Dreamland (Riley Bloom #3)(24)

Their powerful, crunching jaws yawning open and snapping shut as though it was a warm-up, as though they were preparing to devour her.

I freed my hand of the muck and lurched toward her. Urging her to lean toward me, to take hold if she could. I tried to smile, tried to nod in encouragement, to give her a reason to fight, to not give up until we’d ex-hausted every last resource. Watching as she thrust her body toward mine, the alligators charging, snapping, chomping on air, hoping to soon replace it with pieces of her.

And then, just when she was near, just when our fingers met and she’d grabbed ahold of me, a searing hot flame tore through her flesh, giving me no choice but to let go.

I couldn’t help it—it just sort of happened—it was a reflex—it wasn’t my fault! And when I tried to reach her again, it was too late.

She was gone.

The gators had claimed her.

My throat cleared. The scream, finally un-corked, rang out all around until I grew hoarse and it played itself out. And I was just about to renew it, hoping someone would hear me, help me, when I opened my eyes and saw everything had changed once again.

The rain had stopped.

The quicksand was gone.

And I found myself standing on a patch of freshly mown grass, getting ridiculed loudly by a small group of teens for having just screamed my head off.

I shrank back, shrank back into myself, in-to the shadows so they could no longer see me, though I could see them. Taking a quick look around, I did what I could to assess the new situation I found myself in. Remembering what Satchel had said, that no matter what happened, I had to stick with it, it was the only way the message could be sent.

I was in a park. A park after dark, which meant the little kids had already vacated, were already at home, safely tucked into their beds, while a gang of unruly teenagers took over, littering the sandbox with cigar-ette butts, and making rude drawings all over the slide.

The kind of teens I never wanted to be—always did my best to avoid—taking great pains to keep a wide distance between us whenever I’d see them lurking in my old neighborhood on my way home from school.

The kind of teens that made trouble, listened to no one, “flaunted authority,” as my mom would’ve said.

The kind of teens that pretty much wrecked it for all of the others.

And even though I knew it was my job to find a way to fit in, to blend, all I really wanted was to sit this one out.

I cowered in the dark, huddled up next to the bathrooms, hoping that unfortunate scream of mine was enough to scare them off.

For a while anyway, it worked.

Until the big four-wheel-drive with no driver flipped on its brights and tried to mow us all down.

I ran.

We all did.

Though we didn’t get very far. Unlike the last dream, in this one, my feet didn’t so much sink as stick. The freshly mowed grass turning into a goopy, green, superglued mess that held fast to the bottoms of our shoes, refusing to release us, refusing to free us. Even the ones who’d stepped out of their shoes were no better off—they’d merely replaced the soles of their shoes with the soles of their feet.

All I could do, all any of us could do, was stare helplessly into the truck’s headlights as it ran us all down.

At the moment of impact, there was an amazing flash of bright light, and the next thing I knew, I was in Paris, a city I’d always wanted to visit. But instead of sightseeing and riding the elevator to the top of the Eiffel Tower, I was drowning in the River Seine along with a group of loitering teenagers.

Then, the next thing I knew, I was in Brazil, only instead of spending a nice day baking in the sun, I was being roasted for real—a young girl, two boys, and me going up in flames on a Rio de Janeiro beach.

I suffered through nightmares in all of the most exotic places. Places I’d always wanted to visit. Then just as I began longing for home, my wish was granted. I found myself in school—my old school—standing in front of my old class. And when I gazed down at myself, wondering what they were all pointing and laughing about, well, that’s when I realized I’d forgotten to dress.

I froze, figuring I’d die right there on the spot of complete mortification—but then a second later I found myself wearing a cute purple dress I definitely approved of, while sitting at a desk in that very same class. Concentrating hard on the paper before me—part of a very important, grade-making test—unable to read, much less answer, even one single question, all of the words swimming before me in a big, foggy blur.

I raised my hand, about to ask if I could get a new test, explain that there was something wrong with the one that I had—when I saw that my teacher wore the face of a clown, and the body of a black wid-ow spider. Her eight legs and arms trapping me in her web, gazing upon me as though I was dinner.

I screamed.

I railed.

I fought as hard as I could—but it didn’t do the slightest bit of good.

I was devoured by insects.

I was buried alive.

I was chased by knife-wielding zombies who snacked on my brains.

Every scene was different—but, in the end, it was all the same thing. Every time a nightmare ended, a new one jumped into its place.

It was one assault after another—one terrifying experience quickly followed by the next.

Some were normal fears—some were outrageous—but all of them penetrated to the deepest part of me.