Dreamland (Riley Bloom #3)(23)

That was the second time he’d used the word “deal.” And while I liked it even less than the first time, for some reason, I didn’t hesitate to do what he said. It’s as though his gaze alone was compelling me forward. Like I no longer controlled my own will. But what was even stranger is that I didn’t seem to care. I only wanted to please him, to get a good review.

“Like this?” I asked, my voice too high, my smile too bright. “Is this the right spot?” Knowing it was. The X was clearly marked.

And yet, I couldn’t help but seek his approval, even if it took a little begging on my part.

He nodded, face squinched in deep concentration as he peered between the view-finder and me, saying, “Now remember, it’s like Balthazar taught you. Just go with the scene you find yourself in. Adapt and blend in, no matter what I put before you, no matter what the situation. Just do whatever it takes to make sure the dreamer stays in the scene too. The last thing we want is for them to wake up before the dream is complete.

There’s a very important message attached, I don’t just make this stuff up for my own entertainment, you know. But, it’s imperative they experience the whole, entire dream. It’s imperative that they don’t wake prematurely.

Otherwise, the message will be lost.” I nodded, staring at my feet, making sure they didn’t stray from the mark. Then my eyes flicked toward the screen and I focused as hard as I could. Body on edge, senses on high alert, waiting for an image to appear, waiting for my cue to begin.

The first thing I heard was the odd click and whir as the film reel circled. Then the screen went pitch-black, but only for a second before it lit up again, bearing an image of an old Indian wearing a headdress perched above a series of circles containing a bunch of seemingly random numbers. I squinted, trying to think of where I’d last seen that, and then I remembered, it was an old TV test pattern. Back on the earth plane, my friend Emily’s brother had a T-shirt with the exact same picture on it.

And then, just like that, the next thing I knew the screen lit up with the most spectacular thunder and lightning show, and I stood there in awe, happy to watch, and feeling pretty thankful it remained on the screen, that it wasn’t actually raining on me.

Though unfortunately, the thought came too soon, and the next thing I knew it was raining for real. Like taking a ride through the car wash in a convertible with the top left down, a torrential downpour completely drenched me.

When the lights up above started to sizzle and crack, their bulbs popping and flaring as though they might electrocute me, I took to the ground and ducked my head low. Doing what I could to shield myself with my hands by grasping them tightly over my head, silently reciting the facts as I knew them: The Here & Now didn’t run on electricity—it was just some kind of special effect—part of the dream Satchel was weaving—there was no way any of it could harm me.

I peered toward him, knowing better than to look at the camera, much less at the director, while in the middle of shooting a scene, unless, of course, you were directed to. But still I glanced his way, squinting through steady ribbons of water raining down all around me, hoping for a little direction, a little approval—looking for some in-dication of where this scene might be heading, and just how long I’d be required to put up with this—but not getting much of anything.

Satchel was absorbed. Having moved away from the projector, he’d perched himself behind a big, old-timey computer where he punched furiously on its keyboard. No longer taking notice of me—his lack of attention left me feeling really sad and empty.

I wanted him to notice, to approve of my acting, to applaud my hard work. I wanted him to cast me in all of his future produc-tions, give me the starring role. I really, really, really wanted him to be proud of me.

Though, I had no idea why.

My mind began to ponder, wondering why some weird kid’s approval was worth getting drenched over. And just as I began to grab hold of myself, questioning why I was stay-ing, if I might not be better off leaving, I heard panting.

Heavy, frantic, grunting and panting.

Then a second later I realized it came from the girl running toward me.

The girl running toward me with the filthy, ripped-up clothes, stringy, wet hair, and terrified face.

I started to shout. Decided I’d play the part of a Good Samaritan—or a hero even. I started to tell her not to worry, that I was there to help. But the second I opened my mouth, the words all backed up in my throat.

Sticking.

Clogging.

Like a drain all jammed up with gunk.

My toes were sinking. The shoes I once wore were no more. Everything had changed.

Every. Single. Thing.

I was no longer standing on a stage. The black painted wood that had, just a moment before, been supporting me, had turned into something very different—something I once saw in a really old movie.

Sandy, soggy, and swampy—I immediately recognized it as quicksand. And I knew if I didn’t move fast, in no time at all it would swallow me whole.

With the scream still lodged in my throat, I did my best to run. But every step forward was a useless endeavor. The sand was too quick, too deep. It was dragging me down—sucking me in, forcing its way up to my nose and into my mouth.

But if I thought I had it bad, well, that was nothing compared to the girl. Not only was she sinking up to her neck, but a whole team of alligators had appeared out of nowhere.