Jeremy Robinson - MirrorWorld

I cleave the pug at my waist in half, but it remains clung to me in death. Green blood and bright-red innards spill on two of the pugs attached to my left leg. They spasm away from the gore, revolted by it, shaking their little bodies as they stumble oddly away.

I’m about to shoot the fourth pug when I realize the pint-sized attack was never meant to inflict harm. It was a distraction. I turn around in time to see the remaining bull leap clear over its fallen comrade, land in front of me, and throw its armor-plated head into my already-bruised gut.

I saw a rodeo once. On TV. It’s a bona fide memory and not just random knowledge left over from my previous self. I sat on the couch in the SafeHaven lounge with Shotgun Jones. We’d been the only two who stayed out of a ruckus at lunch—Seymour never could resist a good scrap when everyone was involved—and we had the place to ourselves. Normally, sports with any kind of violence are forbidden, but we’d had our fill of figure skating and tennis and convinced the security guard to put on something else. He was originally from Texas and quickly found a rodeo show on one of the nine-hundred-something channels we normally couldn’t access. At first, we were less than enthused. Watching men cling to the back of a raging bull for all of five seconds wasn’t exactly a sport. But then one of those bulls got loose. Caught a clown running. With a quick snap of its head, the bull struck the clown’s backside and propelled the man into the stands. Shotgun laughed and laughed.

As I sail through the air, I understand how that sorry clown felt. Of course, he was gored in the process, but being in a mirror dimension that is fifty feet underground and full of angry tentacles, I think I’ve got him beat. And he had a crowd of worried onlookers to catch him. All I’ve got is the papier-mâché-like wall, which is about as strong as you’d expect. I crash through the layers of crisp wall and spill back into the hallway.

I’m twenty feet up the round hallway, out of view for the moment. The machete is gone. So is the assault rifle.

Grunting as I stand, I draw the Desert Eagle. One good shot and the fight will be over. I take aim down the tunnel, back toward the chamber entrance, waiting for the bull to come tearing around. But he doesn’t show. Can’t even hear him running.

But I can feel its approach rumbling the ground beneath my feet.

From the side.

I spin and squeeze the trigger three times, but the wild shots miss the bull exploding through the wall. I’m hit hard and shoved back into one of the alcoves, tripping and falling into a Dread nest. The prickly den is warm and full of gelatinous goop. My feet slip as I get back up just in time to face the bull again, this time without a hard-hitting weapon. All I’ve got left is the P229, which I’ve had limited success with, and the two, foot-long, World War I trench knives.

I unclip the blades and slip my fingers into the oscillium knuckles. Then I charge. I’ve faced off against a good number of these things now and they’re never accustomed to my fearless approach. This one hesitates, just for a moment, before meeting my charge head-on. But it’s too late to stop me. I plant a foot atop the nest’s edge and vault up and over the bull’s four-eyed head.

There’s no way I can clear its entire body, but I don’t intend to. As I drop toward the thing’s hindquarters, I thrust one of the blades down, punching the blade through the armored plating. The blade catches. My motion is arrested and I snap to a stop, falling atop the bull.

As the bull rears up with a howl, I start to slide away. But I have no intention of squaring off with this giant in close quarters again. I stab the second knife down hard, puncturing the bull’s flank. With two handholds, my fall stops, and I cling to the bull’s back like an honest-to-goodness mirror-dimension bull rider.

Yee-haw .

The bull fulfills its role in this mock rodeo, bucking and thrashing, trying to kick me off. But as mean as this son of a bitch is, I’m meaner. And the armor, which has helped me sustain much of the beating thus far, continues to protect my body. All of this allows me to keep my grip, though the metal knuckles wrapped around my fingers help, too.

A surge of whispers makes my head spin but has an immediate reaction on the bull.

It runs. Downward. Back toward the central chamber, right where I want to be. But when the bull charges around the bend and enters the round chamber once more, I only have enough time to register the changes in the room, think what the fuck, and open my eyes a bit wider. Then the bull snaps to a stop. Its forelimbs bend, its hind legs thrust. I flip up and over the bull. My fingers feel like they’re about to break, stuck inside the knife knuckles, but the blades slip free with twin slurps and finish the rotation with me.

I land on my back.

Correction, I’m caught on my back.

The landing is soft. Undulating. The bull has deposited me right into the mass of tendrils. They planned this.

I swing with both arms, aiming to cut myself free, but my limbs only make it a few inches before being yanked to a stop. Pressure envelopes my body, holding me in place, my arms extended and legs straight down like a mirror-world crucifix.

I stop struggling. It’s a wasted effort.

One of the ten Medusa-hands, whose appearance in the chamber surprised me, slides closer. It looms above me, taller than the others. Its four wide yellow eyes stare down into my eyes. Its head cocks to the side, no doubt wondering how I have the same split pupils or how I’m here at all. If they’re as intelligent as I think, it will see that I’m part Dread.

It leans closer, just inches from my face.

Whispering fills my thoughts. It feels like questions, but I don’t understand.

“I don’t understand you,” I say, knowing it can understand me.

It pulls back a bit, surprised by my words, or perhaps by the revelation that I can hear the whispers. The Dread turns to the others. A sound like wind fills my head as all the Dread start think-talking at once.

A voice, louder than the others, drowns them out, and the mental storm falls silent.

The tall Medusa-hands leans over me once more.

I decide to reason with it. “Why are you attacking people?”

It leans closer.

“If you just left us alone, I wouldn’t be here,” I say.

My words have no impact.

A hint of a whisper flits through my mind. I’m not sure why, but I fall silent and watch the Medusa-hands above me.

It whispers at me, the cadence familiar, pushing fear.

I feel nothing.

It tries to instill its fear in me again, the whisper louder.

Still nothing.

Moving slowly, it comes in closer. Tendrils from its hands snake toward my head. The tiny tips tickle my skull, looking for entry but finding none. I’m as material here as they are. Getting those tendrils into my brain is going to take physical force.

The Dread pulls back, the tendrils snaking away. With a bow, it slides back.

Now wha—

There’s a sharp crack and pain at the back of my head. I feel movement for a moment, and then confusion. What’s happening?

It’s in my head, I think. The tentacles are beneath me; one of them actually punched through my skull and is probing around in my brain. This should terrify me, I know that, but I feel nothing beyond curiosity and anger for being violated. Killing an enemy is one thing, sticking a tentacle in his brain… It’s just not acceptable. It’s wrong .

The skin on my legs suddenly goes prickly. Then stops.

I taste popcorn.

I feel love.

This thing is screwing with my brain, I think, growing angrier.