A Shrouded World (Book 2): Atlantis Page 5

  I was short with Mike earlier, and perhaps a little harsher than I intended. Even though it’s no excuse, this place is beginning to get to me. I’m away from my loved ones, I have no idea how they are doing, and that is driving me crazy with worry. More importantly, I don’t know how to get back to them. Not a clue. I don’t even have a plan or even know where to start, and it’s stressing the fuck out of me. I don’t want to be here, and when I don’t want to be in a place and can’t escape, well, bad thoughts begin to form and my mood takes a drastic turn for the worse.

  Not only do I not want to be here, for obvious reasons, but the very idea that someone may have brought me here against my will, without even having the decency of asking, to use me toward some unknown goal, well, that just pisses me off. Provided that is what’s going on, and I’m not entirely convinced of that. But I do know that I’ve been forcefully taken from Lynn and the kids. And the timing couldn’t have been worse. Back in my world, there were matters that needed attending to…it was crunch time. That just makes this worse. If whoever it is that did this shit can hear my thoughts, you had better remedy this shortly ─ and you had better hope that we don’t ever meet. Only one of us will walk away from that meeting.

  * * *

  I emerge from my thoughts, cycling through my head like a bad news reel, and return to the present. The sun overhead casts its warmth downward. My back and shoulders are hot from the backpack and the heat radiates upward in waves from the steel of the rail car’s roof. Behind us, I hear faint groans from the mass of zombies still gathered around the car we holed up in.

  I hope Mike hasn’t fallen asleep and rolled off. Or worse, started to slip and can’t do anything to stop it with his numb legs. Perhaps I should have left Trip there with him.

  I pause, debating whether to send Trip back. I have to admit that I’m torn. On one hand, well, I already covered that one. On the other, Trip wanted to come with me, and even though my stress level goes up with him around, I can’t discount the providence he brings.

  As Trip and I make our way along the tops of the cars, some easier to navigate than others, I look again to the nearby city. In my mind, Atlantis seems to be a focal point of sorts. First, there are the military blockades, perhaps set in place to stem the tide of people pouring out of the other burning city or to stop whatever it was that caused them to flee. Or, just maybe, it was entirely to keep people away. The answer to that is something I’ll probably never know. Then, there are the whistlers to consider. They certainly seemed to be heading toward it; calmly motoring along with bodies tied behind their rides.

  And riding motorcycles…really?! How do they even know how to ride? And why motorcycles, of all things?

  That just doesn’t make sense. Of course, nothing about this place does. Maybe I should stop trying to make sense of it; stop living by the rules of my world…or at least trying to apply them to this place.

  Funny how this city isn’t burning like the other one, yet there are obviously enemies about.

  Whatever the city itself holds, it does seem to be the best bet to find answers, although I’m afraid they’ll only bring more questions, and I already have enough of those. What I truly need is to get back to Lynn and the kids. And I miss my mom. Sure, Mike is a good man and I enjoy his company. Trip too, although he can be trying at times. If it weren’t for the circumstances, I’d be laughing my head off at him. The circumstances we’re in help with the bonding, but what I wouldn’t give to be back in the dining facility, eating my meal with Red Team, laughing at their ridiculous jokes and taking my share of ridicule. What I wouldn’t do to hear Gonzalez give me a “hooah.”

  As Trip and I continue, I note that the groaning coming from our tailing group of zombies has fallen away. There is only the sound of our boots clonking on the steel roof as we make our way under the bright sun. Waves of heat rising from the surface roll across my face. Sweat forms under my arms and I feel the wet heat forming under my backpack. The stink of the zombies gives way to a sweetish smell, much like juniper bushes in the summer.

  I look over each side of the car for any sign of our tailing friends. Nothing. I see a small group in the distance behind, wavering amid the heat waves. Perhaps they realized there isn’t much chance for a meal and headed back. That may be giving them too much credit—they could have just lost sight and scent of Trip and me and are just meandering aimlessly where they lost us. Who knows? The only important thing is that they aren’t here.

  “Trip, what do you say we get off these boxcars and walk alongside the train? I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of climbing ladders, and we’ll make better time that way.”

  Trip turns in mid-step, excitement lighting up his eyes like a kid on Christmas morning.

  “Can I look inside the cars?”

  I sigh, thinking of the time that will be wasted with him exploring a hundred boxcars. Who knows what’s hidden inside of their compartments, but we don’t have all day. We may be able to conduct a search later. Right now, Mike is lying on a boxcar behind us with a horde encircling him, and we need to get this train rolling—if that’s even possible. However, I know Trip will most likely wander off on his own to search for treasure, which means I will waste even more time looking for him. Of course, I can just follow the scent of marijuana and trail of roaches.

  “One… just one, Trip. That’s all, and you can’t go wandering off. That’s the deal.”

  He doesn’t say a thing, only turns and starts descending a steel ladder. I shake my head, but I need to know that he understands me.

  “Trip, I need to know that you heard me.”

  He looks up, his head barely visible over the top of the rail car. After giving me a quick nod, he vanishes. I sigh heavily and shake my head again. Oh, what I wouldn’t do to be back with my group. While amusing at times, and certainly helpful, Trip can also be incredibly frustrating. Realizing that it’s the best I’m going to get from him, I follow.

  We walk for some distance, passing one car after another. Boxcars, flatbeds, tankers: all seem to run together and go on forever. I keep an eye behind and to the sides, watching to see if our descent from the top gained an audience. So far, we are left to ourselves. That doesn’t mean that others might not be ahead, though. Every so often, I scale a rail car to better survey our surroundings. On top of one such car, Trip calls out.

  “This one… I want to look in this one.”

  I look down. It looks like all of the others, so I’m not sure what’s drawing his attention. But, he’s Trip, so who knows? I’m not sure if he really does, either. However, the engines are finally in sight, so I don’t see any harm in stopping for a moment.

  Might as well get this over with.

  I hop down—the term “hop” being relative. If I was to truly do such a thing, my knees would leave my body at close to the speed of light. I can see them now, shooting away from my body, leaving ragged holes in my fatigues. They’d bounce across the sandy soil, coming to rest some distance away. Then, rise and race across the uneven ground in an attempt to get farther away. No, by hopping down, I mean that I slowly lowered myself down the ladder, one careful step at a time.

  Even with my body’s physical changes, the climb through the hole last night wasn’t a pleasant one. Sure, I made the jump, to my surprise, but the landing was anything but pleasant. My body rebelled, mostly my knees and ankles, and I put a note in the suggestion box not to do that again.

  Near the rolling side doors, Trip is shifting his weight from side to side. It almost looks like a trance-induced dance at high speed. His eagerness to explore the contents is more than apparent. I’m surprised he isn’t actually dancing and clapping his hands, although that would entail dropping his joint.

  “What’s so special about this one?”

  He shrugs before turning his attention to the doors.

  “Okay, I promised you one. Are you sure this is the one you want? Because we aren’t stopping again.”

  He nods. I feel like a pare
nt with a kid in the candy aisle, telling them that they can choose one, but only one.

  “We aren’t staying long, so make this quick,” I say, grabbing hold of one of the doors.

  I’m surprised the rail car isn’t locked, which tells me that there may not be much in it. Opening up my senses, I don’t get any indication that there are night runners inside, but that’s never a sure thing. I feel the heat of the door through my gloves as I take hold and pull. The door opens slightly, then sticks. Moving my position, I wedge my hand inside and push. The door rolls backward in a groaning, metal-shrieking protest. I stop as soon as there is enough room to get inside for fear of making more noise, which might attract unwanted guests. Although I would expect the interior to be like an oven, cooler air seeps out of the opening. It feels good against the heat that I’ve soaked up, so I stand for a moment, relishing the fresh feeling it brings. But, like many things, that passes.

  There isn’t an instant scream, which would indicate night runners on board. That doesn’t mean that it isn’t occupied—just not by them. I wait for a moment, sensing Trip’s eager anticipation behind. The air currents don’t carry the scent of any threats, and I don’t hear shuffling or anything else that might indicate someone else is aboard. The interior only smells dry and musty.

  “Trip, like I said, we’re not staying long, but this one seems okay. I’ll be on top keeping watch,” I say, removing my flashlight and handing it to him.

  Trip takes it and jumps on board, vanishing quickly into the dark, almost as if he hadn’t just been standing next to me. I hear him giggle a couple of times among the sound of items being shifted. I climb to the top of the boxcar and sit on the edge above the door. The heat from the steel is uncomfortable at first, but it eventually fades to become bearable. Looking around, there isn’t anything except scrub brush and a few stunted trees. The city still stands tall in the distance, sunlight reflecting off glass panels. The heat, combined with my fatigue and stress, makes me want to take a nap. I know I can’t, but damn, I sure would like to lay my head down and drift off.

  I hear a commotion below me. Looking between my dangling legs, I see a carton edge out of the doorway, slowly being pushed outside. The balance shifts and the box falls to the ground. Trip’s hands barely show before being whisked back inside. More shuffling and another box appears, landing on top of the previous one before falling to the side.

  What in the fuck is he up to? I think, watching more boxes appear.

  Before long, Trip jumps down and begins opening the boxes.

  “Did you find what you wanted? Anything interesting?” I call from above.

  “Come look, Yack.”

  With a last look around, I climb down.

  Damn if he hasn’t found more Phritos, I think, looking at the contents he’s scattered and is currently eating.

  Loose flakes dribble from his mouth and chin as he stuffs the contents of bag after bag in his face.

  I’m guessing that he has the munchies.

  I open some of the unopened crates. Insides some are packs of ham jerky—ewww, but food is food. Others contain cherry juice. Now, that’s a good thing, but liable to make you sprint for the woods if you have too much. I pocket a few of the packages and stow more in my pack. Trip begins hoisting a box of Phritos onto his shoulder.

  “Uh-uh,” I say. “After we check out the engines, we’ll pass by here on our way back to Mike; you can pick up more then.”

  With Trip eating loudly by my side, we leave behind the opened boxes scattered on the ground next to the boxcar. Trip pours through the Phritos, leaving empty wrapper after empty wrapper on the ground. Now, I’m not much for littering, and prefer to bury any waste, but fuck it. I know we’re leaving a trail, but at the rate he’s going through what he brought, I’d be spending the rest of the day digging holes. I just don’t want a repeat of that…episode…on the highway. If that happens again, I’ll just shoot him and tell Mike he got lost. Of course, that would mean digging a much larger hole, but I’m not sure I can tolerate having to go through something like that again.

  Heat emanates from the sides of the steel cars as Trip and I resume our journey. The crunch of gravel under our feet is the only sound accompanying us. That plus walking beside a rail line in the middle of nowhere lends a feeling of loneliness; much like a train whistle in the middle of the night or a distant coyote howl.

  At first, we don’t seem to be getting any closer to the engines, but then, all of a sudden, we’re at the foot of the first steel behemoth. It stands tall and silent, a lonely sentinel on the prairie, not knowing if it would ever be noticed again. The four engines, besides maintaining their lonely vigil, also look ready to pounce. Looking at each one, I sense the power held silently within, ready to come to life and rumble down the tracks. I look on, almost in awe.

  The heat and stress must be getting to me, I think, grabbing a handrail on the lead engine. Nothing to it but to get to it.

  The sun is slowly wending its way west, or what I think of as west. I still carry the compass I found with the strange markings at its cardinal points. I leap onto the stairs and stride along an outer walkway that extends the length of the locomotive. The door to the cab is unlocked, and I step inside. Expecting a cooler atmosphere, like the one that poured out of the boxcar, I am disappointed to find that it’s just as warm as outside, if not stuffier. The odor of grease and a myriad of other scents that one associates with machinery permeate the interior, all blending into one smell.

  “Never thought I’d see another one of those,” Trip says, standing in the doorway.

  “Another what?” I ask, wary of asking Trip anything.

  “An auto itinerary and decoupler,” he replies, then takes on a faraway look while staring at the ceiling. “Shanghai…yeah, that’s where it was. I was Shanghaied. Or, maybe it was on the Siberian rail.”

  I have no idea what the hell he is talking about, as if that’s something new. It seems he’s been everywhere and done everything, or maybe he’s just read a lot and superimposed himself into the stories. I’d think the odds of that were better if I hadn’t watched him do things that would validate his stories—or rather, his nonsensical statements.

  He enters and begins pointing at objects and naming them, not at all minding that the placards on some of them read something completely different. I don’t pay much attention to him, even though I’ve told myself that I need to do that very thing. But, well, it’s easier said than done. I rummage through several lockers until I find something that looks like a manual. Flipping randomly through the pages, I am fairly certain that’s exactly what I’ve found, as it looks very much like the aircraft manuals I had to memorize in the past. Satisfied, I place the manual on a small counter by the engineer’s station.

  Trip is still looking at the dials and levers. He reaches over and turns a knob. The instruments jump, indicating that there’s power. One dial swings over to the right, reading barely in the limits of a green arc.

  I guess that’s the electrical readout. Fortunate.

  The journey to the front of the train took longer than I anticipated. I would like to sit down and begin studying the manual, but we’ve been gone for a while. Given Mike’s condition, I don’t want to leave him alone any longer than necessary. All it would take is for one zombie to figure out how to climb a ladder and that would be it for Mike. It would truly suck to return only to find him just another zombie in the horde. Yeah, I don’t even want to think about that one. We’ve found what we were looking for, there’s a manual, and we’ll be able to use the train. It’s time to return to Mike and bring him a few supplies before we get this train rolling—so to speak.

  Jack Walker - Chapter 2

  The timing of our arrival back to Mike was, well, rather awkward to say the least. After leaving Mike with some ham jerky and cherry juice, Trip and I make our way back up the long length of rail cars, heading across the top of the train until I’m reasonably sure that the zombies have given up any pursuit. I’
m wary of the smart ones we keep coming across. They have a rudimentary sense of tactics—maybe more than rudimentary, as I’ve watched them attempt flanking maneuvers. I really wonder about those ones, as they don’t fit the mold. Sure, there are some zombies displaying above average intelligence for a zombie, but that isn’t really saying much. These…well, these are just different, and light-years beyond zombies. They are on par with night runners, if not actually smarter in some areas. Intelligence and firepower are two things that have kept us alive so far in both worlds. If we lose that advantage, then it is merely a matter of numbers, and we’re on the wrong end there.

  The whistlers are also a different story. They appear to have intelligence, speed, firepower of sorts, and the ability to interact more deeply with their surroundings. I mean, motorcycles—really?! We are far behind in our understanding of them, something we need to rectify soon if we are going to be able to deal with them. I highly doubt that the ones we dealt with at the overpass are the only ones about. Unfortunately, our path is directing us toward the city—which puts all of us on a converging path.

  As Trip and I take our afternoon stroll alongside the train, with part of my attention directed on our surroundings, my thoughts cycle back to the three of us being brought into this world. I can’t imagine what we are supposed to accomplish or help with. It just doesn’t make sense. I can see bringing in such a small number if we’re supposed to bypass all of the shit we’ve run into—a stealth mission and sneak into somewhere. Perhaps that’s just my mentality. But so far, all we’ve managed to do is walk down the middle of highways and run into every imaginable creature…the exact opposite of what sneaking in is supposed to accomplish. Although, I can’t even begin to imagine sneaking through what this world has to offer. Zombies scattered in small groups and hordes like the one encircling Mike, night runners after dark, smart zombies managing small forces, and now whistlers. At least they haven’t all teamed together. In fact, they seem to fight each other as much as they chase us.