by Tom DeLonge
“What is this?” Jonas whispered, afraid to talk too loudly. In the corner, he noticed movement, and Molly stood and came toward him. Her normally formal appearance was stripped away. Her white shirt wrinkled and untucked, her feet bare.
She glanced around the room. “It looks much nicer in the Waking World,” she said. “It’s a training room in the dreamscape. But you won’t have time to sightsee. You’re going straight in.”
Molly paused and looked him over. “You sure have wreaked havoc here, Jonas,” she said. “From the moment you walked into the Eden Hotel, this place has been going nuts. Hope you’re worth it.”
“I hope I am, too.”
Sympathy passed her features. “Jarabec believed in you. So will I.” She stopped near the edge of one of the empty cots. “Shall we get started?” Molly hung a bag on a metal rail above the bed and held a needle for the IV in her hand.
“I don’t want that,” Jonas said. “It prevents me from tunneling. I have to be fully aware. Just don’t let anyone wake me.”
Molly set the tube aside and stepped back, motioning to the cot. “Well, then,” Molly said. “I guess we’re ready to get started.”
Jonas moved forward, but then Sam wrapped her arms around him from behind. He stopped, holding her forearms and closing his eyes. This was goodbye. They swayed, and then Sam slowly pulled away. Jonas didn’t turn around to look at her—he didn’t think he could. He lay on the cot, staring up at the ceiling. There was energy around him from the other Dream Walkers. It was almost imperceptible, but he felt it. He could feel so much now.
“Jarabec was here, wasn’t he?” Jonas asked, his heart hurting. “Here in the Eden.”
“He was removed a short time ago,” Molly said. “I’m afraid his body has already been transported. How did you know?”
“Because I can still feel him,” Jonas said, closing his eyes.
The room was quiet and soon, he felt the shift. The crossover into the dreamscape. But just before he stepped through, he heard Molly whisper: “See you on the flip side, Poet.”
“Sure thing,” he said, but when he turned his head, Molly was gone. The entire room had fallen away. He swayed back and forth with movement, until he sat up and found himself on the subway. He took in a sharp breath and looked around, smiling when he saw Sketch and Gunner tagging the wall near the back of the train. They looked up, sensing his arrival.
“There you are, fucker!” Sketch called, and reached out to slap Gunner on the back. Both of them let go of their paint cans and the items disappeared before they hit the floor of the train. “Gunner, look,” he said. “Your boyfriend’s finally back!”
“’Bout time,” Gunner said, grinning from ear to ear. “I was looking for a snuggle.” All three boys started cracking up, but then the train started to slow. “This isn’t our stop,” Gunner said, furrowing his brow.
“Nah,” Sketch said. “In fact,” he looked at Poet, “this shouldn’t be a stop at all.” Outside the subway windows the platform disappeared and the city of Genesis reached to the sky, orange and purple horizon behind the clouds. Cars zoomed in a futuristic rush hour, hundreds of people walking the street, hurrying to the next part of their dream. Bridges and tunnels, lights and flashing screens.
“Nope,” Poet said. “We’re definitely not supposed to be here.” His heart sank as he remembered what was really happening. He was here to find REM, but he needed more help. So he’d found his friends. Poet looked sideways at them. The light played over Gunner’s face, his expression set in pleasant surprise, completely unaware of the danger Poet was about to ask him to get involved in. But when Poet glanced at Sketch, he found him waiting, a knowing look on his face.
“How bad?” he asked.
Poet shrugged. “Pretty bad.”
Sketch sucked his teeth, thinking over the statement. “Gravity-bike racing bad, or I’m going to fucking die bad?” he asked.
Gunner turned to them. “Gravity-bikes?” he asked. “That sounds cool.”
Sketch exhaled heavily, and took a step toward Gunner, putting his hand on his shoulder. “I don’t know how to tell you this, dude,” he said, “but this is a dream.” He motioned around the train. “All of this shit has been part of a dream.”
Gunner stared at him for a long moment, and then shook his head. “Yeah?” he said. “Of course it’s a dream. What’s your point?”
“Wait,” Sketch said, lowering his arm. “You knew?”
“I’m not a total idiot,” Gunner said, and laughed, looking at Poet as if this was crazy. “Hell, I thought maybe he didn’t know.” He pointed to Poet.
Sketch curled his lip. “He’s Poet Anderson,” Sketch said.
Gunner shrugged. “Sure, but he’s pretty messed up.”
“Hey,” Poet said.
“Sorry,” Gunner apologized. “But half the time you didn’t know where you were. Then you started disappearing with that old man and you weren’t the same.”
Poet stilled just as the train came to a full stop. “That old man is dead,” Poet said, his voice raspy. “And my brother is…lost. But tonight we’re going to end this. End REM.”
Gunner narrowed his eyes. “REM?” Next to him, Sketch buried his hands in the pockets of his jeans, looking uneasy.
“He’s the bad guy,” Poet said. “He’s cruel, and murderous. And I need your help to destroy him.”
The train doors slid open with a hiss, and the boys filed off the train, smack-dab in the middle of the city. Someone bumped his shoulder walking by, nearly knocking Poet off of his feet. The noise was too much—the roar of engines, the buzz of conversations. It was drilling into his mind.
Poet closed his eyes, trying to compose his thoughts and strengthen his courage. When he heard Sketch laugh next to him, he glanced over to find his friend smiling.
“I was thinking,” Sketch said. “If we’re about to like…take on an army or some shit, should you really be wearing a suit?”
Poet looked down and realized he was in his uniform—a suit and tie, with a bowler hat slightly tipped on his head. He checked over Sketch and Gunner and they were dressed in paint-stained clothes and sneakers. They’d be up against Night Stalkers. Sketch was right.
Poet shifted his eyes, examining the shops. The signs were impossible to read, a different language, like all words in the Dream World. But he searched the windows. There was nothing here in Genesis that could help them.
A group of street kids were laughing and pushing each other while they stood on the stoop of a sky-high apartment building. On first glance, they were human, but then Poet noticed the tattoos on their arms, intricate patterns, glowing with fluorescent ink. As if sensing him, one of the boys turned. His eyes were black, steadied on Poet. The boy tapped the shoulder of one of his friends and after they all looked at Poet, the group took off down the street.
“There’s probably a bounty on my head,” Poet said.
“Then we’d better get out of here,” Sketch responded, his tone weighted with worry. But when he saw Poet wasn’t moving, he swallowed hard. “You wanted them to notice you,” he said.
“Yeah,” Poet admitted. “We’ll have more company soon too, once the Dream Walkers figure out where I am.” Poet glanced up at the telescreen and saw his image, standing in the middle of a mostly deserted street. “Shouldn’t be long.”
“Dream Walkers?” Sketch said. “Ah, fuck. I hate those guys.” He paused. “And girl. Okay, she wasn’t so bad, but the shithead with the missing teeth…” Sketch tapped his front teeth. “Oh, man,” he said. “I hope that guy dies today.”
Poet shot him a disapproving look, and while Sketch relayed the kidnapping for gravity-bike racing story to Gunner, Poet found two parked motorcycles on a side street. They were less high-tech than the Dream Walkers’, but they’d get him where he needed to go.
“We need to head to the Dark End,�
�� Poet told them, starting in the direction of the bikes.
“Hell no,” Sketch said. “We almost got killed last time.”
Poet spun to look at him. “I know, but the Dark End seems to have its own rules. It’s a bad place, but that means we can probably get gear there. So long as we ask the right people.”
Sketch groaned, but relented, pulling Gunner along to follow Poet to the side street with the bikes. “Fine,” Sketch said. “But this time Gunner has to give up a finger for payment.”
Gunner laughed, but then pulled his eyebrows together and looked at Poet. “He’s kidding, right?”
Poet checked both sides of the street and then motioned to the bikes. Without missing a beat, Sketch and Gunner hopped on one and kicked it to life. Poet got on the one next to them, and nodded. Then they tore down the street, and headed for the Dark End of the Dream World.
“Whoa,” Gunner said, shifting his attention away from Sketch. “Nice piece.”
Poet was standing in the back room of Felix’s shop, holding a wide-barreled pistol and checking his aim. Poet had gone to Felix, who, when seeing he wasn’t with the Dream Walkers, reluctantly let him in. Poet only had to promise him unlimited gravity-bike races if he’d help him off the books. He didn’t tell him about the battle, but he had no doubt Felix already knew a war was coming. But the prospect of a Poet in his bike race must have been enough to win him over.
Felix had an entire back room dedicated to weaponry and armor, which he kept hidden behind a wall of rotting beef and glowing vials of tattoo ink. But on the other side, guns were laid out like puzzle pieces forming a picture of destruction.
From behind him, Poet heard a loud click. He turned and saw Gunner holding a sawed-off shotgun. His friend cackled out a laugh. “Sweet, right?” Gunner said, swinging it around and making everyone in the room duck. “Sorry!” he called, waving a hand at them. Then he stuck his tongue between his teeth, nodding at the gun as if it was the most amazing thing he could have found.
“They have lasers,” Sketch told him, unimpressed. “This isn’t The Walking Dead.”
Gunner gave him a dirty look, but Poet thought the gun was fine. Truth be told, he knew they were outmatched in every way. If the shotgun made Gunner feel better about the whole thing, then so be it.
There was a rumble of engines outside the store, and the three boys immediately turned to each other. Poet had no idea if the sound would be Dream Walkers or Night Stalkers. And at this point, he wasn’t sure it would make much of a difference.
“Grab your stuff,” Poet said, opening the wall and stepping into the store. He only had a pistol, but he knew his bargaining chip with REM would have nothing at all to do with firepower.
The three boys walked out onto the street, Felix closely following behind them, cursing between puffs of his cigar.
“There,” Gunner said, pointing down one of the streets. The lights on the building flickered and then the brick siding turned into another telescreen, broadcasting the motorcycles, announcing the dozen or so Dream Walkers, in full gear, heading in their direction. Trailing behind them was an armored tank, hovering off the ground with blue engine lights and double-barreled cannons on its roof.
“Aw, Christ,” Felix grumbled, throwing his cigar to the sidewalk. He rushed back inside and then a metal door clanged down over the building, shutting it off from the outside world.
Gunner swallowed hard and leaned his head toward Poet, keeping his eyes on the telescreen. “So…they’re the good guys, right?” Gunner asked.
“Not exactly sure how to answer that,” Poet responded. “But right now they’re all we have.”
Poet turned and saw that Sketch had changed his clothes, now decked out in a bulletproof vest, his fists coated in metal from a container in Felix’s back room. Although he could still open and close his fists, Sketch’s skin was now heavy and metallic. Poet scrunched up his nose as if asking what he was thinking, but Sketch flashed a crooked smile.
“Those things above their shoulders,” Sketch said. Poet looked and saw the Halos protecting the Dream Walkers as they rode.
“Halos,” Poet said.
“Yeah, those. If the Night Stalkers have them, no way a bullet’s gonna get past it. It’s hand-to-hand, fuckers. I want to make sure my punch hurts.”
“That’s smart,” Gunner said, looking regretfully at his shotgun.
Sketch walked over and clapped a heavy hand on Gunner’s shoulder, making him fall forward a step. “It’s all right,” Sketch said. “I’ve got your back, friend.”
The streets began to vibrate as the Dream Walkers approached, the noise of their cycles deafening.
Dust kicked up as the motorcycles entered their corner, the tires squealing as they came to a stop in front of Poet. They stayed at a distance, though, their helmets closed so he could only see his face reflected back at him. Poet tilted his head, examining them, trying to guess their feelings about trying to help him. About putting their lives in danger to do so.
One of the Dream Walkers stood up from his bike and his Halo shot forward, circling Poet, studying him. When the Halo returned, the Dream Walker lifted the visor on his helmet.
“We’re not here for you, Poet Anderson,” Flint announced, his eyes narrowed. “We’re here to avenge Jarabec. Here to take down REM. If you don’t come through, if I suspect for even a second that you’re going to make a deal with that demon…” He paused, lifting his chin. “The Sleep Center has been advised to terminate Alan’s life.”
A rush of rage crashed through Poet’s chest and he felt his skin heat up. He was quiet for a moment, but he wasn’t thinking over Flint’s threat. He was trying to control the dark energy that wanted to pour out of him and destroy them all.
“I thought you said they were the good guys,” Gunner muttered from next to Poet.
A few of the Dream Walkers shifted uncomfortably, and Poet put his gun inside his jacket pocket. “Involving Alan won’t be necessary,” he said to Flint, letting his anger burrow deeper inside him. “I’m here until the end,” Poet continued. “Whatever that end is.”
Flint’s Halo returned to the spot over the Dream Walker’s shoulder, but he stayed back several yards. “Someone like you,” he said. “A Poet who has beaten his Night Terror…you’re different. We don’t yet understand your limits. And either way, your tunneling puts us all at risk. There would be no safe place from you. How can we get a guarantee that you won’t switch sides?”
“Because REM killed my parents,” Poet responded.
“Poor baby,” Skillet called from behind Flint, his helmet in his hands. “We all lost our mamas, boy. REM won’t stop until he either convinces you or kills you. I’m saying we don’t need that risk. I’d rather just kill you myself.”
As if proving his point, Skillet took out his gun and fired. The movement was the blink of an eye, but Poet was filled with energy. It made him a blur of movement. Poet spun and felt the laser graze his shoulder before it struck Sketch in the chest, knocking him to the ground.
Sketch gasped, and then looked down at the hole burned into his vest. He glared at Skillet, and Poet moved quickly to help him up. Camille opened her visor and got off her bike, stomping over to punch Skillet in the head.
“You could’ve killed him,” she snapped.
Skillet yelped and knocked her hand away before she could hit him again. “He’s fine,” he said, rubbing the back of his head. “He was wearing a vest.”
“Not him, you idiot,” she said as if Sketch were unimportant. She stood tall, turning to glance around at all the Dream Walkers. “We’re not going to kill the Poet. Not this time.” She turned to Poet, the scar on her face catching the light and turning the gnarled skin silver. “Jarabec had big plans for you,” she said. “I’m going to honor that. You may be useless now, even dangerous, but you have a purpose.” She exchanged a meaningful glance with Flint an
d he nodded before slapping his visor shut. “You’ll find your place, Poet,” she said, straddling her bike. “And maybe then we’ll really have a chance.”
A Dream Walker came up from the back, walking Jarabec’s monocycle that he’d pulled from the back of a Jeep. Poet felt a lump in his throat when he saw his mentor’s possession. The Dream Walker parked the cycle in front of him.
“It’s yours now,” Flint called from where he sat on his motorcycle. “Try not to wreck it.”
Poet reached to take the handle from the Dream Walker before the soldier faded back into the line. Poet ran his hand along the metal of the cycle, nostalgic, scared, lonely.
He thought about Jarabec and tried to find him, as if he could somehow call up his body here, even though he was dead. He couldn’t make him appear though—this was reality. A fucked up reality that Poet had to set right. Jarabec was like a dream that faded slowly, leaving him permanently changed.
Sketch and Gunner grabbed the stolen bikes from earlier, and wheeled them into the street. Gunner stuck his shotgun in the back of his shirt, and Sketch flexed his metal hands before gripping the throttle of his bike.
“Well,” Flint said. “Where to now, Poet? The Night Stalkers aren’t far behind.”
“The Grecian Woods,” Poet said. It seemed fitting to fight in the place his mother died. To avenge her, or…to join her.
Flint was motionless for a moment, and then the Dream Walker relented and kicked his bike to life. “If things start going south,” he said, “you’re dead, kid.”
Poet swallowed hard, but in response, he revved the engine of the monocycle, at home on it as it became a piece of him. Responded to him. And then with a blast, he shot forward, his small, but well-versed army close behind.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Dusk was falling and the woods were dark as the bikes rode in. Poet and the Dream Walkers followed a path into the trees, but the tank hovered just outside the perimeter, sending some soldiers in on foot.