MirrorWorld (11 page)

“Two.”

“I’m going to need them, I think.”

“They’re all yours.”

Cobb stands, walks to the fridge. While he’s gone, I open the peanut butter and disrobe the pepperoni. On some level, I know this snack is disgusting, but I’m craving protein, salt, and fluids. I dip the pepperoni into the peanut butter, scoop up a thick glob, and take a bite. The supernova of powerful flavors is nearly overwhelming. The food at SafeHaven was mass-produced, preservative-filled, cheap slop. This is a feast in comparison. All that time I was missing the scents of the world, I never realized I also missed flavor.

Cobb returns with his beers while I chew. I can see the revulsion in his face when he looks at my snack, but he doesn’t say anything. Before sitting, he turns on a window-mounted air conditioner.

I tip my head in thanks, chase my food down with a swig of beer, and say, “So, you’ve worked for Neuro for one month?”

“Yeah,” he says, and there’s not a trace of hesitation.

“And before that?”

“I was a paramedic for Portsmouth Regional.”

“Why the switch?”

“There was a fire. I saved a few people. A wild day—less wild than today, though. But it was front-page news, and two days later I got a call. A recruiter for Neuro. He said they wanted people like me, who could handle a crisis if one ever developed. I thought it was strange that a private company would want a paramedic on staff, but he offered double what I was making, and I thought it would be a quieter job.” He forces a grin. “Until today, it was.”

I believe him. He’d be acting squirrelly if he was lying to me. That’s good for him, but bad for me. Some intel would go a long way right now.

“What about you?” he asks. “Were you really … you know?” He twirls his index finger around an ear.

“Yup. SafeHaven. North of Concord.”

“I’ve heard of it. For what?”

“I don’t feel fear,” I say.

“Like at all?”

“Not even a little.”

“So, if I pulled a gun on you?” he asks.

“That would be a bad idea,” I tell him. “But, no.”

Cobb pops open his second beer. “So, no dreams about being naked in public places or late for a college test?”

“I’m … not sure if I dream, but no. And I don’t remember college.”

“Must have had a lot of fun,” Cobb says.

I shake my head. “I don’t remember anything beyond a year.”

“Geez…” Cobb leans forward, elbows on his knees. “What happened a year ago?”

“Hell if I know.”

“So, amnesia then?”

“That’s the diagnosis.”

Cobb scratches his chin. “But you remember
some
things, right? Like, you can speak English. You can drive—very well, by the way. What else?”

“I know how to hurt people,” I say. “And I’ve played this game. I don’t think you’re going to like where it leads.”

That kills his curiosity. He leans back, wiping dew drops from the beer bottle. “Whoever you were before … that’s not who you are now?”

“I don’t know.” I shake my head. “This isn’t helpful.”

He takes a drink while I turn my thoughts inward. I don’t need to know who I am. Not right now, anyway. But what
do
I need? To get Shiloh someplace she’ll be cared for. And then what? Go back to Neuro and shut them down. I know I should just run. It’s what most people would do. They have a security force, some kind of black ops team, heavy weapons, and who knows what else. Definitely government-funded. But fleeing requires fear and the ability to look past what is right and wrong. I’m incapable of both.

“You worked at a hospital?” I ask.

“Portsmouth Regional.”

“How far?”

“Forty-minute drive.”

“Still know people there?”

He nods.

“Then that’s where we’re headed.”

“Now?” he asks, surprised.

“We’ll wait until Shiloh wakes up. See what she has to say.” I tilt my beer back. Polish it off. “If Neuro is out looking for us, they’ll have widened the search far beyond this place in just a few hours, and they won’t be looking for that sweet number out in the garage. If we take back roads and avoid tolls, we shouldn’t have any trouble getting to the hospital.”

“So we go to the hospital, and then what?”

I smile the kind of smile that also serves as an apology. “You’re going to help me get back inside Neuro.”

He groans, no doubt hoping that wouldn’t be the answer I gave. “And
then
?”

I dip the pepperoni in the peanut butter, take a bite, and, with a full mouth, say, “You should probably … start looking … for a new job.”

“And what if they just kill you?” he asks.

“They won’t.”

“’Cause you’re sooo good at hurting people?”

I smile, genuinely, and dig the plastic case containing the syringe out of my pocket. “Because I have this.”

He leans forward, looking at the syringe behind the clear plastic cover. “And that is?”

“I have no idea.”

“What
do
you know?”

“That they’ve killed a lot people to create this.” I tap the plastic case. “And that they will kill me to retrieve it. I’m just never going to give them the chance.”

14.

Full of pepperoni and peanut butter, I lounge back on the couch, lost in thought. About Neuro, the things I saw there, and Shiloh. It all made some kind of twisted sense when I first saw everything. But now, in retrospect, it’s a mess. Too many questions remain unanswered, but doubt has begun weakening my resolve. It wouldn’t be the first time my lack of fear has caused me to act without thinking beyond immediate circumstances.

It’s not that the horrible things I saw no longer seem horrible, it’s that Allenby was downright likable. And I don’t think it was an act. She struck me as a good person, and I’m a fairly good, and quick, judge of character. So how could she abide such lethal human experimentation?

Part of me says she couldn’t. That’s where the doubt comes from.

And here’s the thing about doubt. It changes nothing. While I may not be 100 percent certain in my verdict about Neuro, I have no fear of discovering I’m wrong, even if I’ve already reduced the building to a pile of rubble. I should probably still be locked up. I recognize the flaw. But it doesn’t change anything.

The large-screen TV blinks on.

“Do you mind?” Cobb asks, remote in hand.

I shake my head. “What time is it?”

Cobb looks at his watch. “Eleven in the
A.M.
”

“
Price Is Right
is on,” I say. “Channel seven.”

Instead of punching in the number, Cobb surfs through the channels, one digit at a time, counting down from 347. Around 300 he starts hitting the cable news networks. The images I see on each are very similar.

And familiar.

“Wait,” I say. He stops two channels past the news networks. “Go back.”

The TV blinks twice and then displays an aerial view of New York City. The streets are full of people, swarming about. I can’t tell if it’s a protest or a riot, but if things turned violent in Manchester, New Hampshire, the atmosphere in New York must be worse. “What’s happening?”

“What, the riots?” Cobb looks confused. “You don’t know?”

“I’ve been in an institution,” I remind him.

“Right.” He turns back to the screen.

People swirl through the streets, entering and leaving shattered storefronts, taking part in or cheering on several brawls. SafeHaven now seems like an asylum for the sane compared to the scene unfolding in New York.

“It started in the largest cities with the highest violent crime rates. Detroit. Memphis. St. Louis. They were small protests at first, but there was no unified theme. People just seemed to be protesting whatever made them afraid. The government. Wall Street. GMO foods. The protests grew in size and spread to the larger cities. Los Angeles. New York. Washington, D.C. For a week, this is how it went. Until Portland.”

“Maine?” I ask.

“Oregon—which, by the way, is basically the world capital for nice people. A parade of atheists protesting an Easter egg hunt on government property turned violent. Killed a guy in a bunny suit. The whole thing was live on TV. It acted as a catalyst. In response to the bunny murder, a religious group torched an abortion clinic. One act of violence led to another, spreading across the country’s most densely populated areas. But things really got bad when riot police began pushing back. Some cities are like war zones.”

“Is anyone instigating the attacks?” I ask. “Foreign countries? Terror organizations?”

“That’s just the thing,” Cobb says. “The protests didn’t stop at the U.S. border. They’re now worldwide. And you’re not the first person to wonder if fear had somehow been weaponized. Tension between nations is building the same way it is with people on the street. And that’s only making things worse. It seemed like New England, north of Boston, was a safe zone, like there was a buffer of calm logic holding the fear back, but yesterday…”

“What happened?”

“A riot in Manchester. It was quelled faster than most. The population is fairly small compared to places like New York. But people died. Some in a gunfight with police before the tear gas broke things up, and two others in a—”

“The owner of an antique store and a man with a broken back,” I say.

He turns toward me slowly. “I thought you said you hadn’t seen the news?”

“I was there,” I say. “In Manchester.”

His eyes widen. The look in his eyes shifts from amazement to abject fear. He stands and steps away from me, hands over his mouth. “Oh my God, you’re him!”

“Him?”

“The guy from the roof!
You
broke the man’s back!”

“Didn’t mean to kill him.” He’s about to argue the point. “Did you see the woman?”

He blinks. “What?”

“The woman about to get her arms broken and head bashed in, did you see her?”

He blinks twice more. He nods slowly. “You saved her.”

I snap my fingers and point at him. “Now you’re getting it. Her name was Allenby. Know her?”

“Should I?”

“She works for—”

A scream, feminine and primal, cuts me off. I’m on my feet and racing from the room before Cobb even reacts.

I’m down the hall.

Doorknob in hand.

Inside the room.

Shiloh.

She’s sitting up, eyes open nearly as wide as her mouth. The scream is high-pitched, like some invisible torturer is conjuring a nightmare only she can see. Despite her open eyes. She doesn’t see me. Even when I get in front of her. I’m invisible.

Until I speak. “Hey!”

Her eyes flick to mine. A switch is flipping. Her mouth snaps closed. Her eyes remain wide.

“You’re okay,” I tell her.

“I’m okay,” she says, her voice almost trancelike.

Her wide eyes flick back and forth. “Where?”

“A house,” I tell her.

“Whose?”

“I don’t know.”

“How long?” she asks.

“What?”

She reaches up. Touches the side of my head where the hair has started to salt and pepper. “Gray.”

I smile at her and the expression is returned. The weight of that grin nearly breaks my heart. But then it’s gone.

“Thirsty.”

I turn toward the door, where Cobb is standing. “Get her some water.”

Cobb leaves. I turn to the woman. “Look, Ms. Shiloh, I need to know what—”

“Miss?” she asks.

“Mrs.?”

I see the first signs of fresh fear emerge as tiny wrinkles at the center of her forehead. She’s looking back and forth again, reassessing her surroundings.

She points a shaky finger at me. “Are you real? Who are you?”

I don’t think telling her my name is Crazy will help much, so I tell her the truth, which isn’t perfect, but far less intimidating. “I don’t remember.”

She leans forward, glaring into my eyes. The intensity of her stare churns up emotions that are new and uncomfortable.

Is this fear?

“You’re a liar,” she says.

“I am?”

“You lied to me!” She grips my forearm. Her nails dig into the skin. I barely notice.

“I did?” I take hold of her free arm, interlocking us in a circle of desperation. “When? What did I say?”

“That I was safe,” she says.

“You’re safe now.”

She melts from the inside out, folding in on her frail self. “Too late.” I can barely hear the whispered words. “Never safe. Not there. Not here.”

“Shiloh,” I say, putting my hand beneath her chin. I lift her head up. Her intense gaze is now vacant. Tears slide down her cheeks. She’s shaking.

Cobb slides into the doorway. I see him out of the corner of my eye but don’t look. This woman has answers about me. She knows me. Who I am. Who I was. And, apparently, how I failed her. Maybe this isn’t my first attempt to rescue her? Maybe that’s what happened a year ago?

Cobb clears his throat. “Hey.”

I turn toward him. He’s not holding a glass of water. Instead, he’s rubbing his pants with his palms. Nervous sweat. His pupils are dilated. His skin is paler than I remember. He’s afraid, and not because of me. “What?”

He licks his lips and with a shaky voice, says, “They’re here.”

15.

“Who’s here?” Shiloh asks, looking confused. She starts whipping her head back and forth, like people might slip into the room through the solid walls. “Is it them? They’ve come back!”

The fear building inside this woman is like nothing I’ve seen before. Her face contorts to impossible angles, twisting her beautiful face into some macabre visage of a medieval gargoyle. She hooks her fingers and rakes her nails up her legs, scratching the skin. As she lifts the johnny, revealing her thighs, I see long scars that match the new scratches. She’s done this before, and harder.

“No, no, no, no,” she repeats the word over and over as she tears at her legs.

I take her face hard in both hands. She gasps and stops. “Listen to me,” I tell her. “I
will
keep you safe.”

She seems to weigh the validity of this statement and comes to a verdict. With a sneer, she growls out the word, “Liar,” and then screams and flails until I let her go. “Liar!”

A shadow outside the bedroom window returns my thoughts to the impending intrusion. I would like to know how they found us, but there isn’t time for questions that neither I nor Cobb will have the answer to.