by Tom DeLonge
Next to him, William’s face hung at a strange angle, his jaw broken. Blood began to pour from his nose and REM stopped, blinking quickly as if he was losing consciousness, too. REM growled and began clawing at his own face. “No,” he said, his fingernails tearing through the flesh. “It was supposed to last longer.”
Jonas’s vision was blurred and he grabbed onto the bed, trying to pull himself up. His legs felt like bags of sand and the furthest he could get was to his knees, all while clutching the blankets. He looked at William’s body and saw him gasping for air, his host body failing him. Jonas’s eyes slid shut and there was a loud thwack. He forced his eyes open and saw William face down on the floor with Sam standing over him, a fire extinguisher clutched in her hands. Her chest heaved as she turned to Jonas, clearly shocked at what she’d done.
Jonas let go of the blanket and fell to the floor, trying to crawl but not strong enough. He flattened out, pressing his cheek on the cool tile. William’s body was dead near him, a horizontal gash cut through his temple.
“Oh, my God,” Sam said. She slipped her arms under Jonas’s shoulders and dragged him out from the side of the bed into the open space. She got down on her knees, checking him over. Her fingers tickled his neck where he’d been injected. “What can I do?” Sam asked, sounding frantic. “How do I stop this?”
Jonas was fading fast, heading toward the Dream World where his Night Terror would be waiting. He stared up at Sam, the edges of his vision going black and closing in. “Stay awake,” Jonas whispered. “Don’t go into the dreamscape. Promise me.”
Before he could hear her answer, black dots blotted out the rest of his sight. He was falling into the dreamscape and in his last second of consciousness, Jonas thought of Jarabec. He needed to find his Dream Walker.
Chapter Twenty-Two
There was a loud whoosh and a darkened street came into focus. Poet was standing in the shadows of an alleyway. He looked down and saw he was wearing his suit, his umbrella clutched in his hand. There was a blur of movement past the entrance, and then a man in red armor flew back about ten feet, smashing into the side of a brick building. Dust puffed out around him when he hit the pavement. Poet blinked quickly, trying to get a sense of where he was, who he was with.
“What the hell were you thinking?” a voice growled just out of his line of sight. “You could have gotten him killed!”
“It was a race, Jarabec. I didn’t know the Night Terror would show up. He had it won.” Flint sat on the ground with his knees bent and swiped the back of his hand across his bloody lip. Jarabec came forward, the glow on the planets casting the scene in soft orange light. The Dream Walkers were too caught up in their fight to notice Poet standing there.
“He is a Poet,” Jarabec said, stalking toward Flint as he quickly pulled himself up from the pavement. “Not a soldier.”
Flint got in his face. “Well that would be his choice, now wouldn’t it?” Flint said, taller than Jarabec, and yet less impressive in comparison. “If you would have told me how close the Night Terror was to devouring him, I might have rethought it,” Flint said, “but you’re the one who’s been keeping secrets, Jarabec.” Flint pushed him back a step, and his Halo shot out. In a blur of movement, Jarabec’s Halo rose and the two collided in a thunderous sound that echoed through the dreamscape. While the Halos rotated, banging painfully together, Jarabec threw another punch, connecting with Flint’s jaw and dropped him to the ground.
Flint’s Halo quickly followed, circling him to stop Jarabec from getting closer. “You can’t protect him from it,” Flint said, pushing himself up by his arms. “He isn’t like the last one.”
“No, I’m not,” Poet said, stepping out into the light. Both men turned, and Flint quickly hid his surprise. Jarabec, on the other hand, looked completely guilt-stricken. His Halo disappeared into his suit.
“What are you doing here, boy?” he asked. “You shouldn’t be in the Dark End.”
“I was looking for you,” Poet said, walking into the middle of the street. He glanced around, but the neighborhood looked abandoned. “Where is everyone?” Poet asked.
“Skipped out,” Flint said with a shrug. “You won the race, kid. Nice work. Now we just have to track Felix down to collect.”
Jarabec turned to him fiercely. “He’s not ready,” he snapped.
Poet didn’t care that he won the race. The terror of what had just happened to him in the Sleep Center stripped away any joy. “REM found me,” he said.
Jarabec froze, but Flint turned slowly to face him. “In the Waking World?” Flint asked, shooting a glance at Jarabec.
“Yeah,” Poet said. “He showed up at my brother’s bedside in the body of another person. Someone he killed here.”
Jarabec looked at Flint. “Are any Dream Walkers missing?”
Flint slipped a device into his ear and started talking in a hushed tone. After a moment, he turned to Jarabec. “It wasn’t one of ours,” he said. “All Dream Walkers are accounted for.”
“He was a member of a sleep study,” Poet said. “He was a nice guy.” All Poet could picture now was William lying on the floor with a dent in the side of his head.
Flint took a step toward Poet, his boots echoing on the pavement. “Do you think REM cares how nice someone is?” he asked. “Are you really so stupid?”
“Flint,” Jarabec said in warning. Flint held up his hand to Jarabec, but kept his gaze trained on Poet.
“How did you get here tonight, kid?” Flint demanded. “How do we know you didn’t make a deal with that bastard? Wouldn’t be the first time someone turned on us.”
Jarabec jumped forward and pushed Flint, stepping between him and the boy. But Poet waved him off. He wasn’t scared of Flint.
“I can’t wake myself up,” Poet told him. “I can’t tunnel into the Waking World. REM injected me with a sedative and sent me here. Said my Night Terror wouldn’t be far behind.”
At the mention of the Night Terror, both Jarabec and Flint tensed. Jarabec grabbed Poet by the arm and pulled him toward the sidewalk where the cycles were parked.
“Christ,” Jarabec grumbled. “Find the proprietor,” he told Flint, who was already running for his bike. “Get the location and report back to me.”
Flint nodded, and after he climbed on his motorcycle, he looked over at Poet, his expression more thoughtful than he’d seen before. “Take care of yourself, kid,” he said. Poet was so taken aback by the sentiment that he didn’t respond. Flint revved his engine and spun his bike around before rocketing down the street.
Jarabec waited impatiently on his monocycle. Poet stashed his umbrella in the back, and as he rounded the cycle, he noticed new scratches that hadn’t been there before. Blackened scrapes and dented metal.
“I see you’ve been busy,” Poet said.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” Jarabec said.
Poet scoffed. “Uh, I didn’t choose to. Sedative, remember?”
“I mean the other night. You shouldn’t have raced. Shouldn’t have gotten involved. The Dream Walkers don’t have your best interests at heart.”
“Are you saying they want to hurt me?”
“No. But they will use you.” Jarabec shot a cautious glance down the street, as if worried the Night Terror would show up at any moment. “They needed to know what REM had over you, and what he would use to break you. That was what they bargained for: information about you. Not information to help you.”
Poet looked down the street where Flint had just left. “I don’t understand,” he asked. “Why?”
“REM is going to offer you a deal. They may decide to not let you have the chance to take it. That’s why I didn’t want the Dream Walkers to know about your brother. But now they do.”
“I’m not going to make a trade,” Poet said. “I’m going to kill REM.”
“Yes,” Jarabec said, looking over
at him like he was a delusional child. “Other Poets have thought the same. They’ve trusted the wrong people.” Poet knew he was talking about Alexander. “And now,” Jarabec continued, “you’ve involved the girl, too.”
Poet’s shoulders tensed. “What are you talking about?”
“You’ve fallen in love with her, yes?” he asked in an accusing tone. “Which, for all intents and purposes, is the surest way to get her killed.”
“No,” Poet said, shaking his head. “I won’t let anything happen to her. I told her not to come here.”
“You still don’t understand, do you?” Jarabec said. “REM will destroy everything you love. Try and coax you to give him your soul willingly. He will ask you to give your life for hers. But you cannot trust him. In the end, he will destroy her. He’ll destroy Alan. REM will take everything from you, just like he took your parents.”
“I would never willingly give him my soul, so he’s mistaken,” Poet said defiantly. “I can protect them.”
“Yes, Poet,” Jarabec said, turning away and kicking his cycle to life. “You are, indeed, just like your mother. But you’ll learn. One way or another, you’ll learn just how terrible REM can be.”
Poet watched the back of Jarabec’s head, sensing the emotions causing his warning. “And what did he take from you?” Poet asked.
Jarabec didn’t flinch. Instead he revved the engine. “My wife,” he said. Poet’s lips parted in an apology, but the Dream Walker didn’t turn. Although Poet had only known Jarabec for a short while, he admired him. Respected him.
“How did…” Poet trailed off, knowing it was rude to ask how she died. Jarabec stared down the empty street, as if lost in a thought.
“My wife wasn’t a Dream Walker,” Jarabec said. “She was unaccustomed to the type of pain REM could inflict. We were young and foolish. The Night Stalkers found Magdalena in a shop here, in the Dark End of Genesis. They dragged her out into the streets.” Jarabec turned back, his jaw tight as the color drained from his face. “They played her murder over and over on the telescreens.” He pointed up to the blank jumbo screen attached to the side of a building. “It was a warning for any who defied REM. But if he’d hoped it would bring me toward him, it only changed my mission.”
“I’m sorry,” Poet said, knowing it wasn’t enough.
“I was the strongest of the Dream Walkers then,” Jarabec continued. “But after Magdalena’s death, I decided that I wouldn’t just protect the dreamscape from the Night Stalkers, I would ultimately bring about REM’s destruction. I would devote my life to do it. I knew I had to find a Poet, with a soul brighter than any Dream Walker’s. A capacity for light that REM would not be able to defeat.”
“I don’t understand,” Poet said. “Why am I so important if there are other Poets?”
“Because you’re the only Poet here,” he said. “Perhaps it’s because you don’t understand the real danger you’re in. Perhaps you’re braver than they were. Now all the Poets are either dead or scattered, hidden in the wind. Out of our reach. Out of REM’s. One day, you’ll understand. You will have a choice whether or not to join them in that course, Poet Anderson. But today is not that day.”
Jarabec scanned the boy with his gray eyes. “Now,” he said. “We must go. If REM sent you into the dream, I imagine he’s already figured out your location.”
Above them, the colors of the skyline changed, casting dark shadows on the street. Poet looked up and found the telescreen streaming their image, fifty feet high. Jarabec cursed under his breath and Poet quickly climbed on the monocycle. They’d found him.
Jarabec twisted the throttle, lifting his black boots from the pavement as the monocycle shot forward, nearly knocking Poet off the back. People began to walk out of the closed shops, glancing up at the telescreens, murmuring their excitement. For a moment, Poet hated them. This was a sport to them, just like the Death Races.
“You’d better get ready, boy,” Jarabec called over the roar of his cycle. “Every one of the people in this part of town would pay good money to watch you get torn apart by your Night Terror.”
Poet didn’t know exactly how he’d get ready, but at the thought of the Night Terror, there was a snap of electricity through his body. He could feel everything around him—the people they passed, the lights in the sky, the buzz of the telescreens. Poet was sucking in the energy like a magnet.
Jarabec took a sharp turn, the cycle zooming down the street, exiting the Dark End toward the metropolis. The bridges stretched overhead, dozens of them with levitating cars. People were crowding the sidewalk, watching Poet and Jarabec pass as if they were part of a damn parade.
“The Night Terror’s close,” Jarabec yelled. Poet looked at the telescreens and saw his monster tearing through the area of the Dark End that they’d just left. At one point, the creature snapped up a person, chomping them in half before roaring and then galloping down the street in the direction the monocycle was headed.
The fear crawled up Poet’s throat, threatening to strangle him. A vibration started in his fingers. There was a crackle and a spark as the electricity worked its way through his veins, over his skin, until it burned his eyes. Poet let the pain have him. His eyes turned white as electricity powered his body. His fear lessened. He stretched his arm in front of him, fist clenched, tried to create a tunnel. Nothing happened. He thought the Thorazine REM had given him was preventing him from tunneling out.
There was a deep roar. Poet glanced behind him and saw the Night Terror galloping towards them. The creature had become faster, gaining on them as Jarabec darted in and out of traffic.
The Dream Walker cursed, and then cranked the throttle on the monocycle; the world around them slowed before they exploded forward, blurring out everything else. Poet’s stomach dropped as the sense of weightlessness came over him. He hung on with both hands.
They entered Genesis and the lights were impossibly bright around them, flashing and noisy as streams of reds, blues, and golds rushed past. Poet wondered if the telescreen still projected their image, or if they were going too fast. He looked ahead on the street and saw a tunnel coming up.
The cycle entered the concrete cylinder in a blur, but trapped with other vehicles, Jarabec had to slow down as he cut through the middle of traffic. Poet saw the surprised looks on the faces of drivers as they recognized him. Some even waved. Awkwardly, he waved back.
“This is no good,” Jarabec yelled. “You’re going to have to deal with your Night Terror.”
Poet heard the roar at the back end of the tunnel, followed by the high-pitched screech of metal on metal. Poet spun and saw the Night Terror crushing cars on its way toward him.
“Here,” Jarabec said, reaching into his jacket. “Use this.” He pulled out a long-barrel gun and held it out. “Although I’m not sure it can pierce its scales.”
Poet grabbed the gun, noting how heavy the metal was in his hand. He turned and trained his aim on the Night Terror’s head. The minute he heard the chamber click, Poet pulled the trigger and his arm kicked back, sending the gold-tinged laser in the direction of the monster. It struck the beast in the shoulder, missing its intended target, and Poet gnashed his teeth and steadied his arm.
“Hurry!” Jarabec yelled. “We’re running out of road!”
Poet couldn’t get a clear shot, though. He spun around on the cycle so that he was facing backwards to get a better look at the monster. He used his free hand to hold on, and then closed one white eye to aim. “There you are,” he whispered, and fired.
The beast anticipated him this time, and surged up the wall, claws digging into the concrete as it flipped itself around, landing close enough to take a swipe at the monocycle, barely missing Poet. But the wind it created knocked the gun from his hand and it clanged on the pavement and disappeared behind them.
“Damn it,” Poet muttered. He leaned his head back. “Jarabec, we have a serious
problem.”
“Yeah, no shit,” the Dream Walker retorted. “Look.” He nodded ahead, and Poet spun around and followed his line of vision. The tunnel ended and the road beyond it was just air and a big drop, meant for vehicles that could fly. But more concerning, there were about a half dozen Night Stalkers lining its opening.
The Night Stalkers’ Halos began to revolve rapidly in anticipation. Jarabec leaned back on the monocycle to pull off his jacket, and the helmet slid up from his armor. His Halo shot out, circling Poet. The boy furrowed his brow, thinking that the Halo should circle them both, not just him. There was a gust of wind behind him, and Poet turned just as the Night Terror missed him, its front right claw severed by the Halo. It whined, pausing only momentarily, before regrouping and running harder at him on a bloody stump.
“Where are the Dream Walkers?” Poet asked. “Can’t they help us?”
“It’s time you start helping yourself, boy,” Jarabec said. “We lost three Dream Walkers last time they helped you on that bridge. They’re not quick to jump to your aid anymore. Not until you show them what you can do.”
“I don’t even know what I can do.”
“Not yet.”
As they approached the end of the tunnel, Jarabec yelled for Poet to put his head down. They sped up, climbing the side of the wall to avoid traffic. There was a hail of bullets and lasers. The loud metallic echo of metal against the Halo. A shot grazed Poet’s shoulder and he winced, but kept his head down, looking back at the Night Terror. It couldn’t keep up, leaving a trail of blood behind itself. But it was clear it wasn’t giving up—it seemed to know something they didn’t.
And then, the monocycle was airborne.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The monocycle flew out of the tunnel, dropping Poet and Jarabec toward a low bridge that was cut into a space that used to be the ground. Now it was filled with bridges, the Earth hollowed out and the core glowing hot and red beneath it.