A Shrouded World | Book 8 | Asgard

by Tufo, Mark

  Bob subtly slid in front of me; the whistler tapped him on the side, Bob punched out with a little arm directly into my mid-section, knocking the wind and the fight right out of me. The whistler moved past and grabbed another five as Bob shuffled to the door. By the time they were venturing up into the sky, I was about able to catch a full inhalation, just in time for the panic to set in. As a military person who had seen their fair share of action, one of my biggest fears had been fighting alone. That my entire squad and I would be ambushed, and all of them would perish except for myself. You fought for those men and women around you, and with that impetus gone, dismay, dread, rampant fear begins to frenzy within your brain. You have no backup, no support, no fucking reason to keep going and only the fear left that you’ll die alone. It’s a terrifying feeling. For those not in the military, there’s another way to describe the feeling. It’s called the “victim defense” or something close to that. Let’s say you and your partner are out on a stroll and some douche-nozzle with a knife threatens the love of your life or your best friend. Your very first instinct is to attack, to neutralize that threat by any and all means possible. Now for the next scenario, you are alone and the same nozzle of doucheyness attacks you. Most will capitulate immediately, surrendering all of their valuables without so much as a mouse squeak. Some might not even fight for their lives until it is much too late. It’s a form of altruism hard-wired into us. I was leaning against the window, staring hard, fogging up the glass as I was breathing heavily. None of those with me cared in the least as they began to file out to head down to their day jobs.

  “You pieces of shit! Why aren’t you doing anything?” I was yelling and pushing all manner of creature, none raised an arm, tentacle, claw, stinger—I couldn’t even get eye contact from them. It was infuriating. In the end, I joined them on the ramp. What else could I do? Plus, it gave me access to the rifle. I’d never been around quite so many living things yet been so utterly alone. Their sheer indifference I found staggering. I dug up the rifle but did not pull it from the hole; what, conceivably, could I do with it? I could not hide it—it was much too big. The stapler, while not nearly as effective, had to be my weapon by default. This was like tossing an M16 to make room for a Derringer. Who does that? Three days I didn’t sleep, fearful of what had happened to all of my friends and fearful of what was going to happen to me. Not only was this like being stuck in a padded cell to begin with, but now I’d been fitted into a straightjacket. To be so entirely fucking impotent was driving me crazy. I did manage to give myself a grim snicker on my unintended entendre.

  The fourth day there was an influx of fresh meat, or new aliens, however you want to look at it. They were all just like Randle Patrick McMurphy after receiving his brain frying in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. A little drool from the sides of their orifices and we could have had a lookalike contest. The ranks had gone from patchy to overcrowded, just like that. There wasn’t enough food or mats, and not one hostile word was said, and not one punch thrown. It was like living with mannequins in Stepford. I asserted my authority because I could, hoping that someone or thing would being-up and confront me; anything was better than this all-encompassing complacency. I yelled, pushed, generally acted like a spoiled six-year old. It wasn’t my finest hour, and by hour, I mean two days. Nothing. Not even a sidelong glance. When confronted, even trapped rabbits will turn and fight, and they don’t have much in the way of effective tools for self-defense.

  When the choosing whistler came back, another five days removed from my extended hissy fit, I did everything short of raising my hand and yelling “Pick me! Pick me!” like that brown nosed little know-it-all turd in the seventh grade used to. Don Pickens was his name. I made sure he was always my first target in dodgeball. Come on, tell me you didn’t have a primary target. He was always the one that asked on Friday if we had assignments over the weekend or would parrot whatever the teacher had just said to make it sound like he knew shit. Sometimes he would ask longwinded questions after the bell rang so that we could not head to our next class, which, for me, was lunch, so as far as I was concerned, that was a double dick thing to do.

  I stood tall and proud, daring him to pick me, my hand hovering toward the back of my pants and the stapler tucked there. I was careful not to shoot one into my ass. The whistler made a straight line toward me; I don’t know if it some mind control I didn’t know I had or because I wasn’t displaying the look of the downtrodden. When he touched my shoulder there was a moment of what the hell have I done mixed with a sense of relief. It was either all over and/or I was about to find out what happened to my traveling companions. It could be I’d just hastened my demise. I had it fairly easy here, I could have made a life. Sure, it was boring as fuck, but I was alive. The whistler had moved on, picking others to join me on my vision quest. He turned back when he noticed I hadn’t moved. This was it. Either I shot him and attempted a jail break or went to the platform; there was no time for inaction now. Another half second of decision…I took my hand off the stapler and walked to the ramp.

  This time, fifteen of us found our way onto the platform to heaven, or hell, as the case may be. Shit. Their pyramids were upside down, made sense that so would be their ethereal worlds. I stayed in the middle of the pack, doing my utmost to not see just how far up we were going; it didn’t seem that we would ever stop. The whistler guard was as close to uncaring as the group I’d been with. Maybe he was angry that all of his friends were getting battle medals for all the worlds they’d hosed over, and he was stuck delivering vegetables to his overlords. I was mentally counting off seconds, a way to keep my mind off the ascension, that was until I started to think on just how fast the platform could rise and how many minutes we’d been on it. I decided to quit thinking altogether and keep my hand on my stapler; it was the only thing that offered a semblance of comfort, it was a little like my teddy bear during a particularly loud thunderstorm.

  I don’t know what I was expecting when I stepped off the platform, but it was most definitely not what I saw. The dome we were in was vast, the walls and ceiling shimmered in a swirling array of colors; attempting to stare at it caused a dizzy sensation that made my knees weak. I noticed that none of those with me even so much as glanced around—I decided it was best to follow suit. There were the fifteen of us, not more than three or four whistlers, and some sort of creatures that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. They floated a foot above the floor, and I now knew the source of the shimmering on the walls. If the creatures had ever been corporeal, they were now very far along in their transcendental journey toward pure energy.

  With a sidelong glance I could about see a faint humanoid outline, or it could be my mind was trying to make sense of it, adding in what it felt needed to be there. The entirety of them was surrounded by a rippling, glimmering outline, like a swimming manta ray. Their eyes shone, but not like the demons we had encountered; those were somehow more human than these. I didn’t think of these as glowing orbs, but rather pinpricks of light. I’d yet to let go of my stapler, but first, I was rather mesmerized, and secondly, I was becoming more and more convinced as I looked upon what I considered the creators of this non-Utopia, that it would be about as effective as a snowball against a Yeti. The whistler was pushing the aliens in my group toward the creatures. It was almost a gentle gesture. Once the particular captive alien was with its creator, the pair would leave. By the time the whistler gave me a guiding push there were only three of us left and I’d had no warning for what was about to happen to me. I took tentative steps toward the being whom I was being assigned to. I did my best to not stare like a deer in the headlights or a mouse at an eagle bearing down on him.

  When I got close, I thought the being would turn and begin to walk, much like the others had. I was not expecting the tentacle that unfurled from its back, cuffed me on the side of the head, and sent me sprawling. My head rang from the concussion-inducing strike. My eyeballs felt as if they were rolling around within the soup my brain h
ad become. It must have been muscle memory that kept my hand on the stapler because I couldn’t even begin to think clearly. Can’t imagine the scene that would have unfolded if the weapon had skittered along the floor. As it was, I figured I’d finally been found out and was now about to receive my punishment. The creator would beat me mercilessly in front of the others as a lesson I would forget the moment I died. My guess was they wouldn’t care.

  I pushed up with one hand, shook my head, trying to clear away cobwebs that had taken root and were still spreading. I had barely managed a sitting position when the creator moved closer, if he went for round two there was a very good chance I’d be knocked unconscious. The stapler got stuck on my web belt, and I didn’t have enough brain power to try a different angle so I just kept subtly yanking at it to no effect. Instead of being sent into Wimpy’s Tuesday where I was assured I’d receive a hamburger, the same tentacle that rattled my cage gripped my shoulder tightly and pulled me to my feet, then toward its body. I felt a ripple of current as it pulled me tight to its chest; this was a display of some kind—something to let me know just how much in power it was. It finally pulled me away from its embrace to leave me swaying on my feet, but its tentacle did not let go until I was steady enough under my own power. I was more confused about that gesture than the first; if it knew what I’d been a part of, then in its eyes, I warranted the beating, but this tender bipolar moment, I could not grasp.

  Instead of apologizing or berating me, it began to walk away. Not knowing what else to do, I followed. I kept my hand on the stapler to the point there was a good chance the creator thought this was how I was built. My mind was clearing, but this relative stability was being filled with pain. Where the creator had made contact burned, which, considering my initial thoughts about what it was, made perfect sense. We had been traveling for what felt like a mile. By this point, we were nearly alone; there wasn’t anything within a dozen yards of us. I was plotting a modicum of revenge by firing off a few staples and seeing if I could make us even. I had to go with the long game; it made no sense to do anything small and then be on the run with no chance of success. I was scrambling to make sense of what was happening here. That the thing hadn’t killed me outright meant something. Didn’t it?

  Also, keeping its back to me as we traveled, and that it wasn’t the slightest bit concerned about retribution meant something. The handing off of creatures to these glowing beings meant something too. Were we pets, servants, slaves or a mixture of the three? From what I’d seen, my creator appeared to be on the dickish side; he’d wanted to show exactly who was in charge in no uncertain terms, which, again, made zero sense because he had to know about the cap and how all of the subjects were completely knuckled under. Hitting a defenseless person just because you could and knowing that there would be no form of retribution was like an abusive parent striking their child. Of all the ones I had to get, my creator, if it had a wardrobe, would have consisted of white wife beater t-shirts and stained jeans. I’m sorry I beat you, you just made me so mad. I promise I won’t do it again. At least until the next time I do it.

  I was lost in my thoughts to the point I’d not noticed my guide had stopped walking, I’d gone two steps past him before realizing my mistake. The word fuck blazed in my head. A tentacle whipped up and onto the top of the cap. It immediately retracted when I heard a high-pitched sound, like a dog whistle blown just at the edge of human hearing. It was another creator, a friend, an acquaintance. My creator turned to pitch whistle talk to the other one; I think they were discussing dip recipes or getting together for cards next Thursday. My skull cap was completely forgotten about as they wrapped up whatever they’d been communicating about some ten minutes later. We walked a little further until we came up on a field of bubbles; they reminded me of Australian surf toys, you know, floating, people-sized hamster wheels. If these were the creatures’ version of a single dwelling home, things were going to get up close and personal.

  The bubble we walked toward went from a pearlescent opaque to a vibrating blue; the creator walked straight through and in. I looked around and did the same. I was hoping that I wasn’t the family dog that was supposed to stay outside the house, and now that I’d inadvertently followed my master inside I was going to get a savage beating for my transgression. The creator was standing in front of a panel. It was instrumentation—that was clear enough, but there were no traditional controls, no knobs, dials, buttons—or steering wheel, as this turned out to be a craft. The thing looked back to me and pointed to the floor. Before I could even sit completely down the machine took off straight up, I fell to the side, cracking the same spot he’d hit previously. He turned again to see. Didn’t smile; there was no laugh that I could tell, even the look of the eyes did not betray what he was thinking, but the feeling I got was one of perverse satisfaction. Yeah, this one was a real piece of work. He very much enjoyed his power over us lesser creatures.

  How does something evolve so far along and not lose some of the baser traits? Did that mean humans were doomed as a species to never outgrow their prejudices and impulse to hurt others? Not sure why I was so concerned about something I was unlikely to ever see come to pass. After the initial takeoff, the ride smoothed out and I was able to sit up. I could shoot him now and take what had to be his rusty old Ford Truck and bubble off into the sunset. If the thing had even a hint of a steering wheel, I would have felt compelled to do so. I looked around as much as I could without attracting my benefactor’s attention. I’d already made him suspicious once; if I did so again there was no telling how it would turn out. I had a feeling the being’s power was immense, or at least the energy he radiated was, and he could probably use it as a weapon, if desired.

  We traveled an hour, or somewhere in the neighborhood of that. There were no further incidents during the flight, and not a bunch to see other than the sky. We were leaving the city, or their version of it. Great. My dickwad had to live in the suburbs—probably so no one else would know what he was up to. Harder to get away with that shit in the city. When the vehicle stopped and he stepped out, I followed. We were again inside a sphere; this one was large, but not mega stadium sized. The color within was gray toned, there were objects on what had to be considered walls, whether it was art or something with a function, I couldn’t tell. So, not much different from my understanding of art back on earth.

  Unlike everything I’d encountered thus far, this place was different, all new to me. The colors, the possible objet d’art, and there were partitions. My creator did not seem to be a fan of the open concept floor plan. As it walked, so did I. Passed by three larger rooms with a variety of sculptures, or furniture, or torture devices. We came to what I figured was the center of the home; five shining orbs, each no larger than a softball, were suspended on the far side of the room. The creator walked toward them; I followed. The strike was immediate and so surprising I’d not had time to blink. I was tossed to the side, colliding heavily with something that looked a lot like an enormous cockroach leg pulled straight off a hot grill. I was in so much shock and pain I couldn’t even muster anger. My neck, where it had struck, was still sizzling like bacon in a skillet, and, no, the smell of fried meat was not welcome. My spine felt as if it were out of alignment as I struggled to get up.

  The creator had completely forgotten about me as it observed the orbs, fawned over, maybe. My brain may have still been scrambling about inside the shaker of my head, but that he cared for those things was without doubt. Were they a prized possession…or potentially offspring? I was still reeling when the beast turned and came toward me quickly, I was angry but I flinched as it pointed. I turned to see what it was pointing at. It was another room, though that was a misnomer given the size—it was smaller than a standard closet. I didn’t know what was expected of me. I could only think that maybe there was a mop or something I needed to clean up with in there. I entered and immediately regretted my decision when I became trapped inside. It wasn’t so much that a door closed, but, rather,
a wall formed.

  I wanted to pound on the door, but was pretty sure that would not be looked upon kindly. The thing would open the wall up and beat me silly before or after ripping my cap off. This was worse than being stuck in the cave tunnel—at least there I had been able to lie down. With my back pressed against the wall, my legs were barely bent before my knees pressed against the front. It was a coffin stood on end, and the moment that thought occurred, the panic of being buried alive reared its vicious head. My heart labored until I had nothing more to give; I was certain, for two hideous minutes that I couldn’t breathe. I’m not sure how, but calm came over me; maybe it was like what they say happens when your lungs fill with water and you just give up and sink. My body demanded rest, though it was impossible to get into anything that resembled a comfortable position. An airplane seat in ultra-economy class would have felt like the Taj Mahal. I wouldn’t have even minded that the person in front of me had reclined their seat even further reducing my space.

  As I struggled to find any position I could sustain, overwhelming hysteria returned. My breathing came in ragged hitches mixed with choking sobs. I must have worn myself completely out, as I managed to catch snippets of sleep. When I startled awake for the third or fourth time, I found a way to better secure the stapler which continually jabbed at my back. It took the better part of an hour to find a way to remove my pants and boxers, and create a sling of sorts that I tied to my waist; I didn’t find any additional comfort, but it was a way to counteract the claustrophobia. Something to keep my mind diverted. When I was done, I could only revisit the misery I was in; my knees ached from the pressure on the wall, my legs throbbed from the unnatural position, and my back begged to be released, but that had nothing on the pain in my singed, cricked neck. Parts of me hurt that I’d never felt before. If this was a form of torture to make me confess for all crimes committed and would ever commit in the future, I was willing to spill everything.