A Shrouded World (Book 2): Atlantis

by Tufo, Mark

  Checking each door I pass, I near the first of two hallway junctures that I’ll have to cross before arriving at the large room on the other side of a “T” intersection. I ease forward, my view widening one slow step at a time. With much of the branching corridor in sight, I lean to the side with my M-4 aimed down it. Nothing. I half-expected to see my visitors rushing in my direction, but it’s as silent and empty as the one I’m in.

  Keeping my carbine trained down the hallway and with my back to the wall, I sidle quickly across. I finally arrive at the T-junction at the end of the hall. Across it, two glass-paneled doors lead into a large carpeted room. Stenciled across the doors:

  Director

  Bureau of Intelligence

  Atlantis Division

  Well, I guess this is the place, I think, checking down both of the other hallways.

  I ease across. Pulling on one of the handles, the glass door opens with a soft sigh. I slip inside and step to one side so I’m out of sight from the halls. The room is large but there’s nothing special about it. Three larger reception desks sit near their respective walls; one on each side and one directly opposite. Several bookshelves line the rich wood-paneled walls. To the left and right of the entrance, stuffed couches and chairs surround glass-topped tables for people to wait in comfort.

  Each of the interior walls has an oversized door leading into office space. Each is placarded: “Bureau Chief” on the far door, “Intelligence” to the left, and “Operations” to the right. Now, where to start? With company in the building, I want to maximize my efficiency. If they are conducting a search, they’ll eventually run across my tracks, assuming they understand what that means. The less time I’m inside, the better.

  Intelligence will have information about what others were doing, whereas Operations will have material about what the government was doing. The latter is what I’m mostly interested in, although it would be nice to have some data on the invaders. From what I’ve seen, there was little time to accumulate much. But, anything is better than what I’m operating on now. If I’m going to get out of this fucking place, my first priority is to figure out what’s going on. If I’m going to be here for an extended period of time, then I’ll need whatever they have on the whistlers. Zombies and night runners I know to an extent. Regarding the whistlers, I know next to nothing. But first, operations.

  I ease my way over to the heavy wooden door and listen. A fiber-optic camera would be ideal, but given that I’m fresh out of them, I’ll have to rely on my senses. I don’t hear anything coming from the other side, so I slowly open the door. The silence continues. Slipping into the room, I opt to leave the door cracked in order to hear anything coming into the lobby. That goes against my grain, as I would normally leave things as I found them so no one would notice a change.

  Inside is an office of moderate size. Vestiges of sunlight seep through closed blinds covering the windows that occupy the entirety of the outside wall. In front of them sits a large desk with tall chairs arranged in front of it. On the opposite side of the room is a small conference table with chairs tucked around it. The far wall is filled with filing cabinets. There’s no way I’ll be able to go through every one of them, especially as I don’t even really know what I’m looking for. Rifling through the banks of cabinets is a failure waiting to happen.

  Keeping an ear peeled for visitors, I walk behind the desk and twist the blinds open a touch to let in more light, not enough to be noticed from outside. Letting in additional light does more than aid my search, it also provides a certain comfort. I am in a darkened building in a city filled with night runners. Rooms with access to sunlight are automatic safe havens against them. I won’t be able to get out should they find me, but they can’t get in either—at least not until after dark.

  Folders cover the surface of the desk, some neatly stacked into piles while others are randomly placed. As at the CDC, I assume that whatever is actually on the desk is more important than whatever is in the cabinets. At least, whatever was most important at the time of this world’s demise. And what could be more important than some kind of an invasion?

  Leaning my carbine against the desk, I begin rifling through several of the folders. Some contain logistics information and requirements for forces in the area; requisitions for food, ammo, and fuel. In other words, beans, bullets, and black oil. Although I’ve heard the last “B” can also stand for bandages. The only item of note within these files is an apparent storage depot not far from the city. I remove the location map and set it aside. I’m also assuming that there are supplies in the rail yard, or perhaps in the train we crashed. I decide that some of the files are actually useful and set one of the folders aside, placing the map with it.

  In another folder is a list of force deployments in the area. While that’s not as useful, it does indicate additional scavenging locations for ammo. That will be handy for resupply should I need it. I don’t really want to track down gun shops, assuming they have that kind of thing here. I leaf through the folder and find a map with deployment locations, which includes annotations drawn in marker. The markings could be movements or changes in the original plan. I’m not sure which with a cursory glance, and I don’t have time to sit and study it. The one thing that I note is the arrangement: It appears that they were cordoning off an entire area, centering on the city for the most part. It’s not a ring; more of an elongated ellipse. It seems like they were trying to protect the entire plain. That goes right into my pile.

  One folder sits by itself near a corner of the desk. The title merely reads “Rock Quarry.” Flipping the cover back, large portions of the first report have been blackened out. It’s that redaction that piques my curiosity. Anything that’s been redacted is usually the interesting stuff. Of course, being blacked out, I’m not able to see whatever cool information it holds. One sheet, which looks like a printed e-mail conversation, mentions helicopter overflights to be conducted by a third party. The name of the third party is innocuous enough, following the common naming conventions of private security firms: Whiteriver Services. The fact that they were apparently contracted by the operations department of intelligence indicates that is most likely the case. Attached is a diagram indicating the rock quarry and flight patterns crisscrossing the area that were to be conducted daily.

  That looks an awful lot like a grid search pattern, I think, looking closer at the diagram. Now, what could they be looking for out there? Or, protecting?

  Another memo asks for the flights to be increased to three per day. The date, or what I assume is such, is meaningless to me. It might as well be cave writing for all the sense I can make of it. Maybe not—I’m sure I could make out what a cave writing was supposed to be getting at. As it’s near the top of the files, I’m assuming that it was relatively recent. Perhaps I can make some sense of it when I get the chance to look at it closer. And, perhaps I’ll be able to sequence events.

  I quickly pull out the force deployment diagram, noting that some forces were situated around the quarry. The more I look at it, the more it seems like the city may not have been the center of the cordon, but rather the quarry itself. The map shows the location to be about thirty or so miles from the city, but that’s just a hasty guess. A rock quarry in and of itself isn’t that interesting, but given that it’s in an operations folder suggests otherwise. The entire folder goes into my small stack.

  At first, the noise is a faint rumbling, but it’s enough to catch my attention. I stand straight and cock an ear toward the windows, straining to catch the direction and origin of the sound. It grows louder until it sounds as if an entire chapter of Hells Angels is descending upon the streets below. My heart quickens as I pick up my M-4 and slide to the windows.

  Standing to one side of the farthest window, I peel down the end of a blind slat and look down to the street. The view allows me to inspect the avenue for a distance, but there’s nothing in sight. The structure mutes the sound, but the noise of approaching motorcycles is clear. From m
y vantage point, I can easily see numerous tracks along the street from the nightly forages of night runner packs. Also unmistakable are tracks leading into the building—mine and whatever else followed me in.

  The noise grows until the windows, walls, and furniture tremble. Of course, that can only mean one thing: whistlers. I continue watching the street and eventually see a tight pack of motorcycles edge into view. Dressed in leather and wearing gas masks, further enhancing the whole biker gang motif, eighteen whistlers slowly rumble down the street, their heads rotating from side to side like tourists as they examine the buildings.

  With the sunlight squarely hitting the building, I ease up on the slat. It would be easy for the whistlers to see that kind of anomaly if they were to look up. The blinds are lightly colored and the dark gap would shine like a beacon. Although it limits my view, I’m still able to see enough to observe the whistlers. The two riding in front slow as they draw next to the Defence building.

  “Nothing to see here…move along,” I whisper.

  They, however, don’t abide by my whispered wishes and come to a stop.

  One of the leaders leans over the side of its bike to stare at the tracks. In dramatic fashion, its masked head looks at the ground near its booted foot and slowly travels upward as it follows the disturbed pathway leading from the street into the building. It lifts its head higher and begins to scrutinize the building itself. I don’t dare move. It’s looking almost directly at me and the slightest shift will be observed. I haven’t a clue as to their abilities and won’t discount the chance that they have some kind of telescopic eyesight. In this world, anything and everything seems to be possible.

  It finishes its inspection of the building’s exterior. Without taking its eyes from the entrance, it fumbles to get the kickstand down, its boot scraping several times until the spring-loaded stand extends. Looking over its shoulder at the others behind, it gives a hand signal and shuts off the bike. Even under the long-sleeved leather jacket, its double-jointedness is apparent. The others plop their kickstands down and the rumblings of the idling bikes, one by one, all die until there’s only the aftermath of the sound in my ears.

  The tall, gangly riders dismount and gather together. I hadn’t realized that I had been holding my breath, and I let it out slowly. There’s a lot of arm waving and hand pointing from the apparent leader. I can almost hear the clacks and whistles that is their form of communication. In my mind, I can hear the ear-piercing whistles that nearly drove me to my knees at the underpass. After a long moment, ten of them leave the gathering and lankily walk toward the building entrance, vanishing from view under the portico. The others scramble across the street and individually enter buildings across the way or disappear from view down the street. In short order, the street clears with only the bikes left parked in the middle of it.

  Well, this party just became more interesting, I think, fully lowering the slat.

  Jack Walker - Chapter 5

  I now have approximately twenty guests within the building and no idea where any of them are or where they’re going. The way I see it, the whistlers have three options: They’ll either follow the larger path, the one I made, or they’ll split up and follow both. It really doesn’t mean much at the moment, but I’m hoping they’ll follow the others and end up mutually exterminating each other. Also, if they only follow the others, I may be able to circumvent the lot of them by retracing my steps to the ground floor. However, my wishes don’t usually amount to shit, so I can’t count on any of that happening. And, of course, there’s no way of telling where they went, so this is purely a theoretical exercise. The only thing I know for sure is that exiting through the front door isn’t an option anymore. I’ll have to locate a back door or service entrance.

  I also have three options: up, down, or stay in place. The tendency is to go up, but there’s only so much “up” one can go. After that, there will only be a whole lot of down to go back through. Remaining in place is a viable option. I could hunker down and wait for events to play out—hopefully without any involvement on my part. With the day wearing on, though, I’d be forced into action eventually or be forced to tangle with the night runners. There’s also the fact that there’s a trail leading right my location. I’d be cornered with nowhere to go. Even though I’d only have to defend a narrow doorway, the waiting game would be to their advantage. Not the worst-case scenario, but close to it. They could hole me up in this room until nearly sunset and depart, leaving me to the mercy of the night runners. And, by mercy, I mean being painfully torn apart.

  Although down seems to be the best solution, I decide to wait for a while. Events could transpire that will allow me to just walk out the front door, whistling a dainty little tune. Without moving the blinds, I keep an eye on the street below and an ear peeled for any sound coming through the cracked-open door. Shutting it would completely isolate me. Besides, if they make it to this office, then they’re going to know I’m in here by my trail, not because of a partially opened doorway.

  The street remains empty. The only thing moving is the sun slowly wending its way across the bleached sky. Time passes without change, except for the shadows growing longer. I haven’t heard anything from beyond the doorway. If the two parties met up with each other in the halls, then I would have noticed some activity from below. If the whistlers won the engagement, then they surely would have left. If they ended up on the losing end, then the other whistlers outside would have either entered or retreated. It seems we are all playing our own waiting games.

  I can play that game as well as anyone when the need arises, but time is not on my side. The whistlers can leave in a hurry if they want—I only have my two feet. As much as I’d like to say otherwise, they only go so fast. It’s imperative that I be far away from the city when the sun closes its chapter on the day. For the whistlers, that only means a quick five or ten-minute bike ride. For me, it’s a good hour just to the train, and that’s only if I make a beeline for it without regard to anything else. To “safely” make it there will take more time… a lot more. So, it’s hole up here for the night, which is probably not a grand idea, or begin making my way out… which is also probably not the greatest idea.

  If I could only walk through a doorway and vanish like Mike and Trip, I think.

  As much as I hate to step out from the confined comforts of my cozy cabin and into the infested hallways, with the day moving on, I see it as my only choice. Call me stupid, and yes, that term has been coined often in regards to my decisions, but the thought of being trapped at night in the middle of a city festering with night runners doesn’t sit well. In my mind, that choice only has one ending. So, it’s step out into hallways filled with twenty enemies and more waiting outside, or face thousands of them once the sun sets. I’m pretty much done for either way; it’s just a matter of how I want to go out.

  I take a quick look at the building diagram, mentally planning several routes to a back entrance noted on it. The easiest is back the way I came and farther down the initial hallway. I’m hoping those playing the waiting game aren’t positioned along that route but are busy entertaining each other.

  Ejecting my mag, I take a quick look at the rounds out of habit before sliding it back in. I pull the charging handle back slightly to ensure a round is chambered. The gleam of brass seated within is assuring. Grabbing the folders set into a small pile, I stuff them inside of my shirt. It’s a tight fit but not constraining. I hoist my small pack into position and tighten the straps. With a deep, calming breath, I center on the task before me: making my way through the mess that waits on the other side of the door.

  Okay, Jack, a hole in the dark. You aren’t here, I think, pausing for a moment with my hand on the door handle.

  I peek through the crack, taking in the entire lobby and part of the hallway beyond. Nothing is moving. With head lowered and eyes closed, I banish any doubts, removing every thought that doesn’t pertain to what awaits. The domain ahead is as much mine as it is theirs. It
’s not ego talking, it just is. With another deep breath solidifying my commitment to this plan, I open the door and slide through the opening.

  Not wanting to be visible from the hallways, I quickly move along the wall and crouch next to one of the couches in the corner, and listen. The building remains much as it was before: quiet. However, it’s a large facility and there could be a frat party on another floor, and I’d never know of it. The silence is neither a good nor bad sign. It just means that no one is currently charging in my direction.

  As much as I hate exposing myself through the glass entrance, I don’t have much choice. The hallways branching to the left and right are clear as far as I can see down them. I move quickly to the door, open it, and slide through on my way across the junction. Silence and speed are my best friends, but the two often don’t go together and are actually rather diametrically opposed. It’s just a matter of knowing when to apply each. For me, it’s a matter of being in the flow of things. Sometimes that doesn’t work, but shit, what else do I have to rely on? There’s only that and the bag of tricks tucked in my pocket. It’s not like there’s a dance pattern or a game of twister stenciled to the floor with instructions as to where to place my foot.

  I just accomplished the first part of my two-part plan ─ to get out of the room alive. Check that one off. Now for phase two: get out of the building. I know, not much of a plan, but that’s really as far as my planning capabilities go. I guess there’s a third part of it as well—not get eaten by night runners—which means getting safely away from the city before dark.