by Tom DeLonge
“Well I’m not buying what he’s selling, so you don’t have to worry,” Poet told him. There was another gust of wind, blowing Poet’s hair over his eye. He swept at it, his hands beginning to shake. “So how do we stop him?” he asked.
Jarabec didn’t seem confident when he looked over at him. “Our best chance is a sneak attack. You would tunnel our army and surprise him, and get us out of there if the mission goes south. That would put you in the center of the battle, Poet. There is a great chance you will die.”
“Wow,” Poet said, getting to his feet and staring down at Jarabec. “Enticing plan. I think I’ll pass. Between the choices of letting a creature take over my body, or letting the Dream Walkers kill me with friendly fire, I’m going to take option C—disappear.”
“It’s too late for that,” Jarabec said. “The Night Terror has tasted your blood.” Poet was reminded of the time when the monster dug its claws into his back and he shifted uncomfortably, fear on his skin. “It can find you, Poet,” Jarabec continued. “It will track you until you destroy it. But once you do—”
Suddenly, Jarabec’s expression clouded and he shifted his attention to the bamboo fences. He cursed. “You’re pulling us into another place, boy,” Jarabec said in a tight voice. “You’re thinning out the dream.” In the distance, there was the roar of several engines. At once, Jarabec was up.
Poet’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?” he shouted. “I’m not doing anything!”
“Your fear,” Jarabec said. “It’s pulling us into the dream consciousness. And it’s letting Night Stalkers in.”
There was an explosion, and a section of the bamboo gate went up in flames, hot fire licking out to heat the side of Poet’s face. Jarabec didn’t even flinch. Through the smoke, Poet saw at least a dozen flying vehicles, like small jets, heading towards them, with soldiers wearing armor, black-out helmets. Three of the Night Stalkers in the front of the pack touched their chests, and a black orb shot out from each, circling their bodies as they raced in his direction.
A dozen to one. He imagined this was how Jarabec’s Halo had been so heavily damaged. “What do we do?” Poet asked Jarabec, shooting a terrified look at the Night Stalkers.
“You get us out of this part of the dream.”
Poet stared at the Dream Walker, seized immediately with the fear that he wouldn’t be able to. Jarabec’s warning about REM caused panic in his chest. He tried to focus as the tree next to them caught fire, smoke becoming thick in the air. Poet closed his eyes, but nothing happened and the sound of the engines was getting closer. A black Halo zoomed past his head, and Poet opened his eyes and ducked. By the time he straightened, Jarabec stood between him and the oncoming Night Stalkers, his golden Halo circling faster, creating a blur around them.
“Better hurry,” he said. “Take my cycle.”
Poet didn’t hesitate. He’d been wanting to drive that monocycle from the minute he saw it, and having a group of warriors coming to capture him made him all the more eager. There was an awful thud, and he saw Jarabec get knocked back a step, a trickle of blood from a gash in his cheek sliding over his lips.
“Go!” he shouted at Poet, sputtering blood in his direction. But seeing the Dream Walker hurt, Poet couldn’t leave—this man had saved him. Jarabec read his concern and cursed. “Just like your mother,” he grumbled.
Jarabec forced both hands toward the Night Stalkers and his Halo shot toward them, leaving him and Poet defenseless. But Jarabec’s Halo slammed into one of the black orbs and Poet saw a piece of the Night Stalker’s darkened soul break off into a puff of black dust. The Night Stalker swerved to the side, cutting away from the group and taking his Halo with him. Jarabec jumped on the back of the monocycle and screamed for Poet to drive.
Poet kicked the cycle to life. Before he even quite understood how to drive it, he shot them forward toward the other side of the garden. Jarabec’s Halo caught up with them.
“Bust through the gate and take a left into the desert. It’s the way into the deeper part of my dreams. But it’d be much faster if you’d just tunnel, boy. Take us into another part of the dreamscape. You have the ability, now use it. Take us anywhere, so long as it’s not here.”
Poet’s mind was blanking, the only place he could think of was the subway, and that would be a huge mistake. He tried to block out the sounds around him. Concentrate, he told himself. At first nothing happened, and then it was as if he was sinking inside himself—hovering in a place between dreams and the Waking World, if he just pushed one way or the other, he could wake up or continue the dream.
Now Poet had to think of a place to take them, but they were approaching the gate fast. He put down his head in preparation of hitting it, afraid they’d get knocked off the cycle. He tightened his grip, ready.
Behind him, Jarabec sent his Halo forward, blasting through the fence just in time for them to pass through with only a few shards of wood hitting Poet’s arm.
A black Halo zoomed past their bike, swinging back like a boomerang. Jarabec cursed, and his Halo raced back to deflect it. The noise was deafening and made Poet swerve on the cycle. He looked behind him and saw the Night Stalkers were catching up, their vehicles giving them a height advantage, leaving Poet and Jarabec as little more than a moving target.
“We won’t make it this way,” Jarabec said, turning back to shoot at the vehicles, only to have the Night Stalkers’ Halos protect their riders.
Poet saw nothing but flat land in the distance, a clear sky with stars and planets he’d never seen before. There was nowhere to take cover. They’d be dead before they ever reached the city.
“Genesis,” Poet murmured, an image solidifying in his head. Suddenly his mind cleared, a memory taking root. Poet leaned to the side, half in the thought of the city when Jarabec reached to steady the handle of the monocycle. Poet could smell the city—the food and exhaust and sewers, all blending together. He felt the lights on his face, the brushes of shoulders as people walked past him. He remembered her—the smell of her perfume. Her smile.
“Poet!” Jarabec yelled, making him start. “Control it.”
Poet’s eyes had gone white, energy surging through his body. Up ahead, the world began to spin counterclockwise, erasing itself as it fell into a tunnel, a tear through the world.
“There you go,” Jarabec said quietly, approvingly. “Now head toward the tunnel, and no matter what, don’t stop.”
Poet flinched, glancing over his shoulder at Jarabec. “Why, what are you going to do?”
The Dream Walker smiled. “I’m going to make sure they don’t follow you. Take care of my cycle.” Jarabec rolled off the back, the weight of him gone making the monocycle shoot forward faster.
“Wait!” Poet yelled. Jarabec hit the ground hard with his shoulder, but it didn’t slow him. The Dream Walker sprang up, his Halo zooming fast around him. His armor transformed, covering his face with a helmet, a gun extending from his suit.
Before he could get off a shot, a Night Stalker jumped from his vehicle and charged him. His black Halo crashed into Jarabec’s, a boom over the landscape. The two men collided, falling to the ground in a hail of punches. Jarabec managed to crack open the Night Stalker’s helmet with his elbow. Blood poured down his arm, splashing each time his knuckles connected with the Night Stalker’s battered face.
For the first time, Poet got a look at the face of a Night Stalker. He was surprised to see he was human. He supposed it was because REM had been a horrible creature, the Night Terror a monster. He never really guessed a person would want to fight for a creature set on destroying the world. Then again, on another look, Poet thought maybe the Night Stalkers had been dreams that were corrupted.
Another Night Stalker arrived, jumping into the fight with Jarabec. Both men took a stance as Jarabec stood, tilting his head as he assessed them. Poet couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard him laugh.
It fell sideways, flinging Poet off of it and he tumbled to the ground. The world upended and Poet put out his hands to control his rolling body. When he came to a stop, he saw the Night Stalkers closing in. Poet climbed to his feet, his hip and shoulder aching, and started limping toward the tunnel. He didn’t think he’d make it before the Night Stalkers got to him.
“Come on,” he heard behind him. Poet turned to find a tattered Jarabec rushing in his direction. The Night Stalkers he’d been fighting were dead, their Halos smashed to fine dust next to them. Poet’s eyes widened, seeing people dead—even if they were evil—was a difficult thing to process.
Jarabec grabbed him roughly by the arm, hauling him forward. Poet heard the whizzing of a Halo in the air behind them, but before it hit, Jarabec yelled for him to jump and they both leapt forward and fell into the tunnel.
Chapter Eleven
The street was filled with people, and a few startled gasps greeted Poet when he and Jarabec fell through the air, landing on the street corner. The tunnel sealed up the minute they were through, the Night Stalkers gone. Poet took a breath, and his eyes returned to normal as he ran a shaky hand through his hair. His suit was dusty, torn at the knees and elbows. Jarabec’s helmet slid away and blood covered his arms as he sat on the pavement next to Poet, his elbows resting on his bent knees as he glanced around the sky, checking the glowing billboards.
The startled passersby seemed to forget quickly about their unusual entrance as they rushed back to their business. Poet recognized the corner and the food stand nearby where Sketch and Gunner had stopped to eat.
Jarabec huffed standing next to Poet, glancing around the streets. “You forgot my cycle,” he said. “And this is hardly any safer than where we were. Why did you—?”
That familiar smell of flowers floated past, and Poet saw a girl with shopping bags, rushing past without so much as an “excuse me.”
“Samantha,” Poet whispered to himself, watching after her.
Jarabec glanced at him impatiently, but when he saw the boy’s attention was thoroughly taken, he motioned toward Samantha. “Did you think of her?” he asked. “Is that how you came here?”
“No,” Poet said, but then paused. “Well, sort of.”
Jarabec watched the girl down the street, pursing his lips as if lost in a thought. “I suppose there’s a draw,” he said quietly. “You are a poet, after all.” He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Guide her somewhere safe.” The Dream Walker nodded as if giving permission and then he turned away, crossing the street and scaring a few dreamers with his intensity.
Poet looked in Samantha’s direction. His body and mind were drawn to her like a magnet, crowding out the thoughts of Night Stalkers and REM. Samantha was halfway down the block, but she must have sensed him because she turned and smiled, as if she’d been waiting for him. Poet smiled back instantly, his earlier escape from death fading like a dream as this new one took over. Sam started walking again, slowly so Poet could catch up.
Poet dusted off his suit, and then jogged down the street until he got to Samantha’s side, falling in step next to her. She didn’t look at him, but her hand was close to his like she wanted to take it.
“About time, dream boy,” she said. “I’ve been wondering when you’d show up.”
Heat rushed to Poet’s cheeks. He felt a little lost when he was with her—breathless. “And what made you think I’d show up again?” he asked.
“Uh…because you’re madly in love with me,” she said. “Remember?”
Poet nodded. “That’s true,” he said instantly, earning a look. “Not to mention you thought I was…adorable.” He scrunched his nose letting her know it wasn’t his favorite adjective. He would have preferred “hot as fuck,” or something equally descriptive.
Sam laughed, looking a little embarrassed. “I meant it,” she said. “I’m a fan.” Samantha tilted her head, eying his clothing. “What happened to your suit?”
Poet looked down at his doorman’s uniform, noting that he looked damn good in it even if it was filthy and slightly torn. “I fell off the back of a jet-powered monocycle,” he said. “Don’t you like it?”
She smiled as if she wasn’t sure if he was being serious, and stopped walking. She glanced over him once again. “I definitely like the suit,” she said. “Was it for a special occasion? You know, before you fell off the…?” She paused, waiting for him to remind her.
“Monocycle,” he added helpfully.
“Yes. Before that unfortunate incident, were you meaning to wear a suit?” she asked.
“Of course,” Poet replied. “I knew I’d be seeing you.”
“Wow,” she said like she knew he was full of shit this time. “That’s really romantic.”
“I’m just getting started,” he said. “Wait until you see what I’ll be wearing on our third date.”
Samantha laughed, watching him for a moment before dropping her shopping bags on the pavement. She stepped closer to Poet and reached out to take his tie, studying it as she let the fabric run through her fingers all the way to the very tip.
“I can only imagine,” she said, lifting her eyes to his. She was so close now, but Poet didn’t think he should touch her. Didn’t want to break the spell.
But he was reminded of Jarabec’s warning that the streets of Genesis weren’t entirely safe. There was a reason he came to Sam, he knew. He was here to protect her.
“We should go somewhere,” Poet told her, his voice low. “I can take us.”
Sam lifted her eyebrows as if she didn’t believe him.
“Close your eyes and think of a place,” he said. When Sam closed her eyes, Poet focused on an empty wall of a building behind her. He concentrated, tuning in to the heat of Samantha’s body, the sound of her breathing, the hum of her soul.
A sense of doubt crept over him. He was afraid he wouldn’t be able to tunnel without the fear of a monster or soldiers chasing him, but Jarabec had said that Poet’s guided dreamers to safety. He couldn’t let anything happen to Samantha. He’d do better than he had for Alan.
Concern and grief poured over Poet. There was a zap of electricity and the burn, his eyes going white with power. The air began to swirl, wind kicking up as a tunnel formed. Poet looked down at Sam, her face calm as she thought of a place. He smiled and put his palms on her upper arms, feeling her attach to another dream. And then he sent them both through the tunnel.
Samantha gasped, stepping out of Poet’s hands as she looked around, confused at the new surroundings. The tunnel sealed itself and Poet felt his body relax as the energy faded, his eyes returning to dark brown. He was getting good at tunneling, and his pride swelled.
Poet looked around the dream, and then burst out laughing. He and Sam were standing before a set of iron gates, a child’s carousel with tinkering music spinning slowly behind it. The crystal lights danced against the white and pink horses wearing red ceramic bows. Mirrors in the center reflected it all out again. It was pretty—if you were into haunted doll houses.
“This,” Poet asked, “was what you thought of?” He didn’t want to admit he’d been hoping for something a little cozier…like a bed.
Samantha grinned, scanning the place. “Okay,” she allowed. “Maybe not the best choice.” She took a step toward the gate, laying her hand on the iron fence as she looked over the scene. “God,” she said. “I haven’t been here in years.”
“Your parents willingly took you to a place like this?” Poet teased.
“Be quiet,” she replied. “My mother said my taste was ornate for a seven-year-old.” Samantha gripped the railing, leaning forward dreamily. “After my parents divorced,” she continued, “my father would still take me here sometimes. I can’t remember where it is. In fact, Poet Anderson,” she looked over her shoulder at him, “I forgot all about it until I met you.”
I was supposed to meet her, he thought suddenly. “You were lost,” Poet said, mostly to himself. He knew then that Samantha must have wandered into the Dream World, her existence there drawing him to her. And yet, even now, even here where she was safe, Poet’s attraction to her wasn’t the least bit lessened.
Samantha walked over to stop in front of him, gazing up. “How did you bring us here?” she asked. “Should I be scared?”
“Asks the girl who can make a creepy carnival,” Poet replied making her laugh. “Ax-wielding clowns aren’t going to pop out and chase me, are they? You’re sick, you know.”
Sam shook her head, her expression serious. “No way. Killer clowns are third date material.”
Poet adored every word she spoke. “We should just skip to going steady, then,” he said. “I fucking hate clowns.”
Samantha stared up at him, the lights from the carousel reflected and glittering in her eyes. “I recognize you,” she said, guilt crossing her features. “I know you’re the guy from my English class.”
Poet stiffened, feeling exposed. Embarrassed, even. He wanted her to think he was more. “Yeah,” he said, pressing his lips into a self-conscious smile. “That’s me.”