MirrorWorld

by Jeremy Robinson

  “And after that?”

  “You … grew up. Joined the military and got serious. Saw things no one should see. Did God knows what, too. We—your family—didn’t know what you did. Not really. Not even Maya. It wasn’t until after Simon was born that the old you began to resurface. Then, the Dread happened, and Neuro, and suddenly we were all brought within the fold. Lyons’s idea, but you supported it. Some of us had skills or experience that helped. I was a medical doctor. Your father was an engineer. Helped design this building. But the others, your mother, Hugh, Maya, and … Simon, who was just a baby at the time; they were supposed to be safer…”

  “For what it’s worth,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

  She offers a weak smile. “We all are.” Her eyes find mine. “Do you think it will help?”

  I sheath the machete on my back and start perusing the automatic weapons for something powerful but mobile. “What?”

  “Fighting them. Killing them. Does vengeance ever help?”

  I pause to look at her. “I thought we were defending ourselves? Defending everyone.”

  The armory door opens before Allenby can respond. Katzman enters, dwarfed by the rifle he’s carrying. “I have what you asked for, but I think it’s a stupid idea.”

  I can’t contain my smile when I see the sound-suppressed 20 mm Anzio Ironworks mag-fed rifle. It’s a beast with a five-thousand-yard range, low recoil, and enough power to reduce a man to red Silly String. And its three-round magazine means you can fire three shots fairly quickly, putting the fear of God into an enemy, whether they’re in the open or in a tank. The downside is that it’s nearly seven feet long from butt to barrel, but I don’t need to be mobile, I just need to turn a few Dread into chunky stains and be on my way.

  “You want to get your people out of here, we need to disrupt the mob. That means injecting some doubt. If I can pick off a few Dread, the rest might head for the hills. If not, it might still be enough to create an opening.”

  “I don’t like it,” he says.

  “Is any part of war likeable?” I pick up two World War I trench knives—foot-long blades with knuckled handles—and attach them to my belt. A sound-suppressed KRISS Vector CRB .45 ACP assault rifle goes over my shoulder. It’s a high-tech, mobile, and hard-hitting automatic rifle with essentially no recoil. Three spare magazines go in my vest. I finish arming myself by reclaiming the compound bow and a fresh quiver of arrows. I smile at Katzman. “Except for weapons. I think I like weapons.” I look at Allenby for confirmation. She’s nodding. “These weren’t mine, too?”

  “We knew your preferences,” Katzman says. “Anything else?”

  “A question,” I say. “Microwaves.”

  “What about them?” he asks.

  “All the weapons here are made of oscillium,” I point out, “which can hit a target in another frequency—if you can see it—but everything here is conventional. Bullets and blades.”

  Katzman gives an impatient sigh. “Did you have a question?”

  “Why don’t we have microwave guns?”

  “They don’t work,” he says. “In any capacity. The military has developed several directed-energy weapons using microwaves. MEDUSA, the mob excess deterrent using silent audio, interacts with a person’s head. Creates a scream no one else can hear, unless they’re in the target zone, too. Then there is the active denial system, which is basically a pain gun that made people think they were being cooked. Both were deployed and then recalled for safety and humanitarian reasons. But the flaw with all microwave weapons is that the target either needs to be standing still and cooperating, or the beam so broad that a blast of microwaves large enough to kill or injure a Dread would have the same effect on both worlds.”

  “Anyone in the target zone would go poof,” I say.

  He nods. “And the target zone would have to be large to kill something like a bull. They’re tough. And fast.”

  “Unless they’re trapped in a foyer that’s actually a microwave oven,” I say.

  “Exactly.” He heads for the door. “I’ll be on the roof when you’re done getting dressed for your funeral.”

  31.

  From the roof of the staggered pyramid that is the Neuro building, there are clear views of all four sides. But we’re only concerned about the parking lot, which is full. There are at least five hundred people, more trickling in, but the drive to the main road is mostly empty.

  Shouting voices of the protestors, who seem to believe Neuro is polluting the groundwater and performing animal experiments, rise up from below. The human din is mixed with an otherworldly whispering that only I can perceive. If I could understand Dread, then we’d have a nice tactical advantage, but cognition wasn’t part of the DNA-altering package.

  There are still thirty nonessential employees inside the building. Lyons wants them out. The official reason is for their own protection, despite assurances that the building is impenetrable—by means available to civilians. Oscillium plates have slid down beneath the windows on the first two stories. The entrances are locked, and anyone or anything that breaches the foyer will then have to get past the electrified floor, which I’ve been told has been reduced to a nonlethal voltage. Of course, anything Dread—if alone—will be cooked by microwaves. The oscillium-tinted windows on the higher floors are still vulnerable, but Lyons believes the Dread will stay true to form, remaining in the shadows, acting through influence rather than an overt physical assault.

  The warm summer air is heavy with moisture. Dark clouds loom in the distance. Leaves all around the building flicker between shades of green as the wind kicks up. If there is any doubt that a storm is coming, the low rumble of thunder rolling through the sky erases it. According to Katzman, the storm won’t be enough to deter the Dread, despite lightning being a threat to denizens of all dimensions. They’ll pour on the fear until people ignore the instinct to flee from open spaces during a storm.

  “This is a bad idea,” Katzman says, a slight quiver in his voice. Thus far, he’s been the pinnacle of bravery, except for the one moment he saw the Dread bull in the stairwell. I’m hearing that same kind of fear in his voice right now.

  I turn around casually, glancing at the people with me—Allenby, Katzman, and two men from Dread Squad Alpha. As I turn, I let my vision slip into the world between frequencies, my shifting pupils hidden behind a pair of reflective sunglasses. The pain from the subtle shift in my physiology is intense, but lessoned, and I manage it with no outward sign of discomfort. My Dread muscles are getting stronger. The whispering grows louder, but I block it out. Four Dread hover above the others, vibrating waves of fear into them. It’s subtle enough that their emotions are being manipulated without setting off alarm bells.

  Hello, mothmen, I think, as I look at the red-eyed, four-winged creatures. Like other Dread, veins cover the outsides of their bodies, but they’re not green, they’re luminescent red, a similar shade to the small Dread bat. Like the bull, their heads are domed and lacking noses and ears. Their four red eyes are positioned two on the outside, two in the middle, providing a wide range of vision. While vaguely humanoid with short powerful legs and long skinny arms, the thing also has an array of small hooked limbs lining the center of its torso, twitching madly. I can’t imagine what they’re for until a mothman descends on one of the Alpha Team. The tiny legs wrap around the man’s body, shaking in a way that reminds me of the way bees communicate. The man shivers and breaks out in a sweat.

  “Katzman,” I say, casually. “Have you ever been to a magic show?”

  “What?” He’s instantly annoyed. Fidgeting.

  “My favorite act is the knife throwing.” This is all made up. I have no memory of going to a magic show. But I know the tricks and need to communicate cryptically. The Dread understand English, but might not be able to decipher a message cloaked by human context. “I know some are fake. The knife pops out of the backboard. But some are real.”

  “You better be going somewhere with this. We’re on a sch
edule.”

  I turn back quickly, like I’m looking over the roof, but I’m actually confirming that there is a mothman hovering behind me as well, vibrating fear toward me but not into me. That I haven’t been attacked outright means they don’t know who I am. They might know about me, but they don’t recognize me as the guy that can see them—yet. To keep that from happening, I shiver, doing my best to act mildly afraid, which is a stretch, like pretending to be a shark. But the Dread haven’t pounced, so that’s encouraging. Good thing they can’t see my eyes, though. The razor-sharp focus would broadcast my intentions.

  “Know what the secret to that act is? Not moving.” I see Katzman’s eyes widen, just a twitch. He gets it. I turn to Allenby. “Not a muscle.” To the Alpha men. “You hear what I’m saying? Understand it?” They nod.

  “Good.” With my left hand I draw my sound-suppressed P229, casual and slow. With my right, I lift the machete from the sheath on my back. While I would love to use the Desert Eagle strapped to my chest, the hand cannon would be heard for miles. To do this right, we need to stay quiet. If the people down below catch wind, it could be like dropping a match in a gas can.

  “Care for a demonstration?” I ask Katzman.

  A hint of a smile erases some of the fear gripping him. “Please.”

  I swing hard with the machete.

  From Katzman’s perspective, it probably looks like I’m going to lop off his head. But that’s kind of the point. I need it to look like he’s the target, not the Dread. To his credit, despite being fear-fueled by the mothman, Katzman holds his ground. The heavy, straight blade slips just over his neatly trimmed hair and bites into flesh that only I can see. When the swing completes its arc, a headless mothman falls to the rooftop, landing on the oscillium surface. I spin around, swinging at the monster behind me. The blade draws a line across its chest and I turn away before it hits the rooftop.

  I open fire with the sound-suppressed handgun, coughing bullets into the back of a third mothman, until it falls dead, which also happens to be the same time the magazine runs out of rounds.

  The last two Dread take to the sky, their whispers coming closer to being shouts. Beating their wings hard, the pair splits, heading in opposite directions.

  I drop the machete and handgun, pick up the bow and quickly nock an arrow. I draw the compound line back, take aim, and—

  One of the Dread Squad crew shouts in surprise.

  Allenby chimes in with, “Look out!” She’s talking to me, but looking over my shoulder.

  Shit.

  I leap to the side, keeping the arrow nocked, visualizing my roll and counterattack, but nothing goes as planned. I’m struck in the side and land awkwardly. The arrow springs from my fingers and launches into the distant woods. Before I can even think about getting up, something wraps around my ankle, cinches tight, and pulls. I’m dragged across the rooftop and then lifted up. I see the ugly mothman upside down, the digits on its torso wriggling madly. The thing has fully entered our world, perhaps knowing it’s going to die from the gushing wound on its chest, perhaps just willing to sacrifice itself for its brethren now flying away. Either way, it’s making a mess of my plans and continues on this track by tossing me over its shoulder and the side of the roof.

  As I sail over the small wall at the side of the roof, I reach out for it. My fingers slide over the surface and find a small amount of friction. The tug swings my body around and then down. I land hard on the angled glass, which holds my weight. Not falling through the window is a good thing, but it also means that all of the impact’s force is absorbed by my body. Coughing for air and trying to ignore the pain, I splay my arms and legs wide, clinging to the window. Despite my efforts, I start to slide. No, I think, not yet!

  I hear the cough of silenced weapons above, and then a shadow falls over me. The mothman leans into view, its long arm slapping my body. For a moment, I think it’s attacking, but a slick of bright-red blood starts flowing over the glass, just inches from my face. I grasp the Dread’s arm and roll across the glass, avoiding the blood that will turn the side of Neuro into a gore-covered playground slide.

  I try to pull myself up, but the body, which is lighter than me, slips. I’m sure we’re about to fall together when I’m grasped from above. Katzman. Working together, I reach the short wall and climb over. I take in the scene while catching my breath. The Dread has been peppered by countless rounds. “Holy overkill. Which one of you shot it?”

  Allenby, Katzman, and both Dread Squad men raise their hands.

  “Thanks,” I say, and pick up the bow. The two remaining Dread are fleeing, one far closer than the other. I nock an arrow, draw it back, and aim. I release the string and the black projectile cuts soundlessly through the air, striking a mothman’s back before it clears the far side of the roof.

  “Holy…” one of the soldiers whispers. Though the others can’t see the mothman, they can see the arrow stop in midair and fall to the roof. A second arrow is nocked and the string drawn back, but the second Dread is moving fast and climbing, too far for me to hit with the bow. I let the bowstring go slack and remove the arrow.

  “Get that thing out of sight,” I say to the Dread Squad men while pointing at the dead Dread, stuck in our world. While they move for the monster, I pick up the 20 mm sniper rifle and run toward an air-conditioning unit.

  “How many were there?” Katzman asks.

  “Five,” I say. “Now just one, but it’s getting away.” I pull down the bipod and lean it on the metal cube. Angling the several-foot-long barrel into the distant sky, I get behind the weapon and peer through the scope. It takes a few seconds of shifting back and forth, but the adjustable zoom allows me to spot the fleeing Dread and lock on.

  I chamber a round. At its base, the munition is an inch across so just one will get the job done and then some. I focus on the target. Mothman number 5 is fleeing south, but at an angle. I gauge the distance. Half mile. Moving fast. I pan slowly, following my target, then lead it, aiming at the open air, where it will be in the next second.

  I exhale.

  Finger on the trigger.

  The weapon bucks hard and coughs loudly when the round tears off through the sky. Compared to other sound-suppressed weapons, it’s loud, but the noise isn’t sharp. Pinpointing its origin would be difficult, especially to the people far below us.

  The Dread continues on its way, unmarred.

  I chamber a second round.

  “You missed?” Allenby says. It’s the most surprised I’ve heard her.

  “I’ve been in a psych ward for a year, and though I seem to know how to operate this beast, I have no actual memory of doing so.” I look through the scope. “But I’m not worried.”

  “That’s because you don’t get worried,” Allenby says.

  I pull the trigger. The big gun kicks, sending a second round tearing toward the Dread. I’m hoping to see the thing twitch and fall to the ground, but that’s not what happens. The damn thing explodes, bursting into a mash of black and red goo that rains down into the forest. I chuckle in surprise and lean back. “Got him.”

  “What did they look like?” Katzman says. He’s got goggles pulled over his eyes. Can see that we’re in the clear now. But if reinforcements show up and he’s wearing them, he’ll be useless.

  I point at the goggles. “Better to take those off. Let me handle this.”

  He lifts the goggles.

  I point at the Mothman being dragged up onto the roof by the two Dread Squad members, who are doing their best to not look at it. “All five were like that one. Mothmen.”

  “Hey!”

  We all turn toward the voice. It’s Dearborn. He’s running toward us from the elevator, waving excitedly. He’s got a damn smile on his face. “I saw it from the security room.”

  “Are you nuts?” Katzman asks. “You’re supposed to be leaving with the others.”

  “No way, man,” Dearborn says. “This is modern myth in the making, demigod and all. I need to see
this. I need to bear witness.”

  “I’m no demigod,” I say.

  “The Dread have been worshiped as gods,” he says. “You’re part Dread. Ipso fa—”

  “Ispo fuck off,” I say. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

  He ignores me and leans over the mothman’s body, which has been laid out on the roof by the Dread Squad guys. It’s very dead and covered in its own gore, but that doesn’t seem to bother Dearborn. “It’s a mothman.” He looks up at me. “You’re lucky you saw it.”

  He’s clearly not going anywhere, and I don’t have time to force him. I lift the sniper rifle and lug it back toward the roof’s edge. “Why’s that?”

  Dearborn walks beside me. “The amount of fear generated by different subspecies of Dread varies—we think. Looking at the history of Dread encounters and comparing sightings of various species with the resulting effect on humanity, we can paint a rough picture of which Dread can do what. While bulls can instigate people to violence, it takes time. Mobs and confusion are their territory. Historically, mothmen most often lead to dramatically violent events. The 1967 encounters in West Virginia culminated with the collapse of a bridge that killed forty-six people. They’re also more likely to enter the physical realm, as you just saw.”

  “The claw I took?”

  He nods. “A mothman.”

  I turn to Allenby, who is on my other side. “Maya? And Simon?”

  “Most likely,” she says. “Hugh and your parents, too.”

  Assassins, then. Like me. I’ll keep that in mind next time I come face-to-ugly-face with one.

  I crouch by the side of the roof. Moving slowly, I put the rifle down, leaning the bipod on the top of the foot-tall wall surrounding the rooftop. “Anything worse than a mothman?”

  “Not that we, or previous you, has seen or captured thus far,” Dearborn says, “but it seems likely. While humanity divides race by skin color and facial features, the Dread vary far more widely. It’s more like different species of Dread, rather than races, though each species might also have its own geographically separated races. We don’t know, and thinking we’ve experienced all of them would be like going to a mall and assuming all races of humanity are represented.” Dearborn peeks over the wall. “From what we know, the Dread we’ve encountered are just the grunts. Following orders. They’re closer to trained animals than intelligent beings. I suppose you might find out when you visit the colony, eh? If you’re still keen on playing G.I. Joe.”