A Shrouded World (Book 2): Atlantis

by Tufo, Mark

  “The door is locked,” Trip said with a timbre of panic. While I’d been spinning my wheels trying to find the zombies’ angle on this, he’d gone ahead to our original entry, now potential exit point.

  “No funkies?”

  “Duh, I think I’d know if people were trying to cut in line.”

  “Shoot the handle, Trip.” I was keeping an eye on the zombies. I glanced over my shoulder to see that he’d turned so that, much like a billiards strike, a ricochet would have an above-average chance of nailing me.

  “WAIT! Turn the fuck around first!” He did a pirouette. “I hate you, man; shoot the handle from the side closest to me.”

  He let the words rattle around in that empty space he called a head and then finally put his back to me, and presumably placed the rifle up against the handle. My system jumped a bit from the bullet; the zombies still did not move.

  “Missed,” he said.

  “How is that possible?”

  He never answered the question, just pulled the trigger quickly two more times. My ears were ringing and the zombies were getting antsy.

  “I think it’s indestructible,” he told me.

  “Did you actually hit it?”

  “Nope, don’t think so.”

  “Try it again.”

  “My head hurts.” I think he was talking about the loud noise, but who knows.

  “Just put the barrel...”

  Another loud concussion and the rewarding sound of metal clanging off of cement, although it could easily have been parts of the rifle.

  “You coming?” Trip asked.

  “Run, Trip, run!” The zombies knew the door was open and they wanted to make sure that we didn’t somehow lock it back up—if they got a little snack out of the deal, all the better. I turned; Trip’s face was wide with shock and fear, yet he held the door open for me. That meant a lot: if the door had closed and all I had was the little hole to pull it open, I’d lose what little head start I had.

  “GO, GO, GO!” I yelled. I was close enough now that I could catch it before it shut. He went in; I could not hear his steps over the pursuit behind me. The walls amplified the reverberation of the footfalls from the tailing zombies, and it was petrifying. I was in full-on flight mode; I don’t think I could have made my body turn to fight. Trip was on the first landing as I made it out of the hallway. He made it four stairs before we were neck and neck; the zombies were themselves out of the hallway now and moving quickly. I about lifted Trip as we barreled out and into the light of the first floor. I felt Trip sag, like he thought we were now safe and could take a break. He “got it” after I physically pulled him another twenty feet.

  We were in the massive open room of the building’s lobby when the zombies burst out from their basement imprisonment. We ran to the large open stairway that led to the second floor atrium. We were halfway up when I turned—this was where we would fight and live or die. They’d catch us if we kept running, and I’d be damned if I was going to run from one entrapment into another. Plus, I was tired.

  The zombie leader saw us standing there; he stopped at the bottom step and either ordered his cohorts up or the temptation was just too great for them. I’d let the flashlight go when we’d stopped and I now had both pistols out. The light would be fading soon, but right now I couldn’t have asked for better shooting conditions. With three shots, I killed the two approaching zombies. What remained of the second one’s head ruptured all over the stairs before its body slammed against the hard concrete. Gray matter slid out from the cavernous hole and ‘walked’ down two more stairs, much like a slinky, before coming to a final resting position.

  The leader growled at me; nine zombies had fanned out behind him, they were, waiting… waiting for him to issue orders, either to go up or go out. How, though? How was he going to issue them? Telepathically? In theory it was possible, I’d seen it done and I even had the ability to do it on a minor scale myself. I just chose not to. Entering the mind of something so deranged, hateful, and inhuman was like exposing yourself to radiation. You just didn’t do it on purpose. But, if there was ever a good time, this was it.

  I reached out, flexing my mind like one does a tight muscle that has been bunched up. I slid into the zombie leader’s mind. It was dirty—greasy, even, like I’d been swimming in the Gulf of Mexico after the British Petroleum disaster, and then once I was coated in the thick, black, congealing mass I waded ashore and rolled around in the sand, making sure to work the material into every—and I mean every—corner and crevice of my body. Then, maybe for good measure, I’d go to the zoo, the elephant pen to be exact, find the freshest, newest deposit the largest pachyderm had made, and then smear it all over me. That will give you some idea of how uncomfortable and disturbing this encounter truly was. I was hoping that the zombie would be surprised or at least partially as repelled by my connection with him as I was. He was not, though—which was again, disturbing, and yes, he hated me all right, but he was not repelled. He hated the fact that I was alive and not food in his stomach.

  There was something else in there as well, a small and burgeoning “self”—an “id,” an “ego,” whatever the fuck you want to call it. It was a spiteful little thing, but it enjoyed being alive enough so that he wasn’t going to come up these stairs unless he knew it ended with a bellyful of food.

  “Eaaaatttt,” he hissed into our local call.

  “We’re not on the menu.”

  “Diiiieee,” he dragged out, “so that we may liiiivee.”

  I swallowed hard—that was about as creepy a thing as I’d ever heard in my entire life. I nearly dropped my guns from the blast behind me. The zombie leader’s head burst as if he’d had a small piece of plastic explosive lodged in there. The remaining zombies seemed to have lost whatever governor they’d had over them and they reverted back to doing what zombies do: attacking on sight. Trip let the now-empty rifle fall to the floor as he sought out his slingshot. It was a short, one-sided affair: we had high ground, more fire power, and potentially more brain power, although that was open for debate with Trip and me on the same team.

  I quickly changed out the magazines on my pistols; I’d consolidate what ammo I had left after I was certain we were safe.

  “What the hell, Trip? Why did you shoot him?” I asked.

  “I was sick of his yammering. Eat this, kill that.” He had his left hand moving in the traditional “blah blah blah” movement: thumb being bombarded by the top four fingers as they “blabbed” away.

  “You could hear him?”

  “How could I not?” he said, then bent and picked up the rifle to hand it to me. “I don’t really like these.”

  “That’s okay, I really don’t like you having one.” I placed the sling over my shoulders and let the rifle rest against my back. I’d not noticed before, because I’d been so intent on the zombie himself, but he’d been wearing the navy blue uniform of the security firm.

  “Is that a little bit of luck swimming in our direction?” They say God works in mysterious ways—I guess that’s the truth, but he also loves a good laugh. I was so intent on the zombie at the foot of the stairs that I did not watch where I placed my feet. When my right boot came down on the expelled brains, I lost my footing. Would have gone down on my ass and maybe rolled completely down the stairs to land next to the leader if Trip hadn’t reached out with a sturdy arm to halt me.

  “That would have been a mind fuck.” He winked, then laughed like a loon.

  “Yeah, I guess it would have.” I let out a half-laugh, happy not to be a broken heap at the bottom of the staircase. The leader/guard did not have his weapon, which was all right because he did have two fresh magazines on him. I was thrilled Trip had killed him. Thirty more rounds could mean the difference between life and death. This constant struggle to find resources was brutal. When the world was different and I had some time to play some video games, which I’d never been good at, I always hunted for cheat codes so I could have unlimited ammo. My boys would gi
ve me crap about it, but I didn’t care; I was having fun. Where in the hell were my cheat codes now?

  Trip had come down the stairs and then passed me to go up to the large plate glass windows that went floor to ceiling; he pressed his hands and forehead up against them and looked upwards.

  “Going to be dark soon, we should find a place to ride the night out.”

  I was about to remark on how sane he sounded right there, and then he finished his sentence.

  “Wish I had some mescaline.”

  “So close Trip, so close,” I said as I stood and looked around. “What we really need is some food and water, and then we need to figure out how to get home. This running and hiding shit is getting old. Come on, let’s go back up. Building this size, there have to be vending machines all over the place.”

  “Do you think any of them will have turkey legs?”

  “Have you ever seen a vending machine with a drumstick?” I was honestly curious.

  He didn’t answer. We were almost back to where we had made our “final stand” when I heard the far-off cry of a night runner getting ready for the hunt.

  “Jack, where the fuck are you?” We went all the way up the stairs, past the atrium to the first floor proper, and as suspected there were four vending machines—though they were no longer vending anything. All of them had been ravaged; wrappers, glass and sticky spilled liquids had hardened in a big mass around the busted machines. Trip bent down and picked up what may have been a chocolate-covered raisin; he brushed some glass off of it and tossed it into his mouth.

  “You sure that wasn’t rabbit shit?”

  He grimaced as he chewed. “I’m not,” he said sadly.

  It was the same for the first five floors. Just our luck we were in a building that housed snack food junkies.

  “I’m tired, Ponch.”

  Trip was looking beat; I was feeling the effects as well. Can’t even begin to tell you how many times I had to stop him from going into the bathrooms and drinking from the toilets. I had no idea if the water was contaminated in any way, we couldn’t take the chance. Plus, well, and it’s not like this needs mentioning, but they were fucking toilets. If it ultimately came down to dying of dehydration or becoming test subjects, we would drink away—or at least he would; I’d take my chances with drying up like a prune before I lapped from a commode. No water flowed from the damn sinks. Right now we had somewhere around thirty-six hours before that ultimately became the call.

  “One more flight,” I said as I started to pull myself up with the handrail. The day was quickly, and thankfully, slipping away quietly. I may have heard the rumble of a motorcycle engine, but it could have just as easily been Trip’s stomach. I opened up the fire escape door fully expecting to see the exact same thing I’d seen the five previous times: destroyed machines, some others overturned and beaten to death with whatever office furniture was handy. These four, though, looked like they’d just been dropped off the truck. I was cautiously approaching from the side, attempting to not let my hopes get too high. There was a good chance they had indeed just been delivered and hadn’t had the time to be stocked before... well, just before.

  Trip blew past me. He dropped to his knees in front of the first one. His head sagged down and he gripped the sides of it in his hands. His sobbing damn near broke my heart, until he threw his head back and I realized he was laughing. I rushed to his side. It was a mecca of snack food: chips, pretzels, gum, licorice, candy bars, decent looking granola bars, packaged cinnamon rolls, trail mix, Trip’s beloved Phritos; it was all there. Like an oasis in the damned desert, it was all there.

  Trip pulled out his change purse. “Got any money?” He looked up at me.

  “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

  “No man, I left my ruble down in the basement; I’m going to get it.” He stood. I pulled him back, removed the rifle from my back, and shoved the stock a little too enthusiastically through the glass. Trip looked like he was wavering between eating something and kissing me.

  “Go ahead, man.” Why he went for those friggin Phritos first, I don’t know. He had to have eaten twenty pounds of them since we’d been here. As hungry as I was, the drink dispenser held more interest for me. There were rows of traditional-looking sodas with funny names like “Hill Rain,” “Gnome,” and “Orange Pound.” Those were all fine and dandy, but the juice and water were what I was after. I didn’t know what a lackie berry was, but it looked fantastic. I eased up a bit on my barrel thrust and was rewarded with a vibratory shock that traveled up the length of my arms and down to my tailbone. I nailed it again with a full thrust; it bent inwards but did not yield. I didn’t want to shoot it because of the noise, but I also did not want to be denied again. I raised the rifle over my head and began my downward swing as I stepped forward and in to the thrust. The plexiglass yielded all the way to the point where it was nearly touching its charges, then I broke through, large cracks shooting up from my point of impact. I now had a two-foot hole through which to reach my arm and start grabbing drinks. I tossed Trip something that looked like apple juice and then proceeded to drink three bottles of water in less than two minutes; I spent the next five doing my best to hold it down.

  “Brilliant move, Talbot,” I said as I walked around, my hands above my head, constantly belching to prevent the up flow of what I’d fought so desperately to obtain. When I finally felt better, I went for the lackie berry. Not sure what it was, but if I found a way home I was going to see if I could take some of the plants with me. Tasted like a cross between watermelon and grape, with maybe some undertones of cranberry. Trip had motored through all six bags of Phritos.

  “You didn’t want one, did you?” he asked as he licked the final crumbs from the last bag.

  “I’m good.”

  I looked longingly at a Scoff’s bar: peanuts, caramel, and chocolate sounded pretty great. But I’d just untied the knots in my stomach and had no desire to revisit that feeling, especially with something overly sweet. I opted for the pretzels, which, given how hungry I was, were just about the best thing I’d ever eaten. Trip looked like a machine as he ripped off wrappers and shoved whole foodstuffs in his mouth. I about gagged when he heaved a bag of jellybeans in, mixing it with a cream cheese Danish already parked in there. He was smiling like the village idiot, cheese-covered jellybeans falling to the ground as he did so.

  “Come on man, I’m trying to eat here.”

  He chewed quickly, swallowed hard, and then spoke.

  “Did you forget how to, man?” He was genuinely concerned.

  I savored the pretzels, but they did little to sate the hole in my belly, and at the pace Trip was going I’d soon be eyeing his leftover orts if I didn’t move fast. I’d taken two bites of a “saper claw” when I froze mid-chew. A long, loud, mournful howl erupted from outside, followed by a barrage of others. Night runners were close enough that we could hear them plain as night from six flights up. Trip somehow shifted up to find another eating gear, fearful that our feeding frenzy was about to be cut short. Chew twice, long swallow, rinse and repeat was his current group of actions. I started shoving drinks and food into my many pockets, careful to leave those housing the magazines free of extra cargo—it would suck royally if, in the heat of battle, I tried to shove a Pup Pug bar into my magazine well. I hope it tasted better than it sounded. Trip, I guess, thought I was going into hoarder mode. His arms became a blur as he binged. I let him do his thing.

  “Trip, I’m going around the corner and onto the work floor. Do not keep the flashlight on if you follow.” He nodded at the appropriate time; I just hoped it wasn’t because he was trying to force the food down his gullet faster. I left the break area and walked down a short hallway before I took a sharp left and found myself in cubicle city. I was happy that none of the light trickled out this far. In a city with no lights, a candle flame would burn with the intensity of a small sun. The office was nearly dark and completely quiet, yet I still half-expected someone to peek their head over
the chest-high walls like a prairie dog trying to see what was going on. A chill wind whipped past me, I thought perhaps it was an ill portent or a spectral visit, but it ended up being something much more mundane. I figured out how I’d heard the sound so clearly: two windows had been completed broken out. The wind picked up as I neared, whistling loudly as it did so. I was completely aware of how I would silhouette perfectly if Trip were to shine the flashlight in my direction. The only thing I had going for me was that there had to be at least fifteen minutes worth of food still in there, and he wouldn’t leave until it was either inside of him or on him somehow.

  I didn’t see anything immediately as I edged myself forward. I could hear the fuckers, though, and they were all around. I leaned far enough to poke my head outside of the building. Gotta admit, I was not a fan of that. Never liked heights; if I lost my balance nothing would stop me except the concrete below. As cautiously as I had peeked out, I quickly and recklessly pulled back in; at least twenty night runners were on the street directly below me. They were sampling the air and seemed to be developing a hunting plan. I had to believe they didn’t know we were in the building or they would already be inside—but having them this fucking close did not sit well with me. Another scary thought was that this was one of the buildings they slept in and we’d had the good fortune of not encountering them as we hunted our own food stores—so far. They could have easily gone by us on any of at least four other stairwells that led out of the building.

  My first instinct was to go grab Trip and leave, but where would we go? Running around the city was out of the question. Best bet was just hunkering down here for the night. Nobody had tried to eat us in the last hour or so, so I assumed we were relatively safe. Of course, that could all change in an instant. I crept back toward Trip, scared I was going to step on bubble wrap or something equally as asinine and the night runners below would hear. Fortunately there were no stepping hazards as I got back to Trip, who was now lying on his back with one hand on his belly, moving it in lazy circles as he moaned softly about how much his stomach hurt. Of course, he only spoke while he wasn’t busy trying to fit more down an already topped-off tank.