MirrorWorld (20 page)
I might not be afraid, but I’m not stupid, either. Being found by multiple bulls without any understanding of what they really are, and can do, is likely a death sentence. With the quiver of arrows over my back, the bow in one hand, and the machete in the other, I break out in a run. I slow my pace ten minutes later, confident I’m not being followed. Not only have they not attacked, but I’ve looked back, in both worlds, and seen no sign of company. That said, I’m following the trail of blood north, back to Neuro, the same trail of blood those bulls will have no trouble following. The supernatural shit is going to hit the fan, and I’m going to be the only one who gets to see it coming.
“Is it dead?”
I stop in front of Lyons, who is waiting just beyond Neuro’s main entrance foyer. He’s dressed for work, in slacks, a white button up, and a lab coat, split at the middle by his belly. He cleans his glasses with a fold of his coat while waiting for my answer. Two men from Dread Squad Beta flank him, warily eyeing my disheveled state.
“It’s dead,” I say.
Lyons raises his eyebrows. “That’s all? You have nothing else to say?”
“It’s
very
dead.”
I’m not going to tell him about the pug Dreads, about the world on the other side, or my ability to fully immerse myself in that place. The flow of information needs to come in my direction first.
He watches me for a moment, then puts his glasses back on. “Follow me.” He strikes out, and the guards stay in place, watching the entrance.
We head for the elevator, walking in silence. Inside, he pushes the button for the seventh floor. The doors slide shut.
“Before we start,” I say, “I want you to know that all of the previous unpleasantness could have been avoided if you’d just told me the truth from the beginning.”
“You sound like Allenby,” he says.
“Wisdom must be a family trait.”
I want to see if he’ll be honest about us being family. About his daughter being my wife. I’ve given him the perfect segue, but he just grunts. Or was it a laugh? He could have been clearing his throat for all I know.
The elevator stops with a ding and the doors slide open.
The level outside the elevator is easy to identify. There are bullet holes in the wall, a sheet of black covering the window I leapt from, and a familiar set of doors. While Lyons turns left, I head the other direction, for Maya’s room.
For
my wife’s
room.
I look down at my ring finger. There isn’t even a hint that I wore a ring on that finger. Assuming we married before having a child, the ring would have been there for at least eight years. But it’s been a year since the ring was removed. There must have been a mark before, but I just never thought to look, and whatever indentation the band created has since faded.
“What are you doing?” Lyons asks.
I ignore him, open the door to her room, and step inside. She’s lying in bed, just like she was the first time I saw her.
This is my wife …
The concept is surreal. As distant from me as the solar system from the galaxy’s core. And though the urge to free her remains, I have no memory of her, no feelings for her. How would that make her feel?
A shuffle of feet announces Lyons’s arrival.
“Does she know?” I ask.
“Know what?” Lyons asks.
“That I don’t remember her.”
The man shrugs. “I’m not sure what she does and does not know.”
“Because she’s out of her mind, or because she’s sedated around the clock?”
His face seems to melt, some invisible force tugging his lips into a frown. This
is
his daughter. “Both, I suppose.”
We stand there for a moment, watching the motionless Maya. Once upon a time, the two of us were a part of her life, but now … now she’s an anxiety-ridden, self-mutilating vegetable and I’m what? I’m a mystery. Time for some answers.
“I’m done,” I say, and leave the room.
He lingers for a moment but then follows, overtakes me with the awkward shuffling walk of a man whose knees don’t work well anymore, and heads for a pair of doors I recognize. We stop in front of the
Documentum
door. He swipes his key card and we enter.
The vast, dark room glows dully from the light provided by the glass tubes. The space looks the same as it did before, a collection of dead people floating on the left, empty vessels awaiting occupants on the right.
I’m confused when he stops. “I’ve already seen this.”
“You have seen the victims,” he says, motioning to the bodies. “Like Maya, they got too close to the other side, saw too much, or were driven to madness for any number of reasons I can only guess at. You’ve witnessed the effect the Dread can have on people who lack your fearless nature, which is nearly everyone on this planet.”
Lyons waves his hands at the empty tubes. “But did you see the collection?” He looks at me. “Granted, all I can see is empty containers, but you…”
He wants me to look with my new senses. I blink, shifting my view. Invisible icicles impale my eyes, the pain like brain freeze, but far worse. The jolt makes me flinch, but I’m ready for the pain this time and look beyond it, peeking, once again behind the veil. When I do, Lyons steps away from me a touch but says nothing. And I pay him no heed. I can’t. The sight before me is unholy and captivating.
Lyons walks up to one of the tubes, which to him appears empty, and raps it with his knuckles. “The glass, like the windows on the outside of this building, is laced with oscillium.”
All but seven of the tanks contain a Dread. I see three bulls, crammed inside their tanks, several of the smaller pugs, and another four or five different types, all dead but without any obvious wounds. Like the living Dread, they’re all shades of dark gray and black, but the mesh of glowing veins is now the color of rotting spinach.
“If you can’t see them, how do you know they’re here?” I ask.
“The goggles you saw earlier filter and shift frequencies, allowing us to see them. Only partially. Like shadows,” he says. “Unless they’re already close to our frequency of reality, then they become clear. But even in death, viewing them for extended periods is not advisable.”
I remember the effect a quick look in the stairwell had on Katzman. “Because you might go nuts.”
He nods. “In death, the Dread no longer actively project fear, but there is residual … discomfort created by viewing their frequency of reality. Researchers who have spent even a short amount of time studying the corpses are far more susceptible to their influence. As a result, we have very limited data on their physiology and haven’t been able to perform any experiments of note … aside from you. I have only looked once. Those who have risked more … Well, an excess of fear can break the human mind. It’s what happened to the people you see in this room. It’s what happened to Maya.”
“You knew her well,” I say, luring him toward honesty.
“Who?”
“Maya. Not even Allenby used her first name.”
“We were close,” he says and turns to me. “As were you and I.”
He’s nearly being honest now. Perhaps the subject of Maya is simply too painful for him? Despite knowing he’s my father-in-law, I have a hard time picturing the two of us kicking back with a couple of beers or playing a game of Cranium—Shotgun Jones’s favorite. “If you can’t see them, how do you know they’re still there? Or that they aren’t simply unconscious? Or biding their time?”
“Sensors,” he says. “We’ve learned how to detect their presence.”
“Bioelectromagnetic fields?” I guess.
He squints at me. “Allenby has told you a lot.”
You have no idea,
I think, and say, “But how did you kill them?”
He twists his lips for a moment. “The foyer you passed through at the main entrance. Did you notice the delay?”
I nod. The second set of doors took a few seconds to open.
“You were being scanned. Had your bioelectromagnetic field registered as Dread, you’d have been bombarded with microwaves. The roof elevator is the same.”
“Microwaves?”
“Various types of radiation and electricity have the same effect on them as they do on us. Unlike most elements, some forces exist in all frequencies, to some extent or another.”
“And if there had been a Dread inside with me?”
“Alone, the beast would be killed. If a human presence is detected, the first set of doors would have opened again, allowing you and the Dread to leave.”
“And each of these walked into your trap?”
“Slow learners,” he says, but he’s still not being fully honest. Many of the dead Dread have wounds that being cooked from the inside out doesn’t explain. I let it slide, though.
“They follow people, you know. Torment them.” His voice takes on a dark tone. “I know that fear is lost on you, but for the rest of us it can be a nearly insurmountable force. The Dread seep into people’s lives, pushing fear, breaking minds. And they don’t discriminate. Men, women, children. Everywhere in the world. People try to ignore them mostly, and often succeed, blaming their presence on the wind, a settling house, coincidence, imagination, nerves. Or we create stories, myths, about fairies, aliens, ghosts, and other things that, while frightening, are easy to write off. We have hundreds of defense mechanisms that keep us from acknowledging the Dread are real and present. And who can blame us. Life is easier for those most able to ignore the truth. But for those who acknowledge the darkness and who refuse to cower to it, they become targets, trying to stand but being stepped on, pushed down again and again.”
He’s seething, talking about himself now. The trials of his youth. The passion that drives him. More private information set free by Allenby’s loose lips.
He takes a moment to catch his breath, then motions to the collection of Dread. “Most of this bunch came in following employees. After a few months, they stopped trying. Neuro Inc. is currently the only place on Earth you can be truly free of their presence.” He frowns at me. “Until you exposed a chink in our armor. We’re lucky it was just the bull. He was hard to miss.”
“What was it doing?”
“Based on the data from sensors around the building, we think it was just excited to be inside, like an overactive dog. It was running about because it could.”
I’m not so sure that’s true, but the time to open that can of worms hasn’t come. “Then you don’t think they’re smart?”
“Oh, they’re intelligent. There’s no doubt about that, but they’re also instinctual, reacting on primal urges, to intimidate, bully, and dominate their rivals.”
“Humanity,” I say.
He nods and starts toward the laboratory doors at the back of the
Documentum
room. “It’s more complicated than that, but there is more evidence than you’d expect. We’ve gathered a database of statistical and anecdotal evidence. But it’s the testimonial evidence that’s most intriguing.”
“You’ve talked to survivors?” I ask.
“Some,” he says. “But most are like Maya, locked in a permanent state of catatonic terror. Much of our testimonial evidence came from
you,
before the…” He points at his head. “I should have never let you do it.”
I’m not at all interested in hearing more about that past decision. “What kind of evidence? Had I seen them?”
“Most of the physical descriptions we have came from you. The Dread kept trying to frighten you, but couldn’t. The more they failed, the more persistent they became, revealing themselves to you nearly completely while attempting to send their fear into your fearless mind. In all the years I’ve studied the mirror world, you were the first person to corroborate what I believed was there and was observing mathematically and electronically.” He stops by the lab doors. Swipes his key card. The light flashes green. “Not that you’re the only person to have seen the Dread. Ever heard of the Mothman?” He pulls open the door.
Before I can answer, we’re inside the lab where several familiar faces wait. Allenby is there, a look of relief in her eyes. She takes my hand and gives it a pat but says nothing. Next is Cobb. After abducting him, forcing him to care for my kidnapped patient, and putting him in danger, I didn’t think I’d ever see him again. Most men would have run the other way. But here he is, sitting in a chair, eyes on the floor. Not that he looks happy about it. He’s so pale it looks like Dracula had a go at him, but I suspect he’s just been told the truth. Then there is Katzman, the Dread Squad leader who managed to corner and capture me. I can’t remember if that’s ever been done before, but it still impresses me. He’s all business, leaning against a counter. He offers a professional nod. I think my victorious return has earned a little respect. That will probably change when I tell them about the pugs, but I don’t care. Behind Katzman, but towering over him—in scale more than presence—is a new face. Standing at least fifteen inches taller than Katzman, the man’s shaggy face is easy to see, despite his best attempt to not make eye contact. He’s young, lanky, and dressed like it’s still the ’90s—jeans, T-shirt, open plaid flannel. The way his brown eyes dart everywhere but toward me says that he’s like Cobb and doesn’t really belong in this group. Looks more like he should be playing video games than discussing monsters that live just beyond our perception. I decide to spare him some social discomfort and not introduce myself just yet.
Last in the line is Winters, the CIA overseer and my former … what? The tightness of her scowl matches her crossed arms.
“Not happy to see me?” I ask her.
She huffs. “You knocked me out, gagged me, and cuffed me to a bed.”
“The gentlest way I know how,” I say. “And you did try to kick me in the face. And tase me. Do they know why you’re really upset at me?” I motion to the others.
A circle of confused eyes stare at me. Except for Winters. She looks something close to mortified. I think. I can recognize fear, but the subtleties of it are hard for me to pick out. But she definitely looks uncomfortable.
“Was it after Maya lost her mind, or before?” I ask Winters.
Her eyes slowly widen. She’s trying to tell me to shut my mouth without making it too obvious. But the implications aren’t hard to miss. Even the new guy gets it. He’s folding in on himself, trying to disappear.