Jeremy Robinson - MirrorWorld

Hello, mothmen, I think, as I look at the red-eyed, four-winged creatures. Like other Dread, veins cover the outsides of their bodies, but they’re not green, they’re luminescent red, a similar shade to the small Dread bat. Like the bull, their heads are domed and lacking noses and ears. Their four red eyes are positioned two on the outside, two in the middle, providing a wide range of vision. While vaguely humanoid with short powerful legs and long skinny arms, the thing also has an array of small hooked limbs lining the center of its torso, twitching madly. I can’t imagine what they’re for until a mothman descends on one of the Alpha Team. The tiny legs wrap around the man’s body, shaking in a way that reminds me of the way bees communicate. The man shivers and breaks out in a sweat.

“Katzman,” I say, casually. “Have you ever been to a magic show?”

“What?” He’s instantly annoyed. Fidgeting.

“My favorite act is the knife throwing.” This is all made up. I have no memory of going to a magic show. But I know the tricks and need to communicate cryptically. The Dread understand English, but might not be able to decipher a message cloaked by human context. “I know some are fake. The knife pops out of the backboard. But some are real.”

“You better be going somewhere with this. We’re on a schedule.”

I turn back quickly, like I’m looking over the roof, but I’m actually confirming that there is a mothman hovering behind me as well, vibrating fear toward me but not into me. That I haven’t been attacked outright means they don’t know who I am. They might know about me, but they don’t recognize me as the guy that can see them—yet. To keep that from happening, I shiver, doing my best to act mildly afraid, which is a stretch, like pretending to be a shark. But the Dread haven’t pounced, so that’s encouraging. Good thing they can’t see my eyes, though. The razor-sharp focus would broadcast my intentions.

“Know what the secret to that act is? Not moving. ” I see Katzman’s eyes widen, just a twitch. He gets it. I turn to Allenby. “Not a muscle.” To the Alpha men. “You hear what I’m saying? Understand it?” They nod.

“Good.” With my left hand I draw my sound-suppressed P229, casual and slow. With my right, I lift the machete from the sheath on my back. While I would love to use the Desert Eagle strapped to my chest, the hand cannon would be heard for miles. To do this right, we need to stay quiet. If the people down below catch wind, it could be like dropping a match in a gas can.

“Care for a demonstration?” I ask Katzman.

A hint of a smile erases some of the fear gripping him. “Please.”

I swing hard with the machete.

From Katzman’s perspective, it probably looks like I’m going to lop off his head. But that’s kind of the point. I need it to look like he’s the target, not the Dread. To his credit, despite being fear-fueled by the mothman, Katzman holds his ground. The heavy, straight blade slips just over his neatly trimmed hair and bites into flesh that only I can see. When the swing completes its arc, a headless mothman falls to the rooftop, landing on the oscillium surface. I spin around, swinging at the monster behind me. The blade draws a line across its chest and I turn away before it hits the rooftop.

I open fire with the sound-suppressed handgun, coughing bullets into the back of a third mothman, until it falls dead, which also happens to be the same time the magazine runs out of rounds.

The last two Dread take to the sky, their whispers coming closer to being shouts. Beating their wings hard, the pair splits, heading in opposite directions.

I drop the machete and handgun, pick up the bow and quickly nock an arrow. I draw the compound line back, take aim, and—

One of the Dread Squad crew shouts in surprise.

Allenby chimes in with, “Look out!” She’s talking to me, but looking over my shoulder.

Shit .

I leap to the side, keeping the arrow nocked, visualizing my roll and counterattack, but nothing goes as planned. I’m struck in the side and land awkwardly. The arrow springs from my fingers and launches into the distant woods. Before I can even think about getting up, something wraps around my ankle, cinches tight, and pulls. I’m dragged across the rooftop and then lifted up. I see the ugly mothman upside down, the digits on its torso wriggling madly. The thing has fully entered our world, perhaps knowing it’s going to die from the gushing wound on its chest, perhaps just willing to sacrifice itself for its brethren now flying away. Either way, it’s making a mess of my plans and continues on this track by tossing me over its shoulder and the side of the roof.

As I sail over the small wall at the side of the roof, I reach out for it. My fingers slide over the surface and find a small amount of friction. The tug swings my body around and then down. I land hard on the angled glass, which holds my weight. Not falling through the window is a good thing, but it also means that all of the impact’s force is absorbed by my body. Coughing for air and trying to ignore the pain, I splay my arms and legs wide, clinging to the window. Despite my efforts, I start to slide. No, I think, not yet!

I hear the cough of silenced weapons above, and then a shadow falls over me. The mothman leans into view, its long arm slapping my body. For a moment, I think it’s attacking, but a slick of bright-red blood starts flowing over the glass, just inches from my face. I grasp the Dread’s arm and roll across the glass, avoiding the blood that will turn the side of Neuro into a gore-covered playground slide.

I try to pull myself up, but the body, which is lighter than me, slips. I’m sure we’re about to fall together when I’m grasped from above. Katzman. Working together, I reach the short wall and climb over. I take in the scene while catching my breath. The Dread has been peppered by countless rounds. “Holy overkill. Which one of you shot it?”

Allenby, Katzman, and both Dread Squad men raise their hands.

“Thanks,” I say, and pick up the bow. The two remaining Dread are fleeing, one far closer than the other. I nock an arrow, draw it back, and aim. I release the string and the black projectile cuts soundlessly through the air, striking a mothman’s back before it clears the far side of the roof.

“Holy…” one of the soldiers whispers. Though the others can’t see the mothman, they can see the arrow stop in midair and fall to the roof. A second arrow is nocked and the string drawn back, but the second Dread is moving fast and climbing, too far for me to hit with the bow. I let the bowstring go slack and remove the arrow.

“Get that thing out of sight,” I say to the Dread Squad men while pointing at the dead Dread, stuck in our world. While they move for the monster, I pick up the 20 mm sniper rifle and run toward an air-conditioning unit.

“How many were there?” Katzman asks.

“Five,” I say. “Now just one, but it’s getting away.” I pull down the bipod and lean it on the metal cube. Angling the several-foot-long barrel into the distant sky, I get behind the weapon and peer through the scope. It takes a few seconds of shifting back and forth, but the adjustable zoom allows me to spot the fleeing Dread and lock on.

I chamber a round. At its base, the munition is an inch across so just one will get the job done and then some. I focus on the target. Mothman number 5 is fleeing south, but at an angle. I gauge the distance. Half mile. Moving fast. I pan slowly, following my target, then lead it, aiming at the open air, where it will be in the next second.

I exhale.

Finger on the trigger.

The weapon bucks hard and coughs loudly when the round tears off through the sky. Compared to other sound-suppressed weapons, it’s loud, but the noise isn’t sharp. Pinpointing its origin would be difficult, especially to the people far below us.