Poet Anderson ...Of Nightmares

by Tom DeLonge

  “It was REM,” Jarabec confirmed. “But your mother’s death came in the dreamscape hours before your parents’ plane crashed. We had been called to a battle, a war starting in the Grecian Woods outside of Genesis. The Night Stalkers had taken hostages, and Alexander—our head of command—gathered those who were at the Eden. Your mother was set up in a room with a half dozen other Dream Walkers, and they were all carefully monitored, kept asleep to ensure they wouldn’t disappear from battle. I wasn’t at the hotel, but I was in the woods.”

  Jarabec swallowed hard, looked down at his hands. “It was an awful day for all of us,” he continued quietly. “The Night Stalkers had killed most of the hostages by the time I arrived. It was clear that they were only bait to get us there. We fought.” Jarabec pointed to a particularly nasty scar high on his cheek. “Many of us died. We couldn’t win; it was a set-up. When only a dozen of us remained, Alexander called for us to fall back, but we were surrounded. And then REM arrived. He’d changed since we’d last seen him. He was no longer the creature we’d come to know. He was bigger, stronger, more powerful than we imagined—partially upgraded with machinery. He had an army of beings with him. People he’d snatched from the Waking World, empty vessels he used. Harvested. And then, of course, there were his Night Stalkers. We all should have died that day, but it turned out, REM was looking for something else.”

  “What?” Poet asked, his heart thumping in his chest.

  “In the center of the clearing,” Jarabec continued, “REM beckoned your mother forward. Alexander tried to stop her, but she silenced him with just a look.”

  Poet knew exactly the kind of stare his mother would have given, the stubborn wrinkle between her eyes.

  “Your mother was brave, Poet. She marched right up to REM, barely flinched when he reached out his metal hand to grab her, crushing the bones in her arm. He told her, and us, about you: Poet Anderson. Rumors of your existence. Eve denied it and suffered greatly for her lie.”

  Poet’s jaw hurt from clenching it, his eyes welling up at the story. Jarabec lowered his head.

  “She fought,” Jarabec said. “We tried to save her. Alexander was shot, his Halo nearly destroyed. We thought him dead. Eve was the one who asked us to stand down. But through it all, she would not tell REM where to find you. Promised that he’d never find you. She was mostly right. By staying with your brother, in his dreams, you were difficult to locate. Impossible, really.”

  Poet blinked to clear his eyes. He wanted to imagine his mother as a hardened warrior, hoping it would lessen her vulnerability, the fear she must have felt in those moments. But that wouldn’t be the woman he knew. “How did it end?” he asked quietly.

  “He took her soul,” Jarabec said, leaning in toward them. “REM devoured your mother’s soul and woke up in her body—here, in the Waking World of the Eden.” He motioned above them toward the rooms. “He was in possession of her, slaughtered the other Dream Walkers still asleep in the suite with her. Eve walked out into the hallway, blood-soaked.

  “She killed an employee on her way out and stole their clothes,” Jarabec continued. “She waved to the girl at the front desk, and then your mother went out in search of you. But you weren’t home—only your father. And when she saw the look in his eyes, the uncertainty and suspicion, she played along. REM decided there were other ways to bring Poet Anderson directly to him: trigger your Night Terror.”

  Poet felt sick. The wine left a bitter taste on his tongue, the idea of being hunted by a monster, the idea that his mother’s body was used like that… He closed his eyes, the images too terrible to consider. Jarabec saw the pain he was inflicting, and turned away.

  “REM sought to destroy your waking life,” he said grimly. “Sought to create an angry, lonely boy who would be easy to manipulate and control.” Jarabec looked at Poet, meeting his eyes. “Your mother crashed that plane, boy, killed all those people, even though she had died in the dreamscape at REM’s hands. That is the kind of monster you are dealing with.”

  Poet covered his face with his palms, hiding his emotion, afraid to look like a scared child in front of Jarabec. When he felt centered again, he sniffled hard and reached for his wine, taking a shaky sip. “Was my father a Dream Walker, too?” he asked.

  “No,” Jarabec answered. “But your mother loved him. To Alexander’s dismay, Eve left the dreamscape for quite a while to raise you boys. But as the battles got worse, she returned to fight. She was a Dream Walker. She couldn’t just run away from that.”

  Thinking back now, Poet could remember times when his mother had dark circles under her eyes, saying how tired she was. She took medication, and Poet thought it was to help her sleep. Maybe it was just the opposite. She was trying to stay with her family.

  “You need to start remembering, Poet,” Jarabec said. “Remembering your dreams.”

  “Well,” Poet started. “This has been a pretty fucking traumatizing evening, so maybe this one will stick.”

  “I am sorry,” Jarabec said. “I’m sorry for all of it. Since your mother never got the chance, I will train you how to be a proper Poet. We’ll start tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” Poet scoffed, annoyed that the Dream Walker would even dangle the possibility of it in front of him, only to make him wait. “I’m ready now.”

  Jarabec held his eyes. “You’re not. I can’t bring you into the dreamscape when you’re this emotional. That’s not where you start.”

  “Look,” Poet started. “I’m perfectly capable of—”

  There was a loud smash of a dish hitting the floor and Poet jumped, dissolving the rest of his sentiment. A group of soldiers were stalking through the dining room in his direction, their heavy boots clanking and the dishware rattling as they bumped tables unapologetically. Poet jumped up from his seat, terrified, until he realized they were wearing red armor—not black. These were Dream Walkers.

  “Christ,” Jarabec muttered under his breath, without looking back at them. He drained the last of his wine and then wiped his hands on his napkin before standing. “Keep in mind what I’ve told you tonight, boy,” he told Poet as he got to his feet. “Now there’s something I must attend to.”

  Poet took a step back as the Dream Walkers arrived at his table. Two men and one woman stood in full armor, helmets in their hands. They looked battle-hardened and cruel. The woman had a scar on her upper lip, pulling it to the side in an eternal sneer. One of the men wore an eye-patch, and when he saw Poet looking at him, he smiled, flashing a gap of missing teeth.

  A handsome, and intimidating, guy stepped forward and he and Jarabec exchanged a greeting. He turned to examine Poet. “This the boy?” he asked in a thick Australian accent.

  “He’s not ready, Flint,” Jarabec replied curtly. Poet could tell he was annoyed to be wearing a suit and tie while his comrades were decked out in gear. Still, Jarabec gave little pause when stepping in front of him to block the other Dream Walkers’ view.

  “I say we take him into the woods,” Eye-patch called out, “and beat it out of him.” He smiled again and the woman next to him laughed.

  “Don’t look so scared, darling,” she told Poet in a British accent. “We’d never hurt that pretty face.”

  He knew her, Poet realized suddenly, only she looked quite different in the Waking World. She was the woman who arrived the other night while he was working as a doorman. The red dress and the accent.

  “Yes, I know,” she said, reading his reaction. “I am much lovelier in person.” She took a step forward, and Jarabec held out his hand to stop her from getting any closer to Poet. She sighed, and looked at him impatiently, reaching to adjust his tie. “Come now, Jarabec,” she whispered. “Remember that I know where you sleep.”

  “And I, you, Camille,” he said calmly. “Shall we take this to the Waking World?”

  Camille continued adjusting his tie and then they stared intently at each other, as
if waiting for the other to throw a punch.

  “Enough you two,” Flint said, grabbing Camille’s arm to pull her back a step. “Jarabec,” he continued, “we need him now. We lost two Dream Walkers tonight in the Dark End. REM’s soldiers are laying waste to the city there. We think REM might be there. Poet is our only chance to surprise him.”

  Jarabec stiffened, but didn’t move from his protective position. “I, of all people, understand what the Night Stalkers are capable of,” he said in a low growl. “The boy is not ready. He doesn’t have control. You will only send him to his doom. I suggest—”

  “What the fuck is going on here?” an angry voice called. Poet looked over to see Molly pushing her way past the tables toward them, the elegance of her dress doing little to disguise her fury. “Get out, now!”

  Poet was kind of impressed that she didn’t seem even the least bit intimidated. They, on the other hand, shifted and glanced at each other.

  Molly continued towards them, apologizing to guests on her way, her expression flipping from professional to furious depending on whom she was looking at. When she got to their table, she marched directly up to Flint, even though he towered over her.

  “Have you lost your mind?” she demanded. Flint smiled politely, but Molly slapped the armor on his chest, making him take a step back. “I swear to Christ,” she growled, “I will put you down right now.”

  “Relax, Molly,” he said. “We just wanted to see the boy.”

  “Well, that’s wonderful,” she mocked. “But wearing armor in the lobby? Do you want everyone to know that you’re here, Flint?”

  “They’re just dreamers,” Eye-patch said, pushing forward to stand in front of her, leaning against the table. “The Night Stalkers can’t get here—we’re not in the Dream World. Now, why so much anger?” he asked. “Sounds to me like Marshall isn’t taking care of you like he should.”

  In a blur of movement, Molly grabbed a steak knife off the table and stabbed it through the Dream Walker’s hand, securing him to the table. He screamed and Molly leaned in, pausing near his ear. “I suggest you rethink your tone, Skillet, before I poke out your other fucking eye.”

  Skillet began to wiggle the knife back and forth, hissing out his pain as it cut further into his hand. When he finally yanked the knife out with a sucking sound, he tossed it on the table, holding his arm close to his chest and backing away. Molly steadied her gaze on Flint.

  “You know the rules,” she told him. “I don’t give a fuck what you do out there,” she pointed in the direction of the front door. “But in here, we keep it calm. The Lucid Dreamers come in, have a drink, and go about their night elsewhere. This is a gateway, not a battle-ground. We don’t frighten them here. We’ve already lost the subway to a new Night Terror.” She glanced at Poet, reminding him that it was his Night Terror. “Let’s not draw others here.”

  Flint tightened his jaw, but ultimately, he held up his hands in apology. “Next time I’ll wear the tux,” he said.

  “Yes, you will,” Molly said, smiling pleasantly. “Now take your friends and get out. Marshall will be informed.”

  Skillet sneered at the mention of Marshall’s name and it was clear they were more afraid of Molly than him. With one more studying glance at Poet, the Dream Walkers began to leave the room. Flint stopped and turned to glance back at Jarabec. “You coming?” he asked him.

  Jarabec opened his mouth to respond, but ended up looking to Molly for the answer.

  “Go,” she said, waving her hand. “Your suit looks like shit anyway. I’ll watch the boy.” Poet assumed she was talking about him, and he wasn’t sure if he should be offended that she thought he needed a babysitter or grateful that she got the other Dream Walkers out of his face.

  “Get some rest,” Jarabec told Poet. “Because tomorrow, you’re going to get your ass kicked.” He offered him a crooked smile and then slipped his hands into the pockets of his suit pants and left the restaurant.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Poet waited as Molly spoke to several guests, assuring them that everything was fine. By the time she returned, Poet could see her patience had worn thin, and she beckoned him to follow her into the kitchen and out of sight.

  “We have rules for a reason,” Molly said, pushing through the swinging door and nearly hitting a waiter with a tray. He apologized. “We keep up appearances because seeing soldiers causes fear, and fear attracts Night Terrors. We’ve operated from this location for over a hundred years, and do you know how?” She turned to look at Poet.

  “Uh…rules?”

  “Exactly,” she said, holding up a finger. They continued through the kitchen, the smoke of cooking steaks on the grill and the steam of boiling water hanging in the air, and exited out the back and into a narrow hallway. “Now I’m sure Jarabec filled you in on some history,” she said, walking beside Poet. His grief about his parents’ death threatened to bubble up, but he tried to focus on her words instead. “But let me explain a bit more,” Molly continued. “We are currently housing eight Dream Walkers, which is more than we usually have. Since the incident four years ago, we have to be careful. They’re here to see you, Poet, both here and in the Waking World.”

  Poet looked sideways at her, not sure how to respond. Should he be flattered? Terrified?

  “Marshall and I can barely keep them in check,” she said, getting to the end of the hallway and turning to a single elevator with a rusted steel door. She walked up to it and paused, spinning to look at Poet.

  “So where is Marshall?” Poet asked. “Shouldn’t he be the one kicking the other Dream Walkers out?”

  Molly laughed. “No,” she said. “You’ll never see Marshall here because he doesn’t dream. It’s a requirement for those who run the Eden. That way, they can’t be taken over in the dreamscape. Can’t be compromised by REM at any time.” She shot an apologetic look at Poet and he hated that she knew about his mother. That they all probably knew.

  “Why are they all scared of you?” Poet asked.

  “Because I’m a badass bitch,” she said with a smile. “Obviously.” Poet laughed and Molly turned back to the elevator and placed her finger over a button, letting it read her print.

  The doors slid open. The smell of smoke and metal wafted out of the elevator, and Poet glanced behind Molly to check out the interior. There were no mirrors, and the walls had dents, some of them people-shaped.

  “I have to run,” she said, stepping inside the elevator. “I trust you can find your way back to the lobby?”

  Poet nodded that he could, but Molly reached out suddenly to stop the elevator doors from closing. She fixed Poet with an intense gaze. “They want you to join them, you know,” she said, studying his reaction. “Not just as the Poet. They want you to be a Dream Walker, like your mother.” There was a touch of concern in her voice, and Poet tilted his head questioningly.

  “Would that be a bad thing?” he asked, thinking that although the Dream Walkers were assholes, they were also cool.

  Molly flinched. “Do you think this life would be easy?” she asked. “Being afraid to fall asleep, and feeling your soul actually wearing away. Wondering if you’ll ever wake up. For us, every day is a nightmare. Whether we’re asleep or awake.” Fondness crossed her features. “I would think it a shame to lose you to that, Poet. But I guess only you can decide what you’ll become. I’ll see you in the morning.” And with that, the elevator doors closed and Molly was gone.

  Poet took his time wandering back to the lobby. He stopped in the kitchen and was treated to a leaning tower of cream puffs and fizzy white wine, the taste more palatable than what he’d had with Jarabec.

  Once in the lobby, Poet headed toward the desk to chat up one of the girls. Just as he got there, the front door opened, letting in a breeze. Poet glanced over, and saw Samantha Birnam-Wood walk inside the lobby. She was wearing her everyday clothes and a simple braid, out
of place among the dreamers in cocktail dresses and suits, and yet more lovely than any of them. Poet wasn’t sure how she’d gotten here, but once again, he was drawn to her—a magnetic pull in her direction.

  Poet grinned, unable to hide the fact that he was elated that Sam was there. He’d fallen hard, he knew that, but he didn’t really care. He was greedy for every moment with her. How easily she makes me forget, he thought. How easily I can forget.

  Samantha came over, nodding to the pretty desk clerk. The girl hesitated and then left to go into the backroom. Sam ran her gaze slowly over Poet’s suit and pursed her lips as if processing a thought.

  “What?” Poet asked her.

  “Oh, nothing,” Sam replied. “Just wondering if I interrupted something.” She motioned toward the missing desk clerk, holding back her smile.

  “Me and her?” Poet asked innocently. “Well, I didn’t borrow her pen if that’s what you’re really asking.”

  Samantha laughed, and Poet stepped up to take her hands in his, looking down at her. Intoxicated by how close she was.

  “You’re fancy again,” Sam said.

  “That’s because I’ve missed you,” he told her. Of course he hadn’t been expecting her at all, but he was sure she knew every time he was bending the truth. She didn’t seem to mind that he was trying too hard.

  “I missed you, too,” she said. “You didn’t remember me, you know, at school today. I told you to remember me when you woke up and you didn’t.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “I know. That’s why I’m here, actually. I promised I’d help you start remembering,” she said. “I figured you could tell me everything, and then when you wake up, I’ll give you back the memories. It’s foolproof.”

  This girl, Poet thought. He couldn’t resist, he reached for her hand and gently pulled her closer. “You are so smart,” he whispered.