Poet Anderson ...Of Nightmares

by Tom DeLonge

  Jarabec looked over at him, first annoyed, but then his expression softened. “No,” he said simply. Then without another word, Jarabec turned away and the armor on his suit shifted. Metal crawled over his face, forming a helmet. The armor near his hand extended and in a flash, there was a gun, a futuristic pistol that seemed to vibrate with energy.

  Little more than a car length away, REM smiled. “A gun?” he asked, amused. “I’m unimpressed. You know better, Jarabec. Now give him over and I’ll—”

  The Dream Walker swung out his gun in a blur of movement faster than anything Poet had seen before. He fired at REM, and a gold beam of light cut through the air. At the same time, Jarabec’s Halo shot forward, but before it could reach its intended target, two dark-colored Halos surrounded REM, clanging against Jarabec’s Halo so loudly, the entire bridge shook. Green light exploded across the sky, and Poet was suddenly reminded of his accident, and of the violent lightning that had split through the sky.

  Jarabec’s Halo retreated to circle him and Poet once again. REM glanced down to where a scorch mark had been burned into the shoulder of his robotic arm. He lifted his eyes to Jarabec, and Poet could see his patience had faded. “Clever,” he said. “But your distractions are wasteful. You can’t protect him forever. He’s mine.”

  Behind REM, the Night Stalkers’ Halos all returned and began to revolve faster around them. Jarabec’s Halo matched their pace, readying for a battle. Poet now understood how the Halos were protection—nothing could get past them.

  Jarabec turned to Poet. “There’s no more time,” Jarabec said. “You have to wake yourself up now!”

  “I don’t know how!” Poet shouted back.

  REM stalked towards them, seeming to grow bigger with each step, his shadow darkening and his eyes sinking into a black abyss. Poet pressed himself against the guardrail with nowhere to run. The Night Stalkers’ engines revved and then they were heading toward him, too.

  Jarabec grabbed Poet hard by the shoulders and pulled him close until his nose nearly touched the smooth surface of the helmet. “You will never see your brother again,” Jarabec growled. “Alan will die because you’re weak.” It was a slap in the face, and at the thought of truly losing his brother, Poet felt a fire catch in his chest, a searing heat that ran through his veins until it burned out his eye sockets. Poet screamed and covered his face, overwhelmed by the power.

  “Now that’s better,” he heard Jarabec murmur.

  Poet fought to open his eyes, but the pain was searing, like he’d touched an exposed power line. Around him, Poet heard the thunderous boom of Jarabec’s Halo fighting off an attack. There was the sound of boots on pavement and the roar of an approaching engine.

  Poet clenched his jaw and peeled open his eyelids, crying out in pain as he did. His eyes glowed white—the color completely burned out, leaving only a space of hot electricity. For a moment, Poet was blind, but then his eyes adjusted, giving him a kind of clarity he had never known before. The smallest details around him coming into sharp focus.

  Poet saw then that Jarabec’s Halo was a blur, deflecting lasers with its speed. A Night Stalker raced ahead on its vehicle—steam rising from the engine. The soldier’s black Halo shot forward to collide with Jarabec’s in a crashing strike of lightning.

  Once the Night Stalker was close enough, it lunged from its vehicle and tackled Jarabec to the pavement, punching him and cracking the faceplate of his helmet. Poet fell back a step, terrified.

  REM moved in, the skin near his mouth tearing open as he roared, his eyes set on Poet. He stretched out his robotic arm, nails lengthening into daggers as he reached for the boy. Poet put up his hands defensively, pressing his back against the metal guardrail.

  “Now wake up!” Jarabec shouted to Poet. The Dream Walker punched the Night Stalker in front of him, and in the same movement, Jarabec reared up his boot and kicked Poet square in the chest, sending him over the guardrail.

  REM’s nails tore through Poet’s shirt as he slipped from his grip, falling from his reach. The demon shrieked, sending a shockwave through the dreamscape and knocking everyone off their feet. The sound of approaching motorcycles zoomed in the background.

  Poet was free-falling toward the street below and he braced for impact. But then the thought of failing Alan hit him again and he gritted his teeth against the pain.

  This is just a dream, he thought desperately. And a dream is a dream is a dream…I can wake up.

  Poet put his open palm into the air above him, imagining a hole in the sky—a portal out of this world. He was still falling, wind rushing through his hair, but Poet gnashed his teeth and there was a sudden whoosh, a pull that sucked him upwards and into the air.

  He flew past the bridge and saw that REM was gone. More Dream Walkers had arrived on the scene and were battling it out with the Night Stalkers. The entire city around them became brightly lit dots and Poet didn’t feel scared anymore. He felt powerful, electric. He put his arms out at his sides, and tilted his head back, disappearing into the hole he’d torn in the sky.

  Chapter Three

  Jonas Anderson sat up with a gasp, his eyes wide and his skin damp with perspiration. His heart pounded as if…as if he’d been falling. Jonas jumped up from the hard chair, his muscles aching and a fading stinging sensation on his back. He ran his gaze around the hospital room. Bright white and sterile. He’d been dreaming, but before he could hold on to any of it, the memory faded away—forgotten like all the other dreams he’d had since his parents’ death.

  Jonas put his hand on his chest, and turned toward his brother who lay hooked up to machines on the hospital bed. Dread rested on Jonas’s shoulders once again; another day of Alan sleeping. Another day of waiting until Jonas could go search for him again.

  Although he couldn’t remember his dreams anymore, they did leave Jonas with a vague feeling—like right now. He knew he hadn’t found his brother. He knew he’d had a nightmare instead. Only this time…there was something else. Jonas lifted his hand and stared at his fingers, waggling them in the air. They tingled, as if from an electric shock.

  He looked back at Alan and moved to sit on the edge of the bed, taking his brother’s hand. Alan’s right arm was in a cast and a bulk of bandages was wrapped around his head. A breathing tube had been shoved down his throat, and the ventilator pumped next to the bed. The doctors had told Jonas that his brother’s skull wasn’t fractured, but the swelling in his brain forced them to induce a medical coma. The only problem was that, after nearly two weeks, the swelling was gone, but so was Alan. He’d never woken up. They weren’t sure if he’d ever wake up again.

  The door opened and a small, older woman shuffled inside the hospital room, smiling warmly at Jonas. Nurse Morgan had been the night shift regular, helping Jonas when she could by sneaking him food and letting him sleep at the hospital.

  Nurse Morgan came in with a clipboard pressed to the chest of her white uniform and an overstuffed bag clutched in her hand. “The police stopped by earlier to drop this off,” she said, setting the bag at the foot of Alan’s bed. “They recovered some items from the car, but they just got around to releasing it. I washed them for you.”

  There was a sick twist in Jonas’s gut when he thought of the ’68 Mustang, his father’s car, and how it had nearly become his grave. The police said later that they weren’t sure how Jonas had managed to swim to the shore with Alan in tow. They called him a hero. But all Jonas could remember was the icy water filling his shoes, snapping him awake. How hard it had been to get the window down, and how heavy Alan’s body was as he pulled him to the surface.

  The bag sagged against the bed frame, opening slightly. Jonas saw the bundle of clothes and the handle of the umbrella poking out. Alan’s hope for a new life, stashed away like garbage.

  “Aren’t you going to be late for school, Jonas?” the nurse asked, walking around the bed to check Alan’s monitors
. Jonas glanced up and shrugged sheepishly. Nurse Morgan nodded toward the door. “Then we’ll see you at three o’clock.”

  Jonas smiled. He hated to let go of Alan, but he’d be back after school. If there was one thing he knew would make his brother happy, it would be learning that Jonas went to school without his constant nagging. Even if school was a huge fucking waste of time.

  “See ya, brother,” he murmured to Alan and hopped up.

  “Oh,” Nurse Morgan said as he headed for the door. “It’s raining out. You might want to bring that umbrella.” She took out her blood pressure cuff and began to work it up Alan’s arm.

  Jonas stood frozen for a second longer. He swallowed hard, walked to the bag, and slowly removed the black umbrella. He peeked inside the bag and saw the box for the bowler hat near the top. If Alan woke up soon, he might still be able to get his job. Jonas sighed, said goodbye to the nurse, and left with the umbrella held tightly in his hand.

  The halls of the hospital were quiet this early in the morning, and Jonas grabbed an orange juice and a package of crackers off an orderly’s tray on his way out. Nurse Morgan usually let him order food under Alan’s name so that he didn’t starve. She let him use the shower and a toothbrush. But Jonas could feel the stares of the other nurses. The questioning looks of the doctors when they found Jonas in the same chair first thing in the morning.

  The walk to school was short, and Jonas popped the umbrella, the earthy smell and dampness from the rain a reminder of how much he hated this kind of weather. Jonas cut across the lawn of the church on the corner, and then through the parking lot of the gas station, the rain tapping on the fabric of his umbrella the whole time. He strode up to the large brick building of Roosevelt High just as the tardy bell rang. Jonas cursed under his breath, adjusting his jacket and looking around for any other stragglers. Nope. He was the only delinquent this morning.

  Determined not to get noticed more than necessary on his second day, Jonas quickly shook out the umbrella and headed directly for English class—his least favorite subject. He didn’t hate reading, but it put him to sleep. He peeked through the window in the door and saw that students were still getting settled. He smiled as he pushed his way inside. His teacher, Mrs. Diaz, was at the board, streaking her marker across the white background as she wrote out the day’s notes. Jonas slid into his chair just before she turned around to address the class.

  Jonas heard a snort of laughter behind him, and although he was tempted to see who it was, he tried to keep an innocent look on his face as Mrs. Diaz picked up the attendance folder. Once completed, she handed the folder to the blond boy sitting in front of Jonas to bring to the office. She grabbed a meter stick and pointed to the words she’d scribbled across the board.

  “Take out your notebooks,” she said to the class, “and copy down this passage from Frankenstein. We’re going to talk about story framing and how it’s…”

  Jonas cursed under his breath and looked around. He’d been given a set of class books yesterday, along with a few supplies from the office, but he’d left them tucked safely in a bag on the heater in his brother’s hospital room. Now he was in class like a dumbass, with nothing but an umbrella and a package of graham crackers in his pocket.

  I could just walk out, he thought. Stop going to school. But as the seconds ticked by, his flight response faded because he knew if he did something like that, Alan would kick his ass the moment he woke up.

  Jonas laughed to himself, remembering the last time he ditched school. It was because of a girl, and it involved the Mustang. God he’d miss that car. But that day, when he got back to the apartment, Alan was sitting on the couch with a beer, smiling and friendly. He offered Jonas one, and of course, he took it, thinking it was easily becoming his favorite Tuesday ever.

  But of course Alan was just fucking with him. The school had called, but he waited until Jonas was three sips into his beer before clicking on the TV to show there was no cable. Alan picked up the keys to the car and tucked them in the front pocket of his button-down shirt.

  “I’ll be driving you to school every morning,” Alan said. “I hope it was worth it.”

  Jonas took a long draw from the beer he knew would be his last. And then he smiled broadly. “It kind of was,” he said.

  Alan was mid-sip and choked on his drink. He glared at Jonas, but then he laughed, calling him an asshole and asking for details. That was nearly three months ago, and Jonas knew he’d give anything to have it back.

  “Mr. Anderson,” a voice cut through and startled him from his thoughts. Jonas looked up, surprised to find Mrs. Diaz directly in front him, her dark gaze trained on his. “Do you have a pen or not?”

  There was a cast of giggles, and one male voice that muttered “loser” from the back of the room. Jonas shifted uncomfortably, not sure how long his teacher had been standing there while he grinned, staring out the window.

  “I forgot it,” he said, leaning forward to speak quietly, wishing the world would open and swallow him whole so he could escape the embarrassment.

  The teacher tilted her head, not hiding her annoyance in the slightest. “It’s your second day, correct?” she asked. Jonas nodded, although he was sure she already knew the answer. “And I gave you a pen yesterday. Where is it?”

  “I, um…I left it at my brother’s,” Jonas said. He’d informed the school about his brother’s accident, and he figured the office had filled in his teacher, too. Mrs. Diaz’s face softened slightly.

  “Remember it tomorrow,” she warned. “You may ask a classmate to borrow something to write with since the state budget doesn’t give me extra money for supplies that are carelessly left behind.” She smiled slightly, and then spun on her heels and walked to the front of the room. Jonas closed his eyes and cursed her silently. The boy in front of him, the helpful one who took the attendance, wasn’t back yet. Jonas wanted to sink down in his chair, but instead he clenched his jaw and turned to look at the person behind him.

  The girl was writing in her notebook, and she didn’t acknowledge Jonas right away. She finished the last sentence from the board and then shifted her eyes to his, amused. “Yes?” she asked.

  Jonas was speechless. He hadn’t expected to find a beautiful girl in the seat behind him. Didn’t expect to look like a total slacker the first time he spoke to her. He turned around to face the front, deciding he’d wait until the attendance kid got back for a pen.

  But Mrs. Diaz was watching him.

  “Is there a problem, Mr. Anderson?” she asked.

  “No,” he said quickly.

  The teacher stepped to her right to get the attention of the girl behind Jonas. “Miss Birnam-Wood,” she called. “Would you mind lending Mr. Anderson a writing utensil?”

  He heard the girl sigh, and he reluctantly turned back to her. Again, she ignored him as she dug out a pen from the front pocket of her backpack. Jonas tried not to stare at her; he did have some dignity left.

  “Do you want it or not?”

  “What?” His head snapped up and he found the girl waiting impatiently with the pen outstretched. “Oh, sure,” Jonas said. “Thanks.” He reached for the pen, and his fingers brushed the girl’s wrist, drawing her gaze to his.

  “You’re welcome,” she said softly, and went back to her notebook, rubbing absently at the place where he touched her.

  Jonas turned, wishing that he’d taken the time to get a better look at the girl. The attendance kid finally came back from the office, and Jonas asked him for a piece of paper and grinned at Mrs. Diaz.

  As the class period dragged on, Jonas’s interest in Frankenstein went from little to nonexistent. He began sketching in the margins of the lined paper, drawing an image he couldn’t get out of his head. It was a vehicle, but not a regular one. This was a monocycle with glowing blue lights around it, and battle-scarred metal. He paused, staring at the image and sensing a memory ju
st out of his reach.

  The bell rang, signaling the end of the class. The sound startled Jonas and the paper he’d been working on slipped out from under his hand, swaying like a leaf falling from a tree, and then landed face down on the linoleum floor. A shiny black shoe with a little bow at the toes stepped on it, and Jonas followed the length of the leg to see the girl who’d been seated behind him. She apologized for the shoe print, and bent down to pick up the page. Jonas watched her kneeling in front of him, and was a bit dumbstruck when she handed him the paper. The girl smiled and headed toward the door where two girls were waiting for her.

  Jonas gaped as they whispered behind their hands, and then the two girls looked at Jonas and laughed. The girl pushed them toward the exit as if trying to shut them up. There was a slight panic in Jonas’s chest at the thought of her leaving.

  “Miss Birnam-Wood,” Jonas called, unsure of her first name. The girl stopped, and turned slowly, looking stunned that he would talk to her.

  “It’s Samantha,” she said. “Mr. Anderson.”

  Jonas laughed, and got up from his desk. “Your pen,” he said, holding it out to her. This time he looked, noting how pretty she was up close. She had shiny pink gloss on her full lips and tiny freckles dotting her nose and cheeks. And her heavy-lidded green eyes were enough to knock Jonas completely senseless.

  Samantha glanced at the outstretched pen and then up at Jonas. “You realize there are like eight more classes today, right?” she asked. “You might need that.” One of her girlfriends snorted and turned away. It didn’t bother him though—she wasn’t the one holding his attention.

  Jonas lowered his arm. Normally a girl like Samantha wouldn’t even register on his radar. She was too popular and too rich, judging by her clothes and the diamond studs in her ears. But there was something about the way she held his gaze, a hint of mischief in her expression, that wouldn’t let him look away.

  Samantha sighed and waved her hand. “Keep the pen,” she said. “The science teacher can be a real dick. You’ll get a zero if you don’t have something to write with.”