MirrorWorld

The vast room is split in two. Both sides contain large numbers of ten-foot-tall, four-foot-diameter glass tubes full of green fluid. The tubes are lit from above and below, exposing the contents while leaving the rest of the room, which is black from floor to ceiling, in darkness. Serial numbers and bar codes are etched into the glass of each tube.

I step inside the macabre space and let the doors swing shut behind me. On the right side of the room, the hundred or so specimen tubes are empty. But on the left … The remains of tortured men, women, and children are suspended in the green liquid. While I know they feel no shame in death, their naked display is repulsive. But their nudity isn’t the worst of it. Each and every person met with a violent and untimely end. Some have multiple stab wounds. Others were shot. A few were eviscerated. I see broken bones, some protruding from the skin, and caved-in skulls. It’s a menagerie of violent ends.

That woman I found. Shiloh. Will she end up here, too?

Will I?

I shake my head. Not likely.

The sound of voices pulls me deeper into the room. A rectangle of white light glows, revealing a door on the back wall. Lit by lime-green gore, I walk toward the door, Taser in hand.

I look at the dead faces as I pass, my anger growing like a supervolcano. Who were these people? Mothers. Fathers. Innocent children with long lives ahead of them. I see different ages, from babies to gray-haired grandmothers. A variety of nationalities are represented. It seems like a perfect sampling of the entire human race, and since we’re in New Hampshire, where only 7 percent of the population isn’t gleaming white, many of these people must have been collected from around the country, if not the world.

While in SafeHaven, I heard stories from some of the older, higher-functioning patients who’d spent time at the New Hampshire State Hospital, which was basically an asylum for the “insane and feeble-minded” — like SafeHaven, but with a deplorable moral fiber. One of my many counselors, a young woman with high hopes, told me the lurid details, which was against all sorts of rules, but she, like most people there, could see I was “normal,” aside from a complete lack of fear.

Hundreds of “patients” were sterilized as part of a statewide eugenics program. The hospital carried out lobotomies, electroshock, and insulin-shock therapies. A horror show, it was closed in 1983. Rampant abuse left patients worse off than when they entered. Those who died as a result of their abuse were buried in the hospital’s cemetery and forgotten.

This … is worse.

Not only were these people likely tortured and brutally slain, their corpses are on display. Objects of necro-admiration. At least the patients at the state hospital were put in the ground. Even if these bodies are still being studied, I don’t see why they should be staged in a gallery.

I turn my eyes to the right. Given the number of empty chambers, Neuro Inc.’s collection still has room to grow.

The bright glow of the small door’s window beckons me. The voices grow louder. Sliding up beside the door, I peek through the window. The room is some kind of large laboratory. Where Documentum is black and green, the space on the other side of the door is almost pure white, save for the table and countertops, which are black. Cabinets and refrigeration units, all with glass fronts, line the walls. Inside each is a collection of liquids and powders kept in vials, test tubes, beakers, and vessels for which I have no name. I see petri dishes, computer stations, and various scientific equipment. The only one of which I recognize is a centrifuge. At the far end is an operating table and a collection of surgical tools.

How many of the bodies behind me once lay upon that table?

Lyons is inside, as is Allenby and a third man I haven’t met. While the two doctors are dressed in long white coats, the stranger is dressed in black battle-dress uniform, otherwise known as BDUs. His hair is cut close — I run a hand over my prickly head — like mine is now. A gun is holstered on his hip. This man isn’t a security guard. He’s something else.

I look back at the roomful of green glowing bodies.

He’s the collector, I think, part of some kind of abduction unit, taking these people out of the world and bringing them here. But for what purpose?

I suspect the answers lie on the other side of the door. If not physically, then inside Lyons’s brain. After what I’ve seen, I have no doubt I can get him to reveal everything. But first, a little recon.

I grip the doorknob and twist it slowly. It’s unlocked and well-constructed. When the latch disengages, the door opens an inch without sound. Lyons’s voice is no longer muffled. “We’re moving forward.”