A Shrouded World (Book 2): Atlantis

by Tufo, Mark

  “What the fuck?” I turned and the night runners had grabbed the hose and were pulling it back to them.

  “Motherfuckers. Smart little meat eaters, aren’t you? Smart enough to dodge a bullet?” I blasted two of the main offenders; the rest let go and moved away.

  “You all right Trip?!” I shouted as I looked over my shoulder, making sure to keep my eyes on the night runners. A barely audible response drifted up. When I dared to look down, I saw that Trip had not wasted any time. He was standing on the ground. One hand was shielding his eyes from the sun, the other was scratching the top of his head, like he was trying to figure out where he was and how he’d gotten there.

  “TRIP!” I yelled as loud as I could. He started swinging his head back and forth before he looked up.

  “Oh, hey, Ponch! What’re you doing up there?”

  Lucky bastard, not only was he not afraid of heights, he’d already forgotten his harrowing journey down.

  “Don’t go anywhere—I’ll be right there!” Would I, though? The idea of going out that window was crippling, plus as soon as I was out of sight the night runners would start reeling me in like a hooked fish.

  “Think, Talbot. How are you going to do this? I could just stay. Shut up, you know what will happen. Great, I’m having an argument with myself, and now I’m acknowledging that I’m having said argument. You know what’s going on here, don’t you? No clue. Why don’t you fill me in, asshole. You’re stalling. No, you’re stalling!”

  “Ponch, turn the hose on!” Trip shouted.

  I picked up the hose and wrapped my forearm around it. My muscles couldn’t have been bunched up any tighter if I tried.

  “This sucks.” I was slowly making my way to the edge, and stopped once my foot was no longer on solid ground. I was frozen like an icicle in a harsh winter.

  “Baby!” Trip shouted.

  “Not helping,” I told him.

  “You look like a baby because you’re so far away! Which is actually an illusion our brain creates to display distance! Our eyes alone can’t tell how far something is!”

  I was getting a science lesson from a Dead Head while I hung seventy feet off the ground by a fire hose with cannibalistic night runners less than twenty feet away. This was shaping up to be a fantastic day. I made a loose roll of the hose around my left leg and the top of my foot, which I stepped on with my right—in theory, this was to give me a controlled decent. I summoned all the courage I could find, digging deep into the mucked-out recesses of my mind for what little fragments I could piece together. The decision was a fine filament’s thickness between waiting for nightfall and going down. I was no more than two feet out the window, most of my body still above the hole, when I noticed the runners once again looking at the hose.

  “Don’t you fucking dare!” I shouted at them. I wanted to shoot, but the thought of releasing my death grip on the hose never crossed my mind. Well, I mean it did, but that seemed like instant death. The second my head dropped down past their line of sight, they would start pulling. With my sloth-like movements, at least they wouldn’t have to pull too far. I shakily let one hand go and reached down to pull out a pistol. I received my share of criticism from the runners for brandishing a weapon.

  “Yeah, well fuck you too, for making me have to do this. One hand on rope, check. One hand on pistol, check. One round in your fucking head”—I pulled the trigger—“semi-check.” I’d hit the ugly shit in the chest. That was the beauty with these guys though: didn’t need to be a headshot. I unloaded the remainder of the clip as fast as I could pull the trigger; when the bolt popped open, I tossed the gun at them and then put my trust in my abilities to slow myself down at the appropriate moment. I eased up the tension of the hose around my leg. I had just enough grip to keep me from falling off while not giving my hands third-degree burns.

  I’d made it all the way down to the third floor before I felt a sudden jerk. I’d known it was coming, and still it surprised me. I almost ended up having the hose wrenched from my hands. I was twenty feet off the ground and I figured it wasn’t going to get any better: I let go. I had enough time to think upon the runners being angry and confused as they pulled an empty line in, but this was overshadowed by the concussive conclusion to my short flight. Sure, I had a few more enhancements than the average man, but I could still be injured. I tried to stay as loose as possible, knowing that bracing for impact would most likely send my spine blowing through the back of my skull. As soon as my boots hit the ground, I collapsed and bent my knees and immediately rolled to my left, trying to absorb as much of the impact over as much surface area of my body as I could.

  It worked and it didn’t: I wasn’t dead, but I wanted to be. I’d done something to my right ankle, my rib felt like it was bruised, my head got a good ringing, and the wind had been shocked completely out of me. I was curled in a tight ball of pain and misery, sucking for air that couldn’t find its way into me fast enough.

  Trip had come over and was looking down at me.

  “You don’t fly so good, man.” Giving him the finger seemed appropriate; I just didn’t have it in me yet. “What happened to the water fountain?” He was looking around.

  Once my lungs stopped screaming for attention, I began to unfurl like an unused flag.

  “Damn.” I’d rolled onto my back and was looking straight up. I was hoping the runners had come to the window, because them—yes, them—I would gladly flip off. I tenderly flexed and rolled my ankle, only wincing when it moved. My rib wasn’t broken, which was a bonus, or my heaving chest would have caused way more pain.

  Trip lay down next to me. “Seems like a weird time and place to take a nap, but I’m game,” he said.

  I sat up, sucking in a wincing breath. Not broken, but definitely bruised.

  “Damn” was all I managed, again. I braced myself with my two hands, wincing as I put them to the ground—I’d taken a few layers of skin off. Once I could breathe without too much pain, I asked Trip to help me up.

  “Make up your mind, man,” he said as he stood. He got behind me, placed his forearms under my armpits, and hoisted me up. Easier for him than I’d expected. I stood, took a few shuffling steps to the building, and then leaned against it. I bowed my head, promising to whomever would listen that I would never get in another building higher than two floors. It was a lie, I knew it and so did the higher entity, but at least I didn’t promise to be a better man—he or she might have got a good laugh out of that one.

  “Ponch, Ponch, how did we get here?”

  “I don’t know, Trip, but we’re going to find out.” I pushed away from the building. He was talking about the immediate, I meant to answer the bigger part of the equation.

  “Let me lean on you a little bit,” I asked of him. I was half-hopping, half-walking as we left. Going in the building had not been worth it. I’d gained a pistol and some ammo—but we’d lost Jack, and he was the brains of the outfit. Even though Trip had a hard time finding a balance between being a crutch and a ride, we still made good time getting away from there. We had hours before the runners came hunting, but that was far from our only problem.

  Jack Walker - Chapter 4

  With my shoulder holding the glass-paneled door open, I stand at the entrance completely perplexed. I mean, they were just right behind me. One moment they’re there, the next, nowhere to be seen. I study the tracks leading up the steps again, looking closely at the faint imprints left in the thin layers of dust. There are three distinct sets of boots leading upward, and none leading away. The sand to either side is undisturbed, meaning they didn’t head off in another direction. I follow them with my eyes. All three lead to the doorway and then only one set, mine, lead inside.

  I step outside and look up, just in case they suddenly encountered an anti-gravity field or became expert mountaineers and scaled the walls on a whim or to keep in practice. There isn’t anyone floating in mid-air or searching for the next finger hold. Mike and Trip just up and vanished, literally into t
hin air. If it weren’t for the tracks, I would go back to my certainty that this is just a dream; that they only ever existed in my imagination. Of course, I’m not entirely discounting that possibility yet, either.

  Perhaps they were taken back to their worlds, as suddenly as we arrived. Maybe their time in this world came to an end—it’s comforting to think that there may be a time limit imposed. I don’t think I ever asked Mike how long they had been here; I assumed that they came at the same time I did. It’s a distinct possibility that they were carried back to their loved ones; well, Mike’s anyway, leaving only me in this forsaken world. If that’s the case, then I’m happy for them. On the other hand, it leaves me extremely envious. The thought of being forever stuck here, alone, tightens my stomach. I have the sense that I have to stay alive here if I’m ever going to see Lynn and the kids again, and the odds of that happening just dropped dramatically.

  I would call out for them, to see if maybe they were taken only a short distance, but the thought of my voice echoing down the empty streets, waking or drawing anything in the vicinity, gives me pause. Their disappearance, alarming as it is, also gives me a measure of hope. Perhaps there is a way out of this place, and it’s only a matter of time or happenstance. Now I just have to stay alive until that random event occurs, if that’s actually what it is. The other possibility is that I’ve gone crazy and this is a result of being trapped in crazyland. I mean, I know that I’ve been slowly heading down that path, but for it to arrive so suddenly…well, I would have appreciated a little more warning.

  Well, Jack, it is what it is…and there’s nothing more to do except push on.

  It was great having the company, even if Trip frustrated me at times. I didn’t know how important that was until it wasn’t there anymore. It’s also easier with someone around—the fear factor diminishes to a degree—but I’ve been alone before, so this isn’t really anything new.

  “Well, Mike, I hope you found your way home,” I whisper, taking one more look around.

  I step back inside, letting the door slowly close behind me. I still need to find clues about where to go. I don’t have great hopes that something will jump out, or that I’ll even find anything. It’s more about keeping occupied and maintaining the illusion of hope. I’m afraid that a feeling of permanence will settle in if I find a place to hole up in and stop moving forward. That will destroy me, and I might as well walk into a nest of night runners. In pushing ahead, I can keep the grief of not ever seeing my kids again at bay.

  Dammit, Jack, enough of this feeling sorry for yourself. It’s time to pull it together and get shit done.

  The door behind me closes with a soft breath of air. Besides the physical aspect, it also provides a sense of closure about what just happened. With a heavy sigh, sounding much like the door closing, I pull on the hem of my shirt, tugging it straight beneath my vest, then raise my M-4, ready to deliver high-speed projectiles at the slightest hint of enemies nearby, and carefully walk toward a highly-polished, dark wooden reception desk.

  This searching of buildings seems to have become a constant in my life. And it always starts with a reception desk: almost like a ritual. Of course, as memories of prior sojourns flow through my mind, I’m reminded that not many of them have been fun. As a matter of fact, none of them were. On the upside, I haven’t seen, and don’t see now, any indication that night runners are within. I open up for a brief moment and don’t sense any packs nearby. But that isn’t always reliable. And, there is still the sensation I felt outside of someone watching, or perhaps following. As I round the corner of the desk, adrenaline shoots through my body.

  I startle, feeling my heart pound solidly. Rising out of the tiled floor, two thighs angle upward as if they’re an inherent part of the flooring. Bending at a right angles from the knees, the upper shins slant downward and blend into the tiles. The stocking-clad legs aren’t eaten—further indication that night runners haven’t been here. Just visible at the point where the thighs emerge is the lower hem of a dark-colored skirt… or at least that’s what it looks like. The legs themselves appear like the others, fresh and living.

  I don’t care how many times I come across this sort of thing in this fucked-up place, there’s just no way of getting used to it. I mean, seriously! It’s just fucking eerie—something that only belongs in horror movies. Not able to help myself, and wanting to find out if they’re alive, I crouch beside them and, removing my glove, I reach out.

  Again, there isn’t any warmth or coldness. It feels like skin, although it’s a little difficult to tell through the pantyhose. It doesn’t feel rubberized or waxy. I press in on the thigh, meeting the resistance I would expect had I pressed in on my own thigh. Lifting my finger, there isn’t the whitish dot that I’d normally expect. Feeling the back of the leg under the knee and along the femoral artery, there’s no pulse.

  I remain crouched, looking intently at where the skirt joins the flooring. The fabric isn’t bunched where the two meet. Pushing the hem up, I don’t see any join or gap. There’s nothing to indicate that the skirt and floor are two separate entities. It’s easy to see that a piece of wood extending from a wall and the wall itself are two separate things—that isn’t the case here. Here, they simply have merged together without any kind of boundary. I think about slicing the skin to see if it bleeds, but, well, I’m just not going to do that…yet. That seems like it would be some form of mutilation. I mean, I can’t really call what I’m looking at dead or alive. And, really, what would it yield me information-wise? Nothing that I can think of.

  Rising, I look down one of the wide hallways leading away from the central foyer. The radiant light in the room quickly fades to a deep gloom, and then darkness. I am able to see a little way into the shadows, but not down its entire length. In several places, I make out appendages of various lengths and angles poking from the walls. There aren’t but a few of them, though anything more than zero is too many.

  Trying to ignore the legs sticking out of the floor, I begin searching the desk area. I wish there were something to cover them up with so I don’t have to see them out of the corner of my eye as I look for a building directory and map. And, with my luck, the department I’m seeking will be on the far side of the top floor. That’s the way it seems to have gone each and every time. Plus, I’ll have to walk down a hallway with hands and arms reaching toward me like some haunted house. Yeah, I’m not looking forward to this at all. Shit, maybe I should begin looking elsewhere and forgo this nonsense. But, I’m guessing that every building will be the same. If I’m to find some clue, this building seems to be my best bet. And, I can’t discount Trip’s desire to go inside, for whatever reason.

  I notice that one of the phones on the desk doesn’t have the handset in its cradle. The long, curled cord is pulled taut and leads off the desk toward the floor. I crouch again and follow its path with my eyes, only to see that it, too, disappears into the floor. I rise to get a better overall picture. With the positioning of the legs, the cord vanishes into the tiles at about the angle I would expect if the receptionist had been holding the handset to her ear. For some reason, seeing that creeps me out more than anything else. I stand, staring at the scene with a deep sense of disbelief and shock, fully expecting to see the cord quiver. Scarier yet would be to pick up one of the other phones, press the receptionist’s extension, and hear a voice. Yeah, that’s when I call game over, and for that very reason, I’m not about to experiment and find out. Nope, I’m good with not knowing. Not just no, but fuck no!

  I look out of the front windows and see the rays of sunlight pouring in. It seems like any nice, perfectly normal day; one in which those working inside feel trapped, longing to be outside and wishing they had called in sick. The scene at my feet is in direct opposition to that thought. I feel more than a little overwhelmed. Everything seems, well, thin somehow. Like what I’m seeing is real, but with a transparent quality to it.

  Push it aside, Jack…push it aside, I think, shaking my head
to refocus.

  I’m almost afraid to pull open one of the drawers to check for a facility department listing. I do so quickly, half-expecting a hand to pop out like Thing from the Addams Family. It’s something I would expect from this place. Stepping over the taut phone cord, I find what I’m looking for in the third drawer. Flipping through the contents, I notice that the entire military structure appears to be one entity, not the Army, Air Force, and Navy (okay, and Marines; I think of you as being separate from the Navy) that I’m accustomed to. The department listings in the bound folder center around Intelligence, Logistics, Command, and Planning. While not quite the same as the military that existed in my own world, it’s close enough. And, it will hopefully make my search a little easier.

  As I’m looking for intel, that department seems like the best place to begin, although each probably holds its own clues to what happened. My end goal is to find a place where survivors may be hidden in the hopes that they can point me to the door out of here. The listing indicates that most of the intel shop is on the third floor. That’s a whole lot better than the top floor I was expecting.

  Tucking the folder inside my vest, I turn to look down one of the forbidding hallways. The one I’m looking at seems a little wider than the others, so I’m guessing that will be my best bet. There’s also the curving stairs that lead up to an atrium overhead, but that ultimately just leads to the same place. Even though all indications show no night runners within, I dread having to hike up yet another stairwell. And there is still that unknown outside. Something was there, and I can’t afford to think it was just my imagination. Like this world would ever allow me to get complacent.

  Readying my M-4, I step away from the desk, leaving the receptionist embedded in the flooring behind on her eternal phone call. Thinking about it again sends shivers racing up my spine. That sight will haunt me forever. I can only hope it’s the worst I’ll ever come across.