A Shrouded World (Book 2): Atlantis

by Tufo, Mark

  “Nope. Nothing cuddly here, man,” Mike says, looking around the open expanse, perhaps for more weirdness.

  I’m wondering if this happened to everyone in the area. I didn’t see anything of the sort while strolling up the highway; it wasn’t until Trip and I came to the last military barricades that we first saw something similar. To me, that means that whatever caused this only encompasses a specific area, and may not be a worldwide thing. I’m guessing that if we mapped the anomaly to its extent, then the cause of it would be at the center. Of course, the mostly barren terrain surrounding the city would make mapping that difficult. And, so far, it only seems like people were affected. We’ve come across a few of these events, but I haven’t observed any animals involved. I’ll have to keep an eye out for that one.

  Staring at the shin bones poking out of the large canvas of asphalt is so out there that I think our minds just bypass that fact. It all becomes about analyzing how…and why. I think this is the part in the movie where the audience becomes flabbergasted that the actors push on. All of the signs of impending doom are there, so why venture down the stairs in the dark? I have a little of that feeling, like I should just shrug and turn around. But, I need to get back. It’s not a matter of want: it’s a deep-seated need. And, it appears that we need to journey forward if we’re going to find any answers.

  “It looks like we’ve stepped through the looking glass,” I comment, surveying the area.

  “And fallen down the hole. Funny, I think I’d remember if I swallowed a pill, but I wouldn’t be surprised to see a rabbit wearing a top hat wander out of the depot,” Mike adds.

  Leaving the oddity behind, we start across the loading dock area. I feel a little lost, as I don’t have the first idea of where to search, let alone what we may be looking for. I’m not naïve enough to expect something to actually fall out of the sky and provide answers. The entirety of our plan is to wander around aimlessly until something catches our attention. The idea of doing that seems absolutely ridiculous, one that I would scoff at were it someone else’s. But, that’s what we seem bent on doing. So, off we go like a bunch of country kids visiting the big city for the first time, gawking at the sights.

  The surface of the paved lot is covered with a layer of fine grit, disturbed in most places by what I guess is from numerous night runners transiting the area. Within the disturbed sand, I make out short outlines of single tread marks, attesting to previous whistler visits. I’m struck again by the situation in which we find ourselves; some kind of creature that motors around the countryside riding motorcycles, bodies or parts of bodies embedded within solid objects, night runners and zombies running around, and yet another variety of fast zombies who have the capacity to reason. It’s enough to make me want to find an out-of-the-way place and hide under a rock.

  Angling for a wide drive that provides access to the loading docks, we draw closer to one side of the depot, where more oddities await. Embedded within the walls is more of the same: body parts snapped off and sticking out in places. The bone of an upper arm extending from a concrete wall, the other end lying on the ground a few feet away, partially wrapped in the remains of a shirt, visible gouges along the lengths of bone. The skeletal fingers are clenched as if frozen in the last minutes of an agonizing end.

  An upper leg pokes out just above the knee, the remains scattered and covered with the same grit, the foot still wrapped in a worn work boot. Up and down the depot walls, the same thing. Shreds of clothing mixed with bones are strewn on the ground near the walls. Bones poking out like broken pipes. Several work helmets angle outward from the walls and lie scattered on the ground. Part of a stained, brightly colored safety vest dangles in one place, fluttering to the side in response to light gusts of wind. Except for the breeze, everything is still, as if the world drew in a deep breath and is just waiting to exhale…like whatever happened caught the moment and is holding the memory.

  “Well, this is going to prove interesting,” I comment after we finish our silent inspection.

  “Looks like it isn’t just tissue that was affected, but whatever the poor bastards were touching as well,” Mike states. “What do you think?”

  “That’s as likely a scenario as I can come up with,” I reply.

  “What the royal fuck could cause something like this? And worse yet, can it happen again?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea, man. Whatever happened here is just too scary to contemplate. And to have occurred over such a wide area—I mean, if I remember the signs near the blockade correctly, this has to be at least a twenty-five mile radius. And that’s only if the city is the epicenter. If not, then it could be vastly larger.”

  Keeping our senses attuned, we emerge from the depot and make our way carefully along a street with various warehouses on either side. Eventually, the district transitions from industrial to commercial. Some of the branching streets are covered with undisturbed layers of dirt, while others have avenues of disturbance running along their length. What the night runners find to feed on in this place is beyond me. From the bones extruding in places where people obviously congregated, it is apparent that the food source those provided had been expended long ago.

  As we travel closer to the heart of the city, I keep expecting to find zombies gathering, but so far we appear to be the only ones about. I feel the sun’s rays on my shoulders as the day moves into mid-morning and begins to heat the atmosphere. The prevalent tension, the warming day, and my brain trying to wrap itself around the strangeness of this place all add to a feeling of lethargy, seeking to distract my thoughts from the present. The further we walk through the streets, the more difficult it becomes to stay focused. Time and time again, I have to force my attention back to the surroundings.

  The passage of time is funny. To me, it seems like weeks, at least days, have passed since the massive three-way fight, though in truth it has only been a few hours. That’s what happens when a number of significant events occur within a relatively short period of time. I give a sharp, rapid shake of my head to clear my meandering thoughts. It’s imperative that I remain alert to the environment. First, things can happen quickly and I have to be watchful for the first indication of trouble. Second, I may miss something of importance, some clue that could lead us where we need to go, or provide an answer to our dilemma.

  Step by step, we make our way deeper into the city. The wind, swirling in intervals down the streets and around buildings, is our constant companion. Occasionally, a bird or small flock of them will startle from a nearby rooftop, taking wing in a rush of motion before vanishing beyond another roof. Each time it happens, my heart stops and then pounds violently as a torrent of adrenaline is released.

  Trip pauses for a fraction of a second each time before the birds take off, like whatever disturbed them is doing the same to him. Yet he says nothing nor does anything differently, just plods on in what I can only describe as a morose state.

  Mike is tense and I’d swear he’s gripping his rifle so hard that he’s in danger of cracking the wood stock.

  “Birds always take off before the shit starts,” is all he says.

  Slowly, the outlying buildings give way to the taller ones occupying the downtown area. The concrete, glass, and steel structures rise straight up from the asphalt avenues and concrete sidewalks. Painted lines mark pedestrian pathways, where people, running errands known only to them, once crossed busy streets. Stoplights, different yet similar to the ones I’m used to, hang blankly, swinging silently. Like the loading dock, and like each street we’ve encountered, a moment in time seems to have been captured.

  Grime-covered cars sit wherever they happened to be the moment the event was triggered. Some of the streets have small lines of vehicles stopped for their corresponding traffic lights. Cars of all shapes and sizes line concrete curbs where the drivers were fortunate enough to find a parking spot. Small mounds of dirt are piled up around tires, along the gutters, and in the doorways of several buildings.

 
; Also captured within the city streets and along structure walls are more bones and various objects protruding from asphalt and concrete surfaces. It looks like someone took a ball of thick mud, rolled it around on a bed of straw, snapping off the pieces close to the surface, added other miscellaneous debris, and let it dry. Glancing in one car parked just on the outskirts of the downtown proper, I see several inches of a pelvic bone extending from the dashboard. There isn’t any wreckage that would indicate the pelvis was forcefully embedded. Instead, it appears as if the two were melded together.

  “Do you think he’s checking the oil?” Trip asks.

  “I’m not opening that hood to find out,” Mike comments, staring at yet another of the oddities.

  “Yeah, I don’t think I will either, even though I’m extremely curious to see what we’d find.”

  “I’m afraid that we’d find that the eyes are still alive and following our movements.”

  “Well, that’s what I’m curious about. But, hearing it stated aloud, I don’t think I really want to find out. And thanks for that visual—that makes everything sooo much better.”

  “Anytime, man; maybe that’s what I’m here for.”

  Further along, a scarf rises out of the pavement, fluttering back and forth in the swirling breeze. Along the wide avenue, other soft objects are embedded in walls, sidewalks, car doors, and the street itself. All waver with each eddying gust as if the avenue demands some way to indicate wind direction and speed.

  Halting in the middle of the street, observing all this, my stomach clenches and begins to churn. Close to feeling overwhelmed, I am lightheaded from taking in so much information and too much strangeness. It’s all I can do to hold my ground, let alone take another step in this madness. And, through it all, the smell of decay that I would expect from so many bodies is missing. Sure, there’s a mustiness carried on the breeze, but far from the stench of death. Of course, judging by the actual contact we’ve had with body parts, it doesn’t appear that they are in any state of decay. There’s so little actual information and too much conjecture. So far, it’s as I thought earlier: no answers, only more questions.

  A tingling sensation trickles down the back of my neck, making the hairs stand on end. I turn my head, trying to look as though I’m taking in the surroundings much like we’ve been doing. Looking amongst the vehicles, at alley and street corners, and trying to pierce the veil of the many windows, I see nothing, but the sensation lingers.

  “We’re being watched,” I casually comment.

  “I thought I felt something,” Mike replies.

  “Do you see anything?” I ask.

  “No, figured you had since you brought it up,” Mike answers.

  “I don’t smell or hear anything. I just get the feeling that whatever it is, it’s behind us. It’s not close, but it’s not far away either. And, if that’s true, the wind is blowing in entirely the wrong direction for me to catch their scent or hear them.”

  “You get the feeling there’s a bunch of them?”

  “I think so. Well, we could press on, or circle around and set up an ambush. At the very least, we could get a glimpse of what we’re dealing with.”

  “It feels the same as when I came across the smart ones,” Mike states.

  “That doesn’t bode very well, especially within the confines of these city streets. They could be anywhere, and circling around at this very moment,” I say.

  Trip leaves our tight gathering and walks toward the large structure we are standing in front of.

  “Trip, where are you going, man?” Mike asks.

  “Phritos…I want some Phritos,” Trip answers, pointing toward the glass-enclosed building entrance.

  “Fuck,” I murmur. “Trip, now is not the time for that,” I state more loudly.

  Mike begins chuckling. I’m not sure if it’s because of our horrible situation, one in which laughter is the only real way to take it, because of Trip’s sudden desire for fried corn treats, or because of what I said.

  “Jack, look,” he says.

  I glance upward, following Mike’s pointing finger. Emblazoned across the front of the building, almost hidden as the letters are nearly the same shade as the building itself, are words denoting the structure’s function:

  “Ministry of Defence”

  “Defence with a ‘C?’ What the hell? Did we get transported to England?” I ask, the significance of our find readily apparent, especially since Trip also wants to go inside.

  Mike smiles again.

  “You know, that really wasn’t supposed to be funny,” I comment, staring up at the building’s facade.

  “No, I agree. I was just thinking that if this were Europe, it could just as easily be Amsterdam, so I was wondering what a night runner or zombie might look like stoned, or maybe in the throes of withdrawal,” Mike says.

  The thought creates an image of a drug-starved night runner racing through darkened streets in search of something to cure an itch it can’t quite comprehend. Somehow, the thought of encountering a night runner like that is even scarier.

  “Well, shall we head inside, at least as far as the radiant light will allow? At the very least, it will give us a good vantage point to look for whatever is behind us, and limit the number of ways it, or they, could come at us,” I say.

  “I’m not so keen on going too far in,” Mike responds.

  “Nor I.”

  With Trip leading the way, seeming to tug against an invisible leash, Mike and I climb the set of concrete steps that nearly span the building’s width. A colonnaded portico spans a completely glass-covered entrance, allowing a lot of light to penetrate inside and illuminate the black-and-white tiled foyer. The undisturbed thin layer of dirt on the steps and at the entryway, along with unbroken windows covering the front and doors, gives hope that night runners aren’t inside.

  Trip’s desire to go in, along with the building’s apparent function as a regional defense-oriented headquarters, makes me want to explore its interior. Having to penetrate deeper within its darkened hallways does not. I’m reminded of my trip to the CDC in search of what I thought was vital information, and barely escaping the madness that facility housed. Still, if whatever occurred here had any military or intelligence backing, then there should be some sort of information about it within. Staring up at the multi-storied building, I can’t even begin to imagine the square footage that would need to be searched. It could take days and we may still not find what we need. Hopefully, there is some sort of building diagram and department listing at whatever functioned as a reception desk in the foyer.

  Still feeling the tingling sensations of being watched, Mike, Trip, and I cross to the front doors, the first people to disturb the grit-covered ground in some time. Mike pulls on one of the many doors leading inside. With a sharp tug, it opens outward.

  “After you,” Mike says, sweeping his arm in front of him in a half bow.

  “Don’t think for a moment that I’m leading you in with your arm on mine,” I say, stepping over the threshold.

  Mike doesn’t say a thing, which is a little odd, given that we have taken to the occasional bantering. But, I let it pass and notice that it’s a little cooler inside. Not that I think the building systems are operational; it’s only an observation. The lighting inside also appears a little darker and more bluish than I would imagine from the amount of sunlight passing through the windows. This leads me to think that perhaps the large glass panels covering the front are tinted in some fashion, or perhaps coated to minimize the passage of UV rays.

  I hear the soft click of the door closing. Turning to off-handedly mention the windows to Mike, more by way of conversation than to impart any significant information, I find that he isn’t there. I mean, Mike and Trip, who I assumed were on my heels with the closing of the doors, aren’t anywhere in sight. I look around the expansive foyer. Nothing. There aren’t any tracks leading through the fine layer of dust. There isn’t any place inside where they could be hidden, at least
that they could have reached in the short seconds that I’ve been inside.

  Looking at the tiled floor, there is only the short trail of my boot prints. Moving to the door, I can see the trail left as we all climbed the steps to the entrance. Beyond that, there are only my prints. I open the door again—the change in temperature is noticeable, but not vastly different. The shadows from the wide, tall pillars stretch at angles across the entrance. Expecting to see the shadowed outlines of Trip and Mike against one of them, perhaps conducting some prank on me, I’m confused by the lack of any sign. For a second, I think that they were taken down upon my entry into the facility by whomever, or whatever, is following, but there is no indication of their bodies, no spattered blood. They just, well—for all intents and purposes, they just vanished into thin air.

  I walk back in, expecting and half-hoping that I will walk through some sort of barrier and see Mike and Trip standing within. Nothing. I didn’t notice any sort of field barrier that I walked through initially, and the coolness I felt was normal for transitioning from a warm day to a building’s interior. No tingling of the skin, no hairs rising on end, no mental brush against something. There is literally nothing to indicate that something odd happened: they just vanished as if snatched out of this place.

  Mike Talbot - Chapter 4

  The defense building was a nice respite from the harsh realities of the outdoors. Although in reality it was a false safety—those front doors weren’t going to stop any of our enemies. Jack was especially fearful of night runners having set up shop in this place. I needed another weapon and fast; this hunting rifle wasn’t going to cut it. I had hope that this building would have an armory of some sort, maybe some rocket launchers, a flamethrower, cannon. I didn’t give a shit. I had little hope, though; this was like going to the Internal Revenue Service building with the hopes of find billions in cash lying around.