The War for the Waking World

by Wayne Thomas Batson

  Master Gabriel’s eyes grew distant as if reliving a memory. “Rigby and his uncle may be enemies,” he said, “but they are people. Their lives matter, and no one is expendable. And that includes Kara Windchil.”

  “Kara’s why I summoned you here,” Archer said.

  “Really? Why?”

  Archer recounted the story of Kara’s dominant victory at the Dream Tower and how powerful she became.

  “Ah,” Master Gabriel said, “you are wondering how Kara got so strong.”

  “That’s part of it,” Archer replied. “I mean, together the four of us might be able to counter Kara’s power. But how do we counter her motives?”

  “I do not follow.”

  “I mean, Kara’s just a teenager . . . like me, right? But somewhere, something went wrong. It had to. I mean, she’s planned this whole thing out for years. What she’s done—and people are dying because of it. So many people. Why?”

  Master Gabriel’s expression sagged. “Why?” he echoed. “It is the question of mankind. Tell me, Archer, is there any cause—any element of a human life—that would justify the evil that people do? Anything at all that can justify what Kara has done?”

  “Well, not justify,” Archer said. “She made choices. She—”

  “Precisely, Archer,” Master Gabriel said. “She chose. And so have all who have committed evil. There is no tragedy of the past to justify what is done in the present. Everyone is accountable.”

  Archer sat very still, but his eyes wandered restlessly. He thought of his own poor decisions. He thought back to the court battle with Bezeal and the evidence presented. No matter the motives, no matter the good intentions, every step of the way, he’d still made choices.

  “No justification,” Master Gabriel went on, “but there is a matter of understanding. And that is worth something.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We will never excuse Kara’s actions,” he said. “But we can seek to understand. And this is what I believe you must do.”

  “But I’ve known Kara for . . . for forever,” Archer said.

  “Have you?” Master Gabriel countered. “Perhaps, you can explain how you really knowKara Windchil? Do you suppose that hours of texting and what you call social media actually allows you to know a person?”

  “Well, no, but . . . we’ve ridden the bus together for ages. We’ve had classes together.”

  “That’s a start, Archer, but only just a start,” Master Gabriel explained. “Knowing a human being goes far deeper than what you can figure out from a person’s public appearance. Tell me, how many of your Facebook friends know your mother died of cancer seven years ago?”

  Archer looked down. “Well, Amy does.”

  “And Amy knows you from being online with you, does she?”

  “No, not really,” he said. “She kind of hates technology. She knows me because we spend time together.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But I can’t call up Kara and just ask her to hang out,” Archer groused. “We’re kind of past that point.”

  “True,” Master Gabriel said, “but there might be other ways.”

  “How?”

  “When you lost your mother, Archer, it had a lasting impact on you. Such a thing still impacts the way you think. The well behind your home, it is your anchor, is it not?”

  Archer nodded, slowly at first, but then faster as the idea took hold. “Thank you, Master Gabriel,” he said. “I know just where I need to go.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  INVISIBLE FRIENDS

  ARCHER SLOWLY OPENED THE PRESSURE-SEALED DOOR OF the protection vault where he’d left his family and friends. It hissed but swung freely. Archer readied his will, but no threats appeared. He stepped inside and found things pretty much the same as the last time he’d checked on them.

  Archer’s father stood at the workbench. His eyes were open and active, and he made subtle movements with his limbs. A knee would bend, a hand would clench, he’d lean or nod, but it was clear that Mr. Keaton was mentally somewhere else, somewhere beyond reality. Buster was sitting in an old beanbag chair, but he was the same: there, yet, not there. Mrs. Pitsitakas too. She sat on an old kitchen chair and seemed to be staring at her cell phone, but given the dark screen the battery had likely died long ago. The little shop television was still on, but the channel flickered between a test pattern and fuzz.

  Where was Amy?

  Archer crept into the chamber and checked every nook and cranny, but there was no sign of her. He hurried to the door, turned the corner, and came to a jarring stop. Archer recoiled. All he’d seen was ghostly pale flesh, a shrouded face, and red eyes. He readied a thunder-stomp.

  “I thought I heard someone on the stairs,” came a voice, and Archer put his foot down very slowly and withdrew the power that would have devastated anyone nearby.

  “Amy?”

  “Uh, yeah,” she said. “Whom did you expect?”

  “Well, I thought you’d still be . . . that is . . . everyone else is—”

  “Brainwashed,” Amy said. “Yep.”

  “But you’re conscious. You’re talking to me.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said, rubbing her eyes. “Sorry, I think I’m allergic to all the sawdust down here.”

  Archer laughed at himself. Red eyes, right?“You have no idea how good it is to find someone else . . . awake,” he said.

  She put her owlish glasses back on and gave him a sideways frown. “Great. So you’re happy to see anyone?”

  “Not what I meant, Amy,” he quickly corrected. “I’m glad it’s you, but how’d you do it? The whole world is brainwashed.”

  “I stayed away from electronics,” she said. “Whatever’s going on, it’s coming through the airwaves: through the TV, cell phones, pretty much anything that receives and transmits.”

  Archer shook his head. “How’d you figure that out?”

  “Well, once you stuck us down here, pretty much everyone was watching TV or messing around on their tablets or phones. I just cracked open a book. I know I can have like a gazillion e-books loaded onto a tablet, but I still like paper.”

  “And you figured it out just from that? That’s brilliant, Amy,” he said.

  “Well . . . uh, thanks, but I really put it all together when I saw everyone else went all zombie like that. Seemed like whenever I got close to the TV, I felt nauseous, so I went out. I’ve been sleeping on the couch in the den. I’ve read three books. Yep. No brainwashing for me.”

  “Rigby says it’s called the Harlequin Veil.”

  “You’re working with Rigby?”

  “Long story,” Archer said. “I’ll explain on the way.”

  “On the way . . . uh, where?”

  “To Kara’s house.”

  “Um, okay. A few days back you wanted to keep me locked up in a vault, and now you want me to come with you?”

  Archer felt himself reddening. “Okay, so maybe I was a bit hasty before—”

  “Yep.”

  “But I just wanted to keep you safe.”

  “And you don’t want to keep me safe now?” Amy stifled a laugh.

  “No!” he said. “That’s not what I mean. It’s just . . . well . . . I don’t know how this is going to go . . . and I guess I just want your company.”

  “Finally!” Amy said with a sigh.

  “Wh-what?” Archer mumbled. “I didn’t . . . well . . . what I meant was—”

  “Don’t sweat it, Archer,” Amy said. “But I’m glad you said it. Yep.”

  Archer scratched his head. He wondered absently if Master Gabriel had any wisdom that would help him understand girls better. He shrugged. With a will-infused shove, he shut the protective vault. Then he took Amy’s hand, and they raced upstairs and out Archer’s front door.

  “You want to fly there?” Amy asked.

  Archer skidded on the icy sidewalk and ended up sitting in a snowdrift. “What did you just say?”

  “I asked if you wanted to fly to Kara’s hous
e,” Amy said.

  Amy laughed and said, “Watch.” Slowly, she began rising from the ground. Then she tilted horizontally and streaked over Archer. After looping over the telephone lines, she landed next to Archer and helped him to his feet.

  “So how did you learn to do that?” Archer asked.

  “Well, so, making a strawberry milkshake made me tired,” she said. “You explained that since we’re newbies to the whole Dreamtreader-ish stuff that any creation would wear us out mentally.”

  “Exactly,” Archer said. “And flying is one of the most taxing things you could do. So many variables. And . . . well . . . if you screw up, you fall to your death.”

  “But I trained,” Amy said. “I figured I just needed to build up my mental strength, so I started making things. Little things at first: pennies, blocks of wood, toys, food, etc. If I got tired, I went to sleep for an hour. When I’d wake up, I’d be stronger. I made a piano in your living room. Did you see that? That really took a lot out of me. Yep.”

  Archer didn’t know whether to cheer for Amy or grumble. It had taken him years to fly. “Well,” he said, “flying is faster. Are you sure you can make it?”

  Amy rolled her eyes and took to the air. “Kara’s house is just a few blocks away.”

  As they flew, Archer caught her up on most of what had happened since the Rift, especially concerning Kara, Rigby, and Doc Scoville. Finally, he explained why they were heading to Kara’s home.

  “I hope we can find something, Archer,” Amy said as they landed in Kara’s front yard. “But I don’t think we will.”

  No one came to Kara’s door. That was no surprise. Kara was no doubt prepping her army for the coming invasion. Archer knocked once more and waited a full three minutes, but still no one came.

  “Do we go in?” Amy asked.

  “We have to,” Archer replied, exerting the tiniest fraction of his will to make the doorknob vanish. They pushed into the home and were instantly greeted by a variety of scents: cedar wood, cigarette smoke, vanilla, and something else . . . something foul that Archer didn’t want to identify. They passed through a hallway lined with photo portraits of Kara at different ages. The sound of a television led them into a den where they found a woman in a long robe sitting in an easy chair and staring listlessly at the television. It was Kara’s mother. She was younger than Archer remembered and had the same silky black hair and light eyes as her daughter.

  Amy quickly switched off the TV. “Don’t want any more of that.”

  Archer knelt by Mrs. Windchil. “We need to wake her up,” he said. “But I don’t know how this works.”

  “How what works, honey?”

  Archer blinked. Mrs. Windchil hadn’t moved. Her expression was still completely slack, her eyes vacant.

  “Mrs. Windchil, can you hear me?” he asked.

  “Of course I can,” she said. “I’ll be right in with a tall glass of lemonade.”

  Archer and Amy exchanged looks. “No, that’s okay, Mrs. Windchil,” Amy said. “We just came to talk.”

  “That’s fine,” Mrs. Windchil replied.

  “This is creepy,” Archer whispered.

  Amy shrugged and signaled with her eyes as if to say, “Yeah, but what can we do?”

  “Mrs. Windchil,” Archer said, “may we ask you a few questions about Kara?”

  “Is that you, Kara?” Mrs. Windchil asked.

  “No, it’s Amy, Kara’s friend? I live around the corner.”

  “And Archer too. Archer Keaton. Oh well,” she said. “So glad you’re here to see Kara. Been quite a while.”

  “Too long,” Archer said. “Mrs. Windchil, do you know any reason why Kara might be behaving strangely lately?”

  “Strange girl,” Mrs. Windchil replied. “Always has been.”

  Amy grabbed Archer’s arm. He nodded. Maybe they’d learn something after all.

  “What about recently? Has anything changed?” Archer persisted.

  “Nope,” she said. “Well, there was one thing, but it really started about three years ago.”

  “What?” Amy asked.

  “Well, Kara was always a studious child. But a few years back, she took to studying incessantly. I mean, I’d walk by her door at two or three in the morning, and there she would be with the scientific journals, books, and her laptop.”

  “Why is that odd?” Archer asked, rubbing his temples.

  “Her grades,” Mrs. Windchil replied, eyes still blank as marbles. “Her grades just weren’t that great. You’d have thought, all that studying, she could do a little better. Test anxiety, I always thought.”

  Archer asked, “Did she ever say what she was studying?”

  “Science was all I got out of her.” Mrs. Windchil laughed, which was a strange thing to behold because her facial expression remained frozen. “She actually told me off one night. ‘Science, Mom, that’s all you need to know,’ she said to me.”

  “I know this is a personal question, Mrs. Windchil,” Amy said, “but did Kara take any kinds of medicine?”

  “No, no,” she replied. “Kara was very careful about what she put into her body. So health-conscious . . . well . . . except for her sleeping habits.”

  Archer gestured, and he and Amy met in a corner by Mrs. Windchil’s kitchen. “This is like looking for a needle in a haystack,” Archer said. “I don’t even know what to ask her.”

  Amy said, “Yep. So she studied a lot. Big deal.”

  “No, that’s something,” Archer said. “It squares with all the Lucid Walking research she’s done.”

  “True,” Amy said, “but what we’re looking for is something that had a big emotional impact on Kara, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Okay, let me try,” Amy said. “Girls are better with emotional stuff. Yep.”

  Archer was about to argue but stopped himself quickly. Even if he disagreed, it wouldn’t solve anything. Besides, his approach was getting nowhere. They were back at Mrs. Windchil’s side in an instant.

  “Mrs. Windchil, has anything happened to Kara?” Amy asked. “Anything that really upset her?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Windchil said. “Yes, there was. Just about a month ago, we went by the mall, and her favorite taco place had closed up. She was so frustrated I thought she might cry.”

  Amy frowned. “That’s very sad,” she said. “But what I meant were more serious issues, like issues she might get counseling for.”

  “We tried that once, you know,” Mrs. Windchil said. “That was after Bill left. Didn’t do any good.”

  “What was Kara going to counseling for?” Amy asked.

  “Oh, it was a weird kind of attention disorder,” Mrs. Windchil said. “They didn’t have a name for it really. Wasn’t that big of a deal, but we wanted to make sure.”

  “Make sure of what?”

  “When Kara was little, and I do mean little, she used to make up imaginary friends. You know, she’d set a place at the table for one and serve him a plate. It was cute at first, but we thought she’d grow out of it. And she did, for a while. When she was nine, though—and that was right after Bill left—she began doing it again. I’d walk by the door and hear her talking all kinds of nonsense. So I took her to counseling. They told me it wasn’t too uncommon when a kid has a parent run out on the family. You know, the child pretends the parent is still there.”

  “Did losing her father hurt Kara?” Amy asked.

  “Doctors said yes, but I don’t really know. To be honest, I didn’t really care that Bill left. I hate to say so, but he was a bit of a leech. Not the best with kids either. I made enough money, so it didn’t kill me to see him go.”

  “What about Kara?” Archer asked. “Were the doctors right? Did she start talking to her invisible friend again because her father had run out on her?”

  “I thought so at first,” Mrs. Windchil explained. “Heck, for a while there, I thought she’d named her imaginary friend Bill. I’d walk by her room or stand at the top of the basement stairs, and
I’d hear ‘Bill this’ and ‘Bill that.’ It was tiresome.”

  Amy adjusted her glasses and glanced at Archer. “You said, ‘At first,’ Mrs. Windchil, like at first you thought she was troubled over her dad leaving.”

  “But she wasn’t, turns out,” Kara’s mom replied. “Tell the truth, I think she got over not having a daddy far faster than what was good for her.”

  “What do you mean?” Archer asked.

  “Well, Kara never really got attached to much. When we moved into town, Kara was three, but she didn’t cry about her friends in the old school. She didn’t care. She was never content, always looking for a new . . . something.”

  “But the imaginary friend,” Archer said. “Wasn’t that all about her father?”

  “Oh, no,” Mrs. Windchil said. “I had that all wrong. Turned out, when she was talking to her invisible friend, she wasn’t saying ‘Bill.’ She was saying ‘Bezeal.’ ”

  FORTY

  TWO DAYS

  “SCOVILLE MANOR,” KAYLIE SAID, “IT’S TIME FOR AN upgrade.”

  It was a massive Victorian mansion, all dark wood siding, irregularly-shaped windows, and dragon-scale shingles. The ground f loor was diamond-shaped with one pointed angle entirely made of a sprawling wraparound veranda. There were three stories, two protruding gabled roofs, two tall brick chimneys, some kind of sloping roof, and widow’s walk. The spire had a dark, wrought-iron weather vane in the shape of a galloping horse.

  “How could you live here?” Kaylie asked. “Well, here I go!”

  Rigby held up a hand and said, “Remember, lil Keaton, we keep the basic structure intact. We build up around it. Wouldn’t do to squash all the pets . . . or Uncle Scovy.”

  “Don’t worry,” Kaylie said. “I already have the perfect plan.”

  “Okay, then,” Rigby said. “Impress me.”

  “Here,” Kaylie said. She handed Patches to Rigby, pursed her lips, and beetled up her eyebrows. Then, her arms and hands moving in flourishes, she began to build.

  A double wall of stone arose from the turf around Rigby’s home and grew until the original structure could no longer be seen. Kaylie wiggled her fingers, and the top of the entire wall became crenelated. She pushed imaginary buttons with both her pointer fingers. Windows, arrow slits, and murder holes appeared at various strategic locations on the face of the wall.