MirrorWorld

21.

I empty the P229 at the thing. Twelve .40 caliber rounds. It should be dead. Most everything else on the planet short of a blue whale or armor-plated rhino would be. Then again, it’s about the size of a rhino, and the way it’s flickering in and out of view makes the details hard to discern. It could be armored. Or thick-skinned. Or who knows what.

I have no idea what it is.

But it’s there.

It’s real.

And then it’s not.

I blink and it disappears. I’m about to ask where it went but then realize I’m focusing on what it is rather than seeing it. I narrow my eyes, willing them to see what is unseen, and feel a shift in my vision. This muscle just needs exercise.

With a fresh wave of pain, the monster reappears, one floor higher and on the move. It’s fast for its size, taking each flight of stairs with a single leap.

My hands reload the P229 without taxing my mind and despite the pain. It’s a reflex, muscle memory, and I’m able to keep my eyes on the rising creature.

It’s mostly black, which doesn’t help with the details, but twisting green lines trace the body, helping to define its muscular forearms, powerful limbs, and arched back. It has no hair to speak of, just rough black flesh like the skin of a stealth bomber… or the black machete on my back. There are four glowing green eyes atop its head, two on the sides, two looking forward.

But that’s all I get. The flickering effect intensifies as the creature nears.

Its massive mouth opens like a hippo’s, long strands of saliva stretching out, revealing large, sharp teeth and a tongue composed of what looks like undulating worms. It appears to be roaring, its entire body shimmering, vibrating, but all I hear is a whispered hiss. Katzman reacts to the sound by yelping and scrabbling back toward the door. “Shoot it,” he says through grinding teeth. “Shoot it!”

It’s just one story down when I empty the second magazine into it. If I missed at all the first time, which is doubtful, I score a hit with each and every round this time. The thing bucks and reels, throwing itself back against the wall, but it doesn’t go down. All I’m really doing is irritating it.

“Not working,” I say to Katzman.

The creature drops back down to all fours and turns its flickering head up.

“It’s a bull,” he says, looking a little more put together, but still wild-eyed.

“Is that supposed to mean something?”

“They’re tougher.”

The bull’s green eyes come into focus. The pupils are split, two vertical rectangles connected in the middle, forming an H.

“What’s it doing?” Katzman asks.

“Looking at me.”

“Does it know you’re looking back?”

“We’re having a staring contest, so that’s a safe bet, yeah.”

He pushes himself up, fighting against quivering legs. “You can’t let it escape. If they find out…”

My hands eject the spent magazine and slap in a fresh one. My last twelve rounds.

I keep my eyes locked onto the beast’s. The rest of its ugly face slowly comes into focus. Its domed head has no nose. No ears. Its eyes are circular, blank, but somehow also filled with loathing. The teeth in its prodigious hippo mouth are like a great white shark’s, but the color of night. The only color aside from black and pale, fleshy worm-tongue is green. Thick, glowing, fluorescent-green veins twist away from its eyes, forming pathways around its body.

“Find out about what?” I ask.

“You,” he says. “That you can see them.”

“Right. Any advice on where to shoot it?”

“I’ve never killed one in combat.”

Great. I adjust my aim, pointing the barrel of my gun at its right eye. If a .40 caliber in the eye won’t put it down, I’m not sure what will. It just stares back, as fearless as me, either not fearing the weapon or naive about its ability. I squeeze the trigger.

Far below, a door bursts open. Beta Team surges into the first-floor stairwell. My first shot misses. The bull is no longer there. Has it disappeared or did it move? A blur of movement, bounding down the stairs, is my answer. It’s going for Beta Team.

“Incoming!” I shout down the stairwell, and charge down after the unreal creature. It’s taking the flights down, one leap at a time, but slows to round the bend. As I keep my downward sprint at an even pace, we move in tandem, separated by a story and a half of stairs.

With one hand on the railing, I try to run faster, swinging around the corners. It helps, and I avoid smashing into the concrete walls, but I’m going to dislocate my left shoulder if I’m not careful. That said, my pace never slows because I’m not afraid of dislocating the arm. Sure, it will hurt, but I don’t need it to fire a weapon and a quick slam into the wall can pop things back into place.

Screams rise up from below as I reach the building’s third floor. I look over the edge. The bull is still two flights above the Beta Team, but they’ve spotted it, and, like Katzman, they’ve become useless sacks of molten fear. The four men climb over each other to escape.

There’s no way I’ll be able to stop it in time.

I’m just two sets of stairs above the group when it reaches them.

But it doesn’t attack. It simply lands among them and vibrates. Otherworldly whispering fills the stairwell. When it does, I see it better than ever. Its frequency is changing, I think, closer to A than B, having a more profound effect.

A kind of madness grips the men. They react out of terror.

One man turns to run and careens straight into the concrete wall. The impact knocks him out cold. He tumbles limply down the stairs, bruised and broken, but still alive.

He’s the lucky one.

The other three pull triggers. Unaimed bullets rip through the stairwell. The sound is thunderous. The effect, savage.

As I round the final flight of stairs, I’m greeted by bloody carnage. Despite the armor, the three men have managed to cut each other down, coating the stairs and walls with blood, guts, and brains.

And yet the monster lives.

But it’s been injured. There’s a splash of bright-green wetness on its back.

It turns around to face me as I round the last flight. I can’t tell if it’s surprised by my arrival. Those wide eyes never change, like a fish, expressionless.

It vibrates again, coming clearly into view. The whispers, like indistinct hissing, grow louder.

I feel nothing.

The thing’s head reels back a bit, showing a hint of surprise, which brings a smile to my face. And it’s the smile that has the most impact. The creature rears up on its back legs, vibrating furiously. Its underside looks soft.

“Big mistake, buddy.” I leap at the thing, pulling my trigger twelve times in the seconds it takes to reach the monster. It falls back from the force of the bullets, injured but not dead.

Yet.

As I fall within striking distance, I swing my weapon like a club, hoping to crack its domed skull, or at least daze the creature.

But I miss.

Well, miss isn’t entirely accurate. The weapon hits the hard skull and is torn from my hand. While the handgun makes contact, my hand goes through the thing. Right through its head, like it’s some kind of immaterial specter.

The creature reaches out its thickly muscled arms and catches hold of the railing and wall, stopping its backward descent. Instead of slamming into the thing, I simply pass straight through it. The concrete floor greets me harshly. I roll with the impact, but there isn’t much room, and my roll ends against the equally solid wall.

The bull spins around, looking down at me, vibrating. This time I hear a rattle and a whispered shriek. The sound brings fresh pain, radiating from my ears, but I’m not sure if it is the sound causing the pain or whatever is allowing me to hear it. I fight to stand. I don’t think anything is broken, but I’m going to hurt in the morning.

Enraged by my nonresponse to its strange behavior, the monster leans in closer. The massive hippo mouth drops open large enough to swallow me whole, but it’s not trying to eat me. It’s roaring. The wormy tongue shakes. Saliva sprays but doesn’t strike me.

Then the sound reaches my ears. It starts as a whistle and builds into a deep, throaty roar, like a lion’s, but sustained. I catch a whiff of the thing’s warm, rotten breath. The brief sense feels like a punch to my nose.

Unfazed by the freakish sight, I push past the pain, recover my dropped weapon from the floor, take aim, and pull the trigger.

The weapon clicks. I’ve already drained the magazine.

Stupid mistake.

The sound snaps the bull out of its intimidation display. It stops shaking and fades partially from view. The head turns toward the door. The exit.

It bolts.

As the large body passes by, I reach over my back, clasp the machete’s handle, draw the blade, and swing, all in one fluid motion. While I’m sure my hand would pass straight through the thing, the weapon’s black blade bites into flesh. Bites—and sticks.

The massive bounding weight of the bull yanks the blade from my hand. The creature—the Dread, capital D—lands on the first floor and then leaps through the door like it wasn’t there. The machete, however, makes contact with the door and stays behind, tearing a green splash of gore from the monster’s backside.

I recover the machete and shove through the door. The bull is already fifty feet away, running on all fours and trailing a stream of what looks like thick Mello Yello. I give chase, but there’s no way to catch it. It’s clearly trying to find a way out. I’m either going to be there to see how it escapes or greet it when it can’t.

As the Dread approaches the end of the hall, it never slows.

Ahh, I think, understanding the creature’s escape plan. But will it work?

The monster leaps a potted plant, throws its head up, and lunges at the tinted window. The window resists the monster’s head but bends. Then the creature’s massive body adds its weight to the impact, and the window explodes outward. The bull rolls out into the night.

I pick up my pace, machete in hand.

I can reach it. I can—

An alarm sounds. Small LED lights blink above the broken window. Just seconds before I’m through, a sheet of black metal slides down, blocking my path. Through the next window over, I see the spectral brute limp off into the darkness.

A loud ding whirls me around, machete raised. Elevator doors open. Allenby, Katzman, and four members of Alpha Team step out.

“What happened?” Allenby asks, looking around. “Is it still here?”

I point my blade at the sheet of black covering the broken window.

“Dammit!” Katzman shouts.

“I can track it,” I say, but the man is shaking his head before I finish the sentence.

“Too dangerous,” he says. “They’ll know about you now.”

“How could you track it?” Allenby asks.

“You’re standing in its blood,” I say, and, with a flick of my wrist, clear the green goo from the blade. Allenby looks down, and for a moment I see the floor the way she does—white, polished, and sparkling clean. She can’t see it. None of them can.

I slip the machete into the scabbard on my back. “I want answers. All of them. Now.”