’re Taylor?”
    “Taylor Parlorn.”
    “Eric Fortrell.”
    “Pleasure to meet you,