A Shrouded World (Book 2): Atlantis Read online

  I stay there, barely feeling the rays of the sun. On a normal day, not that I remember what those are like, I would be enjoying the warmth of the sun, watching nature with a sense of peace. The day has that lazy feeling to it. However, other than keeping an eye out for movement and tuning one ear to listen for the sound of approaching footfalls, I barely notice my surroundings. I’m lost in my own mind, thoughts running through it like a film on high speed. There’s one image on the screen for a split second before another replaces it. None of them linger long enough to really see, but taken together, they give way to a story. One with ugly consequences, no matter which way it’s played.

  After reflecting for a little while longer, I follow Mike into the cab.

  “Don’t be following me in here after putting an image like that in my head. I have a hard enough time with shit the way it is without you making the way for zombie-night runner hybrids. That’s just fucked up.”

  “Well, it might just explain some of what we’re seeing. They can move faster than your zombies, perhaps even the speeders. They seem to have the ability to rationalize things and have a sense of self-preservation. I mean, there are other things that could account for that. The native population here could have been genetically different enough that, upon being turned, they retained some of their abilities. If we take that road to its conclusion, then perhaps there are even zombie whistlers running about. Although I doubt their genetics would make that possible. Shit, for all I know, the whistlers could be the result of zombies biting night runners. That doesn’t really make sense, but it just shows how much we really don’t know about this place. I think we need to keep some of that kind of shit in mind, though.”

  “I bet you’re the life of the party,” Mike says.

  “Well, I don’t get invited to many, that’s for sure. And certainly not twice,” I comment, smiling.

  “Shocker that is,” Mike smiles. “Our assumption so far is that the powers that be in this forsaken place had a situation in which the whistlers arrived, and then they called for help through means we don’t understand.”

  “Right. And they pull in your zombies and my night runners in the process, hoping that they’ll mutually annihilate each other, or at least bring their numbers down enough to be manageable.”

  “Okay, so it’s obvious that they didn’t warn the local populace or take them into hiding. Perhaps they just saved a chosen few.”

  “That’s one possibility. Maybe they didn’t have time, and considered the total extinction of their kind versus saving a few and starting over a fair trade-off.”

  “Right. Then, they’ll emerge and clean up the remaining mess.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “So where are these chosen few?” Mike asks.

  “That’s a good question. It could be that they didn’t make it through the hell they created. They could have planned it that way, but events overtook them and they, too, fell. We may be dealing with a world bereft of humankind.”

  “Which would leave us…”

  “Exactly, and without the proverbial paddle.”

  “I don’t like that scenario much. That doesn’t bode well for us getting back to our own worlds. And neither of you two look like Eve, if we need to repopulate this place.”

  “We have to find some answers and somehow figure out how to reverse the process—and please, give me a heads up if I do start to look like her in your eyes.”

  “You got it. If we assume a situation where the natives found themselves being overwhelmed by whistlers, then that would imply that there are more whistlers,” Mike states.

  “I would say many more. And, we have to assume this covers more than just a small area. I would say we’re looking at a worldwide event.”

  “So, where do we go from here?” Mike asks.

  “You and your unanswerable questions. Frankly, I’m kind of at a loss. This city of Atlantis seems to be a convergence point of sorts. It’s where night runners, whistlers, and zombies all seem to be co-located. And the military was attempting to blockade the place from outsiders for whatever reason,” I answer.

  “That sounds exactly like a place that we don’t want to be.”

  “Perhaps,” I say, staring in the direction of the city.

  “Sounds to me like you don’t agree.”

  “I think a place like that bears a further look,” I say.

  “You’re saying that you want to go back? We barely made it out of there the first time.”

  “Given that our path seems to have led us there, and the apparent convergence, I’d like to look around. I’m not sure that any answers can be found directly in the city, but we might find a clue as to our next move. Or, where those who might have hidden are located.”

  “Maybe, at the very least, where the facility might be, I guess.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You know, given everything we’re assuming about our arrival, I’m glad we weren’t beamed into their version of China or something. Can you imagine trying to make sense of this world if everything were written in another language? Kind of like putting together furniture without English instructions?”

  “I hadn’t thought of that. And, can you imagine if we spoke different languages? I mean, Trip already does, but not understanding each other would make things…interesting.”

  “So, we’re heading back?”

  “The idea doesn’t give me warm fuzzies, but I don’t think we really have a choice…unless we want to accept the fact that we’re here for the duration and find a place to call home.”

  “I don’t fancy that at all—not one fucking bit.”

  “Nor I. Given that, I think we need to backtrack this train, so to speak, and carefully explore the city as much as we can.”

  “What are we looking for?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “I think we should go in during daylight hours, given that night runners probably rule the streets after dark.”

  “Agreed. And we should split up to cover more ground.”

  “You’re kidding, right? Split up? Do you not have horror movies where you come from, Jack?”

  “I don’t like the idea, Mike. I’m saying I think it’s paramount that we get back to our own worlds, and if this is even a few hours quicker, then we’re better off for it.”

  “Fuck.” Mike sweeps his hand through his hair. “So, who does Trip go with?”

  “You!” I say without hesitation.

  “Sweet! I usually get picked last in gym class!” Trip says, then pulls a sweatband out of his pocket and places it on his head.

  Although I appreciate how he can change events for the better in the long run and how useful his random serendipities can be, the thought of enduring the larger machinations that are “Trip” for another day exhausts me. This will be an excursion into unknown territory, without even understanding what we’re there for. Having Trip yell down a street just to hear his echo isn’t something I want to endure. My heart just can’t take more of it. My thinking is that his vague hints will just as readily lead us where we need to be if he accompanies Mike as they will if he’s with me. Me? I plan on finding a hammock somewhere secluded and lying in the sun all day.

  We backtrack our route toward the city, passing the lone branch of tracks we passed the night before. They stretch out across the plain in a nearly straight line, the track becoming smaller as it recedes into the distance and the two rails draw together. It eventually becomes a single line before fading entirely.

  I look at the top of the rails on all of the tracks. Each shows silver with use. Unused tracks will show oxidization on the tops. I don’t know if this means anything other than the obvious, but it’s information that I log into the fog that is my memory. On our return journey, I load the empty mags from the cache in my pack. I’ll need to find more eventually, as I barely have enough for a modest engagement. Ammo disappears quickly in a firefight—so I can’t afford to get involved in one. If one ensues, I’ll have to disengage immediately.
Besides, I’m one person, and that’s never a good thing in a firefight.

  Stopping the train just as the rail yard comes into view, I climb on top of the engine and pull out a pair of binoculars. The upper surface is warm from the sun and the massive diesel engines that are housed within. Plumes of heat rise from the exhaust ports, blurring everything behind the heated air. Those columns waver as light gusts of wind sweep past. The idling engines vibrate the steel under my boots, but not enough so that I have trouble focusing the eyeglasses on the distant rail yard.

  The view is much the same as I remember it from the night before: long lines of various types of rail cars sitting silently on a myriad of sidings; linked engines waiting quietly for a call to action that will probably never arrive. The large covered maintenance shed stands silent, overlooking the area where the whistlers, zombies, and night runners had fought each other. The entire area is hushed, as if the events of the prior day and night had sucked the energy from it.

  However, there is something missing that I had expected to see, and the lack of it is unsettling. I remove the binoculars, rub my eyes, and look again. Nothing changes, and I feel dread settle deep within.

  “Mike, tell me what you see?” I ask, handing him the binoculars.

  “Whoa! Fucking A,” Mike states. “There’s not a single body in sight. I mean, there had to be hundreds, if not thousands on the ground. Why aren’t they there?”

  “If the whistlers needed food…” I comment, leaving the obvious unsaid.

  “Do you realize how many whistlers that amount of bodies would feed? And how many whistlers it would take to clear them all out?”

  “A lot,” I respond. “That also means that they won, or came back after the sun rose. I don’t see a single zombie in sight, and I assume the night runners retreated back to the city. With all of the tumult from the fight, it may be difficult to find out where the whistlers went. There are a couple of motorcycles lying on their sides, but that’s about it.”

  “I think you’re right, though; they made a stand here for a reason. That really doesn’t make sense, though, because they came from the same direction we did. Were they chasing the zombie horde for food and merely happened to converge here? If so, why didn’t they retreat when the night runners appeared? Maybe they couldn’t disengage safely, or maybe I’m making too much of it and it was just happenstance,” Mike muses, echoing thoughts similar to my own.

  “I have no idea. It’s like everything else in this place—it doesn’t make sense. But, it’s something we’ll have to keep in mind while exploring the city.”

  The area around the battleground is a tumultuous mess. Gravel is strewn about, heaped into piles in places. Strips of clothing lie against railings or embedded within the rocks, their ends fluttering slightly in the light breeze. Dark stains cover the ground where blood was spilt, creating a definite outline of the large-scale fight. I’m still amazed that there isn’t a single body, not so much as a fingernail in sight. If it weren’t for the pieces of clothing and stains covering the entire area, it would be difficult to imagine that anything of that magnitude ever took place.

  “Well, shit, what do you think? Just mosey into the muck that is Atlantis and wander around, hoping that something important jumps out at us?” Mike asks.

  “For lack of anything else to guide us, I was thinking along those lines,” I answer.

  I am kind of hoping Trip will come up with one of his cryptic statements, that we could get a glimpse into the maze that is his mind and figure out what to do next. He is, however, completely oblivious to our needs. Standing with a joint between his fingers, the smoke drifting lazily from its lit end, he stares down the tracks on which we just arrived. It’s like he doesn’t acknowledge the strangeness of the missing bodies; or perhaps he does and it simply fits in with his version of reality—like that’s the way it’s supposed to be.

  The thought of entering the city without knowing where the horde of zombies or whistlers has gone is unnerving. I don’t like the cramped feel that urban areas give me. The lines of sight are all fucked up; there could be eyes watching us from a hundred different places and we’d never know. Ambushes within city streets are easy, and come fast and furious without any warning. Sound carries differently, and with night runners inhabiting the place in great numbers, there won’t be any escape into the darkened buildings. On the plus side, there probably won’t be any whistlers or zombies who could blindside us from them, either. The buildings will be the sole property of the night runners, leaving the daytime streets to the zombies, whistlers, and us.

  “If that’s what we’re going to do, we should start while we have daylight,” Mike states.

  I open up for a couple of seconds, just to see if the night runners are still in the area. I mean, who knows what happened after we left the party? The whistlers could have taken down the zombies and night runners, which I wouldn’t complain about too much. However, that would make the whistlers much more dangerous than I originally thought, so it doesn’t leave a warm and comfy feeling. Images of resting night runners immediately flood my mind, some rousing from their slumber at my intrusion.

  Nope, they’re still in the city in force.

  “I’m with you. If we’re going to do this, then we might as well get along with it,” I reply. “However, this whole thing is making me rethink the idea of us splitting up.”

  “I wasn’t big on that one, anyway,” Mike responds.

  I recheck my mags, adjust my pack and M-4, and we start across the rail yard together. The lines running through the middle of the yard are open, which leaves me feeling a little uneasy. Before rounding several linked boxcars, I look left and right. Not from fear of some speeding locomotive racing down the tracks, but rather from fear that I’ll see a line of dust with whistlers at the front as they speedily descend on us. Thankfully, there is nothing but tracks receding into the distance.

  We run across the open area and enter the banks of rail cars on the other side. Not much is said as we warily make our way over and around them, finally coming to the last of the sidings. The air seems both thin and oppressive, knowing that we’re heading into a hornets’ nest. This may not be my best move ever, but really, have any of them been?

  Beyond the rail yard is a warehouse district. A chain link fence separating the properties lies in ruins, entangled within trampled scrub brush. Without a word spoken, betraying the prevalent tension, we gingerly cross the fallen barrier. Cargo containers and trucks of all sizes sit within a large paved compound. Numerous docking bays fill one side of a long freight depot, some with truck trailers parked at the entrances. The lot, which should be teeming with people loading and offloading goods, gives me the same sensation I had in the early days of the downfall in my own world, one bordering on loneliness—as if all of the equipment is merely waiting for people who will never arrive.

  Traversing the empty lot, I keep my head on a swivel, scouting for the slightest motion. A light breeze brushes past, but its coolness does nothing to alleviate the tension I feel. We don’t have an avenue of escape should enemies appear. I mean, we could run from zombies, provided there aren’t any speeders with them. It’s the whistlers that I’m mainly concerned about. However, if they stay true to form, I should be able to hear the motorcycles they’re apparently fond of long before they actually appear. And the groan and stench of the zombies should be easy to identify, if the wind isn’t against us. The true worry, then, is whistlers that may be wandering around without their bikes. And there’s always the possibility of survivors, although I doubt any would be alive within a city filled with night runners.

  Something catches my eye near one of the parked trucks. I get Mike’s attention and point to something sticking several inches out of the ground. It looks like a couple of broken pipes poking up from the asphalt. We change direction and amble closer. As we draw nearer, it becomes apparent what we are looking at: not pipes, but two bones standing upright and broken near the paved surface. Shreds of what l
ook like deeply stained jeans and a boot are lodged next to one of the truck’s wheels.

  Looking closer, the bones are sticking straight out of the ground, snapped off just a few inches from the surface. They, like the tattered clothing nearby, are stained and splintered as if they were broken from their current position. Deep gouges are carved into what remains and it looks as though they were gnawed on, which isn’t overly surprising given that night runners are around. The surprising aspect is that the bones don’t seem like they were stabbed into the asphalt—it looks like they are part of it, much like what Mike and I found near the blockade.

  The pink meat of living tissue is visible a little below the paved surface. Tendrils of tendons snake out of the flesh, looking like they were pulled and clawed at. The thing that is lacking is the aroma of decaying flesh. With no small amount of trepidation, I kneel by the leg growing out of the ground and, removing my glove, poke a finger into the small crater to touch the tissue.

  Disgusted, I quickly withdraw my hand. Wiping it on my fatigue pants, I can’t get over the feeling that I’ll never remove the sensation. Donning my glove, I rise.

  “You know, the tissue still looks alive, but it doesn’t feel like it should. It’s neither warm nor cold. As a matter of fact, it doesn’t really have much of a sensation to it at all…kind of like touching a piece of chicken lying on a kitchen counter,” I say to Mike, but not really addressing anyone…mostly just voicing my thought out loud.

  “Why would you touch that, and why would you touch a piece of chicken left out on a counter? That’s just gross,” Mike states.

  “Sorry, man, but it’s sort of like the tissue is suspended—neither dying nor living. I don’t know if there are really words to explain it.”

  “I was kind of hoping that what we found at the blockades was some sort of anomaly. We haven’t found anything like it since—but then again, we haven’t really been around population centers,” Mike says.

  “It’s the fact that they appear to have been embedded into solid material that baffles me. Whatever caused it doesn’t really leave me with warm fuzzies.”