MirrorWorld (25 page)

“Stay objective,” Allenby says. “We don’t know if the cemetery comes first, or the colony. It’s just as likely, given the feeling of supernatural dread we feel in the presence of a colony, that we are drawn to bury our dead in the earth where their colonies already existed.”

The satellite view suddenly shifts between fall and summer, the barren trees suddenly full of thick green leaves. I wonder if the foliage will make the clearing harder to see, but then it appears on the screen, impossible to miss, several miles across. The green grass is pocked by hundreds of gray rectangles.

Katzman zooms the image in closer. Gravestones. “Got it.”

I turn to Lyons, who still looks ready to run out the door with his prize. “I think we should hit the colony. If it doesn’t stop the flow of information, at the very least it might distract the mob. At best…”

Whispering tickles my ears.

My eyes snap toward the Dread bat.

Shit
.

Before Lyons understands what I’m doing, I’ve crossed the room and crushed the small creature between my hands and his. It’s as frail as it looks, cracking beneath the pressure. The whispers stop.

Lyons reels back. “W—why?”

“Word to the wise, I’m pretty sure they understand English.”

“You think that little thing can speak English?” Katzman says.

“They don’t speak at all,” I say. “Not like us. I said it could understand English.”

“They’re smart,” Dearborn says. “Probably smarter than we think. They just think differently than us. We view them as savages, the same way the first New World colonists viewed Native Americans. But it wasn’t their intelligence that was different. It was culture, and values, and ours most certainly differ from the Dread.”

“Exactly,” I say, offering the lanky man a nod of thanks. “I heard the whispers … in my head. I think it was trying to warn the colony. Or whatever is outside. The bull might have even made contact before the…” I stop myself. There’s no time for an argument. “The point is, if we can disrupt whatever is coordinating the Dread from the colony, they might stop instigating this little rebellion.”

“But there’s no way to test your theory,” Allenby says.

I grin. “There’s one way.”

30.

“Are you sure about this?” Allenby hands me a freshly loaded magazine, which I tuck into a pouch on my belt. I’ve got two more just like it already in place next to the black sound-suppressed P229 handgun on my hip. But the rounds aren’t for that gun, they’re for the .50 caliber Desert Eagle handgun on the countertop. Like everything else in this armory, it’s made of oscillium. Even the clothing and body armor I’m now wearing were created using thin fibers of the stuff. It’s flexible and light, but strong, and because of the ease with which it changes string frequencies, it will shift between dimensions without any extra effort, which is good because we won’t have a bodiless suit running around revealing my location.

After stowing three magazines, I slap a fourth magazine into the Desert Eagle and slide it into a chest holster. “Would it matter if I wasn’t sure?”

“I might worry less.”

I pick up my machete and inspect the weapon. There isn’t a knick on it, in any frequency. I run my thumb across the blade. Razor-sharp. The encounter with the bull’s armor and thick bones didn’t leave a mark. Oscillium is tough stuff.

“Were we close?” I ask. “Before all this?”

“Yeah,” she says. “We were. When you were young.”

“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 schedule.”

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.