MirrorWorld

“There is a third frequency that is neither A nor B, but also both, where parts of each physical reality overlap. Inanimate, nonliving matter vibrates at a slightly different frequency than actively animate, living, moving matter. This zone of overlapping frequencies includes some natural elements such as older trees and man-made elements like roads and structures, with the older, sturdier variety being more common. In contrast, a human body, even when standing still, is always in motion. Muscles, lungs, heart. We are in perpetual motion. Our frequency, like those of most living things, remains rooted fully in A with no overlap. This allows the Dread to interact with the inanimate, physical elements of A — like the staircase — while avoiding contact with the animate life that resides here — such as you. It’s a physical place with elements of both notes, but lacking the distinct life of each.”

“B-flat,” I offer.

“Exactly. What we do know is that to make real physical contact, you and the Dread have to be in the same frequency. You might be able to see and hear between A and B, but to interact physically, you can’t just be sensing other frequencies, you need to move fully between the frequencies.”

“Out of A and into B. And maybe B flat.”

“In theory. Good enough?”

“For now,” I say, “And Allenby … If I don’t make it back, I’m glad we’re family.”

Her smile is the most genuine I can remember seeing. “Arsehole,” she says, wiping tears from her eyes. She shoos me with her hands. “Go.”

I start the ATV, give Allenby a last, quick nod, and tear off across the nearly empty parking lot toward the woods where I last saw the bull. Upon reaching the grass, I slow to a stop. The green lawn is neatly trimmed and greener than any grass has a right to be. But there is no sign of the bull, either in the grass or the dark woods beyond.

See what’s not there, I think to myself, willing my vision to shift.

And it does. Painfully. I grind my teeth as an imaginary Jack the Ripper stabs my eyeballs.

My vision flickers between worlds: one bright and colorful, the other shades of black striped in green and cloaked by a purple sky. It’s like night vision, I think, still recognizable as the world but in strange shades of color. Is this the Dread’s B world? Or is it B flat?

Muscles behind my eyes twitch, each snap sending a fresh pulse of pain into my nervous system. But I can see both worlds now — the tree line has changed, a mix of recognizable trees, now leafless and large; sagging black trunks, held back by a fence; and the paved, inanimate parking lot — and the trail of glowing green blood left by the wounded bull. The bright plasma against the bleak background shines like reflective road markers, spaced every five feet, when the bull put weight on the wounded limb.

I’m about to gun the engine when a sound like whispering rises up around me. It’s from nowhere, and everywhere, ambient like the wind. As I try to ignore the rising din, a smell tickles my nose.

It stings like ammonia and is foul like death, but is new. And heinous. I breathe through my mouth but can taste it, too. Fresh agony swills through my core as my other senses are … What? Changed? Expanded? Twisted? Whatever is happening, Allenby was right. It hurts like the mother of all bitches.

Despite the foulness of the scent and the pain of detecting it, I know it’s not harmful. It’s always been there, in the air, in my lungs. I just couldn’t detect it before. This whole new world was just beyond reach. And if Allenby is to be believed, I came to understand that on my own once, without Lyons’s help. These things are real and apparently observable to those not afraid to look. The problem is, that’s pretty much just me.

I glance back at the building. Allenby is there. The staggered pyramid behind her is like an obsidian megalith, a sheet of impenetrable black, except for two squares of light marking my escape route and the failed attempt to stop me. There are men inside, trying to position new squares of tinted glass.

Attuned to the world just beyond our own but still physically present in the real world, I gun the throttle and follow the long drive out to the security gate, past the fence. The guards must be expecting me, because they just wave me past the newly repaired gate. Beyond the fence, I speed into the woods. Happily, the scent of crisp pine needles, which carpet the forest floor, still exists and helps drown out the foul tang. The pain eases, too, diminishing to a dull headache. It’s the shifting of senses that hurts. Maintaining the shift is easier.