by Tom DeLonge
It did. Its nails scraped horribly, but slid against the metal, slowing it down. Hope surged and Poet rushed ahead—noticing that the end of the car was coming up. But more alarmingly, Sketch and Gunner were gone. Completely disappeared.
Poet scanned for them quickly, but found only an empty subway train. He was running out of room. He skidded to a stop at the back of the car without an exit. He spun around quickly, finding the monster galloping toward him again. He only had a second to think. The closest door was behind the monster—meaning he had to get by him. He had to be fast.
Poet began to charge forward knowing he’d be no match for the horrible creature in front of him, but there was space. If he could get the beast to jump, he could slide along the floor and make it. But that was a big fucking if.
He ran, waiting for exactly the right time, though he worried it wouldn’t come. And then, just as he was in leaping distance, the monster reared up and jumped, his spiked back colliding with the roof, cutting through the metal as he hurtled toward Poet. It would have crushed him. But Poet moved as fast as he could, becoming a blur like Sketch had. He dropped down and slid under the creature, popping up on the other side.
Stunned that he’d actually pulled it off, Poet stared for a moment too long. The monster crashed down on the floor of the train, its claws tearing through the exact spot where Poet had been standing. The beast roared when it realized it had come up short, and turned its massive head to train its red eyes on Poet.
Poet cursed and started running to the other side of the train. He’d run out of room soon, and then what?
There was a rumble, and at first Poet thought it was the beast, closer than ever. But he looked to his side and saw a man on a motorcycle racing alongside the platform next to the stopped train. Only he wasn’t riding a regular bike: it was a jet-powered monocycle—a vehicle with beat-up metal slapped onto one oversized spinning tire, blue flames spitting out of the engine. The man turned his head as he passed Poet and nodded. He disappeared past the next set of windows, and Poet wanted to scream for him to stop. To help.
Poet darted for the exit, squeezing his fingers into the rubber between the doors. He grunted as he pulled, afraid he’d never get the doors open in time. The car shook as the beast neared, closing in for the kill. Finally, Poet got his hands in and peeled back the doors, leaping through before they slammed closed behind him. Without hesitation, he ran, hearing the monster slamming against the doors to break out after him.
Poet’s shoes slipped on the concrete, but near the end of the platform, he saw the man skid out on his cycle, swinging around to look back at him. The monocycle idled, and Poet shot ahead faster, hoping to make it before the man left. And then behind him, Poet felt a breeze, followed by a sharp burn across his back. He screamed out, off balance as he stumbled a few steps. He heard the roar of the cycle just ahead.
Don’t leave me, he thought wildly. In a blur, he was running strong again. The man was heading straight for him. On Poet’s left, the subway car, broken and cut up, pulled away from the platform with a loud screech. The man was getting closer, his head downcast like he would ride right through Poet. But then inches in front of Poet’s sneakers, the man skidded again, blackening the concrete, and swung the monocycle around.
“Get on,” he said in a deep voice. Poet didn’t have time to hesitate. He could feel blood running down the back of his shirt, the burn of the creature’s scratch. He hopped on the cycle, turning to look at the monster racing toward them. They’d never make it.
The man revved the engine, the inside of the tire spun, blue light emanated from heated sparks, and then the cycle shot forward. Poet could feel the heat of the flames from the engine, and he leaned forward against the man. They moved toward the tunnel where the subway train had disappeared, but there was no way off the platform—no stairwells or doors. Poet looked around and realized they were trapped.
“Use your gun,” the man said. “We need to get deeper now that the creature’s found you.” He motioned toward the monster and Poet turned to find it was getting closer.
“But I don’t have a gun!” he shouted.
“Then make one,” the man ordered, his gruff voice holding a hint of an accent Poet couldn’t place. “It’s still your dream. And that’s your Night Terror, not mine,” he added.
“Night Terror,” Poet repeated. “What happens if it catches me? Do I wake up?”
“No,” the man said. “You die. Now hold on.”
Poet clutched the man’s leather jacket, ducking down because the only place to go was straight into the wall. He watched in horror as it got closer, and just before they collided with the white tiles, the man pulled up on the handlebars and hopped the monocycle off the platform into the tunnel, following the train.
Poet was nearly thrown off, but the man reached back to grab him, steadying him on the back of the cycle. Along the side of the tracks, the dirt was uneven and Poet’s teeth chattered from the vibrations. He thought about the man’s order and squeezed his eyes shut, imagining that he did have a gun. A big fucking gun. Poet had to clear his mind, picture every part of it—the grip, the magazine, the barrel…the trigger. He focused the way Alan had taught him. Suddenly, he felt the cold metal on his palm.
His breath caught and he opened his eyes to find the pistol clutched in his hand. He smiled, and the man on the monocycle shouted, “Now, fire!”
Poet turned and saw the Night Terror about to launch itself toward them, close enough to touch. Poet steadied his aim and squeezed off four rounds in a row, striking the Night Terror in its massive chest. The monster made a high-pitched whining noise, falling back a few steps. Before Poet could feel any relief, though, the Night Terror righted itself and began galloping towards them again. But it had been injured and it was falling farther and farther behind. Poet lowered his weapon.
“Why is it chasing me?” Poet asked the man over the roar of the monocycle. He could feel the knowledge just on the tip of his understanding. “What does it want?”
“You’ve been having nightmares,” the man said loudly, tilting his head toward him. “But you won’t face them. Now your fears have taken on a life of their own, have become a creature of their own. Of course, for a person like you, this Night Terror isn’t even the worst of your problems.”
“Person like me?” Poet asked.
The man groaned. “Poet Anderson,” he said. “And as the new Poet, you have the power to tunnel between realities, between the Dream and the Waking Worlds. You can wake yourself up whenever you want. There are people—and creatures—who would do anything for that type of control.”
Poet stared at the back of the man’s head, and swallowed hard, gathering his nerve. “Then who the hell are you?” he demanded.
“Name’s Jarabec. I’m a Dream Walker,” the man said. “And I’m your best chance of surviving this nightmare.”
“You’re a…wait, what?” Poet furrowed his brow, confused. “How did you—”
“Although I’m sure we’re headed for a heartfelt exchange,” Jarabec growled, “you’d better shut up and grab onto something. This is a bit of a drop.”
Poet narrowed his eyes, staring ahead at the darkened tunnel. He wasn’t sure what the Dream Walker was talking about. Then suddenly, the monocycle swung to the left, cutting down a pathway Poet hadn’t noticed. The ground had become bumpier and the gun fell from Poet’s hand, clanging on the metal of the train track. Poet dug his fingers into the leather of the man’s jacket, holding on.
He could see the end of the tunnel coming up, and Poet’s eyes widened as he took in the skyline beyond the exit. Bright lights on tall buildings, suspension bridges, vehicles that hovered over the roads. And the sky itself was dotted with stars and moons and planets he couldn’t even name. He’d finally found it—the reality that Alan swore existed. The city that Gunner had been talking about.
He leaned forward and l
ooked at the side of the man’s face, seeing old scars carved into his cheeks, weather-beaten skin. His jacket had splatters of dried blood on the sleeve. Poet sucked in a breath, wondering what sort of mistake he made leaving with this man.
“Where are my friends?” Poet asked. What if he’s working with the Night Terror? What if saving me was just a way to get me away from Gunner and Sketch?
“Don’t know,” the Dream Walker said. “I assume they went into a different part of the dreamscape. Or maybe they woke up because they were too scared. Some dreamers just disappear.”
Poet stared intently at the man. “And how do I get out of here?”
Jarabec chuckled and sped up, the exit only seconds away. He glanced over his shoulder at Poet, a smile pulling at his thin lips. “Wake yourself up, boy,” he said. “You’re a Poet. Surely your mother told you what that meant.”
Poet’s arms weakened as his entire body swayed from the mention. “My mother’s dead,” he murmured. And then they were airborne, shooting out of the end of the tunnel like a bullet into the sky, the city far below.
The weightlessness of falling hit Poet as the force of the wind smacked his chest, blowing him backward. He swung his arms out to the side, desperately trying to regain his balance. He shouted and reached for the man’s arm, his fingers brushing the leather coat before catching the tail end of the jacket. He righted himself, but they were still falling. The busy road was rushing up to meet them; cars zoomed past in the sky, swerving around the monocycle.
They were falling toward the highest bridge, and Jarabec lowered his head as if bracing for impact. Poet squeezed his eyes shut, trusting that this stranger who just saved him from a Night Terror wouldn’t let him freefall to his death.
Through his fear, Poet felt a tingling in his fingers, almost like static electricity. A surge of power.
The monocycle hit the pavement hard, and Poet’s eyes flew open as Jarabec swerved, trying to gain control all while avoiding the oncoming traffic of the sleek vehicles that hovered just off the pavement. A metallic blue sports car with lights glowing from its undercarriage zoomed around Poet and the Dream Walker.
“Hold on,” Jarabec shouted, but it didn’t matter. He lost control of the monocycle and it clipped the front end of an oncoming roadster, throwing both Poet and his Dream Walker over the handlebars.
The monocycle fell to its side, continuing down the road and sending a shower of sparks as the metal scraped along the asphalt. Poet connected with the pavement, shoulder-first, and screamed out as he toppled over and over, finally coming to rest with a thud against the guardrail. Blood seeped through his jeans at the knee and his shirt was shredded. He groaned and watched as the traffic slowed around them, pale faces with big eyes looking from the windows curiously as people passed.
“Shit,” Poet said, climbing to his feet as quickly as he could. He dashed over to Jarabec just as the Dream Walker rolled over and gritted his teeth. Road rash dotted his cheekbone, but he seemed to be in good condition otherwise. Poet reached to help the man sit up, but his hand was slapped away.
“You need to get out of sight,” Jarabec said shortly. “Now, boy!”
Poet straightened, offended, annoyed, and sore all over. Around him, the honking horns quieted, the zooming of passing cars trickled until the traffic stopped altogether. It was like the world was shutting down.
The Dream Walker cursed and got to his feet, favoring his left leg. He tore off his leather jacket and cast it aside; underneath he wore a sleek red suit, a soft armor that was scratched up from battle and scorched with black marks. Jarabec came to stand next to Poet, his eyes searing with intensity as he stared straight ahead. Poet followed his line of vision and found a tall man standing in the middle of the street. At least, Poet thought he was a man.
The bridge was now devoid of people and vehicles, and the man came into focus: he wore a metallic black suit with a long cloak that billowed out behind him like smoke as he walked. His face was made up of exposed skeleton with metal fragments embedded in the bone, like he’d been rebuilt. Improved. His right arm was robotic and his eyes were black orbs. His teeth were pointy metal as he bared them in a frightful smile.
Jarabec swung out his arm in front of Poet and backed him up a step. “Time to go,” he said, not looking at Poet. “Wake up.”
Poet sensed the urgency in his voice and his heart rate spiked. “How?” he asked. “I’ve never had to wake myself up before. I just…woke up!”
The roar of machines ripped through the air, and four figures came into view behind the approaching man. The engines of their flying vehicles emitted a red glow, and sitting on the battle-scarred metal were some kind of soldiers, dressed head-to-toe in black armor, ready for battle.
“Night Stalkers,” Jarabec growled, crouching down into a fighting stance as he watched them.
The Night Stalkers climbed off their vehicles, and the armor near their shoulders shifted. Small spheres, inky black and slimy, rose up and began to revolve around each of their bodies, creating a rhythmic hum that Poet could hear.
“What the fuck are those?” Poet asked, his voice pitching up. He watched the objects, at once interested and repulsed by them.
“Halos,” the Dream Walker said from next to him. “The manifestation of the soul on the outside of the body. It’s protection.”
Poet wondered if all souls looked so menacing.
Jarabec narrowed his eyes on the strange, robotic man and the Night Stalkers, and the corner of the Dream Walker’s mouth curled with a smile. A glint of light, a sphere like the Night Stalkers’ only bright and vibrant, slowly rose above him. For a moment, it hovered over his shoulder, glowing orange and yellow, with streaks of color that were moving within its shape. The sphere zoomed past Poet’s head before coming back and looping around both of them, again and again.
Poet watched the Halo, amazed. “Why is yours different?” he asked Jarabec.
“Those right there,” he nodded toward the Night Stalkers, “are damned creatures. Their souls have been absorbed, leaving an absence of light, a negative balance, a black hole that now has a weight of its own.”
There was a laugh, and Poet turned to see the tall man stalking toward them.
“Ah, Jarabec,” the man called out conversationally before pausing on the bridge. “I see you’ve found him.” His voice was like acid in Poet’s ears: a scratching, hate-filled sound.
The Dream Walker smiled. “Your presence in Genesis is noted, REM,” Jarabec said. “Taste of failure, perhaps? The Night Terror was a bit of a disappointment.”
“Aren’t all children disappointments?” REM replied with a laugh, although the mention of failure seemed to irk him.
“The boy stays with me,” Jarabec said definitively. “So your time was wasted. I’m only sorry I didn’t get to impale any of your Night Stalkers today.” He motioned toward the soldiers, then shrugged. “Ah, well. I guess it’s still early.”
“Yes, yes, you’ll have your chance,” REM said, studying Poet as if Jarabec’s words were meaningless. The Night Stalkers held back, the scene reflecting on their smooth, black helmets. REM turned to Jarabec again. “And where are the rest of the Dream Walkers?” he asked. “I was in need of a new soul or two.” He flashed his teeth. “I’m hungry.”
“They’ll be along shortly,” Jarabec said.
Poet felt sickened. He could feel the evil oozing off the creature in front of him. He turned his head sideways toward Jarabec, not daring to take his eyes off of REM. “Who is he?” Poet asked quietly.
“We call him REM.” The Dream Walker shifted his eyes to Poet. “And he creates nightmares, powered by the evil and discontent they cause. He devours souls. And some,” Jarabec added, “are strong enough to bring him into the Waking World. But that’s a story for another time.”
REM began moving towards them again, walking with purpose. Several Night Sta
lkers followed behind him, drawing their weapons. One pulled a long sword from its sheath on the back of his armor; another had a double-sided blade, swinging it around his hand as if he were warming up for a fight.
“Be ready, Poet,” Jarabec said, lowering his head, his eyes trained on his opponents.
Poet tried to imagine another gun, but the Dream Walker shook his head. “That doesn’t work here,” he told him. “We’ve left your dream. You’re in a shared reality now—we all play by the same rules. Either you bring it in with you, or you deal with what you’ve got.”
“What am I supposed to do, then?” Poet asked, suddenly feeling vulnerable. “What does he want?”
“You,” Jarabec replied.
Poet’s stomach turned and he faced the approaching demon. His breath caught when he realized how close REM had gotten. Poet wanted to run, but he was on a bridge with no vehicle of his own. What hope did he have for escape? He had to be braver.
“What do you want from me?” Poet yelled to REM, backing toward the guardrail, Jarabec close at his side. They were running out of space.
REM smiled, running his dark eyes over Poet. “You’re a bit scrawnier than I imagined,” he said. Now that he was closer, Poet could see there were bits of mangled flesh stretched over his chin and mouth. “I must say,” REM continued. “I’m surprised how easy it was to find you once your brother was out of the picture. Easily frightened, aren’t you, boy?”
At the mention of his brother, Poet puffed up his chest, his courage strengthening. “How do you know about Alan?” he demanded.
REM glanced at Jarabec. “You haven’t told him?” he asked. “Come now. Don’t be cruel, Jarabec.”
“What’s he talking about?” Poet asked the Dream Walker, his voice starting to shake. Despite the danger, the possibility of finding his brother was becoming real. “Is Alan here?”