The War for the Waking World (2 page)

Kaylie frowned. “It's a Dream-Temporal fusion,” she explained. “Brought about by the fragmentation of the dividing fabric.”

Mr. Keaton stared. “I . . .
still
don't know what that means.”

Archer blew out a sigh. Kaylie was correct, but in her eight-year-old genius explanation, she hadn't gotten to the heart of what their father was asking. The events of the previous forty-eight hours raced through Archer's mind in ragged visual strips . . .

The bizarre dinner meeting with Rigby, Kara, and the Lurker in the Dream . . .

The showdown between him and Rigby, each holding the life of a loved one against the other . . .

And then the Rift.

It had all been a part of Kara's ultimate power play. Every bit of it, every moment. Archer shook his head. He could hardly believe it all himself. How could he explain it all to his father?

Maybe that's it,
he thought.
Maybe I don't explain it all. Stick to the basics. Keep it simple. I'm a Dreamtreader. I help control the Dream, but even I can't describe it most of the time.

A muted
whump
sounded in the distance outside. Archer looked up. “I can't explain right now,” he said, scrambling to look through each of the living room windows. He did the kitchen next, and then
ran toward the den. “I will, Dad, I promise. But I need to check something first.”

“C'mon,” Kaylie said. She took her father's hand and led him toward the kitchen. “Let's get a glass of chocolate milk.”

Just before she disappeared around the corner, she nodded at Archer, whispering, “There ya go. Do what you need to do.”

Dang, she's smart.
Archer laughed to himself at the understatement. He hesitated at the bottom of the stairs but only for a moment. The Creeds would have to wait. He had to make sure. He raced to the TV and flipped on the digital receiver. A sports network came up first, but there was no live action. Just a still image of a pro basketball player pulling up for a jump shot.

Archer flipped through the channels, searching for one of the overseas news programs. He had to know . . . had to be certain it was worldwide. He stopped on channel 278B, the International News Network.

“This is Cassandra Weems for the INN,” the tall reporter said, her breath visible in the cold. “What you see behind me is the wreckage of Kyiv Central High School in northern Ukraine. First thought to be a terrorist attack, and then a massive petroleum explosion, we have now learned this tragic destruction was caused by something that . . . well . . . something that has to be seen to be believed.”

Archer held his breath as the screen cut away to shaky, handheld footage of the school. It looked like any large high school in the US: blocky structures and several levels of glassed-in stairs. The only difference was, instead of the Stars and Stripes, the blue and yellow Ukrainian flag flew on the tall pole outside. The footage flickered, and the overcast sky behind the school began to churn. From the depths of the murky clouds, a massive, ten-story pillar of darkness had begun to form. It undulated as if something were trapped inside and struggled to get free. Then, there it was:

A creature. No, a monster.

It looked like a badly drawn tyrannosaur, but with horns jutting back behind its ears and a single prong upon its snout. It was a skyscraper-tall, lanky thing, all muscle, sinews, and scales. And it was angry. That much was clear in its oddly small, slanted eyes.

The camera jiggled, and the view seemed to go in and out as if the photographer were so terrified that he couldn't control the zoom properly. No wonder. The beast trudged forward, instantly demolishing the front of the high school. Power lines fell, and electrical sparks flew into the air. A burst of flame erupted almost as high as the creature. It roared and, with one punch of its clawed fist, the school's central structure collapsed. In moments, the lumbering swings of the monster's great tail, its heavy stomps, and its unrelenting jaws reduced the school to rubble.

The clip ended, and the reporter reappeared. She was joined by several police officers and a young man who sported a purple-frosted Mohawk. He should have looked tough. Instead, he was weeping.

“Among the survivors, sixteen-year-old Petro Goryvman,” the reporter said, gesturing toward the youth. “Apparently traumatized by the attack, Petro claims the incident was his—”

Petro suddenly lurched forward and grabbed the reporter's microphone. He spoke in a language Archer couldn't understand. Ukrainian, most likely. The expression on the teenager's face chilled Archer. He noticed the small subtitles scrolling along the bottom of the screen. It was a translation.

It's my fault,
he cried.
That teacher, that class—I could not afford to fail this test. I was so angry. I imagined it just for a second, but I didn't mean it. They're all dead now. All dead. It's all my fault!

Click.

Archer changed the channel and fell backward into an easy chair. This channel showed a family huddled in a blanket and standing in front of a fire truck. A reporter, this time in Chicago, held the microphone out to a teenage girl,
Sarah, age 15,
according to the caption. She
was tall and thin, with somewhat pointed ears sticking through her long, brown hair. She was shaking and in clear distress, but her large, speckled eyes darted intelligently, reminding Archer of his genius little sister.

“He whispered to me,” the girl named Sarah said.

The reporter moved the microphone back and forth and asked, “Who did?”

“The shadow man,” she replied, her eyes looking far away. “He whispered that he was going to take me away . . .”

“Then what happened?”

“I told him he wasn't real, that he was a figment of my imagination.”

“That was brave,” the reporter said. She seemed impatient. “Then what?”

“He touched me,” she said. “It felt so cold.”

“And? What did you do then?”

Sarah looked back and forth sheepishly. A little blush colored her cheeks.

“It's okay,” the reporter urged, “just tell what you told me.”

“Well,” Sarah said. “I . . . uh . . . kicked him in the shins and ran. The next thing I knew the house was on fire. I'm just glad my family is safe.”

Click.

Archer switched to a new channel. It was some kind of daily top-ten View Tube video show. The smarmy host had just finished introducing the number-one clip. A young woman, a university student in London, appeared on screen. Streaks of mascara dripped down her cheeks. Her eyes were bloodshot and glistening wet with tears. The picture wobbled and jittered—another handheld camera—and the woman mumbled so much Archer could barely understand her.

She wiped the back of her arm across her face as she said, “I woke up . . . thought . . . I . . . did, and it . . . so cool, at first. The student union . . . voted me Festival Queen. But then they locked me in a closet . . . so dark . . . so cold. I kept trying to wake . . . wake up. Lights
came on, and there . . . a mirror. I . . . saw myself. And my . . . teeth . . . started falling out.”

Archer watched in horror as the young woman opened her mouth to reveal toothless, angry-red gums. “But . . . it was . . . all real,” she shrieked.

Click
. Archer switched off the TV.

It was happening all over the world. The Rift was real. The Dream and the Waking World had merged, and now no one knew reality from dream. No one knew their imaginations, their very own thoughts, could now turn deadly.

The world has gone mad.

Head clutched in his hands, fifteen-year-old Archer Keaton stared through his fingers and the sweat-soaked curtain of red hair that hung over his forehead at the blank television screen.

The Rift
.

He and his fellow Dreamtreaders had tried so hard to keep it from happening, but too many breaches had been torn into the Dream fabric. The boundary between the Dream and the Waking World had been ripped wide open, and now the world was paying for it.

Archer balled his fists and muttered, “Looks like our job description has changed.” He was still a Dreamtreader, but there would be no more passing from the Waking World into the Dream. No more scurions and no more stitching up breaches. Now, there was only one goal: to save the world from destroying itself.

Determination simmering in his eyes and locked into the set of his jaws, Archer turned to join his father and Kaylie in the kitchen when . . .

Bang!
The front door crashed open.

TWO

I
NTO THE
C
ALAMITOUS
N
IGHT

A
RCHER LEAPED UP, CAUSING THE EASY CHAIR TO ROCK
violently, and raced toward the front door. In walked a motley crew. First? A young man with a mop of blonde hair and skin way too tan for winter, followed by a girl Archer's age, appropriately pale with owlish glasses and white blonde hair tied back in a light blue band. The woman who came in last looked like the girl aged thirty years but had her hair dyed a bit darker.

“Buster!” Archer exclaimed, flying to hug his brother. “Amy, Mrs. Pitsitakas—I am
so
glad to see you.”

“Glad to be off the road,” Mrs. Pitsitakas said.

Amy nodded emphatically. “Yep.”

“Dude!” Buster said, squirming out of the embrace. “I saw a flying elephant—I kid you not.”

“I believe you,” Archer said. “Now, move so I can lock the door!”

“I've already done it,” Mrs. Pitsitakas said. “We don't want what's out there . . . getting in here.”

Pigtails jiggling, Kaylie peered around the corner. “Hurry, hurry!” she said. “We've got chocolate milk and cookies!”

“Rock on,” Buster said, charging toward the kitchen. Amy and her mom followed.

A splintering crack of thunder shook the house. Only, it wasn't thunder. A blue-green flash flooded through all the windows. Archer
charged back into the den and peered through the picture window. Far beyond the roofs and trees of his neighborhood, a brightly pulsing mushroom cloud rose into the night sky. The color seemed supernatural, like something from the Dream. Whatever it was, Archer was glad it was miles away.

Something shattered in the kitchen, followed by a frightened chorus of screams. Archer raced from the den and tumbled into the kitchen to find his father, his little brother, Buster, and his friends Amy and her mother, their faces twisted in horror. Their backs were pressed hard to the sink and counters, trying vainly to back up farther. A gibbering snarl turned Archer's attention to the other side of the kitchen.

There, a three-headed wolf crouched. It had eyes like red-hot coals, jaws full of tusk-like teeth, and fur-lined bat wings. It seemed ready to spring, but one person stood in the creature's path and defied it.

“Bad dog!” Kaylie yelled. Archer couldn't have been gladder his little sister was far from the typical eight-year-old. Kaylie was a fellow Dreamtreader, and one of the most powerful ever. She held up her hand, and a ball of pink lightning swirled in her palm.

“Sit, doggie!” she commanded. “Heel!”

The wolf heads snarled. Suddenly, all three heads began to speak at once. “Stupid girl,” it chorused in a wet slur, “you think we are some mortal pup? We will eat you!” The creature pawed at the ground, shredding the tile with its talons. It flared out its wings, gave a tremendous flap, and rose into the air.

“Kaylie, look out!” Archer cried. He readied his will, the massive reserve of mental energy that allowed Dreamtreaders to create from imagination. But he needn't have bothered.

Kaylie stood her ground, pajamas and all, held up her hand, and the ball of lightning became a long staff made of pink driftwood. She took the staff in both hands, stared up at the hovering creature, and yelled, “You . . . shall not . . . pass!”

She slammed the staff to the floor, creating a rippling wave of white flame that rolled along the kitchen floor, and then rose in the shape of a hand of white fire. It snatched the wolf creature from the air and slammed the beast to the floor. The thing arose unsteadily, all three heads wobbling loosely, but the burning coal eyes all still gleamed. Gnashing its teeth and snarling, it leaped.

Mrs. Pitsitakas darted protectively in front of her daughter as did Mr. Keaton with Buster. Kaylie had it covered, though. She swung her pink staff and sent a white wave of power crashing into the creature. With the sound of a thousand shattering glasses and a faint howl, the creature burst into a swarm of darting sparks, and then vanished. There was nothing left behind but a cascade of falling ash.

“No giant newspaper this time?” Archer asked, snatching Kaylie off her feet. “Had to go stealing Gandalf 's line?”

“It just felt right,” Kaylie said, snuggling close. Archer reluctantly put her down and turned to his frantic family and friends.

Buster joined their embrace and gave his surfer-lingo stamp of approval by saying, “Sis, you just dropped the hammer on that thing. Gnarly!”

“W-what was that?” Amy's mother cried out, her mouth half-twisted as if she might scream. “That . . . thing, it's not possible. And K-Kaylie . . . what did you . . . how did you do that?”

Amy didn't give Archer the chance to answer. Her owlish green eyes wide with fear and fury, she grabbed him by his coat and demanded, “You know, don't you? You know what's happening?”

Archer mumbled, “I—”

“All this time!” she interrupted. “You were doing that Dream stuff, the top-secret stuff, right?”

“Dream stuff?” Amy's mom blurted. “What dream stuff?”

“I . . . it . . .”

“Why couldn't you stop it, Archer?” Amy asked, her voice sad and plaintive. “Why couldn't you?”

The question felt like a sledgehammer to the gut. Archer had asked the same question of himself over and over again in the hours since the Rift occurred. There were answers, but all in a tangled web: the Nightmare Lord, the Lurker, Bezeal, Rigby—they'd each played a role. Even the Wind Maiden, Archer's best friend Kara . . . well . . . former best friend. In the end, she had turned out to be at the center of it. In all their many schemes and plots, they'd managed to rip and tear and gouge the Dream fabric until the Dreamtreaders finally couldn't mend it fast enough.