A Shrouded World (Book 2): Atlantis (26 page)

“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.

N
ow 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 eight 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.

It’s time to take a look into the ceiling. However, with the small amount of sunlight filtering into the room, if I was to open just one of the tiles and someone was keeping watch on the plenum spaces, it would be like I turned on a flashlight and screamed, “Here I come.” Opening the filing cabinets, I dump reports and loose files onto the floor. I quickly assemble a host of file folders and I tape the tops and bottoms together. I visually measure the distance from the drop ceiling to the top of the filing cabinets and create appropriate lengths of folders. Climbing to the top of the cabinets, I tape the lengths to the framework, screening off the rest of the room from one of the ceiling tiles. Kneeling inside of this screen, it’s almost completely dark.

I silently lift the tile above me, my handgun at the ready. Rising through the opening, I quickly scan the upper levels. My line of sight isn’t the greatest with all of the pipes and ducts, but I can’t mistake the outline of a whistler squatting near where I fell. I can’t see the entire body, but with the odd angle of its joints and tall, thin body, it looks much like a praying mantis standing on a stalk.

The shot, if I was to take one, is a little too far for my 9mm. The whistler is looking toward the room, but not directly at me. I slowly holster my handgun and bring my carbine up. While I’d rather sneak past them and exit quietly, that doesn’t look like it’s going to happen; they have the exit pretty well covered. If I’m going to make my way out before dark, it looks like I’ll have to fight my way through. It’s that or wait for the night runners. The odds of my living through that are nil, whereas this way, the odds rise by about .01%.

Well, Jack, if we’re going to do this, let’s get it started
, I think, bringing my red dot to bear on the whistler.

The dot centers firmly on one lens of the gas mask covering the whistler’s face. My heart beats rapidly, knowing the game is about to begin. I’ve won the toss and have elected to kick off. I momentarily have the advantage, but that will be lost with the first shot. After that, I’ll be on the defensive.

The plenum space flashes as I send a round out. A soft clap, the metallic sound of the bolt chambering another round, and the delicate tinkle of the cartridge bouncing against the edge of the aluminum framework are the only noises. The bullet speeds out of the suppressor, races across the tops of the conduits, and through the lens of the gas mask. Blood immediately coats the inside of the shattered lens as the whistler’s head snaps backward. Without uttering a sound, the whistler falls forward. A crash of twisting aluminum tells of the body plummeting through the ceiling, widening the hole I had made on my own journey from the upper levels.

Score one for the defense
, I think, scrambling on top of the wall.

One of the remaining whistlers emits an ear-piercing whistle-shriek, so loud and intense that it vibrates my skull and damn near incapacitates me. If they knew the effect it had on me, they’d use that as their primary weapon; have a couple of them emit that sound while the others calmly walk up and disarm me.

Well, they know where I am now. Time to apply that part of the “don’t be where they expect you to be” axiom
.

I move across the top of the wall, stepping over smaller conduits as quietly and quickly as I can. Alternating my vision between my path and where the whistler fell through the ceiling, I keep my M-4 pointed in that direction as much as possible. I move down the corridor, running to the side of the main hall, and halt at a firewall that cordons off this section of building.

An arm and masked head quickly pop up through the hole in the ceiling, looking and aiming toward the operations room I left behind. The sides of the pipes and ducts light up as I send a special delivery its way—I wonder if they even have genders. The round strikes the side of the whistler’s head where mask meets flesh—or at least where I suspect it should. It’s hard to tell in the varying shades of gray that define my night vision. Plus, the black mask and blackness of their lower faces seem to blend together.

There isn’t the distinctive thud of a round impacting flesh and bone, rather, it sounds more like a plop. Regardless, the whistler’s head rocks to the side and vanishes below my line of sight as quickly as it appeared. A following crash and heavy thud tells of its body falling to the room below.

Score two. Time to move again
.

My idea is to make the upper levels uncomfortable for them to enter. If I can make this my domain, then I have a chance of escaping. It will cause them to spread out in order to keep a larger area under surveillance. That is, if they stay within the building. They could exit and keep all of the entrances under surveillance. But, that will also give me room to operate. There are two of three down, but I’m sure that whistle was one of alarm: a call for help.

I now have two options: Stay in the ceiling and keep them at bay while I try to work my way around them, or emerge, take down the remaining one before the others show up—they have to climb three stories first—and make myself scarce.

Staying in the ceiling is about the same as staying in the room. The sun will set, or come close to it, the whistlers will leave, and again I’ll be stuck in the midst of a massive night runner emergence. Exiting my little lair and engaging the remaining whistler, or whistlers, is an iffy situation. I have no idea where it is, or when its compadres will arrive… and how many of them are coming. So, that really leaves keeping their heads out of the ceiling and trying to work my way around them.

The larger pipes running down the center of the hallway all hang by long, thick bolts attached to wide brackets. The brackets are positioned close to one another and give the appearance of being sturdy. The nearest of the tight grouping of four and six-inch conduits are positioned above the level of the wall about an arm’s reach away. Balancing my M-4 across my outstretched forearms, I lean forward until my palms connect with the pipes. Holding my position with one hand, I carefully place my carbine on a level section of pipes. I then grip one of the holding bracket bolts and swing a leg across, planting my foot firmly on a conduit near the concrete firewall. Even though the entire structure seems firm enough to support me, I opt to cross near the firewall where it will be even stronger.

Lying on the steel conduits, I edge under the narrow space between them and the aluminum HVAC ducts. On the other side, using the firewall for support, I’m able to step across the space and place a boot down onto the top of the office wall. I crouch in silence for a quick moment, listening to see if I have drawn any attention. Nothing. The building seems to have reverted to its tomb-like silence. The feeling, however, isn’t one of emptiness, but one of tense waiting—a held breath waiting to be expelled.

The office walls continue along the firewall without interruption to meet an intersection. It’s a tight fit, and I have to twist my torso so that I can slide along with my back to the wall. That suits me just fine, as it’s a more comfortable position. And, I’m able to keep most of the section within view, should the whistlers attempt to climb into the upper levels from another entry point.

There aren’t any overhead pipes along my path now, so I’m able to stand fully upright. I sidle along, one slow and careful step at a time. I can tell when I come to the first branching hall because of the way the pipes separate. Plus, it’s easy to see the shredded tiles where the whistlers initially bombarded me with staples. My pack, leaning against one of the pipes, offers an additional clue to my current location. Dust motes hover in the air where the whistler and I fell. Holding my M-4 across my body, I slowly edge past the T-junction located on the other side of the office above which I’m currently traversing.

Noise, coming from the one of the halls, catches my attention. It’s definitely the clicking and soft trills of the whistlers. I imagine the lone whistler left behind is attempting to explain why two of their company are lying on the ground:

“What happened here?”

“I’m not really sure. Clyde here just fell out of the ceiling. Butch went to take a look and also fell.”

“And what did you do about it?”

“Well, nothing. With the two of them falling from up there, the best idea seemed to be to stay down here. Besides, someone had to watch over them so we could eat them later.”

“Okay, fair enough. But you just lost your share. Where is the creature we’ve cornered?”

“I have
no
idea. Up there, I imagine,” pointing at the ceiling.

With that bouncing in my skull, I ready my carbine for heads to start poking up in places, like some kind of lethal whack-a-mole game. No one appears, but I do hear sounds like something heavy being dragged down the hall, fading into the distance. Silence returns.

I assume that the others returned only to cart off the remaining bodies. The zombie night runner group, if that’s what they were, has been effectively removed from the game, although I can’t verify that. I heard gargling screams, and imagine that was from the whistlers engaging the remainder of the group that entered behind me. I almost wish I was back at the windows to count the bodies, but I don’t really know how many there were to begin with, so that would actually be useless.

What I would like to count is the number of whistlers outside so I can know how many are remaining within. But that’s just another of those unfulfilled wishes.

Keep with the plan, Jack
.

Nervous tension causes beads of sweat to run down my forehead and trickle down my cheeks. Grit from the dusty environment and from the shattered ceiling tiles grates on my neck and down my back. I take a moment to dab more water inside of my nostrils and take a drink to soothe my dry throat before moving on.

I imagine it’s getting closer to dusk, and I’m stuck between the need to move faster and the need to move quietly. I opt for slowness—if I’m caught now, the sun setting won’t matter one whit. Listening and looking intently, I slowly make my way to the next firewall.

The stairwell is on the other side, so it’s here that I’ll have to drop down and try to make my way to the other side down the main hall. That thought isn’t an especially appealing one, but it’s the only choice I have. Crouching, I ease one of the tiles upward and peek into the office space below, fully expecting to see a whistler staring directly up at me. I’m relieved to see that it appears empty. There aren’t any cabinets that I can use to ease into the office, so I lift the tile completely clear of the framework and lower myself down as quietly as I can. It’s unfortunate that I won’t be able to replace the tile, but the odds of a whistler randomly walking into the office are relatively low. Of course, my luck hasn’t been all that great lately.

A quick glance shows a hand sticking up from the surface of the desk. Considering my situation, it doesn’t really faze me as much as it should. It’s still creepy as fuck, but I have other matters occupying my mind. I’m sure the images I’ve witnessed will come back to haunt me once my mind is free to wheel about on its own.

The door opens inward. Carefully lifting on the knob, I crack it open a couple of inches and look down into the main hall toward the central operations office. I can also see the hallway junction, but not more than a foot or so down the branching hall. However, it’s enough to see a whistler standing at the corner, barely peering around it toward the operations lobby. The tall, lean frame of the creature has its back mostly toward me, its focus on the lobby. It alters its view from the room to the torn-up overhead ceiling, occasionally cocking its head as if listening. The lanky body with the fleshy head, complete with gas mask, is just flat out eerie, especially with the dramatic change of its head coloration from nearly white to black.