Poet Anderson ...Of Nightmares

by Tom DeLonge

  Jonas raged. Without another thought, he rushed Dan. He didn’t care what happened to him. His sneaker slipped in the mud, but Jonas was fast and he was nearly to the linebacker when Samantha called out for him to stop. Jonas didn’t get a chance. Before he reached his opponent, Dan’s fist shot out—and knocked Jonas straight into the Dream World.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The subway car swayed, shaking Poet back and forth as the train came into focus around him. At first he thought it was empty, but then he saw Sketch sitting in the back, foot up on the seat as he picked at his nails. He looked up and grinned broadly.

  “Holy shit,” he called out. “Poet Anderson. Where the hell have you been, man? Gunner’s going to be so mad he missed you. It’s been pretty tough explaining your absence when the fool doesn’t even know he’s dreaming. Can you believe that? A Lucid Dreamer who doesn’t even know when he’s dreaming.”

  “Where have I been?” Poet repeated to himself. He was momentarily disoriented, and he reached up to touch his cheek. It hurt. He studied Sketch, and then his memories in the Dream World flooded back to him. “I have to find Jarabec,” he said. “I need to know how to defeat my Night Terror.”

  “Uh…” Sketch lifted his eyebrows. “Are you talking about the monster that chased us the other day? Because if you are, maybe we need to rethink our goals here.”

  Poet laughed, and just as he was about to explain, there was the hiss of the slowing train.

  Poet watched the subway platform as it came into view. His chest seized when he realized three Dream Walkers were standing there, waiting. Sketch jumped up, grabbing the pole for balance, and used his other hand to point out the window.

  “I’m guessing they’re here for you?” he asked quietly, not taking his eyes off the Dream Walkers.

  Dream Walkers are the good guys, Poet tried to remind himself. Jarabec was a Dream Walker. They wouldn’t hurt them. At least he didn’t think so. “Those are Dream Walkers,” Poet said. He smiled at Sketch. “Is it wrong if I hope they’re here for you?”

  “Yes,” his friend responded, swallowing hard.

  The Dream Walkers were wearing full-armor, looking like jagged red scars against the white subway tiles. The train doors slid open, and Poet and Sketch watched as they boarded the train, their boots clanking heavily on the floor.

  Poet caught his own refection in the window and saw he was wearing his black suit, bowler hat on his head. He didn’t even have to think about it anymore. Maybe this was his armor.

  The three Dream Walkers came to stand uncomfortably close to Poet and Sketch, their faces hidden behind the helmets. Poet could hear them breathing, but they said nothing.

  The subway doors closed and Poet and Sketch held onto the bar to keep their balance as the Dream Walkers swayed with the movement, silent and too close. If Poet wasn’t a little scared, he’d probably find the entire scene hilarious.

  The moments dragged on, and Sketch looked over at Poet, darting his eyes between him and the Dream Walkers as if it was his responsibility to start polite conversation.

  “How’s it going tonight?” Poet asked. “You’re all looking pretty tough.”

  No answer.

  Poet glanced at Sketch, and his friend leaned forward, smiling awkwardly. “Heading to Genesis?” he asked. “Because there’s a Thai place that—”

  One of the Dream Walkers turned suddenly toward Sketch, silencing him. He gulped and murmured something about Poet being on his own and returned to his seat along the windows. Once he was gone, all of the Dream Walkers stared at Poet.

  “Listen guys—” he started.

  One of the Dream Walkers reached up and snapped a button on the helmet, pulling it off in a fluid movement. “Guys?” Camille said. “That’s awfully sexist of you to assume.” She smiled, and her scar hitched up her lip in a grotesque way.

  The other Dream Walkers took off their helmets, and Poet recognized them from the hotel when he was with Jarabec. Eye-Patch—Skillet—was the first to laugh.

  “Scared you, huh, tiny Poet?” he called. “We was just fucking with you. Wanted to know if you’d…” He shook his hand in the air as if he could create something. Poet thought Skillet had the imagination of, well, a skillet, so he didn’t bother to explain he was doing it wrong.

  Flint didn’t smile, though. He was still standing close, examining Poet as if the boy were about to do something interesting. Poet shrugged, silently asking what he expected.

  “Why didn’t you make a gun?” Flint asked. “Why weren’t you protecting yourself? Your friend?” He nodded his chin at Sketch who was making an effort to be as unnoticeable as possible.

  “Because I didn’t need it,” Poet said. “I knew you weren’t here to hurt me.”

  Camille chuckled and then put her hand over her mouth as if trying to hold it back. Skillet just kept grinning like he was in on a joke Poet hadn’t heard yet. Flint didn’t seem to like his answer.

  “That so?” he said calmly, the sort of calm that is deeply unsettling. “Then it seems we were wrong about you, after all.” He looked back at the other two Dream Walkers and they smiled. “We’re getting off at the next stop, Poet,” he said. “We’re going to have a little fun tonight.”

  Only the way he said it sounded like it was the opposite of actual fun. “Yeah, no thanks,” Poet said. “I’m supposed to meet Jarabec, and—”

  “Jarabec’s in transit,” Camille replied. “Why do you think he wasn’t the one to meet you here? You showed up…rather unexpectedly. Don’t worry. We won’t let anything happen to you.”

  “Trust me,” Flint said. “You’ll love this.”

  “Somehow I doubt that,” Poet murmured, and checked over his shoulder for Sketch.

  “Come on, tiny Poet,” Skillet said with a laugh. “You’re not scared of hanging out with the big boys are you?”

  “And he uses the term ‘big’ figuratively,” Camille said, earning a hard shove.

  “Look,” Flint said, glancing at Sketch with a fair bit of annoyance. “You can even bring your friend. He’ll probably like it, too.”

  “That’s okay,” Sketch called, waving his hand. “I can join in your Dream Walker fun next time. I—”

  “Look,” Flint said, leaning his shoulder against the railing so that his face was only inches from Poet’s. “You’re both coming with us, willingly on not. I’d rather not break your friend’s arm to prove a point, but if I must…” He smiled at Sketch.

  Poet got the impression he wasn’t bluffing. “Fine,” Poet said. “But you were right—I should have made a gun.”

  Flint’s mouth curved with a smile and he slapped a heavy hand on Poet’s shoulder. “Damn right, you should have,” he said, and squeezed until Poet thought it would bruise.

  The next train stop was nothing like the typical subway platform. It was street level, and as they stepped off, Skillet holding Sketch roughly by the arm, Poet was immediately assaulted with the smell of rotting food and urine. He turned to look over his shoulder at Flint.

  “Yeah, I’m having a blast already,” he said. Flint laughed and nudged him forward.

  They were in the city, although Poet was sure he’d never seen this area before. It was grimy, all darkened storefronts with metal gates closing them in and tattooed people hanging on the corners, studying the Dream Walkers, but not saying anything to them. The technology here seemed less advanced, but parked on the side of the street were three high-tech motorcycles, obviously belonging to the Dream Walkers. From what Poet had seen, only Jarabec drove the one-wheeled monocycle. Poet was about to ask which of these he could use when Camille took him by the jacket and told him to ride with her. He was disappointed—he wanted his own damn bike.

  Camille swung out her long leg and straddled the cycle, moving forward so Poet could climb on behind her. He did, and felt a little awkward at their proximity. She turne
d to look back at him, and he was once again reminded of the gnarly scar marring her face.

  “Can I ask you a question?” he asked tentatively. She nodded, narrowing her eyes as if she already knew what he was going to say.

  “Why don’t you fix your, uh, scar?” Poet asked, motioning to her face. “I’ve seen you in the Waking World, and you don’t have that. Before you get to Genesis, can’t you fix that?”

  “Why would I?” she asked. “I think this is a rather fine badge of courage.” She ran her finger over the jagged scar. “This scar tells Night Stalkers that I have nothing to fear; I have no vanity. None of us do. Dream Walkers shouldn’t cover their scars. We’ve earned them.”

  She turned around and kicked the bike to life. Poet thought about her answer, and wondered how different the other Dream Walkers looked in the Waking World. They could be bankers, schoolteachers, pilots. But here they were warriors.

  Poet looked to the side and saw Sketch on the back of Skillet’s bike, his face a portrait of absolute misery. Poet waved at him, but Sketch just shook his head and turned away. All three Dream Walkers were ready to roll out, and Poet leaned forward.

  “What is this place?” he asked, talking loudly to be heard over the roar of the bike engine.

  “This is the Dark End,” she called back. “Not the kind of place Poets should be running around, but you’re with us, kid. So don’t worry.”

  “What are we doing here?” he asked, a little annoyed at the term “kid.”

  Camille didn’t answer, and the three Dream Walkers rolled their bikes out into the street and swung around. “Better hold on,” she said. And then, before Poet could try to figure out anything else, she blasted them forward and down the street.

  After swerving down several streets and dark alleys, the Dream Walkers came to a stop in front of a tiny building with a group of men hanging out front, puffing on cigars. They were all large and greasy, and some were decidedly altered from human form with thick gullet necks and metal scales on their arms.

  “They’re not all people,” Camille told Poet, grabbing her helmet from where it was stored on the back of the bike. “Some are dreams. All are horrible.” She smiled and slipped on her helmet, any familiarity he felt with her fading behind a black-out mask.

  The Dream Walkers climbed off their bikes, and immediately their Halos came out and started rotating around their bodies. A few of the people standing outside shot them hateful looks, but nobody fucked with them.

  “What the hell?” Sketch said, coming over to grab Poet’s arm. “How did I get mixed up in this? I don’t want to hang out with Dream Walkers—these guys are dicks!” Poet kept his eyes on the soldiers as they talked to a man out front who looked like he was in charge of whatever activity was happening in the building behind him.

  “Poet,” Sketch said, sounding serious. “We have to get out of here. I’ve heard about this place. While you were gone, I heard people on the train talking about it. We’re in the Dark End. It’s full of criminals, and not cool ones. The kind that chop off your fingers for payment.”

  Poet looked sideways at him, and Sketch nodded to emphasize his point.

  “Why would the Dream Walkers bring me here?” Poet asked. “What do they want from me?”

  “Judging by this dream,” Sketch said. “I’d say they want to kill you.”

  Poet darted a look at the Dream Walkers as they argued with the man. At one point, Flint turned to check on him, and Poet held his stare as if letting him know he wasn’t afraid. Poet took a side step toward Sketch, but didn’t look at him.

  “We’re going to steal a bike,” Poet whispered. “And then we’ll—”

  “Poet Anderson,” Flint called, startling him. “You and your friend come here.” He waved them over, and the window of opportunity closed.

  “We’ll be fine,” Poet said, trying to convince himself as much as Sketch. “Just stay close to me.”

  “Yeah, great plan,” Sketch shot back. “If either of us gets killed, I’m going to be so pissed.”

  “And here he is, Felix,” Flint said with a dramatic gesture as Poet stepped up onto the curb and paused in front of the filthy creature that, he saw up close, was not a man. Whatever he was, he was filled with sickness, green boils on his face. He had a thick double neck and a cigar dangling from the corner of his mouth. He yanked it out to smile at Poet.

  “Poet Anderson, huh?” Felix said. “Can’t say I’ve met a Poet before. You must be a stupid one to come around these parts. There’s a price on your head.”

  Poet flashed a concerned look at Flint, but the Dream Walker didn’t acknowledge him.

  “Your friend here,” Felix continued, using his cigar to point to Flint, “says you’re great on a bike. That so?”

  Poet barely had time to learn how to use Jarabec’s monocycle, so this claim was far from true. But Flint was nodding, enthusiastically. “The best,” Flint said, clapping Poet on the shoulder. “So the fix is in. You get a Poet, we get Night Stalkers. Deal?”

  With a quick movement, Poet slapped the Dream Walker’s hand away, taking a step back. Skillet stepped up behind Poet and held him by the upper arms.

  “Where you going, tiny Poet?” he asked. “It’s downright rude to leave a conversation like that.”

  Felix chomped down on his cigar again, looking Poet over from head to toe. “Yeah, all right,” he agreed. “Get him to the stadium.” Flint smiled, and Poet knew he’d been double-crossed.

  He quickly tried to channel his anger and force electricity into his fingers, planning to tunnel his way out. But just as the first sparks hit, there was a swift movement, a sharp pain in the back of his head, and then Sketch screamed for help.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Poet’s head ached as he held onto Camille’s waist. They’d been traveling long enough for Poet to have lost track of the streets, his worry for Sketch outweighing everything else. Flint had taken his friend, after breaking several of his fingers. He promised to do worse if Poet didn’t comply.

  The motorcycle came to a stop, and Camille pulled off her helmet and looked back at him. “You okay?” she asked. “I might have jostled you around a bit. Sorry about your head. Skillet is an idiot sometimes.” She climbed off the bike and then took Poet’s arm to help him to his feet.

  “Where’s Sketch?” Poet demanded. On the ride, Poet had considered trying again to force open a tunnel, but that would have left Sketch behind. He didn’t want to take the risk, especially now that he knew the Dream Walkers were ruthless.

  “He’s waiting at the track,” Camille said.

  Poet looked around, finally getting a view of the scene. The motorcycle was parked at the curb in front of a coliseum. Search lights swung back and forth from the top of the five-story, curved, metal-framed building. But it was what was behind the wall that made Poet’s breath catch. Towering above the highest level was a massive vertical speedway visible from the front. It stretched miles into the sky, through the clouds and cutting in front of the moon. If that was the racetrack, how the hell did riders get back to the ground once they were up that high? It was a straight drop.

  “Come on,” Camille said, pushing him forward. “The others are waiting inside.”

  As they entered the main arches, heading toward the track, there were vendors lining both sides of the walkway. Smoke and gases thickened the air, and the smell of meat filled Poet’s nostrils. He passed a stand with souvenirs, the vendor a blue-skinned girl selling T-shirts. As Poet watched, the images on the shirts changed from a racer, to an image of him in his suit and hat. “Poet Anderson” it read underneath. The vendor smiled at him, and he continued forward, afraid of what was about to happen when he met up with the others.

  Poet and Camille entered the track area through a crowd of anxious fans, some touching Poet affectionately as he passed. In the coliseum, a group of racers were already on the trac
k, kneeling next to crazy-looking bikes as they tuned them and prepared.

  “What the hell are those?” Poet asked, pointing.

  “Gravity-bikes,” Camille said loudly. “And they’re dangerous as hell.”

  The gravity-bikes were sleek, glowing, two-wheeled motorcycles with low seats and even lower handlebars. The rider would lean forward, almost like they became part of the bike. Poet didn’t understand how they worked and he didn’t really care to find out.

  Camille tugged on his sleeve and turned him toward the area where the other two Dream Walkers were standing with Sketch. Sketch looked terrified and in pain, holding his wrist to himself as he stood next to Skillet.

  Felix walked up to the group, staring at Poet with a bunch of betting tickets clutched in his meaty fist. “You’re in the first race, kid,” he told Poet. “And then,” Felix turned to the Dream Walkers, “you’ll get your Night Stalkers. I’ve already got their location.”

  “The ones I specifically mentioned?” Flint asked, leaning in.

  “Yes, yes,” Felix said impatiently, and reached out his hand.

  “Then we have a deal.” Flint glanced at Felix’s outstretched hand, opting not to shake it. Flint walked over and handed Poet his helmet. “Let’s see what you can do, kid,” he said with a handsome smile, as if Poet wanted to be here.

  “I don’t…what’s going on?” Poet asked. “Why in the world would I do this race?”

  Flint’s smile faltered, and he leaned his mouth near Poet’s ear to whisper. “Because I know what you’re really after, Poet. You’re trying to find your brother, and these clowns know where he is. You just need the right currency.”

  He straightened and Poet stumbled back a step with the deep heaviness of realization. Alan was here. His brother was in the Dream World, after all. Before he could even accept that, Flint was talking again.