MirrorWorld (26 page)

As I sail over the small wall at the side of the roof, I reach out for it. My fingers slide over the surface and find a small amount of friction. The tug swings my body around and then down. I land hard on the angled glass, which holds my weight. Not falling through the window is a good thing, but it also means that all of the impact’s force is absorbed by my body. Coughing for air and trying to ignore the pain, I splay my arms and legs wide, clinging to the window. Despite my efforts, I start to slide.
No,
I think,
not yet!

I hear the cough of silenced weapons above, and then a shadow falls over me. The mothman leans into view, its long arm slapping my body. For a moment, I think it’s attacking, but a slick of bright-red blood starts flowing over the glass, just inches from my face. I grasp the Dread’s arm and roll across the glass, avoiding the blood that will turn the side of Neuro into a gore-covered playground slide.

I try to pull myself up, but the body, which is lighter than me, slips. I’m sure we’re about to fall together when I’m grasped from above. Katzman. Working together, I reach the short wall and climb over. I take in the scene while catching my breath. The Dread has been peppered by countless rounds. “Holy overkill. Which one of you shot it?”

Allenby, Katzman, and both Dread Squad men raise their hands.

“Thanks,” I say, and pick up the bow. The two remaining Dread are fleeing, one far closer than the other. I nock an arrow, draw it back, and aim. I release the string and the black projectile cuts soundlessly through the air, striking a mothman’s back before it clears the far side of the roof.

“Holy…” one of the soldiers whispers. Though the others can’t see the mothman, they can see the arrow stop in midair and fall to the roof. A second arrow is nocked and the string drawn back, but the second Dread is moving fast and climbing, too far for me to hit with the bow. I let the bowstring go slack and remove the arrow.

“Get that thing out of sight,” I say to the Dread Squad men while pointing at the dead Dread, stuck in our world. While they move for the monster, I pick up the 20 mm sniper rifle and run toward an air-conditioning unit.

“How many were there?” Katzman asks.

“Five,” I say. “Now just one, but it’s getting away.” I pull down the bipod and lean it on the metal cube. Angling the several-foot-long barrel into the distant sky, I get behind the weapon and peer through the scope. It takes a few seconds of shifting back and forth, but the adjustable zoom allows me to spot the fleeing Dread and lock on.

I chamber a round. At its base, the munition is an inch across so just one will get the job done and then some. I focus on the target. Mothman number 5 is fleeing south, but at an angle. I gauge the distance. Half mile. Moving fast. I pan slowly, following my target, then lead it, aiming at the open air, where it will be in the next second.

I exhale.

Finger on the trigger.

The weapon bucks hard and coughs loudly when the round tears off through the sky. Compared to other sound-suppressed weapons, it’s loud, but the noise isn’t sharp. Pinpointing its origin would be difficult, especially to the people far below us.

The Dread continues on its way, unmarred.

I chamber a second round.

“You
missed
?” Allenby says. It’s the most surprised I’ve heard her.

“I’ve been in a psych ward for a year, and though I seem to know how to operate this beast, I have no actual memory of doing so.” I look through the scope. “But I’m not worried.”

“That’s because you don’t
get
worried,” Allenby says.

I pull the trigger. The big gun kicks, sending a second round tearing toward the Dread. I’m hoping to see the thing twitch and fall to the ground, but that’s not what happens. The damn thing
explodes,
bursting into a mash of black and red goo that rains down into the forest. I chuckle in surprise and lean back. “Got him.”

“What did they look like?” Katzman says. He’s got goggles pulled over his eyes. Can see that we’re in the clear now. But if reinforcements show up and he’s wearing them, he’ll be useless.

I point at the goggles. “Better to take those off. Let me handle this.”

He lifts the goggles.

I point at the Mothman being dragged up onto the roof by the two Dread Squad members, who are doing their best to not look at it. “All five were like that one. Mothmen.”

“Hey!”

We all turn toward the voice. It’s Dearborn. He’s running toward us from the elevator, waving excitedly. He’s got a damn smile on his face. “I saw it from the security room.”

“Are you nuts?” Katzman asks. “You’re supposed to be leaving with the others.”

“No way, man,” Dearborn says. “This is modern myth in the making, demigod and all. I need to see this. I need to bear witness.”

“I’m no demigod,” I say.

“The Dread have been worshiped as gods,” he says. “You’re part Dread. Ipso fa—”

“Ispo fuck off,” I say. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

He ignores me and leans over the mothman’s body, which has been laid out on the roof by the Dread Squad guys. It’s very dead and covered in its own gore, but that doesn’t seem to bother Dearborn. “It’s a mothman.” He looks up at me. “You’re lucky you saw it.”

He’s clearly not going anywhere, and I don’t have time to force him. I lift the sniper rifle and lug it back toward the roof’s edge. “Why’s that?”

Dearborn walks beside me. “The amount of fear generated by different subspecies of Dread varies—we think. Looking at the history of Dread encounters and comparing sightings of various species with the resulting effect on humanity, we can paint a rough picture of which Dread can do what. While bulls can instigate people to violence, it takes time. Mobs and confusion are their territory. Historically, mothmen most often lead to dramatically violent events. The 1967 encounters in West Virginia culminated with the collapse of a bridge that killed forty-six people. They’re also more likely to enter the physical realm, as you just saw.”

“The claw I took?”

He nods. “A mothman.”

I turn to Allenby, who is on my other side. “Maya? And Simon?”

“Most likely,” she says. “Hugh and your parents, too.”

Assassins, then. Like me. I’ll keep that in mind next time I come face-to-ugly-face with one.

I crouch by the side of the roof. Moving slowly, I put the rifle down, leaning the bipod on the top of the foot-tall wall surrounding the rooftop. “Anything worse than a mothman?”

“Not that we, or previous you, has seen or captured thus far,” Dearborn says, “but it seems likely. While humanity divides race by skin color and facial features, the Dread vary far more widely. It’s more like different species of Dread, rather than races, though each species might also have its own geographically separated races. We don’t know, and thinking we’ve experienced all of them would be like going to a mall and assuming all races of humanity are represented.” Dearborn peeks over the wall. “From what we know, the Dread we’ve encountered are just the grunts. Following orders. They’re closer to trained animals than intelligent beings. I suppose you might find out when you visit the colony, eh? If you’re still keen on playing G.I. Joe.”

I lift the sniper rifle, placing the stock against my shoulder. “Just need a little target practice first.” I look through the scope and take aim at the crowded parking lot.

32.

“Triangular-shaped head, wider at the top. Tall but hunched body. Kind of like Lyons. Its legs are covered by some kind of cloth. Black. Wispy. Almost like a skirt. Has four eyes like the others. Two on the outside, two nearer the middle. Bright yellow veins all over. Two arms, but they split into tentacles. Too many to count. Each ends with a glowing yellow tip, and it’s poking them into the backs of people’s heads as it passes through the crowd.” I lean away from the sniper scope and look at Dearborn. He’s shaking his head, a hint of a smile. Allenby just looks mortified. “Something new?”

Both nod. My past and forgotten experience with the Dread is starting to appear fairly limited. Bulls, pugs, and mothmen seem to be the limit of Neuro’s Dread-related knowledge base. Of course, back then, the Dread weren’t trying to instigate rebellions and world wars, so I suppose it makes sense that we’re encountering previously unseen species.

I return my eye to the scope. “There’s only one of them down there. Eight bulls. Maybe twenty pugs.”

“Pugs?” Allenby asks.

“The little ones. They look like alien pugs. The dog breed.”

“You said the new one was wearing clothing?” Katzman asks, standing behind us, far enough away from the roof’s edge to not be visible.

I focus on the monster in question as it flits about the agitated crowd, moving from one person to the next, pausing just long enough to … what? “That unusual?”

Katzman kneels behind the wall, peeking over the top. He slowly lowers his goggles into place. His body goes rigid just from seeing the thing. He curses, yanks the goggles up, catches his breath, and says, “According to your past accounts, it’s a first.”

“Whatever it is,” I say, “it’s not really scaring anyone.” I watch the way the bulls and pugs shimmer closer to our frequency and the effect their brush with our reality has on the people nearby. They’re pumping fear and paranoia into the crowd, keeping them on the edge. But Medusa-hands seems to be directing the flow of ideas. Those it touches move forward, toward the front doors. If this goes on much longer, they might have this mob storm the building. Lyons has faith in the building’s defenses, but I have my doubts. If there is anything a mob is good at, it’s finding a way through a building’s windows, even if those windows are three stories up. And these people are supercharged by fear. Some of the most heinous and desperate acts in human history have been fueled by fear. If these people get inside, anyone left will be in serious trouble. Of course, so will those who get inside. Once we evacuate the remaining staff, the people left inside will either be inner-circle scientists or heavily armed guards and Dread Squad members. The pristine hallways beneath us could very quickly get a fresh coat of red.

“Can you take it out?” Katzman asks.

I center my scope on the thing’s wide head. It’s always moving and, despite the creature’s size, remains ducked down behind the people it’s affecting. I could shoot it, but not without risk of hitting someone. While I’m fairly certain I could squeak a round between some protesters without hitting them, I don’t know if the massive round will be stopped by the Dread’s body. It could very easily pass straight through the Dread—and whoever is behind it. I might drop the monster and a line of ten people with it. War between overlapping dimensions is a complicated thing, especially when the bullets exist in both worlds.

But do they have to?

I grip the large rifle with both hands. “I’ll be right back.”

“What are you doing?” Allenby asks.

“Just make sure the drivers are ready to go.” To Katzman. “We’re leaving in one minute.”

I slip into the mirror dimension, skipping right past the world in between. I force my shout of pain to come out as a gasp. My body lurches, spasms, and then feels whole and normal again.
Much better,
I think. But still far from a painless experience. Still, the transition from one world to the other is getting easier.
How much more like the Dread will I become?
Right now, I still look, feel, and think like me, but will those things change as well? If I keep flexing these Dread muscles and perceptions, will they overpower my humanity?

Questions without answers. No one knows.

From my low position on the oscillium rooftop, all I can see is purple sky. I search it for mothmen and see nothing but the storm approaching in both dimensions. I lean up over the edge. The Dread below flicker in and out of view, slipping into the world between before returning to their own frequency. They do it without effort or obvious pain. For them, it’s like walking.

On this side of reality there will be no people to keep the Dread’s attention. I will be easy to spot, especially when I open fire. For a moment, I debate this strategy. Open myself up for attack or let the chaos of the crowd hide me? Since I have no desire to accidentally kill innocents, and no concern for my own well-being, it’s a short debate. I lean up, raising the rifle in position. Before taking aim, I focus on the weapon, willing it to exist only in the mirror universe. While I know it’s possible, there’s no way to know if it worked.

Or is there?

I put the weapon down, flash back to the real world with a grunt, and confirm that the sniper rifle is gone. “Nice,” I say, only partially aware that I’ve just surprised the others, and then slip back into the mirror world, grunting once again, but never slowing.

I retrieve the weapon and peer through the scope. The bulls and pugs are all there, running and slipping back and forth between frequencies, pushing their fear between worlds. So is Medusa-hands. I can see it fully now. The way it moves is unnatural, which I suppose isn’t surprising given the fact that it’s from a dimension beyond human perception. I can’t see its legs because of the sheet of black hanging from its waist, but given the way it moves smoothly across the ground, which is now thick muck, I’d guess the same tentacles writhing at the end of its arms also serve as legs.

Ignoring the pugs, I search for my targets. Medusa-hands will be the first. It’s most likely the brains. I figure I can take two or three of the bulls before they figure out where I am, and another two if they come for me. But then I’ll need to move. There’s no way I can take out all of them, but I think it will be enough to disrupt the mob. At least, I hope it will be.

I slip my finger over the trigger, zero in on Medusa-hands, and expel my breath. Before pulling the trigger, I hear an uptick in the whispering that permeates the mirror dimension. This time, I sense a direction.

Behind me.

I turn back slowly.

Mothmen.

Ten of them. And something else. Something larger. They’re at least a mile off, but closing fast.