Convergence

by Mark Tufo

  “Hey, Trip. Go find an apple and walk down the tracks…say about a hundred yards,” I say, knowing I have to sight in the carbine.

  “You are no William Tell. Most people think it was an apple on his son’s head. But, he was torn between his need to set an example and the safety of his son. His son and I looked alike, so we switched clothes and I took his place. And the famed apple was really a giant pumpkin. Compressed my neck. I still get some back pain from time to time. That’s why I smoke natural painkillers. The rest, as you know, is history,” Trip says.

  “Yeah, right. You were there,” I comment with a chuckle.

  “First gold coin I ever earned. I still have it,” Trip replies.

  I’m tempted to ask him where it is, but considering the vast number of places he may pluck it from leaves shivers running up my spine. Instead, I just shake my head and move down the tracks, counting my paces. It might not be exact, but it’ll have to do. I’d like to have a long gun as well, but those don’t seem to be a part of this cache. Walking back to Mike and Trip, I sight in on the mark I made in the tree.

  “You’re low,” Trip comments, his back to me.

  Ignoring him, I pull the trigger. The kick is about the same and the suppressed shot is barely heard. Bark flies from the tree just a couple inches below.

  “Told you,” Trip says, still facing away and digging into a fresh bag of Phritos.

  I have no idea how he knew without even looking, but I’ve given up on understanding the man. It’s not that I dislike him, not even close. We just operate on different levels, and he makes me nervous as fuck. With a sigh, I make an adjustment and fire, this time hitting the mark. That may seem too easy, but in reality, it’s not that difficult to make quick corrections. If you hold the weapon steady and put the sight on the target, you can then adjust the reticle to where the bullet struck and your next round should hit. It’s easier to do with a shooting rest or cradle, but it can be done without one just as long as you aren’t trying to shoot the center of a Certs at two hundred yards.

  Along with the ammo, there are cases of grenades, which are cylindrical rather than round like I’m used to. However, if they work the same way, they’ll do the trick. I clip a few onto my vest and stow more in my pack. Then, there are claymores and rolls of wire. These are shaped exactly the same as what I am used to.

  I guess there’s only one way to make an effective claymore, I think, ideas beginning to form.

  I then look toward the vehicle yard, where armored and personnel carriers are parked in neat rows. Ideas surface of crashing through the front gates with barrels blazing and cannons firing, throwing bikes and whistlers in the air. However much fun Rambo-ing our way into the facility might be, it’s rather unrealistic. We know what they use for personal weapons, but who in the hell knows what they might have hidden away in what is undoubtedly their home base. And, we can’t afford to destroy any of the buildings, or the lines leading to the solar farm. That doesn’t mean they won’t be useful, but we aren’t going to Leeroy Jenkins it.

  Back at the overview, I take in a bit more detail while trying to visualize various scenarios. The central road through Indian Hill drops down the hill in nearly a straight line and runs across the wide prairie to intersect the main road leading to the facility at a right angle. The pavement leading out of town is lined with a thin strip of grass that then gives way to a line of trees. Halfway down the hill, the line of trees ends abruptly, the scrub brush and grass of the plain taking over.

  Farther out into the wide valley, the facility road extends past the intersection where it connects to a main highway that stretches in one direction until it disappears into seeming infinity. In the other direction, it curves back to enter Indian Hill at another location.

  In my mind’s eye, I visualize movements on the roads and plains, changing options as problems arise.

  “The way I figure it, we’ll have to draw them out and either ambush them along the road or somehow gather them into one location and blow the shit out of it,” Mike says, breaking into my thoughts.

  “So, mind-reading is a vampire trait…interesting,” I reply with Mike voicing my exact thought.

  “What would my excuse be for not understanding women?” Mike asks. “And no, mind-reading is not on my list of abilities.”

  “Actually, when vampires first came into existence, they–” Trip begins.

  “Not interested, Trip,” I interrupt.

  “Argus first discovered the trait when we were looking for some ruins in the Carpathian Mountains,” Trip continues as if I had said nothing. “One night, this huge bat attacked our camp and bit him. He fell to the ground convulsing, then opened bloodshot eyes and said, ‘Holy shit, I can read your mind.’ His skin began to change and he lunged at me, so I grabbed a stick and shoved it through his chest. I miss Argus,” Trip finishes, taking a long drag on a joint.

  “Wait, so you’re saying this Argus was the first vampire?” Mike asks. “And, you were there?”

  “First one I ever heard of,” Trip replies.

  “I thought Vladmir was the first one,” I state.

  “Oh, Vladmir. Nope, Argus was way before he came along. Vladmir was much, much later. Met him once. I don’t think he could read my mind, though,” Trip answers.

  This is one of those “what the fuck” moments so often encountered when Trip is around. He’s living proof that LSD fucks with you hard. With Mike’s story, though, I’m not sure what to think anymore. I sit, silenced, once again confident that this is a lucid dream I’m having. Trip is even stranger than this world. I’m going to wake up, look around my little cubicle with the sheets damp from sweat, and wonder what in the fuck was that dream.

  Maybe I slipped back into a coma and this is the result of my synapses madly firing.

  “Sooo, about thinning the whistlers?” I say, trying to pretend the last few moments didn’t happen.

  Mike is still staring at Trip as if trying to decide if it’s the LSD talking or if he actually lived the experience. Trip, however, has gone back to pulling a fresh Phrito bag out and shoveling the contents into his mouth, orange crumbs plastered all over his lips. One large crumb falls to the ground with Trip hurriedly snagging it and chomping down, dirt and all.

  “Thought you could get away, huh?” Trip mumbles, more crumbs falling out of his mouth.

  Mike shakes his head and looks at me as if suddenly returning from somewhere far away.

  “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  “Welcome back,” I reply.

  “Yeah, sorry. It’s just like watching a train wreck in high definition and slow motion,” Mike responds. “You mentioned the whistlers.”

  “I think it’s better if we draw them out to a central location. Ambushing them along the road has too many variables, and we’d have to manually trigger the trap. Even through there’s a huge supple of wire spools in the cache, I doubt there’s enough,” I say.

  “Yeah, and we’d be stuck in the open if shit goes wrong. And, shit always goes wrong.”

  “I live my life around that philosophy. So, we set up a kill zone, draw them to it, and trigger it. We’ll have to make sure there are enough drawn out, and also be in a position to get the fuck away afterward,” I comment.

  “So, how do we draw enough of them out and get them exactly to where we want? Even if we got their attention and jumped up and down, they wouldn’t send too many for just the three of us,” Mike responds.

  “Well, we have those devices. If we plant one, say, just past where the trees end by the road, and attract enough zombies, I doubt they’ll be able to pass up an opportunity for a snack. And we’ll drive a couple of those armored vehicles and park them out of sight, making sure there are clear lanes of fire. We’ll hide in them while the zombies pass by and gather at the device. Once a significant portion of the whistlers are in the kill zone, we trigger it. Being uphill, we’ll be able to shoot heavy caliber rounds over whatever horde is assembled and into the line of whistlers t
o clean up those that survive. Then, we beat cheeks out of here,” I brief.

  “That’s all well and dandy, but other than that one car and the train, we haven’t been able to get a single vehicle started,” Mike counters. “Like this place was crushed by an EMP.”

  “If we can’t get the vehicles to start, then we could see if there are any operational engines in the train yard. The voltages have to be right, though,” I respond.

  “And then we drive to the quarry. But, I’m wondering how the whistlers will respond. Taking down a number of them may piss them off enough that they’ll chase us to the ends of this world to curb stomp us into the ground. I’m not sure how smart they are, but it won’t take a genius to figure out someone ambushed them. Zombies don’t just go about exploding shit. And that quarry has to be at least fifty miles away. Their other option would be to circle the wagons and protect the place even more.”

  “Yeah, well, if they chase us, then we’ll just have to make sure we reach the quarry ahead of them. We make them think twice about every step they take. Whatever response they take, we’ll have a head start. So, if they come after us, we can drive one of the armored vehicles some of the way before they are able to catch up. They’ll keep to the roads, so we set tripwire ambushes. We just need to reach the quarry far enough ahead of them to scout it out and take whatever measures we need to in order to enter. If they’re after us, we’ll have to move fast once we’re inside. Of course, they may see what we’re trying to do and hightail it back to the facility,” I say. “Once inside, we’ll have to quickly do whatever we’re going to do. If they stay inside the facility, then we’ll just have to work around that. However, the hope is that there will be far fewer to deal with.”

  “The theory is good. But, there are a few huge assumptions. The first is that we can get one or more of those vehicles started. Another is that the quarry is actually part of the facility,” Mike replies. “And then, let’s say that everything goes perfectly and we get to whatever serves as a control room. What then? I haven’t the faintest idea what to do, and we’ll be trapped inside with a thousand very pissed-off whistlers looking for us.”

  “I guess that’s where he comes in,” I say, pointing at Trip, who has removed all of his clothing and is currently walking butt-naked through the trees, a huge cloud of smoke trailing behind.

  “Yup, that’s the guy who’s going to save the day,” Mike mutters, shaking his head.

  “We can attempt to do nothing to alert them and try sneaking in. I have no idea what the layout is like or what kind of security they have set up. But, it is an option. My worry is that Trip is about as ninja-like as a fire engine on the way to a fully engulfing blaze. I know he can thread his way through reality, but I’ll be honest and say that I’m not sure my heart could take it.”

  “But, whatever we decide, all bets are off once we gain entry. There’s no way we can know or truly be ready for what we encounter. Seriously though, man, that works in my favor anyway.”

  “How so?” My eyebrows knit in confusion.

  “I’m pretty sparse in the whole planning department.”

  “Awesome. Now I feel so much better. But, you’re right about not knowing what we’ll find, though I wish you weren’t,” I say, pausing for a moment.

  “Once we’re inside, we’ll be in a bit of a time crunch. The way I visualize it, we’ll have to set everything up at night. I don’t sense any night runners in the area at the moment, but if those fuckers below suddenly decide that they want a late-night snack and deposit night runners while we’re out in the open…” I continue, suggesting just how truly fucked we’d be.

  “Life and risks, man. At least we’d have a ton of explosives at hand. Maybe we could park one of the vehicles closer while we set up. I think they’re far enough away that the whistlers won’t hear it. That way, at least we’d have some cover nearby if that happened. Then, we just drive away, hole up somewhere for the night, and figure out something else.”

  “Okay. I’m good with that, assuming we can get one started,” I reply.

  “So, just to get this right. We place explosives all over the place and set one of those thumper things to draw in zombies so they’ll draw in whistlers. When we get enough in the kill zone, we trigger it, shoot up any remaining, and hightail it out of here. Then, get to the quarry without being run down and stapled to hell and back, scout it out, get inside—preferably without bleeding from a dozen wounds—manipulate some time–space machine, and then return to our previous worlds,” Mike says, shaking his head. “Seems legit.”

  “See, sounds easier when you say it out loud, right?” I say, smiling.

  “No, Jack. No, it doesn’t. The variables and assumptions alone give me a headache,” Mike comments. “But, if this shit doesn’t work, it’s not like we can figure out something else. We’ll be stuck. Me, you, and Trip, together forever.”

  “Well, let’s work on that and see if we can’t get some of those vehicles started,” I say, hoping Mike is wrong.

  Mike trudges into the woods after Trip, returning a few minutes later pulling the naked man covered in dirt along with him. I watch as they draw closer, wondering if genius and crazy go hand in hand. Maybe genius is the wrong word. Magical? Superpowered? Trip seems to operate on the extremes and I wonder if crazy isn’t some protective device the mind uses to deal with those abilities. I don’t doubt what Mike said. I do doubt whether I’m existing in the reality as Trip. Being hit in the building in Atlantis and my limb going numb was real enough, but I’ve also been shot in my dreams before. Felt the bullet go in and known I was going to die. Going numb like that could have been me sleeping wrongly. However, I’m not going to test the theory.

  Walking back around the city, I halt near the edge of the rail yard and encampment, this time keeping Trip in sight. I focus on the rail cars and tents for a long moment without seeing any movement. There’s not a sound except for the swish of the wind in the trees, and the only smell is that of pine. I think I’m becoming used to body parts growing magically from the ground and objects; I hardly notice them this time. With no movement in sight, we step into the open and work our way to the lot filled with armored vehicles.

  We go from one vehicle to the other, none of them giving any indication that they hold an electrical charge. I expected as much and make mental adjustments to the plan in case we can’t get one started. Without having a moving fortification, we might just have to put on our ninja pants and sneak our way into the facility.

  Prowling through the train yard, we find a couple of engines off on a siding by themselves. Trip worms his way into one of the crawlspaces, flipping the battery switch. The dash inside comes alive. It takes us a while, having to locate tools, but we manage to undo panels and find the battery compartment. Each of the linked batteries are nearly the same size as those in the vehicles, and the markings look similar. They don’t exactly use volts, but luckily the numbering system is the same. Lugging one of the batteries to a vehicle is like carrying a horse, but we manage to set it into place, having chosen the vehicle based on whether or not there were body parts protruding from it. Once the connections are secured and the plugs warmed, the vehicle fires up. The roar of a diesel engine fills the area as a puff of black smoke blows outward from the exhaust. Mike quickly turns off the key. We’re not ready to make noise at the moment; there are several other things we need to set up beforehand.

  “Well, that’s fucking awesome,” Mike says, crawling out of the vehicle that looks like a smaller four-wheeled version of a Striker.

  We inspect the systems, the markings nothing we can really understand. However, the functions of “go forward” and “stop” are easily deciphered. As is the heavy-caliber turret overhead. Trip walks into the main cabin, staring at the controls and rubbing his chin. Expecting it, I grab his hand as it reaches out.

  “Uh uh…not this time,” I think, remembering how he activated the air horn of the train engine on impulse.

  Trip looks me in the
eye, a roach hanging from his lips, his expression perplexed.

  “Sometimes I think you do this just to test me,” I say.

  “Why would I test you, Yack? I’m not your teacher,” Trip responds. “A master, perhaps.”

  “Like that,” I comment.

  “Why don’t you like me?” Trip asks out of the blue.

  “Trip, it’s not that I don’t like you. Quite the opposite. But, I don’t understand you. I don’t know what you are going to do from one moment to the next, and that makes me nervous. I already have enough variables to think about with each step in this fucked-up world. I know we operate on entirely different levels, but I don’t ever know where your path is heading. I can’t say that you’re unreliable, as you’ve proven that’s not so, but I can’t go around constantly having to deal with shit that crops up because you decided you wanted to see what a button does,” I express.

  Trips expression changes, the light in his eyes focusing. The roach at his lips drops to the floor.

  “Jack, how do you know that we aren’t heading to the same place, but along different paths? If we walked together, but on those differing paths, our vision of how to get there might not be the same,” Trip says, his face and body posture completely different than anything I’ve ever seen. “Trust is very hard for you, I get that, Jack. But without trust, what do you have? Not trusting anyone is a very lonely place to be. You have talent, that’s not in question, but so do others around you. You don’t always have to be in front. Trust is a part of love, and love is what drives the universe. It’s what creates stars, what creates life. So, in trusting, which is a part of love, you are offering life.”