A Shrouded World (Book 5): Asabron Page 23

  “I wouldn’t mind complaining a little more, if that’s okay.”

  “Sure, go ahead.” He tossed a spaghetti and meatballs “food to eat” meal packet at me.

  “I knew you cared.” He then tossed a spork, which I missed; it landed on the roadway. I debated not using it, but I’d nearly been burnt up and then frozen solid, I figured I could take a germ or two. My body craved the sustenance. It gave me some grumblings about shoveling it in so fast but was so rapidly extracting the healing components that I was safe from tossing it back up.

  “Damn, they’re the right size,” I said, looking at the boots. They weren’t new, but they were in good shape and they had the added bonus of attached soles—always a plus. “Do I want to know?”

  “No,” Jack answered succinctly. “There’s socks, too.” He got back up and pulled the wagon closer. There were also some medical supplies—salve and tape.

  “Any pain pills?”

  “Are you hurting that bad?” Jack asked.

  “Was actually looking to get a little stoned, truth be told,” I said as I did my best to wash my foot. Somewhere along the line I’d lost the opiyum.

  “I guess we’d better find Trip, then.”

  “You all right?” I asked, taking a moment to look at him.

  “There were two military trucks. I don’t know what tore through them, but they were caught unawares. I didn’t see any brass to indicate they’d fought back.”

  “Zombies, night runners?” I asked. He shook his head in the negative to both of those.

  “They were torn apart, pieces scattered.”

  Suddenly my meal weighed about forty pounds in my gut. I held up my hand when it looked as if he were going to go deeper into explanation.

  “Whatever it was, it did the same thing to the trucks. The engine block was pulled out of one of them.”

  “Sounds like the demon that was following you.”

  Jack nodded; he was taking this hard. I got it. He’d told me what happened. It was safe to assume he was feeling guilty for having let the beast out of its cage.

  “You couldn’t have known,” I offered as a weak defense.

  “Couldn’t I have? From what we can tell, we were brought here to save this place—wherever or whatever this place is—and I seem to be doing my best to tear it down around our heads.”

  “Jack, this is an all-out war, with more combatants than I care to count. You cannot hold yourself accountable for what happened out there. If not for you stopping the summoning days ago, the damage would be worse. We keep moving forward, we get Trip, and we take out whatever gets in our way. And maybe this little corner of hell rights itself.”

  Jack nodded tersely, his lips clenched tight. He heard the words, now he just needed to ruminate. After the rest, the food, the salve, and the new dry clothes, the walk wasn’t half bad. Jack seemed to be letting go of some of the guilt as we went further. Although he would never completely absolve himself, it’s hard to hold yourself too accountable for something you had no real control over.

  We had plenty of sun left, which meant we got to keep one enemy at bay, but there were enough others out there to ruin the day. We had miles to go and no clear destination. Yeah, we were looking for a helicopter for some reason, and then we needed to go somewhere. It was always great when you knew the specifics of the mission parameters.

  My spirits, given all we’d been through, were fairly high—should have known where this was going.

  “Do you hear that?” Jack had stopped walking. I turned to see what he was doing.

  I heard nothing, like absolutely nothing—not a bird, cricket, wind rustling past my ears. It was an absolute quiet, as one might expect before a storm. Everything else knew it was going to get nasty and had hunkered down, but not the stupid humans, who always seemed to be the last to get the message.

  “Please tell me it’s not the heat coming back.” That was my biggest fear right then.

  “Do you think I can hear heat?” Jack asked.

  I shrugged, what more could I do? I strained to hear something; the silence was more disturbing. At least, for that moment—my mind changed rapidly on that opinion.

  “There it is again.”

  I wanted to tell him he was imagining it—that would have been preferable to the glint of sunlight seen far off in the distance. I pointed, but we’d both already spotted it.

  “Chrome?” I asked. Right on the outskirts of what I could hear was the deep rumble of an engine—but not just any engine, and not just one of them. It was motorcycles, and unfortunately not your friendly neighborhood Hell’s Angels Motor Club riders. Most likely. Jack and I both did a quick assessment of our immediate surroundings. It was pretty bleak—not so much as a culvert to hide in, and the local fauna would have a hard time keeping a squirrel concealed. With a quick look at each other, we started running for the only thing that offered even a modicum of safety: the stanchion of a large highway sign that let travelers know they were traveling North on Byway 667.

  “One number away from hell seems too far,” I told Jack; he grunted in response.

  We had miles of a head start on the motorcycles, though we had to run a half-mile to get to the large steel column. I was doing the math in my head: we’d be running for three to four minutes, and the bikes at sixty miles per hour would be on us in five or less. Unless they were moving quicker—then we were going to catch staples with our backs.

  “Run faster,” Jack said after taking a glance over his shoulder.

  I took his word for it. Had no desire to see the latest nightmare coming to fruition. We’d halved the distance, which was good, but now the sound of the engines could be heard clearly, even over my exertion and heavy breathing. That was bad. Jack found another gear; not wanting to be left behind, I matched him. I could feel my foot sliding around in the boot, some from the slickness of the salve, but from the pain and discomfort I felt, it was safe to say there was a fair amount of blood down there as well. We were a hundred yards away from the sign, I was happy to note that the large steel support column sat upon a large block of concrete, easily five feet wide. Enough to give us good cover and concealment.

  In a perfect world, we would have made it to the pillar and been able to stay hidden until they passed—this was not that world. Whoever the riders were, they’d spotted us, and instead of throttling down to assess the threat, they opened the throaty motors up to reach us quicker.

  Sure, a biker gang could do that, but I had to think the weaponry we carried would be enough to, at least, give them pause. Only whistlers would rush headlong toward us, free from all abandon. Jack had just rounded the nearest corner and I was close behind, followed immediately by the zipping of a staple careening off the cement next to my head. I ran into the resultant puff of concrete powder. Could hear a multitude more pinging off the steel and more into the concrete. We’d as of yet not returned any fire.

  I was checking my magazines when I asked Jack a question. “Do you wish you’d listened to your mother and become a dentist?”

  “How would you know what she wanted me to be?” He was also checking his munitions.

  “I’m sorry, did she want you to be an elite soldier laughing in the face of death while sending your enemies to early graves? I meant that in a good way.”

  “Why a dentist? You realize that out of all the professions in the medical field, they have the highest suicide rate.”

  “It’s all those mouths.” I shivered thinking about it.

  “You know you’re weird even for a Marine, right?”

  “Well aware. Rock, paper, scissors to see who sticks their head up first?”

  Jack didn’t want to play. He popped up and squeezed off two quick rounds.

  “How many?” I asked when he joined me in the relative safety of our enclave.

  “Ten, nine now, most still on their bikes. I figure they think this will be over quick. The shots will make them move. They’re probably going to try and outflank us.”

&n
bsp; I stood, using the huge pipe to hide behind and brace my rifle. Staples blew by in record numbers. Jack had certainly stirred the nest. Had a little luck of the Irish as one staple careened off my front sight post and harmlessly into the dirt off to my left. I shot the culprit clean through the side of the neck, a spray of black erupting from the fissure. Its strangely jointed arm attempted to cover the wound before it fell over.

  By now, the rest of the beasts had dismounted their bikes and were fanning out. We were going to lose what cover we had in a hurry. Jack and I were side to side, doing our best to keep our fields of fire clear. The whistlers’ weapons were no match for ours, our rate of fire and power of devastation far superior. It wasn’t long before the numbers evened out, and then there were none. We’d taken down a squad of them with relative ease.

  Jack voiced what I’d been thinking. “How can these be taking down entire civilizations? There doesn’t seem to be anything special about them. They’re not fast, they don’t require a headshot. No super strength.” He had toed the head of the body closest to us.

  “If we went merely on levels of grotesquery, that would be enough,” I said as I turned away. I wasn’t a big fan of motorcycles, but it beat hoofing it, I thought as I plopped my ass down on one. As I did this, I caught sight of just why the whistlers were so dangerous.

  “Get a bike, Jack!” I reached over and smacked his shoulder. “We’ve got to go.”

  He looked back to what I’d seen. The ten here had been nothing more than a vanguard. There were dozens, maybe hundreds of motorcycles coming, and behind them semis, which I didn’t bother counting—one was more than enough. They won by numbers and using our own technology against us. I already had that knowledge, why I needed a reminder was beyond me. Jack was looking to the bikes and the small army heading our way. I was already re-familiarizing myself with the controls.

  “Jack?”

  “I was contemplating whether I could make a big enough mess with the bikes to slow them down,” he said—this while he was getting on his ride, his mind made up that the time and effort wouldn’t be worth it. He took off, I stalled. There were more than a few moments of panic as I looked down to my left where I was sure there would be a kick-start lever like I’d seen in a hundred movies. I turned my head to the approaching horde; the panic was gearing up to frantic. Here I was looking for something that didn’t exist on this model and I still had another eight to choose from. But that’s the thing, when you’re in a frenzy, reason takes a backseat.

  Jack had circled back around. “What’s wrong!” he shouted.

  “I can’t figure out how to start it!”

  He didn’t give me any shit for not realizing I had other options available. “Engine start switch on the handlebars!” he shouted.

  He waited until I located the large, glaringly red button marked “start.” The relief was palpable. I lurched forward, switching gears as smoothly as a virgin works his first bra. I had too much gas going as I moved into second; I was impressed with myself when I left a five-foot burnout on the roadway and more importantly didn’t get tossed from my ride.

  “This is just like Mad Max!” I shouted to Jack, who was staying with me instead of taking off. We were going close to sixty-five on a machine that I’m sure wouldn’t have had the slightest problem going double that.

  I wasn’t one of those people who loved the open road, the breeze flowing through their hair, the freedom to ride on two wheels. A motorcycle to me was more like horizontal free-falling, and I didn’t like it. The rush, the exhilaration that others got—yeah, not for me. The most vehicular freedom I wanted was the top and possibly the doors off of my Jeep, no more. I suppose I’d feel safer on a murder-cycle if it came equipped with a roll cage.

  “Eyes on the road!” Jack shouted when I drifted close. “And don’t ruin a movie I love.”

  “Yup.”

  “Switch gears, your RPMs are too high and we need to go faster.” I saw him looking through the small rearview mirror on his right.

  I don’t know how he could see anything with clarity; my mirror was bouncing around, or more likely my head—same effect, anyway. Got to the next gear and we were inching up to seventy-five; my nuts had retreated up into my belly, but if they thought they were going to be safe there in the event of a high-speed crash, they were sadly mistaken.

  “Mike!” He was urging me faster.

  Even in my younger days, I’d never been big on speed. Now I’m not saying I didn’t drive fast, because I often did. But a hundred plus? Very rarely, and only when I’d been drinking. Trust me, I don’t need a lecture on the stupidity factor involved there. That had always been in a car, though, and back then, most were built more like Sherman tanks than the lightweight, aerodynamic machines that came into fashion in the 1980s and 90s. We were at ninety and climbing, and all I could think about was what the collision would feel like when I hit the pavement. Would I feel that first impact, or would the shock of it overwhelm my senses as I bounced, flipped, and became a stain on the asphalt?

  “How fucking fast are they going?” Jack yelled out. Of all the people who would be used to speed, it would be Jack. I’m sure an airplane went much faster, but if something went wrong, you were a lot further away from the collision and potentially had the chance to parachute out.

  I could hear the roar of the approaching gang of whistlers, their bikes drowning out my innermost thoughts. Even if I pushed this machine to its max, what was the point? So would they. The odds I’d make an error, shift my balance incorrectly or hit some obstacle in the roadway, increased the faster I went.

  I was half a heartbeat away from telling Jack I wanted to stop and fight. I would have, too, if I’d thought he could hear me. Jack was dividing his time between looking ahead and checking his mirrors; without being a psychic, I was pretty convinced he didn’t like what he saw. His machine inched forward; I reluctantly followed suit. I lost concentration for the briefest of flashes when a red light illuminated on my instrument panel. The lapse was nearly enough to be my undoing.

  “Gas,” I said aloud, though the wind ripped the word from my mouth before it had the chance to touch my ears. Running out of gas was simultaneously a curse and a blessing. I had hope that I wasn’t going to have my existence scraped onto the road—or is it off? “Oh, no.” I wanted to let my head dip but I’m thick, not stupid—well, not that stupid anyway. Up ahead was the beginning of a traffic jam. I say “beginning” because the rest was lost in a wall of blackness. It looked as if our weird weather phenomenon was back. Jack spared me a glance but said nothing, no point to it. I was semi-consciously slowing down—going into that at 120 was not an option, though Jack was not of the same mind.

  I didn’t know what it was at first—figured that the nuts holding the front struts together had come loose and bounced off my handlebar and it should only be a matter of a few dozen yards before the wheel popped off and I went for an epic flight followed immediately by a painful crash. When two more projectiles ricocheted off my bike, I knew it for what it was: those damn whistler staples. I couldn’t even fathom how they were shooting; one hand on a bike traveling this fast seemed like they were asking for it. And at least one of them was. I didn’t look but I heard a crash; the sound grew louder as I figured more collided, unable to avoid the wreckage. I was hoping it was going to be like a giant set of motorized dominos and they’d all go down—that happy thought was quickly squashed when I heard an even louder screeching and concussive wave of noise envelop me. One of the semis had barreled through the blockade. I had no idea why they were willing to go through so much trouble just for us. Though, I figured if ten of my squad had been taken out, I would have rode the highway like a bat out of hell to make those responsible pay. I knew their motivations weren’t the same—conquer and eat was what drove them; don’t think they had any other factors spurring them on.

  Jack was about ten yards ahead. I was directly behind him, the traffic jam a quarter mile ahead, the wall maybe a half mile. I had
about fifteen seconds to decide how I wanted to play this out. I could slow down and use a car as cover, but that wouldn’t stop the ones driving semis; I had to figure they would ram those at speed. I couldn’t chase Jack into the bitter blackness, could I? He moved to the shoulder; I figured he thought it would be clearer, but it wasn’t a guarantee. I willed my bike that way as well—seemed safer than turning the handlebars even the slightest degree.

  I didn’t think I could feel anything past the intense fear, but that changed the moment we rode through the wall. My face felt like it flash froze, icy particulates bombarded my eyes. I barely saw or registered the bright red of Jack’s brake light coming on. I could hear the screech of his tire locking up and saw the ass end beginning to swerve off to the left. With my adrenaline flowing like it was, it shouldn’t have been a surprise when I braked much too hard. I was Jack’s mirror image, holding on for dear life as my ass end did its best to overtake the front. For a few hundred feet I was sliding sideways—the one and only time I was thrilled the roadway was slick and covered with a thin layer of ice. If any part of the tires had got caught up, it would have been ass over teakettle, if that analogy works. Lack of friction was working in my favor.

  Jack had wrestled his bike under control and was staying a respectful distance away in case I decided I wanted company in the afterlife. My power slide would not stop; I was leaning far to the right as the bike traveled further. Up ahead was a looming camper trailer. I couldn’t stop, I couldn’t maneuver. I wasn’t going 120 anymore, but easily fast enough to crack my neck in a few dozen spots.

  “Ghost it!” Jack shouted.

  Easier said than done—I was clutching that bike like a child does its favorite blanket in the midst of a thunderstorm while his parents are fighting. And even if I did somehow find a way to separate myself from it, I was traveling in the same direction and would still be part of the fiery ball that it was about to become. He was right, though. I pushed my hands away from the handlebars and my feet from the footrests; for the briefest of moments, if one had a high-speed camera and slowed it down frame by frame, what I’d done would look pretty impressive. I was standing atop the seat, sparks flying as I pushed the bike into the ground. I launched off as best I could, given the event. This is where the frame-by-frame action begins to show me in a less than favorable light. My arms were pinwheeling as they sought something solid and preferably non-moving to grab hold of.