Convergence

by Mark Tufo

  A Shrouded World

  Convergence

  Mark Tufo

  John O’Brien

  Copyright © 2017 by Mark Tufo, John O’Brien

  All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in review, without permission in writing from the authors. You may contact the author at John@ANewWorldSeries.com or Mark@MarkTufo.com

  Cover art by: Dean Samed

  Conzpiracy Digital Arts

  http://www.conzpiracy.co.uk

  Created with Vellum

  To our fantastic readers worldwide. Thank you so much for all of your support and kind messages. Without you, the stories wouldn’t exist. It takes both sides for a tale to live─both reader and writer. So, thank you very much for breathing life into the stories!

  Contents

  Also By

  1. Chapter 1 - Jack Walker

  2. Chapter 1 - Mike Talbot

  3. Chapter 2 - Jack Walker

  4. Chapter 2 - Mike Talbot

  5. Chapter 3 - Jack Walker

  6. Chapter 3 - Mike Talbot

  7. Chapter 4 - Jack Walker

  About the Authors

  Also By

  Mark Tufo

  Zombie Fallout Series

  Zombie Fallout 1

  Zombie Fallout 2: A Plague Upon Your Family

  Zombie Fallout 3: The End...

  Zombie Fallout 3.5: Dr. Hugh Mann

  Zombie Fallout 4: The End Has Come and Gone

  Zombie Fallout 5: Alive in a Dead World

  Zombie Fallout 6: ‘Til Death Do Us Part

  Zombie Fallout 7: For The Fallen

  Zombie Fallout 8: An Old Beginning

  Zombie Fallout 9:

  Zombie Fallout 10:

  Lycan Fallout Series

  Lycan Fallout 1: Rise of the Werewolf

  Lycan Fallout 2

  Lycan Fallout 3

  Lycan Fallout 4

  Indian Hill Series

  Indian Hill 1: Encounters

  Indian Hill 2: Reckoning

  Indian Hill 3: Conquest

  Indian Hill 4: From The Ashes

  Indian Hill 5: Into The Fire

  Indian Hill 6:

  Indian Hill 7:

  Timothy Series

  Timothy

  Tim 2

  Tim 3

  The Book of Riley Series

  A Zombie Tale Parts 1 thru 4

  Callis Rose

  The Spirit Clearing

  Dystance: Winter’s Rising

  Demon Fallout

  John O’Brien

  A New World Series

  A New World: Chaos

  A New World: Return

  A New World: Sanctuary

  A New World: Taken

  A New World: Awakening

  A New World: Dissension

  A New World: Takedown

  A New World: Conspiracy

  A New World: Reckoning

  A New World: Storm

  Companion Books

  A New World: Untold Stories

  A New World: Untold Stories II

  ARES VIRUS

  Ares Virus: Arctic Storm

  Ares Virus: White Horse

  Ares Virus: Phoenix Rising

  THE THIRD WAVE: EIDOLON

  Chapter 1 - Jack Walker

  Crouched in the locomotive engine, I ponder my next move. I feel drawn to the quarry; everything I’ve found seems to be pointing to it—but Mike and Trip must feel the same way about the next town. It would suck for either of us to find a way out of this hell, something time-gated, and have to leave the others behind. I know that I’d feel guilty.

  The sun in this alien land is past its zenith and working its way across the sky, racing toward its destined rendezvous with the horizon. After locking the doors, I sit on the steel flooring and lean back against the console, the carbine propped between my knees. I feel so tired. The last few days have taken their toll. There doesn’t seem to be an end to this nightmare and the thought of being stuck here drains me even more. Of course, with all of the creatures now roaming this miserable hell-hole, my existence here will most likely be short-lived.

  Don’t go getting soft, Jack. People have been trying to kill you for the better part of your life and you’re not dead yet, I think, tilting my head back, my cheeks puffing as I let out a long exhale.

  Knowing that my poor carbine has had some use lately, I strip it down and throw some cleaner and brushes at it. If I have to use it, then the situation has likely become a touch sporty and the last thing I’d need is for it to jam. I’ve heard the war stories of weapons failing in the middle of a firefight and I can’t imagine that dreadful feeling of hopelessness. I’m no ninja that could unleash a fury of arms and legs, moving so fast that I’m basically untouchable. I’d probably just conclude that God wanted me to die.

  After finishing, I rise and peek out of the windows at the rail cars and other engines. There isn’t anything in sight except for bodies lying motionless along the numerous tracks. With the number of night runners hidden in the darkened buildings of the city, I know that will change once night settles on the land.

  Double-checking that the doors are locked, I lie down on the hard metal and rest my head on my pack. The M-4 is by my side, ready to grab. I need to get some rest before I push onward. Knowing the night runners will be coming out after dark and screaming their heads off, I probably won’t get much sleep during the night, so now is really my only option. Being out of sight will hopefully cause any whistlers or zombies that might stumble along the tracks to just move on.

  Nothing to see here, folks.

  Lying back as comfortably as the steel floor will allow, I contemplate the situation. Indian Hill is some thirty miles away, according to the map. That’s not overly far and I could be there in an hour or so if I fired up the locomotive, made the appropriate changes to the track switches, and rolled into town. However, the noise would encourage anything in the area to follow along and alert anything ahead of my coming. Not only would I possibly arrive to a welcoming committee, but any followers I picked up would soon join the party. It would be the same if I took one of the yard trucks across the way or one of the whistler’s bikes. So, that leaves me with my own two feet to get me where I’m going.

  As much as I’d like to get there quickly and hopefully come closer to solving this fucking dilemma, I feel more comfortable on foot. Although a rapid egress will be out of the question, I’ll be able to move more quietly, and hopefully avoid any obstacles I happen to come across. The whistlers appear to enjoy being part of a biker gang, so they’ll be easy to hear approaching. I’m not a huge fan of those weapons they have or those piercing whistle sounds they make. And they have a degree of intelligence that makes it even worse. Although they haven’t done so yet, I can easily envision them setting up an ambush.

  The zombies could be anywhere, but should be easy enough to avoid if I manage to see or smell them in time. The so-called “version two” zombies of Talbot’s world are the worrisome ones. Faster and cunning zombies are not on my fun list. I’m not sure which are worse, them or the night runners. Both are relentless and clever, but in different ways. The night runners are in your face and can come from places I’d never suspect if I weren’t familiar with them. The version two zombies seem to analyze and plan to some degree. And then there’s a new one, I think, that I ran across in the building: possibly night runners that have been bitten. In all, there’s just too many to fucking keep track of, let alone survive.

  When I think about just how odd this world seems, it fucks with my mind. I distinctly remember twice having had a conversation with Mike in which we discussed the changes that have happened to the both of us. And, each time
, we had talked like it was the first time. Now, I wonder just how many times we have actually had that particular conversation, and others. It’s like reality hasn’t truly set in to this world—there are replays. Or, perhaps reality is leaving. The fact that Mike and Trip vanished after I walked into that building, one moment there and just gone the next, certainly suggests that things aren’t quite right. Not only is this world a possible parallel to each of ours, but there also seem to be parallels within parallels.

  The afternoon light streams through the windows, particles of dust floating in the beams. The cabin is filled with the smell of oil and grease, and now cleaning fluid. Outside, in this alien world, creatures roam where a civilization once stood. Some of the people remain, frozen inside of walls or streets. Whatever happened here fucked with reality big time and was able to draw in things from parallel worlds. And, somewhere in another world are Lynn and my kids.

  Okay, Jack. Thirty miles, ten hours. I can do that.

  My eyes fly open.. One moment deep in a dream and the next I’m fully awake, my hand immediately going for the carbine at my side. The feel of the cold metal receiver brings a certain amount of calm. Without any other movement, I anxiously glance around the engine compartment. Darkness mostly fills the cabin, a few stars visible though the view afforded by the narrow windows. Silver-white light slants through the door windows from a moon riding the nighttime sky. However, I’m still able to see clearly as a result of the changes brought about by the night runner blood mixing with my own.

  My back aches from lying on the steel flooring; it feels like a bunch of monkeys went to work on it with hammers while I dozed off. However, it’s not the ache that brought me out of my slumber or caused the sudden rush of adrenaline that set my heart pounding. From what I can see outside, it looks peaceful enough. But, something brought me instantly awake, and over the years, I’ve come to trust that that means danger is nearby.

  A shrill ear-piercing scream echoes though the metal compartment from somewhere close and causes my heart to miss a beat. I know that sound all too well, and I’d consider my life blessed if I never heard it again. Still recumbent, I slowly lift my M-4 and bring it across my body, ready to roll and fire if a night runner gains entrance. Listening, I hear more distant shrieks carrying across the chill night air, coming from the city. The night runners have emerged from their lairs in search of prey.

  I hadn’t meant to sleep so long, but the past days have been exhausting. I’ve been constantly on the go and on edge since arriving, and there’s only so much the body can take. I had wanted to wake prior to the sun going down so I could further secure the place, erasing some of my scent from the area—perhaps even light a fire on the tracks and smoke my clothing. But, that’s a moot point now. It’s dark, the night runners are out, and I’m sure there’s a lingering odor. My only consolation is that the engineer compartment is fairly secure, with only two entrances: strong steel doors that are locked and sealed. I just have to see it through the night and they’ll flee back to their lairs with the approach of dawn. Then, assuming they haven’t drawn others to my location, I’ll begin my journey to look for Mike and Trip.

  I ease the carbine closer to my face and quietly slide the bolt release back to double-check that a round is loaded. The sight of a gleaming brass shell in the chamber is reassuring and I gently ease the release forward. I lay the carbine by my side and remove my M-9 Beretta from its holster, again checking that there’s a round available. The soft click is loud in my ears as I slowly move the selector to fire. In the cramped compartment, the sidearm will allow me better freedom of movement and the ability to quickly place my shots should the night runners manage to gain entrance.

  I hate night runners more than I’ve ever disliked anything . I hate their speed, agility, and cunning ways. And they are ferocious and relentless beyond anything I’ve ever encountered. However, with my experience working through darkened buildings, where I’ve fought them numerous times, I’ve also come to respect those abilities. They can adapt their strategies and come from any direction, including rafters. They are nothing to take for granted or underestimate. Firepower and keeping one’s wits is the only way to fight them.

  Able to hear better, I note the sound of gravel crunching coming from the tracks outside. The shriek comes without warning, the whole interior vibrating from its intensity. I’m guessing that the night runner picked up a trace of my scent and, having possibly located my presence, it’s telling others.

  Cognizant of its ability to hear the faintest sound, I roll over and work my way to my knees with my sidearm gripped in one hand, careful not to scrape my boots across the metal surface. Even though they suspect the presence of prey, there’s no use of giving them verification. Having a fairly secure location, I’m not too worried about them gaining entrance through normal means. However, if too many of them gather, then they can draw any one of the other creatures into the area. The night runners may be gone by the time the sun peeks over the horizon, but the others won’t be bothered by sunlight spreading its rays across the land. If that happens, then I won’t have much choice. I’ll either have to fight my way out or start the engine and roll down the track only to become stuck due to the switch positions. Basically, I’ll be fucked.

  Now, crouching against the console with my M-9 loosely held in a two-handed grip, I hear the increasing tempo and volume of screams of additional night runners approaching. The engine shakes slightly, a good indication that one or more night runners just hopped aboard. Glancing about the compartment, I see there’s no place inside where I can be completely hidden. I can press against the inside wall, but that won’t keep me out of sight from any who climb onto the front—and with night runners, that’s almost a given.

  My eye is drawn to the hatch on the floor where Trip had previously vanished to engage the train’s electrical supply.

  Fuck, why didn’t I think of that before? I think, easing over to the hatch.

  Outside, I hear the padding of feet along the walkway. Setting my handgun on the floor, I ease the hatch open, hoping against the sound of a metal squeal from the hinges. I slide in feet first, then grab my weapons and bring them in. Lifting my hand to close the hatch, I hear a heavy thump at the door as a night runner slams against it. There’s another that comes from near the windshield, and the tattered pants of a night runner appears. I grasp the handle, wanting to rush before the night runner peeks in, but not wanting to make any sound.

  A scream reverberates through the night, quickly followed by another slam at the door. Keeping an eye on the night runner in front, I see it begin to crouch. I lower myself while bringing the hatch cover down, the engineer’s compartment slowly disappearing from view. My last image through the crack is of a night runner peering through the windshield, its eyes glowing like liquid silver in the moonlight. As I ease the lid closed, I don’t hear a resultant shriek of discovery. There are screams outside of the train and the sound of running feet over the gravel, but the shriek when a night runner discovers you is altogether different and strikes fear into the heart of anyone who hears it.

  Well, that was too fucking close.

  I slide down feet first along the ribbed metal floor of the access. Pipes and metal boxes line the sides; I have no idea about what functions they serve despite having read through the schematics. I lie on my back with my handgun ready, hoping that there isn’t any entry into here from outside. If there is, the night runners will certainly find it. This is a calculated risk. If they find their way in, my only option is to fire between my feet or over my head, neither of which will really do much good. I feel the vibrations of the train as night runners clamber across its surface, screaming in frustration at not finding the prey they clearly smell.

  A series of ear-piercing shrieks is accompanied by the train shaking more heavily. The vibrations cease almost immediately, but the screams continue. The only thing I can conclude is that something else has wandered into the area. I hope that it isn’t Mike and Trip ret
urning to search for me, but immediately dispel that notion, as I know they aren’t dumb enough to be meandering around in the dark. Mike may have some remarkable abilities, but those don’t include tackling a horde of night runners after dark. And Trip, well he’d probably offer them a joint and be put out that they wouldn’t partake with him, possibly vanishing in a cloud of magically produced fairy dust.

  That man is truly a curiosity, and that’s putting it mildly. Most of the time, he’s annoying as hell, but I’ve also come to respect whatever inner voice he has going. I remember both of us hunkered down as I oriented toward where I thought the attack would come from, and then, while puffing on a joint, him nonchalantly pointing in another direction and telling me it would come from that direction. Sure enough, the smart zombies came running from where he said they would. And then him walking up a ramp under a bridge in full view of a group of whistlers without being observed. I sometimes wonder if he’s a figment of my imagination, there but not really there.

  As I lie along the access way, listening to a scuffle develop outside, I wonder where Mike and Trip are at this very moment. Are they sitting inside of a shelter for the night? Did they make it to Indian Hill already? Am I going to arrive only to find another note that they’ve moved on and I have to continue this merry chase?

  If that happens, I’m leaving a note saying “tag, you’re it” and heading back to the quarry, I think, listening to the sounds of a full-fledged fight taking place on the other side of the metal surrounding me.

  After a while, the screams coming from the nearby tracks diminish and then fade into the night. While that may seem like it bodes well, it means that they were chased away. There’s no way the night runners would leave the scent of prey unless forced to. That means a lot of something is still out there. Seeing as I haven’t heard any motorbike gangs approaching, that leaves zombies, and a lot of them. The smell of oil and grease in my little cave doesn’t allow me to smell their putrid scent to verify my guess. Of course, I wouldn’t put it past the night runners to arrange some form of trap, even if it goes against their relentless nature. So, I’ll just hunker down until I know the sun has made its appearance.