MirrorWorld

39.

Seven round eyes look up at me as the massive Dread lopes toward the building. Five of the eyes arc across the top of the monster’s head, just above the other two, all of it surrounded by pulsing purple veins. Unlike other Dread, these eyes are solid black, like a shark’s. Beneath the eyes is what looks like an exploding mass of flesh—the tendrils that invaded and rewired my brain. Seeing the tentacles on the front of this thing’s face reminds me of a star-nosed mole I saw in a National Geographic. Ugly as hell, but the Dread mole’s horrible face and long hooked claws are definitely designed for subterranean living. Which might be why it moves so awkwardly over land. Its wide legs have a short reach. Its spine arcs with each lunge forward, almost like an otter on land. But the strangeness of its movement does nothing to negate the effect its hideous appearance has on my psyche.

My eyes twitch, spasming muscles mixed with stinging sweat. My vision is questionable, but I keep my eye to the scope, aiming between the triangle of eyes at the center of the giant’s head.

I slip my finger over the trigger.

And squeeze.

The Dread mole shimmers for a moment. I see it through the scope and shriek as something cold reaches through my chest and clutches my heart. The shot goes wild, tearing up into the atmosphere.

Gasping as unbidden thoughts of suicide bounce through my skull, I lift the rifle again.

The building shakes.

The Dread mole has thrown itself against the side. It swings one of its massive clawed hands out and shatters the oscillium window. Pulls itself higher. Slams its other clawed hand through the building. Higher. Climbing.

I’m shaking, muscles out of control, obeying the fear impulse driven into me by the Dread, ignoring the commands of my fracturing psyche.

The monster pushes its powerful fear up at me again. I close my eyes against it, but a wave of torment spills over me. I scream in emotional agony, eyes to the sky.

The building shudders.

Then again.

I can’t look.

It’s right there. I know it is. It has to be.

I consider running. But where? And how? I’m locked in place by fear-induced rigor mortis. My muscles tense and release, twitching. My head throbs, skips, and races. Pressure builds in my sinuses. The physical manifestations of fear are debilitating.

You can’t miss.

The voice is familiar. Confident. Crazy whispers from some hidden nook in my mind.

It’s right there. You can’t miss.

I open my eyes.

Look down.

Scream.

My arms work on autopilot while my voice fills the air with a raspy squeak that is my ruined voice. A round is chambered. My shaking hand pulls the trigger. I can’t hear the gun fire over my scream, but it kicks hard. I nearly drop it, but my arms, directed by muscle memory I can’t remember learning, chamber the third and final round. The weapon kicks hard. I drop it to the roof and pitch forward as the last of my strength is torn from me.

Through blurry eyes, I look over the short wall.

The Dread mole is gone from the world in between. It’s difficult, but I force my eyes to see the mirror dimension. Whatever pain the shift causes is insignificant compared to the effects of being afraid. The giant is there, slowly sliding back to the swampy ground.

The Dread mole is motionless. One of its eyes has burst. Purple and white fluid oozes from the ruined socket. A 20 mm round can punch through a tank, so I have no doubt the bullet continued through the head, creating a pressure wave that destroyed whatever it came into contact with. To the right of the ruined eye is a clean hole, dead center, between the triangle of eyes. I hit it twice.

I’m a good shot, even when I’m out of my mind. I choke out a laugh that becomes a cackle and fall into a shaking fetal position. My body convulses uncontrollably, outwardly reflecting the turmoil that has become my mind.

This is what the Dread do to people. This is why even strong men like Katzman can’t even look at them. I’ve lost control. I’ve lost myself.

But I’m not dead. And I’m not being attacked.

My eyes clench shut, but I need to see. I need to know if there is anything left to fear. As my body quivers, I let my eyelids slip open. Purple light filters through my lashes. I’m still viewing the mirror world. I open my eyes and come face-to-face with a Medusa-hands. My voice sounds like tearing paper as I shout. I try to push away from the creature, but I’m already up against the wall. Nowhere to run.

But I don’t need to.

Like me, the Dread is on its side, twitching. Alive, but no longer in control. Or maybe no longer being controlled. I don’t know which is the case, but the thing appears to have been lobotomized by the Dread mole’s death. Then it goes rigid, its limbs snapping still for a moment before falling to the roof, still and dead.

It must have been right behind me when the strings were cut, when the Dread mole died. Had it reached me… I’m clutched by horrible images. My head pounds.

I look beyond the wide head of the Medusa-hands and take in the rest of the rooftop. Mothmen litter the oscillium surface, shaking like dying bees, some spinning in circles. A few more are still falling from high up in the sky, fluttering madly like actual moths that flew too close to a lightbulb. The large centipede undulates and thrashes, snapping its large wings in the process. The uncontrolled movement brings it to the side of the roof, where it rolls over and falls from view.

It’s over, I think.

My body quakes, still gripped with fear despite the danger’s passing.

Get a grip.

The small voice of my former self has no power.

Stand up.

Like a swimmer pulled from arctic waters, my muscles contract and release of their own accord. Images of death and pain and blood race through my thoughts, unhindered.

Stand the fuck up!

I squeeze my eyes shut, shaking my head back and forth. “No!” When I open them again, the sky is blue, and the Dread are gone. I’m safe.

But still afraid.

I roll onto my stomach, forehead resting on my folded arms. I’ve won, and yet I feel like a frail creature that has lost everything. Where do feelings like this come from? How can my mind conjure such torturous emotions having never experienced them before?

Because it has.

I just can’t remember them.

I have lost everything. A wife. A son. Thirtysomething years of memory.

None of those things were created by the Dread. They simply drew to the surface what existed, no matter how well hidden by my lack of memory, and magnified it. The realization does me no good.

I can’t remember what I’ve lost. Not really. But there is nothing in my life, absolutely nothing, that can combat this sorrow. No love. No real friends. And just this one, hollow victory, if you can even call it that.

I’m done, I think, and close my eyes. With a final spasm, my tired mind and even more exhausted body quits, and I slip into merciful sleep.