A Shrouded World (Book 2): Atlantis (5 page)

Jack had no such compunction. “I wonder if the toxin is infused in the metal, or if there is some kind of delivery system. Maybe there’s something that coats the tip when it’s fired, kind of like a blowgun dart.”

“They just get creepier. The whistlers, I mean. What did you find out on your jaunt? Can you get this thing going?”

“I think so. There are more instruments in there than in a brass band, but I think I can get it going. We came back because we found some, well—I hate to call it food, but here,” Jack said, and pulled out a small nylon bag he must have found.

“Dammit,” I said as I opened up the bag. “Cherry juice and ham jerky?”

“That’s all they had. Not a fan?”

The look I gave him must have been answer enough. “I don’t know if I should choke down the jerky first and try to wash the taste away with the juice, or the other way around.”

In the end I just shoved a handful of the pink meat into my mouth and took a swig of juice at the same time. I gagged repeatedly, forcing the contents into a system that demanded nourishment and hydration.

“I’d rather get a fucking prostate exam from Edward Scissorhands,” I said before my third food/liquid combination.

“And there’s a visual I get to take with me into the afterlife.”

Trip had sat down next to me and was eating loudly. He was taking the ham strips and dipping them into a juice bottle. He’d slurp off the liquid and then smack his lips as he ate.

“Did you know I’m a vegetarian?” he asked me.

“You don’t say?” I was grimacing through some more intake of my own.

“Yeah, but as long as I disguise the meat in a non-animal substance my body can’t tell.”

I forced down a whole bag of jerky and killed the bottle of juice. My belly gurgled in consternation. My head wanted me to puke, though my body was thrilled to finally have some fuel in it. And honestly, I was better for it. I felt another series of cramps run up my legs and through my back, these not nearly as bad as the first. After it passed, there remained a slight tingle in my thighs—the first such feeling I’d had in over eighteen hours. It was promising, even if I still couldn’t move my legs.

“I’m going to go back, but I want to get you to safer ground. I don’t feel too great about leaving a paraplegic on top of a moving train.”

“Come on, man. I’m from the generation that used to roll about wildly in the back of my folks’ station wagon, and during the summer they’d even put the back window down.”

“Even so.”

“Jack, I’m fine. Even after the, um, ‘food.’”

“I’m not happy about it, but you’re a big boy. Do you want Trip with you?”

“Are you asking if you can leave him? Because you can—but could he help you?”

Jack looked at me. “That’s a question that I’m not sure there’s an answer for. He started pointing at different controls and naming them, like he’d been an engineer or a very knowledgeable conductor at some time.”

“Probably was,” I joked.

“Oh, I was,” Trip said after a particularly big slurp. We turned to look at him; he’d somehow gotten his pants down again. “The Sri Lanka Philharmonic.”

I put my hand up to my face. “Maybe not that kind of conductor, Trip. Are you going to go with Jack and help him get this thing moving?”

“Kerouac is here?” Trip looked around.

“Yeah, and he’s got Timothy Leary with him. Let’s go.”

Jack looked fairly exasperated. I could tell he was a take-charge kind of guy, and to rely even a little on someone as clueless as Trip did not sit particularly well with him. I watched as the duo moved away. Once they were almost out of sight, Jack took one last long look back and waved. I waved back. I made sure they couldn’t see me, and then checked my junk again. Any women reading this might not understand why I did but any guy certainly will.

S
eeing
Mike sitting atop the boxcar, I’m not sure what to expect. Perhaps it is the last time I’ll see him, perhaps not. Given his proclivity for surviving odd situations, I don’t get the sense that is the case. Surely, after all he’s been through, he won’t meet his end by sliding off a moving train. But, stranger things have happened. And, in this world, odd things happening seem to be the norm. However, I’m not much for thinking about last times, will I ever see you again, or any of that crap. It’s too much like manufacturing drama.

I turn back toward the front with my faithful companion walking across the top of a boxcar beside me. I’m not sure I’ve ever really seen him without one of his smoldering joints, either in hand or pressed between his lips. Where he keeps coming up with them is a mystery that will probably never be solved. At this point, I’m pretty sure it involves quantum physics and the creation of matter from willpower alone. Maybe he doesn’t realize there can’t always be one rolled in his pocket, firmly believing it so much that the possibility of one not being there is removed from the equation.

I feel the heat rising from the metal roof beneath my feet. Surrounding us are scrublands that stretch from horizon to horizon, and to the very edge of the city. I had hoped that Atlantis would be, well, different from every other city I’ve seen. I mean, the very name implies something mysterious. But no—tall buildings reach high toward the cloudless sky, the sun reflecting off windowpanes in a constant, winking glare. With a slight breeze brushing past my cheeks carrying the faint odor of Trip’s medicine, it would seem like a pleasant summer day back in the old world. Well, except for the ever-present smell of marijuana. That wasn’t usually part of my summer days.

I double-check that my M-4 mags are securely held in their pouches before descending yet another ladder, only to leap across the space between the rail cars and climb to the top of the next one. We have a few zombies trailing us, separated from the larger horde, but they seem content to merely follow us…perhaps waiting for our inevitable stumble and fall. I had expected Trip to have problems crossing between cars, but he seems to do it with ease…as if he doesn’t know that it should be difficult for him. While frustrating at times—most of the time—he is also kind of a marvel. I can honestly say that I have never met anyone like him.

Reaching the next roof, I still can’t see the front end of the train. It looks like our journey may take us most of the day. In this place, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the train never ended… just one boxcar after another… for eternity. Wouldn’t that be something? Soon enough, marching along the tops becomes almost monotonous. Every once in a while, I catch a whiff of the zombies tailing behind and am thankful the wind is blowing in the right direction. My mind begins to wander, a myriad of thoughts cycle through. Knowing that complacency kills, I make an effort to keep at least some of my attention on the present.

L
ooking back over the day
, I have to admit that it was nice to ride a motorcycle again, even under the circumstances. I hadn’t ridden one in years, and it was great to feel the rush of wind, the openness, and feeling a closer bond with the world as opposed to being trapped inside a car. I always felt free motoring along country roads.

Riding behind me this time had been perhaps the oddest man I’ve ever met. He seemed to be at ease there, which was the exact opposite of how I felt. I was in no way comfortable with the way he held onto me, and I swear I heard him murmuring sweet nothings in my ear. If he had been any cuddlier, I think one of us would have come away pregnant.

Trip is perhaps the one reason I think this may all be just some wild-assed dream sequence. I mean, truly, how many joints can one person carry? The ones he keeps producing on a regular basis seem endless. That aside, he seems both in touch and out of touch at the same time—more like some kind of savant than anything else. However wrong it may appear at the time, things just seem to go right for him. And, actually, the more wrong it looks, the better it seems to work out.

I get the feeling that his dissociation from the world around him is an illusion of sorts. He senses and notices things that he shouldn’t be able to. But do you think he would mention them directly rather than through cryptic phrases or statements? No. One has to listen and somehow read between the lines. When asked, he seems surprised that we didn’t notice the same things. Perhaps the most bewildering aspect is the nonchalant way he mentions something and Mike or I having to ask what he means. He’ll move to or hunker down in some place that I think puts him in greater peril. I’ll mention it and tell him to move because danger will be coming from that direction. Blowing out a small cloud of smoke, he’ll just shake his head.

“No. They already passed by and are coming from over there,” he’ll say, using his joint to point in a totally different direction.

Yeah, he’s a trip all right. It’s difficult for me to take him seriously, but I’ll have to overcome that reaction. I need to start paying more attention to him and his actions: kind of like watching a squirrel in a forest. Even though they don’t appear to notice their environment as they scamper about, they’re a telltale sign of occurrences that humans may not recognize. Trip doesn’t appear to care or notice what he is doing; he just does it, seemingly without thinking. I think back to him nonchalantly walking up to the bridge superstructure in broad daylight, in full view of the approaching whistlers… and somehow remaining undetected. Damn, I wish I had that kind of invisibility super power. Yeah, I’m still not convinced that this isn’t a dream.

I noted Mike’s quizzical look earlier. The one he gave me when I climbed back down through the hatch of the train car. I realized that I had made a mistake, leaping so agilely through the opening, and tried to cover it up coming back down. I think, in retrospect, that the award-winning performance I gave only made it worse. I don’t feel ready to share those details just yet, so I had better watch it in the future. I’d like to tell him, and it’s not that I don’t trust him, but that trust isn’t absolute. I know he is keeping a few secrets of his own—aren’t we all? For instance, how was his body able to stem the tide of the whistler toxin? I don’t believe for a minute that the difference between human and zombie genetics is enough to allow for such disparate reactions. If anything, I would have expected the exact opposite. But, very well, Mike, you keep your secrets and I’ll keep mine.

I will say that Mike’s notion of our circumstance intrigues me. If we had been brought purposefully into this place, then doesn’t it stand to reason that there would be others as well? Both those native to this place, and others that may have been brought in? If that’s the case, what could our hosts want from us? No matter how talented we may or may not be, what could they possibly expect us to do? And, why us? Honestly, they could have chosen better. I mean, Mike has a talent for getting out of trouble and is a very capable man. Trip? Okay, he actually makes perfect sense. Me? I’m just old and certainly not the man I used to be. No, that explanation doesn’t really line up. There has to be something I’m missing.

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
.