A Shrouded World | Book 8 | Asgard

by Tufo, Mark

  The cloud grows larger, the glints brighter and more frequent. What I can finally see motoring under the dust storm isn’t a convoy of military vehicles, but a line of motorcycles. That many together can only mean one thing…whistlers. And a shit ton of them. And, with that many traveling in one group, I can only assume they’re heading either toward or away from something very important. But, that’s something for future consideration. I have to first make it through what’s coming. At nearly the same time as I sight the bikes, they must have spotted Kalandar as they alter their course to head directly toward us.

  Sliding below, I crank up the engine and clamber back to the commander’s seat to turn on the console monitors there. A middle screen comes alive, a magnified view of the desert appearing. Enhancing the magnification verifies that the incoming force are most definitely whistlers. Backing off the magnification, I bring the weapon systems online. I should have practiced a little with this thing to determine range, drop, and all of the other factors that go into making a shot connect. I don’t even know how fast the quad-barrels fire, but I’m about to find out.

  The whistlers close in, the wings on both sides splitting off in flanking maneuvers. Focused as I am, and with the whine of the turbine running, I only faintly hear Kalandar roar. Poking my head above the cupola, I see him tearing off toward one of the flanking wings. Hopefully that will keep them occupied and he doesn’t go down from hundreds of staples. I’m not too concerned about being hit in my little compartment. I am worried about the numbers and being overwhelmed. If they get too close, then they can clamber on board and shoot a mass of staples into me. I’ll have to keep an eye on the flankers that are making a wide circle.

  The range on the screen reduces. Having never done this before, I’m not sure what range I should actually be looking for. I know the ones in the military back home were effective out to long distances, but I noted the vehicles were quite close in the battle we just passed, so I’m not sure what to make of that.

  The bikes and their riders are clearly defined in the magnified view. I figure that’s close enough. With the joystick, I move the center reticle to the ground in the midst of the bikes and press the trigger. The tank shakes as the barrels begin spitting out rounds. I say spitting because that’s what it sounds like. I can’t describe it any other way.

  Toh, Toh, Toh, Toh.

  The shots are neither fast nor slow, but fire in a steady stream. On the screen, small fireballs race outward one after the other, seeming to slow down as they get further away. Then, they start landing in the midst of the oncoming whistlers. Explosion after explosion rocks the desert floor, lifting dirt and smoke into the air. Bikes tumble to the ground, adding to the sudden eruption of dust.

  I move the joystick, sending rounds along a line. The leading bikes of the center group vanish under a barrage of smoke and dust. I know a volume of shrapnel is hidden within the erupting clouds, tearing into whistler flesh. If they have the capability to scream, the air must be filled with their cries. As it stands from my vantage point, I’m just playing a video game.

  I stop firing, rotating the turret toward the flanking group opposite to where Kalandar set off. Bringing them under fire, bikes go spinning into the air. Others spill over at high speed, tumbling madly across the desert floor. This group also vanishes under a cloud of smoke and fire.

  The interior, once smelling of grease, hot wires, and ground-in body odor, now carries the aroma of gunpowder. The spent shells are ejected thought ports on the side, coming to rest on the ground or rolling across the chassis. I bring the turret back around to the original group, hoping that Kalandar is keeping the others busy and at a distance.

  Bikes are rolling through the dissipating cloud of smoke, still intent on reaching us. I’m not sure why retrieving beings and sending them to the planet would create this kind of dedication. They’re being slaughtered, yet on they come. They’re persistent; I’ll give them that. I start firing again, sending round after round into their midst. Again, they vanish behind a wall of smoke.

  I flip on FLIR (Forward Looking Infrared) and the scene clarifies. Objects lie haphazardly all over the ground, bikes and bodies intermixed. Yet more are motoring through, maneuvering around the wrecks. The odd aspect is that the whistlers don’t have a thermal signature, but rather a lack of one. They’re just a darker shape amid the heat of the day. I wonder now if they aren’t some sort of undead creature. That makes sense with the pale flesh about their heads and the lack of heat from their body fluids. Storing that knowledge in the back of my mind, I send another volley into those still coming, hoping to slow them enough to get to the other groups.

  Back at the flanking group, I send round after round into their midst. Explosions tumble rider and bike, some cartwheeling through the air. The devastation is immense, ragged holes appearing in their once neat line of attacking bikes. Thermal imaging shows small fires around some of the downed Harleys, their fuel burning. Other small lumps are bodies, either lying still or slow-crawling across the ground. Yet still, those behind push forward.

  The two groups, although thinned quite a bit, are slowly closing the distance as I have to keep shifting between the two. In the back of my mind is the third group, and it won’t be long until I have to check on the situation there. I just can’t spare the time right now.

  Back to the center group, I send a number of whistlers to the desert floor. They’re more scattered now, so I have to send bursts of fire toward the flankers. That takes time, but I have it in mind to finish off this group first in order that I can focus on the two remaining ones. I look back on the encounters I’ve had on this whole time-journeying thing, and what I wouldn’t have done to have this little toy on hand. It would have made things so much easier.

  Suddenly, those remaining in the center group veer off and start riding away, heading back along their previous route. I watch for a second or two more to make sure they’re actually leaving. They grow smaller as they head around behind one of the flanking groups. I guess they’ve finally had enough as they don’t join the flankers. Turning back to the second group, I start laying devastating fire into their midst. I can’t have many more rounds, and I can’t figure out where the count would be displayed, but I can’t afford to let up now.

  After a bit, this second group also turns to ride away. Perhaps seeing their comrades take off put the idea in their minds that it’s okay to retreat. In all honesty, I’ve never really seen whistler give up once they join battle, and it usually goes down to the last one. At least, I don’t remember them fleeing. But my memory isn’t what it used to be, especially in this place. Or, Atlantis either, for that matter. Dimension traveling can do that to a person, I guess.

  Tracking around to the third group, I see the big demon standing encircled by the entire flanking party. They’re riding a circle around him like he’s a covered wagon. If it weren’t for the thermal imaging, all I’d see would be a cloud of dust. Kalandar looks like he’s having trouble seeing as well, reaching out blindly to smash his fist into the ground. He’s not wholly ineffective as he sends several whistlers tumbling with each blow. However, I can imagine the whistlers sending hundreds, if not thousands, of staples into the demon. If the toxin affects him, I don’t see this ending well.

  Taking aim, I start planting shells into their midst. Explosions send bikes and whistlers spinning, disrupting their pretty circle. I continue walking shells back and forth, wreaking devastation. With the whistlers riding the way they are, they basically cycle right into the path of the exploding shells. Massed like they are, it doesn’t take long until their numbers are drastically reduced. It’s not long until they also turn tail and make haste.

  I cease fire, watching as the three, diminished groups rejoin in the distance and resume their journey. I don’t know if they’ll be back, perhaps bringing reinforcements with which to resume their attack. I doubt I’ve seen the last of these whistlers. I turn my attention to Kalandar, who is stumbling back in my direction. I raise u
p in the cupola as he returns.

  “Thank you, but I had them right where I wanted them,” he says.

  He then promptly falls to the ground with a horrific thump.

  6

  Jack Walker — Chapter Three

  Leaving the tank running, I hop down. Kalandar is covered head to toe in staples. Well, I supposed covered is a bit of a misnomer, but it does look like he’s wearing a weird kind of chainmail. Finding a pair of pliers on board, I set to work removing the staples from the demon. I’m only able to work on half his body as he fell face first. Those in front he’ll have to get himself—if he lives.

  Slow, deep breaths push a cloud of dust along with each exhalation, so I know that he’s breathing. Climbing onto the demon’s back, it’s difficult to maintain balance at times due to the heavy rise and fall of this chest. I’m thankful that he fell face first, as that means I won’t have to pry any staples from his, well, you know. Looking down the length of his body, I sigh. The butt area will be bad enough. Maybe I’ll just do his back and legs.

  I spend most of the day removing staples, keeping an eye out for returning whistlers. The day is quiet, filled only with my exertions and Kalandar’s deep breathing. As the sun heads into late afternoon, having removed as many as I can, I set out on a search for another tank, the same type as I have. I’d like to replenish ammo and fuel if I can.

  I prowl the length and breadth of the battlefield, running across a few. Some are completely destroyed and are of no use. But, from a couple, I’m able to salvage some ammo and fuel, enough that I’m able to fill both the tanks and ammo compartment. Hopefully I won’t need the amount of ammo I expended during the day, but with dusk approaching, there are night runners to think about. And with Kalandar off in dreamland, I’ll need to be close to fend them off. If he weren’t here, I’d just button up and let them do whatever. But, admittedly, the demon has helped me on numerous occasions, even if the betrayal—which wasn’t a betrayal—still leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. With that in mind, I drive back to where he’s sleeping it off and settle in.

  No sooner does the last vestige of daylight vanish than the glowing silver portals start winking into existence, depositing night runners onto the desert plain. Standing outside the top hatch, I see the flashes coming from all around. Deep snores rise from the dark shape several yards away.

  I’m not sure what real danger Kalandar is in. I can’t see the night runners penetrating his thick hide, even with the numerous staple wounds. But wouldn’t that be a thing; him turning into a night runner. I’m pretty sure that would just end the universe. Or universes, as it were. All matter would just suck into him like a super massive black hole, everything ending with a mighty plop. It started with a big bang and ended with a single demon plop. Given what I’ve witnessed, I wouldn’t be at all surprised.

  Slipping back inside the tank, I close the hatch with a clang, blocking out the shrieks that have just started filling the nighttime air. Everything inside is bathed in a green glow from the control panel, the main screen showing thermal images running my way. Centering the reticle into the midst of the encroaching night runners, I press the trigger and start slowly rotating the turret.

  Explosions erupt, the flash of the bursts strobing in the night. On screen, bodies are picked up and thrown, severed limbs twisting and flipping through the air. Other figures are unceremoniously cut down, falling over from amputated legs. It’s a slaughter that I’m thankfully not witnessing directly. Having this layer between me and the destruction helps keep my dinner where it belongs.

  Making a complete circle, careful to avoid the sleeping giant, I search for more targets. I only spot a few more distant thermal shapes, as the remaining night runners apparently don’t want any more of the carnage. It was a quick engagement. It would be a different story in an urban environment, but here in the open and with the firepower I have, they didn’t stand a chance. I think I’ll just always carry one these around with me.

  I keep watch for a couple more hours to ensure the hunters don’t return. In the morning, I’ll head in the direction that the whistlers took, toward the distant mountains. I figure they were coming or going and I have a fifty percent chance of choosing correctly. That may seem like even odds, but it’s not really. Whenever I have two choices, it seems I inevitably select the wrong one.

  With nothing moving, I turn in for the night. Hopefully tomorrow will see me closer to the end of this whole endeavor. As I try to find some comfort, I wonder how Mike is getting along.

  Sunlight flares across the desert floor, bringing heat and light. Outside, night runner bodies are blackening from the ultraviolet rays. Bodies and limbs lie in a jumble, spilled blood stains the sand a darker color. I flip open the hatch, a witty joke about oversleeping on my lips. I look to where Kalandar was only to discover that he’s not there.

  Thinking I became turned around somehow, I quickly scan the area to confirm that I’m alone with the dead night runners. I manage to find the depression where the big demon fell, but he’s just gone. Taking out my binoculars, I search the vast plain without finding any sign of him. Hopping out of the vehicle, I look for tracks leading away, but am unable to locate any. It’s like he just vanished into thin air, which isn’t terribly surprising, considering this place.

  It looks like I’ll be moving ahead on my own. That’s not anything new, and it may be advantageous. After all, it’s difficult to hide a towering red giant. Of course, it’s also not easy to hide an armored vehicle. At least I won’t be spotted from miles and miles away. Heading back into the battlefield, I replenish what I can of the ammo, fuel, and other supplies.

  Heading out, it isn’t long until I pick up the tracks of the fleeing whistlers. They’re easy to follow, as they head off in a straight line. I wonder how the whistlers keep their bikes refueled. I’ve yet to see one abandoned, either from lack of fuel or maintenance. It must be from the same magic that allows them to find thousands of the machines on any planet they visit. I don’t remember seeing them on their planet, so maybe it’s a function of transiting a portal. It would be nice to have an eternally running vehicle that never broke.

  I have the extra carbine and sniper rifle I found on the battlefield secured. It would be a shame to have to abandon this vehicle and be left again without something to hand Mike when we meet up again. I just need to find a portal and hope that I mutter the right spells to get back to him. He wasn’t in the greatest shape when I last saw him, and I still feel guilty about having to leave him. But I also know that he has extricated himself from more than one dire situation.

  I keep my speed down so I don’t advertise my position. Anyone in the hills with any decent set of binoculars will be able to see me, though. I just don’t want to blunder into a trap, although, motorcycles and staple guns will have a difficult time taking down an armored vehicle. I can only hope that they left the railgun and hover cars back at home.

  The terrain slowly begins to change, the sand becoming more rocky soil. The ridge lines to my left and right remain the same, but the mountain chain ahead grows larger as I approach it. I don’t see where the different chains come together, but there’s definitely a valley being formed in the middle of the steep slopes. And yet, the whistler tracks continue straight ahead.

  Messing with the systems, I manage to find out how to transfer driver control to the commander’s station. This vehicle isn’t meant to be soloed, but it can be done. It’ll be difficult maneuvering the tank while also fighting—working the turret and guns. Keeping everything aligned ought to be fun. I practice with it, and it isn’t difficult maintaining a course while just driving, but it gets interesting when I throw in moving the turret while also turning the vehicle. It’s like watching a drunk test with someone who is clearly suffering from alcohol poisoning.

  However, it gets better as I practice. There are times when I have to straighten everything out and start again, but I slowly get the hang of it. The day makes its way toward evening without sighting an
y whistlers. The mountains ahead are definitely larger, and I should reach them within a couple of hours at the slow speed I’m traveling. I don’t want to run into a welcoming committee just yet. With night coming on, I turn off the path and set out for the ridges to my left. I’ll find somewhere to hole up there, keeping the tank and myself out of sight.

  An hour later, I back into a small canyon and park. From this position, I’ll be able to keep an eye on the rocky plain while staying hidden. The brown of the sandstone blends well with the camo pattern of the tank. Shadows from the tall canyon walls cover the vehicle. The atmosphere outside turns an orangish-brown as the sun nears the horizon.

  I’m not overly worried about night runners, as I can just seal myself inside. The only problem that could arise is if someone noticed the flurry of pale bodies heading toward me or heard their incessant shrieking and investigates. But then, they’d find themselves battling the creatures of the night, so, I could have, in essence, my own security force protecting me. With that thought in mind, I shut down and grab a bite to eat. In the confines of the tank, I’m reminded that I could really use a shower. I rinse daily, but that only goes so far.

  As night falls, the night runners do indeed return, clambering all over the tank and searching for a way in. Their shrieks are constant and irritating to say the least, but the security of being in the armored vehicle reminds me of the nights the kids and I spent in the 130. I’m truly ready for a vacation from these constant attacks. Eventually, toward dawn, the attacks break off and the night runners return to wherever they go. I’m not sure if they return to my world or find places to hole up here. I haven’t witnessed any of the portals when night is ending, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t other means of transporting them out.