A Shrouded World (Book 2): Atlantis (28 page)

Inside and to the roof, or to the two remaining upright bikes?

I don’t have time for an extended internal debate, nor can I make any mistakes. I have time for one choice, and I hope that it’s the correct one. Along with the shrieks echoing down the city streets from night runners drawing rapidly closer, I hear several muted cries coming from the building I just exited.

Night runners in the building behind me? What in the serious fuck? How did they get in there…and when? Well, I guess that way is out of the question.

I want to thank whatever spirits this place has for providing me direction, but I think they could have come up with a better sign. Like, maybe a bright neon arrow pointing at the bikes. Yeah, that would have been much better than putting night runners behind me.

Keep that in mind next time, please
.

I quickly open up to assess just how seriously I’m fucked. There are numerous packs of night runners in the area, and closing. And by numerous, I mean a fucking lot of them. Images flash through my mind, originating from within the building behind me. Some of the night runners are intent on eating the various appendages sticking out of the walls. I suppose finding that is like walking into a stocked buffet. I sure hope the people trapped within the walls can’t feel anything. That would truly suck.

Many of the images change from their dining pleasure to one of confusion upon sensing me. A lot of night runners on the lower floors leave the buffet line and head in my direction, the thought of live food nearby driving them from their meals. I shut down. For perhaps the hundredth time in the past few hours, it’s time for me to be somewhere else.

I run down the stairs, passing one of the fallen night runners. Dark fluid leaks out from under it and runs in rivulets into and down the cracks in the steps. Blocks away, both avenues are filled with screaming night runners racing in my direction. Upon seeing me, they shriek louder, if that’s even possible. The buildings are almost literally vibrating from their screams. I don’t know how the nearby windows aren’t shattering.

Need to make this fucking quick, Jack!

Even if I make it to the motorcycles, and even if they start, I could still be trapped if I don’t make it to one of the side streets before the night runners close in. And, there’s a great possibility that those routes will be closed. I make it to one of the bikes, hearing the pinned night runner cry out and try to push the bike off of it. I guess my shots were a little off target and only injured it.

Straddling one of the bikes, I reach down and fumble for the key. Nothing.

“Where the fuck is it?” I mutter, fear beginning to take greater hold as I lean forward and reach further down.

As I lean forward, the top of the key damn near hits me in the face. I’m used to some of the older bikes where the ignition is on the side. But, thank goodness there’s a key already set in the ignition. Pulling in the clutch, I turn the key and am rewarded by a vibrating, throaty roar after a few cranks. I hope silently that the motorcycles here use the same configuration that I’m used to. Placing my carbine across my arms, I slam my foot down on the gearshift and am rewarding by a chunk as the gears engage. Releasing the clutch and turning the throttle, I race away.

The night runners have greatly closed the distance. Even on the bike, it’s even odds whether I make the next intersection or not. And then, I’ll probably just run into another horde coming from that direction. I shift rapidly through gears, intent on being the first one to the corner. The leading edges of the night runners are halfway through the intersection before I arrive. Round two goes to them.

Almost glowingly pale faces grow larger as we close toward each other. Gleams of silver flash from many of their eyes. That still has to be one of the eeriest sights ever, including the bodies within the buildings. Still gaining speed, I angle the bike toward the curb at the corner, trying to squeak past the closing hordes. I feel my tire barely scrape the concrete edge and a hand brush against my sleeve—gone just as quickly as I felt it.

Some of those behind the leading edge, seeing me divert my direction, alter theirs in order to close. Screams from hundreds, if not thousands only several feet away, hammer my eardrums. My skull feels as if it will come apart. Even with my speed, several are still on a converging path that will intersect with mine. I open up and scream an image of “NO!” coupled with an image of the sun. That makes them pause long enough for me to squirt through and past the packs. Glancing from the glowing eyes to the street that I’ve turned down, I’m rewarded with a seemingly clear path. Relief pours through me. I’m not out of the city yet, but I’m not trapped anymore either.

I still don’t have the faintest fucking idea what happened; how I went from daylight to the depths of night, but that’s a thought for later. Or, maybe not. I’d rather not think on that at all, as it brings the chilling thought that something like that could happen at any time. Right now, though, it’s time to get the fuck out of Dodge…or Atlantis, in this case.

Racing through the darkened streets, dodging a few packs of night runners, I find signs directing me to what I hope is a main highway. I don’t care where it leads, just as long as it’s away from here. Before long, with the sky to the east lighting up as dawn approaches, I make my way out of the city. I pull over along a stretch of prairie, not caring if whistlers come by or not. I park the bike, get off, and sit on the gravel of the shoulder. I need to just chill a moment. My mind and body are overloaded.

Thoughts race, but none linger. It isn’t time for contemplation; it’s time to empty my brain. It’s also time for my body to rest. I still feel the pain in my back, but it is getting marginally better. And, it’s time for pent-up emotions to break clear. The ups and down—mostly downs—of the emotional rollercoaster, the tension held within for so long: that all needs to be released if I’m going to move on. There’s only so much one person can take.

This world is too much. I barely escaped, and have a bit of information to go on, but I feel like it’s only a matter of time before I’m caught. There are just too many enemies, and intelligent ones at that. Hopelessness sets in with the thought that I’ll never see my kids or Lynn again. A part of my mind knows that this depression is my mind and body coming down from the sustained tension, but it’s there nonetheless. I just sit on the side of the road, holding my head in my hands.

Light breaks over me. Looking up, I see the sun crest a range of mountains far to the east. Sunlight rolls across the prairie, bringing warmth and a small measure of hope. I would go on about how as long as there’s light, there’s hope, but that’s not really me. I’ve lived to see another day, and that’s good enough.

“Okay, Jack. Enough feeling sorry for yourself. It’s time to push on,” I say, rising from the gravel with only a twinge in my lower back.

So, what in the fuck now? I obviously transitioned into and out of something. Perhaps I was in some kind of stasis, but lived on and came out of it. Maybe those within the walls of the buildings are in that same stasis…perhaps currently living experiences that they’ll emerge from. If that’s the case, I certainly feel for them, as they’ll emerge without limbs and in intense pain. No, maybe it’s better for them to stay where they are.

I have no idea what happened to Mike and Trip, but maybe they are still in this world. Again, I hope they made it back to their own, but I need to make at least an effort to look for them. The train yard and engine we came in on seems the most likely place to search. I hope we can meet up again. Going this shit alone sucks, even if company means Trip is thrown into the mix. I usually operate better alone, but that isn’t the case here. Deeply planted within my brain back in past times, I knew I would reemerge to be around friends and family. Here, not so much.

Looking around, the area seems familiar. At least, the size and shape of the skyline rising above the valley does. With the vast plain, most everything looks the same, and the lack of any defining landmarks makes it easy to become lost. This has to be close to the place Mike, Trip, and I stopped on our way to the city before turning back to the railway trestle. Talk about going in circles. Rather than go through town, where there are far too many hunters, I decide to retrace our previous route to the rail yard.

I mount the bike, following the highway and keeping an eye out for whistlers. I know full well that I now sound like a thundering herd, but it’s the fastest way to travel. The wind in my face is refreshing and carries some of the nightmare away. At the trestle, I turn onto the dirt path, eventually coming to and following the tracks.

As the tangled mass of cars slewed sideways and upended comes into sight, the aftermath of our physics lesson, I park the bike and make my way on foot. With all that I’ve seen, there can be no doubt that whistlers are amassed somewhere in the area, and I don’t want to announce my arrival. Plus, there are others about that I’d rather not say hi to either. I check my mags and, although I have a few remaining, I know that I’ll have to find more before too long. The best bet will be the troop locations marked on my map. I’ll also have to scavenge for more food and water soon, having left my meager supplies tucked into the ceiling of the defence building.

Skirting around the tangled wreckage, I head closer to the rail yard, my head on a constant swivel and my ears peeled for the sound of approaching motorcycles. I have no desire for any further encounters—last night was enough excitement to last me several lifetimes. Keeping to the outer edges, I spy the locomotive that we rode in on parked on the far side of the yard. Surrounding it is a small horde of about fifteen zombies, many of them milling aimlessly, but some of them clawing at the wheels and reaching for the floor of the walkway.

Oh, for fuck’s sake! Of course they’d be here
.

Why are they gathered by the engine? I mean, it has seemed that zombies only gather for a reason. Otherwise, they wander about searching for their next meal. Something must have drawn them to the engine. Perhaps Mike and Trip are trapped inside? I discount that almost immediately. If that were true, they’d all be clawing to get in. Plus, Mike would have taken care of them. He’s pretty savvy with regards to getting out of situations. I’m quite sure he would have extricated himself last night much better than I did. No, something drew them here and departed. Whistlers, maybe? Again, doubtful, as the zombies I see ahead of me would be tied behind bikes instead of tripping over the rails.

My thoughts keep coming back to Mike and Trip, thinking that they were here and drew the zombies with them. The fact that the engine is an obvious rendezvous point for us encourages that idea. It’s almost too coincidental to be otherwise. If I’m right, then the engine is worth checking out. If I thought otherwise, then I’d just pass the horde and continue on my merry way.

Taking down that many zombies would burn through one of my precious mags. I could draw them away by banging on one of the nearby rail cars, but that might draw more attention than it’s worth. Carried on the slight gusts swirling through the area, I catch the faint sound of motorcycles growing louder by the second
.

That’s just fucking great, just what I need right now
.

I’m too tired for any fear to take hold, and my adrenals have been pumped dry. Resignation envelops me. I feel the need to reach the engine, which is surrounded by zombies, and there are whistlers approaching. Again, I’m caught in the middle.

“Can’t something go right? Just drop me a small boon every once in a while,” I pleadingly mumble skyward.

I edge toward the maintenance depot and tuck behind a crate in one of the darker corners. My position enables me to view most of the large yard, but it also places me with my back to the wall. I have some ammo, but if it comes down to a firefight, I’ll burn through that in a minute. I think about finding my way to the roof, but since it’s daylight, I’ll be silhouetted and easily seen if I poke my head over the roof. Plus, with the sound of the bikes growing louder, I don’t have a lot of time before their arrival.

Sure enough, a line of them appears in the near distance, following the tracks. The zombies all turn toward the sound and begin shuffling in that direction. I’m thankful they don’t appear to be the smarter ones. It’s rather amusing that I find myself hoping for normal zombies. I’ve come a long way since peacefully enjoying my semi-retirement just a short time ago—when my biggest concern was whether the wind would kick up waves while I had the kayak out.

Yeah, can I please just go back to that?

Instead, I find myself hoping for normal zombies. The Chinese have a curse: May you live in interesting times. Well, I can’t think of a more “interesting” time than being teleported against my will into, well, this. I think quickly over my life, trying to come up with something I did that would warrant such a curse.

I mean, I’m no saint, but this… really!?

The zombies shuffle along the tracks, their moans and stench preceding them. Several stumble over the heavy wooden beams holding the tracks while others outright fall. They soon rise again and follow in the wake of their more nimble compatriots. The station platform begins vibrating from the approaching whistlers, and most of them come to a stop directly abeam of me. Several take a path on the far side of the yard to circle around the zombies. The nearest whistlers dismount and form a line, much like they did a couple of nights ago when facing the much larger horde. The encircling whistlers park behind the shuffling horde and dismount.

Some of the zombies, drawn by the noise of the bikes behind them, turn and begin stumbling toward the whistlers there. The front line of whistlers, upon seeing this, whistle shrilly. I cringe upon hearing that high-pitched noise. It’s not only loud, but grating—the cheese grater of sounds. I feel like said cheese grater is gently caressing my eardrums. Not only that, but it seems to vibrate inside my head. Overall, I’ve had more pleasant experiences.