by Mark Tufo
I shake the thoughts out of my head as they begin to head down avenues that will end up leaving me insane. The night runners cross the runway, growing larger but still angling across where I’m crouched. Screams echo off the buildings within the base. Once those in sight pass by and hopefully vanish out of sight, I may have a chance to make it to the aircraft. I have to get there without being spotted and chased—the doors don’t open quickly. The forward side one is the quickest, so that’s where I’ll make for. Once inside, I’ll be able to relax, as those moving fortresses have kept the creatures of night at bay so far.
With my heart thudding rapidly, I wonder if our creator doesn’t hand over the remote to a seven-year-old at times. It truly seems like I’m being put in situations for either amusement or some kind of fucking test.
Oh, he made it through that…click…let’s watch this one.
The night runners draw closer, their direction still the same.
Okay, Jack. Steady. You’ve been through worse.
The lead night runner stops as if it hit a wall, the one following closest behind slamming into its back. The others stop with the leader. Fifty yards away, it lifts its head into the air. Suddenly, it snaps its head to the side and looks directly at me, two eyes glowing like liquid silver. More heads turn in my direction, the eerie glow of night animal eyes increasing in number.
Even though my thoughts were bouncing all over the place, my central focus has not, and I’ve kept the group in my sights at all times. A quick muted burst of fire staggers the first night runner backward, faint strobes of light illuminating the ground around me. Its arms flail as it tries to catch its balance. Failing, it tumbles to the ground and disappears from sight. The others are quick to respond, their shrieks rising loudly in the night air and reverberating across the field. With a sudden burst of speed, from standstill to a near full-out sprint, they race toward me.
So much for them passing me by and my free ride to shelter, I think, quickly aiming at the next one in line.
I send a second burst outward, thankful that I can fire at center mass instead of having to nail consistent headshots. The rounds connect with solid thumps, starting at the bottom rib and stitching upward beside the sternum. The figure is halted like it ran into a taut wire, the upper body launching backward and the legs sliding on the grass.
Without waiting to observe the result, I twitch my barrel to the next one running alongside. I had fifty yards, but with their speed, I know it will be close. Three faint rapid strobes light the area around as I fire toward the next. Their screams are ear-piercing as they close the distance. The third one suddenly darts to the side at the same time as I shoot, only one of my rounds slamming into its upper arm. In mid-step, the force of the bullet causes it to stumble to the side, its arm swinging behind it. Adjusting quickly, I send another three rounds into it as it quickly recovers and keeps running. As if tripped, the third one falls forward, its body sliding across the dewy stalks of grass.
I rise and start walking backward to eke every millisecond of time I can. They’ve covered over half the distance and I’ve only taken down half of the group. The math is not in my favor. The sound of their pounding footfalls is like a heard of stampeding wildebeests to my ears. I open up and sent a mental image of “STOP!” It’s a risk opening up like that, but I have to do something. Simultaneously, I fire at the fourth.
The three slow their sprint, one sliding on the grass as its feet dig in. Two recover almost immediately. However, it’s too late for the next one in line, as one round forcefully impacts its upper sternum with a thud and the crack of bone. The following shots hit at the soft spot in the middle of its neck where it joins the body and right in the esophagus.
So much for center shots, I think, watching as a thick spray of liquid catches the light of the moon.
The last two rounds rip through the soft flesh, tumbling at the first hint of impact. Both clip the spine before exiting in a shower of blood and small meaty chunks of tissue. The night runner, again in a full run, falls to its knees as if performing at a concert, its hands going to its torn throat before falling face forward.
The next one is close. Without taking aim, I quickly send a burst at it. I see the puffs from its grimy shirt that is fitting far looser than I suppose it did before it became infected. The night runner jerks to the side, stumbling and trying to catch its balance. Lowering my carbine, I cease my backward travel and slam my shoulder into the chest of the already off-balance creature. I smell the rancid body odor with a faint whiff of the dried blood caking its clothing. The added impact sends the night runner to the ground. Gaining my balance, I raise my barrel and put a burst directly into its head. The body jerks wildly from the collisions of metal and bone, blood splattering across a ruined face. The glow from its eyes fades, but its legs and arms still violently pound the ground.
Hearing heavy footfalls almost directly behind me, I duck and turn toward the sound, reaching for the long dagger at my calf. I really never thought to check that it was there, but it always has been and I’m operating on instinct at this point. No thoughts are being singled out, I’m just reacting. My senses are registering their surroundings and gathering clues to react to.
The dark figure of a night runner is nearly upon me. If it weren’t for my call to stop in their telepathic method of communicating that slowed this sixth one, I’d have been done for. I hear the low growls and snarls. With knife in hand, I rise straight up and grasp the clothing at its chest with my off hand. In the same smooth motion, I drive my blade under its sternum, feeling a warm gush of liquid. Using the haft of the knife against the sternum as leverage, the blade plunges into its chest cavity, I fully rise and twist, throwing the night runner over my head with its own momentum. Blood drips on my face as it trickles out of its mouth. Following through, I twist fully around and throw the night runner to the ground, pulling my knife from its chest. With moonlight shining on its body, the night runner spasms in the grass, blood pouring from its mouth in waves.
In the near distance, I hear subdued moans from those I only injured. The grass moves and I see trails they’ve created as they continue trying to get to me. Further off, shrieks intensify as other night runners respond to the call made by this group. Looking up, I see a larger group fanning out near the aircraft. My path to shelter is cut off. Without another thought, I turn and run for the trees. I know the area fairly well, and I’ll have to avoid the nearby residential neighborhoods. If I can do this right and lead the night runners away, perhaps I can circle back to the aircraft. That will mean going through the base, which may not be a great idea. There is a lot of countryside and wooded land to the south, so that may actually be my best bet. Plus, there’s the added benefit of getting closer to Cabelas.
While running across the grass, I replace my mag with a full one. Out of immediate combat, my emotions rage. I’m angry at the night runners for cutting off my escape and preventing me from getting to my loved ones. I’m mad at whoever the fuck took me from them to begin with. I’m afraid of being so close, yet still so far. More yet, I have a deep anxiety that I’ll be pulled from this world—my world—and thrown back into that fuck of the other one. At the moment, I don’t give a rat’s ass about some looping time thing that needs to be taken care of. I didn’t ask to be some time policeman and don’t want to be. I do hope Mike makes it back to his family, but right now, mine are only miles away and I can’t get to them quickly enough.
With night runners on my trail, neither gaining nor falling behind, I see the security fence surrounding the airfield rapidly drawing closer. Multiple strands of barbed wire angle both inward and outward along the top. I don’t have time to be subtle here, but there’s no way I can leap the height or grab the inward facing strands. Slowing just a little to minimize the bouncing, I shoulder my carbine and start firing bursts at one of the posts holding the wire.
Sparks flash in the night from the few rounds that manage to hit. I keep firing, knowing that if I can’t scale th
e fence, I’ll be forced to fight every fucking night runner behind me, and those still more than likely heading in my direction. I see a single upper strand fall, then the next one down.
That’ll have to do, I think.
Letting my carbine hang by its lanyard, I leap upward. Kicking off the chain links with my boot, I reach up. My hand, covered with both dried and fresh blood, grasps the metal stake angled into the perimeter. The final strand inside stabs into my palm, cutting through my gloves. Ignoring the electric jolt of pain racing up my arm, I find another foothold and grab the upper length of rail, again ignoring the sudden jab of sharp wire. Vaulting upward, I swing my legs to the outside of the final strand. I pull on the bracket while in mid-air and then let go, twisting my body to land on my chest in the V created by the brackets.
Landing, I feel a little winded from the impact, but mostly I’m surprised that it worked. My carbine dangles over the side, the lanyard against the strand of wire. My hands sting like nothing else, pulsing and throbbing. Pushing that down, I clear my M-4 from the wire and carefully push upward with my hands on the brackets and my knees, getting my feet under me. Jumping, I clear the three intact strands angled outward from the fence and land on the grass in a crouch. My knees, although made stronger by the infection of night runner blood, feel the impact. I may be faster and stronger than I was, but it didn’t cure aging.
Shrieks from the closing night runners encompass the airfield. I glance quickly at the growing number of pale-faced creatures racing across the field, the glow of their eyes bright.
“Try that, motherfuckers,” I mumble, turning to run across the clear-cut land and into the trees.
Behind me, I hear the impacts of the night runners against the chain link fence and the resulting screams of pain. I have no doubt that they’ll ignore the pain to continue their pursuit, but I’ve gained a little ground in the process. I contemplate shooting them off the fence as they attempt to scale it, but the shrieks coming from the residential areas to the side, and hence on this side of the fence, won’t allow me to be idle for long. Besides, I only have a limited supply of ammo, which I may need later.
I set up an even pace, no longer sprinting for all I’m worth. My breath is quickened from running and it won’t be much longer before I am completely winded. The night runners have my scent and they won’t give up easily. The velvet sky above is still dark with brightly twinkling glints of silver; it will be a few hours before the glow of the approaching dawn outlines the mountains. Once sheltered by the trees, I turn south, away from the residential sprawl and toward the river separating me from Cabelas.
Even though I’m pacing myself, my breath is slowly being stolen away. Walking twenty miles might not seem that far, but running with a pack, well, that’s worse than an actual marathon. Not to mention that I’m traveling over uneven ground. However, thoughts of my kids and Lynn keep me moving. Well, that and a multitude of night runners on the hunt behind me. Jogging around a tree, I’m blinded by a sudden bright light.
I come to a halt. I’m thrown from the dead of night into the light of day. My panting breath is all I hear, replacing the shrieks of night runners in pursuit. I listen hard and even open up, not feeling a single night runner for miles. I notice that my weapon dangling at my side is the one I picked up from the cache, the mags the same.
Nooo!!! I mentally scream, sinking to my knees. Please, nooo!
Placing my hands on my knees, I feel the ache and sting from the wire. But, I don’t care. I’ve been stripped away from my world again, from my kids, from Lynn. I just don’t want to go on, but also know I have to. I caught a glimpse of the possible. I may not have come back to the moment of eating with everyone, but I returned. I may not know when it was, but I don’t give a flying fuck if there’s two of us, I’d be back. Just to see Bri’s smile one more time. To hear Robert’s laugh. To listen to Lynn tell me what a fool I am. To hold them all in my arms just one more time.
The agony I feel in my heart is almost too much to bear.
I was so fucking close…why?!
I feel like lying on the ground and giving up, feeling the tearing inside my chest as if it were a physical thing. I take a step and pass through another wave of cold with daytime turning to night. A familiar odor penetrates the depths of my pain and I hear a clear voice.
“Yack’s back.”
Overcoming my internal desire to just lie down, I see the vehicle Mike, Trip, and I drove away from the ambush, but we aren’t in the same place along the tracks. I actually don’t recognize where I am. Standing away from the vehicle, shading his eyes with one hand, Mike is looking up the hill toward me. There’s something odd about Trip, but I ignore the fact that he has raised his shirt and is staring at his stomach.
Giving a halfhearted wave, I work my way down the steep slope, feeling every collision of my hands with the ground as I use them to keep my balance. Half-sliding down the hill, I feel the pain inside being slowly replaced with a growing determination. Going home is possible: I’ve witnessed it. And, I’ll do everything in my power to return. And, if I ever find out who in the fuck did this to me in the first place, well, galaxies will burn.
Mike takes one look at me as I draw close, “Dude, you all right?”
Seeing my expression, he pauses. “You don’t have to say anything, we’re men, I get it.”
His gaze then strays to my gloves.
“What happened to your hands?” he asks. “Looks sort of like stigmata.”
I look down, really seeing them for the first time. The palms of my flight gloves have tears, one palm almost shredded, and are covered with dried or drying blood.
Staring at my hands, I reply, “I was almost home.”
Feeling overcome with emotion, I quickly turn to the side. Mike places a hand on my shoulder, saying nothing, but understanding everything. With a deep breath, I look up and stare at Trip.
“You,” I say, pointing. “You had better make this right.”
I know without a doubt that Trip knows what is going on. Perhaps not in his current state, but definitely in his more lucid ones. I just hope the message gets delivered.
Chapter 3 - Mike Talbot
One minute everything was cool. I was driving the armored vehicle, Jack was manning the turret, and Trip was doing Trip things. You know eating, smoking, and occasionally ripping ass that threatened to buckle the heavy steel of the machinery we were in. The next, well, I wasn’t even sure. I watched a ripple of air radiate toward us, Trip reached out and grabbed my shoulder as I turned to see what the hell he was doing. I watched as he desperately tried to reach for Jack and came up a few inches short, just as the force from the time distortion thrust me into my seat.
“Yack’s gone!” He screamed it loud enough I swear I could see the words.
When the echo of his bellowing died down, I asked him who Yack was. That piece of information had been carved neatly out of my skull. We were now on an asphalt paved roadway. According to Trip we’d been on train tracks previously, though I had no recollection of that. It was a disconcerting feeling to know the information housed in your head was being manipulated. Time was basically making me its bitch, and I wasn’t a fan. I don’t know how or why Trip was excluded from this fun little ride or how he was able to impart the knowledge back into me not by just telling me about it, but by showing me. Fucking weird sensation, like watching a movie I played a role in, though I didn’t remember ever acting in. Kind of like those days when I used to drink to the point of browning out. Yeah, it’s always a grand time to have people come up to you the next day and tell you the insanely idiotic and sometimes dickish things you did the night before. And you have to pretend you know what the hell they’re talking about so that the problem you are definitely having doesn’t go public. Fake laughing…ah, good times.
So, where the fuck was I? Oh yeah, armored vehicle, heading into a clusterfuck of enemies, one highly trained soldier down, one man with Swiss cheese for a brain, and Trip. Asking Trip to get on
the turret was akin to asking a monkey to man an assembly line. There was a chance the monkey could get at least some of the parts assembled right, but more than likely there was going to be a hellacious recall on whatever product he was working on. I could see Trip peppering the living shit out of our hood with fifty-two caliber rounds or whatever the fuck that thing was shooting. I could ask Trip to drive; same problem, though. Probably end up doing donuts in a supermarket parking lot.
Trip ducked down and was intently looking at me while clearly thinking of something else.
“Why are we heading back to the collider?”
I don’t know why he was asking me. Sure, I was driving, but I was basically just heading in the direction the machine was bringing me.
At first I didn’t know what the crackling sound was, very similar to the noise in your head when you put a bunch of Pop Rocks in your mouth. Then it dawned on me, it was those damn whistler staples pinging off the sides, hundreds of them. Not that they could see it, but I was flipping them off.
“You can shove your little poisonous staples up your ass!” I yelled.
Trip ducked his head down from the turret. “That would be painful, Ponch.”
“Probably would be.”
The armored vehicle must have been made from the same company as the van we’d taken from the rental lot. If ants had balls, that would be how much equitable power this thing put out. In fairness, it was pushing a shit ton of steel, but still, when you press a gas pedal you truly expect some sort of lurching forward. I wanted to squash whistlers under tire, but as long as they weren’t asleep, dodging this thing was a fairly easy endeavor.
“Ponch, do you think we could get some giant beach balls when this is all over?”
“What the fuck are you…” And then I stopped.
Off to our left, there were three whistlers messing around with a huge amber-colored ball. It had some random lights on it and was roughly the size of a Volkswagen Beetle. Looked mightily like an ocean mine without the pressure points. And it must have had some sort of locomotion device, because it began to come up a small rise and toward us.
