MirrorWorld

59.

The cavern is full of Dread crocs, all standing still, waiting.

For what?

For me, I realize. The matriarch has given me my own army.

There are at least thirty of them. Maybe more. The combined glow of their exposed yellow veins illuminates the space, allowing me to see the water-smoothed floor and craggy ceiling for the first time. The nearest of the crocs, a massive specimen, steps closer and leans its snout down. It’s just a foot away. I can smell its warm, fishy breath. Had I still been able to feel fear, I might piss myself.

I reach out and put my hand on its head. “Let’s go.”

I push through frequencies, stretching the fabric that separates dimensions, and then, all at once, I pop through.

And I’m not alone.

In the time it takes to finger snap twice, the tide of the battle does a one-eighty. Back in their home world, the Dread crocs spring into action, lashing out, trampling and consuming the Dread Squad. There is resistance, of course. The drugged men fire their weapons, performing a mass “Hudson” killing of some of the crocs and each other in the confusion. But the battle is lost the moment we enter the mirror world.

I’m not sure if it’s purposeful, but the Dread crocs leave Lyons alone—or rather, they leave him for me. While he’s still recovering from the surprise attack, I draw both trench knives, leap forward, and drive the twin, foot-long blades into his chest.

He shouts in pain, staggers back, and falls to his knees. He seethes at me but doesn’t say a word. Instead, he looks to his left, where a machine gun rattles away, the barrage holding back the wave of Dread crocs. The moment those bullets run out, the men holding that position are dead. But only one of them is the true danger. Katzman. He’s leaning over the microwave bomb. I can’t see what he’s doing, but I suspect he’s adjusting the timer. There’s no getting out of here, and he knows it. They’re going to kill us all, and maybe the rest of the world along with us.

And this is why you don’t give bombs to men on drugs.

I pick up the dropped Desert Eagle and squeeze off a round. My aim is true, but the bullet strikes a passing Dread croc instead. My next shot strikes a soldier as he’s tossed into the air, a human skeet. And then it’s too late. Katzman is standing again, raising his weapon and adding it to the barrage holding the crocs at bay.

I run toward a croc, and when it sees me I mentally whisper what I want it to do. I have no idea if it is “hearing” me or understanding me, but I need to close the distance between myself and Katzman, and I need to do it fast. When I was a kid, we had a dog named Kenobi. For fun, I would place treats on his nose and laugh as he snapped at it, launching the treat up and away. I called it a Kenobipult. What I want is the Dread version.

I leap at the croc and its head lowers down. When both feet land atop its broad snout, its head snaps up, either from reflex or understanding what I wanted. Either way, the result is the same. I’m sent soaring toward Katzman… and the machine gun, which is now tracking upward toward my position. Before the first shot can be fired, I shift between frequencies, back into the real-world cavern, sailing through the calm, cool air.

This part is tricky. If I’m not as far as I think, I could take a bullet the moment I return. I could end up inside solid stone or the jaws of a croc. So I try something new, adjusting the vision of a single eye. It’s not like seeing the world between, where I experience a little of both dimensions but neither fully. I’m actually seeing both worlds simultaneously and separately, one with a human eye, one with a Dread eye. My shifting double vision is nauseating for a moment as my brain suddenly has two different visual feeds to process, but then the images unify and I see both worlds at once. Objects in the Dread reality take on a slight different hue, almost a glow.

I slip back into the mirror world just above the three Dread Squad men and Katzman. The first to fall is the machine gunner, when I shoot him and then collide with him. His body helps break my fall, but my body is also stronger, more solid, a point that is proved when the struck man doesn’t get back up. The other two nameless soldiers spin to face me. One takes a bullet to his chest before he fully registers my appearance. The other is quick and manages to slam the butt of his rifle into my chest. The strike is hard, and painful, but the man has made a crucial error. As the blow shoves me back, I reach out, loop my finger around the trigger, and shoot the man, point-blank, with his own weapon.

Before I recover from the dead man’s strike, Katzman is on me, kicking my hand and knocking the Desert Eagle away. In the brief moment when Katzman draws his leg back, I think of a dozen ways to kill the man, but I don’t employ any of them. I need him alive to deactivate the bomb. Better yet, I need him on my side.

He strikes with an impressive two-punch combo. I block the strikes with my forearms and try to talk past the drugs, both synthetic and natural, pumping through his system. “You need to stop this.”

“You said you were here for Maya,” he counters. “I should have killed you.”

His mention of Maya reminds me that I have no idea where the bull took her. Is she still safe? The distraction leads to Katzman clipping my chin. I block and dodge three more blows. “I saved your life.”

Backed against the wall, I counter for the first time, striking his shoulder. He stumbles back, not noticing the ease with which my first and only blow found its mark. He’s like a puppy harassing a mountain lion. As good at Katzman is, I was trained to kill men like him with a lethal efficiency he doesn’t understand.

So I help him.

A quick series of strikes stumbles Katzman back, humiliating him more than harming him. He’s defenseless against my speed, experience, and fearless nature, not to mention my increased strength and stamina. I bring the lesson to a close with a revelation. “I’m trying to save your life again.”

He stands his ground but doesn’t attack. Nor does he speak. He’s waiting for me to make my point, or maybe he’s just trying to figure out a way to beat me.

“The creature beneath this colony is called a matriarch, like the one I killed. Like the one Colby killed. But it is the oldest of them all and is connected to every colony around the world. If we kill it, we kill them all.”

He starts to look hopeful. Like this is good news. I change his mind.

“Katzman, if it thinks it’s going to die, that we’re going to destroy their entire civilization, what’s to stop it from killing ours? The microwave bomb will take time to kill it. It’s massive. And underground. Plenty of time for the Dread around the world to instigate a massive nuclear launch. Is that what you want? To destroy two worlds? Is there no one in the world you want to protect?”

He blinks through the mania. “I—I’m married.”

“Then let me paint a picture for you,” I say. And, feeling a little bit like a news anchor, I begin. “Living in New Hampshire, your wife won’t be one of the lucky ones. When the nukes drop down, she’s not going to be killed right away. She’s going to survive. For weeks. Maybe months. In a postapocalyptic, radioactive hellscape. She’ll die slowly. Painfully. And alone. The human race, your wife included, will die horribly if you let this colony get cooked.”

The image sobers him a bit.

He glances at the battle around us. It’s winding down. The screams of men are fading. Somewhere in the distance, I hear the sounds of a struggle, but it will be over soon. The fate of the human race really does rest squarely on this drug-addled man’s shoulders.

He glances left and right, a bit of fear in his eyes.

“Lyons is dead,” I tell him.

The fear is replaced by surprise, but there is a trace of lingering doubt. “I don’t know… He’s—”

“I killed him.”

His shoulders drop, signifying his compliance.

“How much time is left?” I ask.

“Ten minutes.”

“Can you shut it off?”

“I think so.” He crouches over the device. “And if not, I can just extend the countdown so there is time to dispose of it. Any metal container can absorb the microwaves if it’s grounded, but—”

As his hands reach out, his body suddenly snaps rigid. Two long, black talons burst through his chest. A whispering squeal escapes his mouth, and then he’s dead, face locked in a permanent expression of surprise. He’s lifted up, dangling limply. Then, with a wet tearing, he’s torn apart and discarded, falling in two directions, revealing his killer.

Lyons.