Jeremy Robinson - MirrorWorld

“Maine?” I ask.

“Oregon—which, by the way, is basically the world capital for nice people. A parade of atheists protesting an Easter egg hunt on government property turned violent. Killed a guy in a bunny suit. The whole thing was live on TV. It acted as a catalyst. In response to the bunny murder, a religious group torched an abortion clinic. One act of violence led to another, spreading across the country’s most densely populated areas. But things really got bad when riot police began pushing back. Some cities are like war zones.”

“Is anyone instigating the attacks?” I ask. “Foreign countries? Terror organizations?”

“That’s just the thing,” Cobb says. “The protests didn’t stop at the U.S. border. They’re now worldwide. And you’re not the first person to wonder if fear had somehow been weaponized. Tension between nations is building the same way it is with people on the street. And that’s only making things worse. It seemed like New England, north of Boston, was a safe zone, like there was a buffer of calm logic holding the fear back, but yesterday…”

“What happened?”

“A riot in Manchester. It was quelled faster than most. The population is fairly small compared to places like New York. But people died. Some in a gunfight with police before the tear gas broke things up, and two others in a—”

“The owner of an antique store and a man with a broken back,” I say.

He turns toward me slowly. “I thought you said you hadn’t seen the news?”

“I was there,” I say. “In Manchester.”

His eyes widen. The look in his eyes shifts from amazement to abject fear. He stands and steps away from me, hands over his mouth. “Oh my God, you’re him!”

“Him?”

“The guy from the roof! You broke the man’s back!”

“Didn’t mean to kill him.” He’s about to argue the point. “Did you see the woman?”

He blinks. “What?”

“The woman about to get her arms broken and head bashed in, did you see her?”

He blinks twice more. He nods slowly. “You saved her.”

I snap my fingers and point at him. “Now you’re getting it. Her name was Allenby. Know her?”

“Should I?”

“She works for—”

A scream, feminine and primal, cuts me off. I’m on my feet and racing from the room before Cobb even reacts.

I’m down the hall.

Doorknob in hand.

Inside the room.

Shiloh.

She’s sitting up, eyes open nearly as wide as her mouth. The scream is high-pitched, like some invisible torturer is conjuring a nightmare only she can see. Despite her open eyes. She doesn’t see me. Even when I get in front of her. I’m invisible.

Until I speak. “Hey!”

Her eyes flick to mine. A switch is flipping. Her mouth snaps closed. Her eyes remain wide.

“You’re okay,” I tell her.

“I’m okay,” she says, her voice almost trancelike.

Her wide eyes flick back and forth. “Where?”

“A house,” I tell her.

“Whose?”

“I don’t know.”

“How long?” she asks.

“What?”

She reaches up. Touches the side of my head where the hair has started to salt and pepper. “Gray.”

I smile at her and the expression is returned. The weight of that grin nearly breaks my heart. But then it’s gone.

“Thirsty.”

I turn toward the door, where Cobb is standing. “Get her some water.”

Cobb leaves. I turn to the woman. “Look, Ms. Shiloh, I need to know what—”

“Miss?” she asks.

“Mrs.?”

I see the first signs of fresh fear emerge as tiny wrinkles at the center of her forehead. She’s looking back and forth again, reassessing her surroundings.

She points a shaky finger at me. “Are you real? Who are you?”

I don’t think telling her my name is Crazy will help much, so I tell her the truth, which isn’t perfect, but far less intimidating. “I don’t remember.”

She leans forward, glaring into my eyes. The intensity of her stare churns up emotions that are new and uncomfortable.

Is this fear?

“You’re a liar,” she says.

“I am?”

“You lied to me!” She grips my forearm. Her nails dig into the skin. I barely notice.

“I did?” I take hold of her free arm, interlocking us in a circle of desperation. “When? What did I say?”

“That I was safe,” she says.

“You’re safe now.”

She melts from the inside out, folding in on her frail self. “Too late.” I can barely hear the whispered words. “Never safe. Not there. Not here.”

“Shiloh,” I say, putting my hand beneath her chin. I lift her head up. Her intense gaze is now vacant. Tears slide down her cheeks. She’s shaking.

Cobb slides into the doorway. I see him out of the corner of my eye but don’t look. This woman has answers about me. She knows me. Who I am. Who I was. And, apparently, how I failed her. Maybe this isn’t my first attempt to rescue her? Maybe that’s what happened a year ago?

Cobb clears his throat. “Hey.”

I turn toward him. He’s not holding a glass of water. Instead, he’s rubbing his pants with his palms. Nervous sweat. His pupils are dilated. His skin is paler than I remember. He’s afraid, and not because of me. “What?”

He licks his lips and with a shaky voice, says, “They’re here.”

“Who’s here?” Shiloh asks, looking confused. She starts whipping her head back and forth, like people might slip into the room through the solid walls. “Is it them? They’ve come back!”

The fear building inside this woman is like nothing I’ve seen before. Her face contorts to impossible angles, twisting her beautiful face into some macabre visage of a medieval gargoyle. She hooks her fingers and rakes her nails up her legs, scratching the skin. As she lifts the johnny, revealing her thighs, I see long scars that match the new scratches. She’s done this before, and harder.

“No, no, no, no,” she repeats the word over and over as she tears at her legs.

I take her face hard in both hands. She gasps and stops. “Listen to me,” I tell her. “I will keep you safe.”

She seems to weigh the validity of this statement and comes to a verdict. With a sneer, she growls out the word, “Liar,” and then screams and flails until I let her go. “Liar!”

A shadow outside the bedroom window returns my thoughts to the impending intrusion. I would like to know how they found us, but there isn’t time for questions that neither I nor Cobb will have the answer to.

“Stay with her,” I tell Cobb. “If she hurts herself, throw the blankets over her and restrain her.”

“And if they come in?” he asks.

“They won’t be looking for you.” I pat the plastic encased syringe in my pocket.

“Right. What are you going to do?”

I give him a smile that reflects my unnatural inner calm. “Probably something crazy.”

I leave the room, lock the door, and close it behind me. Shiloh’s screams fade as I run back to the garage. I have just seconds, maybe a minute tops, before the house is infiltrated. I have no idea exactly what I’m up against, but I have little doubt they’re going to start the attack with gas, and / or flash bangs. They know what I can do. They won’t risk a fair fight.

Neither will I.

I quickly find the plastic bin labeled WINTER and tear it open. A few seconds of rummaging provides what I need: a ski mask, ski goggles, and a scarf. I run across the garage, where a pristinely maintained riding mower is parked. On the seat is a pair of noise-canceling headphones. I snatch them up and run back the way I came.

On my way to the living room, I don the ski mask, goggles and headphones. I make a pit stop at the kitchen sink. The tap runs fast and cold, quickly soaking the scarf, which I then wrap around my face three times. Movement outside the kitchen window turns my attention outside. The yard is empty, but shadows in the surrounding woods shift unnaturally.