MirrorWorld Part 38

He shouts in pain, staggers back, and falls to his knees. He seethes at me but doesn't say a word. Instead, he looks to his left, where a machine gun rattles away, the barrage holding back the wave of Dread crocs. The moment those bullets run out, the men holding that position are dead. But only one of them is the true danger. Katzman. He's leaning over the microwave bomb. I can't see what he's doing, but I suspect he's adjusting the timer. There's no getting out of here, and he knows it. They're going to kill us all, and maybe the rest of the world along with us.

And this is why you don't give bombs to men on drugs.

I pick up the dropped Desert Eagle and squeeze off a round. My aim is true, but the bullet strikes a pa.s.sing Dread croc instead. My next shot strikes a soldier as he's tossed into the air, a human skeet. And then it's too late. Katzman is standing again, raising his weapon and adding it to the barrage holding the crocs at bay.

I run toward a croc, and when it sees me I mentally whisper what I want it to do. I have no idea if it is "hearing" me or understanding me, but I need to close the distance between myself and Katzman, and I need to do it fast. When I was a kid, we had a dog named Ken.o.bi. For fun, I would place treats on his nose and laugh as he snapped at it, launching the treat up and away. I called it a Ken.o.bipult. What I want is the Dread version.

I leap at the croc and its head lowers down. When both feet land atop its broad snout, its head snaps up, either from reflex or understanding what I wanted. Either way, the result is the same. I'm sent soaring toward Katzman ... and the machine gun, which is now tracking upward toward my position. Before the first shot can be fired, I shift between frequencies, back into the real-world cavern, sailing through the calm, cool air.

This part is tricky. If I'm not as far as I think, I could take a bullet the moment I return. I could end up inside solid stone or the jaws of a croc. So I try something new, adjusting the vision of a single eye. It's not like seeing the world between, where I experience a little of both dimensions but neither fully. I'm actually seeing both worlds simultaneously and separately, one with a human eye, one with a Dread eye. My shifting double vision is nauseating for a moment as my brain suddenly has two different visual feeds to process, but then the images unify and I see both worlds at once. Objects in the Dread reality take on a slight different hue, almost a glow.

I slip back into the mirror world just above the three Dread Squad men and Katzman. The first to fall is the machine gunner, when I shoot him and then collide with him. His body helps break my fall, but my body is also stronger, more solid, a point that is proved when the struck man doesn't get back up. The other two nameless soldiers spin to face me. One takes a bullet to his chest before he fully registers my appearance. The other is quick and manages to slam the b.u.t.t of his rifle into my chest. The strike is hard, and painful, but the man has made a crucial error. As the blow shoves me back, I reach out, loop my finger around the trigger, and shoot the man, point-blank, with his own weapon.

Before I recover from the dead man's strike, Katzman is on me, kicking my hand and knocking the Desert Eagle away. In the brief moment when Katzman draws his leg back, I think of a dozen ways to kill the man, but I don't employ any of them. I need him alive to deactivate the bomb. Better yet, I need him on my side.

He strikes with an impressive two-punch combo. I block the strikes with my forearms and try to talk past the drugs, both synthetic and natural, pumping through his system. "You need to stop this."

"You said you were here for Maya," he counters. "I should have killed you."

His mention of Maya reminds me that I have no idea where the bull took her. Is she still safe? The distraction leads to Katzman clipping my chin. I block and dodge three more blows. "I saved your life."

Backed against the wall, I counter for the first time, striking his shoulder. He stumbles back, not noticing the ease with which my first and only blow found its mark. He's like a puppy hara.s.sing a mountain lion. As good at Katzman is, I was trained to kill men like him with a lethal efficiency he doesn't understand.

So I help him.

A quick series of strikes stumbles Katzman back, humiliating him more than harming him. He's defenseless against my speed, experience, and fearless nature, not to mention my increased strength and stamina. I bring the lesson to a close with a revelation. "I'm trying to save your life again."

He stands his ground but doesn't attack. Nor does he speak. He's waiting for me to make my point, or maybe he's just trying to figure out a way to beat me.

"The creature beneath this colony is called a matriarch, like the one I killed. Like the one Colby killed. But it is the oldest of them all and is connected to every colony around the world. If we kill it, we kill them all."

He starts to look hopeful. Like this is good news. I change his mind.

"Katzman, if it thinks it's going to die, that we're going to destroy their entire civilization, what's to stop it from killing ours? The microwave bomb will take time to kill it. It's ma.s.sive. And underground. Plenty of time for the Dread around the world to instigate a ma.s.sive nuclear launch. Is that what you want? To destroy two worlds? Is there no one in the world you want to protect?"

He blinks through the mania. "I-I'm married."

"Then let me paint a picture for you," I say. And, feeling a little bit like a news anchor, I begin. "Living in New Hampshire, your wife won't be one of the lucky ones. When the nukes drop down, she's not going to be killed right away. She's going to survive. For weeks. Maybe months. In a postapocalyptic, radioactive h.e.l.lscape. She'll die slowly. Painfully. And alone. The human race, your wife included, will die horribly if you let this colony get cooked."

The image sobers him a bit.

He glances at the battle around us. It's winding down. The screams of men are fading. Somewhere in the distance, I hear the sounds of a struggle, but it will be over soon. The fate of the human race really does rest squarely on this drug-addled man's shoulders.

He glances left and right, a bit of fear in his eyes.

"Lyons is dead," I tell him.

The fear is replaced by surprise, but there is a trace of lingering doubt. "I don't know ... He's-"

"I killed him."

His shoulders drop, signifying his compliance.

"How much time is left?" I ask.

"Ten minutes."

"Can you shut it off?"

"I think so." He crouches over the device. "And if not, I can just extend the countdown so there is time to dispose of it. Any metal container can absorb the microwaves if it's grounded, but-"

As his hands reach out, his body suddenly snaps rigid. Two long, black talons burst through his chest. A whispering squeal escapes his mouth, and then he's dead, face locked in a permanent expression of surprise. He's lifted up, dangling limply. Then, with a wet tearing, he's torn apart and discarded, falling in two directions, revealing his killer.

Lyons.

He stands above me, even taller than before, the microwave bomb just behind him. He's shed most of his clothing, revealing tight colls of muscle stretching across his chest, twitching veins that look like worms under the skin, and sinister grin. The two blades I stabbed into his chest are still there, twin needles in a pin cushion. There's no blood.

His skin is thin, crisscrossed with severe stretch marks. He's growing faster than his human skin can handle. The thin white fabric of his flesh is nearly translucent, revealing the thick red veins just beneath the surface, twitching like ravenous, burrowing leeches.

I realize that Lyons's hungry glare and ongoing transformation should horrify me, but I'm just curious. What has he done to himself? How can he claim to be fighting for humanity when he is no longer human himself? Then again, the look in his eyes says he's operating on instinct now. The human intellect and all its machinations and misguided planning are either gone or sitting in the backseat.

Beep, beep, beep. A high-pitched digital chime cuts through the air. It's coming from my watch. The president's deadline has pa.s.sed. "I need more time!" I shout, looking past Lyons to the slowly undulating matriarch tendrils.

The reply comes as a whisper. "We will wait-on you."

The message is clear. The Dread will stand down until the outcome of this battle is clear, meaning the president will stand down as well. But if I fail ... if the matriarch and this colony fall, freeing Lyons to wipe out the Dread ... the world will burn. All of us together, united at last, in the end.

Lyons reaches out for me, and I see his hands for what they've become-long, hooked claws pressed together to form one large curved blade, like a Dread mole's. There are no knuckles remaining, and the red-vein-covered black flesh of a Dread has burst out of the limb, his old skin dangling like that of a molting snake.

I'm about to dive out of the way when he stops short, arcs his back, and screams in pain. A sound like tearing paper fills the air. His chest splits open. Stretch marks give way. The monster inside is emerging.

"What have you done?" I ask, not really expecting an answer.

"To defeat the enemy," Lyons growls, "you must first become them."

It's a butchery of a Sun Tzu quote but reveals that this was, in fact, part of his plan all along. That's how he intended to turn the Dread against themselves. The DNA coursing through his body must have come from a Dread mole. And his plan could work. The Dread crocs aren't attacking him. Whether it's because they see him as one of their own or because he's radiating fear like a melting-down nuclear reactor emits radiation, I don't know. But if he can bend the Dread to his will ... Fear or not, I know that's a scary idea.

But then there's the bomb. He's going to kill himself, too, unless ... I glance at the two archways leading out of the chamber. With the countdown surely moving below nine minutes, he might be able to escape. The circular trip back to the surface would take me far too long, but Lyons, with a Dread body, might just make it, especially if he can climb straight out the way I came in.

"I need help," I think, willing the matriarch to hear the words.

But it's Lyons who replies. "I'll be ... with you ... in a moment."

I don't know if the matriarch has heard me or not, but it remains silent. Could he already be controlling it, too?

Lyons lets out a roar, turning his head to the ceiling.

Skin explodes away from his body, bursting balloonlike. Gore splatters at his feet. Limbs thicken, claws extend, bright red light pulses hard. The remains of his body splits and falls away, his shed chest carrying away the two trench knives. But the cherry on top of this juicy hemoglobin sundae is what happens to his head.

His roar becomes garbled, and then m.u.f.fled.

For a moment, I think he's choking, but then small, jointless fingers reach out of his mouth. Tendrils. Ten of them. The digits wrap around his face, clinging to his cheeks, digging into the meat. His head bulges. The skull cracks. The tendrils pull. What remains of his voice turns high-pitched as the last of his humanity is torn away and dropped to the floor like yesterday's slop.

When he turns his gaze back toward me, he's transformed. His body is like a bull's: dark, armored, and covered in veins but upright. His face resembles a matriarch's with an arc of five black eyes rising up and over two more and a ma.s.s of tendrils, but there is also a mouth beneath all those squirming digits, wide and toothed like a croc's. And that's when I notice the tail now sliding back and forth behind him, a line of short tendrils wriggling over the top of the tail and tracing a line up his back. He didn't just take DNA from one Dread, he took bits and pieces of them all.

He tries to speak, but it's just a garbled mess.

While he attempts to figure out whether or not he's still got vocal cords, I weigh my two choices. One, stand and fight, maybe win, but get cooked like a bug in a microwave along with the rest of the Dread. Two, s.n.a.t.c.h and grab the bomb, which is resting atop the unzipped pack Katzman carried it in; run like h.e.l.l; and see if I can't get it far enough away to spare the colony, knowing that part of New Orleans is still going to cook. Either way, I die. While I would really like to kill Lyons, or die trying, that's not really a viable choice.

I dive forward, straight for Lyons, which is apparently the last thing he expected me to do. And to be honest, I'd barely registered the idea by the time I put it into action. He's tall enough now, perhaps fifteen feet in height, that I am able to duck down and roll between his legs. I come up in a kneeling position next to the bomb, fling the unzipped top over it, yank the zippers up, and leap into a sprint while reaching back for the handle like a relay racer grasping for a baton.

I grip the strap, jerking as the weight of it lifts off the ground. But it's over my shoulder and then on my back by the time I've hit my fifth stride. That also happens to be the moment Lyons figures out where I went and what I'm doing.

I feel the impact of his feet hitting the chamber floor as he gives chase. He's still pushing waves of fear, the energy quivering through me but having no effect. The Dread crocs, however, are scattering, whatever control the matriarch had over them now severed. Even the matriarch is retreating, the long tendrils snaking back, sliding into the earth.

A quick glance over my shoulder reveals that I'm not even going to make it out of the arena before Lyons has pounced on my back. His stride is clumsy as he adjusts to running on all fours, but he's already faster than me, and if he manages to get coordinated ... I'm not about to let him escape and destroy the colony, so I decide to turn and face him.

"Keep going," says a whisper.

I nearly respond, but if Lyons can hear me now, any information is too much.

So, against my better judgment and my desire to fight, I run. I can feel him gaining faster now, the impacts of his large, clawed feet echoing through the chamber, now devoid of everything but the dead and dying.

I leap over the corpse of a Dread Squad soldier, plotting a course through the field of bodies lying ahead of me.

But my feet never reach the ground. Sharp talons pierce the armored padding over my shoulders and lift me up. I reach back for Faithful, my only remaining weapon, but quickly realize it's not needed as I rise up far higher than Lyons could reach. I glance up, looking at the underside of a lone mothman, carrying me toward the ceiling, several hundred feet above.

A roar pursues us, but Lyons can't fly.

I watch him turn and charge for the archway. Wherever the mothman takes me, I don't think Lyons will be far behind.

We rise up toward the domed ceiling, which looks honeycombed. There are alcoves, like those belonging to the bulls, but these encircle the ceiling. Several of the alcoves lead outside. We rise up, our ascent slowing, until we've pa.s.sed through an exit to the outside, near the top of the ma.s.sive colony. Our descent begins smoothly, but the mothman is tiring-and now I see the wound, a bullet hole in its muscular chest. Two more in its gut. Glowing red plasma pumps steadily from the wounds. This mothman is dying. Pulling me from the colony will likely be its final act.

Twenty feet from the colony roof, the mothman breathes its last. We drop together, striking the roof and rolling down over the edge, landing in the thick sludgy earth separating the structure from the swamp.

I'm out, but Lyons is on his way, and-I unzip the backpack and look at the timer-I have six minutes to get this thing someplace where it won't do any damage. And that's not going to happen in the mirror dimension. Time to go home.

I slip through the world between and back to New Orleans in a blink. I'm in the middle of a road. Tires screech on the pavement as the b.u.mper and grill of a pickup truck stop inches from my face.

"Get out of the road, a.s.shole!" The truck speeds up, forcing me to dive to the side. A second car speeds past. Both are full of people, armed with baseball bats and fire pokers. I see at least two guns and am lucky one of them didn't decide to shoot me or run me over. A third vehicle, one I recognize, speeds up and screeches to a halt.

The SUV's door opens. Cobb runs around to the front of the vehicle, seeing that it's me. "Crazy," he says, using the name he first knew me by, "sorry I left my position, but I saw these people head into the park and-" That's when he really sees me. "d.a.m.n, man, what happened? Are you okay?"

I get to my feet. "We only have a few minutes."

"Until what?"

I show him the backpack. "This is a microwave bomb."

Cobb's skin goes pale so quickly that I think G.o.d must use Photoshop.

"But we have maybe a minute before Lyons shows up."

"Lyons?" Cobb says. "But he's old and-"

"Not anymore."

A distant roar punctuates my statement. Lyons has already reached the top of the colony and is now searching for me, probably moving back and forth between frequencies. I hurry around Cobb. "We need to move!"

A second roar, closer this time. Lyons is closing in. A quick peek into the mirror world reveals as much. He's spotted us in the real world and is charging through the Dread swamp, a quarter mile off, planning on taking us by surprise. We have thirty seconds until his gruesome arrival and another few minutes until the water molecules in our bodies are sped up so fast that we cook from the inside out.

When Lyons arrives, I'm still outside the SUV. Cobb starts to scream, but I shove him inside the vehicle and slam the door. A long-clawed arm swooshes down toward my head. I duck while shifting back into the mirror world. It's just a momentary visit to confuse Lyons. When he pursues me between frequencies, I've already left. Back in the real world, the SUV peels away, Cobb swerving as he fights the wheel and the powerful fear instilled in him by Lyons.

Backpack slung over my shoulder, I run in the opposite direction, heading south. I glance back, expecting to see Lyons right behind me, but he's not there. I switch to double vision, viewing both worlds fully. My mind once again reels from the dual input. I'm seeing and feeling the solid ground beneath my feet, but I'm also seeing four feet of swamp water. My brain is telling me that there should be resistance, but I only see the water and can't feel it. As a headache catches fire behind my eyes, I see Lyons.

The monstrous form of my father-in-law is locked in combat with a Dread croc, that is perhaps just defending its territory or was sent by the matriarch-I don't know. But its interference has bought me time. I don't indulge the hope that the croc will stop Lyons. He's too powerful and wields fear in a way few Dread can match. I don't bother watching the results. Instead, I turn away from the fight and the mirror world, pouring on the speed.

Now that I remember myself, I'm aware of what I can do and the training I've received. I'm a little soft from my time in SafeHaven, but I know how to push myself to the limit, and I don't worry about pushing myself right on past it. So when I pace myself, it's at a sprint, aiming for the southern end of the park, where a bevy of tourist attractions will help delay what I think could be a losing fight.

My feet slap over pavement, crunch through dirt, and squelch through soggy earth as I make my way through the park. And when an immovable object blocks my path-a tree, fence, or wall-I leap into the mirror world, pa.s.s through the obstacle, and land in the real world in time to continue running, undaunted.

A minute later, I feel the first signs of Lyons's pursuit as a ripple of energy. He's broadcasting fear like a radio station, pumping it into the airwaves. The park, aside from the people who nearly ran me over, appears to be empty. But they were just pa.s.sing through. People are either hiding in their homes or part of a mob, but if anyone is unlucky enough to be in the park, they're going to feel him coming, no doubt spurring future reports of park hauntings. That is, if we're not all cooked in the meantime. The heavy weight of the backpack over my shoulders is a constant reminder of what's at stake.

The second sign of Lyons's closing distance is a constant whispering. It fills my mind, but unlike the incomprehensible Dread language, it's all in English. Despite recognizing the language, I still have trouble making sense of it as words and sentences overlap. What I do know is that it's getting louder and is hard to ignore.

I take a look back into the mirror world, but all I can see is swamp.

The path ahead is thickly wooded in both worlds, so I plow straight through the real world, dodging trees and careening through brush. I nearly plow headlong into a chain-link fence but manage to leap up and pa.s.s through it in the mirror world. Upon my return to the real world, I immediately dive forward, soaring over the supine form of Snow White, awaiting her prince. I roll back to my feet, but the concrete walkway I've landed on is unforgiving and reminds me of the punishment my body has endured.

Three sets of wild-looking eyes catch my attention. I spin toward them, expecting an attack, but come face-to-face with human-sized Three Little Pigs. They're dancing gleefully next to their house of brick, the wolf clawing its way out of the chimney. Strangely, stories like this, about hungry stalking wolves, were probably inspired by the Dread. How many fairy tales of trolls, ogres, and spirits were inspired by encounters with the mirror world?

Lyons shimmers into view behind the jolly pigs, swiping two aside and biting the eldest in half. Lyons overtook me and lay in wait, playing the part of the Big Bad Wolf.

"Really?" I say, "You want to do this in Storyland?"

Lyons roars and tosses the oldest pig's eviscerated lower half, striking an oversize Humpty Dumpty. The egg-man's bolts snap; his hooked cane, which is embedded in the concrete walkway, breaks; and he topples off the wall. But, I'll be d.a.m.ned, he doesn't break. I take it as a good omen, and then run. I'm not ready to face Lyons yet.

The clear walkway and smooth surface allow me to hit my top speed in just a few strides. Lyons is quick to pursue but opts to barrel through the brick house, buying me a few seconds and a fifty-foot head start. Running through a stand of weeping willows, I cut through the thick curtain of Spanish moss and make a hard left.

Lyons dives after me, mole claws outstretched to impale my back, but he can't see me through the moss. He explodes out of the trees, covered in long coils of vegetation. Momentarily blinded, he clips the short stone wall of a fountain and spills forward, sending up a wave of coin-filled water. He tumbles through the water, crushing the fountain and far wall, sending a fresh river over the dry concrete. Then he's up again, shedding moss and lunging after me.

Lyons has the clear physical advantage, but he's not using his human mind to its full potential. He's acting ravenous. Uncontrolled. He's going to catch me eventually, but he's going to destroy all of Storyland first.

I make like Jiminy Cricket, leaping a short fence into the Pinocchio exhibit. Lyons has gained again and is just a few strides away. I charge into the waiting open jaws of a large bright-blue whale, atop which Pinocchio is seated, and leap through its backside by sliding into and out of the mirror world. I continue my flight on the far side of the display's tail, unhindered by the exhibit. A moment later, the whale explodes as Lyons charges into the mouth and out the backside, never shifting frequencies.

The four-foot-tall Pinocchio statue spins through the sky, flipping past me like Mary Lou Retton on fast-forward, and crashes into Little Bo Peep's white sheep. I nearly laugh at the frozen, wide-eyed expression on her painted face. I suspect it had never been appropriate until that very moment.

As I round a carousel and consider running through it, a sharp beeping sound fills the air.