INT. CITY STREET - NIGHT**

Katie walks down a dark alleyway, her eyes wide and vacant. She is sleepwalking.

SFX: Footsteps

INT. APARTMENT - NIGHT

Katie's brother, JOHN, wakes up and checks his phone. It's 3am and there's a missed call from Katie. He calls her back.

PHONE

JOHN
(Worried)
Katie? Where are you?

KATIE
(Disoriented)
...I don't know.

JOHN
What do you mean you don't know?

KATIE
(Confused)
I...I'm lost.

INT. CITY STREET - NIGHT

Katie stumbles out of the alleyway and into the street. She is disoriented and confused.

SFX: Sirens

INT. AMBULANCE - NIGHT

Katie is lying on a stretcher, being treated by paramedics.

PARAMEDIC
You're going to be okay.

Katie opens her eyes and looks around. She is in an ambulance.

KATIE
(Confused)
What...what happened?

PARAMEDIC
You were sleepwalking. You've been missing for a week.

INT. HOSPITAL - NIGHT

Katie is sitting in a hospital bed, talking to John.

JOHN
(Relieved)
Oh, Katie, I'm so glad you're okay. I was so worried about you.

KATIE
(Grateful)
I'm okay, John. Thank you.

JOHN
The police found you wandering around downtown. You were disoriented and confused.

KATIE
I don't remember anything after I went to bed.

JOHN
The doctor said that sleepwalking can happen when you're stressed or anxious.

KATIE
I guess I've been feeling a little stressed lately.

JOHN
It's okay, Katie. We'll get through this together.

EXT. APARTMENT - NIGHT

A few days later, Katie is back home with John.

JOHN
Good night, Katie.

INT. APARTMENT - NIGHT

Katie lies down on her bed and closes her eyes. and she knows that she can always count on her brother.**

Waking with a gun aimed at my head, you’d think I’d fear for my safety. But bullets stopped hurting in 1908. Since then, any sleepwalking I do ends in a blood bath.

I tried chains. They failed. I tried a coffin. The henges crack too easy. And then it hit me. Vampires and werewolves have it easy.

At first, I thought I was a werewolf, but after I found dead bodies through each phase of the moon, I realized it had nothing to do with the bodies. And boy—bodies were the least of my issues.

After a certain number of people died, a bounty graced a well drawn picture of my monstrous figure on the local billboard near the city hall. And I’m sorry about the leg sticking out of my mouth. That tends to happen when they get stuck. I like to eat them whole.

But this evening feels different. A new moon is in the sky, and that just feels like a call to a new me. Maybe the deaths have softened me up, but man— I feel buttered up!

And so, with a gun to my head, and enough firemen to shoot my own calendar, I think I’m going to enjoy myself for the first time since it happened. They won’t stop trying to kill me. I might as well play along. When you can’t beat them, eat them.

POP! POP POP- POP POP POP! POP POP…

“What the-“ “GUN DOWN!! DOWN NOW!!” “But I didn’t… where am I?” “HANDS UP, DOWN ON YOUR KNEES!”

There’s blood everywhere, clotted down my clothes. I had the strangest dream that I hurt someone. That I was on top of a young girl, my hand raised as I repeatedly beat her with the butt of my handgun. I shake as I fall to my knees and the police swarm in. At least twenty of them, guns raised.

A little ways off, fire engines are parked beside a flaming car that’s wrapped around an old oak. I shake my head, spinning to look at one of the officers. “What happened? What happened?” As if to answer my question, a blob of blood falls on the female officers suit. She keeps quiet in binding my hands and getting me to my feet, one hand on her holster, the other on my pale wrists, holding me in place.

“You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney. Anything you say now can and will be held against you in court,” a chubby officer with a greasy bald head and a Doritos stain on his blue suit says.

“Can someone tell me what happened?” “What happened is you killed a girl.” “I didn’t do it! I would never kill anyone!” “Tell it to the judge, you bastard.”

I’m tossed into the back of the cop car, the blue and red lights still flashing. I watch the officers talk outside occasionally glancing or throwing their thumbs my way. The woman officer glares at me from outside, one hand still on her gun. I busy myself by picking sticky blood clots from my clothes and hair.

“Alright,” the officer gets in the drivers seat and turns the key. The patrol car shifts into gear. “Let’s get this show on the road!”

Larry squinted as the obnoxiously sudden glare of a dozen or so flashing lights greeted him as he woke up. He could feel a chilly breeze scurry across his body and suddenly reminding him that he was still in his underwear. This was not good.

“Ah crap guys. I’m so sorry this happened again.” He hollered out to those within earshot. “I know there was an ask that I try to go to bed with more of me being covered up, but my AC has been shot for a while now and I roast in anything more than these boxer briefs. Heck, I think Lieutenant Vasquez, your aunt even knit me a really nice set of pajamas after you explained my situation to her last thanksgiving. I am so sorry.”

Larry then turned around to inspect the situation. In his hand was a file folder tagged with the phrase “Operation Vigilant Shadow”. He wanted to thumb through it but he knew it was quite classified.

It wasn’t for his eyes to see. Well, technically it was his eyes but he wasn’t allowed to use them to read it. The other guy. The one that takes over when Larry goes to bed at night.

That was Agent Surge DeWinter, the country’s top special agent and the only man that stood between peace and total global chaos. The only problem was that he had died while waterskiing on vacation last summer.

Somehow, for some reason both he and Larry couldn’t figure out, Surge’s soul got into the very average Larry’s body.

At first it was a bit jarring, but thanks to the help of a handy notepad they could communicate by leaving each other notes. It worked out and they even learned how to work around their situation. During the day, Larry would do his thing, which usually involved some combination of getting high, playing video games, or making chili.

DeWinter was much more productive. Just in the last year he had put away the head of the notorious Johnson crime family. He even had Larry get a photo of them, in their underwear, slapping handcuffs on old Barnaby Johnson the corrupted carpet king of Santa Clara.

That was another one of those “oops I forgot to wear pajamas” days. There were usually more of those days than the opposite kind where he sleeps in a finely pressed suit and tie. For some reason Surge could do a lot of things via Larry but could not change his clothes. It was one of the weird quirks about the whole situation.

“Who’s blood is this? Is it my blood?” Larry inspected his knuckles for additional clues. “Oh good, I don’t appear to be bleeding. Also, did someone lose a tooth? I found this wedged in my right fist.”

He held up the tooth and looked around. Next to him was four very injured looking men struggling to stay conscious. Surge must have really done a number on these guys.

“Uh, Mr. Brighton?” A voice called out from outside Larry’s range of visual he had clarity without his glasses.

“Would you like a ride home?” They asked.

My life was a blur and in a flash I was staring at the point of a gun barrel of a magnum pistol held by a cop at the end. Put your gun down and place your hands were I can see you said the cop. Deliriously I could hear the sounds of sirens and voices, dropped the gun with a thud from my fingers helplessly. Vision started to clear I was surrounded by cops on a road with fire engines and squad cars. I could feel the heat from a filling station that had blown up in flames and money bank notes was strewn all over the place. There were dead bodies lying around armed men with uzi unconscious or dead in pools of blood or water. I was wet and hungry with a throbbing pain in my stomach wearing my pyjamas, barefoot cold and wet in the middle of god knows were in the middle of the night holding a comic book I was reading just before I went to bed. My mind raced, heart pumped in panic, how did I get here? could I even do this? What’s going on? I thought I’m in deep shit. Young man said the cop what happened here? I don’t know I cried I wish I knew? A flurry of static intercom on walk-in talkies suspect is mid twenties suffers with a long history of night terrors. Did you sleep walk calmly the police as he dropped the gun Did you do this he firmly said. I’m not a killer and I don’t remember all of this and as far as I’m concerned this a very bad vivid dream sir frowning with confusion. Sir all I remember is one minute ago I fell a sleep in bed reading and watching Netflix. Since young I suffer from sleep walking driven by vivid dreams, sufferer’s have walked down streets in the middle of the night buying milk and groceries reacting their dreams in real time. My senses became hyper alert. What were you reading or watching before you went to bed said the cop. I can’t remember I just want got go home I said sobbing. The cop calmly wrapped his arm around my shoulder, placed a warm blanket and sipped a hot cup of cocoa in a taxi nearby. I think we will need a statement tomorrow he said. I quickly fiddled my pocket and threw away the comic I was reading last night. Every night I dream I’m invincible action hero fighting bad guy saving the world. In the wind the comic book pages turned each frame of a man with a cloak battling injustice in the world, mild mannered by day super hero at night a wreaking dark vengeance on the underworld bringing hope and fear to the innocent and criminal and he was called the Night terror.

Sitting in a pickup truck, my grasp tightened around the steering wheel. Surrounded by a battalion of emergency service vehicles, the rotation of their warning lights illuminated the inside of my truck every second or two. When I glanced into the rear view mirror, only one thought came to mind.

“How did I get here?”

Insomnia filled nights plagued me for years, never allowing my body the necessary sleep to reset. Exhausted from sleeplessness, I stumbled around in a barely coherent daze. After staying awake for three days, I’d pass out for a solid eight hours before the routine started again. Sleepwalking, however, was something new.

There had been a few occasions when I did something regrettable, only to learn about it after waking up. My actions never got me into trouble. What worried me the most was that I couldn’t explain why I did the things I did. Once it was realized I had been sleepwalking, worry consumed me. Fearful that I might try to drive while asleep, I locked my keys into a safe at night. It seemed like a foolproof plan. It would have been if I remembered to close and lock the safe door.

I reached down to the cup holder to retrieve my soft drink and took a sip. The rush of sugary soda pepped me up a bit. While waiting for the police to do whatever they were waiting to do, I retrieved another burrito from the Taco Bell bag sitting upright on the passenger seat. I hadn’t eaten Mexican food in a long time and savored each nibble taken.

“Mmm, this is…”

And that’s when I remembered what had happened. After pulling out of the drive through, I reached into the bag while driving. The truck temporarily swerved into the neighboring lane of oncoming traffic. Witnessed by the police, they pulled me over. I munched greedily on the food while the officer stood beside my opened window, demanding to see identification.

Referring to the deliciousness of the food, I said, “This is the bomb.”

Twenty minutes later, the bomb squad arrived to diffuse my burritos. Not wanting to relinquish my food, I gobbled everything down and waited for the police to make the next move.

I’m not quite sure how I ended up here. All I know is I have to be very still. Otherwise the people behind these flashing lights and sirens might attack without a warning.

I really don’t blame them, I am standing in the middle of the road in the dark of the night covered in blood. I’d attack me too. Looks like I’ve been sleep walking again. Great, Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, he decides to show up again.

Now I just need an excuse to get out of this current situation. Leave it to Mr. Nice Guy to cause the trouble and leave me with the mess to clean up. He always does this. This isn’t my first rodeo waking up to a situation like this. Although this is the first time I’ve been left covered in blood.

 The police approach me first after giving me the commands to raise my hands in the air and lay to the ground. Safety first. All at once I’m immediately placed in handcuffs, asked question after question and having paramedics check my injuries. 

 Turns out a lot of the blood was mostly mine. Plus I was stabbed in the leg, so this is a first. Mr. Nice Guy must be angry at the fact that someone finally injured him for a change. I just wish I didn’t have to feel all the pain.

After several grueling hours of explaining to the authorities that I’m a sleep walker who’s body is being controlled by a sick twisted vampire named “Mr. Nice Guy”. They of course don’t believe me. No one ever does.

They assume I’m mentally unstable and admit me to a hospital. I just wish someone would believe me. Looks like I have to move again. I’ll drift off to sleep in my room knowing that Mr. Nice Guy will show up and break us out of here. I wonder where I’ll wake up tomorrow.

I’ve always been a sleepwalker.

Over the years, I’ve tried to counter it, I’ve locked doors, hidden keys from myself, done everything I can to make sure that I get a good nights sleep. It goes in fits and starts, sometimes I can go for weeks and months at a time without sleepwalking, and others it happens night after night, leaving me exhausted and draining the next day when I wake up in strange positions.

This has to be the worst one though.

I woke in the middle of the street. Sirens blaring, blue lights flashing and the sound of a booming voice over a PA system of a police car. The lights are so bright against the dark sky, and around me lights start to switch on, people opening their windows to get a glimpse of what’s happening as I stand there in my chequered pyjama’s and bare feet.

Suddenly, I’m awake, the cold, wet stone road beneath my feet as I become aware of the pain, the sharpness of what’s been digging into my feet as I scrunch my toes, and let out a short breath as I shake my head slightly. Instructions are being yelled at me, telling me to drop the knife, what knife I want to ask them, until I look down and see the long, sharp knife in my hands.

Blood drips from it, and for a second I stare at it, I stare at it as though I am trying to comprehend what it is, only to come to my senses and throw it. Tossing it to the side and leaping back from it as though it’s on fire, burning the palm of my hand and I need to get rid of it. That’s what it feels like, like something alien, like something that’s stained my hands and made them feel dirty, horrible and not a part of me.

That’s when I notice my surroundings, as I leap backwards, seeing the red and gold and yellow and white glow of flames, hearing the crackle of the fire as it erupts and the heat starts to hit my back, as I realise now that the burning sensation I’ve felt is from the heat of the flames. Men and women are shouting, hoses are pointed as the firemen put out the flames, which are erupting as quickly as they are trying to fight it.

Hands have grabbed mine, twisting them behind my back as cold hand cuffs are snapped on, as pulled tight as I wince in pain, whilst they caution me, still struggling to comprehend, still trying to figure out what it is that’s going on. Still trying to understand why I’m standing here in my chequered, blood stained, pyjama’s and why I’m in cuffs. Hands are on my back, as they push me towards the car, a hand on my head as I’m forced under and into the car, made to sit down as I’m taken from the scene.

The car ride is tense. I can see the tense jaws of the two officers that are in front of me, driving their way to the station, with the wide sweeping headlights of the car leading the way. The radio crackling into life now and then, calling out for assistance, for help, as one of the officers switches it off, settling back into the uncomfortable silence which is broken only by the purring of the engine, the ticking of the indicator and eventually the squeak of breaks and ratcheting of the hand break as they pull up into the station carpark, hauling me out and into the station like I’m some common criminal.

Murder.

That’s why I’m here.

Murder and arson.

That’s what they think I’ve done.

Here, I sit in the cold, forensics suit. My warm, cosy pyjama’s being taken from me as they’re taken into evidence. The two police officers sit opposite me, as they start the recording, with the tension in the air that could be cut like a knife.

I swallow, as they ask me where I was and how I came to be in that situation.

“I don’t know” I reply truthfully “One minute I was asleep, the next I’m standing there” I shrug, squeezing my eyes shut as I pinch at the bridge of my nose and let out a harsh, huffed sigh. “I don’t know what I’m being accused of” I finally say, frustrated as I lower my hand and let it fall with a thud into my lap, sigh expanding as I look at them, waiting for explanations that they aren’t forthcoming with.

They stare at me, I stare back for a moment, only to lower my head and purse my lips, biting at my lower lip as I try and figure out what it is that I’m supposed to be saying, or admitting to. “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know … I just … woke up …” I say softly, blinking now as the true horror of the moment sets in, tears linger at my eyelashes threatening to dip down as I sniffle slightly and that almost seems to be what they want to pounce on.

‘Three people are dead, their house up in flames. And we find you standing outside, bloody, blood stained knife in your hand and sunning yourself in the flames? And you expect us to believe that you ‘don’t know’?’ The one cop asks, as he shakes his head and sucks in the air between his teeth, before leaning forwards to look at me ‘the evidence speaks for itself …’ as his colleague reaches forward, pressing her hand on his arm and getting him to lean back as she leans forwards, arms folded over the top of one another as she narrows her eyes and stares at me.

Just stares.

And stares some more, making me uncomfortable.

“I told you. I don’t know … I was asleep, I sleepwalk … all the time …” I say a little louder than I intend, as my sniffles get louder, to be broached with a sob “I. Don’t. Know. What. Happened” I cry out finally, as I sob hysterically, leaving the two officers to look at one another, exchanging a look between them that clearly says they don’t believe me, or maybe they do, or maybe they don’t know what to think.

All I know, is this is my home now.

They think I did it, they’re locking me up until the morning, with my lawyer wanting to plead guilty, to tell them that I’m not mentally fit to stand trial, that I can use my sleep walking … he’s found something that will support that.

I don’t want it though.

I want my freedom, I want the truth to come out. And, more than that, I want to know what happened and why I am where I am.

Why, now, I’m set to rot in jail and why no one believes me.

I will find the truth, no matter how many people say that I am guilty.

Charlie sat on the curb, rubbing the knuckles on his right hand. He could tell they were about to start swelling up. There was blood, but he wasn’t bleeding.

Red and blue lights took turns flash-flash-flashing—a mix of late model black SUVs with modern light bars, and the old gumball lights atop a few police and emergency vehicles that looked like relics from the 80s.

Where was he?

About two-dozen people were milling about, doing the post-event tasks that police and fire always seem to be doing: interviewing witnesses; treating the injured; patting down suspects; putting perps into the back of the SUVs. At least, that’s what he assumed was going on. He’d only ever seen this kind of thing in movies.

“You gonna make it?”

It took Charlie a moment to realize he was the one being addressed. A woman. Young, small frame, but she carried herself in a not-to-be-effed-with manner. He found his voice with an, “Um, what? Me? Oh,” he rubbed his knuckles again, “Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

“Your hand?”

He looked down. It was definitely going to swell. “Yeah. Hurts a little.”

“Yeah, I bet. Gonna probably have to see a doctor to get Johnny Martin’s teeth dug outta your knuckles. Don’t think that guy will ever eat solid foods again.” Who? What was she talking about? Did he hit someone? “Anyway,” she pulled out a cardboard tag attached to a zip tie and a clear plastic bag. “Gonna need your service weapon. You know the drill. Paperwork, all that shit.”

It took Charlie’s tired brain longer than it should of to calculate what she was saying. His ‘service weapon?’ What service? What weapon?! He taught middle school algebra!

She was looking at him, expectant.

“Sorry, boss, but you know how it is. Gotta do it. Document everything. Get it cleared as a righteous use of force, blah-blah-blah.” She held her hand out.

Before he was fully aware of his actions, Charlie had removed what he somehow knew to be a Colt .45, ejected the magazine, pulled the slide back and ejected a shell, catching it in mid-air. He racked the slide a few more times to ensure it was empty, checked the barrel, then flipped the gun around and handed it to the woman grip first. She took it as he dropped the mag and extra into the bag. Without looking up, she started in on the tag, throwing a ‘Thanks, Boss’ over her shoulder as she walked back toward the flashing lights.

Charlie sat, silent, the flashing nearly hypnotic. Why did he have a weapon? How the hell did he know how to render safe that same weapon? How did he know what ‘render safe’ even meant.

He held his sore right hand up to his face in the dim light. Why had he hit someone hard enough to worry about “digging teeth out” of his hand?

“You need to call it a night. Go home, get some rest.” Charlie turned to see a large, middle-aged man in a suit walking toward him. He had the same kind of no-nonsense bearing and government-issue countenance that the woman had. “We’ll take care of things here. You did good. It’s clear you did what was required. You’ll be fine.”

“I’ll be fine?”

“Oh, for sure. For sure. Turns out we got ahold of the owner of the computer repair shop. Kid was scared to death. He lives on site, had security cams going the whole time. You’re all good, man. Get home. We got this.”

Charlie looked across the street at the small shop with bars over it’s doors and windows. “Can I see the video?”

———

The kid—he introduced himself as Cedar—ran the video for Charlie from his workstation, playing it on the bottom right of his four-monitor setup. Charlie watched the events unfold as though he was watching a movie full of strangers on a completely unfamiliar set, except that he was clearly one of the people on the screen. The whole thing took maybe a two or three minutes, start-to-finish.

“Can I see it again?”

“Again? Sure.” Cedar seemed to relax, happy to have a job to do, something he was comfortable with after the confusion and terror.

Charlie watched it all happen again.

Three rough-looking characters. The kind of men he’d change sides of the street to avoid. They are doing something, working on something. A car. Just barely in frame on the right of the screen. They turn, see Charlie coming toward them, and the woman from earlier, the one that took the gun he didn’t know he had.

Ponytail steps toward Charlie. They exchange words. The woman stands back and to the left of Charlie, and she’s keeping an eye on the other two.

Neck Tattoo gets fidgety. Nervous. Like he knows something’s about to kick off.

Beer Gut pulls something from his waistband, a gun.

Charlie quickly pushes pony tail backwards, hard—knocking him down—before using his right leg to close the gap with a well placed kick to the side of Beer Gut’s head. He crumples, the gun sliding away.

Neck Tattoo looks at the gun.

The woman pulls her own gun and yells something.

Ponytail manages to get back up.

Neck Tattoo lunges for the gun.

The woman fires, clipping him in the left arm.

Beer Gut sits up.

Charlie lands another kick to Beer Gut’s head, knocking him out. He pulls his side arm and puts two rounds into Ponytails center mass just as Ponytail’s hand raises up toward the woman, holding the gun. He finishes the ballet-precise movements by spinning into a right cross, knocking Neck Tattoo out completely.

“See,” the middle-aged man said. “Justified use of force. Textbook.” He put a familiar, friendly hand on Charlie’s shoulder and squeezed. “Even if you couldn’t help throwing in all that karate mumbo jumbo.”

The door to the shop opened and the woman poked her head in.

“C’mon, Chuck. I’ll give you a ride home.”

That sounded good. He joined her, sitting in the passenger-side of one of the black SUVs. As they drove away, he felt something pushing against his sternum, under the seatbelt. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an ID badge: Charles Walker, Texas Ranger.

It was his picture on the ID. His details. His name.

What was happening? How was he in that SUV at that time of night with a stranger? How had he ended up confronting three very bad men? How did he know all that ‘karate mumbo jumbo?’

They drove into the darkness of the long-straight Texas Highway night, his eyelids getting heavier and heavier with each passing mile marker.

——-

“Wake up, hon. You’re going to be late?”

Charlie sat up, grabbing his iWatch. 7:43? Crap.

He rushed to throw on his clothes, brush his teeth, grab a cup of coffee and Costco muffin left on the kitchen island by his lovely bride, and floor his Prius toward the school.

He got there just as the first bell was ringing.

He grabbed a dry erase marker and started to write out the first problem of the day on the board when he noticed his hand.

His knuckles were bruised and swollen. And his hand smelled like something. Gun powder…?

“Alright Son, Start Talking.”

A portly officer shined a flashlight into his face, with other officers swarming the scene. It was pure chaos.

“I… I don’t remember!”

“You don’t remember!? LOOK AT THE SCENE!” The officer gestured towards an army tank wedged into the intersection. “Why in the HELL did we find YOU in THERE!?”

“Well officer.” He hung his head low in shame as he spoke. “I have this condition…”

“Condition!? A condition for breaking into army bases and stealing tanks!?”

“Yeah well. I uhhhh. I sleep walk.”

“SLEEP WALK!?” The officer threw a hissy fit. “Sleep walk!? Are you OUT OF YOUR MIND!?”

“Well. It is bad sometimes. You can talk to my parents, I mean they will back me up here. I have been known to start doing things in my sleep. Like driving around.”

The officer put his palm to his face. “Son. You stole a tank and got it stuck in the middle of town. You have to do better than sleep walking.”

“Honest! I swear!” He pleaded.

“Doubtful.”

“So can I go?”

“Go?“ he laughed. “Yeah, you can go directly to jail! You cannot collect two hundred dollars! And you are going to pay, son!”