MirrorWorld

32.

“Triangular-shaped head, wider at the top. Tall but hunched body. Kind of like Lyons. Its legs are covered by some kind of cloth. Black. Wispy. Almost like a skirt. Has four eyes like the others. Two on the outside, two nearer the middle. Bright yellow veins all over. Two arms, but they split into tentacles. Too many to count. Each ends with a glowing yellow tip, and it’s poking them into the backs of people’s heads as it passes through the crowd.” I lean away from the sniper scope and look at Dearborn. He’s shaking his head, a hint of a smile. Allenby just looks mortified. “Something new?”

Both nod. My past and forgotten experience with the Dread is starting to appear fairly limited. Bulls, pugs, and mothmen seem to be the limit of Neuro’s Dread-related knowledge base. Of course, back then, the Dread weren’t trying to instigate rebellions and world wars, so I suppose it makes sense that we’re encountering previously unseen species.

I return my eye to the scope. “There’s only one of them down there. Eight bulls. Maybe twenty pugs.”

“Pugs?” Allenby asks.

“The little ones. They look like alien pugs. The dog breed.”

“You said the new one was wearing clothing?” Katzman asks, standing behind us, far enough away from the roof’s edge to not be visible.

I focus on the monster in question as it flits about the agitated crowd, moving from one person to the next, pausing just long enough to… what? “That unusual?”

Katzman kneels behind the wall, peeking over the top. He slowly lowers his goggles into place. His body goes rigid just from seeing the thing. He curses, yanks the goggles up, catches his breath, and says, “According to your past accounts, it’s a first.”

“Whatever it is,” I say, “it’s not really scaring anyone.” I watch the way the bulls and pugs shimmer closer to our frequency and the effect their brush with our reality has on the people nearby. They’re pumping fear and paranoia into the crowd, keeping them on the edge. But Medusa-hands seems to be directing the flow of ideas. Those it touches move forward, toward the front doors. If this goes on much longer, they might have this mob storm the building. Lyons has faith in the building’s defenses, but I have my doubts. If there is anything a mob is good at, it’s finding a way through a building’s windows, even if those windows are three stories up. And these people are supercharged by fear. Some of the most heinous and desperate acts in human history have been fueled by fear. If these people get inside, anyone left will be in serious trouble. Of course, so will those who get inside. Once we evacuate the remaining staff, the people left inside will either be inner-circle scientists or heavily armed guards and Dread Squad members. The pristine hallways beneath us could very quickly get a fresh coat of red.

“Can you take it out?” Katzman asks.

I center my scope on the thing’s wide head. It’s always moving and, despite the creature’s size, remains ducked down behind the people it’s affecting. I could shoot it, but not without risk of hitting someone. While I’m fairly certain I could squeak a round between some protesters without hitting them, I don’t know if the massive round will be stopped by the Dread’s body. It could very easily pass straight through the Dread—and whoever is behind it. I might drop the monster and a line of ten people with it. War between overlapping dimensions is a complicated thing, especially when the bullets exist in both worlds.

But do they have to?

I grip the large rifle with both hands. “I’ll be right back.”

“What are you doing?” Allenby asks.

“Just make sure the drivers are ready to go.” To Katzman. “We’re leaving in one minute.”

I slip into the mirror dimension, skipping right past the world in between. I force my shout of pain to come out as a gasp. My body lurches, spasms, and then feels whole and normal again. Much better, I think. But still far from a painless experience. Still, the transition from one world to the other is getting easier. How much more like the Dread will I become? Right now, I still look, feel, and think like me, but will those things change as well? If I keep flexing these Dread muscles and perceptions, will they overpower my humanity?

Questions without answers. No one knows.

From my low position on the oscillium rooftop, all I can see is purple sky. I search it for mothmen and see nothing but the storm approaching in both dimensions. I lean up over the edge. The Dread below flicker in and out of view, slipping into the world between before returning to their own frequency. They do it without effort or obvious pain. For them, it’s like walking.

On this side of reality there will be no people to keep the Dread’s attention. I will be easy to spot, especially when I open fire. For a moment, I debate this strategy. Open myself up for attack or let the chaos of the crowd hide me? Since I have no desire to accidentally kill innocents, and no concern for my own well-being, it’s a short debate. I lean up, raising the rifle in position. Before taking aim, I focus on the weapon, willing it to exist only in the mirror universe. While I know it’s possible, there’s no way to know if it worked.

Or is there?

I put the weapon down, flash back to the real world with a grunt, and confirm that the sniper rifle is gone. “Nice,” I say, only partially aware that I’ve just surprised the others, and then slip back into the mirror world, grunting once again, but never slowing.

I retrieve the weapon and peer through the scope. The bulls and pugs are all there, running and slipping back and forth between frequencies, pushing their fear between worlds. So is Medusa-hands. I can see it fully now. The way it moves is unnatural, which I suppose isn’t surprising given the fact that it’s from a dimension beyond human perception. I can’t see its legs because of the sheet of black hanging from its waist, but given the way it moves smoothly across the ground, which is now thick muck, I’d guess the same tentacles writhing at the end of its arms also serve as legs.

Ignoring the pugs, I search for my targets. Medusa-hands will be the first. It’s most likely the brains. I figure I can take two or three of the bulls before they figure out where I am, and another two if they come for me. But then I’ll need to move. There’s no way I can take out all of them, but I think it will be enough to disrupt the mob. At least, I hope it will be.

I slip my finger over the trigger, zero in on Medusa-hands, and expel my breath. Before pulling the trigger, I hear an uptick in the whispering that permeates the mirror dimension. This time, I sense a direction.

Behind me.

I turn back slowly.

Mothmen.

Ten of them. And something else. Something larger. They’re at least a mile off, but closing fast.

Nothing like a little external motivation, I think, and look back through the scope. Medusa-hands is no longer moving. Its broad head is turned up toward me. I pull the trigger. The gun coughs. A massive oscillium round pokes a clean hole in the front of Medusa-hands’s triangular head, right between the eyes. The round mushrooms inside the beast, expanding and creating a wave of pressure of flesh, bone, and yellow blood, all of which exits the back of the thing’s head through a basketball-sized hole. But the pressure wave also moves outward in all directions, and the explosive force shatters the thing’s head like a stick of dynamite inside a pumpkin.

I slap in a fresh magazine and shift my aim to the next target, a bull, now looking back and forth. I pull the trigger. The thing detonates as the round moves through its thick body, front to back. The pressure is so great that gushing wounds erupt from its torso, outlining the round’s path through the monster’s body.

A second bull fills the lens as I turn to the right. This one has spotted me. It takes a step forward and then ceases to exist, its head folding in and then erupting out—explosive red gore and green blood.

I find my next target already charging, which means the others are, too. But it’s not stupid. The bull ducks and weaves as it runs, slowing its charge but making itself a harder target. Too bad for the bull; it’s big as hell. I pull the trigger. It loses a leg and falls into the mud, trailing a luminescent green streak of blood. It moans in pain, drowning out the frenetic whispering now filling my mind.

I look back. The mothmen are closing in. The thing with them now looks like some kind of bus-sized flying centipede, undulating up and down while gliding on pterodactyl-sized, fleshy wings. Maybe this is the Japanese, man-eating centipede Dearborn mentioned? Ōmukade. But with wings. Could this, as he guessed, simply be a different race of that species? Maybe in Japan this thing doesn’t have wings? Or maybe the poor souls who saw it just couldn’t remember the wings? It pulses with veins of color—green, yellow, red, and purple. Four wide eyes stare at me. I have no idea what this thing is, but, fear or no fear, I don’t want to find out.

Back in the parking lot, two bulls rush toward the building. The rest stay put, pushing their fear into the mob outside Neuro. With little time to spare, I abandon the rifle and step out of the mirror and back into reality.

I’m back for just a fraction of a second, recovering from the painful shift, when Allenby shouts, “What did you do?”