Poet Anderson ...Of Nightmares (25 page)

“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 and 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

D
usk 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.

At a point, Poet stopped his cycle and Flint rode up to pause next to him. They both stared ahead at the thick trees.

“How far until we get to a clearing?” Poet asked.

The Dream Walker pointed north. “Through there, about a quarter mile. It's better if we post up here though. We don't want to be surrounded. We're going to fan out.” Flint looked at the others and waved them to sections of the woods. Gunner and Sketch went with them, and Poet found himself alone with Flint.

“I'm sorry about Jarabec,” Flint said quietly. Around them, the tree branches sagged, creaking as they blew in a soft breeze. There was a hum of insects, the smell of moss thick in the air.

“Yeah, well I'm sorry he died because of me,” Poet said, unable to look at Flint. “If I'd faced my Night Terror sooner, maybe I could have—”

“No,” Flint said. “You couldn't have. I knew that. We all did. But we hoped anyway. We just want this war to end.” Poet looked sideways at him and saw that he was being sincere. “Jarabec was right to tell you not to trust us,” Flint admitted. “I was going to help you find your brother, but not to save him. I was going to make sure REM couldn't take him over. Make sure he couldn't use him as leverage to get you to give up. I would have killed him, Poet. I still will.”

Poet tightened his jaw and looked out over the trees, his anger building. Ultimately, he understood, though. Maybe it was his newly acquired darkness, or maybe it was because he'd already lost so much. Poet understood the Dream Walkers were tired of losing. He was tired, too.

There was a sharp crack as a shot was fired deep in the trees to their right. Flint's Halo came out and started revolving quickly. His eyes were wide as he scanned the woods. There was movement, and Flint took out his gun.

“Stay here,” he told Poet and revved the engine of his bike before disappearing into the trees.

Poet was alone, and the quiet of the woods was suddenly deafening. He knew Flint would return any moment, but those moments started to drag on. Where were all the other Dream Walkers? Poet had a panicked sense that he'd been abandoned in the woods, and he looked to the north, deciding that he had to get to the clearing.

He maneuvered the monocycle through the brush, moving as fast as he could as branches scratched his arms and cheeks. He'd only gotten halfway when he heard a humming just ahead. Poet stopped and cut the engine of the monocycle, taking refuge behind a large oak, peeking around its trunk.

He saw a tall Night Stalker, his vehicle hovering close by as he searched the bushes. Poet swallowed hard, trying to figure out how to get past him. Poet rolled the monocycle backward, and the tire snapped a twig.

The Night Stalker froze, but didn't turn in his direction. Poet held his breath, sure he was hidden in the brush. But then, like a flash, the Night Stalker turned and whipped a circular sword at Poet. It flew past him and sliced through a tree trunk. As the tree fell, the Night Stalker rushed Poet, brandishing another sword. The falling tree wedged on a log, suspended in the air between Poet and the Night Stalker. The Night Stalker didn't hesitate. He reared up his sword and attempted to slice through the trunk. The metal stuck in the wood.

As the Night Stalker struggled to free his sword, Poet kicked his cycle to life. But a smaller blade shot toward him, lodging in the tire and causing a small explosion, blasting Poet off. The boy hit the ground hard, but rolled out of the way, quickly jumping to his feet. The Night Stalker lowered his arm, and began to try and free his weapon again.

“You wrecked my monocycle,” Poet growled, pulling the gun from his jacket. He began walking toward the Night Stalker, firing several rounds in a row. The Night Stalker ducked around the trees, and Poet halted his steps, aiming his gun. When the Night Stalker tried to move, Poet fired, striking him in the head, and cracking the visor of his helmet.

The solider fell backward and when he hit the ground, his helmet flew off. The Night Stalker sprang back to his feet, blood pouring from a shot that had grazed the top of his head. He ran over and ripped his sword from the tree, holding it out to strike. Poet stared at him in shock.

“Alan?” he asked. It was Alan's face, but his eyes were dead. There was no recognition there. Poet couldn't breathe.

Alan was unmoved, and he swung out the sword in an attempt to kill his brother. Poet jumped back, and held up his gun, training his aim on Alan's face. Poet's arm shook.

He could pull the trigger. He told himself that Alan was now part of the enemy, and if he ended him here, he would never have to worry about REM taking his body in the Waking World. Maybe it would be a blessing.

But Poet's resolve weakened. He didn't see Alan as a warrior. He saw him as his brother, smiling and hopeful. Always hopeful. Poet lowered his weapon.

Without a moment of thought, Alan lifted his blade to bring it down on him. Poet put up his hands to tell him to stop, when a laser blast hit Alan's sword, knocking it from his grip. Another shot hit his shoulder, chipping the armor and making Alan flinch and bare his teeth. Poet looked over to see Camille, her arm outstretched as she clutched a gun. She darted her eyes to Poet to check on him, but her moment of distraction failed her.

In a fluid movement, Alan picked up his sword and threw it. Camille's Halo wasn't fast enough, but she was able to squeeze off another round just before Alan's sword broke through her chest plate and knocked her onto the leaf-covered ground. She gasped, her eyes wide, her hands wrapped around the blade. Blood began to pool and leak from under her body.

Poet stood motionless, watching as Camille cut open her hands yanking the blade from her chest. She couldn't breathe, spurts of blood shot from between her lips. The scar faded as she choked. She kept her eyes on Alan, and he stood motionless, watching her die. Not taking joy in the kill. Not regretting it either.

Camille took another raspy breath and tears began to leak from her eyes. She looked at Poet, the sword falling from her hand. She licked the blood from her lips. “Run,” she choked out. And then her body gave out like a rag doll and her head fell limply to the side, her eyes half-closed, staring into the woods.

She's dead
, Poet thought. Alan had killed her.

There was a flurry of movement as a team of Dream Walkers came crashing through the bushes on their motorcycles, sending a hail of laser fire at Alan. He ducked and ran for cover in the woods, and Poet stood, watching after him. The lasers exploded as they severed tree branches all around him, a haze of destruction, but Poet stood still. Feeling broken. Lost.

One of the bikes raced past and skidded out in the brush. Flint grabbed Poet's arm and pulled him on the motorcycle. The Dream Walker darted his eyes around wildly, careful to make sure he wouldn't be struck down as easily as Camille.

“We need to get to the clearing,” Flint said. Poet held on to the Dream Walker's jacket, a memory itching at the back of his head. A memory with Alan so contrasting that Poet felt like he might lose his mind. Maybe he already had.

“Are you going to eat that?” Alan had asked, reaching over to steal fries from the cup holder. The Mustang had been miles out of Eugene, nearly halfway to Portland where they were going to start a new life. Again. Jonas had just smiled and told Alan to have at it.

“I have to tell you,” Alan had said, steering with one hand and eating with the other. “I had the craziest dream last night.” He'd glanced sideways. “I know you don't remember, but it was even crazier than normal. There was a girl.” Alan had smirked. “Because when you're involved, there's always a girl. Anyways, you all got into some trouble, locked up in dream jail even.”

Jonas had cracked up. He'd always enjoyed hearing the outrageous stories Alan would share in the morning. He had no idea if any of them had even happened, but he'd guessed they had a healthy dose of “changed for dramatic purposes” the way Alan told them.

“What were we in jail for?” Jonas had asked, taking a fry.

“Don't really remember,” Alan had said. “But…” He'd held up his finger like this was the important part. “I busted you out. I'm not talking file baked in a cake sort of shit. I got guns and I got ammo and I blasted a bunch of jail folk and it was all fairly dangerous like a hero. You were impressed.”

Jonas had snorted. “I'm sure.”

“Your girl was impressed to.”

“Oh, yeah? Did I like her?”

“Nah,” Alan had said. “But I liked her just fine.”

“Glad you're getting some somewhere.” Jonas had widened his eyes like Alan was pathetic, although he had to admit how much he loved these stories.

They had driven in silence a little bit longer, and Jonas had turned to his brother, thinking how much he looked like their father. “Glad you got to be the hero,” he had said.

“Me, too,” Alan had replied, staring out the windshield. “I got shot three times for you, but luckily it was just a dream.” His mouth had flinched, but other than that, the conversation was over.

Now in the Grecian woods, Poet turned to look back in the direction of where Alan had stood. Looked back toward Camille's body that Alan had murdered. His brother had always been the hero.

But that Alan was gone, and Poet felt himself grow weak, and quietly let himself mourn.

The trees opened up
into a circular field. The tall elms and pines and every other sort of tree, all different colors and shapes, a cathedral, with grass in the middle covered in a layer of thick fog. From another angle, several more motorcycles, more Dream Walkers, shot out of the forest. They all gathered along the edge, careful not to get surrounded. All in all, Poet guessed there were about twenty-five soldiers. But he knew that wouldn't be enough.

“You shouldn't be here,” Poet said, his voice thick with grief. Flint turned around and flipped open his visor, studying Poet. “I'm going to get you killed,” Poet told him. “REM is too strong.”

Flint sniffed a laugh. “Aw, kid,” he said. “We already knew that when we signed up. Hell, some of us have been dead for a long while, in a sense.” He paused, nodding to himself. “This is the first time we've had something to believe in. I can't regret that.” Flint put his hand on Poet's shoulder, the weight of his armor making it heavy. “Even if we all die here today, you will go on. You're Poet Anderson. Your story doesn't end here.” He motioned to the woods surrounding them.

There was a shout and Flint flipped down his helmet quickly and revved his engine. His Halo began to revolve, the hum around both him and Poet.

“Reinforcements,” Flint said. Poet saw a band of Dream Walkers arriving on foot. As they cleared the trees, Poet thought they looked more intense than ever. Metal soldiers among the woods, the unnatural against the natural.

Flint let his motorcycle idle as he climbed off and met one of the Dream Walkers halfway across the field. They spoke closely and Poet watched as another Dream Walker, helmet down and smaller in stature, stood next to them. The larger Dream Walker opened her visor and Poet's lips parted as he realized it was Molly.

Poet quickly shut off the bike and ran out into the field where they were standing. Molly smiled at him, something like an apology.

“What are you doing here?” Poet asked. “I thought you—”

The smaller Dream Walker flipped open her helmet and Poet stilled. Samantha Birnam-Wood was wearing armor, although she didn't seem as comfortable in it as the other Dream Walkers. She also didn't have a Halo.

Poet rushed over to her, taking her arm to walk her a few steps away from the others. “What are you doing?” he asked. “You're going to get killed.”

“You didn't really think I'd let you fight this alone,” she said simply. “You knew I'd never just stand by.”

Poet stared into those stubborn green eyes and realized she was right. He may have asked her to stay behind, but part of him knew she didn't take orders. Not from him. Not from her dad. She was brave. Braver than expected, as Marshall had pointed out.

Sam reached over her back to draw out a long sword, the metal branded with carvings and white tape wrapped around the hilt. “But hey,” Sam said, turning the blade over in her hands. “Molly did give me a sword.” She shrugged, glancing sideways at him.

Poet sniffed a laughed. “It's a badass sword,” he admitted.

Sam grinned, her eyes flashing mischief. “I thought you might like it.” She nodded ahead to the other Dream Walkers. “Ready?”

It almost overwhelmed him, being close to her. She grounded him, and balanced out the darkness in his soul. She also made him afraid, afraid to leave either reality permanently. Afraid to leave her.

They watched each other for a long moment, and then Poet nodded. They joined Flint and Molly and, together, they kept their eyes on the trees. Soon enough there was a rumble of engines and Night Stalkers began to arrive, driving the rest of the Dream Walkers toward the middle of the clearing. The fighting started immediately.

There was a deafening smash and pieces of metal flew out in every direction, both Poet and Sam ducking to avoid the aftermath of a Halo collision. Sam covered her head and they both knelt in the grass, getting their bearings before deciding which way to run. Poet tried to look in every direction at once.

But he and the Dream Walkers were outnumbered, and as the Halos battled it out, the warriors on both sides fought. Poet stood, and helped Sam to her feet. He heard his name and saw Sketch and Gunner run over. Together, the four of them stood and watched the mayhem unfold around them.

Flint ran out in front, opposing the oncoming line of Night Stalkers. He traded blows with a creature that Poet assumed was the head of the Night Stalkers. Its Halo had been modified, the inky black melting into a silver sheen. Each time it hit Flint's Halo, it chipped off another gold piece. Flint was losing.