-The Unbound Realm: Vol.1, Chapter 3






Over the next few weeks, I see a lot more of Dragon World.  That’s my name for it, because all the visions are from a fantasy realm.  (And in case you’re wondering, yes—there are dragons in Dragon World.)

Any door can serve as a portal.  Car door, bathroom door, double door, revolving door (those are the worst; they alternate between Normal World and Dragon World in epileptic flashes).  It’s always short and always vivid—like a ten second trailer for an upcoming blockbuster.  But unlike a preview for the latest Avengers, Dragon World isn’t exciting or awesome, it’s downright terrifying.  Magic is cool when you see it in a theater or read about it in a book.  Not when it’s making you question your sanity.

Initially, all I see are armored soldiers.  They wear full-body plate that’s impossibly white, jagged and austere.  Half the time, they’re fighting with ragtag forest people who dress like Aragorn from Lord of the Rings. 

Then I catch glimpses of the guy with the blindfold.  His armor is pitch-black, made from lightweight sections defined by elegant gold tracery.  He wields a pair of deep violet knives, engraved with runes that match the ones on his blindfold.

Stormtroopers and Foresters fight like regular people, but Blindfold Guy moves like a Marvel superhero.  He jumps and kicks with balletic grace, pulling off moves I would have only thought possible in a martial arts action movie—twists and flips, spinning back-sweeps, and combos that take out multiple opponents.

He also knows magic.  Every so often he’ll zap his attackers with colored energy.  Sometimes it’s smooth, sometimes it’s ragged.  Occasionally, he brings plants to life and entangles his opponents, or calls water from a lake as a giant wave.  His magic and fighting flow together—when he casts a spell, it rises organically out of his movement.  He’s like a cross between Daredevil, Batman, and a 50th-level wizard.

That’s just the tip of the fantasy-world iceberg.

I see pirates sailing turbulent seas, raiding ships or fleeing hundred-foot serpents.  I see dragons breathe lightning at gargoyle hordes, dotting the sky with their smoking corpses.  I see palace interiors, filled with lords and warriors, servants and artisans.

Eventually, I start seeing peasants.  They line up for bureaucrats:  small, measly men who write stuff down in hidebound notebooks.  Stormtrooper bodyguards stand behind them, fiddling with their weapons or picking at their armor.

Occasionally, a peasant won’t have enough.  The bureaucrat-recorder will throw a fit while the unfortunate commoner hangs their head.  After a lengthy scolding, the recorder will signal for the nearest Pain Wizard.  (I’m pretty sure they’re called something else, but Dragon World doesn’t have captions or audio.)  Pain Wizards dress in ebony robes.  Some of it’s cloth, but the rest is an ever-shifting mass of pitch black smoke.  The only visible skin is their jaws and their noses—the rest is eclipsed by a shadowy hood.

The Wizard will twist and clutch the air, causing black veins to erupt across the peasant.  It looks straight-up torturous—whoever’s getting punished will scream their lungs out.  Everyone else just stands and stares.  At first I’m shaken by their quiet indifference, but later I realize that on-the-spot punishment is seen as a blessing.  The real torture happens out of sight.  If the peasant is shackled and taken away, the entire community begs and pleads.  The troopers don’t listen—they backhand anyone who gets too close.

I see this every time I open a door.  Wizards.  Soldiers.  Creatures.

It’s not getting better.  I think I’m going crazy.


Atriya.  That’s where it started.  I’m gonna track him down and figure this out.  If necessary, I will threaten his life.  I do not care if he’s a gun-toting war guy.

I hop in my car (as I open the door I glimpse a Forester riding a giant, silvery lizard) and strap into my seat.  Get on 280, take the exit, and park in the lot of the Armed Forces Recruiting Center.  I open the door (this time I remember to close my eyes) and rush in the building.

“Atriya!”  I forget to close my eyes as I open the door—I see a long line of monks hiking a mesa, topped by a fifty-foot man made entirely of stone.  He’s sitting on the summit sound asleep, chin propped onto his bent-wristed hand.


“Whoa.”  One of the Marines stands up from his desk.  “Calm down.  He doesn’t work here.  Not anymore.”

“What?  But he was…he was just…where is he?”  I’m abruptly aware of my sweat-soaked hair and my beet-red cheeks.

The Marine gives me a hard stare.  A keep-your-hands-where-I-can-see-them stare.  He’s got a square-jaw and a thick, punch-proof skull.  “Gone.  Retired.”

“What?”  I’m repeating myself, I know, but I’m too disoriented to care or apologize.

“Come in,” he says gruffly.

As I enter the office, the other Marines regard me with caution.  I don’t blame them.  It’s been a couple of days since I last showered.  Haven’t changed clothes in at least three.

“You got a place to stay?”  The Marine crosses his arms.

“Uh…yeah.”  I run a hand through my hair, willing my heart to slow the hell down.  “Yeah.  An apartment.”


“No.”  I look sideways, suddenly ashamed by my ragtag appearance.  “I have plenty of food.  Money, too.”

“You sure?”  His tone isn’t gentle, but there’s genuine concern.  “If you need any help, I can make some calls.”

“No, I’m fine.”  I shake my head.  “Atriya used to work here, right?”

“Yeah.”  He gives me a suspicious once-over.  Why do you care? 

“I uh…we’re friends.”

His eyes grow a notch more suspicious.  He’s pulling a scam he wants attention he’s lost his mind—then abruptly relaxes and gives a noncommittal shrug.  He’s a skinny teenager.  High-strung, not crazy.

“He didn’t like working here but he kept it to himself.  Always did whatever he was told.”  He gives me another once-over, less suspicious this time.  “Name’s Hardwick.  Gunny Hardwick.”  He extends a hand.

I reach out and shake it.  “Jon.  He said his boss let him be.  Because he’d done some hard time.”

“He told you that, huh?”  Hardwick chuckles, loosening up.  “Yeah, when I said he ‘did whatever he was told,’ I meant he stayed home or went to the gym.  He earned it.  The things he’s done…”  He shakes his head in quiet respect.

“What do you mean?”

“C’mere.”  Hardwick beckons me into a walled-off room, away from the cubicles.  He clicks on the lights, sits at a desk, and opens a knee-height cabinet.  Out comes a wooden box, roughly the size of a standard laptop.  “This is a shadow box.”

The contents are shielded by a glass display cover.  Inside, mounted on a sleek pad of black velvet, are rows upon rows of ribbons and medals.

“We made it for him.”  As Hardwick studies it, I can tell that a big part of him has gone somewhere else.  There’s deep emotion behind his eyes—a bit of sadness and a whole lot of stuff I can only guess at.

“Here.”  He slides it toward me.

I stare at the box, captivated by its sense of weight and history.  “All these ribbons…” I murmur.

“He left it behind.  He was supposed to take it.”  A rueful smile.  “When I asked if he wanted anything specific in it, he texted me a picture of his middle finger.”

My breath catches.  Hardwick’s talking, but I’m not listening.  Under the ribbons, centered beneath a Marine emblem, is a small black plate with six gold words.


“What…what…”  I can’t speak.  I’m blown away.

“Huh?”  Hardwick leans forward, follows my gaze, then relaxes in his seat.  “Oh.  Weird, right?  Most guys ask for a unit motto.  Not Atriya.  That quote was all he insisted on.  Who am I to judge?”  He shrugs.  “You don’t say no to Chris Atriya.”


With a conscious effort, I look away from the box.  “Do you have his number?”

“Nope.  No number, address, or email.  He wanted to cut all ties.  Didn’t even want a damn retirement ceremony, but I got him to compromise:  on his last day, we took him out for beer and pizza.  He made it crystal clear that he didn’t want to discuss his service; all he wanted to do was hang out and chat.  Said he was gonna live in peace and pursue his hobbies.  Guitar, jiu-jitsu, carpentry…it was always something new.  Right before he left, he was learning how to dance.  Can you believe it?  Dancing.”  Hardwick chuckles.  “He wanted to dance like Tom Cruise in Tropic Thunder.”

I force a chuckle, trying to hide my unease.  “Sounds about right.  I mean, I didn’t know him long, but—”

“How’d you guys meet?”

“It was a couple weeks ago.  I walked in and—”

“A couple weeks?  He hasn’t worked here in over a year.”


My mouth opens and closes, trying to form words.  A year?


“Something wrong?”

“Uh, no.”  I rub my neck and cough awkwardly.  “I meant to say a couple years ago.  Years, not weeks.”

“Right.”  The atmosphere shifts—our weird bonding moment has come and gone.  He stands up and clears his throat.  “If there’s anything else…”

“Nope.  Thanks for your time.”

I make my body stand and turn.  I force my feet to start walking.  I close my eyes as I open the door.


I break into a trot as I leave the office.


When I exit the building, I forget to close my eyes—I see a band of wanderers on an icy tundra.  They’re standing back-to-back, swords out, facing down a pack of dog-sized insects.


I get in my car and start the engine.  My heart is pounding like a giant drum.  I can feel it in my chest.  I can hear it in my head.


I drive off the lot and onto the highway.  I don’t know where to go.  I don’t know what to do.


Hard to think.  Hard to breathe.


I have to pull over because of the visions.  Because it’s not just the doors.

Now it’s the windows.