MirrorWorld

I try to pull myself up, but the body, which is lighter than me, slips. I’m sure we’re about to fall together when I’m grasped from above. Katzman. Working together, I reach the short wall and climb over. I take in the scene while catching my breath. The Dread has been peppered by countless rounds. “Holy overkill. Which one of you shot it?”

Allenby, Katzman, and both Dread Squad men raise their hands.

“Thanks,” I say, and pick up the bow. The two remaining Dread are fleeing, one far closer than the other. I nock an arrow, draw it back, and aim. I release the string and the black projectile cuts soundlessly through the air, striking a mothman’s back before it clears the far side of the roof.

“Holy…” one of the soldiers whispers. Though the others can’t see the mothman, they can see the arrow stop in midair and fall to the roof. A second arrow is nocked and the string drawn back, but the second Dread is moving fast and climbing, too far for me to hit with the bow. I let the bowstring go slack and remove the arrow.

“Get that thing out of sight,” I say to the Dread Squad men while pointing at the dead Dread, stuck in our world. While they move for the monster, I pick up the 20 mm sniper rifle and run toward an air-conditioning unit.

“How many were there?” Katzman asks.

“Five,” I say. “Now just one, but it’s getting away.” I pull down the bipod and lean it on the metal cube. Angling the several-foot-long barrel into the distant sky, I get behind the weapon and peer through the scope. It takes a few seconds of shifting back and forth, but the adjustable zoom allows me to spot the fleeing Dread and lock on.

I chamber a round. At its base, the munition is an inch across so just one will get the job done and then some. I focus on the target. Mothman number 5 is fleeing south, but at an angle. I gauge the distance. Half mile. Moving fast. I pan slowly, following my target, then lead it, aiming at the open air, where it will be in the next second.

I exhale.

Finger on the trigger.

The weapon bucks hard and coughs loudly when the round tears off through the sky. Compared to other sound-suppressed weapons, it’s loud, but the noise isn’t sharp. Pinpointing its origin would be difficult, especially to the people far below us.

The Dread continues on its way, unmarred.

I chamber a second round.

“You missed?” Allenby says. It’s the most surprised I’ve heard her.

“I’ve been in a psych ward for a year, and though I seem to know how to operate this beast, I have no actual memory of doing so.” I look through the scope. “But I’m not worried.”

“That’s because you don’t get worried,” Allenby says.

I pull the trigger. The big gun kicks, sending a second round tearing toward the Dread. I’m hoping to see the thing twitch and fall to the ground, but that’s not what happens. The damn thing explodes, bursting into a mash of black and red goo that rains down into the forest. I chuckle in surprise and lean back. “Got him.”

“What did they look like?” Katzman says. He’s got goggles pulled over his eyes. Can see that we’re in the clear now. But if reinforcements show up and he’s wearing them, he’ll be useless.

I point at the goggles. “Better to take those off. Let me handle this.”

He lifts the goggles.

I point at the Mothman being dragged up onto the roof by the two Dread Squad members, who are doing their best to not look at it. “All five were like that one. Mothmen.”

“Hey!”

We all turn toward the voice. It’s Dearborn. He’s running toward us from the elevator, waving excitedly. He’s got a damn smile on his face. “I saw it from the security room.”

“Are you nuts?” Katzman asks. “You’re supposed to be leaving with the others.”

“No way, man,” Dearborn says. “This is modern myth in the making, demigod and all. I need to see this. I need to bear witness.”

“I’m no demigod,” I say.

“The Dread have been worshiped as gods,” he says. “You’re part Dread. Ipso fa—”

“Ispo fuck off,” I say. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

He ignores me and leans over the mothman’s body, which has been laid out on the roof by the Dread Squad guys. It’s very dead and covered in its own gore, but that doesn’t seem to bother Dearborn. “It’s a mothman.” He looks up at me. “You’re lucky you saw it.”

He’s clearly not going anywhere, and I don’t have time to force him. I lift the sniper rifle and lug it back toward the roof’s edge. “Why’s that?”

Dearborn walks beside me. “The amount of fear generated by different subspecies of Dread varies — we think. Looking at the history of Dread encounters and comparing sightings of various species with the resulting effect on humanity, we can paint a rough picture of which Dread can do what. While bulls can instigate people to violence, it takes time. Mobs and confusion are their territory. Historically, mothmen most often lead to dramatically violent events. The 1967 encounters in West Virginia culminated with the collapse of a bridge that killed forty-six people. They’re also more likely to enter the physical realm, as you just saw.”

“The claw I took?”