A Shrouded World (Book 2): Atlantis Page 24

  “Just a little further.” The motorcycles were so loud I was having a hard time believing they weren’t trying to run us down. It happened simultaneously: the instant I pulled Trip behind a bush, the whistlers came into view. I dragged him down—well, drag is a strong word; he more or less folded in on himself. He’d pitched over to his side and was looking down the road in the direction we needed to go, whereas I had got into position to spy on the enemy. I got a shiver of fear as I stared upon them, I could not get rid of the sense that they were some sort of humanoid spider and it just freaked me out.

  I at least know why we weren’t caught—they weren’t going more than ten miles an hour. They were looking for something, or somebody. Jack was my immediate thought. Or, possibly they were trawling for zombies. Go slow enough and you were sure to attract a crowd of them; since the zombies were on the menu, that made sense.

  “Go past the exit, go past the damn exit,” I hissed. They didn’t listen. They stopped at the junction and one of the whistlers extracted himself from his ride. A Russian bear looked more natural on a bicycle than this thing did on its ride. It seemed like they had to stretch and strain their joints in even more unnatural angles to be able to fit astride it. This was somewhat important in that it let me know that they’d come here and adapted to their surroundings: they, like me, were strangers in a strange land. Trip was just a strange stranger, so he might have canceled out his oddness. I’d have to find a philosopher to find out for sure.

  The whistler was going right for the damn vomit. My heart sank. There was still steam rising off the mess. It would have to know we were close, real close. And since cover was at a premium, this was one of about four spots that could hide anything bigger than a hamster. There comes a point in your life where you feel like you’ve seen just about everything there possibly is to see, but then you have monsters of epic proportions thrown at you and you have to reevaluate. Once you accept them, you really feel like there is nothing else left to shock you—that is of course until one of the ugly fuckers partially removes its gas mask helmet and leans all the way over at the waist so that it can now stare at its own feet.

  Sure, you can wonder at the sheer flexibility of this feat; even in my youth this had not been a strong suit of mine, and I was fine with that. Let the cheerleaders of the world wrap their arms behind their legs and touch their foreheads to their knees. I was impressed then, and I was impressed now. It wasn’t until a tongue the size and length of a garter snake shot out and began licking the asphalt that I thought I was going to be sick. And it wasn’t just any asphalt—it was lapping up Trip’s belly-butter-coated asphalt. Yellow coils of bile dripped off the side of its mouth, which it greedily slurped up; I could hear his ministrations from our hiding spot. If there weren’t six of them, I would have left the relative security of the bush and just began shooting: anything to stop the slurping sounds it made as it ate puke off the roadway.

  The damned thing didn’t just take a sampling, either; it spent nearly five minutes sucking up every last savory thread. I wanted to be sick, but just the thought that it would find that and eat it deterred me from doing so, even if thinking about that made me want to puke even more. It was a vicious cycle and I needed to get off that merry-go-round. The rest of the whistlers seemed to be watching their companion rather intently, and why not? He was attempting to guide them to a food source. I was a tick away from stirring a slumbering Trip so we could get out of there when Lapping Larry stood up and began to look around. If I could have embedded myself into the grass, I would have done so. I berated myself for wasting the opportunity to get the hell out of there when we had a chance. I’d been too horrified to think of doing anything else while Larry was enjoying himself. I think maybe the only thing that could gross me out worse would be watching a whistler pleasuring himself. Probably involves an eye socket being pierced with a steel rod.

  “Stop, Mike; just stop,” I begged my consciousness to let me off the hook from its spiral of disgusting thoughts. “Maybe its tongue is its sexual organ and its reaching bliss as it eats Trip’s vomit. Ugh,” I groaned. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  “Who are you talking to?” Trip asked, finally sitting up.

  “Forget it,” I mumbled, happy to have a distraction from my thoughts. Fucking damn shame when Trip becomes the most rational one.

  “Who are they?” Trip had stuck his hand all the way through the bush to point. I yanked him back. I’d no sooner got his arm back in than Larry looked right at our location in his scan of the area. He walked over to his bike, got into position, and got it rolling. He was coming down the ramp, his five friends following. When they got to the bottom, they miraculously took a right. I was not going to waste another chance to escape.

  “You okay to move?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be? Did I break my leg?” Trip started feeling his thighs. “Oh God, I did, didn’t I! I was wondering why I was in so much pain.”

  “Trip, you didn’t break your leg. We need to go.” I waited until the whistlers faded into the distance; I didn’t want to be visible in their rear view mirrors and have them turn around. Although how they could see anything with any clarity through their masks was a mystery. I’d had to use those when I was in the Marines, and they’d completely wiped out my peripheral vision, allowing me to only see straight ahead, much like a horse with blinders on.

  Trip did all right for most of the walk/trot. When we finally saw the rental cars, he sort of let go, like we’d made it and he didn’t need to go any further.

  “Come on man, it’s right there,” I was pointing.

  “How about you go get a car and I’ll wait here?”

  I didn’t like the idea. People disappeared even while I was looking at them in this world. Trip sat and I thought about joining him. Let him get his five minutes and then we would proceed together; that changed when I heard the rev of engines. The whistlers must have decided we hadn’t gone that way.

  “Trip?”

  “Get a car and come back, it will be faster.”

  “When the fuck did you start making sense?” I asked as I started running. I got to the giant parking lot housing the cars. A ten-foot fence topped with some form of barbed wire enclosed the whole thing. I considered climbing it but decided against it. I could not afford getting stuck, and there had to be a way in. Probably much closer to the small building a few hundred yards up. The further I got from Trip, the more concerned I got that I wouldn’t make it back in time. I grabbed the fence pole at the gate and swung in, heading straight for the blue rental building. A small white van was in front, either in the process of being returned or being rented when the transaction had ended violently, if the bullet holes and broken windows in the building were any indication.

  I smacked into the side of the van, not quite stopping myself. The keys were sitting on the driver’s seat. Gotta admit, I was a bit saddened; there were some incredibly cool sports cars in the lot and I only had time to get the Budge-O Van, and yes that was the name. According to the plastic decal, it had a raging Y-3 engine. I really hoped that didn’t mean cylinders. I hopped in, frantically looking for the ignition, which ended up being in the center of the steering wheel. I hoped the stupid thing didn’t have air bags; if they deployed, I’d have a key shoved straight into my forehead. Most likely wouldn’t hit anything of significance, I grinned at my thought. The engine turned over; I’d heard more muscle come from a bike’s spokes with a baseball card taped to the fender.

  The drive column was marked with an I, S, and T. I put the van in S only because that was where I expected to find the D for drive. The van did not move as I revved the engine, took me about five seconds to figure out I had it in neutral. Shoved the column into I and went forward—I’d like to use the adjectives “shot ahead” or possibly even “rocketed,” but that wasn’t even remotely the case. Lurched? That might be a better descriptor. Crept? Crawled? They all worked. I had the pedal slammed all the way to the floor, and by the time I got to th
e gate I’m pretty sure I was going about seven whole miles an hour. Horror hit me hard once I could see the whistlers approaching. This gave way to Trip, who was standing with his left thumb extended like he was hitching for a ride, and was pulling up on his pant leg with the other hand in a “come hither” gesture.

  “Where ya headed, sailor?” Trip asked, coming up to the passenger window.

  “Get the fuck in!”

  “Hey Ponch! What are you doing down here by the docks?”

  “Trip, this isn’t the docks, and you aren’t a prostitute—get the fuck in!” The whistlers had spotted us and were speeding up.

  “It’s ‘call girl,’ in case you didn’t know.” I didn’t care who he thought he was or what he wanted to call himself as long as he got in. I had no destination in mind as I got going; if the thing had a little more power to it I had the chance to run a couple of the fuckers over, but as it was they easily streamed around, taking long hard looks at us as they did, before they turned and followed. The last time a pursuit went this slowly, it involved an ex-NFL star and a Ford Bronco. I thought we’d blown a rod from my mercilessly pushing the van; there were pings and clonks as I drove on. I finally realized it wasn’t anything mechanical, but rather the shots from the whistlers impacting the rear of the truck. The staples were leaving indents in the frame. Either their shots were more powerful than I thought or the body of this thing was wrapped in tinfoil.

  More shots were fired and I began to see hints of light licking through the small openings that were being created in the metal. They’d be hitting our seats soon enough, and I couldn’t imagine those acting as much of a barrier. I brought the van to a stop, and the whistlers followed suit. I slammed the thing into T, figuring maybe I’d get lucky and hit one of the fuckers that had fallen asleep during our less-than pulse-pounding pursuit. I don’t know where this fucking thing was engineered, but the people there had some issues. Reverse had a good double, maybe triple the horsepower of drive. I left rubber on the roadway as the machine streaked backwards. Two of the motorcyclists didn’t have a chance; I smashed right into them. One even left a perfect imprint of his gas mask on the rear door. The van jostled about as we ran over a motorcycle and its rider.

  There was a horrible couple of seconds of screeching metal and piercing whistles as we dragged both for fifty yards until whatever had caught finally released and the front wheel jumped over them, leaving us free of our unwanted hitchhiker. The whistler that had made the face imprint stood, wobbled, and fell face-first to the ground; he did not move again. I debated just staying in reverse, but driving using the rearview mirrors was not easy, plus I almost lost control as I looked forward to see what the whistlers were up to. The ass end of the van began to move violently from side to side and I was in real danger of tossing us over. I gave Trip a sick smile when I finally got the thing back under control and stopped.

  “Ponch, I could drive better than that, and I don’t drive.”

  I put the van back in drive hoping that maybe I had unintentionally fixed something and now we would be able to go forward as fast as we had gone backwards. Nope, whatever drive mode “I” was, I think it translated to turtle. The whistlers moved to the side of the road as we came by. They had their guns up, though they hadn’t fired yet; I guess they were waiting until we came abreast of them so they could get a cleaner angle. I did not give them the opportunity; I put my pistol-clad hand out the window and fired. I was going slowly enough that it was almost like I was shooting from a stationary position. I blew thumb-sized holes through their gelatinous shells, spraying a black goo behind them. Apparently whistlers do have survival instincts, because the two on Trip’s side ducked down as I swiveled toward them. I had to yank Trip’s head back in, as he was intently watching them.

  There was a rattle as a few of their staples smacked into the side of the truck, and that was it. I knew what came next, yet it didn’t stop me from looking in the mirror to see it. The two remaining began to round up the four dead ones, placing them in a pile. Two they tied up to the backs of their bikes; the other two they stripped of clothing and began to eat. I couldn’t help it, I leaned my head out the window and got rid of the little that was in my belly, getting sicker knowing that they would finish that off as well.

  We now had a ride, which put us better off than we had been but did not bring us any closer to any answers. We still did not know if Jack was alive or even in this world. We certainly didn’t know what or who had brought us here and for what purpose. We needed to find people; that was without question. I was not a detective—figuring this out on my own seemed impossible. Where should I start the search? It was safe to assume the city was overrun with monsters of every variety, but there had to be people left, right? The population on this planet couldn’t be two. Could it?

  “We getting back on the train?” Trip asked, looking over.

  “I don’t think so, but maybe there are some clues there. Plus, I want to leave Jack a note on the off-chance he goes back there.” I had thin little to go on with my clues, and thin little hope Jack would read my hastily scrawled message, but on both fronts I had to at least try. My assumption was that any government experiments most likely would not have been conducted in the city—too many watchful eyes—so that left outside of the city limits. And if you really wanted to be sneaky, you would transport all of your super-secret machinery over the railway system, beyond the prying eyes of passing motorists. It wasn’t like rail-riding hobos would be believed if they said they saw some strange anomaly like monsters pouring forth through a wormhole. I could only imagine that the equipment necessary to produce said dimensional traveling machine would be vast, and how to transport all that stuff? Train, of course. I was making some very large jumps in reasoning, blind leaps really, but I had precious little else to go on.

  Either we circled the city looking for promising places to investigate and hope we didn’t become trapped again, or we struck out from here to some other, more promising location. I voted for the road and Trip abstained from voting, said it was for religious reasons. In this case, “one” was the majority. We took a precursory stop at the train depot, where the whistlers were thankfully absent. There were some lingering zombies, and again, no sign of people. I had not noticed the night we came, being busy with surviving and all, but the train tracks led away in over a dozen different directions. The odds I would pick the right one, or that there even was a right one, were beyond minimal. After placing my note in the engine where we’d hid, I got back in the van and, before we left and against my better judgment, I beeped the horn three times, hoping that somebody with a regular pulse would show. I waited three or four minutes, enough to let the nearby zombies close in, and then I left.

  “Where to?” Trip asked.

  “Indian Hill, I guess.” I had looked up at a massive map that showed the entire train line and its stations. The next big stop was written in blue lettering and appeared to be about fifty miles away.

  Jack Walker - Chapter 6

  Now the question is: do I stay, or attempt to make my way out again? Round one didn’t go very well, but that doesn’t mean the game is over. I’m alive, so that’s kind of winning ─ but so are those waiting outside. I guess we can call that a tie for now. If they wait me out until close to nighttime and leave, I’ll be stuck in this building. While it may have been somewhat safe before, it’s most likely open to the night runners now. I have a feeling that, if I’m still here when night falls, I may not ever leave it again. The ceiling won’t provide any kind of barrier to night runners, and there’s no way to scale the sheer exterior. The windows may provide an exit to the outside, but that’s about it. After that, it’s thirty or more feet straight down. So, all of that shoves “staying in the room” far down the desirable list—a list consisting of two options.

  If I am to leave, it needs to happen soon or I’ll find myself within the city limits when darkness falls. That would be as bad or worse than being in the room. Now, how to sneak past eigh
t whistlers watching the entrance, with an additional eight outside? The operation’s lobby door is out of the question, unless I can Agent Smith my way by them, and that’s not going to happen. They’ll probably be watching the ceiling more vigilantly now, but it’s my only other option.

  A commotion outside grabs my attention as the noise drifts faintly through the windows. As I stand, a sharp pain from my buttocks down reminds me of my recent endeavor through the plenum. I edge one of the slats down and peek at the street below. The whistlers that had vanished into adjacent buildings are standing among their bikes. Another five are dragging the bodies of those I killed down the large concrete stairs leading to the entrance. They haul them to the motorcycles and begin lashing them feet-first to the rear.

  Well, damn. There goes my chance to examine them, I think.

  I take another count to be sure of the numbers. Sure enough, five have left the building, leaving three to stand guard…or whatever it is that they’re doing.

  “Feeling a little confident in ourselves, are we?” I mutter.

  Although there are only three left inside at the moment, they still hold the advantage. They know exactly where I am and I haven’t the faintest idea where they are. My best guess is they are focused on watching the room’s entrance, but a guess is all it is. They could be set up in some kind of flanking positions, ready to take me down from the sides should I exit. Well, I have no intentions of walking out the front, even if they beg and plead.

  Given that they know where I am, it may be time to change that. I’m pretty sure that the concept of being where your enemy doesn’t expect you to be is one of the founding principles governing the Art of War. If it’s not, then it should be. If I’m going to try and get out again, this may be my best opportunity. I’m sure the five will return, if only to drag the remaining bodies from the building.