Poet Anderson ...Of Nightmares

by Tom DeLonge

  Poet picked up his umbrella, swinging it around. He started toward REM and the once-terrifying monster seemed smaller now. His power waning. Poet glanced to the side and saw the Night Stalkers had fallen back. The Dream Walkers were huddled together, injured and bleeding. They didn’t stay to make sure Poet lived. They were getting out of there; the battle was over.

  The tall trees rocked back and forth as the wind began to pick up, the tornado growing closer, spitting fire and electricity. Poet smiled and continued toward REM, confident. But the creature laughed, standing his ground. The shrill sound was more than a threat, and Poet and Alan both stopped.

  “What’s so funny, asshole?” Alan asked. “You’ve lost!”

  But Poet sensed that maybe it wasn’t going to be so easy after all. The wind was blowing hard against him, his hair in his eyes as branches and leaves whipped overhead. He was destroying the dreamscape, he realized. What would happen when he did that? What would happen to the people who were still asleep?

  “Alan, wait,” Poet said reaching out to take his brother’s arm. Alan looked back at him, confused.

  “You’d kill all these people, wouldn’t you, Poet?” REM called over the sound of the storm. “You’d do it all to avenge your mother and father. Admit it: you want revenge.”

  “Yeah,” Poet said, nodding. “I sure as hell do.” He didn’t admit how much he wanted it, or that ultimately, he knew he couldn’t destroy other people. He’d have to find another way.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” REM said, smiling. “It’s the same thing all the Poets think. In the end, you all choose to run. Because to end me would be ending them.” He motioned around as if encompassing the entire dreamscape. “There must always be a balance. Can you have that much blood on your hands?”

  “Don’t listen to him,” Alan said, pulling out of Poet’s grip. “He’s just trying to get inside your head. We can end this now.” Alan’s eyes were so blue, so earnest, and back to the hopeful way that Poet had always remembered them.

  “He’s right,” Poet said. “I can feel it. If I destroy him, I destroy all of this.”

  “Then there’s another way,” Alan said. “Of course there’s another way.”

  “Kill them all, Poet,” REM called, antagonizing him. “Destroy the world.”

  “Shut up,” Alan yelled, tossing an angry look back at REM. The storm was getting out of control and Poet’s hair on his arms began to stand on end, his skin felt like it would split from the power underneath it. He’d have to unleash it soon. It was too much. “The greater good,” Alan said, clapping Poet on the back of the neck to bring him closer. “We do this for the greater good. You can control the dreamscape, control this storm. And then we’ll destroy him. Control it, Poet,” Alan said.

  Slowly, as Alan talked him through it, Poet felt the wind lessen. The electricity in the air was fading. He was getting his control back.

  “Do you know what your mother said before I took her soul?”

  Both boys turned to face REM. Poet felt a new tear rip through his chest and strike his heart. Anger exploded, enough to set the trees on fire around the field. The heat was intense and combined with the wind, sent sparks into the air, illuminating everything.

  REM reveled in the destruction. He smiled. “She said, ‘Please don’t take my boys,’” he mimicked. “And the best part of all,” he continued, “is that it only made me want you more. So you can blame your mother for your miserable lives.”

  Alan broke. His normally handsome face twisted in agony, and he rushed REM. Poet yelled for him to stop and tried to grab him, but his sneaker slipped in the mud. He hit the ground, and when he looked up, he found Alan and REM face to face. Only Alan was stiff, REM’s hand clutching and squeezing his neck. Poet scrambled to his feet, but that was when he noticed the blood pouring over his brother’s pant leg.

  The world stilled. REM had Alan on his toes and his metallic hand had extended into knives, buried in Alan’s gut. Alan choked on his breaths, blood spurting between his lips. He clawed at REM’s hand at his throat, and then he reached out and scratched at REM’s face, tearing the flesh from his metallic bones and fragments of yellow skull. The skin fell to the ground in large chunks, and then REM tossed Alan aside in a heap on the grass.

  “Alan?” Poet said quietly, shock making him immobile. He’d just gotten him back. He’d just saved him. “Alan?” he called again, and then Poet started running. He fell to his knees in the crimson mud next to his brother, gathering him in his arms. Forgetting the mission to stop REM. Forgetting the Dream World, and the Waking World. This was his brother.

  At Poet’s distraction, REM began walking toward his retreating Night Stalkers. He was getting away, but Poet didn’t stop him.

  “Alan,” Poet said, brushing his brother’s blond hair off his forehead and using his sleeve to wipe the blood from his mouth. “Please. I can’t…” Poet was breaking down, and the world was reacting to it. The storm thundered above them, lightning splashing the sky in blue and red energy.

  Alan stared up at Poet with the same admiration he always had. That look of reverence reserved only for the most special of moments.

  Poet shook his head, choking back his tears. Again, the rain started to fall in heavy sheets around them. “That fucking rain,” Poet said, making Alan laugh.

  “You can wake up,” Poet told him, desperation pulling at his features. “I can wake you up. You can’t die here. I can’t go back without you. I’ll have to deal with apologies and condolences. I’ll have to be an adult and arrange a funeral.” Poet leaned down and put his face against his brother’s neck. “I can’t do it,” Poet said. “Please don’t make me go through that again.” He closed his eyes.

  The wind was deafening, ripping trees from the ground and swirling above them. When Poet looked, he saw that he and Alan were alone. All alone in this part of the dreamscape, ready to destroy it.

  “There isn’t time,” Alan said, measuring his words. He put his hand on Poet’s cheek, smearing blood with his fingers. “Wake up, Jonas. I won’t make it anyway.”

  But Poet wasn’t going to listen to that bullshit. He’d come too far, fought so hard to get Alan back. Poet put his hand over Alan’s and then set it back on his brother’s chest. He got to his feet and looked around at the scene, at the chaos he was creating.

  He’d wake him up, send Alan back to his body. He could heal. He could live. Poet threw back his head and let himself feel everything. Every moment from scraped knees to broken hearts, from his parents’ death to Alan’s coma. He let himself fear and love and hate. He let himself become consumed.

  For a moment, Poet felt out of his head. Transcended. There was an acute absence of pain, and Poet opened his eyes and saw the portal opening. His lips flinched with a smile, but when he looked down at Alan, his brother’s eyes were closed. His chest still.

  “No,” Poet yelled. The portal grew, the edges breaking apart in response to Poet’s emotional shift. The boy got down and grabbed his brother’s arms, pulling him to his feet. But Alan’s body was limp. “No,” Poet screamed, dragging him toward the portal. “I won’t let you go,” Poet said, shaking his head. He held Alan’s body to his side, and sniffled hard, refusing to believe. “Hang on, brother,” he said. “We’re going home.”

  Poet reached out for the portal and both he and Alan disappeared into the Waking World.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Jonas opened his eyes, momentarily disoriented by the change in scenery. There was a tray ceiling above him, and mahogany crown molding. He saw wallpaper and light sconces. Jonas sat up and found the other cots empty. The room abandoned. He had no idea how long he’d been in the end of his dream.

  “Alan,” Jonas said, jumping to his feet. He looked around, not sure where Alan had ended up, expecting to find him there. But of course Alan’s body was at the Sleep Center. He’d have to go to him, he’d ha
ve to—

  The door opened. Samantha stood, mascara having run and dried under her eyes. Her expression horror-stuck. She started crying the minute she saw him and rushed into the room.

  Jonas held her, unable to let go even after she’d stopped crying. “I love you,” she whispered near his ear over and over. “I love you so much.” Jonas pulled back, swiping his thumbs under her eyes. She was okay. They were both okay.

  “Alan,” he started, but Sam nodded like she already knew what he was going to ask.

  “That’s why I came in. My father just called Marshall. He said Alan’s brain activity spiked. He’s still unconscious, but they’re going to wean him off all the sedatives and see if he wakes up.” She smiled pressing another kiss on his cheek. “You did it,” she said, relieved. “You actually did it.”

  But Jonas’s relief faded. “No,” he said, sitting down on the cot. “I failed them. The Dream Walkers who sacrificed themselves today. Flint and Camille. Skillet.” He swallowed hard, regret bubbling up. “I failed Molly.” Jonas looked up at Sam, tears on his cheeks. “That’s the thing,” he said. “REM got away. He stabbed Alan and I had to wake him up. I had to try.”

  Jonas put his elbows on his knees and hung his head, his fingers in his hair. He’d failed them all. Even if Alan did wake up, and that was a pretty big fucking if, the Dream Walkers would never forgive him.

  “I don’t know how to win this,” Jonas said, running his palm over his face as he looked up at Sam. “I don’t know how to beat REM.”

  Sam stared at him, her expression sympathetic, filled with love. “That’s the thing, Jonas,” she said, her voice quiet. “I think I do.”

  He sniffled, pulling his brows together. “What do you mean?” he asked.

  She shrugged, as if the idea was possibly stupid. “You’re powerful,” she said. “We all saw that. The things you did with the storm, you shouldn’t have been able to. You controlled the dreamscape.”

  “I nearly destroyed the dreamscape,” he said. “I wouldn’t say I had any control over it.”

  “Not on your own,” she said. “But with help, you could.”

  Jonas had no idea where she was going with this. There was no chance the Dream Walkers would ever fight for him again. He saved his brother instead of destroying REM.

  “I know you want to help,” Jonas said. “But—”

  “Not me,” Sam said quickly. She took a step towards him, the mischief returned to her eyes. “But the others.”

  Jonas stood. “Others? Other…Poets?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Don’t you get it? If you could show them how to use their power, together you’d be able to change the dreamscape. Defeat REM once and for all.”

  “Sam,” Jonas said, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t even know where to start looking for…”

  The door to the suite swung open, and the handle smacked against the back of the wall and crumbled the plaster. A tall boy stood there in a tattered gray suit, his blond hair poking out from under his hat. He noticed Sam first and winked at her, but she turned back to Jonas as if telling him they’d already met and she wasn’t impressed.

  The boy laughed at Sam’s disinterest. He leaned the side of his boney shoulder against the doorframe, examining Jonas before nodding his chin. “Hey, mate,” he told him in a thick British accent. He took a step into the room, looking around and nodding to himself.

  “Can I help you?” Jonas asked, curling his lip.

  “Hope so, Poet Anderson,” the boy replied. He took off his hat, blond hair askew, and rested it against his chest. He flashed a wide, disarming smile and said, “I heard you were looking for another Poet.”

  THE END