by Tom DeLonge
Poet pursed his lips, slowly recalling his last dream. “He didn’t kidnap me,” he said before he knew if it were true. “He…” The image of a monster flashed through Poet’s head, and he spun quickly to check over the car. It was mostly empty except for a couple toward the back and a man sitting alone, mumbling to himself as he watched them, his eyes wide and curious. After a moment, the man turned to look out the window, smiling.
Although the creature—the Night Terror—wasn’t here, Poet felt its presence, could still hear the sound of its claws digging into the metal. “The guy was a Dream Walker,” Poet told his friends. “He saved me. And he wasn’t old.”
“Whatever,” Sketch said, swinging himself into the seat and knocking his shoulder into Poet’s. “All I know is one second you were behind us, and the next…well, I sure as shit wasn’t here.” Gunner laughed, and Sketch gave Poet a pointed look to remind him that Gunner didn’t know he was dreaming. “Anyway,” Sketch said. “Tonight we showed up and got on a different train.”
He motioned around, and Poet realized he was right. The quote that Alan had once spray-painted on the wall was gone.
“And then Gunner asked that couple over there,” Sketch continued, “where we were heading.”
“They were making out,” Gunner interrupted. “It was getting pretty serious, so I thought I should ask before I had to shield my eyes.”
“Anyway,” Sketch said loudly to let him know he was still talking. “Gunner asked them where the train was going and they said, ‘the city.’ Well as you can imagine, Gunner nearly pissed himself.”
Poet turned back to Gunner. “There is a city,” Poet said. “I saw it last time.”
Sketch’s mouth fell open, but Gunner just smiled broadly and shook his head. “I knew it,” he said. “Fuck you guys. I totally knew it.”
“So what’s the plan?” Sketch asked, sitting back against the chair and resting one of his unlaced sneakers on the pole. “Follow the lovers around until we find it? Because I’ve never seen—”
Lights danced cross Sketch’s cheeks, golds and reds against his skin. His eyes widened, reflecting the shimmer, and both Poet and Gunner turned toward the window across the train. The subway car continued to race forward and they were surrounded by the glowing lights of the city.
Chapter Seven
Gunner was spinning around as they walked the city streets, looking up at the tall buildings and tricked-out cars zooming past a hundred feet in the sky. Poet couldn’t blame him for being distracted. It was completely overwhelming in scale—unreal in a science fiction sort of way. Horns from low-hovering cars blared, and people on the sidewalks shouted at each other, boisterous and loud.
Poet noticed that some of the people seemed to flick in and out of focus, changing like chameleons. He was reminded of a story Alan told him after he’d read about it in one of the sleep studies. He said that dreams were alive, and sometimes, they became grounded here—living on in this reality, independent of the dreamer.
This was the Dream World: a solid reality with its own natural laws and people—almost like another dimension. And this was Genesis. The city mentioned in the study that Alan took as gospel.
Poet’s lips flinched with a smile—he couldn’t believe it was real. Alan had been right. “This is Genesis,” he told his friends.
“You know, I always thought you were full of shit,” Sketch said, glancing at Poet. “When you first told us about this, got Gunner all excited about “the city”; wouldn’t shut up about it. I thought you were just messing around, but I have to admit, I’m glad I’m wrong. This place is fucking awesome!”
Maybe Poet was clinging to blind hope, but as he looked around, he truly believed this was where he’d find Alan. His brother was asleep, and when he slept, he dreamed. They dreamed together. The fact that Alan had disappeared from his dreams told Poet he’d gone somewhere else. This was the only explanation. A coma is a deep sleep, and Alan had always told him they needed to go deeper if they hoped to find the city. Alan was here. Poet just knew it.
Poet darted his eyes from high-rise to high-rise, face to face. Moving billboards were on giant telescreens, and cars rocketed along tracks painted across the black sky. Lights and people were everywhere. Even the people who weren’t quite natural, those who seemed to be made from dreams, went about their business like they had important places to go. This world was their reality. And now that Poet was here, it was his reality, too.
Poet, Sketch, and Gunner got to the end of the block where the road split into a night-club version of Times Square. There were flashing lights, music videos on the giant telescreens. At that corner the world went up so high, Poet couldn’t even find the sky anymore.
The image changed on one of the largest of the building-screens, and Poet had to squint against the brightness to see, lifting his palm to shade his eyes. And then there he was, Poet Anderson—standing in the middle of Genesis, staring up at the screen.
Gunner shouted and ran over, pointing up at the image. “That’s us!” he yelled. Sketch laughed and huddled into the picture too, but Poet felt unsettled. They were being watched, and that was certainly not a sign of good things to come.
“I told ya,” Sketch said, throwing his arm around Poet’s neck, and pulled him in before letting him go. “Everyone loves Poet Anderson,” he said. “A fucking legend.”
Poet wasn’t sure how true that was, although he had met people on the train before who had said they’d heard of him. He felt as if he’d been on that train forever.
That was the thing about dreams: there was no sense of time—everything was infinite. You could be running late forever, never catching up. You could become best friends in an instant. So when Poet first met Sketch and Gunner on that train, it was like he’d always known them. When he told them about his brother, they agreed to help him search for the city. And now they’d finally found it.
Poet turned away from the screen and, almost as if in response, the screen went back to shots of the city intermixed with a music video. Poet turned around found his friends across the street at a vendor stand. The writing on the sign was unintelligible, impossible for him to read. Sketch and Gunner were laughing, sipping bottles of purple fizz and biting wiggling creatures off of skewer sticks. They were having the time of their lives, it seemed.
Poet smiled, but there was something lurking in his consciousness, a worry he couldn’t place. He waited for a break in traffic and then jogged across the street to meet his friends.
“This is so good,” Gunner said, picking up another stick of what didn’t look like chicken. “Poet, you’ve gotta—”
A girl zigzagged between them on the sidewalk, holding up her shopping bags as she murmured an annoyed, “Excuse me.” She was walking quickly, and Sketch snorted and continued to block the walkway so that other people had to go around. But Poet straightened, watching after the girl, sure that he recognized her.
“Sketch, I’ll be—” But Poet was already moving, jogging to catch up with the girl. From behind him he heard Sketch laugh, and Poet turned to wave at him, but Sketch was gone. He and Gunner had already crossed the street and were talking to a group of girls with blue hair.
Poet turned back, completely caught up in the idea of recognizing someone, especially in the Dream World. Especially her.
The girl must have sensed him because she glanced over her shoulder at Poet, a flash of fire in her green eyes before she turned and continued down the street.
It was Samantha Birnam-Wood.
Poet smiled and darted after her.
“Hey,” he said, catching up to walk backwards at her side. She didn’t acknowledge him, and Poet stepped in front of her, holding up his hands apologetically. Samantha staggered to a stop, her shopping bags banging against her legs. “I know you,” Poet said.
Samantha widened her eyes. “Good for you, dude,” she said, and stepped aro
und him to continue down the busy sidewalk. Poet laughed, thrilled at recognizing somebody, especially since it was the hot girl from his English class.
“Wait up,” he said, falling into step next to her. He looked down at the bags. “So is that why you come here?” he asked. “To shop?”
She glanced at him, and then down at her bags, almost surprised to see them in her hands. She furrowed her brow. “I’ve never been here before, but yeah,” she said. “I guess.”
Poet was sure she didn’t recognize him, and honestly, he was glad. He could be whoever he wanted here. “Do you mind if I walk with you for a bit?” he asked her.
Samantha shrugged like she didn’t care, and then she started walking again, slowing her pace so he could join her. Her bags swung at her side as she and Poet turned down one of the streets where small shops were crammed in-between sky-high buildings. The storefronts looked old, and some had small creatures hanging in the front windows—spiked, scaly monsters the likes Poet had never seen before. Another store had floating discs for sale, small children gathered around them as if they were toys. Samantha didn’t seem to care about shopping, though, her agenda forgotten now that Poet was with her.
“You know I wasn’t even sure this place existed until now,” Poet told her. Samantha looked over at him curiously, but Poet kept talking, afraid the silence would make her remember she was completely out of his league—even in the Dream World.
“And I still can’t believe you’re here,” he added. “I just hope neither of us ends up somewhere else. Don’t you hate that?” he asked. “When you’re in the middle of a really cool dream and a new one just takes over?”
“I guess,” Samantha said, smiling.
“I’m Poet, by the way,” he told her. “Poet Anderson.”
“Samantha,” she replied.
More stars began to twinkle above them the further they got from the telescreens, and the moons shone brightly, casting them in soft light. The street crowd thinned, and soon, Poet and Samantha found themselves all alone on the street.
“Wow,” Samantha said, looking up at the sky. “It’s so pretty tonight, isn’t it?”
Poet watched her, so taken that he didn’t respond. He wanted to impress her, and he wondered if he could create things here the way he and Alan used to in their dreams.
Poet closed his eyes for a moment and tried to conjure up a rose. He imagined it from stem to petal, but when he held out his hand, it was empty. It didn’t work. He lowered his arm to his side, wondering again about the Dream World and its possibilities.
Samantha stopped at the end of the street, and turned to Poet, her dark hair swinging over her shoulder. The space beyond was hidden behind a forest, thick and overgrown. Untouched.
“Well,” she said. “Now what? I’m assuming you have ideas?”
“And why would you assume that?” Poet asked, taking a step closer to her and noting the fresh scent of flowers in the air.
She smiled and lifted one shoulder. “Because you look like fun.”
Poet laughed, and ran his fingers through his hair, quickly trying to come up with an idea on the spot to prove her right. “I’m so much fun,” he agreed, still thinking. “Like, the most fun you’ll ever—” He noticed a small restaurant across the street. “Let’s go there,” he said as if he’d meant to say it all along. Samantha turned to follow his line of vision.
The small restaurant was crammed between two darkened buildings. Through the window, the interior looked deeply romantic: low-hanging red lamp shades, the white light of a flickering candle on the tabletop. It was perfect.
“See,” Samantha said, walking by him, close enough to graze his arm. “I knew you’d have an idea, Poet.” She said his name as if it was ridiculous, but also endearing.
Poet watched her walk across the street, his breath caught in his chest. He looked around the empty block, and then he smiled and jogged ahead to catch up with Samantha.
The inside of the restaurant was empty with the exception of the host, a small woman with cat-like eyes—literally, pupil-slit cat eyes. Samantha didn’t seem to notice, but Poet found himself staring as they were seated by the window. Once the woman was gone, Poet sipped calmly from his cup of tea, watching Samantha. He was drawn to her in the most inexplicable way. Not just attraction—something else. Something more.
Samantha ran her index finger along the lip of her cup, and after a moment, she leaned her elbows on the white linen tablecloth and stared at Poet. “Why did you come up to me tonight?” she asked. “Who are you really?”
Poet didn’t want to answer her question. Would he want her to know that he was the guy in class who didn’t even have a pen, the one living in the basement of a hotel? He was a doorman by night, broke and alone and so far beneath her social class she probably wouldn’t want to be seen with him by day.
“I told you,” he said. “I’m Poet Anderson.”
Samantha settled back in the chair, pulling her lips to the side as she examined him. Tried to figure him out. After a moment, she sighed. “This is a dream, isn’t it? You’re too perfect.” She waved her hand. “Too smooth. And besides,” she smiled and picked up her tea cup, “I hate shopping.”
Poet laughed, leaning in. “So you think I’m smooth?” he asked, his heart beating faster. She nodded.
“You’re also adorable,” she said with a laugh. “And I think I might know you, but I can’t remember from where. I’m hoping to figure it out before I take off your clothes later.”
Poet’s jaw fell open, and he sat back in his seat, uncrossing his legs and utterly speechless. Samantha lowered her eyes, fighting back her smile as she took a sip from her tea.
“Am I shocking you, Poet?” she asked.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s just that I’m already madly in love with you.” Samantha laughed and he shrugged. “Things move fast in the Dream World,” he added.
“I’ve noticed,” she said vaguely, and looked down at the menu, still smiling.
Poet placed his hand over his heart and sat back in his chair, completely outmatched and totally charmed by her. “Maybe we should get out of here,” he suggested, earning a look from Samantha. “Explore the Dream World. See what it’s about.”
“You have more ideas?” she asked. “Can I try this first?” She pointed to an item on the menu, but Poet was sure neither of them could read the writing—not in a dream.
“We can do whatever you want, Miss Birnam-Wood,” he said. Samantha knitted her brows together, setting down her teacup with a clink.
“How’d you know my last name?” she asked.
Poet scrunched his nose, realizing it was time to fess up. He was about to admit being the kid from her English class when there was a knock, soft and distant. Poet glanced around the empty restaurant, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. When he turned back to Samantha, she was talking, but her voice was on mute, her lips moving without sound.
The knock came again, louder. The smell of cleaning products seeped in around Poet, stinging his nose. Poet jumped up, bumping the table and knocking over their teacups.
“No,” he said. Samantha stared at him wide-eyed, and Poet reached for her. But before his hand touched hers, he was pulled backwards through the restaurant, his shoes dragging along the carpet. He was across the street, and into the sky. And then Jonas Anderson woke up.
Chapter Eight
Another knock. Jonas’s eyes opened, immediately assaulted by the naked bulb hanging from the ceiling of his room. He squinted, and by the time he adjusted to the light, the dream had faded entirely.
“Jonas,” a soft voice said on the other side of the door. It sounded like the assistant he’d met earlier. He was at the hotel.
Wait, he thought, sitting up. What time is it? He got to his feet and scanned the room, but without windows, there was no way to tell. His head was pounding and hi
s stomach grumbled, so he knew he’d been asleep for a while.
“Shit,” he said, and grabbed the business card off the bed, stuffing it in his back pocket. He went to the door and yanked it open, jumping back when he found Molly, knuckles up and ready to knock again. In her other arm she held a black, folded-up suit.
“Sorry,” she apologized immediately. “I didn’t mean to wake you. Hillenbrand was looking for you and I talked to laundry and they said you hadn’t picked up your uniform yet. So, I got it for you, if that’s okay.”
“What time is it?” Jonas asked quickly, looking past her into the hall for daylight, but since they were in the basement he had no sense of time.
“About seven,” she said, looking at him before darting her gaze away nervously.
“In the morning or at night?” he asked.
Molly took a step back, seeming slightly intimidated by his intensity. “It’s night. Your shift started at six, by the way.”
“Damn,” Jonas said, taking the clothes from her hands. “I’ll get ready now. Can you cover for me?”
Molly smiled. “Sure.” She folded her hands nervously in front of her. “I’ll tell Hillenbrand that Marshall had you filling out paperwork.”
“That would be awesome,” Jonas said. He held up the suit. “And thank you. I really appreciate your help.”
Molly watched him. “Anytime.”
Jonas smiled, feeling awkward. He waved and backed into his room. “See you later.”
With the door closed, Jonas took a deep breath and rested his forehead against the closed door. He was still exhausted, worn down from school, living in a hospital room, and worrying about Alan. And now he was late for his first training shift. He was failing spectacularly at filling Alan’s shoes here at the Eden Hotel.
Jonas changed into his uniform, and grabbed the hat out of the box and the umbrella. He rushed to the elevator and pressed the lobby floor, the anticipation of his first night’s work making his heart beat a little faster.