That first breath of ammonia-scented air fills my lungs so hard and fast that I sound like a broken trumpet, announcing my arrival to any Dread in the area. I cough hard, expelling more water and the precious air too soon. My vision fades. I breathe hard a second time. The veins covering the floor beneath me come into focus. After three more gasping breaths, I get my body under control, still heaving but no longer doing an impression of a wounded wildebeest.
It’s a full minute before I can even think about doing something other than breathing. And then a single thought explodes into my mind. I’m alive. Rewinding recent history, I faced down four bulls, a swamp full of Dread crocs, and angry Dread bulls, and I was nearly drowned and / or buried alive.
And I survived.
While feeling fear. It’s a nice confidence boost, if only for a moment. My body aches from head to toe. While my past wounds might have healed, I’ve taken more than a few beatings since arriving in New Orleans. I can’t see all my wounds in the dark, hidden by armor, but I can smell my own blood, even after my cleansing dip in the river, which means I’m bleeding from somewhere. Identifying the source of the wound would be easier if the pain wasn’t everywhere.
I push past it all, for Maya, and for myself. I’m not Crazy anymore, but that doesn’t mean I’m not still the deadliest son of a bitch the Dread have ever encountered. I look around and find myself in an alcove. It’s short and full of small nests. A pug den, I decide. I crawl slowly toward the opening and peek out. Nothing in either direction. No sound. No wave of pressure to indicate the approach of a Dread welcoming party.
I step out and take stock. I’ve got Faithful on my back, both trench knives on my hips, and the Desert Eagle holstered on my chest. The weapon can fire underwater, so the river trip is no concern. I swap out the magazine for a fresh one and slide the big gun back in place. I’ve managed to evade the Dread defenses. With stealth back on my side, using the hand cannon would be counterproductive.
I pull Faithful from its scabbard. The black blade is almost invisible, not just because of the dim light, but because it doesn’t reflect the light. Still, I can feel the chisel-tipped blade’s weight in my hand. I head left, following the path ever downward. At the top of the colony, the tunnel’s curve was almost imperceptible, always far off, but here it twists around so tightly that I can’t see more than fifty feet ahead. I hug the right wall, moving quickly and quietly but checking every alcove and nest for signs of life before tiptoeing past.
Despite my efforts at stealth, the thump of my boots on the hard-packed floor feels loud. The colony is silent.
Did they abandon the colony? It seems unlikely, but if the Dread mole can burrow as well as I think it can, there could be a network of tunnels connecting all the colonies in New Orleans.
Or maybe I’m in one of those other colonies? Could the fast-moving river have swept me out into a neighboring colony? This could also be a tunnel between colonies, though that seems unlikely. The continual curve suggests a colony … but is it still the right one?
I stop.
The tunnel levels out ahead. A fifty-foot-tall arching entryway stands to the right, just before the tunnel’s end. Whether or not this is the right colony, I’ve reached the bottom. Remembering what I found inside the main chamber of the New Hampshire colony, I slide Faithful back into the scabbard and draw the Desert Eagle. It lacks the ridiculous power of the 20 mm sniper rifle I used to drop the Dread mole, but it can shoot a round through twenty-five watermelons and drop anything short of an elephant in one shot. With nine rounds in the gun and nine more ready to go, I should be able to punch a sizable hole in just about anything I encounter—I slide up to the archway and peek around—except for maybe that …
I duck back, considering my options, which are fairly limited. I can fight and die. I can run, and probably die. Or I can give up … and die. Running, while perhaps my only chance of survival, isn’t an option, because as dire as the situation is on the other side of this wall, I saw Maya. There’s no way in hell I’m going to leave her. I came here for Maya, and if I’m going to die, I want her to know that I’m me again, that I remember her and that I came for her. That, at least, will provide a little closure before I’m slain.
I step around the archway into full view and stop. My eyebrows slowly rise, cresting halfway up my forehead. The Dread … nearly a hundred of them … are all looking right at me.
So much for not being noticed.
The chamber resembles a coliseum with staggered seating, wrapping around two sides, stopping before a second archway on the far side. Dread of all types, including some I’ve never encountered, line the benches. I feel like I’ve just walked onto the field of a football stadium, only no one is clapping and the opposing team is straight out of a nightmare.
Against every instinct, I take another step forward. Then another. By the third step, I’ve managed to insert a little confidence into my stride. I head for the center of the chamber, where Maya is being held. She’s framed by two of the largest Dread I’ve seen, only smaller than the Dread mole. The behemoths look almost elephantine, but where their trunks should be are writhing masses of short, pale tendrils resembling a bull’s tongue. The tendril length tapers up the thing’s head, forming a line between its six eyes and a moving mane along its back. Its massive body pulses with green blood and ripples with muscles. The jaws, which split at the bottom, stretching a translucent sheet of flesh between the sides, are slung open like a baseball catcher’s open mitt. I turn my attention away from the giants—the mammoths—and back to Maya.
She’s conscious and watching me with red, swollen eyes, but her mouth is clamped shut. At first I think they’ve frightened her into silence. Then I see the wriggling tendrils of a Medusa-hands behind her head. It must sense my attention because it skitters out from behind one of the mammoths, slowly wrapping even more tendrils around Maya’s waist.
Behind all of this, a squirming mass of tentacles, each as thick as my thigh and nearly fifteen feet tall, rises into the air. I know they’re connected to a Dread mole hidden beneath the surface, but I can’t help see each of them as a separate living thing. Given the thickness of the tendrils, the beast beneath this chamber must be huge. The word “kaiju” comes to mind. If such a thing got loose in the world of humanity, they’d make movies about it.
I stop halfway between the archway and Maya. I glance back, confirming what I already suspected. The exit is blocked by six bulls, four Medusa-hands, and a pack of wary pugs. I won’t be leaving.
“Don’t be afraid,” Maya says, and her words, clearly those of the Medusa-hands controlling her, make me laugh.
Maya and the Medusa-hands behind her cock their heads to the side in unison. “You are afraid, are you not? This is new to you, Josef Shiloh. We have felt it.”
“What do you want?” I ask, picking targets. My goal right now is to free Maya long enough to beg for her forgiveness.
“Understanding.”
“I understand you well enough,” I say and nearly open fire, but don’t. If there is even a tiny fraction of a hope that Maya can survive this, I need to play along. For now.
“And then what?” I ask.
“Your help.”
I laugh. I can’t help myself. The idea of helping the Dread feels like Hitler asking me to help build a gas chamber. Why on earth would I help these bastards?
“We will free your wife,” Maya says, referring to herself. “We saw your past. This is acceptable to you.”
“Don’t tell me what I think,” I say, but know they’re right. They peeked into my mind and scoured my memories before they’d been returned to me.
The mammoths take two long steps to either side. The thick tendrils behind the Medusa-hands and Maya turn toward me, snaking forward.
“We will help you remember,” Maya says.
“Remember what?”
“Everything.”
“My memory is—”
“Fractured,” she says.
“How
do you know?” I ask.
There’s no reply. They don’t need to explain, because I have no choice. I have to do it. Killing a few more Dread won’t bring Simon back, and it would be a fairly hollow revenge. But saving Maya … that is something worth dying for. I have no idea if the Dread can be trusted. Probably not. But picking a fight guarantees her death.
I slide the Desert Eagle into the chest holster, hold out my empty hands, and walk toward the outstretched Dread-mole tendrils. I stop a few feet short. “Fix her.”
Maya and the Medusa-hands cock their heads in the other direction. “Explain.”
“Undo what you did to her mind. Setting her free will do nothing for her if she spends the rest of her life in a hospital bed. Take away her fear.”
Maya twitches suddenly, then stops and says, “It is done.”
“Let me talk to her.”
Maya blinks and then looks around, showing no reaction until her eyes land on me. Then she smiles the way she used to. She reaches out a hand. “Josef. You—” And then she’s gone. Silenced again.
“That’s not enough,” I say, thinking twice about my gun. I’m being played. They’ll never let her go. She could be dead already for all I know. A puppet. Before I can make a choice, it’s made for me.
I turn around at the sound of a scuff. There’s no avoiding the tendril that has snaked around behind me. It springs up like a striking snake, splitting open to reveal a mass of smaller tentacles that open and engulf my face. The twisting limbs cushion my fall, just a fraction of a second before they invade my mind for a second time.
53.
“You’re okay,” I say, bicep-deep in water, supporting my wife’s weight. “Just breathe. Take it easy.”
The midwife, Deb Fairhurst, standing on the other side of the birthing tub, stares at me, incredulous. I can see the question in her eyes. How can you be so calm? Despite having aided in hundreds of births, Fairhurst is amped. She’s doing an admirable job of forcing calm into her voice, speaking slow, soothing words into Maya’s ears while monitoring her vitals, which is harder now that Maya decided to get in the tub. But there are subtle cues revealing the tension she’s hiding. She’s sweating. Her forehead is locked in place, wrinkles unmoving. I wonder if, when she’s older, her heavily wrinkled forehead will be a reminder of all the children she helped deliver, or if they’ll just be unwanted lines? Her movements have become sharp and quick when she’s out of eyeshot of Maya.
I flash Fairhurst a calm smile. Her forehead flattens a bit and she grins back, shaking her head. She’ll ask how I stay calm later. It’s the number one question I get asked. For now, there is a baby about to be born.
Maya crushes her nails into my shoulder, drawing the first noncalm expression from my face. If she’s trying to share the pain of childbirth, she’s doing an admirable job, though I’m sure it’s nothing compared to what she’s enduring, so I keep this thought to myself.
“Breathe, baby,” I say. “Move beyond the pain. Control it.”
“And push,” Fairhurst says.
From my position behind Maya, I can’t see what’s happening, but Fairhurst’s attention is suddenly more on the water than on Maya. In a moment, she’ll have two patients to care for.
“Good,” Fairhurst says. She’s grinning now. “Just one more push and we’ll be done.”
As the contraction ends, Maya releases my arm, then taps it several times. I lean down to her.
“Go,” she says.
“You want me to leave?”
“Go.” She waggles a finger toward the tub beyond her basketball belly. “Watch.”
That she’s thinking of me in this moment of pain, not wanting me to miss witnessing the birth of our first child, is a testament to her strength, love, and selflessness. I kiss her wet forehead, slide my arms out from behind her back, and move to the side of the tub, opposite Fairhurst.
“Anything I can do?” I ask.
“Just watch,” the midwife says.
Maya tenses, gripping the sides of the tub. Her forehead furrows, but it’s the only outward sign of pain I can see. She’s doing this drugless, focusing her will and body, letting things happen naturally. I didn’t think it would be possible, but here she is, overcoming pain I can only imagine and fear I will never know.
My jaw drops when a small, naked body appears in the water, flowing up and out of the water, carried aloft by Fairhurst’s skilled hands. And then she says three words that put a permanent chink in my thick armor. “It’s a boy.”
Before this moment, if you had asked me if I wanted kids, I would have shrugged and said, “I don’t know.” I was indifferent. I felt happy when Maya told me she was pregnant, but wasn’t moved by the news. I saw a child as just another one of life’s challenges to overcome. Fairhurst announced the sex because we chose not to find out earlier. But something about those three words: “it’s a boy…”
I weep for the first time since joining the military. It’s just a single tear, but its presence feels like Noah’s rainbow, a promise of something greater than myself, of continuing generations of Shilohs and … a son.
My son.
I reach for him and find only darkness.
I’m out of the memory, which was returned to me by the Dread mole. I can’t see or sense the world around me, but I can feel it in my head. But why would it give that memory back to me? Of all my memories, that poignant moment reminds me of exactly what I lost. What the Dread took from me. And why I hate them. If they were looking for brownie points, they don’t have a very good understanding of what makes people tick.
An image begins to resolve. Another memory.
I’m walking with my son. Just the two of us, out experiencing the world, sloshing through a swamp. He steps up beside me, rubs his head into my side.
“Are you ready?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Your strength and courage honor me,” I tell the boy.
He bristles with pride. “Now … let’s go.”
We move together, pushing through the mire until we reach the other side, where a desert awaits. It’s flat, brown, and barren. But there has been activity here lately, and I’ve been tasked with understanding it. Walking casually, son by my side, we head for a collection of buildings. They’re new but lack all the other things that normally indicate habitation—power lines, paved roads, and other types of infrastructure.
We stop a mile out, watching the activity in and around the small collection of buildings. And then, at once, the people there leave. A parade of vehicles heads north. Curious, I start toward the buildings but notice my son isn’t following.
“What is it?” I ask him.
“I’m afraid,” he confesses.
“No one will see us,” I tell him. Though he is young, he understands this. He just hasn’t experienced it yet. “You will be safe. They cannot harm you.”
“But I don’t like this place.”
“And you shouldn’t. But we have been asked to understand it. To ensure it is not a threat.”
“Could it be?” he asks.
“They have sought us out in the past,” I tell him. “But they cannot see the world as we do. They are limited and lost to emotion, conflict, and primitive thoughts.”
“Like we were.” My son is intelligent for his age, which is why the matriarch requested his training begin early.
“Yes,” I say. “During the dark years, we … tormented these people. Made them afraid of us. And as you know, some of us still choose this path. But not me. And not you. Understanding is more important than control, and making them afraid of us only draws their attention. Our worlds are connected, but our paths must remain separate.”
My son begins his reply but cuts the thought short with a huff. His head snaps up, eyes wide. He’s sensed something I missed. Danger. Intense and close.
Before I can give the command to run, a distant light blazes on the horizon. It locks us in place, blossoming in all directions, full of raw and terrifying energy, the li
kes of which I have never seen and have no knowledge about. As the distant buildings are enveloped by the explosive light, I feel warmth on my skin.
No …
I take hold of my son and return us both to the swamp. “Run!”
But it’s too late. The energy rips into our world, boiling the swamp. Anguish fills me, not because of my blistering skin. I have been trained to withstand pain. It’s my son’s agonized wail that stabs my soul. He’s dying, painfully, curled up in the flash-dried muck beside me. Before my vision fades, I catch one last look at my son, his sleek and noble domed forehead, his brilliant green eyes, now flickering. I send him on his way with one last push of affection. Then he’s gone. No longer part of me.
Why? I think. Why is this happening? And then, connected to the matriarch, I send one last request: avenge us.
The memory ends as my life fades. But it wasn’t my life. It was a Dread bull and his son. The location was the Jornada del Muerto desert, better known as the White Sands Proving Ground. The explosion, which I recognize from recordings made of the event, is known as the Trinity explosion. It was the United States’ first test of a nuclear weapon. In 1945. That memory is seventy years old but still feels fresh to the mind of the matriarch. And now it’s fresh in mine.
A new surge of memories begins, but, unlike the last, they’re overlapping, snapping into my mind. I’m not just witnessing the events, I’m living them through the minds of the Dread, who are connected to the matriarchs. Sometimes it’s individual Dreads, sometimes entire colonies. Bombs explode. Nuclear fallout poisons both worlds. Species of Dread I haven’t yet seen, living in the oceans and on island colonies, are decimated by more than 2,011 nuclear tests and scads of accidents. I see Three Mile Island, Chernobyl, Fukushima, and the SL-1 meltdown in Idaho. There are also a number of less famous radioactive accidents in Costa Rica, Zaragoza, Morocco, Mexico City, Thailand, and Mayapuri, India. The stories of these events are well known in my frequency, but the human race is naive to the vast and horrible effects these events have on the Dread world. I experience these events the way every Dread around the world does. I feel the network of minds connected through the matriarchs. They are separate and with free will but connected and unified, though some—mostly immature youths—still act outside the network, following in the old ways of haunting humanity.
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