"In my experience," I say, "the only way to truly squelch a longtime enemy is to beat them into submission and then reverse the flow of influence. PostWorld War Two j.a.pan is a good example."

His only response is a smile.

The memory fades as my body is jolted.

In the present, my new surroundings overshadow the surprise I feel about the World War II a.n.a.logy, of which Lyons is so fond, which originated from me. I'm hanging sideways in the grasp of a bull as it lumbers down the tunnel on three limbs. Its grip is solid, my arms pinned by my sides. I'm stuck, and while the creature is moving in the right direction, I have no intention of reaching Maya as a prisoner. The sound of several sets of heavy footfalls tell me the bull is not alone. I open my eyes and confirm it. Bulls, pugs, and Medusa-hands. Too many to count. A mob of Dread is escorting me downward.

Seeing no other option, I pull what is becoming the oldest trick in my "How to Outwit and Outmaneuver Dread" book. The quick plan is to hop into my home dimension and, while the bull is distracted by my disappearance, return to the mirror dimension, push the mob back with a burst of raw fear, put a few Desert Eagle rounds into the nearest alcove wall to weaken it, and dive right on through. It's insane. I recognize that, but it's all I can come up with, so I go for it.

The plan falls to pieces the moment I put part 1 into action. I'm expecting moist but solid earth to hug and hold me in place. Instead, I get a raging torrent of flowing liquid. I'm yanked forward instead of stopping, spun around, slammed against hard stone, and lost in complete darkness. Near drowning, I reenter the mirror world, hoping to be tossed to the floor farther up the tunnel. But that's not what happens.

When I enter the mirror world, I'm not deposited on or above the tunnel floor, I'm embedded in it. Half of my body is locked in stone. The other half, lying sideways, is left to flail. With my one free eye, I see the bulls snap to attention, snorting at my return. The closest of them raises its thick foot to stomp on me.

Choice is removed once again. I manage to suck in a breath through my one free nostril and then slip back into the raging waters far beneath New Orleans. I'm swept away again and brutalized by the tunnel walls. I cling to the air in my lungs, but the rapids seem determined to knock it free. Bubbles burst from my mouth with every jarring impact.

Then my head hits something solid.

I black out for a moment.

When I come to, thrashing awake, the air in my lungs is gone.

I reach out, hoping to feel open s.p.a.ce, but how will I know it? Moving so quickly, spun like a pebble in a rock polisher, how will I ever recognize that fraction of a second of cool air being different from the water?

I won't.

But then, as the raging water takes a sudden turn, I do.

I don't feel the change so much as I hear it. The gurgling, m.u.f.fled cacophony of flowing water suddenly echoes in a tight s.p.a.ce. The sound actually hurts my ears when I take a gasping breath, and then another, calming the burn in my lungs.

The surface beneath me changes to a slanted solid stone. I can't see it, but I claw my way over the surface, fighting to pull myself free of the devil's waterslide. The gap is small, just enough room for me to pull my torso out of the water, but my legs remain wet, tugged at by the rapids, urging me to my death.

The rock bed is cold against my head, but so very welcome. With each breath, my body normalizes. Calm down, I tell myself. Start thinking. What options do I have?

Option one, check out the mirror world. I peek without moving my body between worlds. It's a surreal experience. I'm encased in the black earth, but it's intercut by thin, glowing roots. I don't clearly understand the Dread or their world, but one thing is for certain, it's all connected. Free to move, I look in all directions and see the same thing: earth, right in my face. I rub my eyes after returning to the pitch black of the underground river. I only looked into the other world, but my brain still thinks there's dirt in my eyes.

That means I've got only one possible escape route-the river. And who knows if it will even bring me in the right direction, or if I won't have my back broken against a stone five seconds after getting back in the water?

But no choice means no choice. As much as I don't like the idea of being battered by the rough waters or drowned beneath them, I refuse to give in now. Sure, I could survive in this little world for a time. I'd die from hypothermia long before I starved, and I certainly wouldn't die from lack of water. But I'd be letting the Dread have Maya without a fight, and if she's still around when Dread Squad arrives ...

I sigh and roll onto my back.

Despite the pitch black, I close my eyes and see Maya. Her smiling face. Her hands full of pumpkin gore, dripping freshly pillaged seeds. I wait, holding a carving knife, while Simon digs his small hands into the open gourd. He's the closest thing I've seen to a true Halloween zombie. I smile at the memory. It returned recently, probably while I was being bashed about in the river.

"I'm sorry," I say into the darkness, warm tears on my cheeks. Dammit. I miss that kid.

Miss his mother, too ...

I see the entire past year, spent in SafeHaven in a new light. Despite the company of Shotgun Jones and Seymour, I was very alone. My lack of fear and memory prevented me from experiencing it, but now that my memories are returning and I'm able to feel a full range of emotions, remembering that time is heartbreaking, lonely, and desperate. Looking back even further, I can see that my life before Maya was much the same. I depended on myself, leaned on my fearless nature to get past struggles. My own strength carried me. But when I found Maya, that changed. I was still fearless, but she removed the burden of self-sufficiency. She became my strength. So did Simon. Is that why I ran away? Despite my lack of fear, did I become powerless? Weak? It's not impossible, and I certainly wouldn't have feared ridicule for my mental retreat.

But Maya wasn't gone. She was alive. She needed me. Why would I have run from that? I still can't remember, but I'm not going to make the same mistake again.

I'm coming, baby. I'm coming.

I roll myself into the river, content that it will either carry me where I need to go or usher me into the afterlife, from which I will do my best to torment the Dread for what they've taken from me.

Relaxing my body, I let myself drift through the darkness. I'm slammed into a side wall as the river takes a sharp left turn. That's when I start checking the mirror world for open s.p.a.ces. With my vision in the Dread world, I watch scores of glowing vein-roots slip past in a blur.

The river batters me. The pain radiating through my body hides the burning in my lungs for a minute, but the ache to breathe soon dwarfs all other feelings. I crush my lips together, clinging to the air, absorbing each and every molecule of oxygen.

I hold on, watching the subterranean mirror world slide past. I'm seconds from taking a breath. Seconds from death. Lights appear in my vision, ch.o.r.eographed twirling spots. It's almost beautiful. But I can't see. My view of the mirror world slides to black.

No time left, I think. No time!

I shift.

And stop.

Locked in densely packed earth. The only question left is, Which world do I want to die in? Home, I think. I'll drown and be carried by the river, maybe ejected out to sea and found by a fisherman. Maybe I'll even get a burial. Or perhaps just feed a hungry shark. As my mind starts to slip away, I focus on returning home one last time.

Then I feel it.

My foot can move!

I slip back into the river, am tugged down hard. My mouth opens, sucking in water. As my body goes rigid, I shift back to the mirror world, leaving the river behind but carrying along the water in my lungs.

I fall for just a moment and land on a hard surface.

My body shakes, desperate to breathe, but unable to because of the water in my lungs. Still fading, it takes all of my remaining energy and willpower to roll myself over onto my hands and knees. My gut and chest convulse silently, pumping water out of my lungs, and then I can breathe.

That first breath of ammonia-scented air fills my lungs so hard and fast that I sound like a broken trumpet, announcing my arrival to any Dread in the area. I cough hard, expelling more water and the precious air too soon. My vision fades. I breathe hard a second time. The veins covering the floor beneath me come into focus. After three more gasping breaths, I get my body under control, still heaving but no longer doing an impression of a wounded wildebeest.

It's a full minute before I can even think about doing something other than breathing. And then a single thought explodes into my mind. I'm alive. Rewinding recent history, I faced down four bulls, a swamp full of Dread crocs, and angry Dread bulls, and I was nearly drowned and / or buried alive.

And I survived.

While feeling fear. It's a nice confidence boost, if only for a moment. My body aches from head to toe. While my past wounds might have healed, I've taken more than a few beatings since arriving in New Orleans. I can't see all my wounds in the dark, hidden by armor, but I can smell my own blood, even after my cleansing dip in the river, which means I'm bleeding from somewhere. Identifying the source of the wound would be easier if the pain wasn't everywhere.

I push past it all, for Maya, and for myself. I'm not Crazy anymore, but that doesn't mean I'm not still the deadliest son of a b.i.t.c.h the Dread have ever encountered. I look around and find myself in an alcove. It's short and full of small nests. A pug den, I decide. I crawl slowly toward the opening and peek out. Nothing in either direction. No sound. No wave of pressure to indicate the approach of a Dread welcoming party.

I step out and take stock. I've got Faithful on my back, both trench knives on my hips, and the Desert Eagle holstered on my chest. The weapon can fire underwater, so the river trip is no concern. I swap out the magazine for a fresh one and slide the big gun back in place. I've managed to evade the Dread defenses. With stealth back on my side, using the hand cannon would be counterproductive.

I pull Faithful from its scabbard. The black blade is almost invisible, not just because of the dim light, but because it doesn't reflect the light. Still, I can feel the chisel-tipped blade's weight in my hand. I head left, following the path ever downward. At the top of the colony, the tunnel's curve was almost imperceptible, always far off, but here it twists around so tightly that I can't see more than fifty feet ahead. I hug the right wall, moving quickly and quietly but checking every alcove and nest for signs of life before tiptoeing past.

Despite my efforts at stealth, the thump of my boots on the hard-packed floor feels loud. The colony is silent.

Did they abandon the colony? It seems unlikely, but if the Dread mole can burrow as well as I think it can, there could be a network of tunnels connecting all the colonies in New Orleans.

Or maybe I'm in one of those other colonies? Could the fast-moving river have swept me out into a neighboring colony? This could also be a tunnel between colonies, though that seems unlikely. The continual curve suggests a colony ... but is it still the right one?

I stop.

The tunnel levels out ahead. A fifty-foot-tall arching entryway stands to the right, just before the tunnel's end. Whether or not this is the right colony, I've reached the bottom. Remembering what I found inside the main chamber of the New Hampshire colony, I slide Faithful back into the scabbard and draw the Desert Eagle. It lacks the ridiculous power of the 20 mm sniper rifle I used to drop the Dread mole, but it can shoot a round through twenty-five watermelons and drop anything short of an elephant in one shot. With nine rounds in the gun and nine more ready to go, I should be able to punch a sizable hole in just about anything I encounter-I slide up to the archway and peek around-except for maybe that ...

I duck back, considering my options, which are fairly limited. I can fight and die. I can run, and probably die. Or I can give up ... and die. Running, while perhaps my only chance of survival, isn't an option, because as dire as the situation is on the other side of this wall, I saw Maya. There's no way in h.e.l.l I'm going to leave her. I came here for Maya, and if I'm going to die, I want her to know that I'm me again, that I remember her and that I came for her. That, at least, will provide a little closure before I'm slain.

I step around the archway into full view and stop. My eyebrows slowly rise, cresting halfway up my forehead. The Dread ... nearly a hundred of them ... are all looking right at me.

So much for not being noticed.

The chamber resembles a coliseum with staggered seating, wrapping around two sides, stopping before a second archway on the far side. Dread of all types, including some I've never encountered, line the benches. I feel like I've just walked onto the field of a football stadium, only no one is clapping and the opposing team is straight out of a nightmare.

Against every instinct, I take another step forward. Then another. By the third step, I've managed to insert a little confidence into my stride. I head for the center of the chamber, where Maya is being held. She's framed by two of the largest Dread I've seen, only smaller than the Dread mole. The behemoths look almost elephantine, but where their trunks should be are writhing ma.s.ses of short, pale tendrils resembling a bull's tongue. The tendril length tapers up the thing's head, forming a line between its six eyes and a moving mane along its back. Its ma.s.sive body pulses with green blood and ripples with muscles. The jaws, which split at the bottom, stretching a translucent sheet of flesh between the sides, are slung open like a baseball catcher's open mitt. I turn my attention away from the giants-the mammoths-and back to Maya.

She's conscious and watching me with red, swollen eyes, but her mouth is clamped shut. At first I think they've frightened her into silence. Then I see the wriggling tendrils of a Medusa-hands behind her head. It must sense my attention because it skitters out from behind one of the mammoths, slowly wrapping even more tendrils around Maya's waist.

Behind all of this, a squirming ma.s.s of tentacles, each as thick as my thigh and nearly fifteen feet tall, rises into the air. I know they're connected to a Dread mole hidden beneath the surface, but I can't help see each of them as a separate living thing. Given the thickness of the tendrils, the beast beneath this chamber must be huge. The word "kaiju" comes to mind. If such a thing got loose in the world of humanity, they'd make movies about it.

I stop halfway between the archway and Maya. I glance back, confirming what I already suspected. The exit is blocked by six bulls, four Medusa-hands, and a pack of wary pugs. I won't be leaving.

"Don't be afraid," Maya says, and her words, clearly those of the Medusa-hands controlling her, make me laugh.

Maya and the Medusa-hands behind her c.o.c.k their heads to the side in unison. "You are afraid, are you not? This is new to you, Josef Shiloh. We have felt it."

"What do you want?" I ask, picking targets. My goal right now is to free Maya long enough to beg for her forgiveness.

"Understanding."

"I understand you well enough," I say and nearly open fire, but don't. If there is even a tiny fraction of a hope that Maya can survive this, I need to play along. For now.

"And then what?" I ask.

"Your help."

I laugh. I can't help myself. The idea of helping the Dread feels like Hitler asking me to help build a gas chamber. Why on earth would I help these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds?

"We will free your wife," Maya says, referring to herself. "We saw your past. This is acceptable to you."

"Don't tell me what I think," I say, but know they're right. They peeked into my mind and scoured my memories before they'd been returned to me.

The mammoths take two long steps to either side. The thick tendrils behind the Medusa-hands and Maya turn toward me, snaking forward.

"We will help you remember," Maya says.

"Remember what?"

"Everything."

"My memory is-"

"Fractured," she says.

"How do you know?" I ask.

There's no reply. They don't need to explain, because I have no choice. I have to do it. Killing a few more Dread won't bring Simon back, and it would be a fairly hollow revenge. But saving Maya ... that is something worth dying for. I have no idea if the Dread can be trusted. Probably not. But picking a fight guarantees her death.

I slide the Desert Eagle into the chest holster, hold out my empty hands, and walk toward the outstretched Dread-mole tendrils. I stop a few feet short. "Fix her."

Maya and the Medusa-hands c.o.c.k their heads in the other direction. "Explain."

"Undo what you did to her mind. Setting her free will do nothing for her if she spends the rest of her life in a hospital bed. Take away her fear."

Maya twitches suddenly, then stops and says, "It is done."

"Let me talk to her."

Maya blinks and then looks around, showing no reaction until her eyes land on me. Then she smiles the way she used to. She reaches out a hand. "Josef. You-" And then she's gone. Silenced again.

"That's not enough," I say, thinking twice about my gun. I'm being played. They'll never let her go. She could be dead already for all I know. A puppet. Before I can make a choice, it's made for me.

I turn around at the sound of a scuff. There's no avoiding the tendril that has snaked around behind me. It springs up like a striking snake, splitting open to reveal a ma.s.s of smaller tentacles that open and engulf my face. The twisting limbs cushion my fall, just a fraction of a second before they invade my mind for a second time.

"You're okay," I say, bicep-deep in water, supporting my wife's weight. "Just breathe. Take it easy."

The midwife, Deb Fairhurst, standing on the other side of the birthing tub, stares at me, incredulous. I can see the question in her eyes. How can you be so calm? Despite having aided in hundreds of births, Fairhurst is amped. She's doing an admirable job of forcing calm into her voice, speaking slow, soothing words into Maya's ears while monitoring her vitals, which is harder now that Maya decided to get in the tub. But there are subtle cues revealing the tension she's hiding. She's sweating. Her forehead is locked in place, wrinkles unmoving. I wonder if, when she's older, her heavily wrinkled forehead will be a reminder of all the children she helped deliver, or if they'll just be unwanted lines? Her movements have become sharp and quick when she's out of eyeshot of Maya.

I flash Fairhurst a calm smile. Her forehead flattens a bit and she grins back, shaking her head. She'll ask how I stay calm later. It's the number one question I get asked. For now, there is a baby about to be born.

Maya crushes her nails into my shoulder, drawing the first noncalm expression from my face. If she's trying to share the pain of childbirth, she's doing an admirable job, though I'm sure it's nothing compared to what she's enduring, so I keep this thought to myself.

"Breathe, baby," I say. "Move beyond the pain. Control it."

"And push," Fairhurst says.

From my position behind Maya, I can't see what's happening, but Fairhurst's attention is suddenly more on the water than on Maya. In a moment, she'll have two patients to care for.

"Good," Fairhurst says. She's grinning now. "Just one more push and we'll be done."

As the contraction ends, Maya releases my arm, then taps it several times. I lean down to her.

"Go," she says.

"You want me to leave?"

"Go." She waggles a finger toward the tub beyond her basketball belly. "Watch."

That she's thinking of me in this moment of pain, not wanting me to miss witnessing the birth of our first child, is a testament to her strength, love, and selflessness. I kiss her wet forehead, slide my arms out from behind her back, and move to the side of the tub, opposite Fairhurst.

"Anything I can do?" I ask.