MirrorWorld

40.

I wake up screaming. The sound cracks my raw throat, combining with the exquisite pain that comes from sitting up too quickly. My body is beaten and bruised.

Something brushes against my forearm. Squeezes. I don’t so much flinch from the touch as catapult. Arms flailing, I reel away, spiraling out of bed and onto the hard floor. An IV needle tears from my arm. The floor punishes me for the clumsy descent. But I barely notice as I scramble backward across the floor, still running from that touch.

My head hits the door. Then my back. My legs continue to pump, but there’s nowhere left to go.

Through my still-screaming voice I hear a name. It’s being shouted at me. Slowly, it sinks in.

“Josef!”

My eyes snap up to the sound of the voice.

Blue eyes stare back at me. They have an immediate calming effect. My voice falls silent, but my legs are rigid, pressing me against the door.

“Josef,” the voice says, gently. “It’s me. It’s Jess.”

Jess?

“Winters,” she says.

My eyes wander. Her blond hair is a mess. Her face is partially covered by a bandage. “I know you,” I say.

She crouches in front of me, smiles, and puts her soft hand on my cheek. “Better than you remember.”

As she strokes the side of my face, I close my eyes. Memories and tears surface, none of them pleasant. I can feel the Dread mole, projecting fear upon me, crawling through my mind. I put a hand behind my head. There’s a bandage taped in place.

“You’re okay now. You’re safe.” Her voice is calm and soothing. “We haven’t detected any Dread activity in the region since—”

“They’re all dead. I think. The whole colony.”

She says nothing. Just keeps rubbing my cheek. The repetitive caress calms me, my head sagging a little farther with each downward stroke. I take a long breath and let it out slowly.

“Can I take your pulse?” she asks.

I nod.

She takes my left hand in hers and places two fingers on my wrist. The touch is gentle.

Twenty seconds later, she says, “Good,” and lifts her fingers away, but my hand stays in hers. “Can I ask you some questions?”

“You’re here as my psychologist, then?”

“You’re still direct,” she says.

“Habit.”

“Then…”

“You’re wondering if I’m afraid.”

“Yes.”

I look her in the eyes but have trouble not looking away. Her gaze is intense. “Do I look afraid?”

Sadness sweeps over her face. “Very.”

“There’s your answer.”

“How?” she asks.

I put my hand on the bandage at the back of my head. “They got inside my head. Fixed what was broken.”

“Allowing you to be broken, but why not just kill you?”

“They weren’t done with me, but I escaped. I think they were trying to understand what made me fearless. Apparently, they figured it out.”

She slips her hand out from under mine and stands up. “I’m sorry, Josef.”

She heads for a counter, opens a folder, and jots a few notes. “There are clothes in the bathroom if you would like to get dressed.”

I look down. I’m wearing a paper-thin gown. Again. The hospital garb once again matches the room. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was staying at Average Hospital USA.

I stand slowly, my body protesting each movement. Winters offers no help. I don’t know her well, but this seems a little out of character, especially in light of the affection she just offered… which ended the moment she knew the truth: the fearless Crazy is now just a regular guy—who can pass through dimensions, but that is something I have absolutely no interest in doing again. Ever. Was she really only attracted to my fearless nature, or is her sudden change somehow meant to protect me? If so, I wish she wouldn’t. For the first time that I can remember, I feel in serious need of moral support.

A draft reveals the gown’s open backside. Fueled by embarrassment, a new emotional delicacy, I hurry into the bathroom, close the door, and lock it. All of this is new to me. I can remember who I was and how I would have done things—who cares if she sees me naked—but now… now half the thoughts in my head make me squirm. My memories of SafeHaven, seen through this new fear lens, are traumatic. What I’ve experienced since leaving that place is even worse. I shake my head at it all, trying to keep my thoughts empty, but I can’t. There isn’t much that I’ve experienced in the year of remembered life that doesn’t now haunt me, including things I did, thought, and said.

The small bathroom doesn’t provide a whole lot of room, and it’s impossible to miss myself in the mirror. My brown eyes are framed by upturned eyebrows above and dark circles below. My face is covered in stubble and scabbed-over scratches. If I turn my head, just a little, I can see the bandage taped to the back, over my close-cut hair. I slip out of the gown. More bandages cover wounds I have no memory of receiving, and my ribs are wrapped. The broad ache suggests bruising rather than breaks, which is good, I suppose.

Despite all the fresh wounds, I notice that the past injuries—the self-inflicted puncture wound and the vast bruising across my midsection—are nearly completely healed. That was fast, I think, probing the stab wound. The flesh is mostly nit together, the swelling and bruising all but gone. Two weeks of healing in a day. I’m also far less sore than I think I should be. In fact, I feel strong. Almost energized—physically, not emotionally. Lyons had asked me if I felt any different. Am I becoming more Dread? As my throat constricts at the thought, I lean forward, looking into my own eyes like it was the first time. What was I thinking? I’ve done so many stupid things. Every punch, bone break, harsh word spoken, and rude action from the past year flits through my mind. But the worst decision might be the one I don’t remember. I altered my DNA. Made myself something not human. I close my eyes, willing the endless barrage of cringe-worthy thoughts from my mind.

Focus on the here and now, I tell myself. Just get dressed, say good-bye, and leave.

But to where? I still have no memory. No home. No job. There’s no way in hell I’m going back to SafeHaven.

I start to feel light-headed and realize I’m not breathing.

Fear, in all its nuanced forms, is hard to manage.

With a steadying breath, I turn away from the mirror and look at my clothes. At least they’re familiar and comfortable. I slip into the perfectly fitted ensemble of jeans, T-shirt, and brown sneakers. Fully dressed, I splash cold water on my face and look in the mirror one last time. A little more human. A little less mousey.

“Everyone on the planet lives like this,” I say to my reflection, the words coming out as an unintended whisper. “You can handle it.”

I leave out the fact that everyone else on the planet has had a lifetime of learning to manage fear, and even then people fail at it all the time. But I’m a trained assassin, right? A killer. I’ve conquered the unthinkable. I can conquer fear.

Standing a bit taller, I grip the door handle, give it a twist, and push.

A ball of gray snaps around, revealing two wide eyes. I jump back, bark out a raspy shout, and raise my arms defensively.

“She wasn’t kidding.”

I recognize the voice. Allenby. I lower my arms. She stands on the other side of the door. Her hair, freed from the elastic that had been taming it, billows around her head. A bandage covers half her forehead, but she seems otherwise unscathed.

“W-where’s Winters?”

“Probably headed back to Lyons,” she says. “She was just here to make sure you were actually… you know.” She frowns in a sad sort of way. “Come out of there, poor boy.” She reaches her arms out, and I all but fall into her embrace, her hair tickling my ear. “It will get easier. With time. Practice. And some hardening.”

Her hand rubs slow spirals over my back, and I feel myself calming again. A lack of fear means I’ve also never been comforted before. This is all new. And not bad.

She pushes me back, looks me over. “There’s something I think you should see.”

I barely register her comment. “Where’s Lyons?” I thought the man would want to know every detail of what I saw and did, about the new Dread, about the colony’s insides. I don’t take his absence personally, but it is confusing.

“He’s not here.”

“Not here?”

“They’ve relocated.” She raises her hand, stopping the question forming on my lips. “I didn’t know about the second location. I found out an hour ago. From what I understand, it has more of an… offensive focus. Whereas Neuro is primarily research focused.”

“And he didn’t want me to—”

“I’m afraid he’s cast you aside. There was security footage of what happened on the roof…” She pauses to give me a sympathetic look. “For the record, few people have stood against a full Dread onslaught and recovered, let alone had the wherewithal to take action. I think it’s too soon to count you out, but now that you can feel fear again, Lyons sees you as a liability, and not able to take part in whatever he’s been cooking up at this second location.”

“Even with my ability to move between worlds?” Despite the question, I’m feeling a bit of relief.

“Strangely, yes.”

I sit on the bed. “Well, I agree with him. I can’t do this.”

She leans down, hands on knees, and levels a hard gaze at my eyes. “You can. And will.”

I find a drop of bravery left in the once-full bucket and return her stare. “Not. A. Chance.”

“Aren’t you curious about what happened while you were gone?”

Now that she mentions it, I am.

“First, the larger ramifications.” She sits on the bed beside me and lifts a tablet from her pocket. She turns it on and accesses a saved video. The image is split down the middle showing two locations. I recognize both, but Allenby explains anyway. “The footage on the left is from New York City. On the right is the security footage from the roof. Pay attention to the time stamps.”

She hits PLAY. The videos have no sound, but it’s not required. On the left, an angry mob marches down 42nd Street. It’s a familiar scene, and the people are framed by riot police and sky scrapers on either side, though the mob contains a good number of police officers, too.

The video on the left shows an empty rooftop, and then me. I zoom into the picture atop an ATV, taking to the air and landing in dramatic fashion. And then, in a blink, I’m gone, disappeared into the mirror world. I watch the time stamps, keenly aware of what is happening in the now-empty security feed.

And then, I reappear, curled up on the rooftop, looking pitiful and afraid.

Motion in the left video feed draws my attention. It started just before I reappeared. The scene in New York has taken a turn for the worse. Chaos erupts, but it’s not what I expected. The mob has turned violent, but the brawling isn’t between mob and riot police, it’s every man and woman for themselves. Even the riot police are taking part, attacking the mob and each other.

Allenby switches the video to a playlist of saved videos. She scrolls through various video clips, some from phones, some from the news, and some from security cameras. Those with time stamps show different hours, but the minutes match up. They’re videos from around the world. In different time zones. But I understand what I’m seeing. They were all recorded at the same time. Angry crowds, in all of them, seem to snap and go wild all at exactly the same time. The psychic bond shared by the Dread allows them to stay in contact instantly and globally. Killing that monster set off a global response from the Dread.

“Where there was violence before,” Allenby says, “there is now chaos. Cities are burning. War is imminent. The world is on the brink.”

I look away from the videos. “What happened here?”

“They got inside,” she says. “Those who were caught either went mad or killed themselves or the person closest to them. Some of us made it to the oscillium-walled panic room. Sealed ourselves inside. They were nearly inside that when you…” She sighs. “Not everyone made it to the panic room.”

She holds my gaze, waiting to see if I’ll understand.

“Not everyone could walk. Not everyone was awake.”

“Maya,” I whisper. “Is she… dead?”

“Worse,” she says.

“Worse?”

“I went for her. Carried her by myself. But they reached right out… There were tentacles. I dropped her. Couldn’t look. Couldn’t control myself. But I could see her. She was here, and then she wasn’t. Just like you.” She takes my chin in her hand, squeezing hard, forcing me to look at her. “They took your wife, Josef, and, God damn you, you’re going to get her back.” She lets go of me. “You’re the only one who can.”