MirrorWorld

10.

Dead eyes stare at me. Hundreds of them.

The vast room is split in two. Both sides contain large numbers of ten-foot-tall, four-foot-diameter glass tubes full of green fluid. The tubes are lit from above and below, exposing the contents while leaving the rest of the room, which is black from floor to ceiling, in darkness. Serial numbers and bar codes are etched into the glass of each tube.

I step inside the macabre space and let the doors swing shut behind me. On the right side of the room, the hundred or so specimen tubes are empty. But on the left… The remains of tortured men, women, and children are suspended in the green liquid. While I know they feel no shame in death, their naked display is repulsive. But their nudity isn’t the worst of it. Each and every person met with a violent and untimely end. Some have multiple stab wounds. Others were shot. A few were eviscerated. I see broken bones, some protruding from the skin, and caved-in skulls. It’s a menagerie of violent ends.

That woman I found. Shiloh. Will she end up here, too?

Will I?

I shake my head. Not likely.

The sound of voices pulls me deeper into the room. A rectangle of white light glows, revealing a door on the back wall. Lit by lime-green gore, I walk toward the door, Taser in hand.

I look at the dead faces as I pass, my anger growing like a supervolcano. Who were these people? Mothers. Fathers. Innocent children with long lives ahead of them. I see different ages, from babies to gray-haired grandmothers. A variety of nationalities are represented. It seems like a perfect sampling of the entire human race, and since we’re in New Hampshire, where only 7 percent of the population isn’t gleaming white, many of these people must have been collected from around the country, if not the world.

While in SafeHaven, I heard stories from some of the older, higher-functioning patients who’d spent time at the New Hampshire State Hospital, which was basically an asylum for the “insane and feeble-minded”—like SafeHaven, but with a deplorable moral fiber. One of my many counselors, a young woman with high hopes, told me the lurid details, which was against all sorts of rules, but she, like most people there, could see I was “normal,” aside from a complete lack of fear.

Hundreds of “patients” were sterilized as part of a statewide eugenics program. The hospital carried out lobotomies, electroshock, and insulin-shock therapies. A horror show, it was closed in 1983. Rampant abuse left patients worse off than when they entered. Those who died as a result of their abuse were buried in the hospital’s cemetery and forgotten.

This… is worse.

Not only were these people likely tortured and brutally slain, their corpses are on display. Objects of necro-admiration. At least the patients at the state hospital were put in the ground. Even if these bodies are still being studied, I don’t see why they should be staged in a gallery.

I turn my eyes to the right. Given the number of empty chambers, Neuro Inc.’s collection still has room to grow.

The bright glow of the small door’s window beckons me. The voices grow louder. Sliding up beside the door, I peek through the window. The room is some kind of large laboratory. Where Documentum is black and green, the space on the other side of the door is almost pure white, save for the table and countertops, which are black. Cabinets and refrigeration units, all with glass fronts, line the walls. Inside each is a collection of liquids and powders kept in vials, test tubes, beakers, and vessels for which I have no name. I see petri dishes, computer stations, and various scientific equipment. The only one of which I recognize is a centrifuge. At the far end is an operating table and a collection of surgical tools.

How many of the bodies behind me once lay upon that table?

Lyons is inside, as is Allenby and a third man I haven’t met. While the two doctors are dressed in long white coats, the stranger is dressed in black battle-dress uniform, otherwise known as BDUs. His hair is cut close—I run a hand over my prickly head—like mine is now. A gun is holstered on his hip. This man isn’t a security guard. He’s something else.

I look back at the roomful of green glowing bodies.

He’s the collector, I think, part of some kind of abduction unit, taking these people out of the world and bringing them here. But for what purpose?

I suspect the answers lie on the other side of the door. If not physically, then inside Lyons’s brain. After what I’ve seen, I have no doubt I can get him to reveal everything. But first, a little recon.

I grip the doorknob and twist it slowly. It’s unlocked and well-constructed. When the latch disengages, the door opens an inch without sound. Lyons’s voice is no longer muffled. “We’re moving forward.”

“He’s a wild card,” the stranger says. “He’s dangerous. Unpredictable. You should have told me before bringing him here.”

“You know why we need him,” Lyons says, his face turning red.

“And if he doesn’t cooperate?” the man asks. “If he gets violent? Refuses the treatment?” He makes air quotes with his fingers when saying, “treatment.” “How long are you going to let this go, and will you allow me to do what I need to if he becomes a problem?”

Lyons waves the man off and opens a refrigeration unit. “We will all do what we must.” He reaches inside and pulls out a syringe with a rubber stopper over the needle. It’s full of translucent, yellow-tinged liquid. He holds the syringe with both hands, like it’s the most precious thing in the world, like other people hold newborns. The fridge holds at least a dozen more prepped syringes. Whatever it is, it’s important and rare. He places the syringe into a protective foam holder on the countertop. “It’s taken years and a good number of lives to get this far. If we must resort to force, then we will.”

“Stephen,” Allenby says, admonishing. “You know that won’t work. He’s—”

“Someone upon whom subtlety is lost,” Lyons interjects.

Allenby shakes her head. “People could get hurt.”

The military man plants his fists on the countertop and leans toward Lyons. “This isn’t just business, it’s war, and people are already getting hurt. If a second augmentation makes him even crazier”—he looks at Allenby—“we’ll do what’s needed, whatever that might be.”

They’re talking about me.

I’m the one who might get violent.

He’s right about that, I think. Also about being dangerous and unpredictable, as they’ll soon discover.

“Katzman, please. Just stop.” Allenby paces, eyes on the ceiling, head shaking back and forth. Lyons has a cold streak beneath that grandfatherly exterior, but from what I know of Allenby so far, she doesn’t belong in a place like this. What are you doing here? As I watch Allenby, her head lowers, and her eyes track toward me. She freezes when we make eye contact through the glass, but then she just looks annoyed. “You just couldn’t stop yourself, could you?”

Katzman is fast, but he’s also the closest to the door. As he spins around, gun rising into position, I kick the door as hard as I can. The metal door strikes the gun barrel, twisting the weapon out of the man’s grasp. I’m on him in a flash, but this isn’t like knocking out Winters or assaulting the security guards. This man is a skilled fighter, and he blocks my first three blows, all of which would have ended the fight before it began.

The problem for my opponent is that I’m equally skilled—somehow—but nothing is holding me back. When he begins his counterattack, I dodge the first two punches, but when he launches into a spinning kick, I block it—with Allenby. I take her by the shoulders and rotate her into my position. Katzman’s kick connects with Allenby’s head with all the force intended for me. She slams into the door and falls to the linoleum.

When the soldier sees what he’s done, he reels back in shock. “Shit!” He looks at me. “You motherfu—”

My fist on the side of his jaw cuts him off. Even the most seasoned warrior can be slowed by the sudden realization that they’ve just injured a friend. He spills back onto the counter, knocking the syringe to the floor. The foam case fails to do its duty.

Glass shatters.

Liquid spills.

Lyons shouts, “No!”

I pull my fist back to pummel Katzman into submission, but the first blow did its job. He slides across the counter, pulling a computer keyboard and mouse with him, and falls to the floor.

“What are you doing?” Lyons shouts. He should be backing away from me. He’s not a threat, but he’s standing his ground.

I rub my foot through the spilled liquid. “This is important to you?”

“Yes.” The word comes out as a gasp. He’s clutching his chest, falling back. He slides down against the counter, suddenly out of breath.

I recognize the signs of a heart attack but make no move to help the man. Instead, I open the refrigerator and take out the remaining vials, shattering them on the floor.

Lyons fumbles to open a pill case, which I’m assuming contains medication that could save his life. He stops when I lift up the very last syringe. His eyes go wide. Desperate. Revealing its worth. “Don’t.” I lower the syringe, looking at the liquid within. This is my insurance policy.

When I put the syringe in a protective plastic case and slip it in my pocket, he starts digging for his pills again. He’s not going anywhere fast—maybe nowhere ever again if he can’t get his pills—so I leave him there on the floor. I recover Katzman’s gun and head back into the Documentum room, mentally planning for how I’ll retrieve the Shiloh woman and get us both out.

That’s when the alarm sounds.