Poet Anderson ...Of Nightmares

by Tom DeLonge

  She smiled kindly. “I’ve been studying Lucid Dreamers for close to twenty years, Jonas,” she said. “And I know that you and your brother are close. You might be the person to connect with him. I’d like you to become part of my study. I want to help you find Alan.”

  Jonas’s lips parted. His immediate answer was almost yes, but something about the offer…it was too easy. “What exactly would that entail?” he asked.

  “You would live here,” she said. “And we’ll care for you and provide therapy to help you get stronger, and navigate your dreams more easily.”

  “Live here?” Jonas repeated as if it was ridiculous. The image of William, a sleep-deprived patient, came to his mind. Is that what would happen to him?

  Doctor Moss continued. “All you have to do is enroll in the study and we’ll get you set up on a medication regiment. It’s all very simple, and—”

  “Yeah, I’ll have to think about that,” Jonas cut her off. He wasn’t going to commit himself to a Sleep Institute, pop pills, and slowly go mad. He could find Alan on his own. “I appreciate the offer, though,” he said disingenuously. “I’ll let you know.”

  Doctor Moss pressed her lips together, clearly disappointed even as she tried to hide it. “Very well,” she said, pretending the conversation never happened. “We’ll continue to do our due diligence here for Alan. I’m sure he appreciates your visits. I’ve seen them be very therapeutic for patients in the past.”

  “I hope so,” Jonas said, easing back in the seat. “Is it okay if I stay a little longer?”

  Doctor Moss smiled. “You can stay as long as you like, Jonas.” The doctor turned over her wrist and checked the time on her watch. “I should get to my rounds. Please let me know if you need anything while you’re here.” Jonas thanked her, and Doctor Moss left the room, leaving the door slightly ajar.

  Jonas leaned forward, elbows on his knees as he stared at his brother. “That was the doc,” he said. “She wanted to drug me up so I can find you. But joke’s on her—seems you’re faking, brother. There’s nothing even wrong with you. So wake up so I can beat your ass.”

  “He’s not faking,” a voice said from the doorway, startling Jonas. He turned and saw William, looking more disheveled since yesterday with his graying hair sticking out at the temples, the dark circles under his eyes deep-rooted, and his cheeks hollow. It convinced Jonas that he made the right decision not agreeing to the sleep study.

  “He’s lost,” William added.

  “Excuse me?” Jonas straightened.

  “He’s dreaming,” William said, smiling and giggling to himself. “But he’s lost in there. I’ve seen it before. With the others.” He glanced around as if they were being watched. Jonas remembered that William had been awake for seven days now—and that was obviously way too fucking long.

  William took a step into the room, staring at Jonas with the same awe he had the other day. He began to chew on his fingers, smiling behind them and looking a bit deranged. “I know who you are,” he whispered.

  Jonas swallowed hard, growing afraid for the first time. “Oh, yeah?” he asked. “I met you yesterday, with Doctor Moss.” Jonas slowly stood, careful not to make any sudden movements. “In fact,” Jonas said, starting toward the door. “I should get her right now. I think she’d be very interested in—”

  “You’re Poet Anderson!” William said and then covered his mouth, his eyes wide. He laughed, darting his gaze around and leaned in toward Jonas. “You’re him. I know it.”

  Jonas froze. “How did you know that?” he asked.

  “Because,” William said, “we’ve met. In our dreams.”

  “Okay…” Jonas said. He walked to the door and closed it, turning on his heels to face William. He tried to gauge his mental state. “Weirdly you’re not the first person to tell me that today,” Jonas said. “Where did we meet?”

  “Well, we didn’t really meet,” William said. “I saw you on the train.” He shook his head, tugging the graying hair at his temples. “I shouldn’t tell you, I wasn’t supposed to sleep, but I dozed off and Doctor Moss doesn’t know. She’d be very upset with me if she found out,” he mumbled. “I’m just so tired. The medication isn’t enough.”

  Jonas took a step closer to William, but not close enough so that he could lunge for him if he was having a psychotic break. “When do you get to sleep again?” Jonas asked. “How long does this study make you stay awake?”

  “It’s only supposed to be a week, but it’s nine days this time.” William’s eyes were painfully bloodshot. “I have to get deeper. But I remember you,” he whispered. “You were on a train looking for Alan. But I’ve seen him, too.”

  Jonas’s reserve fell away and he grabbed William by the upper arms. “Where have you seen my brother?” he demanded.

  “He was on a different train,” William whispered. “He kept asking me how to get back, but I didn’t know. He was scared, and then, he was gone. Next thing I knew, I saw you and your friends. But I’ve seen you before—on the telescreens. You’re Poet Anderson. Everyone knows that.”

  Hope flooded Jonas’s chest. Alan was in the dreamscape. He really was—it was no longer a theory. “When’s the last time you saw him?” Jonas asked.

  William furrowed his brow and rubbed roughly at his forehead, leaving a red streak in his skin. Must be two weeks ago,” he said. “During the last sleep cycle. I’ll be going back in a few days. I can help you!”

  Jonas took a step back, ignoring William’s offer as he thought about how long his brother had been lost for. “I have to go,” Jonas said. He shifted to look at Alan in the bed, the ventilator humming as his brother slept. He gave William a quick glance on his way to the door. “Thanks for telling me,” he said. He had to get back to the hotel and sleep.

  “I’ll see you soon!” William said, sounding hopeful. Jonas held up his hand in a wave and left the room, jogging toward the exit of the Sleep Center.

  Chapter Fourteen

  When Jonas arrived at his room in the Eden Hotel to change for his shift, he found his work schedule slipped under his door. He picked it up and examined the paper, noticing his hours had been switched, giving him the night off.

  That’s convenient, he thought with a bit of hesitation. He considered going to Marshall and asking him exactly why his shift had been changed, but his mother always told him not to look a gift horse in the mouth or it would bite your face. So he tossed the schedule on his dresser and kicked off his sneakers. His room was cold, colder than usual, and there was a strange feeling around him. An energy. Jonas figured he was just keyed up after learning that William had seen Alan. He didn’t doubt him because he knew about the subway train—the one he and Alan used to ride. He couldn’t have guessed that.

  Jonas slipped under his sheets, pulling them up to his neck until he stopped shivering. He had to focus his thoughts on Alan, enter his dreams lucidly and with a mission. Just like his brother taught him. It was difficult at first, and Jonas wished he’d had medication from Doctor Moss after all, but soon, as the minutes ticked by, his eyes got heavier.

  Above him, there was a soft song playing in the ballroom—a wedding reception, perhaps. Jonas tried to block it out, distance himself from the hotel and focus. But he drifted away on the sound of piano keys.

  Poet stood in the lobby of the Eden Hotel. He paused, taking in the grand room, noting that there was something off about it. It was just as beautiful, that was clear, but the light sconces on the wall gave off an amber color, flickering and swirling on the wood. The burgundy drapes flowed in a continuous cascade of red, alive in their own way. The guests milling about were dressed even more elegantly than usual, and when Poet looked down, he saw that he was in his black suit, umbrella in hand.

  “Hey, Poet,” a girl said from near the elevators. Poet turned and saw Molly resting against the wall with a martini glass in her hand. Her body was draped in a
long, beige dress, and her hair was smoothed into a sleek bob. She smiled, her lips a dark shade of red.

  “Wow,” Poet said, setting the tip of his umbrella on the floor and leaning on the handle. “Not sure if you noticed, but you’re dressed—”

  “Of course I noticed,” she said, waving a hand at him. “We’re dreaming.” She motioned around the room, and then narrowed her eyes on him. “Poet Anderson.”

  “You know my name?” he asked. Her confidence was such a change from her waking self that Poet was thrown off. “How—”

  Molly laughed. “A Poet is staying in our hotel and you think we wouldn’t know?” She took a sip of her drink, leaving a lipstick smudge on her glass. Poet watched her, wondering if he had misjudged her in the Waking World.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “I’m a Dream Walker,” she said. “And to be honest, I was hoping you’d show up tonight. I even wore my special dress.” She flashed him a smile and walked over to slip her hand in the crook of Poet’s elbow, leading him forward and walking casually.

  “So what are we doing here?” Poet asked her, unsure of her motives.

  “To the point,” Molly said. “I like it. Well,” she continued, “you know your subway? The one you take to get deeper in the Dream World?”

  “Yeah,” Poet said, looking sideways at her. “What about it?”

  “It’s a gateway, a tunnel for the rest of us who don’t have your specific talent. You see, even Dream Walkers start off in our memories or at our miserable jobs where we bring endless cups of coffee to our bosses. So we have to find a gateway—a thin space—to take us into the shared consciousness.” She paused in front of the dining room, looking it over. In front of them, people sat at the white-linened tables in fancy attire, sawing into their steaks and drinking wine.

  Molly turned to Poet, glancing him over. “This hotel is one of several thin spaces between realities. A preferred one for Dream Walkers.”

  “Why’s that?” Poet asked.

  “Multiple exits,” Molly replied. She tipped her glass in the direction of the front door. “That will take you right out onto the streets of Genesis. Convenient, and something many of the Lucid Dreamers appreciate. That’s who they are,” she said, lowering her voice, “the people in the restaurant. They’re Lucid Dreamers who either haven’t figured how to get out that door yet or they’re enjoying a bite to eat first.”

  “Do they know who you are?” Poet asked.

  “That I’m a Dream Walker?” Molly laughed. “God, no. We don’t exactly advertise our presence. We keep a low profile.”

  “Why not just take the train?” Poet asked. “Why is this particular thin space special?”

  “A short cut, really, that starts on the thirty-second floor. In fact,” she held up one finger, “the space is so thin that guests of the hotel complain about noise up there.” She widened her eyes. “They say it’s haunted and that they hear ghosts. Of course, they’re just hearing Dream Walkers, but they don’t know. Most people are stupid.”

  Poet wasn’t sure if he found her candor refreshing or abrasive. “And what’s on the thirty-second floor?” he asked.

  “Like I said,” Molly told him. “It’s a thin space. But we’re not going there tonight. Perhaps another time when you’re more…” she glanced over him, “useful. I’m sure you understand.”

  Poet shook his head. “Uh, no,” he said. “I really don’t.”

  Molly shrugged like it didn’t matter. “Right now you have a very important date, Poet,” she said and motioned to the restaurant. “Oh, and I recommend the salmon.”

  Confused, Poet turned to see if there was anyone he knew waiting for him. The place was crowded, though, and when Poet went to ask Molly who he was meeting, she was already walking away, leaving him to figure out the mystery on his own.

  Poet wandered up to the stand and the maître d’ smiled brightly. “Ah, Mr. Anderson,” the maître d’ said in a thick French accent. He held out his hand, a white napkin folded over his forearm. “Your table is ready.”

  Poet was uncomfortable with the formality, but he followed behind him through the maze of tables, bumping the backs of chairs and mumbling an apology to the patrons. The maître d’ pulled out a chair at a small, round table with a candle burning at the center, two menus set out. Poet looked around and saw a few people staring at him, but when he caught their eyes, they smiled and went back to their meals.

  Poet took a seat and hooked his umbrella on his chair. The maître d’ frowned.

  “May I take your hat and umbrella?” he asked. Poet handed over his umbrella, but kept his hat, still looking around the room for his date.

  The maître d’ clenched his jaw disapprovingly, but told him to enjoy his dinner and walked to the front of the restaurant. Poet watched him leave, glad to be rid of him, and he turned back just as someone sat down across from him. Poet let out a startled laugh.

  “Wow,” Poet said. “You look…fancy.”

  Jarabec hummed an annoyed sound and snatched his napkin off his plate before shaking it out and laying it across his lap. A waiter rushed over with a bottle of wine, turning over Jarabec’s glass and filling it. “Yes, well,” Jarabec grumbled to Poet. “Marshall and Molly insist we look the part when in the lobby.” He leaned in. “But I’ve got my gear on underneath.”

  Jarabec was wearing a sleek suit and tie, his graying hair combed smooth. He looked like a badass James Bond. The scars on his face added character to this otherwise buttoned-up version of the Dream Walker. Poet laughed, duly impressed, and put his elbows on the table, chin in hands.

  “You look nice,” Poet said in a mooning voice. “You handsome devil.”

  Jarabec narrowed his eyes at Poet and picked up his glass of red wine, draining it while the waiter stood by. The man refilled it the minute Jarabec clanked it back down on the table. Jarabec waved him away and swirled the liquid inside his glass.

  “I need to discuss something with you,” Jarabec said, settling back in his chair now that he’d eased the edge off his irritation. “And we thought it best to do so without distractions. The city is filled with them. So we should get started and if it goes well, I’ll take you to meet the others.”

  “About the others,” Poet said. “Molly’s a Dream Walker, too? How many of you are there?”

  “Not enough,” Jarabec said, his expression clouding.

  Poet saw his vulnerability, driving home the point that Dream Walkers weren’t just soldiers. “When you wake up,” Poet said, “are you a regular person, too, like Molly? Do you do people things like have a house and a job and maybe even a cat? Or two. You seem like a cat person.”

  “I am not a cat person,” he said shortly. “But yes, I live an ordinary life. I stay under the radar so as not to draw attention to myself. I’m more vulnerable when I’m awake.”

  “No dream armor,” Poet said. Jarabec nodded, taking another sip from his drink. “Well, maybe when we’re both awake, we can go grab a beer?” He smiled.

  “That won’t happen,” Jarabec said. “Our time is limited to the Dream World. Anything else would be dangerous. You, Poet, are dangerous.”

  “Uh, good to know,” Poet said with a self-conscious laugh. “And why exactly is that? I’m not the one beating the shit out of Night Stalkers in a serene garden.”

  “You are the new Poet, the most coveted prize in the Dream World. REM will do his best to reach out to you by whatever means necessary. I have no doubt that he’s been trying to track you since your parents’ death.”

  Poet stilled, pain striking his heart at the mention of his parents. “What do you know about them?” Poet asked.

  Jarabec paused, measuring his words. “Your mother was a Dream Walker, Poet.”

  Poet blinked quickly, confused. “What? No…my mother was a maid at this hotel. She…” Only now that he thought about it, what a c
oincidence. His mother worked at a gateway into the Dream World, one where Molly works. Poet tried to calm the grief and denial, knowing that neither would help. “So my mother was a Dream Walker?” he asked in a low voice.

  “She was more than that,” Jarabec said, his eyes apologetic. “Eve Correy was honorable and brave. Ultimately, it’s what got her killed.”

  Poet was stunned, and as if reacting to his mood, the waiter appeared next to him and poured him a glass of red wine. Poet held Jarabec’s stare, biting down on his lip until the waiter left. “Did you know my mother?” he asked. “Do you know what happened to her, because the police said—”

  “I did know her,” Jarabec said solemnly. “But I’m afraid nothing I’m about to tell you will put you at ease, Poet. It was a dark day for us. Are you sure you want—”

  “Tell me,” Poet snapped, and then lowered his voice when he felt people in the room turn to stare at him. “Please,” he said. “You have to tell me.”

  Jarabec waited a beat, looking down at his folded hands. When he lifted his steely-gray eyes, Poet felt as if they were boring into his soul. “Your mother had been a Dream Walker since she was your age, her role passed down from her father. A little over four years ago, REM and his Night Stalkers had been gaining ground in the dreamscape. They have a planet, a factory for his army. His threat of destruction is real. On his never-ending search for strong souls, he began picking off Dream Walkers one by one in the dreamscape. He’d steal their souls to possess their bodies in the Waking World, using it to carry out acts of terrorism and horror. In turn, it fed nightmares into people’s consciousness. Their terror feeds him. Dark energy belongs to him and makes him stronger.”

  Poet took a messy sip of his wine, the liquid spilling down on his chin before he swiped it away with the back of his hand. “How did it happen?” Poet asked. “How did my parents die?” The Andersons had been aboard a plane that crashed on its way to New York City. Everyone aboard the small, chartered flight had been killed. Details of the accident had been sketchy at best, but Poet had always assumed it was an accident.