A Shrouded World (Book 4): Valhalla Read online

  I pull back the bolt, exposing the bright gleam of a cartridge in the chamber with a hint of others beneath in the mag.

  At least those seem fresh.

  The bolt goes forward as I hear a closer scream, so loud that it feels as if the walls and floor vibrate from the ear-piercing sound. The gathered dust shakes, making it seem as if the floor is flowing.

  A clatter of noise erupts from beyond the leaning door, bringing an additional surge of adrenaline. My worst fear of what was coming has materialized. I’m outside of a secured area in the midst of night runners. I have no idea what happened to Bill and Lynn’s house, but that’s for later. Right now, I have to survive.

  The banging of something thrown or falling to the floor resounds nearby, followed by a shriek. I stand with my back to the wall, one so I have my backside protected and two because the floor will be sturdier. There’s a basement below me and the last thing I need now is for the floor to collapse, sending me falling amid a jumble of timbers, rusted nails, and a shit ton of noise. I don’t dare open up to see how many night runners are running rampant or how close they might be. That won’t do me any good. Whatever is out there is out there, and there’s nothing I can do about that. Plus, I’d only reveal myself.

  Footsteps and rustling sounds come from the hallway. I have a good view of the door and raise my carbine to a ready position. Near the leaning door, I hear sniffing, followed by a shuffle of steps. I keep my breathing steady, the feel of cold metal under my gloved fingers giving me certain sense of security. A low growl comes from just out of sight. I’m fairly certain that the night runner out there smells me.

  A pale body, with barely a hint of tattered clothing, comes into view. The leaning twisted door cuts the form of the night runner at an angle. Flashes of silver show as we lock eyes, its mouth opening in a scream just as I fire. Three suppressed rounds impact its chest, tearing through the body to exit its back. Plaster flies outward from the far wall as my bullets hit, sprays of blood added to the moldy and stained sheetrock. The night runner is thrown back against the wall, sending more sheetrock to the floor. The creature then slumps downward, leaving a dark smear on the walls and with blood trickling from the entry wounds. A cloud of dust is pushed outward as it falls to the side and hits the floor. However, I wasn’t quick enough to stop the last-second scream from echoing throughout the house.

  Answering shrieks call from outside, my heart jumping at the sound of each one. I should have forgone the awkwardness I felt with Bill and Lynn and forced the issue regarding the night runners. I allowed being overwhelmed to interfere with my judgment and now I’m having to face that mistake in full force. Although, the decaying house doesn’t fit in with the scenario that I’ve only woken at night with night runners descending upon the town. For a moment, I wonder if I’m dreaming. But, however real my dreams can be at times, this doesn’t have the feel of a nightmare. Regardless, as in my dreams, I have to survive it.

  The basement! I have to get there, I think, the faint smell of gunpowder mixing with the mold and decay.

  Pulling the door into the room, the bottom hinge coming free as if it were never attached, I lay it on the floor. Screams are closing in from outside as I step past the fallen night runner, the odor of freshly fallen plaster, mold, and feces filling the hall. The corridor looms, the ceiling sagging in the middle, one door lying against a wall, having been removed and thrown there by the night runner. A light fixture sits amid crumbles of plaster, and the floor boards are warped, making the hall look like debris from a sunken ship floating on an ocean swell.

  A single set of fresh tracks mar the dusty surface, indicative that this place hasn’t been visited in some time. A clatter from the end of the hall and another night runner heaves into view, this one on its feet and hands. It stops and lifts its nose, turning its head left and right. It’s between me and the basement entrance, in whatever shape that may be, and the mounting screams indicate other night runners closing in. I send a single round, having no opportunity for patience.

  Catching it turning, the bullet slams into the creature’s head with the solid thump of hitting flesh. The round drills through the ear canal and enters the brain. Tearing through the soft tissue, the projectile angles slightly and crashes into the skull. A lumpy splash of blood and tissue explode out of the other side, blood spraying from its mouth and nostrils. The night runner falls forward onto its face, pools of blood immediately soaking into the rotting wood of the floor.

  I step forward, keeping as close to the decaying walls as possible. The crunch of my boots on the crumbles of sheetrock is felt as I contemplate making an all-out run for the end of the hall and toward the basement. As it is, I have a fairly defensible space with a narrow entry point, but I’m dealing with night runners, and anything goes with them.

  Another step and two more night runners round the corner on the dead run. One crashes into the wall as the turn proves too much. However, it uses the wall to its advantage, barely slowing as it rebounds off. The corridor is filled with their high-pitched screams, their eyes blazing silver and hungry. Their nearly naked pale bodies jostle with each other as they race toward me, their arms pumping at their sides.

  I place a burst into the one slightly ahead on the right. Entry wounds form from three rounds pounding into its chest. A small splash of blood is blown from its mouth, spraying across its chin and cheeks. The night runner goes down face first, its speed causing it to slide across the uneven surface.

  The second one leaps over the fallen body. A burst sends it careening to the side, its body jerking like my bullets were made of electricity. It hits the wall and tumbles to the floor with a shower of plaster falling over the body. It twitches violently, a shot to the head only worsening it, causing its legs to hammer into the floor.

  A crash of glass from behind, coming from the room I had been laid up in. I step backward to see a night runner rise from a cloud of dust. Shards of glass fall off its body, some glimmering from reflected moonlight. The bed has fallen completely apart from the creature diving onto it. With a shriek, it rises and rushes forward, its arms and face bleeding from glass cuts.

  Maneuvering my M-4 as best I can in the enclosed space, I sight through the doorway and send three rounds into it at near point-blank range. One of the bullets takes it in the throat, pulsing blood sprayed across the intervening distance. The walls are coated with lines of red like someone slinging a fully loaded paint brush, and I feel a warm splash on my cheeks. Rivulets of red stream downward, forming continuous drops across the missing patches of sheetrock.

  The night runner staggers forward, its hands going to its ruined neck, and crashes into me. Both of us stumble backward, my back hitting the wall as the night runner slides down my front. It comes to lie at my feet, trying to scream but the sounds only come out as wet gurgles. The pulsing of the severed jugular coats the walls and floor, then it slows and the creature twitches twice before the life leaves its eyes.

  I shove my leg forward, moving the night runner and clearing my feet. Another appears at the end of the hallway at the same time as heavy thumping sounds come from above. My imagination concocts visions of the creatures in the attic spaces. As the night runner starts down the hall with a reverberating shriek, I keep an eye on the ceiling. A burst of fire sends the lone night runner leaping down the hall to the ground, dust rising and debris scattering from its fall. It tries rising, pushing its body up with trembling arms. I place a burst into its head, the solid thumps and cracks of broken skull mixing with more heavy sounds from overhead.

  A wooden crack sounds sharply and the ceiling bows just a second before sheetrock, timber, and loose wires fall into the hallway just a few feet ahead of me. Three night runners fall in the rubble and pour to the floor. Debris slowly dribbles out of the hole and onto a tangle of creatures. I fire into one who has zero hesitation and is pushing off with its legs even as it rises. Its foot kicks out behind as my bullets take it in the head and shoulder. Its dusty and greasy hair beco
mes instantly matted with blood, making the top of its head look like it had been doused in a red paste.

  The other two are close behind, kicking up debris as they lunge forward. Taking a step back, I send a burst into one who is jumping over the still bleeding form of its compadre. The rounds hammer into it, its body continuing forward in a stagger as it slams into my lower leg. I feel my knee wrench to the side and I step back, feeling an electric jolt as I put weight on it. I’m still standing, but the pain makes its presence known.

  In the now extremely crowded hallway, the third night runner crashes into me—I barely noticed it had risen from the ceiling collapse. Bringing my carbine across my body just in time, I rotate my body and we both go crashing through the bedroom entry and onto the floor. Side by side, its face mere inches from mine, the night runner snarls and growls as it tries to get its teeth on my flesh. Fetid breath is forcefully exhaled into my face as fingers grope and scratch my shoulders and the back of my head.

  Working my arm free from under me, I force my forearm between us and push. Once I have additional leverage, I drop the grip on my carbine and grope for my knife. Sliding the blade free and ignoring the scratches being delivered to the back and side of my head, I force my arm up between us, careful of its thrashing. Using my body and arm, I drive the knife into its abdomen, twisting and slashing the blade. Warmth flows over my hand and the night runner becomes frantic. Working the blade in its stomach, the creature stares directly into my eyes as it tries forcing my head closer, using its hand at the back of my neck. I resist and feel the torment from my previous wounds. The pull lessens, blood trickling from the corner of its mouth. The trickle increases to a flood, the iron smell just under my nose, its snarls wet. The night runner convulses, once, twice, again, and I watch the light leave its eyes.

  Pushing the night runner aside and withdrawing my knife, I rise. Thick blood streams from the end of my blade, becoming viscous tendrils that turn into thick drops. Getting to my feet, feeling my knee say hello, a night runner leaps without warning through the broken window. It sails in the air, barely catching its torso on a shard of glass still clinging to the sill. A single drop of blood forms a small stream on the shard.

  I catch it in midair and turn, my knee saying nope to the additional strain. We both hit the ground hard, the entire floor swaying as if it’s had enough. Tendrils of dust coat my face and dry my nostrils. I feel the blood cooling on my gloves and the warmth of my own blood trickling down my neck. Coming out on top of the night runner, I place my knees to either side and, making sure my knife is turned sideways, plunge the six-inch blade into its chest. It glances off a rib, but being positioned sideways, it enters the chest cavity. The night runner stiffens in pain, its muscles clenching and unclenching. I work the double-edged dagger back and forth, slicing through arteries, lungs, and heart muscle. With a cough of thick blood, the night runner turns its head and reaches out, trying to crawl away from the agony. It coughs a couple more times and goes still, blood pooling by its head.

  Feeling the burns from the scratches on my scalp, I pull the knife out, blood following. Sheathing it, I grab for my M-4, the blood from my gloves coating the grip. At the door to the bedroom, two more night runners are charging down the hall, scrambling over the debris from the fallen ceiling. I’m tired and my knee is not happy, but I’m full of adrenaline. Aiming around the corner and firing, the two creatures take nose dives, their bodies added to the others filling the corridor.

  I’m not sure if my knee will survive a dash to the basement, and given the condition of the house, it may even be blocked or filled with debris. More screams are coming from outside and I lean against the warped doorframe, aiming down the hall. I’m mentally berating myself for allowing this to happen, allowing myself to be overwhelmed by emotion and throwing survival to the side. I have one mission, and that’s to get back to my kids and my Lynn. Everything else is inconsequential.

  The hole in the ceiling allows a view of the partially caved-in roof. Through that, and from the window behind, the sky is a lighter color. Dawn is near, which is mixed relief and worry. The night runners will be forced back to their lairs. But the worry, well, even though the dust showed no signs of passage before our little song and dance, I could be standing on top of one of those lairs. The open window behind me suggests that this particular room is safe, but hundreds could pass through on their way to the basement.

  In silence, a night runner appears at the end of the hall and looks down its length to meet my eyes. Another joins it and we stare at each other, the night runners altering their gaze between me and the lightening sky outside.

  “I’m game if you want to play,” I offer.

  I would fire—definitely if they started toward me—but with the coming dawn, they might retire, and I should think about conserving my ammo. I’ve nearly run through an entire mag in this fight and just don’t have many remaining. With a loud shriek, they both turn and race out of sight, their screams fading in the disappearing night, along with others.

  “See ya,” I wave at their vanished forms.

  A lighter glow appears on the other side of the window, dawn not far off. With a sigh, I crouch, my bent knee aching. Removing my glove, I run a bloodstained hand over my head, feeling scratches and one deeper gouge. It comes away with a fresh smear of blood, but not that bad. I’ll need to clean it before long, but I’m fine for now. However, this world is slowly draining my strength and I have new injuries each day. Replacing my nearly depleted mag and leaning my carbine beside me, lest the night runners not be the only predators out and about, I remove my pack and take out my one remaining water bottle. I take a long drink, washing off the dust crusted in my throat.

  Putting everything away, I grab my carbine and rise to my feet. With a heavy sigh, I limp down the hall, stepping over bodies and debris.

  “Well, let’s see what we’re facing,” I mutter.

  Jack Walker—Chapter 3

  Cautiously heading toward the front of the house, I halt at the end of the hallway, staring into a living room that has seen better days. Part of the ceiling has fallen in, covering the warped floor boards. Not much is left of the furniture, the cloth and cushions having long ago disintegrated. Rusted springs lie amid rotten pieces of wood that barely form the outline of what they used to be. Any carpeting that had been there is now just clumps of mold.

  Freshly disturbed motes of dust stir in a beam of light angling through a smashed front window. The front door lies on the floor of the foyer, torn or fallen from rusted hinges that have been ripped from their rotten frame. As in the hallway, blood and feces mix with the smell of age. The floorboards creak ominously as I take a step toward the living room, the floor bowing under my boots.

  Well, okay then. That’s a no-go.

  With the way the floor behaves under my weight, I’m glad I didn’t try and race toward the basement. The surface would most likely have given way, sending me plummeting to the basement below. Even though things have considerably aged, I’m sure this is the same house I was in with Bill and Lynn. Either that, or it’s a tremendous coincidence, and, although there are times it exists, I’m not a firm believer that those happen all that often. I glance at the flooring, trying to picture what the basement might look like, support beams fallen in disarray. If I had tried to make my stand there, the ceiling would have given way and created an avenue for the night runners to pour through. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t still be standing under those circumstances.

  Edging toward the open front doorway, I note that overgrown bushes and tall grass fill the yard. Trails show through the stalks where night runners made their way through. Rusted hulks of vehicles sit in cracked concrete driveways and on the street, plants pushing their way through the cracks. In the street, the asphalt is buckled with several small to medium-sized trees thrusting through the surface. The houses nearby are in the same condition as the one I’m standing in: roofs bowed inward, tiles and shingles dislodged and missing. Some sheltered porch
es have fallen, spreading timber and roof tiles through tall grass. All of this is lit by rays from the newly risen sun.

  There isn’t a sound to be heard nearby, the town truly dead. From far off, barely audible in the background, I hear the faint roar of surf. Staring at the scene in front of me, I wonder if I brought this future about by unleashing night runners onto an unsuspecting populace. Bill had mentioned that they were safe as long as they remained off the slopes and there was an underlying hint of the possibility that anyone venturing into the hills could bring the attention of monsters and thus break that line of safety.

  I wonder what that night must have been like, the night runners sweeping out of the woods in the darkness, filling the streets with their horrible shrieks. The warmth that the town had held turning into cold screams of terror and pain.

  Was that what happened? I think, turning to look inside the house.

  There isn’t anything to give a clue one way or another; things have decayed too much. If that is what happened, I feel guilty and deeply saddened. Even though I realize that the Lynn, Robert, and Nic I’d met aren’t mine, it still hurts as they seemed and looked identical. I have to pull my mind back from the imaginative track it’s heading down, visualizing night runners crashing through the front door and windows to maul them. It’s no use feeling guilty about something that I’m not sure happened, although there is evidence that it went down that way. There’s is a dead town and night runners, and even though they were technically different people, I feel as if I’ve lost the kids and Lynn yet all over again.

  The slope still looks the same, although the trees look a little larger, but that’s difficult to really tell. I’m not sure what to do at this point. Any answers I had hoped to glean are now dead. Stepping past the warped boards of the porch and into the yard, I stare in each direction, hoping that something will draw me toward it. Sunlight shines off the rising forest on two sides, the granite tops of the mountains looking majestic and forbidding. My sore knee is screaming “nope” as I stare at the peaks and contemplate climbing the steep slopes. To another side is the ocean, pretty much eliminating that as a direction. Although I know the rudimentary aspects of sailing, I doubt that I’d get out very far before tipping any boat I could find. That leaves the deep valley between the steep ridge lines. I still have a bit of food, and if the river is still there, then water will be plentiful.