A Shrouded World (Book 2): Atlantis

by Tufo, Mark

  My thoughts keep coming back to Mike and Trip, thinking that they were here and drew the zombies with them. The fact that the engine is an obvious rendezvous point for us encourages that idea. It’s almost too coincidental to be otherwise. If I’m right, then the engine is worth checking out. If I thought otherwise, then I’d just pass the horde and continue on my merry way.

  Taking down that many zombies would burn through one of my precious mags. I could draw them away by banging on one of the nearby rail cars, but that might draw more attention than it’s worth. Carried on the slight gusts swirling through the area, I catch the faint sound of motorcycles growing louder by the second.

  That’s just fucking great, just what I need right now.

  I’m too tired for any fear to take hold, and my adrenals have been pumped dry. Resignation envelops me. I feel the need to reach the engine, which is surrounded by zombies, and there are whistlers approaching. Again, I’m caught in the middle.

  “Can’t something go right? Just drop me a small boon every once in a while,” I pleadingly mumble skyward.

  I edge toward the maintenance depot and tuck behind a crate in one of the darker corners. My position enables me to view most of the large yard, but it also places me with my back to the wall. I have some ammo, but if it comes down to a firefight, I’ll burn through that in a minute. I think about finding my way to the roof, but since it’s daylight, I’ll be silhouetted and easily seen if I poke my head over the roof. Plus, with the sound of the bikes growing louder, I don’t have a lot of time before their arrival.

  Sure enough, a line of them appears in the near distance, following the tracks. The zombies all turn toward the sound and begin shuffling in that direction. I’m thankful they don’t appear to be the smarter ones. It’s rather amusing that I find myself hoping for normal zombies. I’ve come a long way since peacefully enjoying my semi-retirement just a short time ago—when my biggest concern was whether the wind would kick up waves while I had the kayak out.

  Yeah, can I please just go back to that?

  Instead, I find myself hoping for normal zombies. The Chinese have a curse: May you live in interesting times. Well, I can’t think of a more “interesting” time than being teleported against my will into, well, this. I think quickly over my life, trying to come up with something I did that would warrant such a curse.

  I mean, I’m no saint, but this… really!?

  The zombies shuffle along the tracks, their moans and stench preceding them. Several stumble over the heavy wooden beams holding the tracks while others outright fall. They soon rise again and follow in the wake of their more nimble compatriots. The station platform begins vibrating from the approaching whistlers, and most of them come to a stop directly abeam of me. Several take a path on the far side of the yard to circle around the zombies. The nearest whistlers dismount and form a line, much like they did a couple of nights ago when facing the much larger horde. The encircling whistlers park behind the shuffling horde and dismount.

  Some of the zombies, drawn by the noise of the bikes behind them, turn and begin stumbling toward the whistlers there. The front line of whistlers, upon seeing this, whistle shrilly. I cringe upon hearing that high-pitched noise. It’s not only loud, but grating—the cheese grater of sounds. I feel like said cheese grater is gently caressing my eardrums. Not only that, but it seems to vibrate inside my head. Overall, I’ve had more pleasant experiences.

  It apparently has an effect on zombies. The ones that had turned around turn again and head toward the line. I haven’t been noticed at this point, and I have a ringside seat to the event. As the zombies approach the line, the whistlers begin slowly moving backward, maintaining the distance between the two groups. The whistlers behind, however, begin closing. In unison, they raise their arm and begin firing staples into the zombies’ backs.

  The sound is almost like a suppressed carbine. There’s a soft clap and a zip as the staples travel through the air. I can’t see that kind of projectile being very stable, which would account for their inaccuracy last night. But, they do their job at close range, as zombies stumble from the impacts and begin falling to the tracks. I mentally put that into my bag of tricks—engage whistlers at longer ranges. Of course, that implies I’ll have that choice.

  The whistlers finish putting the zombies down and drag them to their bikes, zombie heads thumping against the hard metal rails. They tie them up, then mount and ride off, leaving me to stare at the scene from my hidden position.

  I take a moment to ponder what I witnessed. The whistlers conducted the whole thing in such a casual way. I didn’t see any tension, although that may be exhibited differently with them. It appeared like it was just another chore—like taking out the trash. They showed knowledge of tactics, but that I already knew. There were few of the clicks and whistles that comprised their speech. That indicates one of a few things: they have worked together for some time and just know what to do, they have some kind of telepathic communication, or they train for this kind of thing. Or, any combination thereof.

  The sound of the bikes fades into the distance and stillness settles over the area. I peer out from behind the crate and don’t see anything but the rays of sunlight striking the rail yard. Except for a few patches of dark stains coating the gravel, it seems like nothing just happened. I flip my sight to the 4× setting to take a closer look under and among the rail cars, searching for moving shadows or the silhouettes of legs or bodies. There is nothing that I can see. I slowly rise and begin edging along the platform, still intent on making it to the engine.

  Anxiety slowly creeps in as I leave the shadowed confines of the depot and step into the daylight. The silence that has settled makes me uneasy. I look upward to see a few clouds drifting lazily across the sky.

  Well, okay, thanks. I don’t want to seem picky, but, next time, could you possibly just have the zombies walk away…or maybe not even be there in the first place?

  Working my way along the parked boxcars, I come abreast of the locomotive. Running in a crouch across a couple lines of track, I jump up to the walkway and, with the barrel of my carbine leading the way, approach the cab. A quick peek inside the small window shows that the interior is empty. I open the door and step inside, closing the steel door behind me. Taped to the console is a sheet of paper. It’s a note from Mike.

  So, they are still here. That’s good, I think.

  Selfish, but at least they’re okay, or at least were. It’s truly too bad that they didn’t make it back to their world, but I’m also happy they’re here. But where in the hell are they? I read the rest of the hastily scribbled note.

  Indian Hill? What in the fuck is that? Or where? And, why?

  I search the rest of the cab and pull out a binder. Leafing through the sheets, I find several rail maps that indicate Indian Hill to be the next town down one set of tracks. I wonder what they found that would direct them there. My information is leading me to the rock quarry. I feel torn between hooking up with them and going to this quarry. And, a little more information would have been nice…like, where to meet up. I could end up searching and never run into them. Or, we can play goose chase and all I’ll find is another note.

  Won’t that be fun, I think, pulling out one of the troop placement diagrams.

  There is, in fact, an indication that forces were deployed to that area, and therefore there should be ammo and food supplies.

  But, the rock quarry?

  I have to admit that it would be great hooking back up with them, even Trip. I find myself kind of missing his antics. Well, not really—but I do rather miss their company… Mike’s, at any rate. Misery loves company and all of that. And, company in this miserable place is much better than being alone.

  Okay, Mike—Indian Hill it is.

  About the Authors

  MARK TUFO

  Mark Tufo was born in Boston Massachusetts. He attended UMASS Amherst where he obtained a BA (and an advanced degree in partyology) and later joined the US Marine
Corps. He was stationed in Parris Island SC, Twenty Nine Palms CA and Kaneohe Bay Hawaii. After his tour he went into the Human Resources field with a worldwide financial institution, after beginning his climb up the corporate ladder he found himself laid off. His wife, Tracy, who was desperate to keep him out of her hair, dared him to write a book, and the Zombie Fallout series was born.

  He wrote the first installment of the Indian Hill trilogy in college, it sat in his garage until July 2009 when he published it on Kindle. Mark is currently working on the continuation of the ZF series and a new book due out in August of 2014. He lives in Maine with his wife, three kids and two English bulldogs, Henry and Riley.

  * * *

  JOHN O’BRIEN

  John O'Brien is a former Air Force fighter instructor pilot who transitioned to Special Operations for the latter part of his career gathering his campaign ribbon for Desert Storm. Immediately following his military service, John became a firefighter/EMT with a local department. Along with becoming a firefighter, he fell into the Information Technology industry in corporate management. Currently, John is writing full-time on the series, A New World.

  As a former marathon runner, John lives in the beautiful Pacific Northwest and can now be found kayaking out in the waters of Puget Sound, mountain biking in the Capital Forest, hiking in the Olympic Peninsula, or pedaling his road bike along the many scenic roads.

  Connect With The Authors

  Mark Tufo

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