by Tom DeLonge
Jonas took a seat and watched as Doctor Moss checked over Alan’s machines. He noticed the heart monitor was set to silent, the only sound in the room coming from the ventilator. There was even a large window overlooking the parking lot.
After another moment, Doctor Moss grabbed a chair and brought it over to sit closer to Jonas. “I know these past few weeks must have been terrible for you,” she said. “I’m sorry for what you’ve been through.”
“Thank you.”
Doctor Moss took out a page from her folder and laid it on top of her clipboard. “This is the agreement for us to treat your brother. One of the stipulations for the research grant is that there can be no changes in variables, changes in location or treatments. We would need custody of your brother’s body.”
Jonas sat forward. “Custody? What exactly would that mean?” he asked.
The doctor looked down at the paper, measuring her answer. “It means we would have legal guardianship and he couldn’t be removed from our care unless he regains consciousness, dies, or unless we release him. If left to personal finances, the treatment can be very expensive. This assures that Alan will get the absolute best care the facility can provide.”
Jonas wondered if he really had a choice. He’d come this far—it wasn’t like he could just take Alan out of here, bring him home. He didn’t have a home.
In that moment, Jonas desperately missed his parents. He hadn’t thought of them much, most of his grief reserved for his brother. But now he would have given anything to hear his mother’s voice. Smell her perfume. He would give anything to see her again. Jonas looked over at Doctor Moss and she smiled softly.
“It’s okay if you want to think about it,” she offered. Jonas shook his head.
“You’ll start treatment immediately? Figure out how to wake him up?”
“We’ll start this very day,” she assured him.
Jonas shifted his eyes to Alan—watched the rise and fall of his chest. I’ll see you soon, brother, he thought. And Jonas took the doctor’s pen and signed his name on the agreement.
Doctor Moss told Jonas she’d get the paperwork started and left him alone to spend some time with Alan. She suggested he come by tomorrow around dinner, since that was usually the best time for visitors. The doctor left the room and Jonas moved his chair closer to his brother, searching for any signs of recognition. But Alan was still gone. He’d be back, though. Jonas knew he’d be back.
“I started at the Eden last night,” he told Alan. “Just a heads up—our boss is kind of an asshole, but I like him. And I’m sure he’d love you. You’ll probably show up the first day and be employee of the month by the end of your shift.”
Jonas smiled and eased back in the chair. He rested his cheek on his fist, his eyes feeling heavy. The ventilator kept up its rhythmic hiss, soothing him.
“The people who work there are nice,” he said sleepily. “And last night, there was this lady.” Jonas chuckled. “You would have been like one of those Looney Tunes cartoons, eyes bugging and tongue rolling out like a red carpet. Fuck. She was even British.”
The missed night of sleep began to creep up on Jonas, and with each blink, his eyes stayed closed a second longer. “Can’t wait to have you back, man,” he murmured to Alan. “Hurry up.” His eyes stayed shut.
Jonas’s shadow was projected on the wall, and suddenly, like a puff of smoke, a new shadow came into focus—large, with a heaving chest. A monster loomed, its claws raised to strike. In the hospital room, the space behind Jonas was empty.
“Poet,” a man’s voice whispered, sounding far away.
Jonas’s eyes flickered open, and he found the room and Alan unchanged. His shadow was alone on the wall. Jonas’s body felt weighed down. He was so exhausted. Emotionally. Physically. His consciousness faded again.
“Poet Anderson,” the deep voice called, louder this time. There was a rumble, and Poet jolted, his feet kicking out. He darted his gaze around the room, only this time, the hospital bed was empty. The sky outside the window dark and filled with stars.
“Alan?” Poet yelled, stumbling as he rushed to the bed, running his palm over the sheets. The monitor continued to beep as if connected, and there was the rumble of a motorcycle in the distance. Poet spun, confused. And then he heard another sound, something closer, in the hallway.
Panic bubbled up and Poet grabbed the umbrella hanging off the edge of his brother’s bed and pointed it toward the door. He winced at the noise outside, a high-pitched scratching—like a long, sharp blade cutting tile. Poet took a step back, his muscles tensing. He knew, without seeing, that the darkness was closing in. The wall around the edges of the door began to peel, rotting away. Black mold spread over the white hospital walls, wearing away the plaster.
“A Night Terror,” Poet murmured, rolling the handle of the umbrella over his fingers and then winding up to loosen his muscles. He’d either have to fight his way out of here or jump headlong from the third-story window. He wouldn’t survive the fall.
Poet shook his head, trying to focus. “These are my dreams,” he called to the door, the sound of heavy breathing on the other side. “And I control my dreams.”
Poet thought about the times with Alan, the way he’d changed things. He began to channel his anger, his fear, and felt electricity in his fingertips. He lowered his head, umbrella outstretched. His eyes traced the wooden handle, imagining it was cold steel in his palm. By the time he thought of the trigger on his fingertip, Poet was holding a gun. He smiled.
The door in front of Poet began to disintegrate, the wood turning black as it rotted. He held his breath, ready to fire, while behind him, the rumble of the engine got louder. He turned quickly and saw the rot hadn’t yet reached the far wall. With a quick glance at the door, he turned back and aimed his weapon at the wall. He began firing, shot after shot in a wide circle. Bits of plaster exploded off, exposing the beadboard and dismantling the wall. It was his way out.
He continued firing, but when he heard the beast snarl from the other side of the door, his concentration broke and he was out of bullets. He cursed, knowing he’d have to be smarter, faster. He gritted his teeth and then ran toward the unfinished hole in the wall, ramming his shoulder into the beadboard and exploding through to the other side. He toppled, and skidded across the floor of an empty room. He looked up. No doors. No windows.
Poet heard the Night Terror crash through into the other room, and he jumped to his feet and swung the gun in front of him, pointing it at the hole in the wall. He wasn’t sure if it would fire this time.
“Poet Anderson,” the man’s voice called, closer now. This time Poet knew who it was. It was his Dream Walker—the man he met on the subway. Dark hair and a leather jacket…it all came back to him.
His eyes fluttered closed, images rushing through his mind. Racing from the subway, the bridge, the city. Saving Alan. Poet gasped, and when he opened his eyes again, they’d gone stark white—burning with electricity. His entire body felt like a live wire and the energy was intoxicating. His clothing changed to a slick black suit, bowler hat perched on his head. Poet stepped out and faced the wall in the direction of Jarabec’s voice. He held up his hand, palm facing the blank wall.
“I’m coming,” Poet murmured, his eyes on fire. A space on the wall began to shift, turning clockwise—a tunnel taking shape. Behind him, the beast came into view in the other room. The Night Terror’s scales were torn and scarred. Saliva dripped from its teeth as it panted, its muscles taut and ready to tear Poet apart.
Poet felt the pull, the whoosh of air. The Night Terror growled and crashed into the room, sending plaster in every direction. Its nails tore apart the tiles as it raced forward, but the tunnel closed and disappeared. The creature crashed through the blank wall where it had been, ending up in another empty hospital room. It reared up and roared.
Poet Anderson was gone.
Chapter Ten
For a moment Poet’s vision was crowded with bright, spinning light. His eyes burned as electricity snapped all around him. He felt the rumble of the monocycle beneath him, the tattered leather of the Dream Walker’s coat in his fingers. Then the cycle tore through the light and skidded to a stop on a patch of bright green grass.
“Nice work,” Jarabec said, glancing around. “Not sure how you knew to take us here—but it’s a safe place for now.”
Poet was confused and slightly disoriented. His eyes had returned to normal and as he climbed off the back of the cycle, he slipped his gun into his coat pocket. He’d lost his hat somewhere along the way. “I took us here?” Poet asked. The air was foggy with mist, and the sunset had colored the sky with streaks of purple and orange on the horizon. Pink flower blossoms floated on the wind like soft snow, blowing off a nearby tree, its branches crooked and hanging low. They were in a garden.
“I was searching for you,” Jarabec said. “I could feel you were in trouble. Seems you found me instead. Now we have a ways to go before we get into the city,” he added, walking to a stone fountain. He removed his leather jacket and set it aside before taking a handful of water to sip. He was wearing battle armor. “I suspect the Night Stalkers will be here soon,” he said.
Poet shot him a concerned look, and then scanned the fences, noticing there wasn’t a gate. “What is this place?” he asked. “And how could I bring us here?”
“It’s a garden, not far from where I grew up,” Jarabec said, leaning against the fountain. “I used to tend it for the owner. It’s one of my memories—one of my dreams.” The wind blew softly, rustling the Dream Walker’s hair and swirling new blossoms into the air. “As a Poet, you can find places like this, even if you don’t do it on purpose.”
Jarabec splashed some water on his face, clearing off the dust and grime. “I was like you, Poet,” he said, using the bottom of his shirt to wipe his eyes. “A Lucid Dreamer—a bit of a lost soul. The man who owned this garden taught me through my dreams. He too, was a Poet. I learned how to garden, at first. Dreams can be useful that way. An indestructible training ground. I could kill the plants and bring them back without ever damaging a single stem. Eventually, the man’s lessons extended into other skills: how to fight, how to be strong, how to survive. And long after he was gone and this place had been razed, I recreated it—every detail near perfection.” Jarabec glanced around, and for a split second, Poet saw a touch of melancholy cross his features.
“It’s beautiful,” Poet said. Jarabec smiled, and crossed the yard to his monocycle, squatting in front of it to adjust a piston near the tire. “So this means I can enter your memories?” Poet asked. He wasn’t sure he wanted that sort of invasive power.
“No,” Jarabec said. “You can’t enter a memory. What you’ve done is enter my dream.” Jarabec stood, wiping his palms along the thighs of his pants. “You see,” he continued, “most people start their dreams in the Waking World—at their jobs, their homes, their memories. Their personal dream world is only slightly different. A few, like you or me, can get deeper, find a place like Genesis.
“Occasionally, a lost soul will end up in the Dream World. That’s where you come in,” Jarabec said. “You can guide them out; bring them home. You return them to the safety of their dreams with your tunnels. Someone like you can gain access to anywhere, I suppose. We don’t know the limits yet.”
Poet walked over to sit on a bench, facing Jarabec. There was so much he wanted to know that he wasn’t sure where to start. He ran his palm roughly over his face and looked at the Dream Walker. “So you can enter my dreams, too?” Poet asked.
“No,” Jarabec replied. “That is a Poet’s talent. When I found you on the subway, you’d already left your dreams on your way to Genesis. And this time, you found me.”
Poet thought about that, nodding his head. “My brother and I would share dreams, though,” Poet said. “Does that mean Alan—?”
Jarabec shook his head. “No, your brother is not a Poet. All that time, you were in his dream. You tunneled in and lived it with him. Perhaps neither of you realized.”
“Okay,” Poet said. “Well, then what was up with that thing, the Night Terror—it almost killed me.” He could still picture the creature’s glowing red eyes, the way it was ready to devour him.
Jarabec nodded, and crossed to a vertical garden planter with shelves and picked up a pair of garden shears, examining the blade. “You’re right,” Jarabec said, running his thumb along the sharp edge. “But it didn’t. And it won’t. You’ll find a way to kill the Night Terror when you need to.” Jarabec walked over to a row of rose bushes, trimming off the buds that were wilted.
Old habit, Poet thought. Jarabec’s movements were deliberate and practiced, as if the dream was pulling him into his old role.
“Why didn’t you just kill the monster in the subway?” Poet asked him. Surely the Dream Walker was better equipped to handle murderous monsters than he was. Jarabec clipped a dead rose and let it fall to the ground.
“Because it’s not my Night Terror.”
“Fair enough,” Poet said, holding up his hands. “Explain things, then. Are there rules to this? Because, honestly, I have no fucking clue what’s happening.”
Jarabec turned to him and looked him over. “I can’t tell you how to beat your Night Terror. You have to find the answer in yourself. He’s the manifestation of your fear.”
Poet scoffed. “You can’t give me a hint?”
“No.” Jarabec touched his chest, and the armor opened, his Halo rising up above his shoulder.
Although Poet had seen it before, in this calm moment, he was struck by the beauty of the Halo. The sphere was gold and majestic. He narrowed his eyes as the Halo began to revolve around them, and noticed its scrapes and scars. Scorch marks.
“So that’s your soul?” Poet asked quietly. He’d seen Jarabec use it to protect them, but he hadn’t thought about how it would be affected. “It’s…damaged.”
“It is,” Jarabec said, watching the Halo circle. “And I feel every wound.” He touched his chest. “A constant ache in the Waking World. Some Dream Walkers have little left of their Halos—their souls harden like a weapon. Let’s just say their waking selves can become a bit unfeeling because of it.”
“So it changes who you are in the other reality,” Poet asked.
“Oh, yes. But it was a choice we made,” Jarabec said. “In the dreamscape, your soul is your life. And the souls of Dream Walkers are especially bright—so strong they can exist outside of our bodies. They protect us, but at great cost. It’s not a decision to be made lightly.”
“But…how?” Poet asked. “How did you release your soul?”
Jarabec stiffened and glanced at the bamboo fencing, as if waiting. Poet listened a moment, but heard nothing. Still, the Dream Walker’s change in demeanor piqued his concern. “That’s a story for another time,” Jarabec said. “Right now we need to figure out how we can develop your talents. Get you ready.”
“Talents?” Poet said. “Well, I can break into your dreams, apparently. Create giant holes that I can pull people through. I used to be able to make stuff, but not always. And not when I was in the city.”
“No, you won’t be able to,” Jarabec said. “In your dreams, you control your surroundings, so long as you can focus your mind. But in Genesis—the Dream World—you’re just a Poet: a guide for the lost souls.” The Dream Walker began to pace, his Halo widening its circle to follow as he walked the rows of flowers, rubbing his chin. “And it is exceedingly rare to meet a Poet. Most know better than to be found.”
Poet leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “And why’s that?”
“Your bright souls make you targets,” Jarabec said. “If REM were to get his hands on one of you, you can’t imagine the havoc he could inflict on the Waking World. The power of your soul would allow him passage
to destroy and terrorize. To cause nightmares. And nightmares give him strength, power. He won’t be content until the entire world dreams of destruction and misery. And even then, that probably won’t be enough.”
“How do the other Poets stay hidden?” Poet asked, annoyed that he somehow messed up even in his dream life.
“They guide dreamers out of Genesis and back to where they’ll be safe. And then they disappear, and keep a low profile. They’re not being chased through subway systems by Night Terrors. In fact, Poets rarely have them.” He paused, narrowing his eyes as he examined Poet. “They’re mostly reserved for Dream Walkers. Which begs the question: How did the Night Terror find you? What happened to bring it on?”
Poet thought about it, trying to remember the moment his dreams changed. “It was the car accident,” Poet said in a low voice. “It triggered something. I haven’t been able to remember my dreams for years, but Alan would fill me in on them in the morning. We used to dream together, but when he wasn’t there anymore, I ended up on the train searching for him. I was on that train for what felt like an eternity.”
“Perhaps it was,” Jarabec said, coming to take a seat next to him on the bench, the Halo circling them both. “There is no time here. And we can examine that later, because right now we have larger concerns. Namely REM. He wants to possess you, use your abilities.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Poet said easily.
“I hope not,” Jarabec said. “And the best way to ensure that is for you to learn control. Once you understand how tunneling works, we may be able to use it to our advantage. The Dream Walkers have never had a Poet on our side before. You could help destroy REM.”
“How?” Poet said, shaking his head. “He has Night Stalkers. He has a metal arm with daggers. I can’t even make a fucking rose.”
“You would be able to enter and leave the Dream World at will, move about the dreamscape undetected. Something no one else here can do. Not even REM. When he wants out, he must first acquire a suitable host. The soulless can’t exist in the Waking World, so REM finds the strongest, brightest souls, and crosses over in their bodies. But most souls aren’t enough to allow him any meaningful time in the Waking World. A stolen Dream Walker soul gives REM enough time in the Waking World to do some damage, but it’s still temporary. That’s why he’d need you.” Jarabec looked down at the grass underneath his boots, his weathered face deadly serious. “He will try to bargain with you first,” Jarabec said, “but no matter what he promises, you will wish for death if he gets your power.”