by Mark Tufo
I didn’t notice during my arrival and all that entailed, but there are our packs lying atop the plateau. In our hast to depart, we had left them here. Now, this is a godsend, and I mentally thank Trip. I still don’t like being his stooge, but this one seems to be thought through. That may be an extreme analysis—doesn’t matter. I’m thankful to have some of my shit back.
I find and rummage through mine, feeling like a kid at Christmas, finding each item within. It’s like winning the lottery. No, any one item won’t ensure my survival, but they sure will make it easier. I take out a water container, the hot liquid feeling like I’m drinking the nectar of the gods. My parched throat soaks up each drop, and I have to control myself. I want to pour the entire contents down, but know it’ll come back up faster than it went down. The relief is immense. I literally feel the liquid being soaked up by my body, the fog clearing even more.
I clean my knife, the stench still with me but not as strongly. I stare at where I left the mask sitting on the grainy surface. If I’m to go back to that planet, I know I’ll need to have it. However, there’s no way I’m going to stuff that godawful thing back down my throat. Shit, I doubt I’d get all the tubes in the right place to begin with. Hacking at the device, I manage to remove most of the tubing from the mask, leaving only a shortened tube, which will sit within my mouth. I could probably handle that.
I pour over the mask in more detail. There are two little chambers that look as if they do indeed compress the air to make it breathable on that planet. I look for any limiters, but am unable to easily find anything like that. I’ll have to find a way to supercharge the compressor function before I return. I’ll need to be able to move without the limitation enforced by the lack of air. Perhaps I’ll be able to improve Mike’s as well, when we meet up. I don’t know how that’s going to happen, but I’m going to make the effort. Stuffing both mask and metal plate into my pack, I further search the plateau.
My empty weapon is laying in the dust, along with several spent mags. I fill my vest with empties and sling the carbine. I still only have the whistler weapon, but I’ll have another if I should happen to run across any ammo. Moving over to the edge of the small mesa, with the sun beating down on my shoulders, I see a twinkling of metal on the desert floor. I’m doubly pleased to see two motorcycles parked, one still on its kickstand with the other laying on its side.
I look from the bikes to the mountains. It looks as if I’m to move forward from where we were. I don’t know what it will look like, or where it is, but I need to find the whistler portal on this end. If Trip hadn’t fled with the relic, I could at least determine a direction. But that’s not the case and I’ll have to feel my way to wherever its located.
When we were here last, we were heading toward the mountains, mostly because they might have water. The dry, arid and barren sides, comprised of only dirt and rock, don’t look like they’d hold moisture. However, those deep ravines cut into the sides were carved by runoff. Somewhere along those deep cuts, along the bottom, water might lie underground.
What I need to find is a weapon, or ammo, and then find the whistler base on this planet. I wish the bikes had some sort of homing device, but it looks like I’ll have to stumble across it. That won’t be much different from what I’ve done all along. Pick a direction, walk toward it, and hope to hell there’s something there.
I hoist Mike’s pack along with mine and scramble down the steep sides. Scrambling mostly involves sliding with every attempt made not to tumble down the rest of it. Bodies are everywhere, all the visible skin charred. Ooze has soaked into the soil, in some places becoming hardened blobs that are crusted over. I have the sick feeling that blood would ooze out if I were to pop the layer of crust.
The burnt bodies have mummified a little in the arid desert, but those globules remain. It’s actually nice to have the dry air, as the smell of so many decaying bodies would have been horrendous. However, I’m still carrying a slight stench of the whistler blood myself, the smell of which reminds of the times I’ve come across mass graves. It’s not as strong, but the smell is the same…decaying flesh. Come to think of it, zombies smell very similar, especially when they’re grouped up.
That makes me wonder if the whistlers aren’t, in fact, intelligent undead creatures. It might explain some of the odd things about them. Like, why ride Harleys when they have those hovercraft things and larger ships that have railguns? Can they not get those through portals? And, I didn’t see a single motorcycle when I was on their planet. So what the fuck is up with that? Is it something to do with how they come through a portal? Because I certainly didn’t see a ton of motorcycles on either this planet or Atlantis. Maybe they have an exclusive partnership with the local retailers.
So, this undead thing may need further investigation. Maybe that’s how they controlled the zombies and didn’t send night runners after us when night fell and we were on the plateau. It might also explain the rubbery flesh and how easy it was to penetrate their skull with a blade. However, the whistlers also fell when subjected to their own sleeping toxin, so that implies working organs, brain, nerve centers. I also killed, or at least think I did, by stabbing one in the chest before tossing it into the pit.
I also assume I killed those other ones inside, so their brain doesn’t reside in their chest. And with all of the engagements I’ve had with them, I know for a fact they went down for good without head shots. So, are they some sort of hybrid? Maybe their staple weapons are the only ones they can understand, along with the motorcycles, although those take more coordination to ride, not less. Of course, there were those hovercraft to keep in mind. They were able to work those as well.
As I walk toward the motorcycles, I think further along these lines. The whistlers decay worlds from the paths of light. That would kind of make sense, to make the living undead. Kind of like the zombies from Mike’s world. They seek to erase the living and replace them with the undead. Some of the information we have is that they conquer worlds for resources, but what if that isn’t the entire story?
The fact that they need masks to breathe in the other worlds obviously implies the need to breathe, which goes against the whole undead thing. So, I’m kind of back to the hybrid undead idea. Of course, I could be way off. It could be that their blood just stinks.
I strap Mike’s pack to the bike and sit. Turning on the switch, I attempt to start the bike. It takes several times, but the quiet of the soft breeze across the empty desert is finally broken by the roar of the engine. The rumble of the idling bike reverberates from the cliffside. I think about what I might be missing from our camp, something I should be taking. I strapped Mike’s weapons on; I have all the food. With nothing coming to mind, I kick down on the shifter, feeling the clunk of the bike going into gear. With a couple of revs, I release the clutch and start off across the desert, leaving the mesa behind.
Through the rearview, I see a dust trail rising behind, drifting to the side in the breeze. There won’t be any hiding the fact of someone heading through the desert or my route. But there’s no way I’m walking across it, especially after the ordeal of journeying across the whistler plain. I still haven’t recovered from that, my head pounding from dehydration. The water I had was like putting five dollars in the tank, just enough to get you home. Hopefully, my thought process is clearer, but if I don’t find water soon, I’ll be back in that fog and it’ll only be a case of my bones bleaching in another place. It’s unfortunate that I didn’t find any in Mike’s pack.
The wind across my face is refreshing after wearing that mask for so long. Without sounding like a cliché, it feels like freedom. Which I guess it is. But it feels more than having the mask removed, more than making it away from that slave planet. I used to get this feeling when I was much younger, riding my motorcycle along country roads or down the coastal highway. It’s an indescribable feeling. However, Mike is still trapped there, which brings me back down to earth, so to speak. It’s replaced by determination.
This stretch of desert turns to hardpan. I look down to see I have some fuel remaining. I open the throttle, the roar of the bike responding. It jumps ahead, the tires whirring over the ground. The line of dust falls away, the wind whipping across my face increasing. I make a beeline for the mountains. I need to replenish and then I’ll continue searching for the whistler portal. The other aspect of freedom is that it feels good taking the offensive rather than reacting. Mike was right to take us to their homeworld, even if it didn’t work out well.
The tall, rugged and rocky sides rise high, blotting out much of the sky. I ride to the bottom of one of the large ravines which snakes down the slopes. The steep-sided gulley is a mess of boulders and loose stone, all ending at a flow of sand which extends into the desert. It’s the remnant of flash flooding pouring off the sharp-ridged mountains which is quickly consumed by the arid sands. Nearer the start of the ravine is a winding wadi, the sides of which increase in height the more I hike toward the ridges.
I left my bike hidden behind a boulder. The sun is settling lower in the afternoon sky. Working my way up the winding course, my skin dry and feeling as if it’s made of paper, I halt at a sharp bend. I have no idea how long it’s been since the last rainfall. Looking at the surrounding terrain, it seems like it’s been awhile. Nevertheless, I pull out the metal plate, and using it as a scoop, I start digging.
I have to pause frequently as I just don’t have the energy I previously had. There’s food in the packs, but the lack of water and the exertion makes me dizzy. The hole deepens, the loose sand eventually turning into heavier, more packed soil. I use my knife to assist and hours later, I hit the first wet sand. The top of the pit is over my head and wide enough to lay down in, but I’ve finally struck the first indications of water. With my head pounding and mouth parched, barely able to keep myself upright, I keep digging.
Soon, a puddle forms and I let it settle before kneeling to take my first sip of cool water. I can’t tell you how heavenly it is. The sun has been merciless, but the effort in the heat was worth it. I can almost feel the liquid rushing throughout my body, thinning the thick sludge that courses through my arteries. The headache is still there, but less so. The harsh sun is still wending its way toward the horizon, but I know I have a few hours until nightfall. Pulling a poncho over the bottom part of the hole, I lie down to rest, periodically waking in the heat to take a drink.
My brain becomes alert, springing from a nameless dream to awake in an instant. I listen for any sound, but there’s only the faint ruffling of the poncho as it moves in the slight breeze. Other than that, it’s completely silent. Opening my eyes, I see a dim strip of sunlight around the edges of the cape.
Good, it’s still daylight.
However, the light showing is orangish-brown, giving me notice that nighttime will be here soon. I fill all of the containers I have that will hold even a thimbleful of water and stow my gear. I feel better than I have in some time, my head clear and body somewhat refreshed. While I wouldn’t say I’m ready for the next adventure—like, who possibly could in this world—but at least I’ll meet it with some coherence.
Back at the bike, I sit in the shadowed side of the boulder. It’s truly amazing just how quiet a place can become without anything around to disrupt it. It’s an odd experience, because if you pay close attention, you can almost hear and feel the heartbeat of the land. It’s not the tense hush of a predator lurking nearby. Instead, there’s a peace that forms inside when the land gets quiet like this.
Long shadows cast the ravines in deep shade while highlighting the sharp ridges extending down from the crest, adding to the serenity. I’m able to imagine an aerial view, picturing a man sitting in the midst of this vast emptiness, completely content. I know this feeling won’t last long, for as the sun settles on the horizon, tension will build. That is the time of night runners.
With the sun just peeking above the horizon and the sky draped in color, I sit on the motorcycle. I’m as good as unarmed and will have no chance of keeping the night runners at bay, should they appear. My only choice is to attempt to outrun them if the flashing portals appear. There’s enough fuel in the tank for one more run. After that, I’m back to being on foot again.
The edge of the sun dips below, sending a last flash of light spreading across a darkening land. I fire up the Harley, the deep rumble of the engine breaking through the still land and echoing up the steep ravines. A thin vertical silver line appears out in the desert nearby, rotating horizontally to become a doorway. A night runner emerges, already running full speed. More appear, lighting up the darkened desert floor.
I gun the engine, the sand squelching under the wheels. I can’t go very fast until I reach the hardpan, but it’s hopefully quick enough to get me clear of the closing hunters. Above the roar of the engine, shrieks join in the sudden burst of noise. Pale figures speed toward me, mouths open, the silver glint of eyes focused on their prey. I brush past several pallid figures, their ghostly shapes reaching with outstretched arms.
A cool wind blows against my cheeks, a relief after toiling in the heat. In my rearview, a mass of night runners is giving chase, but growing smaller as I hit the hardpan and begin pulling away. I won’t go over the sharp-toothed ridges, darkly silhouetted against the deepening sky, as that will mean a longer journey on foot. However, I won’t be able to ride through the rest of the night with the remaining fuel. My hope is that the night runners aren’t able to relocate near me.
I ride into the darkness, slowing my speed to avoid objects and gullies which may appear unexpectedly. I’m able to see fairly well at night, but obviously not as well as in daytime. Although the night vision I acquired from the night runners is crisp, it’s still in varying shades of grey, which means shadows can be deceiving at times. The last thing I want to do is plummet into a ravine carved by runoff that I didn’t notice until too late. That would be close to being rescued only to have the ambulance smack into a tree or sail over a cliff.
A silver glow starts behind the rugged sawtooth ridges, growing stronger as the seconds pass. Before long, a moon rises into view. The jagged crests cut across the bright silver orb like a jack-o-lantern carving, giving the moon a wide, sharp-toothed grin. The shaded ravines darken as the moon’s rays stroke the tops of the descending ridge, the desert floor becoming a lake of silver.
As the moon rises into full view, the roar of the bike sputters once, catches, and sputters again. I’m already on the reserve tank, so this is the end of the road for the two of us. As the bike lurches, I pull in the clutch and roll to a stop. The engine dies. I had bled off what gas I could from the second bike at the mesa, and had hoped to get farther, but physics are physics. The problem becomes toting two backpacks. I’m sure Mike will want his stuff back. However, it will not only slow me down, but increase the energy I’ll need. Especially when the sun next makes its appearance. I’m going to have to find some ammo before it again sets.
I load up my pack with empty mags and food from Mike’s. There are a few items within and I stow anything that looks personal. The backpack is a bit heavier, but my energy stores have been somewhat replenished. As long as I’m not called on to run a marathon, I should be okay. However, the first few steps away from the bike remind me that I had trekked for miles on end across the whistler planet. My thighs are sore and it will take a bit for my calves to loosen up.
Hitching the pack higher on my shoulders and securing the second carbine, I glance across the desert, focusing on what’s behind. The night runners are still out there somewhere, hopefully too far to catch up by sunrise. I listen to the night, which has folded back to silence. The odd things about total quiet like this…I imagine I can hear the moon slide across the nighttime sky. It’s a subdued roar just beyond the realm of hearing. I know, no noise in space, and it certainly can’t reach here, even if there was. But I’ve heard, imagined, that sound in the complete quiet of the night before. It’s the brain compensating for the movement it sees, applying additio
nal senses to the action. Personally, I prefer to keep it non-scientific and relish the magic.
Making sure the whistler weapon I have is easily grabbed, I move closer to the long ridge line and turn to a parallel course. If the night runners do show up, I’ll scale the rugged terrain and hope that I’m able to outdistance them. Even though I have enhanced endurance and strength, the night runners have more. I also won’t be able to lose them with the breeze swirling through the mountains. I most notably stink.
It's a pleasant enough stroll, the moon rising higher in the heavens, the clear skies beaming down a multitude of sparkling lights. The hush of a breeze whispering and the soft crunch of my boots on the sand. The soles are torn, but they’re serviceable and solid. To be honest, I carry a nervous edge with the peace and solitude. It’s not something I’ve commonly come across in any of the worlds I’ve visited. I’ve witnessed some pretty majestic things, but the peace never lasts. That’s usually when all hell breaks loose.
With that in mind, I have my senses tuned to the surrounding land. I watch for portals and ghostly bodies, listen for high-pitched screams echoing on the night air. I’d open my mind to the night runners to gauge where they’re at, but that might only serve to spur them on and pinpoint my location. I’ll take my chances with my other senses.
Several times I jump at the sound of small rocks rolling down the steep slopes, thinking that something above me dislodged them. Every time, I search the dark ravines and peaked ridges for sign of movement, a hint of silver eyes staring out from the shadows, a glimmer of a pale shape moving above. Each time I come up empty and continue my trek.
Thoughts cycle through my mind. How is Mike holding up? What happened to our little group? Where did Trip and BT go? We’re separated, worlds apart, attempting to take down a vast empire of powerful beings. Looking up at the twinkling stars overhead, I wonder which one might be where Mike is. Assuming we are even in the same universe.
