MirrorWorld

by Jeremy Robinson

  “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 c
omplicated 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.

  26.

  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.

  “Josef,” Allenby says, shaking her head.

  “Do you remember?” Lyons asks. He either knew already or doesn’t care.

  I shake my head. “She didn’t flinch when I groped her breast.”

  “You didn’t?” Allenby says to me, covering her mouth with her hand.

  “I lack impulse control,” I say.

  Winters pounds her fist into a desktop. “We’re not here to discuss the past.”

  “It was just a few days ago that—”

  “Josef!” Winters’s use of my real first name somehow confirms that we once had a relationship of some kind.

  “The transgressions of your past are not why we’re here,” Lyons says, though I can see he’s not thrilled about the development, either. He might even be hiding his reaction so I don’t learn that we’re family.

  I hold up my hands to Winters and offer a peace-treaty smile. “It’s ancient history, right?”

  She forces a grin that says it isn’t, but we both move on.

  I approach Cobb. “So, did they blow your mind?”

  He looks up at me. “You could say that.”

  “Still up to being a paramedic?”

  His slow nod doesn’t exude confidence, but he’s here, and I trust him. “Great. Paramed me.” I pull off my T-shirt to gasps of surprise. My stomach and back are bruising from impacts with the bull and the tree.

  Cobb stands, the cobwebs of confusion cleared. “Medical supplies?”

  Allenby points to a tall cabinet. “There.”

  Lyons leans in close, inspecting the purple skin. “What did this?”

  “The Dread bull.”

  He reels back. “It touched you?”

  “Hard,” I say. “Is that unusual?”

  “It’s rare,” he says, deep in thought. “But it’s not unheard of. Despite their ability to move between frequencies, they seem to avoid moving fully into our perceptual realm. We think it makes them uncomfortable. It might even be painful. It must have fully understood the threat you present. That is, unless…”

  I know what he’s thinking and nod. “We weren’t here.”

  Lyons seems both surprised and pleased. But he stays quiet, letting Cobb do his job.

  Cobb throws a sheet over an operating table. One by one, he squishes four instant ice packs, mixing the chemicals inside. Then he lays them out on the sheet. “Lay down on these. Fifteen minutes.”

  I climb on the table and lay down. The ice packs are frigid against my back but hurt far less than the bruising will if it goes unchecked. Once I’m down, Cobb hovers over me, crushing two more of the flat ice packs. He lays them on my stomach and ribs, which makes me flinch a bit, but the discomfort is all but forgotten when Lyons stands over me.

  “Know your enemy,” he says. “I assume that’s not a concept that’s lost on you.”

  I nod. “But isn’t the second part of that quote to know thyself?”

  “The only self you need to be concerned about is the one capable of defeating our enemy. The rest is background noise that you can worry about if we survive.”

  It seems like a harsh point for Lyons to make, but I can’t say I disagree. Distraction is dangerous, and in this case not knowing myself might be the best thing.

  Lyons steps back and motions to the newcomer, who’s leaning so hard against the wall that I think he’s trying to shove himself through, one molecule at a time. “This is Jonathan Dearborn. He’s an expert in mythology, both ancient and modern, as well as history and anthropology.”

  Dearborn closes the distance between us with one long stride and extends his hand, rigid and fluid at the same time. “I specialize in differentiating history from mythology. In this case, identifying which myths bear enough resemblance to known Dread variants to be considered witness testimony rather than conjured tale or misguided belief.”

  “To what end?” I ask.

  “Knowing the enemy,” Lyons says. “Looking for patterns. Identifying goals. Hot zones. Potential targets. He’s helped us identify colony locations and has provided a comprehensive study of the Dread’s influence on human affairs.” He swivels his head toward Dearborn. “Start with Mothman.”

  “Mothman, right,” he says. “Reports of the … creature were common in parts of West Virginia during 1966 and 1967. All black. Red eyes. Large wings. Those who saw it, only briefly, were terrified. There are many theories about what it was, including a giant crane. A folklorist named Brunvand came closest to g
etting it right. He believed the details present in the Mothman sightings were so similar to older folk tales that he’d cataloged and studied that the creature wasn’t something new, but something old being seen by a fresh audience.”

  “I suppose you’ve identified a few of those myths?” I ask.

  “A few thousand dating back to the beginning of human history.” Dearborn is emerging from his shell like a turtle that’s just had an energy drink. There’s an excitement in his blue eyes that wasn’t there a minute ago. “Many, like Mothman, have names. Ōmukade, the giant man-eating centipede in Japan. A real nasty one. Barguest, the black dog of northern England. The name comes from the German, Bärgeist, which means ‘bear ghost.’”

  “Sounds like a bull,” I say.

  Dearborn snaps his fingers and points at me. “Sasabonsam in West Africa. A man-sized black spirit with a twenty-foot wingspan that terrifies people with its cry and has bloodred eyes. Sound familiar?”

  I nod. It’s a similar enough description to Mothman.

  “Ahamagachktiat,” he says next. “Native American tribes had thirty-seven different names for what we now call the Bear of North America, not to be confused with an actual bear. This black apparition, which terrified tribes across the country, appeared as a horrifying, shadowy bear. Again, sound familiar?”

  He knew it did and continued. “The Duende, with alternate names like Muah, Dominguito, and Duenos del Monte—the mountain lords—haunt South America. They’re small black creatures with flat, wrinkled faces.”

  Pugs, I think, and understand what he’s getting at. “So, they’ve been around for a very long time, and they’re everywhere.”

  “On every continent, living among us,” he says. “And they’re as old, if not older, than the human race.”

  “But what do they want?” Cobb says. “And if they hate us so much, why don’t they just kill us?”

  “Because they can’t,” Lyons says. “Not overtly. Fully entering our world and engaging us is against their nature. They prefer to hide between frequencies. At heart, they’re cowards.”

  “We don’t know that for sure,” Allenby says. “It’s possible they simply don’t want to kill us.”