As I sail through the air, I understand how that sorry clown felt. Of course, he was gored in the process, but being in a mirror dimension that is fifty feet underground and full of angry tentacles, I think I’ve got him beat. And he had a crowd of worried onlookers to catch him. All I’ve got is the papier-mâché-like wall, which is about as strong as you’d expect. I crash through the layers of crisp wall and spill back into the hallway.
I’m twenty feet up the round hallway, out of view for the moment. The machete is gone. So is the assault rifle.
Grunting as I stand, I draw the Desert Eagle. One good shot and the fight will be over. I take aim down the tunnel, back toward the chamber entrance, waiting for the bull to come tearing around. But he doesn’t show. Can’t even hear him running.
But I can feel its approach rumbling the ground beneath my feet.
From the side.
I spin and squeeze the trigger three times, but the wild shots miss the bull exploding through the wall. I’m hit hard and shoved back into one of the alcoves, tripping and falling into a Dread nest. The prickly den is warm and full of gelatinous goop. My feet slip as I get back up just in time to face the bull again, this time without a hard-hitting weapon. All I’ve got left is the P229, which I’ve had limited success with, and the two, foot-long, World War I trench knives.
I unclip the blades and slip my fingers into the oscillium knuckles. Then I charge. I’ve faced off against a good number of these things now and they’re never accustomed to my fearless approach. This one hesitates, just for a moment, before meeting my charge head-on. But it’s too late to stop me. I plant a foot atop the nest’s edge and vault up and over the bull’s four-eyed head.
There’s no way I can clear its entire body, but I don’t intend to. As I drop toward the thing’s hindquarters, I thrust one of the blades down, punching the blade through the armored plating. The blade catches. My motion is arrested and I snap to a stop, falling atop the bull.
As the bull rears up with a howl, I start to slide away. But I have no intention of squaring off with this giant in close quarters again. I stab the second knife down hard, puncturing the bull’s flank. With two handholds, my fall stops, and I cling to the bull’s back like an honest-to-goodness mirror-dimension bull rider.
Yee-haw.
The bull fulfills its role in this mock rodeo, bucking and thrashing, trying to kick me off. But as mean as this son of a bitch is, I’m meaner. And the armor, which has helped me sustain much of the beating thus far, continues to protect my body. All of this allows me to keep my grip, though the metal knuckles wrapped around my fingers help, too.
A surge of whispers makes my head spin but has an immediate reaction on the bull.
It runs. Downward. Back toward the central chamber, right where I want to be. But when the bull charges around the bend and enters the round chamber once more, I only have enough time to register the changes in the room, think what the fuck, and open my eyes a bit wider. Then the bull snaps to a stop. Its forelimbs bend, its hind legs thrust. I flip up and over the bull. My fingers feel like they’re about to break, stuck inside the knife knuckles, but the blades slip free with twin slurps and finish the rotation with me.
I land on my back.
Correction, I’m caught on my back.
The landing is soft. Undulating. The bull has deposited me right into the mass of tendrils. They planned this.
I swing with both arms, aiming to cut myself free, but my limbs only make it a few inches before being yanked to a stop. Pressure envelopes my body, holding me in place, my arms extended and legs straight down like a mirror-world crucifix.
I stop struggling. It’s a wasted effort.
One of the ten Medusa-hands, whose appearance in the chamber surprised me, slides closer. It looms above me, taller than the others. Its four wide yellow eyes stare down into my eyes. Its head cocks to the side, no doubt wondering how I have the same split pupils or how I’m here at all. If they’re as intelligent as I think, it will see that I’m part Dread.
It leans closer, just inches from my face.
Whispering fills my thoughts. It feels like questions, but I don’t understand.
“I don’t understand you,” I say, knowing it can understand me.
It pulls back a bit, surprised by my words, or perhaps by the revelation that I can hear the whispers. The Dread turns to the others. A sound like wind fills my head as all the Dread start think-talking at once.
A voice, louder than the others, drowns them out, and the mental storm falls silent.
The tall Medusa-hands leans over me once more.
I decide to reason with it. “Why are you attacking people?”
It leans closer.
“If you just left us alone, I wouldn’t be here,” I say.
My words have no impact.
A hint of a whisper flits through my mind. I’m not sure why, but I fall silent and watch the Medusa-hands above me.
It whispers at me, the cadence familiar, pushing fear.
I feel nothing.
It tries to instill its fear in me again, the whisper louder.
Still nothing.
Moving slowly, it comes in closer. Tendrils from its hands snake toward my head. The tiny tips tickle my skull, looking for entry but finding none. I’m as material here as they are. Getting those tendrils into my brain is going to take physical force.
The Dread pulls back, the tendrils snaking away. With a bow, it slides back.
Now wha—
There’s a sharp crack and pain at the back of my head. I feel movement for a moment, and then confusion. What’s happening?
It’s in my head, I think. The tentacles are beneath me; one of them actually punched through my skull and is probing around in my brain. This should terrify me, I know that, but I feel nothing beyond curiosity and anger for being violated. Killing an enemy is one thing, sticking a tentacle in his brain … It’s just not acceptable. It’s wrong.
The skin on my legs suddenly goes prickly. Then stops.
I taste popcorn.
I feel love.
This thing is screwing with my brain, I think, growing angrier.
I’m cold and then hot and then, for a flash, I remember a face.
And its name.
Simon.
And then it’s gone, the memory lost once more. But the anguish that accompanied that brief flash lingers for a moment. Then it, too, is gone, replaced by a painful spasm of each and every muscle in my body.
My skin chills. Goose bumps pock my body.
“Get out of my head,” I grumble. “Get the fu—argh!”
The scream that replaces my words is primal and physically painful as it tears the very fabric of my throat.
I feel the tentacle retreat.
And scream again.
I suck in a deep breath. It’s not controlling me now, but a third scream tears through the chamber.
And a fourth.
I’ve never felt anything like this before. My body and mind are like strangers, each vying for control, each propelled into senseless action, but by what? I don’t know what this is!
And then I do.
“Oh God,” I shout. “Oh God, no!”
It’s not just fear I’m feeling.
It’s terror.
37.
I wake slowly. Dazed. Half aware of the world around me. Events replay in my mind. I screamed for I don’t know how long. Then passed out. I’ve seen fear do strange things to people, including fainting, but to me? Not a chance.
The memory drags me from sleep a bit. I’m comfortable. In a soft bed. But moving. Undulating.
Carried.
I’m not in a bed at all.
Adrenaline surges. My pulse quickens. My heart feels like it will explode.
I’ve always kind of looked down on people who panic. I’ve never understood it, in the same way the average person can’t understand what floating in zero gravity feels like. Fear was foreign to me.
Was.
>
Control it, I tell myself. Though I’ve never been good at controlling my impulses, I’m not without discipline. I should be able to wrestle my emotions down enough to act. With building confidence, my pulse slows. A measure of control returns. Now I just need to see where I am.
I open my eyes.
Four bright-yellow split-pupil eyes of a Medusa-hands peer down at me, hovering just a foot above my head. I suck in a tight breath as my whole body seizes. I struggle to move but am still bound. I fight for freedom, fueled by a fresh adrenaline dump in my veins.
I’m scared out of my mind, but I haven’t lost my mind. Yet. I’ve seen the effect the Dread have on others, and this isn’t it. I’m afraid—there’s no doubt. Nearly paralyzed, but I haven’t lost myself to it. This knowledge fuels my defiance, and I return the Dread’s cold stare.
Then it whispers in my head.
Waves of fear wash through my body. My insides twist. I scream, but my voice is raspy and raw. The sound that escapes my mouth is a crackling, ragged thing. My mind slides toward oblivion, shouting, Run! Hide! Escape!
And then some instinctual part of my mind that has been unneeded since the day of my birth asserts itself.
In a flash, I’m free of the tentacles’ grasp.
Pain worms its way through my body, but the fear destroying my mind is gone. That’s the good news.
The bad news is that I can’t breathe.
Where am I?
I’m held still. Perfectly still. Unable to move. Unable to expand my chest to even attempt to breathe. Absolute darkness surrounds me. Grit stings my eyes, so I close them. I manage to exhale and pull a short breath. If there is oxygen in the breath, I don’t feel it. Instead, I get light-headed and detect a trace scent of something familiar.
Dirt.
The reality of my situation snaps to the forefront of my mind, and fear grips me once more. I’ve slipped back into my home dimension—fifty feet below the surface. I’m buried beneath the Old Pine Cemetery, deeper than anyone would ever think to dig.
And if I stay here much longer, I’m going to suffocate.
Think! I will myself. People overcome fear all the time.
But not against the Dread.
They’re ugly as sin, but I can look at them if they’re not trying to inject fear into me. If I take them by surprise, I might be able to escape. They feel fear, too. I’ve seen it. And they seem just as uncomfortable with the emotion as I am.
My lungs burn for a breath, hungry for air.
Not yet, I tell myself. Focus.
Am I armed? I have no memory of the Dread taking my sidearm, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t. Nor do I have a memory of them removing the knives from my hands. I was bound in place, the blades useless.
I try to wiggle my hands, but can’t. The earth hugs me tight. When I slipped out of the mirror dimension, my body replaced the matter that was here and carved out a perfect me-sized space in the soil. But I still should be able to shift my body subtly—unless … It’s not dirt I’m encased in, it’s solid stone. Most of New Hampshire sits atop a bed of granite, and now I’m inside it, trapped like a fossil.
Focus!
I turn my attention to my hands. While cold is seeping into my body from all directions, my fingers feel colder. But is that a circulation issue or are the oscillium knuckles wrapped around them conducting the cold into my fingers? It’s the blades, I decide.
My body quivers and then contracts, unable to even wiggle.
Ignore it.
I visualize my return to the Dread world. There will be a moment of surprise. Just a moment. And if I let fear paralyze me then, I’m done. They’ll probably kill me before I can slip back into my perfectly formed tomb.
Attack, I tell myself. And then run. Run and don’t stop.
My pulse quickens in anticipation.
My lungs scream for air.
Now, I think, now!
Part of me resists the idea of facing those monsters again, but this fate is far worse. I’d rather die fighting and horrified than suffocating as a coward. And only one course of action offers a chance for survival.
I slip back into the mirror dimension and fall atop a bed of flesh.
The tendrils surrounding me snap back in surprise, as do the collection of Medusa-hands who have come close to inspect the location of my disappearance.
Act! I think. Before they do!
I get my feet under me and spin. I haven’t seen the trench knives yet, but I feel the resistance of flesh on their blades as I turn and swing.
Tentacles fall to the floor, spraying purple.
Several Medusa-hands flail back, shrieking, missing tendrils of their own.
I’m close to puking in fright as the tendrils come for me again. I swing twice more, carving a path. I dive free, roll to my feet, and run. Halfway to the exit, I spot my machete on the floor. I scoop it up and return it to the scabbard on my back. As I reach the arched exit to the long circular path, I make a mistake and glance back.
Two of the Medusa-hands, eight eyes locked on me, send a wave of fear in my direction. I scream when it hits me and stumble to the floor. But they’re not the only thing frightening me. At the center of the chamber, the tendrils, some of them hacked in half, bleeding bright purple, rise out of the ground, pushed up from beneath by something larger.
I crush my eyes shut, pushing tears free, and fight the Dread’s fear-inducing effect. My feet slip over the dry floor as I peel out like some kind of Warner Bros. cartoon. Then I’m off, running up the slope. I open my eyes and find the path ahead clear.
The ground shakes. It’s subtle at first, but then powerful enough to stumble me. Fear and adrenaline drive me onward. With every staggering vibration, I gasp in fright and run faster. I’m not sure I’ve ever run so quickly, but the fear also makes me clumsy and more apt to flounder.
Whispers fill my head.
A chill runs up my spine, warning of unseen danger, urging me to turn around.
I look back not really expecting to find anything, but a Medusa-hands is right behind me, tentacles outstretched.
With a shout of surprise, I lash out, burying the trench knife in my right hand into its skull. The body falls slack, pulling me down to the ground. I try to pull the blade free, but it’s stuck. I slip my fingers out of the knuckles and stand, leaving the weapon behind.
Movement catches my attention. The tunnel behind me is alive with motion. An army of Medusa-hands writhes toward me, their external veins and eyes glowing in the semidarkness. All around me, the veins that fill this world pulse with frantic energy. I turn away from the Dread stampede before they can paralyze me with fear and run.
The slow incline frustrates me as the rumbling grows more violent. Whatever was buried in the chamber below is rising.
Coming for me.
A warm, wet breeze makes my cheeks sticky. The smell of rot tickles my nose. Almost there.
Feeling a presence behind me and a chill on the nape of my neck, I draw the P229 and fire blindly. Shrieks fill the tunnel. I don’t know if I’m killing them or just injuring them, but they don’t catch me.
The entrance is just ahead.
A bull appears, its head twitching back and forth, no doubt summoned by whatever is still rising from the earth. Its eyes lock onto me, but before it can react, I act, driven by desperation and guided by instinct and skill. The remaining trench knife stabs up through the Dread’s chin and into its brain. I slip my fingers out of the oscillium knuckles and continue running, leaving the blade behind. The bull mewls and staggers away, not quite dead, but on its way.
I run out into the swampy clearing, slipping in the muck.
As the mob of Medusa-hands charges out behind me, I slip back into my reality and partially out of their grasp. But not completely. If they get their tendrils in my head, who knows what kind of thoughts they’ll put in there. If there is pain from the frequency shift, I don’t notice it. Fear, and its by-product, shock, can numb the mind from physical pain�
�I’ve heard.
Back on firm ground, adrenaline pumping, vision narrowed, I cover the hundred yards to the ATV in twelve seconds. I jump on the seat, turn the key, and rev the engine. One last peek into the mirror world reveals eight Medusa-hands, twenty yards back and closing fast. Behind them, the lobotomized bull staggers but can’t chase.
None of that fills me with as much trepidation as what happens next. The colony bursts open like an overfull aluminum-foil Jiffy Pop pouch. Massive flakes of the hivelike walls burst into the air. A giant limb, the size of a thick tree trunk, rises from the ground. Its foot, a triangular-shaped pad with long, thick, hooked claws descends to the ground. I can’t feel the impact in this dimension, but I can see the Medusa-hands stagger.
Having seen enough, I blink and see only the cemetery. I know the Dread are still there, coming for me, but not seeing them allows me to calm down. Focus.
I turn the ATV around and tear down the old road, back toward route 202. Despite my escape, return to reality, and speedy retreat, I can’t fight the building fear gripping my chest. Whatever that thing was rising out of the ground, it’s coming for me. Dammit, I think, it’s coming for me.
38.
Trees blur past as I speed north on 202. I’ve got the needle pegged, but the speed now makes me nervous. I brake around the same corners I tore around on my previous journey. I stay locked in my lane. I think I should have brought a helmet. A helmet! In New Hampshire! Where almost nobody wears a damn helmet!
I am not a fan of fear.
It might be the most powerful force I’ve ever felt. It controls the body despite what the mind thinks. But the mind isn’t unaffected, either. I’m thinking things I never would have before. I’m considering driving north until the tank empties, stealing a car and driving until the world freezes. Part of me is a coward, and it shames me.
I don’t run away. It’s not who I am, fear or no fear.
I repeat the thought like a mantra, trying to keep myself on course for Neuro. They might be screwed, too, in which case I probably will head north and not look back. But they’ve also got weapons. And if I die, it won’t be alone.
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