MirrorWorld

I tap my fingers on the tabletop, weighing what to ask next, and realize that Allenby hasn’t asked me a question in a while. Her job probably ended when she confirmed I could see whatever that was outside the window. Her last statement about the dark reminds me of my mother’s supposed last words. “What is it? The darkness. The shadows.”


“We call them the Dread,” she says with no hesitation, looking up at me. Apparently, this is information she’s been cleared to give. “Capital D. You’re immune to the fear they can instill in people, and the resulting influence on our actions, but the rest of us…”

“I’m officially confused.”

“You should be,” she says. “Showing you might be easier than telling you. Do I have your word that you won’t punch, kick, or otherwise maim anyone you might encounter outside of this room?”

“As long as no one tries to kill me again and you keep telling the truth, we won’t have a problem.”

“Good enough for me,” Allenby says, and then shouts, “Katzman, it’s okay. We’re green. Pack it up.”

The doors to the second bedroom, bathroom, and several closets open at once. Men dressed in riot gear and armed with an array of nonlethal weapons file into the apartment and out the front door.

The last man to emerge is Katzman. His eyes linger on me for a moment and then swivel to Allenby. “You sure about this? We’ve got a handful of men in the infirmary already.”

“You need better men,” I say.

Katzman stops behind me. I can hear the barely controlled anger in his every breath. But he doesn’t act, or even address my comment. I have to give him credit for self-control. I would have punched me.

“It will be different this time,” Allenby says.

“How can you be sure?” Katzman asks.

“Because this time, we’re telling him everyth—”

An alarm interrupts. It’s the same alarm that sounded when I escaped. I lift my hands off the table. “I didn’t do anything.”

Katzman puts a finger to his ear, pressing the barely visible earbud down tight so he can better hear the voice on the other end. The anger melts from his face as his listens. It’s replaced by fear, an emotion I’m getting really good at recognizing.

Allenby stands. “What is it? What’s happening?”

Katzman pulls his finger away. Turns toward Allenby. “Incursion. Third floor.”

“Here?” Allenby nearly shouts the word. “How could that happen?”

Katzman looks down at me. I’m positive he’s going to blame me, and to be honest I wouldn’t even argue the point. There’s no doubt my actions have compromised the security of this building. But that’s not what happens. Instead, he swallows his anger, and maybe some pride, and says, “We’re going to need your help.”





20.

Boots thud down the carpeted hallway as the men dressed in riot gear storm toward a neighboring apartment, two doors down. I follow Katzman with Allenby on my heels.

“Copy that,” Katzman says, hand against his ear. He turns back. “It’s in the west stairwell. Headed up.”

I catch his arm and stop him. “What is?”

He looks from me to Allenby. She gives him a nod.

“The enemy,” he says.

“One of the Dread?”

Katzman glances at Allenby, eyebrows raised in question.

“It worked,” she says. “He saw one on the building. It must have found the broken window. Got inside.”

He yanks his arm from my grasp. “You will either do what I tell you or stay out of the way.”

While Katzman storms away, I turn back to Allenby.

“There isn’t time to fully explain the situation,” she says. “It’s complicated. And strange. I promise you will get answers, some probably sooner than others. What you need to know now is that you’re going to see something that doesn’t make sense. And when you do see it, I want you to kill it.”

I stare at her.

“You’ve done more for less in the past.”

I frown. “Fine.”

When I step inside the apartment two doors down, I feel like a kid who has just stumbled across Santa’s workshop. It’s not an apartment at all. It’s an armory. The room is a mix of modern weapons, bladed weapons, nonlethal armaments, armor, and high-tech gadgets. The men in riot gear stop as I enter, watching me with suspicious eyes.

Katzman points to me. “Dread Squad, this is Crazy.” He sweeps his hand toward the seven men. “Crazy, Dread Squad.”

While the tough-looking men of “Dread Squad” go back to their business, arming themselves with a variety of weapons, I scout the room. A machete mounted on the wall catches my attention. The twenty-inch cleaver blade is straight with a chisel tip and the back side, which slopes in a smooth line back to the handle, is wickedly serrated. The entire weapon is black and slightly textured. Like Teflon. But it’s not just the machete. A case of knives, bayonets, and less-brutal-looking swords are all black, too. A nearby Dread Squad member loads fresh rounds into a magazine. The bullets are black. So are the guns.

“It’s made from an alloy called oscillium,” Allenby says. She lifts the machete and its sheath off the wall.