A Shrouded World (Book 4): Valhalla

by Tufo, Mark

  Satisfied that I’ve done all I can to remove my scent and the lingering detergent smell from when Lynn washed my clothing, I step back into the cabin. I need to get a few hours of rest before night falls, so I bolt the door and shutters, placing beams in the brackets. The rooms darken, but I’m still able to see with my night-runner-enhanced vision.

  Taking the blankets out of the chest, I scatter them on one of the cots. I toss my pack on the floor next to the bed and place my carbine against a near wall. Opening the wardrobes, I find the first one empty save for several wooden clothes hangers on a rod. The second one is a bit of a surprise. Lining the interior is a row of weapons: a hunting rifle with scope, a shotgun, a carbine that looks similar to my M-4, and an unstrung bow. On a bottom shelf are ammo boxes.

  I pull out the box that looks like it holds the carbine ammo and remove one of the shells. It certainly looks identical to the ones I use in shape and size. The markings on the bottom mean nothing to me, but I compare it to the ones in a mag on my vest. I’m not able to discern any differences. I chamber the round and it slides in smoothly, then ejects with no problem. I’d take it out and fire it, but I’d be risking damage to one of the only ranged weapons I have. I suppose I could take their carbine. I’m not oblivious to the similarity between this situation and the one back in the other world.

  Sitting on the bed, I’m a little thankful to find some slight relief for my ammo situation. No military stockpile, but it’s better than I had a few minutes ago. I set a mental alarm and settle back onto the bed. In the darkness, alone in a mountain cabin, I feel a little lonely. I’m in another alien world, even further away from returning to my own.

  With this cabin and the fact that it could be livable for a long while, I feel like I have a decision to make. I’m actually faced with a choice. I could remain here and possibly live out the remainder of my days, providing there isn’t some great jump in timelines. That would mean abandoning my quest to return home, but I’d live. It’s not so much that I overvalue my life, but to not be in constant danger has a certain appeal. Of course, I’m not sure that’s the case here, but the place is both remote and secure. I feel like I could even improve on the security enough to hold off a horde. But, I also know that my every waking minute would be filled with guilt for not at least trying to return to Lynn and the kids.

  Careful, Jack, you don’t know that it’s safe here. The night could bring a jump.

  Seeing Lynn and the kids dealt a blow to my psyche. Especially seeing Nic. I know they aren’t mine, but they look the same and they stir my emotions to the point that I can barely breathe. I need to accept that they’re different and move past it. It’s well past time to get my act together.

  “Okay, Jack. You’ve been here before. You need to pull yourself together, and soon, or you’re finished,” I mutter, pulling the blankets over me.

  First things first. Stay here for a couple of days and heal up if I’m given that opportunity, then decide what to do next.

  Jack Walker—Chapter 5

  I’m alert in an instant, my brain and body feeling like I’ve been dropped in cold water. Waking instantly always feels like a jolt of electricity, but I don’t move, only open my eyes a crack to look through the small room. Nothing is moving, but there is the faint yet unmistakable sound of screeches coming from the surrounding woods.

  Sitting up, I reach for my carbine and cradle it. Listening intently, the shrieks beyond the reinforced wooden walls come from all directions, but don’t seem to be drawing any closer. At least, I don’t sense any targeted intent or them drawing closer to the cabin that I can tell. And I’m more than fine with that. I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck, every muscle sore and my injuries still smarting. However, not ever having been run over by a truck, I’m not convinced that’s really a good comparison. What I am convinced of is that I’m not physically or mentally ready for another fight. I’ve been on edge for weeks now, either in a fight or running from one. At least in my other world, I had a place of relative safety where I could relax my body and mind. I’m pretty done with this shit.

  Peeling back the blanket, I ease out of bed. Testing my footing with each step, I creep into the front room. Sound will draw the night runners just as much as scent will. Muffled screeches reach through the walls, but are still not drawing closer. I ease into a chair and sniff at my clothes, relieved that there is still a faint odor of smoke instead of body odor. I’m rather pleased that the Lynn of this world washed my clothing, as no amount of smoke would have cut through the body odor I had amassed.

  Though I am tensed for the first impact of a night runner trying to gain access to the cabin, it isn’t long before I realize that the shrieks are actually growing fainter. I fear that they may be backtracking my path and heading toward Valhalla. Closing my eyes in order to better listen, the night runner screams sound like they’re heading away from both the cabin and the town. While I didn’t witness the flashes of light from any portals, it’s my feeling that they spawned nearby and scented other prey. Or at the very least, felt that food lay in another direction. That eases my tension a little, but their unpredictable nature could have them returning in a heartbeat. Plus, they are cunning—it could be a trick.

  Sitting in the dark room with a carbine across my lap feels a little like a father waiting for his daughter to come home hours late. Ready with a lecture if it’s only her; other, more persuasive things if she’s accompanied by a boy. Although this never happened to me, every dad who has ever lived has had this thought. It remains in the head like a an old lawnmower stored in the basement.

  As the evening passes, the shrieks grow even fainter until there’s only the quiet of a peaceful night outside. After about a half hour of silence, I rise and creep toward the shutter to open the small peephole built within.

  The front yard is bathed in a slight silver glow from the moon’s rays peeking through the trees surrounding the clearing. The faint ripples at the end of the pool formed by the nearby creek seem almost luminescent as the water flows around stones resting in the streambed. Limbs protrude outward from the trees, darker against the nighttime sky. And the woods are a deep void of black, broken by shards of moonbeams where they make their way through the boughs. In all, an idyllic scene that overnight hikers seek to bring serenity to the soul.

  However, my eyes search through the night for any sign of prowling night runners or skittering of forest creatures that would signify their presence. Looker further outward, I notice a faint yellowish glow coming from the slope opposite the river valley, flickering against the tops of trees and highlighting a short vertical rock wall.

  It seems like someone, or several someones, are having themselves a hell of a bonfire. I now think I know where the night runners headed off to—whoever is having the party is in for a very rude interruption of their festivities. I wish there were some way to warn them what was coming their way, but that isn’t a possibility. I continue to watch the lights flicker for a while, listening for the faint echo of the screams I know are coming.

  Nothing of the sort happens, though, at any time during the night, leading me to believe that there may be some kind of barrier of the sort I ran into the other night, or that any sound was absorbed by the trees and distance. I alternate between sitting and watching to keep my mind occupied through the long night. As the eastern sky begins to lighten, I retire to the cot to catch up on some rest.

  After waking in the early afternoon, I tend to my needs, gathering water from the stream and having a meal. Searching the nearby woods, I find places where the night runners ran through and even a couple of locations where the tracks just started. I’m assuming this was where they came through whatever kind of rift is being created on a seemingly nightly basis. The worrying aspect is that they either spawn in a ton of locations across whatever world this is, or they are being drawn into this world near my location. Either way, so far I’ve been batting a hundred percent with them coming out of the night near me.

 
; I look across to where the fire was the previous night; there’s not much to see other than a strip of gray rising above the trees from the rock wall. From the way the light is being reflected, it would appear that the area before the short cliff is cleared. It could be that there is a hunting cabin similar to the one I currently inhabit. That means people and another possible source of information. It could also mean someone is living there and doesn’t want to be disturbed, which means a cautious approach as I made here. I’m intrigued; the place needs investigating, although that could be me reaching for any hopeful straw. I’ll have to watch out that I don’t get too eager grasping for a line of hope and overreach.

  As the day turns into late afternoon, I start another fire and stand in the generated smoke. Besides the night runners, boredom is becoming my greatest enemy. I have to force myself to lay low, when I’m allowed to, in order to recover. I can’t afford to keep going from one situation to another without at least a little recuperation.

  Still, the fire I saw the night before is weighing on my mind and I remain eager to investigate the source. I don’t feel like a tug like I did with the mine in the other world, but it’s a direction and I’ll take it.

  The problem lies in that it’s a trek up steep, wooded slopes and I’ll have to be back before dark. That will leave a scent trail for the night runners to follow, so I’ll have to return early in order to smoke myself and attempt to spoil the scent of my trail. I feel that I can do it if I leave at first light, but my bingo fuel point will be when the sun reaches its zenith.

  I get a little rest in before nighttime falls. The evening is much the same as yesterday. Night runners scream through the trees before fading away. The same glow flickers across the valley, which means whoever is there has some protection from the creatures prowling the night. If it was some kind of mine or tire fire, I would have witnessed the smoke rising during the day, so my impression is that it’s being lit on a nightly basis. Either those across the way enjoy their nightly bonfires, or perhaps they are attempting a signal. Who knows?

  As I sit through the night, I wonder again what all of this is for. It seems that I’m in a loop of some sort that could go on for eternity. It’s a depressing thought. I don’t know if it’s worth continuing through this constant stress. It’s not like I’m having dark thoughts about ending it—not right now, anyway—but everyone has their breaking point. And I mean everyone. I think pushing through the darker moments in life is one of the true measures of strength.

  “Okay, enough of that, Jack,” I mumble, knowing that too much downtime can be as dangerous as any active situation.

  As the night wears on, I creep into the back room and lie on the cot in order to set some rest. I feel well enough to begin a trek toward the glow, come first light and set a mental alarm to wake.

  The trip down the slope goes fairly quickly. I come across a multitude of tracks in the woods from night runners running rampant. Where they go when the sun rises is anyone’s guess. Even though the woods have little direct light beaming through the overhead branches, there’s enough radiant light that they wouldn’t be able to survive the day. So, they either retire to where they came from, or they’ve found some kind of cave system or structure to hide in. That, however, is not my concern at the moment. Right now, my focus is making my way to the area where I observed the firelight.

  At the bottom, I work my way along the side of the highway until I come to a corner. No traffic transits the thoroughfare the entire time, but the lack of dirt on the pavement indicates that the road is used. I cross quickly after listening for the sound of approaching traffic and head down to the river that runs through the bottom of the narrow valley. Working my way up the stream, I find a shallower crossing point.

  The current looks swift, but doable. My worry lies with the fact that I’ll be out in the open, concentrating on my footing rather than the surrounding terrain. And, I’ll be there for some time while I negotiate my way across. If something happens while I’m crossing, then I might as well throw my hands up and scream “You win!”

  I step into the river, using my boot to move the stones to secure better footing. The rocks are slippery and the water surges around my pants leg. Far too slowly, I maneuver into the middle of the stream, the cold water numbing my legs and feet. It isn’t the cold of glacier melt, but it’s chilled enough that I wouldn’t want to lie in it for any length of time.

  Grabbing a length of root protruding from the bank, I heft myself up an embankment, water draining from my fatigue pants and boots. The sun is rising high into mid-morning by the time I’m standing on the opposite bank. I still have a ways to climb, and I remember the promise I made to myself to return at or before high noon. Night runners have arrived every night and this one should be no exception. It would be nice to reach the location and find that there is some defense against them. And, of course, that whoever is there is caring enough to share their space. The icing would be if they were some kind of magician capable of transporting me back to my own world.

  Keeping patient, I begin working through the woods as if I were in hostile territory. It’s not like I’ve had anyone chasing me or belligerent in any way, but I’ve found that operating in that capacity through an unknown environment has served me well. I may not reach places in world record times, but at least there’s a better chance of reaching them alive. And, that’s my ultimate goal in any situation.

  The ground is relatively flat before it hits the slope—easy going. I take a few steps, staying within the shadows of the woods, and then pause to listen and look amid the towering trunks. The woods are quiet except for the occasional sound of some forest creature skittering up the bark. The rush of the river behind me fades as I progress. With the trees blocking any direct look at the sun’s position, I’m going to have to guess at it until I reach a clearing.

  As I walk under the boughs, a sudden feeling of uneasiness intrudes. It’s the feeling that I’m not alone anymore. The woods become even quieter, as if there’s another predator stalking through the trees. I keep on with what I’ve been doing, my wariness increased as I peer through the trunks. If I do anything different, then if someone or something is watching me, they’ll know I’m onto them. I already feel at a disadvantage and need to keep what little edge I do have. If they aren’t aware that I feel their presence, they’ll hopefully keep to stalking mode instead of becoming reactive.

  I know when I’m being watched. I’ve felt it numerous times and can recognize the difference in the subtle flows that permeate the woods. It’s an energy that you can sense if you’re attuned to it. I have a feeling that women understand that more than men because they’ve unfortunately had to.

  As I continue my slow movement, my mind attempts to rationalize the feeling. That’s an all too common occurrence that contradicts the nature of survival. A sensation or sound that isn’t immediately validated by another instance is too often and too quickly put down to paranoia or the imagination playing tricks. It’s something I have to fight through. My brain wants to disregard the sensation and write it off to the constant stress because acknowledging it will add to the tension.

  I don’t know exactly from where the feeling is originating, but if I attempt to trace those waves of energy, I do get the sense that it’s behind me and to the left. If someone is being directly stared at, it won’t be long until they glance in your direction and possibly lock eyes. This is something I learned very early on. Look through your peripheral vision for changes in facial expressions, or through the tops of your eyes. That lessens the sense, to a degree.

  There’s a fold in the terrain off to the side and I begin angling for it without trying to be too obvious. I don’t like being followed, especially when I don’t know who it is, where they are, or what they intend. Whoever is there is being silent and keeping out of sight. Even with my enhanced hearing, I’m not able to detect a hint of movement. But, the feeling of being watched doesn’t not leave. This is an extremely uncomfortable situation, tho
ugh not one I’m entirely new at. I’ve run into foreign nation spec ops units before and had to shake them, and it’s not an easy process. I at least need to get on neutral ground. And, of course, my brain is still trying to convince me that it’s my overactive imagination at work. I swear, I’m my own worst enemy at times.

  As I angle toward the fold, I’m constantly running my finger over the selector switch: a nervous habit that lends a small amount of reassurance for some reason. Everyone has one; that’s mine.

  I crawl over a downed tree and drop into a small ravine. Crouching low, I immediately move quickly down the fold and away from where I sense the presence. My hope is to get out of their line of sight and into a place where I can observe my back trail, or at the very least where I can observe the woods more closely. It could be this world’s version of a bear stalking an unknown presence in its territory, or Bigfoot for all I know. I won’t rest easier until I know for sure.

  Knowing that if someone is indeed following me, they’ll want to quickly regain visual contact, and that means they’ll have to move quicker, which doesn’t give me long to find an observation point. Finding another downed log next to a bush, I climb out of the fold and nestle into a position where I can see over the top of the trunk yet still hide my silhouette with the bush. Gazing over my trail, I don’t see any movement. I remain still and watch for a hint of a shadow. Nothing.

  I’m tempted to believe my brain, that it was my overactive imagination. Even though I no longer feel watched, I can still sense a presence of some kind. Now, that may be my caution or paranoia talking, but I’m not about to surrender to it. It could be that whoever was at the bonfire observed my movement coming down the far slope and set out on an intersecting course.