The War for the Waking World Read Online Free PDF Page B

it was more like a light-heavyweight boxer against a heavyweight, but at least now, it was a fight.
    It wasn’t a moment too soon. The nightmare twister lurched forward, and the two storms collided. In that moment, there was a flash of green light and the sound of a thousand high-speed car crashes. The funnels of the two storms became enmeshed. Clockwise blue strove against counterclockwise green. The strain took its toll on Archer, depleting his mental will at an alarming rate.
    But he fought. He fought with everything he had. That nightmare tornado could not win. Archer’s storm grew again. Now it was close to equaling the rival twister.
    As if in protest, the raging storm began spitting lightning. A luminous bolt scorched the earth right at Archer’s feet. He flinched but that was all. One lapse in concentration, and people would die. He poured his will into controlling the winds of his storm. He could feel the tension of their striving, the grating, clutching winds ripping at each other. Still he poured more will into the clockwise wind. He had to counterbalance the luminous green storm’s power, had to tear the funnel apart.
    Archer felt a jarring catch within himself. It was like his heart skipping a beat; only this halting sensation was in his mind. For a moment, he couldn’t think at all. There was a dull blankness and a ringing in his ears. An ounce of awareness came back and he knew . . . he knew he had released all the mental energy he could afford to spend. The storms went oddly silent, and then there was a black shadow in the corner of his vision.
    Something struck him, and a curtain of darkness fell.

    Archer awoke with a start. Sweat trickled cold down his back, his heart jackhammered, and he gasped for breath.
    â€œEasy, Archer,” came a soft voice. “Lay your head back.”
    Archer obeyed. He felt a firm pillow placed beneath the back of his head, and turned toward the voice. It was too dark, just enough moonlight spilling in through his bedroom window to silhouette the woman sitting next to his bed. Her outline . . . and her voice were somehow familiar.
    She moved, and Archer felt a warm comforter tug gently to rest beneath his chin. “I had a terrible dream,” he said. His speech felt dry, like the first words spoken in years. “There was . . . a storm. Something hit me.”
    â€œThat wasn’t a dream, Archer,” the woman said. “Worst storm since the derecho last year.”
    Archer started to sit up but felt the gentle pressure of the woman’s hands pressing him back to lying horizontally. “You need to rest,” she said.
    â€œBut I’m confused. There . . . was a storm?”
    â€œYou took quite a rap on the head,” she explained. “Piece of flying debris, most likely.”
    â€œWait,” he muttered, snippets of images stirring in his imagination. “I was helping . . . trying to stop the storm.”
    â€œYou were helping all right,” she said, her tone amused. “Kaylie had gotten caught out in the storm. It came up so quickly she just had time to duck down by the well. She was so scared, but you went out and brought her back inside. That’s when the board hit you.”
    â€œShe okay?”
    â€œKaylie’s fine, thanks to you,” she said. “She’s in bed, sound asleep. You got the worst of it, you know. Well, you and the porch. Screens are all shredded. Guess your father will need somewhere else to smoke now.”
    Archer closed his eyes. A dull ache throbbed at the base of his skull. “I was supposed to be doing something,” he said. “Supposed to be fighting.”
    â€œYou’re fighting sleep, that’s all,” she said. “Rest now. Just rest. We’ll get it all figured out in the morning.”
    Archer tried, but his mind kept spinning. Something bad had happened, right? They’d been at a hospital for some reason. Then, they were home, but