MirrorWorld (31 page)
I take a peek into the mirror world to make sure I’m not driving into the jaws of a giant centipede. Mothmen high in the sky are coming my way, but the roof ahead looks empty.
Then I’m airborne, clearing the top. The ATV drops to the roof with a jolt. I hit the brakes and skid to a stop.
Everything on the roof stops and turns my way.
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit!
I hop off the ATV, thinking,
Please be right! Please be right!
Lyons believed that something at the colony was leading the Dread, maybe controlling them. I think that thing is the giant that’s been chasing me, directing the others with its omnipresent whisper.
I slip fully into the Dread dimension, wince against the sudden pain, and dive to the discarded 20 mm sniper rifle still leaning against the short wall. I bring it back to reality with me, but not fully out of the mirror world, and remove the spent three-round magazine, pull a spare from a pouch on my hip, and slap it in.
I blink sweat out of my eyes, knowing that Dread are approaching from all directions, lift the heavy weapon up, and plant the bipod on the short wall. I lean into it, resting the stock against my shoulder, and peer through the scope.
The behemoth is there, staring right back.
Seven round eyes look up at me as the massive Dread lopes toward the building. Five of the eyes arc across the top of the monster’s head, just above the other two, all of it surrounded by pulsing purple veins. Unlike other Dread, these eyes are solid black, like a shark’s. Beneath the eyes is what looks like an exploding mass of flesh—the tendrils that invaded and rewired my brain. Seeing the tentacles on the front of this thing’s face reminds me of a star-nosed mole I saw in a
National Geographic.
Ugly as hell, but the Dread mole’s horrible face and long hooked claws are definitely designed for subterranean living. Which might be why it moves so awkwardly over land. Its wide legs have a short reach. Its spine arcs with each lunge forward, almost like an otter on land. But the strangeness of its movement does nothing to negate the effect its hideous appearance has on my psyche.
My eyes twitch, spasming muscles mixed with stinging sweat. My vision is questionable, but I keep my eye to the scope, aiming between the triangle of eyes at the center of the giant’s head.
I slip my finger over the trigger.
And squeeze.
The Dread mole shimmers for a moment. I see it through the scope and shriek as something cold reaches through my chest and clutches my heart. The shot goes wild, tearing up into the atmosphere.
Gasping as unbidden thoughts of suicide bounce through my skull, I lift the rifle again.
The building shakes.
The Dread mole has thrown itself against the side. It swings one of its massive clawed hands out and shatters the oscillium window. Pulls itself higher. Slams its other clawed hand through the building. Higher. Climbing.
I’m shaking, muscles out of control, obeying the fear impulse driven into me by the Dread, ignoring the commands of my fracturing psyche.
The monster pushes its powerful fear up at me again. I close my eyes against it, but a wave of torment spills over me. I scream in emotional agony, eyes to the sky.
The building shudders.
Then again.
I can’t look.
It’s
right
there. I know it is. It has to be.
I consider running. But where? And how? I’m locked in place by fear-induced rigor mortis. My muscles tense and release, twitching. My head throbs, skips, and races. Pressure builds in my sinuses. The physical manifestations of fear are debilitating.
You can’t miss.
The voice is familiar. Confident. Crazy whispers from some hidden nook in my mind.
It’s
right
there. You
can’t
miss.
I open my eyes.
Look down.
Scream.
My arms work on autopilot while my voice fills the air with a raspy squeak that is my ruined voice. A round is chambered. My shaking hand pulls the trigger. I can’t hear the gun fire over my scream, but it kicks hard. I nearly drop it, but my arms, directed by muscle memory I can’t remember learning, chamber the third and final round. The weapon kicks hard. I drop it to the roof and pitch forward as the last of my strength is torn from me.
Through blurry eyes, I look over the short wall.
The Dread mole is gone from the world in between. It’s difficult, but I force my eyes to see the mirror dimension. Whatever pain the shift causes is insignificant compared to the effects of being afraid. The giant is there, slowly sliding back to the swampy ground.
The Dread mole is motionless. One of its eyes has burst. Purple and white fluid oozes from the ruined socket. A 20 mm round can punch through a tank, so I have no doubt the bullet continued through the head, creating a pressure wave that destroyed whatever it came into contact with. To the right of the ruined eye is a clean hole, dead center, between the triangle of eyes. I hit it twice.
I’m a good shot, even when I’m out of my mind
. I choke out a laugh that becomes a cackle and fall into a shaking fetal position. My body convulses uncontrollably, outwardly reflecting the turmoil that has become my mind.
This is what the Dread do to people. This is why even strong men like Katzman can’t even look at them. I’ve lost control. I’ve lost myself.
But I’m not dead. And I’m not being attacked.
My eyes clench shut, but I need to see. I need to know if there is anything left to fear. As my body quivers, I let my eyelids slip open. Purple light filters through my lashes. I’m still viewing the mirror world. I open my eyes and come face-to-face with a Medusa-hands. My voice sounds like tearing paper as I shout. I try to push away from the creature, but I’m already up against the wall. Nowhere to run.
But I don’t need to.
Like me, the Dread is on its side, twitching. Alive, but no longer in control. Or maybe no longer
being
controlled. I don’t know which is the case, but the thing appears to have been lobotomized by the Dread mole’s death. Then it goes rigid, its limbs snapping still for a moment before falling to the roof, still and dead.
It must have been right behind me when the strings were cut, when the Dread mole died. Had it reached me … I’m clutched by horrible images. My head pounds.
I look beyond the wide head of the Medusa-hands and take in the rest of the rooftop. Mothmen litter the oscillium surface, shaking like dying bees, some spinning in circles. A few more are still falling from high up in the sky, fluttering madly like actual moths that flew too close to a lightbulb. The large centipede undulates and thrashes, snapping its large wings in the process. The uncontrolled movement brings it to the side of the roof, where it rolls over and falls from view.
It’s over,
I think.
My body quakes, still gripped with fear despite the danger’s passing.
Get a grip.
The small voice of my former self has no power.
Stand up.
Like a swimmer pulled from arctic waters, my muscles contract and release of their own accord. Images of death and pain and blood race through my thoughts, unhindered.
Stand the fuck up!
I squeeze my eyes shut, shaking my head back and forth. “No!” When I open them again, the sky is blue, and the Dread are gone. I’m safe.
But
still
afraid.
I roll onto my stomach, forehead resting on my folded arms. I’ve won, and yet I feel like a frail creature that has lost everything. Where do feelings like this come from? How can my mind conjure such torturous emotions having never experienced them before?
Because it has.
I just can’t remember them.
I
have
lost everything. A wife. A son. Thirtysomething years of memory.
None of those things were created by the Dread. They simply drew to the surface what existed, no matter how well hidden by my lack of memory, and magnified it. The realization does me no good.
I can’t remember what I’ve lost. Not really. But there is nothing in my life, absolutely nothing, that can combat this sorrow. No love. No real friends. And just this one, hollow victory, if you can even call it that.
I’m done,
I think, and close my eyes. With a final spasm, my tired mind and even more exhausted body quits, and I slip into merciful sleep.
I wake up screaming. The sound cracks my raw throat, combining with the exquisite pain that comes from sitting up too quickly. My body is beaten and bruised.
Something brushes against my forearm. Squeezes. I don’t so much flinch from the touch as catapult. Arms flailing, I reel away, spiraling out of bed and onto the hard floor. An IV needle tears from my arm. The floor punishes me for the clumsy descent. But I barely notice as I scramble backward across the floor, still running from that touch.
My head hits the door. Then my back. My legs continue to pump, but there’s nowhere left to go.
Through my still-screaming voice I hear a name. It’s being shouted at me. Slowly, it sinks in.
“Josef!”
My eyes snap up to the sound of the voice.
Blue eyes stare back at me. They have an immediate calming effect. My voice falls silent, but my legs are rigid, pressing me against the door.
“Josef,” the voice says, gently. “It’s me. It’s Jess.”
Jess?
“Winters,” she says.
My eyes wander. Her blond hair is a mess. Her face is partially covered by a bandage. “I know you,” I say.
She crouches in front of me, smiles, and puts her soft hand on my cheek. “Better than you remember.”
As she strokes the side of my face, I close my eyes. Memories and tears surface, none of them pleasant. I can feel the Dread mole, projecting fear upon me, crawling through my mind. I put a hand behind my head. There’s a bandage taped in place.
“You’re okay now. You’re safe.” Her voice is calm and soothing. “We haven’t detected any Dread activity in the region since—”
“They’re all dead. I think. The whole colony.”
She says nothing. Just keeps rubbing my cheek. The repetitive caress calms me, my head sagging a little farther with each downward stroke. I take a long breath and let it out slowly.
“Can I take your pulse?” she asks.
I nod.
She takes my left hand in hers and places two fingers on my wrist. The touch is gentle.
Twenty seconds later, she says, “Good,” and lifts her fingers away, but my hand stays in hers. “Can I ask you some questions?”
“You’re here as my psychologist, then?”
“You’re still direct,” she says.
“Habit.”
“Then…”
“You’re wondering if I’m afraid.”
“Yes.”
I look her in the eyes but have trouble not looking away. Her gaze is intense. “Do I look afraid?”
Sadness sweeps over her face. “Very.”
“There’s your answer.”
“How?” she asks.
I put my hand on the bandage at the back of my head. “They got inside my head. Fixed what was broken.”
“Allowing
you
to be broken, but why not just kill you?”
“They weren’t done with me, but I escaped. I think they were trying to understand what made me fearless. Apparently, they figured it out.”
She slips her hand out from under mine and stands up. “I’m sorry, Josef.”
She heads for a counter, opens a folder, and jots a few notes. “There are clothes in the bathroom if you would like to get dressed.”
I look down. I’m wearing a paper-thin gown. Again. The hospital garb once again matches the room. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was staying at Average Hospital USA.
I stand slowly, my body protesting each movement. Winters offers no help. I don’t know her well, but this seems a little out of character, especially in light of the affection she just offered … which ended the moment she knew the truth: the fearless Crazy is now just a regular guy—who can pass through dimensions, but that is something I have absolutely no interest in doing again. Ever. Was she really only attracted to my fearless nature, or is her sudden change somehow meant to protect me? If so, I wish she wouldn’t. For the first time that I can remember, I feel in serious need of moral support.
A draft reveals the gown’s open backside. Fueled by embarrassment, a new emotional delicacy, I hurry into the bathroom, close the door, and lock it. All of this is new to me. I can remember who I was and how I would have done things—who cares if she sees me naked—but now … now half the thoughts in my head make me squirm. My memories of SafeHaven, seen through this new fear lens, are traumatic. What I’ve experienced since leaving that place is even worse. I shake my head at it all, trying to keep my thoughts empty, but I can’t. There isn’t much that I’ve experienced in the year of remembered life that doesn’t now haunt me, including things I did, thought, and said.
The small bathroom doesn’t provide a whole lot of room, and it’s impossible to miss myself in the mirror. My brown eyes are framed by upturned eyebrows above and dark circles below. My face is covered in stubble and scabbed-over scratches. If I turn my head, just a little, I can see the bandage taped to the back, over my close-cut hair. I slip out of the gown. More bandages cover wounds I have no memory of receiving, and my ribs are wrapped. The broad ache suggests bruising rather than breaks, which is good, I suppose.
Despite all the fresh wounds, I notice that the past injuries—the self-inflicted puncture wound and the vast bruising across my midsection—are nearly completely healed.
That was fast,
I think, probing the stab wound. The flesh is mostly nit together, the swelling and bruising all but gone. Two weeks of healing in a day. I’m also far less sore than I think I should be. In fact, I feel strong. Almost energized—physically, not emotionally. Lyons had asked me if I felt any different.
Am I becoming more Dread?
As my throat constricts at the thought, I lean forward, looking into my own eyes like it was the first time.
What was I thinking?
I’ve done so many stupid things. Every punch, bone break, harsh word spoken, and rude action from the past year flits through my mind. But the worst decision might be the one I don’t remember. I altered my DNA. Made myself something not human. I close my eyes, willing the endless barrage of cringe-worthy thoughts from my mind.