MirrorWorld

“And if they come in?” he asks.

“They won’t be looking for you.” I pat the plastic encased syringe in my pocket.

“Right. What are you going to do?”

I give him a smile that reflects my unnatural inner calm. “Probably something crazy.”

I leave the room, lock the door, and close it behind me. Shiloh’s screams fade as I run back to the garage. I have just seconds, maybe a minute tops, before the house is infiltrated. I have no idea exactly what I’m up against, but I have little doubt they’re going to start the attack with gas, and / or flash bangs. They know what I can do. They won’t risk a fair fight.

Neither will I.

I quickly find the plastic bin labeled WINTER and tear it open. A few seconds of rummaging provides what I need: a ski mask, ski goggles, and a scarf. I run across the garage, where a pristinely maintained riding mower is parked. On the seat is a pair of noise-canceling headphones. I snatch them up and run back the way I came.

On my way to the living room, I don the ski mask, goggles and headphones. I make a pit stop at the kitchen sink. The tap runs fast and cold, quickly soaking the scarf, which I then wrap around my face three times. Movement outside the kitchen window turns my attention outside. The yard is empty, but shadows in the surrounding woods shift unnaturally.

I head into the living room, which has windows on three sides. They’ll note the movement and know I’m here, but it’s bright outside. They won’t see my alien-looking headgear.

Waiting for the action to begin, I look down at my hands, relaxed and open.

And empty.

Damn. I didn’t get a weapon. My mind picks through the garage, remembering a baseball bat, garden tools, and a number of chemicals that could have been used as improvised weapons. There are also knives in the kitchen, which is closer.

But I don’t move.

Instead, I make fists.

“I am crazy,” I whisper, and the first window shatters.

A canister punches through the kitchen window, filling the sink with shards of glass. It looks loud, but I can’t hear a thing. White smoke quickly fills the kitchen and dining room. When I see smoke swirl around me, I turn around and find a second canister behind me. It came through a living room window, and I didn’t hear it. I could pick it up and hurl it back out, but I embrace the shroud of white, protected from the chemicals now filling the home.

Breathing steadily, I wait for the second phase of the assault to start.

Windows shake. Somewhere in the house, a door has been beat down.

The floor beneath my feet shakes. Someone heavy is running through the home. Before I see him, a small object the size of a pill bottle shatters another window. I clutch my eyes shut, cover them with an arm and open my mouth. The force of the explosion slaps against my body, but it’s not enough to harm me. With my mouth open, the pressure against my lungs has minimal effect. But flash-bang grenades aren’t supposed to cause bodily harm. They attack the senses, primarily hearing and eyesight, both of which I’ve managed to shield.

I pull my arm away from my eyes just in time to see a goliath of a man set upon me. He’s dressed in all black, covered in tactical armor, and wears a gas mask over his face. I could pummel his body all day long and not do him any real harm. Curiously, he’s not carrying a weapon.

Smart, I think, and sidestep the man’s open arms. If they’d sent him in with a weapon, they would have basically been arming me. Whoever is in charge of this operation must know that.

One thing is for sure: the big man is not the brains of this outfit. Pulled past me by momentum, he careens into the heavy coffee table and snaps downward, face-planting against the couch. The cushions and armor absorb most of the impact, but he’s dazed and confused. While rumbling feet approach from behind, I casually reach down, unclip and yank the man’s headgear away. He snaps rigid, flips over, and claws at his face and throat. Whatever is in the air, it isn’t fun. He closes his eyes and falls unconscious. Not dead.

A second black shape slips out of the fog. Then a third and fourth. They come at me without hesitation, working as a group. Each is a skilled fighter, but they’ve opted to go without armor, giving them greater range of motion and superior speed while sacrificing protection, which they could use.

The first man attacks with a chop. It’s directed at my neck and would have put me down if I didn’t see it coming. I duck, but not enough to avoid impact. His hand strikes the side of my head, near the top. It’s some of the thickest, strongest bone in the human body. His fingers snap. I can’t hear his scream of pain, but he reels back, clutching the hand.

The second man leads with a punch. The fist slips past my head and leaves his midsection open. A quick knee to his gut stumbles him back.