MirrorWorld

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 massive. And underground. Plenty of time for the Dread around the world to instigate a massive 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 hellscape. 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.





60.

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 passed. “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.