A Shrouded World (Book 5): Asabron Page 2

  “It would probably be safer for all of humanity if we were both fitted for one,” I say.

  “You’re probably right there. So, shall we see if you’re correct about that smell, and if so, what the merry band of travelers might be up to?” Otter replies.

  Both of us start down the hill, working from tree to tree and avoiding the few rays of sunshine angling through the boughs high overhead. The scampering of squirrels along branches and up trunks comes to a standstill, the woods absolutely quiet except for the gentle whoosh of the wind over the treetops. It isn’t long before Otter turns and points to his nose, telling me that he now smells the aroma that has grown much stronger for me.

  “I’m afraid we’re about to run into company,” I say quietly, picking up on low moans as they drift up the hillside.

  “What kind of company?” Otter whispers in return.

  “The still mobile dead kind,” I reply.

  “How do you know?”

  “I can hear them moaning.”

  “I don’t hear a fucking thing. How is that you can?”

  It’s just a little something I picked up along the way. Believe me, they’re down there,” I respond.

  Otter looks at me oddly, then asks, “Can you tell what they’re doing? Like, are they hovering like college students around a keg, or are they moving?”

  “We won’t really know until we lay eyes on them,” I answer.

  “So, we keep going and hope we don’t break into the middle of their party?”

  “Pretty much.”

  As we make our way further down the hill, weapons now held in relaxed grips, the way ahead lightens. Slowing as we draw near to where the trees line the highway that rolls through the middle of the narrow valley, I bring my carbine to the ready and take more care with each footstep.

  Shadows flicker past the breaks in the trees, the volume of moans coming from below vibrating my very skin. The stench wafting up the hill is horrific, but I put it in the back of my mind as I concentrate on the land to my front. There’s no smell that compares to that of decaying bodies, and I don’t think it’s something one can ever get used to. Sure, I can ignore it and focus on more important things, but it’s always there, like a wet blanket on a frigid night.

  Beside me, Otter creeps forward in a similar fashion, looking down to the ground before placing his boot and stepping forward. Once a clear spot is found, his head comes immediately back up to the trees ahead. So far, it appears that the zombies are confining themselves to the road, but they are definitely moving, if the shadows passing the openings between the trees are any indication.

  “You stay here and keep my flanks covered while I go take a peek,” I whisper to Otter.

  If these are zombies from Mike’s world, I know there may be a few of what he called version 2.0: speeders. Otter’s leg may or may not hold up to another sprint up the hill if we’re found. If they’re normal zombies, then we could possibly backpedal and keep them at a distance. But speeders in the mix may throw a wrench into that plan.

  I inch forward, creeping from trunk to trunk to remain hidden. Near the edge of the tree line, I crouch behind one and peek around. I’m near a wide curve with the road stretching away in both directions. All along the highway is a horde closely packed together like a protest march, all slowly ambling their way toward the town of Valhalla. The deep rumbling of their moans seem as if it’s reverberating inside of my skull.

  Staring at the long line that’s keeping mostly to the roadway, I realize that if they stay on their present course and speed, they’ll arrive at Valhalla in about three days. If there are any speeders at the head of the line that break off from the pack, they could arrive earlier.

  I’m faced with several choices. Otter and I can attempt to draw them away and lead them elsewhere. However, with the length of the line I’m able to see, we may not be able to get the attention of them all. I’m not sure of how many are in the lead and out of sight, but there’s a chance those will just continue on. We could also set up ahead and do our best to whittle them down, but we don’t have near enough ammo to make more than a small dent in their numbers.

  Other than the option of doing nothing and continuing on our mission, that pretty much leaves getting ahead of the horde and alerting the township—which has its own problems. With the ban on guns, there’s a severe lack of weaponry. I seriously doubt there’s enough ammunition in the entire town to take out the numbers I’m seeing. However that may be, the town must be warned, even if it’s just to give them time to vacate.

  Inching back to where Otter is keeping an overwatch, I’m struck by how that little town keeps drawing me back to it. Each time I try to leave, something pulls me back—the opposite of what occurred around Atlantis. There, the cave system pulled at me incessantly; here, I feel almost repelled from the coastal community but pulled toward it nonetheless. It’s almost like in the movies where a barrier is placed around a community, one where if you try to walk out of it, you find yourself back where you began.

  I crouch next to Otter, wondering if perhaps that little town and its surroundings might be the only actual place in this world. All of the outside environment might just be the imaginings of the locals, part of some script implanted in their heads. The war being played out far away might not even be real, the related bases and events just a myth. With everything that’s happened, I haven’t noticed a single call for assistance from the town.

  Before the downfall, if some town in my world had reported an attack, monster or otherwise, they would have been swarmed with help. Or at the very least, it would be reported in the media. When Mike related the attack of night runners in the town, he hadn’t mentioned any troops or news vans. Now, I don’t know if anyone called for sure or not, nor do I know how this world works, but I just can’t imagine a handful of police not seeking assistance for something so overwhelming.

  Crouching in silence, I take a few seconds to contemplate. The more I think on this, the more this theory makes sense. Another aspect that supports this sudden revelation—or my overactive imagination—is the fact that the citizens aren’t allowed into the mountains surrounding the town.

  “That bad, eh?” Otter whispers, referring to my silence as he breaks through my contemplations.

  “Huh? Oh, yeah, it’s not good news,” I reply, giving him a quick rundown on what I saw below.

  “Well, we were going back to town anyway,” Otter says, rising.

  We continue along the slope, striving to move quickly through the trees while keeping a semblance of stealth. With the moaning coming from the road, I don’t imagine the zombies can hear much, which makes it a little easier for us. The problem is that if we move too quickly, we may run into a stray who decided suddenly to take a hike to see the wonders of the wilderness.

  As we walk through the trees, I keep an eye on the surroundings, but my mind is still on my previous thoughts. If this town is indeed secluded for some reason, what does that really mean? Am I trapped here in some bubble of reality? I certainly haven’t found much to lead me out of this place. Mike had said he walked from a distance to get here, but again, what does that really mean? If what I was thinking is indeed true, how far does the boundary extend? Or, if one were already outside of the barrier, would walking through it seal them in?

  Of course, all of this could just be my imagination running wild. I could be grasping for some straw, trying to understand what’s happening. There could be a wide world out there that I haven’t been able to experience thanks to a series of coincidences. I’m frustrated that I can’t figure out what this place is about. Or more importantly, how to get out of here. I’m a little tired of feeling like some kind of time cop, trapped in these existences when I need to be back with my loved ones. As a matter of fact, I’m tired of feeling trapped in general.

  And now having to head back into town to help them stave off a zombie invasion only frustrates me more. Sure, I was heading back there anyway, but only to obtain a ride so Otter and I
could get to a base more quickly. The plan had been to steal a helicopter, go fight some angels, and somehow get the hell out of Dodge. But now that idea is delayed, which extends my tenure in this place.

  “Otter, you say you were actually at a base and involved in some war?” I ask out of the blue.

  “Um, yeah. Why?” Otter replies.

  “You actually have those memories? You actually remember being there? The sights, smells, textures?”

  “Yeah, I was there. Again, why are you asking me this?”

  “Hmm … no reason, I guess. So, if we managed to get a vehicle and drive away, we’d actually arrive at this base of yours?”

  “I’m beginning to think you found some mushrooms you shouldn’t have eaten. Yes, if we drove away from here, we’d get to the base and find a chopper,” Otter responds.

  “Okay. So, let me ask you this. If the town has to be vacated, which way will they go?” I query.

  “Well, the pass through the mountains would obviously be out. North would be too rugged a climb for many. There aren’t enough boats to carry the entire town, so I guess south would be the best option,” Otter answers.

  “What’s to the south? Have you ever been south? Is there a road leading out?” I inquire.

  “Beaches and more ocean, I would imagine. I’ve never been far south. With regards to a road, I don’t believe there’s more than a path. All traffic has generally gone through the pass,” Otter replies.

  “So, there aren’t any other towns along the coast? Where do people go on vacation?”

  “I’m not sure of any other towns. Like I said, I’ve never been far to the south. Or north, for that matter. As far as vacation, not many go on one, you know, with the war and all. Most people born in the town live and die there.”

  “What about tourists coming into town? Surely there must be some. I wasn’t there for long, but it doesn’t appear that the town is entirely self-sufficient.”

  “Some come in during the summer months. That’s when what little money there is comes from. However, I can’t imagine many daring to travel with the war going on. Most outside of the community are dedicated to the fighting in one capacity or another. Obviously not many from Valhalla, but definitely people elsewhere. I suppose they get enough summer visitors here to sustain themselves,” Otter says.

  I hear what Otter is saying, but it just doesn’t ring true. It’s not that I think he’s lying or covering up something, but I have a difficult time believing the town can function as well as it appears to without a huge tourist season. Goods still have to flow in and out, and without any inbound money or goods, I just don’t see that happening. Plus, I haven’t seen the slightest hint of shipping trucks. I get the feel that whatever war is going on out there, it’s been happening for a long time. But I also don’t hold a doctorate in economics, so what the hell do I know.

  The other thing that comes to mind from this little chat is that there is only one way out of town. I plan to use a vehicle, which only leaves the choice of driving straight through the horde of zombies heading toward Valhalla. The likelihood of driving out of there shrinks with every mile of zombie horde that we pass. If we have to vacate to the south and there aren’t any known towns there either, then it’s going to be an even longer trek to procure a helicopter. I’m also not really clear on why we need one, or maybe my brain is forgetting why.

  We won’t make it to town before night falls, and though I’m leery of staying at the cabin where the Overseers took Trip, we need shelter from the night runners during their scheduled appearance. This time, though, they’ll have many more targets in the zombies marching down the highway. That is, of course, assuming they’ll view them as a midnight snack.

  Otter and I drift through the trees, always alert to the viewable lanes between the trunks. After a while, we finally find the front of the horde and pass them. There’s a smaller group ahead of the main pack, and even though they’re moving slowly, I assume they’re the version 2.0 ones from Mike’s world—the speeders. It’s almost like they’re the ones pulling the huge line along with them, much like a semi pulling a trailer.

  “You know, if that front pack were taken out, it might buy us a little time and make things a touch easier in town,” I tell Otter, pointing toward the speeders.

  “I was thinking the same thing. So, we set up ahead and plink them off?” Otter replies.

  “Exactly. If the train lacks an engine, then it just sits on the tracks,” I say.

  “I say let’s give it a go. I think we have enough ammo to take them down. It’s just a matter of how fast they react and charge us.”

  “So, we set up far enough ahead and work our way backward.”

  “That’s a good plan in theory. As you well know, shit has a way of going sideways. But I don’t see many options. As it sits, we don’t have a ton of daylight. We’ll have to find shelter before the sun sets and the silver eyes make their appearance,” Otter mentions.

  “I suppose that means going to the cabin afterward? I’m not a huge fan of that,” I say.

  “I guess there’s the option of staying out here and having front row seats to the concert.”

  “I like that idea even less. Well, it’s not getting any earlier, so we might as well do this.”

  We push forward until the leading group is out of sight behind us, and then find a place with good line of sight down the road. With Otter across the road and closer to the river, I settle down behind a tree.

  An empty gray ribbon stretches ahead, looking lonely with the late afternoon sun casting long shadows from the trees lining the sides. A soft hush brushes across the treetops, adding to the lullaby of the rushing river nearby. The wind brings the smell of fir and the sweet aroma of the old pine needles that line the forest floor. Over the tops of the trees across the road loom the granite cliffs of ridgelines, along with several peaks that rise majestically skyward. On a normal day, I could easily see myself spending a lazy afternoon testing the waters with a fishing pole.

  It isn’t too long before there’s movement up the roadway, the first group of zombies appearing from around a bend. I quickly pat the mags on my vest, assured by their bulk, and raise my carbine to my shoulder. The entirety of the leading group shows itself, ambling slowly down the road. The beginning of the long line of undead follows a short distance behind. I settle my breathing, feeling my heartbeat pound in my neck and ears.

  With the exception of their cunning and speed, I think it’s easier to fight night runners, especially at range. I can shoot them anywhere and they’ll be slowed. Any shot that kills a normal human will kill a night runner. Not so much with zombies. They’ll ignore anything other than a headshot that penetrates the skull—although if you remove their legs, it will definitely slow them down.

  As I watch the leading group close the distance, I wish there were a few more of us. A quick volley of fire would quickly diminish the packed thirty or so speeders in front. As it stands, we’ll be hard-pressed to take out more than a few before they start charging. And if hitting a killing shot with them just ambling along is difficult, it’s even more so while they’re running and bouncing. What I need are homing bullets. If I’m to continue this pattern of existence-hopping, I hope that becomes a thing.

  I flip my sight to the 4× setting, the faces of the shambling zombies large in my vision. They’re a mass of sagging cheeks and sores, unhealed and unbleeding wounds gaping like cut steaks. The side of one face droops like it had a stroke while another has a wound on its cheeks so deep that the teeth show through. However bad they look, the ones in front aren’t nearly as rough as the ones following.

  With a flick of the lever, the world through the scope widens. I brace for the inevitable charge after the first round is sent, wondering how far we’ll have to backpedal before we finish the group. Although they’re shambling now, I’ve seen them turn on the juice and become Olympic track stars.

  I center my crosshair on the leftmost creature, hoping that Otter is doing the sa
me on the right. Start on the outside and move into the center. That will hopefully keep them from scattering to the side and into the trees.

  Aim small, miss small, I think, placing the reticle on the zombie’s nose, my goal to place the round on the upper ridge.

  A small movement of my thumb results in a soft click as the selector switch is moved into the semi position. I apply pressure with my middle finger against the trigger—an old habit, especially with handguns. A long while ago, an instructor told me that it makes for quicker, more accurate aiming with sidearms because your pointer finger naturally follows your line of sight. So, if you keep your pointer finger in line with the barrel, you’ll theoretically have a better chance of hitting what you’re looking at. Of course, you have to watch the slide, but I’ve found this technique useful, and it’s became second nature.

  The kick comes as a surprise as the suppressed round is sent spiraling out of the barrel, speeding across the intervening space. The bullet slams into the zombie’s face, impacting the side of its nasal bone. The round, its path altered by the collision, slides effortlessly into the eye, pushing behind the orb and entering the brain. It punches through the soft tissue and slams into the rear of the skull. The back of the zombie’s head explodes outward in a mass of dark blood and clumps of brain. The zombie sinks straight down to the pavement as if its legs were suddenly removed.

  I quickly switch to the next target, a small wisp of smoke rising from the end of the barrel. My next shot isn’t nearly as good, but it’s just as effective—the round slams into the zombie’s mouth. Shards of bone and black liquid spray from the shattered teeth, partially covering my view of the creature’s face. The bullet punches into the back of the throat and forcefully impacts against the spine. The zombie’s head falls to the side from the broken spine, coming to rests atop its shoulder. It then flops backward, nearly touching its back as the creature falls forward. Hitting the pavement chest-first, the head is thrown forward and slams into the asphalt with a loud crack. The zombie may not be dead, but it certainly isn’t going to be doing the hundred-yard dash anytime soon.