A Shrouded World | Book 8 | Asgard

by Tufo, Mark

  Working my way toward the tunnel entrance, I round one corner of a building and freeze. Ahead, parked in the middle of nowhere, really, is one of those sedans driven by the overseers. The narrow, tinted windows look ominous, as do the vehicle lines that just don’t seem to match the way they should. The backend is open, as if the angels exited and left the doors open. I’m not sure what this means. Are the overseers in collusion with the whistlers? Is this an offshoot group working behind the backs of the others? All that I know is that if there are overseers here, my goal of getting to a portal just became immensely more difficult.

  It’s then that I notice long, thin shapes on the ground near the back of the vehicle. They appear to be overseers, and dead ones at that. Cautiously, I move closer and am able to get a better view. The corpses are emaciated and look like they’re been lying there for a long while. Additionally, each one has several embedded staples. Honestly, that doesn’t really make a whole lot of sense. They surely can’t have been put down by such a basic weapon. Even my bullets can’t penetrate the skin of the angels. How can the staples?

  But the proof is lying just a few yards away. Unless the overseers died by some other means that I can’t determine, it certainly appears that the whistler staple guns are effective against the angels. Come to think of it, they were able to take down Kalandar…twice. So maybe those staples and toxin are viable against the higher orders of beings. I guess that’s what makes the whistlers dangerous, at least to the overseers and demons. I was wondering just how the demons were hit so hard when they were enforcers, and now I guess I know. The whistlers are numerous with weapons that can eventually take down even the strongest of creatures.

  With that in mind, I race back to the three dead whistlers, removing their weapons and placing them in my pack. If I can’t hit them in the mouth with my carbine, then I guess I can nail them with the staplers. Of course, who knows how fast the toxin takes to be effective with the overseers…I know it took a shit ton of them and a lot of time for Kalandar to go down, but he eventually did.

  As I move past the odd vehicle and overseer corpses, I wonder how many whistlers were lost during the fight. With the dead bodies near the vehicle, it doesn’t appear that the fight lasted that long. Maybe the overseers were overconfident and charged into the midst of the encampment, only to find they weren’t invincible. I have to admit that seeing them taken down in that manner gives me some relief. Not much, but a little.

  At the side of the large tunnel, I peer inside. Looking from the light into the darker interior, it’s difficult to see very far. But I don’t hear anything, only the continued quiet that is pervading the courtyard. Other than hug the wall, there’s really not much I can do to minimize myself at this point. I step inside, half wondering how the whistlers keep this place from resetting when the rest of the planet is swept by those walls of white. Maybe that’s what the outer buildings are used for. They have to be doing something because I can’t imagine being continually reset is very conducive to keeping a portal open.

  I venture further into the tunnel, leaving the radiant light of the day behind. The temperature cools, but not enough that it provides very much relief. Two strings of lights running along the sides provide a dim illumination. Tire tracks, both narrow and wide, mar the sandy floor of the tunnel. During the time watching the complex, I never saw any indication that materials were being transported either in or out. I had thought the whistlers were taking over the planets in order to mine them for resources. Maybe they don’t appear to do that on the surface, but instead dig down and take it out through underground portals. I certainly haven’t seen any of the creatures drive anything other than their hovercraft and motorcycles. If they were taking apart a world, I think there would be long lines of trucks and trains leading to a portal. The hows and whys aren’t overly important right now, but might become so if we want to start pushing them back to their home worlds.

  The tunnel proceeds straight for a couple hundred yards before making a gentle turn. I creep along the inner wall, searching every inch of the passageway as it’s revealed. So far, there hasn’t been a whisper of anyone moving along its length. That doesn’t last long, though, as there’s a faint whine that comes from ahead, growing louder.

  There isn’t much cover, and by not much, I mean none. I crouch low, my M-4 aimed ahead. The whine quickly escalates until a golf cart comes into view. I don’t know what I was expecting, but that certainly isn’t it. Riding in the front seat are two whistlers, which makes this shit even more weird. Their gangly limbs crammed into a golf cart makes it look like two spiders awkwardly stuffed into a matchbox.

  I see the moment the two of them notice me crouched in the dim lighting. Their beady eyes go wider, if that were even possible. Without hesitation, I open fire on the driver. The plexiglass shatters as rounds smash through, dark liquid splashing on the windshield. The cart, moving slowly, veers off to the side. I shift my aim and take the second one under fire, and more of the plastic splinters. Dark liquid coats the remaining plastic, streaming down to drip over the holes and gather on the floor. The cart bumps into the outer wall, the electric motor still running but under obvious strain.

  Making sure the two are dead, I dash over to turn off the cart. I don’t want it to make any further noise and draw someone’s attention. The interior is a mess, blood coating everything and the whistlers sprawled like a bundle of kindling. The stench of their blood is horrendous and I’m hesitant to stick my hand into their goo. Instead, I go to the back and find the battery cables, pulling them free. The cart dies, just as its occupants did.

  I quickly move back to the wall and continue. I now have proof that the place hasn’t been abandoned. I can only hope that there aren’t too many. I’ve been away from the whistler world for some time now and have no idea how Mike is faring. I know he can take care of himself, but I feel bad for leaving him. I’m close to rectifying that and eager to get on with it. I don’t know what we’ll do when we meet again, but we’ll figure something out.

  More noise from ahead—this time clicks and clacks. I’m not sure if it’s a language being spoken, but I suppose it could be. There’s kind of a thrumming mixed in with it that I can’t place. It’s almost a grinding, like a millstone turning wheat into flour. Slowly moving forward, I come across two more whistlers, each one rolling a barrel. Two rapid bursts and they’re lying beside their burdens, dark liquid running into the low spots.

  I don’t run into anyone else as I move deeper into the tunnel. I must have moved a mile under the mountains when I start picking up a hissing and crackling; sounds like static or a downed electrical line arcing back and forth. I would say the portal I’ve been searching for lies just up ahead.

  Approximately two hundred yards away, the passage bends. The walls are bathed in a flickering bluish light. I slow even more, wondering just how well-guarded a portal like this will be. The entrance to the complex had hundreds of whistlers with four railguns at their disposal. I can’t imagine what might be guarding the actual portal. Maybe war rabbits? Auto-turret guns mounted to cover every angle? I should have searched the bodies for some kind of device denoting a friendly so I don’t get targeted on sight.

  Reaching a point where I can see around the corner, sure enough, there’s a portal that occupies the center of the tunnel. There’s a ramp leading up to it with machinery positioned everywhere. Thick cables lead from the equipment to a metal frame surrounding a silvery portal that looks like the static screen of a channel that’s off the air. Small arcs of electricity dance away from the frame, a constant stream of lightning that surrounds the entire apparatus.

  Whistlers galore mill about the floor, both in front of the portal and along the sides. They’re mostly focused on various pieces of equipment. I definitely don’t want to start a firefight in this chamber. The chance of hitting something vital seems too great. One miss and ricochet and all of this, the journey back here to find a home portal, would be moot.

  I eyeball the ch
amber, planning a route through the maze of machinery. I’m thinking I might be able to just run past and enter. If I’m fast enough, I should be able to get through before the creatures can draw their weapons. I’ll at least have surprise on my side. I just might be able to jump through before they even know I’m in their midst. I hope there isn’t some sort of acclimation process or special suit I need to wear in order to make it through the portal alive. So far, I haven’t encountered any where that has been necessary, including the whistler portal on Atlantis.

  “Okay, you can do this,” I mutter, staring into the chamber.

  The run itself is only about seventy-five yards. That doesn’t seem so far—and wouldn’t be—if I were a world class sprinter. But, I’m a middle-aged man who has no business being on a race track. The advancements from the night runner blood made me a bit faster, but that’s akin to jumping from a Ford Pinto into a Toyota Corolla, neither of which is a Ferrari.

  Cutting a couple pieces of cloth from my shirt, I stick them in my ears. I remember the high-pitched whistling of the creatures, loud enough to be near debilitating. Tightening my pack, I take a deep breath, readying myself for the madness about to commence. I rise and I start sprinting, my footfalls thudding in the wide tunnel. I keep my eyes on the portal, willing myself faster.

  In my periphery, I see whistler heads turn. As they pass from sight, I note them going for their weapons. Passing by machinery and leaping over thick cables running the length and width of the floor, I race for all I’m worth. The ramp is just ahead when I hear the few zips of staples passing very close. All I have to do is make it several more steps.

  I stumble as a keening penetrates into my head, piercing like an ice pick. I clasp my head with my free hand, feeling like I need it there so my skull doesn’t explode. I squint my eyes, forcing them to stay open wide enough to see the portal. My vision is white both inside and out, the pain in my head nearly forcing everything else away. Not that there’s much in there in the first place. I focus on one thing—moving toward the portal.

  I keep my legs pumping. I know I’m not sprinting anymore, but as long as I’m moving, I have a chance. Something heavy slams into my back, pushing me forward. I also feel tugs at my clothing, but with the intense blinding agony going on in my brain, the reason for it is not really registering.

  I hear a sizzling and wonder who is frying bacon. I’m confused as to why I can’t smell it. Through my partially open eyes, there’s nothing but white. I know I’m climbing a hill. At least it feels like I am. Is the tunnel now ascending? I don’t remember it being anything other than flat.

  The crackling and hissing are increasing. With the intensity of the light in front of my face, I should be feeling the heat of it. But there’s nothing like that. Instead, I feel the light itself. I’m not sure if I can describe what that feels like, but it’s like I can sense the photons as they hit my body. The screeching in my head feels like it’s going to tear me apart, the vibration in my skull threatens to turn it into shards.

  Several things crash hard into me, most of them hitting my back. One hits the back of my leg, the sharp pain intruding momentarily through that in my head. I go to my knees and fall forward.

  The high-pitched whistling in my head vanishes in an instant, leaving an afterglow of the pain. I gasp several times as relief comes flooding in and I almost pass out. However, the reality of all that I was doing comes back in a single moment. Turning back around, I see the shimmering white of a portal with my legs only partially through. I try to push up to my feet, but the pain in the back of my leg returns in a rush and I collapse.

  Using my arms, I pull myself along an invisible floor. There are whistlers on the other side of the portal and I don’t want them grabbing my legs and pulling me clear. As it is, I half expect them to come surging through the shimmering essence. My feet clear the portal and I lie prone, breathing hard. The run and pain have left me exhausted. Looking at my leg, I see a staple embedded in the back of my thigh. I’ll take it out…once I catch my breath.

  All around is a soundless white expanse. I’m not sure if I can only see a few feet or an infinite distance. With the all-white, it seems like it could be both. I feel like I’m rapidly moving, although I can’t sense the movement itself. There’s no breeze against my body, no feeling of inertia. It’s dizzying without the other sensations that should go along with the speed I sense.

  An image suddenly starts flashing in my vision. It’s an image of a man spread eagle within a silver metallic ring. His arms are spread straight out and legs angled, the tips of the fingers and heels touching the inner part of the ring. A pulsing light circles the ring.

  That image is suddenly replaced by the image of an ankh, much like the relic we found. The images start cycling between the two, the time between them growing shorter until they’re just flashing between each one. Suddenly, just as the strobing between them nearly becomes overwhelming, the image changes and I’m staring at the back of Trip’s head. Slowly, he turns to look over his shoulder, his expression confused. It then changes to startlement as his eyes meet mine. And then that image, too, is gone.

  The sensation of speed grows greater. I’m surrounded by complete whiteness again. There’s nothing to gauge movement. It’s like I’m on a luge in the middle of a whiteout blizzard, without the cold and wind.

  With an abruptness that’s dizzying, I’m suddenly standing on solid ground. Stretching away in all directions is an endless plain of reddish-brown dirt. The sky is a much deeper blue than on my world. A distant sun shines down on my shoulders, providing a measure of warmth. It’s nice to have normal sensations again, but my mind is still reeling from the sudden changes. This is like no other planet I’ve visited, and I wonder where in the hell I’ve been deposited.

  I look down; Trip is kneeling on the dirt, his head turned over his shoulder and looking right at me as if he was expecting me. It looks an awful lot like the image of him I had inside the portal.

  “Yack, you’re here,” Trip says.

  “Never has there been spoken a more obvious truth,” I respond.

  “Jack?” a deep baritone voice states.

  I look over to see BT standing nearby. I nod and then am abruptly reminded that I have a staple in my calf as pain races up my leg. At the same time, the toxin hits and my mind reels dizzily. I sway, unable to remain on my feet.

  “I think I’ll just lay down now,” I say, and the world goes blank midway through my fall.

  7

  Jack Walker — Chapter Four

  Coming to, my mind is wrapped in a fog. The first thing I see is the side of Trip’s face. A warm glow bathes his face, and it looks like he’s staring off into a sunset. There’s an intensity of expression, as if he’s close to solving the conundrum of dark matter. However, hidden deep within is a profound sadness. Now, it could be a trick of the lighting, but I’ve never really observed Trip exhibit such deep emotions. He’s always just been high, oblivious, or passed out.

  “Where in the hell am I?” I ask, feeling my stomach lurch as I sit up.

  “They’ve destroyed it all, Yack,” Trip replies forlornly.

  As I stabilize my reeling head in a sitting position, it doesn’t look like Trip has moved a muscle since I passed out. Reaching around behind my leg, the staple has been removed and the wound bandaged to a certain extent.

  “Your doing?” I ask, turning to BT and pointing at the wound.

  BT nods.

  “How long has he been like this?”

  “Ever since we arrived here,” BT answers.

  “How long ago was that?”

  BT shrugs. “Time works differently here, so it’s hard to tell. Three days? Four?”

  “I have food and water in my pack if you’re hungry. Don’t you go and eat it all.”

  The big man opens my pack and takes out one of the meals.

  “Trip, who destroyed what?”

  “This,” he answers with a wave of his hand to encompass the land. “It’s all
gone.”

  By his choking reply, I get the impression that we might be on his home world. I want to offer condolences, but what do you say to something like that? He’s just sitting staring at the relic he’s holding in his hands. The memory of the images flickering while I was in the portal surfaces. I can’t take my eyes off the ankh as it’s a picture-perfect representation of the one I saw in my mind. I then see the man positioned in the ring and how closely the two are shaped, the figure and the relic. The flickering images superimpose on one another and it dawns on me what I was seeing.

  “Hey, Trip. What was your dealer’s name?” I inquire.

  It takes a moment for the hippie to respond. He shakes his head and turns toward me. “What?”

  “What was your dealer’s name?” I again ask.

  “The man who sold me my Harley?”

  “Huh…no, not that dealer. The one who sells you all your drugs,” I say.

  “Oh, Frank,” Trip answers.

  “And you said you guys traveled quite a bit together, right?”

  At the mention of traveling, Trip’s eyes narrow. He nods.

  “So, I think you’re holding him,” I state.

  He drops the relic into the sandy soil and starts searching his pockets like he has to pay for dinner and forgot his wallet. I reach over and pluck the ankh.

  “No, this,” I say, holding up the relic. “I think Frank was turned into this.”

  Trip looks at me dubiously.

  “Seriously,” I say, explaining what I saw during my transition here. “I think the overseers made him into this relic so they could attack and remove worlds from the path of light. Think about it. That’s something the travelers could do, and a power the overseers would need to rule over the universes.”

  With a speed I’ve not seen before in the old man, he snags the relic from my hand and stares at it, his expression intense.

  “So, with that, it seems it would make it easier to reattach the traveler world and maybe even locate where the creators went. If they are locked away, then you, with that relic, could open their prisons,” I say.