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?
&
nbsp; 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.
“Stay with her,” I tell Cobb. “If she hurts herself, throw the blankets over her and restrain her.”
“And if they come in?” he asks.
“They won’t be looking for you.” I pat the plastic encased syringe in my pocket.
“Right. What are you going to do?”
I give him a smile that reflects my unnatural inner calm. “Probably something crazy.”
I leave the room, lock the door, and close it behind me. Shiloh’s screams fade as I run back to the garage. I have just seconds, maybe a minute tops, before the house is infiltrated. I have no idea exactly what I’m up against, but I have little doubt they’re going to start the attack with gas, and / or flash bangs. They know what I can do. They won’t risk a fair fight.
Neither will I.
I quickly find the plastic bin labeled WINTER and tear it open. A few seconds of rummaging provides what I need: a ski mask, ski goggles, and a scarf. I run across the garage, where a pristinely maintained riding mower is parked. On the seat is a pair of noise-canceling headphones. I snatch them up and run back the way I came.
On my way to the living room, I don the ski mask, goggles and headphones. I make a pit stop at the kitchen sink. The tap runs fast and cold, quickly soaking the scarf, which I then wrap around my face three times. Movement outside the kitchen window turns my attention outside. The yard is empty, but shadows in the surrounding woods shift unnaturally.
I head into the living room, which has windows on three sides. They’ll note the movement and know I’m here, but it’s bright outside. They won’t see my alien-looking headgear.
Waiting for the action to begin, I look down at my hands, relaxed and open.
And empty.
Damn. I didn’t get a weapon. My mind picks through the garage, remembering a baseball bat, garden tools, and a number of chemicals that could have been used as improvised weapons. There are also knives in the kitchen, which is closer.
But I don’t move.
Instead, I make fists.
“I am crazy,” I whisper, and the first window shatters.
A canister punches through the kitchen window, filling the sink with shards of glass. It looks loud, but I can’t hear a thing. White smoke quickly fills the kitchen and dining room. When I see smoke swirl around me, I turn around and find a second canister behind me. It came through a living room window, and I didn’t hear it. I could pick it up and hurl it back out, but I embrace the shroud of white, protected from the chemicals now filling the home.
Breathing steadily, I wait for the second phase of the assault to start.
Windows shake. Somewhere in the house, a door has been beat down.
The floor beneath my feet shakes. Someone heavy is running through the home. Before I see him, a small object the size of a pill bottle shatters another window. I clutch my eyes shut, cover them with an arm and open my mouth. The force of the explosion slaps against my body, but it’s not enough to harm me. With my mouth open, the pressure against my lungs has minimal effect. But flash-bang grenades aren’t supposed to cause bodily harm. They attack the senses, primarily hearing and eyesight, both of which I’ve managed to shield.
I pull my arm away from my eyes just in time to see a goliath of a man set upon me. He’s dressed in all black, covered in tactical armor, and wears a gas mask over his face. I could pummel his body all day long and not do him any real harm. Curiously, he’s not carrying a weapon.
Smart, I think, and sidestep the man’s open arms. If they’d sent him in with a weapon, they would have basically been arming me. Whoever is in charge of this operation must know that.
One thing is for sure: the big man is not the brains of this outfit. Pulled past me by momentum, he careens into the heavy coffee table and snaps downward, face-planting against the couch. The cushions and armor absorb most of the impact, but he’s dazed and confused. While rumbling feet approach from behind, I casually reach down, unclip and yank the man’s headgear away. He snaps rigid, flips over, and claws at his face and throat. Whatever is in the air, it isn’t fun. He closes his eyes and falls unconscious. Not dead.
A second black shape slips out of the fog. Then a third and fourth. They come at me without hesitation, working as a group. Each is a skilled fighter, but they’ve opted to go without armor, giving them greater range of motion and superior speed while sacrificing protection, which they could use.
The first man attacks with a chop. It’s directed at my neck and would have put me down if I didn’t see it coming. I duck, but not enough to avoid impact. His hand strikes the side of my head, near the top. It’s some of the thickest, strongest bone in the human body. His fingers snap. I can’t hear his scream of pain, but he reels back, clutching the hand.
The second man leads with a punch. The fist slips past my head and leaves his midsection open. A quick knee to his gut stumbles him back.
Attacker number three stops in his tracks. At first, I think he’s taking stock of the situation or waiting for his injured teammates to collect themselves and rejoin the fight. He’s either smart or chicken. When he puts two fingers to his ears, I realize there is a third scenario. He’s receiving orders.
I have no intention of allowing him to fulfill those orders. A quick leap back plants my feet atop the coffee table. The backward motion confuses the man just long enough for me to jump forward and up. He tries to defend himself, but it’s not only too little too late, it’s a really bad idea, because I’m not throwing a punch. I’m kicking. Hard. The forearm he’s blocking with snaps. I don’t hear the sound, but I can feel it in my foot—resistance and then not. The man topples back into the haze.
His partner, the one I struck in the gut, takes his place. Punches and kicks come with brazen ferocity. But like his comrade with the broken fingers, I don’t always avoid the blows. After his seventh swing, I appear to be on the ropes, but since I feel no fear, there is no such thing. Fear is subtle that way. I only back down if I choose to, not because I’m compelled to.
A subtle shift in his stance reveals he’s about to kick. I jump back, just before he does, putting all of my weight onto the back of the living room’s reclining chair. The hard footrest swings out with the strength and weight of a giant’s foot. With one foot sailing through the air where my head should have been, the man doesn’t see the chair bottom snap out. But he sure as hell feels it when the slab of wood slams into his kneecap, repositioning it three inches above where it’s supposed to be. He drops to the floor
like he’s been shot.
I stand on the chair, looking for the man with broken fingers. If he’s any kind of real fighter, the break will just slow him down. But there’s no sight of the man.
The windows all around the living room shatter. Someone shot them out.
A breeze kicks up.
The chemical fog begins to dissipate. I glance up. The ceiling fan has been turned on. Do they think fighting me in the clear will be any easier? When the haze dissipates enough for me to see the kitchen, I have my answer.
Ten men, all armed with assault rifles, fill the open-concept doorway. The red beams of their laser sights are visible in the lingering miasma. Each is locked onto my body. Behind them I see Cobb looking concerned and Shiloh, held in place by two more armored men. They seem oblivious to the fact that she’s weeping and shaking. I want nothing more than to set her free, but there isn’t any amount of fearlessness that can escape this shooting squad. So I lower my guard and wait for the mist to subside.
I allow the three injured men to limp from the room. The big man on the ground behind me is still out for the count. I turn slowly sideways, like I’m preparing to take a fighter’s stance, but keep my body relaxed. Moving slowly, I dig into my pocket.
The smallest of the armored men lowers his assault rifle and takes a step forward. He lowers his weapon and pulls off his mask.
Katzman.
He speaks. I can’t hear him, but I can read his lips. “You can still come in alive.”
I remove the headphones.
“You can still come in alive,” he repeats. “But I would prefer to kill you, so please, by all means, decline the offer.”
“You won’t kill me,” I say.
“Sure about that?” he asks.
I’m not, but there’s no way to see that on my face. “Pretty sure.” I lift the plastic syringe case in my left hand. “Because you need this.”
Katzman eyes the syringe and seems to be weighing his options. A measure of calm seeps into his eyes. He reaches out a hand. “Please. Give it to me and you can just walk away. It was a bad idea to bring you in, and I’d be happy to see you leave.”
MirrorWorld Page 9