MirrorWorld

A large arching entryway looms on the right. I stalk toward it, glancing into the last empty alcove as I pass. There are a number of tactics for entering a defended space. I ignore them all, waltzing out into the open, weapon ready. And while I don’t fear what I find, I can’t say I’m not surprised by it.

There are twenty of the little black pugs. They’re holding their ground, bodies stiff, jaws sprung open to reveal writhing maws. The little veins webbed around their bodies pulse with green light as the luminous blood circulates quicker. Behind them are two bulls, their posture similar to that of the pugs, their hippolike mouths agape and ready to swallow me up. None of this is what’s strange, though. It’s the mound of undulating flesh rising from the earth at the center of the circular chamber that catches me off guard. Tendrils, similar to those of Medusa-hands, but thicker, rise out of the ground. Hundreds of them, writhing and dancing like charmed snakes.

But the rubbery tentacles aren’t the only thing coming out of the ground. Veins, pulsing with color—red, green, yellow, and purple—rise out of the earth around the fringe of tendrils, stretching across the floor and rising up the walls, disappearing into the earth. Whatever this is hidden beneath the colony seems to be supplying the blood, for lack of a better word, to the veins covering the floor, and possibly the land surrounding the colony, maybe for miles in every direction. I glance at the nearest pug. Small veins of green rise up from the floor, commingling with those on the pug for a moment. The pug brightens and the veins fall away. This thing controls the Dread and sustains them, at least in part. While individual species of Dread might have varying degrees of intelligence and sentience, allowing them to do things like fight, direct people’s fear, and understand English, this thing is the mastermind. It’s the source of the big whispers, linking its mind with theirs. I can feel this truth as much as I can logically deduce it. I’ve found my target.

“Well,” I say. “What are you waiting for?”

The tendrils twitch. A pulse of whispering makes my mind whirl. While I don’t understand the various sounds and syllables moving through my thoughts, I somehow feel the message in my core.

Don’t … Or is it, wait …

Either way, it’s feeling a bit of trepidation.

And it should be.

I’m firing before I know it, sending quick bursts of sound-suppressed automatic gunfire into the pack of pugs. Five are down by the time they react. Half dive for cover. The rest lunge for me. Those that hide are the smart ones; the others are quickly cut down, the last of them twitching to death at my feet.

I eject the spent magazine and slap in a fresh one.

The tendrils writhe frantically. Frenetic whispering fills the chamber.

It’s panicked.

It’s afraid.

The irony of this isn’t lost on me, but there’s no time to dwell on it. The two bulls charge while the remaining pugs flank me.

Focusing on the clearest threat, I turn the Vector toward the nearest bull and introduce it to a barrage of oscillium projectiles. The monster bucks and shrieks but never stops. It lowers its head, preparing to ram me. But it can no longer see me. While firing the vector left-handed, I draw the machete from my back with my right hand and sidestep the beast. As it passes, I swing hard, chopping the machete into the bull’s squat neck. I’m not sure what Dread anatomy is like, but it appears that severing the spine behind the head has the same effect it does on creatures in my home dimension. The bull slumps to the floor, silent and still as green fluid pours from the external veins severed by my cut.

High-pitched shrieking fills the air as the pugs launch their assault. Some jump; some come in low. There’s no way I can defend against them all, so I don’t. While four fall to gunfire and two meet the end of my blade, the rest make contact. I feel the pressure of their powerful jaws latch onto my body, three on the legs, one on my waist. The squeezing on my legs is painful, but the thick plates of oscillium armor on my limbs do their job. My waist is a different scenario. While the pugs’ teeth fail to puncture the oscillium fabric, the sharp points and high pressure are still puncturing my skin. I can feel the hundreds of short tendrils in its mouth, writhing against my side.

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.