A Shrouded World (Book 2): Atlantis

by Tufo, Mark

  Of course, that kind of planning frustrates Lynn to no end. She’d ask what the plan was, to which I’d respond, “go in, get what we need, leave.” I can envision her expression clearly and hear her response, “Oh, okay, Jack. Good one. Don’t let the details get in the way of such a marvelously constructed and well thought-out plan.” To which I’d chuckle, and run.

  I begin edging down the side of the hallway in the same manner as my entrance. It’s a little less comfortable now, knowing there are so many sharing the building. Even being next to the wall in the corridor makes me nervous; the hall seems larger and I feel much more exposed. Nearing the first T-junction, I hear something down the branching hallway. From just around the bend, it sounds like both a slurping and tearing sound. That’s followed by a sharp grunt, softened as though whatever issued the noise is trying to be quiet, but still get its message across.

  Oookay. I won’t be going this way, I think, edging silently backward.

  Behind me, down one of the branching halls, I hear a shuffling sound. The corridors, with their narrow confines, hard walls, floors, and ceiling, and with nothing to dampen noises, carry sounds with more clarity.

  Ah, see, I know that trick.

  It seems that the waiting game has taken on a stalking aspect. Apparently, whatever is waiting in both of the branching hallways knew where I was and set themselves in position to ambush me from two sides. That is another indication of their intelligence. Also interesting is the fact that they haven’t immediately attacked, as a zombie or night runner would. It’s possible that it’s the whistlers lying in wait.

  I may be able to keep one side clear of enemies, but not both. If whatever it is rounds both corners at the same time, I’m done for. Especially if they have those crazy oversized staple guns. Keeping both entrances in my peripheral, I edge across the hall, taking one quiet, careful step at a time. I take extreme care not to scuff my feet and try not to leave anything but the barest of imprints. I test one of the office doors and find it unlocked. Easing the door open, making sure to keep the weight off the hinges, I slip inside.

  The office is like any. A wooden desk is near the far wall with an overturned chair behind it. A monitor of some kind sits on the desk with an array of papers scattered over the surface. Scenic posters cover much of the blank spaces on the walls with two other chairs against the inside wall and two filing cabinets set side by side against the wall on my left.

  With a last listen, I ease the door closed. Hopefully, with my prints already leaving a trail in the hall, and with the care I took re-crossing it, it won’t be too easy to see where I went. The room is empty. It would have been a better bet for them to hide in one of the offices along the hallway where they planned to ambush me. Perhaps they did and I am just lucky it isn’t this one.

  A poster scene of mountains with a lake in the foreground catches my attention; it doesn’t seem right. It’s not that the lake or scenic background is odd or out of place, it just seems distorted. I don’t have time to sightsee or conduct an in-depth search, but I step to one side and look again. Then, as if materializing out of the blue, the oddness comes to life—damn near literally.

  A face! A face in the middle of the picture! And not just a painting of a face, but a fucking real-to-life face! Another step to the side reveals that it extends outward from the picture …in 3D.

  Fuck me!

  Since noticing the limbs embedded within surfaces, this is the one thing I had hoped I would never encounter. It’s been in my mind, but I didn’t dare give it voice. Having to will my feet forward, I step closer. Nausea grips my stomach. The face seems so real, like it belonged to someone watching a TV show or preparing dinner. For the most part, it’s expressionless, but with a hint of furrowed brow as if in deep concentration.

  At least the mouth isn’t open in some silent scream and the eyes wide open with fear.

  If that were the case, I’d take my chances with those waiting in ambush. I think I’d have to hold up my hand and explain my hasty maneuver.

  “Wait, wait! You have to see what chased me out here,” I’d say, leading them back in.

  They’d see what I fled from and say, “Fair enough. We totally get that. For that, we’ll give you a thirty-yard head start.” And then the game would commence anew.

  But, that’s not the case. The eyes stare, clear and moist as if alive. In a morbid flight of fancy, I move side to side to see if they follow my movement. They don’t, but I swear they are looking at me no matter where I stand.

  Fucking-ass creepy!

  I want to feel the face, see if it flinches, but there’s just no way I can bring myself to do that. Limbs poking out of a surface are one thing, touching a face embedded in a painting, well, no fucking way. I can’t even bring myself to test for any breath coming from the nose. If there were, I don’t think I could handle it. No, that’s something that can be left in the unknown bucket.

  With a last look into the eyes, I shake my head and turn away. I’m going to have to pretend this “thing” isn’t here and move along. After all, I still have a situation to deal with. However, I know this scene will return to haunt me. And I’ll probably kick myself for not checking it out closer. Being in the situation and looking at it in hindsight are two different animals altogether.

  Ignoring the face in the picture as much as I can, I focus on the tall filing cabinets. Baskets filled with loose paper and a picture of a man posing with his family adorn them. I take the picture, doing my best not to look at it. If I do, I know I’ll be tempted to compare it to the face. Then who knows what path my mind will take. No, best to leave that one alone. I lay it quietly face down on the desk. The baskets follow.

  Taking one of the chairs, I place it to one side of the filing cabinets. I then remove my pack and carbine, placing them on top. Using the chair, I step up and hoist myself to the top of the cabinets, doing my best to work it so my knees just slide on top of the metallic structure. Kneeling, and with my hands apart, I slowly lift one of the drop-down ceiling tiles, sliding it back between the wires holding the entire structure in place. Dust settles down, the motes tickling my nose and falling in my hair. I slowly and quietly brush the fine powder from the top of the cabinet. It won’t do to have that noticed. If whoever finds it is smart enough, they’ll figure out where I went in short order.

  Rising, I poke my head into the space above the drop-down. Pipes and cable baskets of all sizes fill the overhead compartment. The tops of the office walls are easily recognizable, as are impassible firewalls that section off parts of the floor. I won’t be going far this way, but perhaps I’ll be able to circumvent the ambush. At a minimum, I’ll hopefully be able to turn the tables and have the surprise factor on my side.

  I lift my pack into the overhead and lay it on the top of a wall against one of the pipes. My M-4 I lay along the ceiling’s framework. Now for my old, tired body. Gripping one pipe and the top of the wall, I kick once while lifting and pushing. I don’t want to bang my boots against the side. With one motion, I settle my knee on the top of the wall. Using the pipes for support, I slowly rise and set my feet under me so that I’m squatting within the confines.

  With the majority of the larger pipes running down the middle of the hallways, there’s plenty of room to crouch, but not enough to stand fully upright. This is not the kind of place to be waltzing around with a backpack, so it will have to stay. I don’t like leaving supplies behind, but I don’t have much choice. I quietly unzip the bag and remove a few mags, placing them in my fatigue pants pockets—only one in each so that they won’t rub together. Those will be a priority in the short run. Food and water I’ll be able to scrounge later. I do, however, take one of the water bottles.

  Gently replacing the tile, I take a closer look at my surroundings. All of the surfaces are covered with differing depths of dust. Rectangular HVAC ducts run everywhere in an orderly fashion, as does everything else. At first glance, it appears a maze of conduit, but it is neatly arranged. And, they run
at all levels. For the most part, four and six-inch conduits outline the hallways, with smaller ones branching off into the individual rooms. Fire suppression systems, electrical, low-voltage cabling, HVAC systems, all of the building’s lifeblood flows above the drop-down ceilings and eventually vanish through concrete firewalls.

  The air is dry and musty, with layers of dust everywhere. I can feel its dryness in my throat and nostrils with each breath. My initial reaction is to cough and sneeze. Not a good idea. Taking the water bottle, I take a deep drink to clear my mouth and throat. I also dab my pinky into it, coating it with the liquid, and rub it into and around my nostrils. That will hopefully trap the dust—sneezes are next to impossible to stop quietly. I’ll have to recoat them as I move along.

  Well, let’s get this show on the road, I think, grabbing my carbine, thankful for the short barrel.

  Crouched, I step slowly along the top of the wall, maneuvering over and under conduits. Turning at the end, I parallel the hallway until reaching the corner. Large pipes, an arm’s length away, run above both corridors. I have a choice: yes, finally a choice. Peel back one of the tiles and see what waits below, or climb onto the pipes and crawl my way past. I can make it to the end of the next row of offices, but a firewall will stop me there and I’ll have to enter the hall to make my way past. Seeing where the enemies are located will allow me to visualize my next step more clearly. However, it’s a risk.

  Moving to a position halfway down the branching hallway, I squat, setting my M-4 beside me. Drawing my silenced 9mm, I slide fingers into the crack between one of the tiles and the framework. I imagine that whatever is there will be looking toward the main corridor, waiting for me to stroll by. And, more than likely, they won’t want to be too far from the junction so they can quickly jump into the fray.

  I slowly pry the tile upward, careful not to let any of the dust drift downward. Sure enough, there are two figures not more than three feet directly below me. Next to them is the end of an arm extending outward from the wall. From this distance, it’s easy to see the chunk that has been taken out of it, leaving a large flap of skin hanging down. There isn’t any blood flowing from the wound, making the flesh inside look like fresh steak. The figures themselves aren’t what I was expecting. From the full heads of dirty, greasy hair, it’s immediately obvious that they aren’t whistlers at all…which places those creatures somewhere else entirely. Not a comforting thought.

  So, what are these? They aren’t night runners or I would have been set upon immediately. I mean, it wouldn’t have been difficult for them to track my scent or hear me creeping down the halls. They aren’t typical zombies, as indicated by their somewhat intelligent nature. Plus, they have a semblance of self-control and aren’t simply gnawing on every limb they come across. It reminds me of my encounter with the woman in the woods, who had directed others in a flanking maneuver. And there are Mike’s stories of encountering similar tactics. No, I’m dealing with something entirely different here.

  Smart flesh-eaters…just awesome. And a pack of them, yay!

  One of them begins sniffing, as if a strong scent arrived and it is trying to locate the source. There’s a fervor that seems to grip both of them, almost as if they started vibrating in place. Both of their stances suddenly tense.

  Uh oh.

  With my handgun aimed at the top of their skulls, I begin to ease the tile back into place. The one who first picked up the scent suddenly turns and glances upward, directly at me. Well, maybe directly at the crack through which I’m looking, although it does feel as if we lock eyes. The pale, glowing nature of the ghostly face staring upward reminds me of a night runner. The skin seems darker, though still blotchy.

  The recoil of the 9mm comes as much of a surprise to me as I’m sure the bright, strobing light does to him. However, my surprise lasts longer than his. I’m not sure he even registers it in his mind before the rotating, speeding projectile collides with his forehead. Blood, bone, and meaty tissue spray downward from the back of his head before landing on the floor with a splat. The sub-sonic round, coupled with the suppressor, barely made a noise, coming as it did from above a ceiling. The small flash of light, though, streamed through the crack and created a band of light that imprinted itself on the walls and floor.

  The creature crumples to the ground, sinking first to its knees and then backward into the mess that was the inside of its head seconds before. The second one is in mid-turn when my second round impacts just above its ear and plows downward, the bullet splintering as it hits the dense bone. The shards tear through the brain, some exiting out the other side in sprays of dark, thick liquid. Others rip further into the body and lodge in the torso. The figure rocks sideways, stumbles for a step, and trips over its fallen comrade. Its limbs twitch several times before coming to a final rest.

  A warbling, gurgling sound erupts from down one of the other hallways, coupled with footsteps quickly making their way in my direction.

  Okay, bad decision. I should have just kept going.

  I quickly open up, thinking I may have come across a new form of night runners. My rounds didn’t make much noise; certainly not enough to carry down the corridors. And the bodies falling barely made anything more than soft thumps. The splat of brains hitting the floor, maybe. To me, it seems more like they dropped off the radar and someone, or several someones, are responding to it.

  I don’t sense any night runners nearby. Sure, there are plenty of resting packs in the vicinity, but not in this building. None that I can sense, anyway. Night runners and these creatures have similarities in their behaviors, but they have just as many differences. They both can see in the dark, but these don’t have the same relentless nature. And, I’m thinking their sense of smell isn’t as keen. They both have cunning and a certain degree of intelligence, just not in the same fashion. And that gargling scream I heard seconds ago, that’s nothing like the shriek of a night runner. These seem to be able to impose some self-control. I’m not sure which is worse, but that’s food for later consumption. Right now, I’m making sure I’m not on the menu. The sound of running feet draws closer.

  Well, I’m in it now, I think, lifting the tile higher.

  If they have the intelligence that I think they do, they’ll quickly note that the two dead were taken out from above. So, that doesn’t leave me sitting very prettily. Night runner wannabes in the confines of the upper ceiling structure isn’t all that appealing—nor is racing down hallways with them on my heels. And there are the whistlers to think of.

  Yeah, bad fucking decision, Jack.

  One creature comes bolting around the corner. I fire twice, the hallway lighting up like a disco dance floor. The short-sleeved cotton shirt puffs outward from two rounds striking it in the chest, blood blossoming among the stains that already darken much of it. It staggers under the multiple impacts before crumpling to the floor.

  A second creature on the heels of the first attempts to come to a stop. Its shoes skid along the dusty surface. Additional shots ring out, filling the hallway with light. Two heavy rounds streak down the corridor, mindlessly going where they were aimed. They hit the second one in the chest, one right after the other. The running figure’s feet, already in a skid, fly out from under it. A heavy thump and a sharp crack echo down the hall as it lands square on its back, sling-shotting its head backward to hit the tile floor.

  A third comes into view from the same direction. It, however, decided to start its skidding halt earlier than its unfortunate companion. I fire twice more. The first round clips its shoulder, but my second one goes sailing past, ricocheting down the hallway. The creature, although injured, vanishes from view.

  I hear several others approaching at high speed from the main hallway. I’m not too keen on holding this position, but the choices are a little limited. The others will be on me in a second if I close the ceiling to try and vanish. If I attempt that, they’ll easily find me. It appears they knew where I was all along and were waiting for an opportunity tha
t they found advantageous. I have the momentum and they don’t seem armed, so I’ll stay and greet the newcomers.

  I’m six rounds down in my fifteen-round mag. I’d switch to a new one, but there isn’t time: three additional visitors arrive, rounding the corner in much the same fashion as the others. The three immediately look up to my position, supporting my notion that they can communicate through some kind of telepathy. Firing six quick shots in succession, two go down but the third escapes. I’m not sure if I injured it or not. One of the creatures is crawling across the floor, leaving a smear of liquid in its wake. I fire once into the middle of its back. It slumps to floor as if suddenly deflated.

  Well, they may have some intelligence, but they need to work on their timing, I think, releasing the nearly empty mag.

  Okay. Six down, at least one injured, one other unknown. And the possibility of two more somewhere else. Plus, the whistlers. I think I’ve evened the odds out with this group a little, but it’s time to move.

  The ceiling tile flies apart in my hand. No sound, just the pressed fiber rectangle shredding into smaller particles.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! I think, scrambling back from the opening.

  More holes appear near me as entire tiles are blown upward. The air is suddenly filled with falling pieces of ceiling tile, like being near a tornado with wreckage tossed everywhere. Nearly blind from all of the debris, and with more being added by the second, I grab my carbine and scramble backward as much as I can. The need for stealth is gone, and arriving instantly on its heels is the need for speed. Numerous metallic pings sound in the upper ceiling structure from objects hitting the conduits and ricocheting into the distance.

  The whistlers have made their appearance, having opted to come late to the party with a dramatic entrance. At this particular moment, staying in my room and having night runners come visit doesn’t sound all that bad. The hallway tiles are literally coming apart from fire, and silent fire at that. I hear gargled, subdued screams erupt from nearby and know this is damn near a free-for- all—one in which the whistlers now have the distinct advantage in numbers. I apparently cleared an avenue for them to make their way closer to me. I personally think that was a rather nice gesture on my part, and they are not at all appreciative.