War criminal

In the dream, a city had been reorganized. It was south of some border. The ocean near, the ocean coming up. A carnival, its lights gaining purchase as the sun went down. The city reminded me, or reminds me now, of Seattle. In the old section, close to the water where the brick buildings live, there was a buzz in the air and people missing. I lit out of town with a compatriot heading north. We felt innocent at first. The coast reminded me of that stretch of ocean just up from Santa Cruz. It was full night now and one of us realized we were being followed, but at a distance. The notion was like a message on the wind, barely perceptible and not yet carrying the impression of any danger. When we parked the car and crested the great sand dune on foot, the reason was ostensibly to sit and watch the fattening moon. Then the cars came and charged up the air. My compatriot became more nervous. He thought we should leave, that here on the bluff we were too exposed. Our goal became to get in the car and drive away but it was blocked on either side by a convoy of dark trucks. These, I realized, were a contingent of the displaced people, come to collect on a spiritual debt. My compatriot, and I by extension, was a war criminal.