MirrorWorld

by Jeremy Robinson

  The man with the bat steps forward. The muscles of his tattooed forearm twitch as he twists his hands around the grip. “Not that close.”

  I shrug. “Your funeral.” And I mean it. These men would kill me. I have no qualms about returning the favor. Even if I could feel fear, a jail sentence or return to SafeHaven wouldn’t be on my list. Not in this situation. I’m not only defending myself, I’m defending two other people.

  Bat-man steps closer. He’s got the Slugger cocked back, twisting around in tight circles. A real Jose Canseco.

  I wait patiently.

  He steps into his swing, grunting his power into the weapon. But his aim is off. I don’t even need to duck. Clearly, he’s never killed anyone before, which begs the question: Why does he want to kill me? I’m never going to get a chance to ask him. The powerful missed swing overextends him. I close the short distance between us, catch his arms, and spin him around.

  The man shouts in fear, but not because of me. His overeager friend has lunged with the knife and is plunging it toward where I was supposed to be. If the knife continues its arc, it will plunge into bat-man’s heart.

  Only it doesn’t.

  I’m struck by something as heavy as a cartoon anvil—mercy. Back when these people were an angry mob, I could have driven through them without a second thought, but I can see now that they’re out of their minds. Not themselves, and not really deserving of my wrath. Not all of it, anyway.

  I twist the bat in front of the knife. The blade bounces off the wooden barrel. A quick shove knocks the bat into the man’s forehead. He drops the knife and stumbles back against the railing as a third person—a girl-next-door type—crawls out the window.

  The hell is going on?

  These people seem like they need to be in SafeHaven more than Seymour. They’re out of their heads. Terrified to the point of rage.

  With a quick twist, bat-man’s wrists overextend, and he relinquishes the bat. I spin him around and pull back my fist to slug him, but he’s done. The man raises his hands, finally more afraid of me than whatever brought him to this point. “Who are you?” he asks.

  I pick up the knife. “I have no idea.”

  Shattering glass turns my gaze upward, but back down just as quickly. Glass rains down from above, breaking into smaller pieces as it strikes the grated metal stairs. When I’m finally able to look up again, girl next door is charging, fingers hooked, a scream building in her throat. Above me, a man leaps through the window and starts up after Allenby. He’s fast.

  I sidestep the girl, tripping her with my foot and elbowing her in the back. She spills forward, introducing her forehead to the railing behind me. She slumps down to the fire escape floor, blood running down her face.

  As more people pour through the window, I start up the stairs, armed with a bat and two knives—one ceramic, one stainless steel. For a moment, I feel good about my chances for surviving this mess. Allenby’s life is still at risk, but I can do a lot of damage to a lot of people with a knife and bat. My positive outlook changes when I reach the third story and bullets start flying. Someone inside the apartment fires three times. Only two of the bullets make it through the window, each of them sending sparks into the air as they strike the fire escape’s metal framework.

  I run past without slowing or flinching. The missed bullets have as little effect on me as a shift in the breeze or a degree change in the temperature. I’m two flights higher when the shooter makes it to the window and starts firing up. But there are two levels of metal between us, and the rounds don’t make it far.

  At the top story, I quickly take stock of the situation. Loud chopping and billowing dust, both the results of a helicopter’s rotor blades, mean our ride has arrived. But Allenby and her pursuer are nowhere in sight.

  I discard the bat, slip one blade beneath my belt, pop the second sideways in my mouth, and leap onto the ladder like a pirate boarding a merchant’s vessel. I bound up the rungs, jump the wall at the top, and take in the scene. Allenby is on the tar-paper roof, crawling away from her attacker, a spindly man with a pipe. I don’t think she’s been struck yet, but the man is just seconds from delivering his first blow. Beyond them is the helicopter, a black number with no identifying marks, hovering a few feet above the roof. Blair sits inside looking paralyzed with fear. I see no weapons, meaning I’m the only hope Allenby has.

  As I climb over the roof’s short wall, I shout, “Hey!” but the man doesn’t turn. He’s locked on target.

  I run at him, taking aim with the ceramic knife. It’s a nice blade. Sharp. Well balanced. But it’s not a throwing knife. The odds of hitting the man with the blade are fifty-fifty. But I only need to hit him hard enough to get his attention.

  The pipe comes up in sync with Allenby raising her arms. The defensive posture will save her life from the first blow, but she’ll have two broken arms for the effort. Twenty feet from the man, I throw the ceramic knife. The man doesn’t see it coming but twists just right as he steps over Allenby, and the blade sails past. The second knife is in the air a fraction of a second later.

  The pipe descends.

  The butt of the knife strikes the man’s right shoulder, knocking his strike off center, but the pipe will still connect with one of Allenby’s arms.

  Except it doesn’t.

  She surprises the attacker and me by rolling to the side at the last moment and kicking the man’s knee. He yelps in pain and jumps back but isn’t deterred. He raises the pipe for another strike but never gets the chance.

  My shoulder strikes the man, midspine, as I ram him, lift him off the ground, and then slam him to the roof. There’s a loud crack as all my weight is transferred to the man’s spine via my shoulder. He screams in pain, still alive, but when I stand up, he’s not moving anything below the neck.

  I turn to Allenby, who is now on her feet. “I knew you were military.”

  She turns for the chopper. “Once upon a time.”

  “Better hurry,” I say, pushing her along. “The next person has a gun.”

  The helicopter lowers as we approach, allowing us to board by stepping on the skid and climbing in through the side door. Blair helps Allenby inside but leaves me to climb in by myself. As I find my seat and slide the side door shut, bullets punch into the metal where my head had been a moment before.

  The pilot takes us up and away, blinding the gunman with a cloud of dust and roof grime. As we ascend, I lean to the window and look down. It’s Manchester, New Hampshire, all right, but I’ve never seen it like this. The streets are alive with people. Vehicles and some buildings are burning. The mob rushes forward. Ahead of them, a line of riot police, each holding a clear bullet-resistant shield, wait.

  Molotov cocktails sail through the air, accompanied by rocks, and then bullets. The police respond with tear gas, water cannons, and then bullets of their own. War indeed.

  “Hard to believe,” Allenby says.

  Not really, I think, except for one detail. While scenes like this have played out all around the world for one reason or another, this is New Hampshire. It’s 90 percent forested, has a culture of holding people accountable for their actions, and the lowest murder rate in the country. How could this level of violence seep into one of the nation’s quietest states? Even more pressing, how can a city I don’t remember visiting be so familiar, and why the hell do I know so much about New Hampshire?

  7.

  The helicopter races toward the roof of what appears to be a black Mayan pyramid. As we descend, I can see the faint outlines of the tinted windows that make up the building’s flat, forty-five-degree angled walls. At the center of two sides of the building, the smooth slope is divided by what looks like giant staircases, each “step” a story tall, completing the Mayan feel. I count nine levels. The top level is three hundred feet across. Maybe more. The bottom is at least three times that. The building is surrounded by tall pines, and the roof is just below the tree line. Despite its size, the megalithic building would be invisible to
anyone on the ground. Not exactly covert since anyone in the air can look down and see it, but the single access road winding through the woods is blocked by a gate. And while I can’t see it, I have no doubt that the entire facility is surrounded by a fence. Anyone interested in the building is going to have a hard time reaching it.

  Which begs the question, why am I here?

  “You’re not going to assimilate me?” I ask. The pilot, Blair, and Allenby can all hear me over the thunderous rotors thanks to the headsets we’re wearing.

  “What?” Blair asks. He’s still shaken up by our experience in Manchester. “I don’t—”

  “Resistance is futile,” Allenby says. She slides up next to me and looks out the window. “It does smack of the Borg, doesn’t it? But no worries, the collective isn’t interested in the likes of you.”

  I smile at her. “If you were younger and prettier—” I stop as my logical mind puts the brakes on the statement my lack of fear let slip.

  Allenby gets a good laugh out of it, though. Slaps my shoulder. “Oh, you.” Her demeanor is casual. Comfortable. I find this strange, but perhaps it’s just a result of being institutionalized in a place where most everyone is afraid of me.

  The helicopter touches down on a black landing pad at the center of the roof. As the rotor slows, Allenby slides the door open and hops out. There is no greeting party, just a flat black surface and a halo of pine-tree tops surrounding us. The scent of the deep woods is invigorating. I breathe deeply and step out.

  “Follow me,” Allenby says, almost shouting to be heard over the still-slowing rotor blades. I fall in line behind her as we walk across the roof. “Some ground rules. Don’t talk to anyone who doesn’t first talk to you.”

  “That’s a strange rule,” I point out. “Kind of old-world parental discipline.”

  “It’s just that most people here are working on something, in their heads, even when they don’t appear to be working at all.”

  “I see,” I say, but I really don’t. I stop walking.

  After a few steps, Allenby notices I’ve stopped. She turns back. “What?”

  “Why am I here?”

  “To not be there,” she says, and I get her meaning.

  “Anywhere is better than SafeHaven?” I say. “I’m not sure I believe that. From what it looks like, once I set foot inside this building, no one will know I’m here.”

  Allenby grins. “And if I don’t tell you?”

  “I’m going to run.”

  “And get caught.”

  I shake my head. “I think you know that’s not what will happen. You have five seconds to tell me why I’m here. Five … four…”

  Allenby grunts and stomps her foot. “You’re infuriating. Fine.”

  I grin, but also note she didn’t wait until I got to one, or until I started running. She believed me. Trusted what I said. I haven’t been given that kind of respect in a long time, and I appreciate it despite the circumstances.

  “It’s a drug trial.” She waves her hand at her head. “For your condition.”

  “What if I don’t want to be cured?” I ask. “I’ve seen what fear does to people, and I’m not sure I—”

  “Not that condition,” she says. “The other one.”

  I’m confused for a moment until I realize she’s talking about my memory. “What if I don’t want to remember?”

  She turns away and starts walking. “You do.”

  “You’re calling my bluff?” I ask.

  “We both know you have a horrible hand,” she says, stopping. A square of rooftop before her comes to life, rising up. A black rectangle, ten feet tall, six wide, emerges from below and stops, looking like a futuristic megalith. And then it opens, revealing an elevator. Allenby steps inside and turns around. With a single raised eyebrow and a matching grin, she says, “Coming?”

  * * *

  Stepping out of the elevator, we enter a hallway that defies all of my expectations. Given the stark feel of the building’s obsidian surface, I expected something similar to the SafeHaven floor—stark, gleaming white, and brightly lit. Instead, it’s … homey. Warm hardwood floors. A thick, oriental runner down the middle of the hall. End tables with a variety of lamps. “This doesn’t look like a laboratory.”

  “It isn’t,” Allenby says. “It’s the residential level.” She starts down the hall. She stops three doors down on the right. “This is your room.”

  I feel like I’m in some sort of strange dream, and peek into the room, which is more than a room. It’s an apartment. From the doorway, I can see a kitchenette, living room, and dining area. The furnishing is comfortable. The brushed metal appliances are modern. The décor is casual, almost primitive, with wooden carvings and emotionally charged, modern oil paintings.

  I step inside.

  I’m drawn inside.

  Immediate comfort washes over me. My muscles relax. “How did you do it?”

  “What?” she asks.

  I motion to the apartment. “This. I don’t think I could have told you what I would like in an apartment, but … this is it. Every detail feels … right. Like home.”

  “I’m not an interior decorator,” she says.

  A painting in the living room attracts my attention. It’s a two-foot square of color—thick dabs of red radiate out from the middle to orange, yellow, and a hint of green around the fringe.

  “How does it make you feel?” Allenby asks.

  “I thought you were a medical doctor.”

  She steps up beside me, eyes on the painting. “I’m not evaluating you.”

  “Yes you are,” I say. “How does it make you feel?”

  “Melancholy.” She turns away and heads back toward the door.

  “Well, it makes me hungry.” I turn toward the kitchen, which is separated from the living room by an island. I open the fridge and find it fully stocked. Most of it looks healthy, but hiding in the door, among the brand-new bottles of condiments and cups of chocolate pudding, is a Snickers bar and a can of Cherry Pepsi.

  My mouth salivates and both hands reach out, claiming the prizes. The wrapper comes off faster than a male stripper’s pants. I take a bite and moan with pleasure. I haven’t had something this sweet since … well, I can’t remember. While taking a second bite, I pop the soda top with one hand and, before swallowing the mash of chocolate, caramel, peanuts, and nougat in my mouth, drain half the can.

  “You clearly don’t fear diabetes, either,” Allenby says.

  I raise the can as though giving a toast. “Or sugar lows.” Three more bites, two drinks, and sixty-five grams of sugar later, my meal is done.

  “Ready to go?” Allenby asks.

  I take a step to follow her. “Actually…” I look around the room and realize that I’m not turning my head. The room is spinning. I grip the island to keep from falling over.

  “Whoa there,” Allenby says. I feel her holding my arms, steadying me. “Let’s get you to the couch.”

  I let her guide me. The couch is just fifteen feet away, but it feels like I’m walking through knee-deep mud to reach it.

  “Okay,” she says, guiding me down. “Slowly. Slowly.”

  I fall from her grasp, but the couch catches me. I try to open my eyes but lack the strength. Allenby places her fingers against my neck, checking my pulse. With a sigh, she stands back up and says, “He’s out.”

  A door opens and a new voice, deep and masculine, asks, “What did it, the candy or soda?”

  “Both, actually,” Allenby says. “He’s going to be unconscious for a long time.”

  And then, I am.

  8.

  I’m paralyzed.

  But I can hear. And smell. And feel.

  The soft cotton against my skin reveals a sheet. The weight of a blanket rests atop it. I can feel the sheet on my chest, my stomach, and legs, but not my midsection. I’m dressed in boxers. There is a tightness around my wrists. Restraints.

  Poor Allenby. I had begun to like her.

  A
heart monitor beeping out a steady beat echoes sharply. I’m in a small room, full of hard objects. I picture it in my mind. Some kind of examination / hospital room. Cabinets along the walls. A sink maybe. No chairs. Nothing soft aside from the blankets. The temperature on my skin is even, so there are no windows. Or the shades are pulled. Or it’s night.

  The smell is antiseptic. Sterile. Like SafeHaven, but with less bleach and more … what is that? Thyme and clove? Strange. But there’s something else in the air. Old Spice. Rose soap. A man and a woman. The man smells new, but the woman is Allenby. The rose scent was fainter on her before, but she must have taken a shower.

  I can hear them breathing now that I know they’re there. But what are they doing?

  Watching me, I decide. Or listening to the heart monitor. Trying to decide if I’m awake. Too bad for them: my heart rate, at rest, is rock-solid. Anyone else waking up to this situation would panic. A spike in the heart rate would reveal consciousness.

  “He’s still out,” Allenby eventually says.

  “He did consume both sedatives,” the man says. He sounds older. Sixties, maybe.

  “Will he be okay?” Allenby’s earnest-sounding concern for my welfare is intriguing.

  “The drugs will wear off soon enough,” the man says. “He’ll be fine. You know he’s tough.”

  “It’s not his body I’m worried about. Did the MRI reveal anything? Is the damage reversible?”

  “His memories are not our primary concern. Honestly, I think we’ll all be better if he doesn’t remember.”

  “He might not comply without them,” Allenby says. “He might run again.” Again? “He already threatened as much.”

  The man’s voice is louder when he speaks again. Leaning over me. “Then let’s hope he realizes the perilous nature of his situation.”

  Whatever he intends to do with me, it doesn’t hold my attention nearly as much as the revelation that this isn’t my first visit to … wherever this is. Allenby seemed comfortable around me earlier. Like she knew me. They certainly knew I’d go for the candy and soda, even though I couldn’t have told you that about myself. But is she a friend or the architect of my amnesia? Just because she knows me doesn’t mean we’re pals. I can’t conceive of how she’d be both a friend and responsible for my lack of memory. Despite her apparent concern for my well-being, mounting evidence suggests the direr of the two relationships. What experimental scientist doesn’t hope for a positive outcome? Doesn’t mean they’re not willing to have a few patients die—or forget their lives.