Jeremy Robinson - MirrorWorld

Despite my efforts at stealth, the thump of my boots on the hard-packed floor feels loud. The colony is silent.

Did they abandon the colony? It seems unlikely, but if the Dread mole can burrow as well as I think it can, there could be a network of tunnels connecting all the colonies in New Orleans.

Or maybe I’m in one of those other colonies? Could the fast-moving river have swept me out into a neighboring colony? This could also be a tunnel between colonies, though that seems unlikely. The continual curve suggests a colony… but is it still the right one?

I stop.

The tunnel levels out ahead. A fifty-foot-tall arching entryway stands to the right, just before the tunnel’s end. Whether or not this is the right colony, I’ve reached the bottom. Remembering what I found inside the main chamber of the New Hampshire colony, I slide Faithful back into the scabbard and draw the Desert Eagle. It lacks the ridiculous power of the 20 mm sniper rifle I used to drop the Dread mole, but it can shoot a round through twenty-five watermelons and drop anything short of an elephant in one shot. With nine rounds in the gun and nine more ready to go, I should be able to punch a sizable hole in just about anything I encounter—I slide up to the archway and peek around—except for maybe that…

I duck back, considering my options, which are fairly limited. I can fight and die. I can run, and probably die. Or I can give up… and die. Running, while perhaps my only chance of survival, isn’t an option, because as dire as the situation is on the other side of this wall, I saw Maya. There’s no way in hell I’m going to leave her. I came here for Maya, and if I’m going to die, I want her to know that I’m me again, that I remember her and that I came for her. That, at least, will provide a little closure before I’m slain.

I step around the archway into full view and stop. My eyebrows slowly rise, cresting halfway up my forehead. The Dread… nearly a hundred of them… are all looking right at me.

So much for not being noticed.

The chamber resembles a coliseum with staggered seating, wrapping around two sides, stopping before a second archway on the far side. Dread of all types, including some I’ve never encountered, line the benches. I feel like I’ve just walked onto the field of a football stadium, only no one is clapping and the opposing team is straight out of a nightmare.

Against every instinct, I take another step forward. Then another. By the third step, I’ve managed to insert a little confidence into my stride. I head for the center of the chamber, where Maya is being held. She’s framed by two of the largest Dread I’ve seen, only smaller than the Dread mole. The behemoths look almost elephantine, but where their trunks should be are writhing masses of short, pale tendrils resembling a bull’s tongue. The tendril length tapers up the thing’s head, forming a line between its six eyes and a moving mane along its back. Its massive body pulses with green blood and ripples with muscles. The jaws, which split at the bottom, stretching a translucent sheet of flesh between the sides, are slung open like a baseball catcher’s open mitt. I turn my attention away from the giants—the mammoths—and back to Maya.

She’s conscious and watching me with red, swollen eyes, but her mouth is clamped shut. At first I think they’ve frightened her into silence. Then I see the wriggling tendrils of a Medusa-hands behind her head. It must sense my attention because it skitters out from behind one of the mammoths, slowly wrapping even more tendrils around Maya’s waist.

Behind all of this, a squirming mass of tentacles, each as thick as my thigh and nearly fifteen feet tall, rises into the air. I know they’re connected to a Dread mole hidden beneath the surface, but I can’t help see each of them as a separate living thing. Given the thickness of the tendrils, the beast beneath this chamber must be huge. The word “kaiju” comes to mind. If such a thing got loose in the world of humanity, they’d make movies about it.

I stop halfway between the archway and Maya. I glance back, confirming what I already suspected. The exit is blocked by six bulls, four Medusa-hands, and a pack of wary pugs. I won’t be leaving.

“Don’t be afraid,” Maya says, and her words, clearly those of the Medusa-hands controlling her, make me laugh.

Maya and the Medusa-hands behind her cock their heads to the side in unison. “You are afraid, are you not? This is new to you, Josef Shiloh. We have felt it.”

“What do you want?” I ask, picking targets. My goal right now is to free Maya long enough to beg for her forgiveness.

“Understanding.”

“I understand you well enough,” I say and nearly open fire, but don’t. If there is even a tiny fraction of a hope that Maya can survive this, I need to play along. For now.

“And then what?” I ask.

“Your help.”

I laugh. I can’t help myself. The idea of helping the Dread feels like Hitler asking me to help build a gas chamber. Why on earth would I help these bastards?

“We will free your wife,” Maya says, referring to herself. “We saw your past. This is acceptable to you.”

“Don’t tell me what I think,” I say, but know they’re right. They peeked into my mind and scoured my memories before they’d been returned to me.

The mammoths take two long steps to either side. The thick tendrils behind the Medusa-hands and Maya turn toward me, snaking forward.

“We will help you remember,” Maya says.

“Remember what?”

“ Everything .”

“My memory is—”

“Fractured,” she says.

“How do you know?” I ask.

There’s no reply. They don’t need to explain, because I have no choice. I have to do it. Killing a few more Dread won’t bring Simon back, and it would be a fairly hollow revenge. But saving Maya… that is something worth dying for. I have no idea if the Dread can be trusted. Probably not. But picking a fight guarantees her death.

I slide the Desert Eagle into the chest holster, hold out my empty hands, and walk toward the outstretched Dread-mole tendrils. I stop a few feet short. “Fix her.”

Maya and the Medusa-hands cock their heads in the other direction. “Explain.”

“Undo what you did to her mind. Setting her free will do nothing for her if she spends the rest of her life in a hospital bed. Take away her fear.”

Maya twitches suddenly, then stops and says, “It is done.”

“Let me talk to her.”

Maya blinks and then looks around, showing no reaction until her eyes land on me. Then she smiles the way she used to. She reaches out a hand. “Josef. You—” And then she’s gone. Silenced again.

“That’s not enough,” I say, thinking twice about my gun. I’m being played. They’ll never let her go. She could be dead already for all I know. A puppet. Before I can make a choice, it’s made for me.

I turn around at the sound of a scuff. There’s no avoiding the tendril that has snaked around behind me. It springs up like a striking snake, splitting open to reveal a mass of smaller tentacles that open and engulf my face. The twisting limbs cushion my fall, just a fraction of a second before they invade my mind for a second time.

“You’re okay,” I say, bicep-deep in water, supporting my wife’s weight. “Just breathe. Take it easy.”

The midwife, Deb Fairhurst, standing on the other side of the birthing tub, stares at me, incredulous. I can see the question in her eyes. How can you be so calm? Despite having aided in hundreds of births, Fairhurst is amped. She’s doing an admirable job of forcing calm into her voice, speaking slow, soothing words into Maya’s ears while monitoring her vitals, which is harder now that Maya decided to get in the tub. But there are subtle cues revealing the tension she’s hiding. She’s sweating. Her forehead is locked in place, wrinkles unmoving. I wonder if, when she’s older, her heavily wrinkled forehead will be a reminder of all the children she helped deliver, or if they’ll just be unwanted lines? Her movements have become sharp and quick when she’s out of eyeshot of Maya.