Jeremy Robinson - MirrorWorld

But do they have to?

I grip the large rifle with both hands. “I’ll be right back.”

“What are you doing?” Allenby asks.

“Just make sure the drivers are ready to go.” To Katzman. “We’re leaving in one minute.”

I slip into the mirror dimension, skipping right past the world in between. I force my shout of pain to come out as a gasp. My body lurches, spasms, and then feels whole and normal again. Much better, I think. But still far from a painless experience. Still, the transition from one world to the other is getting easier. How much more like the Dread will I become? Right now, I still look, feel, and think like me, but will those things change as well? If I keep flexing these Dread muscles and perceptions, will they overpower my humanity?

Questions without answers. No one knows.

From my low position on the oscillium rooftop, all I can see is purple sky. I search it for mothmen and see nothing but the storm approaching in both dimensions. I lean up over the edge. The Dread below flicker in and out of view, slipping into the world between before returning to their own frequency. They do it without effort or obvious pain. For them, it’s like walking.

On this side of reality there will be no people to keep the Dread’s attention. I will be easy to spot, especially when I open fire. For a moment, I debate this strategy. Open myself up for attack or let the chaos of the crowd hide me? Since I have no desire to accidentally kill innocents, and no concern for my own well-being, it’s a short debate. I lean up, raising the rifle in position. Before taking aim, I focus on the weapon, willing it to exist only in the mirror universe. While I know it’s possible, there’s no way to know if it worked.

Or is there?

I put the weapon down, flash back to the real world with a grunt, and confirm that the sniper rifle is gone. “Nice,” I say, only partially aware that I’ve just surprised the others, and then slip back into the mirror world, grunting once again, but never slowing.

I retrieve the weapon and peer through the scope. The bulls and pugs are all there, running and slipping back and forth between frequencies, pushing their fear between worlds. So is Medusa-hands. I can see it fully now. The way it moves is unnatural, which I suppose isn’t surprising given the fact that it’s from a dimension beyond human perception. I can’t see its legs because of the sheet of black hanging from its waist, but given the way it moves smoothly across the ground, which is now thick muck, I’d guess the same tentacles writhing at the end of its arms also serve as legs.

Ignoring the pugs, I search for my targets. Medusa-hands will be the first. It’s most likely the brains. I figure I can take two or three of the bulls before they figure out where I am, and another two if they come for me. But then I’ll need to move. There’s no way I can take out all of them, but I think it will be enough to disrupt the mob. At least, I hope it will be.

I slip my finger over the trigger, zero in on Medusa-hands, and expel my breath. Before pulling the trigger, I hear an uptick in the whispering that permeates the mirror dimension. This time, I sense a direction.

Behind me.

I turn back slowly.

Mothmen.

Ten of them. And something else. Something larger. They’re at least a mile off, but closing fast.

Nothing like a little external motivation, I think, and look back through the scope. Medusa-hands is no longer moving. Its broad head is turned up toward me. I pull the trigger. The gun coughs. A massive oscillium round pokes a clean hole in the front of Medusa-hands’s triangular head, right between the eyes. The round mushrooms inside the beast, expanding and creating a wave of pressure of flesh, bone, and yellow blood, all of which exits the back of the thing’s head through a basketball-sized hole. But the pressure wave also moves outward in all directions, and the explosive force shatters the thing’s head like a stick of dynamite inside a pumpkin.

I slap in a fresh magazine and shift my aim to the next target, a bull, now looking back and forth. I pull the trigger. The thing detonates as the round moves through its thick body, front to back. The pressure is so great that gushing wounds erupt from its torso, outlining the round’s path through the monster’s body.

A second bull fills the lens as I turn to the right. This one has spotted me. It takes a step forward and then ceases to exist, its head folding in and then erupting out—explosive red gore and green blood.

I find my next target already charging, which means the others are, too. But it’s not stupid. The bull ducks and weaves as it runs, slowing its charge but making itself a harder target. Too bad for the bull; it’s big as hell. I pull the trigger. It loses a leg and falls into the mud, trailing a luminescent green streak of blood. It moans in pain, drowning out the frenetic whispering now filling my mind.

I look back. The mothmen are closing in. The thing with them now looks like some kind of bus-sized flying centipede, undulating up and down while gliding on pterodactyl-sized, fleshy wings. Maybe this is the Japanese, man-eating centipede Dearborn mentioned? Ōmukade. But with wings. Could this, as he guessed, simply be a different race of that species? Maybe in Japan this thing doesn’t have wings? Or maybe the poor souls who saw it just couldn’t remember the wings? It pulses with veins of color—green, yellow, red, and purple. Four wide eyes stare at me. I have no idea what this thing is, but, fear or no fear, I don’t want to find out.

Back in the parking lot, two bulls rush toward the building. The rest stay put, pushing their fear into the mob outside Neuro. With little time to spare, I abandon the rifle and step out of the mirror and back into reality.

I’m back for just a fraction of a second, recovering from the painful shift, when Allenby shouts, “What did you do?”

I look out over the parking lot, expecting to see the remains of people whom I’d mistakenly shot with bullets from the mirror dimension. But there are no bodies and no blood. Even the Dread remains are gone, back in their home dimension. It’s the living who have Allenby spooked. The mob is marching forward, just one hundred feet out and closing.

“You need to get back inside,” I say to Allenby and Dearborn before turning to Katzman and the two Dread Squad soldiers. “Hell is about to rain down on this place from the north. If you’re out here when they arrive, you’ll all be shooting each other or jumping off the building.”

“Back inside,” Katzman says to his men, who eagerly obey.

Allenby lingers. “What’s coming?”

“Bunch of mothmen and some kind of giant flying-centipede thing.”

Dearborn gasps. “Ōmukade.”

“I think so, yeah.” I grasp Allenby’s arm. She doesn’t want to leave. Probably thinks she’ll never see me again. And she might be right, but if she stays here, distracting me, we’re both going to die. “Go. Now.”

When Katzman takes her arm and pulls, she relents. With one last look of concern cast in my direction, she flees past the immobile helicopter and toward the rooftop elevator doors.

Without watching to make sure they make it, I pick up the bow, cinch the assault rifle’s strap tighter, and leap over the side of the roof. I land on the slanted windows and quickly pick up speed, doing a repeat performance of my previous escape, this time with more guns and a clearer purpose. Nine stories slide past in seconds. When I near the bottom, the crowd is within thirty feet. I splay my arms and legs, pushing my palms and boot soles hard against the glass.

My drop off the edge is controlled, and I land on my feet. The mob is upon me, just fifteen feet. Running now. Arms outstretched, eyes angry.