A Shrouded World 7

by Mark Tufo

  “I didn’t lean anywhere,” Mike says, brushing the dirt from his clothes.

  “See, that’s the problem. You need to feel the flow of how the bike is moving. Let’s try it again,” Trip says.

  “You were the one who leaned way over and made us wreck. So no, we’re not going to try it again.”

  “You didn’t counter lean,” Trip replies.

  “There’s no counter lean,” Mike states, picking the bike up.

  BT is laughing his ass off, his deep bass guffaws almost on par with the rumble of the bikes. I’ve had enough of the shenanigans and park the bike I’m on. Walking over, I grab Trip by his collar and start towing him over to my bike. He protests and struggles to get back to Mike, but I keep going, dragging him behind. At the bike, I point to the seat.

  “Sit down.”

  “No need to get mean about it,” Trip says, smoothing out his jacket.

  “And don’t think about leaning like you did. If you do, I’m tossing you off and leaving you behind.”

  “I told you that you were leaning,” Mike shouts.

  “You can’t toss me from the back while riding and remain upright,” Trip states with confidence.

  “Watch me.”

  “You see, this is why I didn’t want to ride with you,” Trip says, settling onto the bike.

  “And if you grab me like I’m your girlfriend, that will also result in you being thrown off.”

  “It was much more fun on Mike’s ride,” Trip mutters.

  I’m really not sure which way we should be going, but I guess the direction Trip was headed is as good as any. He seemed quite certain of his path.

  “Why are we heading in this direction?” Trip asks from behind me.

  “Because this is the way you were going when you started walking off,” I reply.

  “I was about to make a turn. We need to go in that direction,” he says, pointing to the right.

  I sigh heavily and turn to where he’s pointing. We all somehow have full tanks, so we’re good for several hundred miles. However, we’ll need to find water and food soon.

  “What’s in that direction?” I inquire, glancing back.

  “Whistlers,” Trip whispers in my ear, as if revealing a secret.

  Well, I guess that’s what we wanted. If we’re to save this place, then we need to find the portal that allows them entry.

  Together, three bikes thunder across the desert plain. Well, thunder isn’t exactly right, as we manage a blazing thirty miles an hour unless we want to leave Mike in our dust. Oh well, I suppose we’ll save gas this way.

  A line of hills rises along the horizon, promising something other than the tremendous heat. It’s not as hot as with the extreme weather conditions we experienced in other parts of this land, but it’s made worse by the arid wind blowing across our faces. The one good thing about traveling slower is that we aren’t leaving much of a dust trail, the hardpan having baked under a relentless sun for who knows how many years.

  The sun sinks lower. If there was any feature on the flat plain, its shadows would stretch long. However, the plain has become, well, plainer since departing the waypoint. I haven’t seen sign of anything living in the harsh conditions. There aren’t skeletons bleaching under the hot sun, no buzzards circling high overhead, no lizards scurrying under rocks.

  The terrain is so flat, the curvature of the planet is clearly visible. The only change in scenery is the gradually growing line of hills. However, as the sun sits just above the horizon and we continue scooting across the hardpan, the landscape begins to slowly change.

  We’re drawing closer to the hills, which now look more like steeply rising cliffs that form a long crest along the top. The sides are mostly brown and dry, but there is a small amount of color. If there’s plant life, there’s water. Other areas of land rise before the ridgeline, a few pillars of sandstone dotting the landscape. They’re too steep to climb, some of the edges with overhangs that make that option impossible. However, we can use the hills to give us some leverage.

  I turn toward one as the bottom of the sun hits the horizon. Silvery shimmers form in the direction of the setting sun, looking like lakes. Seeing them, my mouth feels even dryer. I set a course for one of the taller rises.

  Arriving, I see the hill is cut through with gullies; the top is flat and ringed with a vertical cliff that’s about three feet tall and also carved from runoff. It’s a sign that rain does fall on these arid lands, but definitely not often. It looks a little like the mesa we were on, but without the sheer sides going all of the way to the desert floor.

  Leaving our bikes at the bottom of the hill, we hike toward the top, laboring over the tortuous outcroppings and steep-sided ravines. Our feet slip numerous times, threatening to send us to the bottom, where we’d have the pleasure of beginning again. BT is having the more difficult time, and I make sure to stay out from under him as we scale upwards. That would be like being hit by a rolling boulder. However, he does need some assistance, and both Mike and I heave and pull. Trip climbs as if the hill were some leisurely stroll up a clover-filled hillock.

  Panting and nearly out of breath, we reach the top. It’s mostly a circle of flat land stretching about sixty feet across. The sun is nearly down, the skies alive with ribbons of reds, oranges, and yellows. There’s truly nothing like a sunset in the desert; the display of colors majestic. The yellows turn orange, the oranges red, and the reds to purple as the last of the sun vanishes with a flare of light. To the east, stars twinkle down on a beaten land.

  Looking at them, I feel so small, remembering the view we had from the platform of the control point. It’s out there somewhere, and the stars I’m seeing are possibly the same ones I observed while on it. I wonder if this planet is one of those in the galaxy that was adjacent, or are we just attached to one of those other beams of light that stretched through the deeper reaches of the universe? It really changes one’s perspective when allowed the views we’ve had and the knowledge we’ve acquired.

  As I stare up at the encroaching darkness, I remember the endless nights spent gazing at the heavens. Somewhere out there is a platform just like the one we visited, beams of light streaking for the black holes. Our universe was created; my world joined with the Iteration. It doesn’t answer the question of how life was formed, or what it’s meaning might be, but we still need mysteries to pursue. Of course, in my world, it’ll be some time before the technology rises to the point where some of those mysteries can even be looked at again.

  “You know, man, it kind of irks me that there was a reset function right on the menu,” Mike says. “That bothers me. Like, how many times have I been reset? What were my other lives like? Was I with Tracy? Did I have the kids I do now?”

  “I know the feeling, Mike. But, there’s not much we can do about it now but live the life we have, right? As we talked about before, I don’t think it changes our feelings, or at least, I hope not,” I answer.

  “Maybe I was an asshole, like the Mike this BT knows.”

  “I can see that,” I respond.

  Mike turns sharply toward me. “I’m just kidding, brother. Hell, I might have been a saint of a man, journeying all over the world, helping people in need.”

  “You were special ops. You helped people.”

  “Hmph. Indirectly, maybe. Mostly I kept bad guys away from the general populace.”

  “That’s helping people.”

  “Not really in the same way I meant,” I say. “But, you know, there were days I wish the world would have reset.”

  “I hear you there.”

  “I’m sure you’ve had experiences where reality kind of glitched. You know, seeing the same cat cross your path twice or driving up a hill that you could swear you just drove up.”

  “Yeah, too many to count. Some of them without the benefit of chemicals.”

  “Those could be ghost images, kind of like we’re seeing here in response to the sudden changes.”

  Mike now turns fully towar
d me. “You think those moments, that deja vu crap, were when our worlds were reset?”

  “No, I’m saying that they might have been older versions bubbling to the surface of the current reality. Take the twice appearing cat. One is in our reality, but the other is in another version. Now, that previous cat bubbles up, only in its version, it was a second or two either earlier or later as it crossed. Maybe the two world realities were so similar that the line between them is thin. I’m not saying the experiences were the world being reset, but perhaps proof that the world was reset at some point.”

  “That shit is too much for my brain,” Mike states.

  “Yeah, mine too. That’s why I choose to just live the life I have, because whatever is going on, there isn’t shit I can do about it.”

  “Good philosophy. Mine used to be chemicals, so I didn’t care. But now I think more along the same lines as you. It still fucks with my mind, though, especially knowing that it’s a thing.”

  Mike and I are able to see in the diminishing light because of our enhanced abilities, but BT isn’t able to. I’m not sure about Trip, but I’ve fought at night with him, and he doesn’t seem to have any issues hitting things with his slingshot. Now, he’s apt to wander off a cliff, but he’s also likely to do that in the middle of the day.

  Full night encloses the land. The surrounding landscape is shrouded in darkness, the sharp-crested line of hills in the distance silhouetted against the nighttime sky. There’s nothing quite like the darkness of night away from any semblance of a city, and with no moon. It’s a complete blanket that covers the land.

  Out on the plain, silver portals flash into existence. I knew it was too good to be true. The sight of their appearance is still startling after more than a year of not seeing them. Night runners pour through the gateways. Pale bodies run out and pause as they lift their noses to the air. Eyes glisten silver and heads turn in our direction. The silence of the desert is broken by shrieks that fill the night air and reverberate through the darkness.

  As one, the night runners turn and run toward our little group, poised on a naked hill of land. They go from a dead stop to a full sprint almost instantaneously, the sound of their pounding footfalls heard above the shrieks of prey found.

  “I hope these things work,” Mike says, standing at the edge of the small mesa.

  “They should. It’s just a matter of how quickly the sleepy time potion works. Their higher metabolism may stave it off for longer than usual,” I reply.

  “At least they’ll be slowed coming over the rough terrain.”

  “Hopefully. We’ll have to watch for any trying to circle around.”

  The night runners reach the bottom of our hill and begin clambering over the rough hillside. Mike and I start firing, staples speeding into the night. As some of our shots go wide, sparks fly from rocks, but we’re also rewarded with the solid thuds of hits. Some of those climbing stagger as the oversized staples impact. Those hit stop and stare at the embedded staple, then shriek louder and resume scaling the hillside.

  Silver from their eyes catches the light, shining from pale bodies ascending toward our position. The staple guns aren’t all that accurate from a distance, but the leading night runners are hit. It’s kind of difficult to determine which ones to shoot at, as they don’t go down immediately. I extend my pointer finger, hoping that will improve my aim.

  Halfway up, while scaling a high wall of one gully, a night runner falls and doesn’t get up. Then another one slips and tumbles down the steep slope, rock and dirt sliding with it. It comes to stop near the bottom and lies still. The staples are working, but too slowly. The hillside is filled with night runners clambering for the top, and they’re getting closer. A group at the bottom of the hill takes off from the main group and starts running to the side.

  “You stay here, I’ll track those,” I tell Mike.

  “If the two of us aren’t slowing them much, what makes you think I can hold them off alone?” Mike says, still firing.

  “Trip, get over here and help Mike,” I shout.

  “Is he having trouble urinating again?” Trip yells back.

  “Just get over here and bring your slingshot,” I reply.

  “Okay, Yack. I don’t see how that’s going to help him pee, but you got it.”

  Trip shows up and immediately goes to his knees, his slingshot drawn.

  “I bet if I pull back and let it slap against it, that will start the flow going again,” Trip mutters as he starts unbuckling Mike’s belt.

  Mike comes unglued, slapping at Trip’s hands and frantically backpedaling. Seeing things are going their usual course, I start off along the ledge, keeping the flanking night runners in sight.

  “Get the fuck off me, man. I pee just fine. And if you shoot me in the dick, I’m going to be seriously pissed,” I hear Mike state emphatically.

  “I was just trying to help, Ponch. No need to get so upset.”

  “If you want to help, start shooting those night runners.”

  If they said anything else, it was lost in the midst of the shrieks as I move away. The party I’m tracking is about twenty. They keep looking up the slope as they run, apparently searching for any easy way up to hit us from the side. I keep low and behind them, not having to travel as far as they do. I want to stay out of sight, but rethink that. If I show myself at the most rugged part of the slope, that will slow them even more. If I wait until they find an easy section, that will make my job all that harder.

  I find a steep section of hill and open my mind up to them. I’m immediately barraged by images of prey, of blood spraying from torn bodies. That’s their motivation for climbing a hill under fire, that they’ll be rewarded with hot blood filling their mouths and tearing chunks of flesh from bodies. The overall sensation and images are ones of rage and hunger, so strong it’s nearly overwhelming.

  I filter out the images of those climbing and focus on those running below. The picture images they have are filled with the same hunger, but their attention is directed more on scaling the hill and being the first to come upon their prey. Then they’ll rend and tear flesh, savor the sweet taste of blood pouring down their throats. To them, I send a mental image of myself, weakened and easy.

  The night runners below halt and stare upward. Seeing me in their mind and believing I’m weakened, they shriek and start climbing. The notions of flanking are replaced with eager images of pulling organs from torn bodies and stuffing them in their mouth. Their hunger multiplies.

  I close down my mind, the horrible images vanishing from my thoughts. Not only would it become a distraction for me, but I don’t want to give them a specific beacon to home in to. I position myself with the best angle toward the night runners ascending hand over hand. Pointing at one in clear view, I toggle the staple gun and start firing with flicks of my wrist. The movement of my arm is one reason why they’re so inaccurate.

  Like before, sparks ricochet from rocks and embed into the soil. But, I do finally register a hit on the one I’m shooting at. It pauses in its climb to examine the staple buried in its chest before moving on. It makes it a few more feet before tumbling below, frothy blood leaking from its nose and mouth. The staples are long enough that if I hit them in vital areas, they can do real damage other than just having to wait for the drug to take effect.

  I start firing at others struggling up the slope, picking one and shooting at it until I hit before switching to another. I hit one in the face, the two prongs entering each eye. The night runner screams, its hands going to its face before it falls into three others climbing behind it. The shrieks of those scaling the hillside diminish as the night runners struggle upwards, leaving only the sound of sliding stones, feet slipping on the steep surface, and the muted screams of the night runners over at Mike’s position.

  Even with the advantage I have of height and the grade of the slope, the night runners are still getting closer. They’re able to hide to a degree in the contours of the hill, but the inaccuracy of the weapo
n I’m using is also partly to blame. I can’t imagine why the whistlers can’t come up with something better. I mean, they can create portals to other worlds, and this is the weapon they choose? But, I’m thankful, as I wouldn’t be around if they had something more useful.

  Because of the angles, the hits I do register are mostly in shoulders or the top of their head. Off to the side, I see one I had been aiming at suddenly fall on its face and slide down a few feet, however, with their enhanced strength and agility, a fair few have nearly crested the top. I’ve only taken out ten of them, the whistler weapon next to useless. On the plus side, it has nearly an endless supply of staples. I’m still not sure just how they pack so many into the small, attached cylinder, but I won’t bitch about that part, at least.

  As the night runners close the distance, my hits become more numerous, the heavy staples pounding into flesh with slippery thuds. The creatures are rocked from the impacts, but they manage to regain their balance and keep coming.

  A nearby night runner reaches the five-foot wall surrounding the top, extending a hand to grasp the edge of it. I step over and hammer staple after staple into it, the figure jerking from each impact. Its shoulder is torn from the numerous staples, blood weeping from the wounds to stream down its front and back. Its hand slides from the top as its body topples backward.

  By now, however, others have reached the same position. I run to another and send a volley of staples into it, also sending it down the hillside. But the remaining ten scale the five-foot ledge with ease. I backpedal as they start running full tilt, their eyes blazing silver and mouths peeled back in snarls, revealing stained teeth eager to tear me apart.

  The one good thing is that they’re now fully in view, allowing me to hit them again in vital areas. Before having fired a shot at the rapidly enclosing bunch, one slows and then swoons to the ground, the poison finally kicking in. I fire a volley at the leading runner, hitting it multiple times in the chest. It drops to its knees, blood coating its teeth. It coughs up more blood mixed with sputum and falls face forward.

  I’m running backward, angling away from where Mike and Trip are shooting down from the edge. But I don’t have much room to play with. Another drops suddenly, tangling the feet of two others who go down hard. Then one on the fringes slows, a surprised expression on its face before it eyes roll up and it, too, drops to the ground. I hammer another volley into one close, seeing it fall with several staples embedded across its upper chest. I can’t backpedal anymore, as I’ve reached the opposite edge.