The War for the Waking World
Wayne Thomas Batson
OTHER BOOKS BY WAYNE THOMAS BATSON
DREAMTREADER SERIES
Dreamtreaders
Search for the Shadow Key
THE DOOR WITHIN TRILOGY
The Door Within
The Rise of the Wyrm Lord
The Final Storm
PIRATE ADVENTURES
Isle of Swords
Isle of Fire
THE BERINFELL PROPHECIES
Curse of the Spider King (with Christopher Hopper)
Venom and Song (with Christopher Hopper)
The Tide of Unmaking (with Christopher Hopper)
THE DARK SEA ANNALS
Sword in the Stars
The Errant King
Mirror of Souls
IMAGINATION STATION
#8: Battle for Cannibal Island
#11: Hunt for the Devil’s Dragon
OTHER ENDEAVORS
Ghost
War for the Waking World
© 2015 by Wayne Thomas Batson
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Tommy Nelson. Tommy Nelson is an imprint of Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.
Tommy Nelson titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].
ISBN-13: 9781400323685
ISBN-13: 9780718079192 (eBook)
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data on file
15 16 17 18 19 RRD 6 5 4 3 2 1
Mfr: RRD / Crawfordsville, Indiana /October 2015 /
PO #9362109
Dedication:
Per Gratia Dei
CONTENTS
The Laws Nine
Chapter 1 – Channels
Chapter 2 – Into the Calamitous Night
Chapter 3 – No Safe Place
Chapter 4 – Storm Warning
Chapter 5 – Against the Wind
Chapter 6 – Ghosts
Chapter 7 – Arresting Developments
Chapter 8 – Corporate Takeover
Chapter 9 – Beneath
Chapter 10 – The Charges
Chapter 11 – The Sixth Door Sinister
Chapter 12 – Scathing Loyalty
Chapter 13 – At Whim
Chapter 14 – Something Scary
Chapter 15 – Opening Statements
Chapter 16 – Glass House Mountain
Chapter 17 – The Case Against
Chapter 18 – Behind the Harlequin Veil
Chapter 19 – Eternal Evidence
Chapter 20 – Cheap Wallpaper
Chapter 21 – A Nasty Sandwich
Chapter 22 – Prosecution
Chapter 23 – Seeing Double
Chapter 24 – Surprise Witnesses
Chapter 25 – A Slim Hope
Chapter 26 – Of Fools and Villains
Chapter 27 – Tag Team
Chapter 28 – The Verdict
Chapter 29 – Unstoppable Force
Chapter 30 – Dark News
Chapter 31 – Immovable Object
Chapter 32 – Walking Wounded
Chapter 33 – A House Divided
Chapter 34 – Allegiances
Chapter 35 – Research and Development
Chapter 36 – Three Days
Chapter 37 – Whispers and Flame
Chapter 38 – The Ready Room
Chapter 39 – Invisible Friends
Chapter 40 – Two Days
Chapter 41 – An Evening at the Symphony
Chapter 42 – Best-Laid Plans
Chapter 43 – Threads of Battle
Chapter 44 – Theater of War
Chapter 45 – Anchor Protocol
Chapter 46 – Fraying Edges
Chapter 47 – One Day
Chapter 48 – The Night of Never-Ending Tears
Chapter 49 – Loose Ends
Acknowledgments
THE LAWS NINE
Law One: Anchor first. Anchor deep. This means constructing an anchor image that is a rooted and deeply powerful emotion. It must be dear to you.
Law Two: Anchor somewhere you can find with ease, but no one else can. If your anchor is destroyed or otherwise kept from you, your time may run out.
Law Three: Never remain in the Dream for more than your Eleven Hours. Your Personal Midnight is the end. Depart for the Temporal . . . or perish.
Law Four: Depart for the Temporal at Sixtolls or find some bastion to defend against the storm. For the Nightmare Lord will open wide his kennels, chaos will rule, and the Dreamtreader could be lost.
Law Five: While in the Dream, consume nothing made with gort, the soul harvest berry. It is black as pitch and enslaves your body to those of dark powers.
Law Six: Defend against sudden and final death within the Dream. Prepare your mind for calamities that may come or be shut out from the Dream forever.
Law Seven: Never accept an invitation from the Nightmare Lord. Not even to parley. He is a living snare to the Dreamtreader. There is no good faith bargain. With him, the only profit will be death.
Law Eight: By the light of a Violet Torch, search yourself for Tendrils, the Nightmare Lord’s silent assassins.
Law Nine: Dreamtread with all the strength you can muster, but never more than two days in a row. To linger in the Dream too often will invite madness. The Temporal and the Dream will be fused and shatter your mind.
ONE
CHANNELS
“DAD, LOOK OUT!” ARCHER SHOUTED. FROM THE BACKSEAT, Kaylie shrieked.
Mr. Keaton swerved, but it was too late. The SUV clipped something, and it sent the vehicle spinning on the icy road.
“Archer, help!” Kaylie cried.
“I’m on it!”
Archer threw out a buffer of his will, a spongy cushion of blue light that adhered to the SUV and gently fought the wild rotation. As the vehicle’s spin began to slow, Archer increased the tread on the tires. They caught, and Mr. Keaton regained control of the steering.
“Whew!” Kaylie gasped, huddling in a pile of blankets all restrained by the shoulder harness and lap belt. “Good one, Archer.”
“You . . . you saved us,” Mr. Keaton said, the emphasis of his words so vague Archer couldn’t tell if it was a question or a statement. His father white-knuckled the steering wheel as he slowly increased speed once more. His eyes were riveted to the street. “What . . . what was it? What did we hit?”
“I don’t know,” Archer said. “All I saw was a blur of white.”
Kaylie’s hand appeared over the armrest and pointed. “I think it was one of those.”
Archer turned his head. Ten feet away lumbered a twelve-foot mountain of white. It was bulbous and thick, moving at impossible speed. Kaylie screamed.
Mr. Keaton turned the wheel, but the SUV didn’t respond. It careened sideways into the snowman . . . and a snowman it was, but not any lovable Frosty or Olaf. This snowman wore a gaping, toothy scowl. Its branchy appendages moved as if hinged in a dozen places. A blurry green fire blazed in its eyes as the thing put its leering face right up against Archer’s window.
Archer jumped back, yanking at his seat belt. He didn’t think, didn’t plan. He just reacted, calling up his will and unleashing a flaming fist right through the window. But the glass didn’t shatter or crumble. It flash-melted, as did the snowman’s face when Archer’s will-infuse
d flame struck it. The creature howled through what was left of its mouth. Its brambly hands flew up to its misshapen head . . . and knocked it right off the torso.
“Snot rockets!” Archer yelled. “Go, Dad, go!”
Mr. Keaton hit the gas and pulled away. Archer watched the snow creature; he saw a new head rise up out of its body, turn, and scream. There were others, more demented snow beings, emerging from the woods and lumbering toward the interstate.
“Better stay in the left lane, Dad,” Archer said.
“Uh . . . yeah,” Mr. Keaton replied. “Left lane. Good idea.”
Archer launched out of the SUV, cut across the front lawn, and was on the steps in a heartbeat. “C’mon, Dad! We need to get inside.”
Mr. Keaton scooped up Kaylie and loped across the yard. When they were safely inside, Archer shut the door hard and turned the lock.
“Don’t,” Mr. Keaton warned. “Don’t lock it. Mrs. Pitsitakas, Amy, and Buster will be here any minute.”
Archer stared at the door as if it might bite him. “Okay, right. I forgot. But only until they get here. Then we lock up like Fort Knox, okay?”
“Archer,” Mr. Keaton whispered as he lowered his daughter to stand on the foyer floor. “What . . . what is this?”
“It’s the Rift, Dad,” Kaylie said, as if that fact were such an elementary concept.
Mr. Keaton hung up his jacket and scarf. “I don’t know what that means,” he said. “One minute, I’m all chained up in the dark, thinking I’m having the worst nightmare of my life. Then, Kaylie and that Australian guy show up, and the sky—it just ripped apart. Next thing I know, I’m at the hospital—but if I’ve been dreaming, I still haven’t woken up. Creatures in the snow? You . . . making things out of thin air—it’s all impossible.”
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 sw
itched 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.
