A Shrouded World | Book 8 | Asgard

by Tufo, Mark

  If Church had eyebrows, they would have furrowed. He still came with me as we headed over. I hoped the ruse would work and that the trundles didn’t cremate their dead. As Church worked on a section, clearing out the detritus, I began to see a glow, like a flashlight held against the palm of a hand. I was worried that it might be some spark of life within the beast, and that even after all we’d done to it, it still wasn’t dead. Or maybe, since it was a creation of the creators, it had the ability to regenerate and was even now getting ready to smash us into oblivion. Church stopped to point out what I was already looking at.

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t burn to the touch,” I told him as I foolishly decided to take another peek at the bundle of trundles trundling towards us. “Church, you’d better dig faster!” The hole was wide enough I could get next to him and help pull away the meat, yeah, I’m sure that wasn’t going to look too obvious to an observer, just random piles of meat, organs and intestines laying in steaming piles next to a hole in the body. The blood that surrounded us was now splashing upwards because of the movement of the ground. Part of me wondered if it would be easier to hide under what we’d pulled out, as opposed to crawling in. We had no idea what they did with the bodies of their fallen. We could end up in a hundred-foot deep grave. Church had carved out something the size of a walk-in closet; it would be tight, but I figured we could fit.

  “Help me get Bob.”

  The ground was bouncing now and us along with it. We could see at least six of the gigantic guardians racing to see what had happened to their fallen comrade, and my guess was to dole out some payback to the ones that had done it. This appeared to be an all hands on deck scenario; had to figure something like this may never have happened before, or if it had, it was a super rare event—something like me being right in an argument with the missus—on that scale of rarity. They were reacting to the threat level they had to feel present; if they’d known just how lucky we had been in the fight, they wouldn’t have bothered racing to the scene. This was more of an accidental overdose on our trundle’s part than a murder, as far as I was concerned.

  Bob, instead of rebounding from eating, looked worse. His ordinarily smooth skin was now pockmarked, and none of his color had been restored. Church and I grabbed a side and were doing our best to pull or hoist him along.

  “Milk,” he sighed.

  “Fuck no, Bob. I’m not leaving you here while we hide! What the hell kind of friend is that?”

  “Milk.”

  “The best kind? What? What are you talking about?”

  “Bob.”

  “Oh, so you’re going to lay there in the hopes that they think you were solely responsible for the death of the thing? Well, that’s pretty fucking selfish, Bob. We all helped. Just like you to want to take all the credit. Sorry, buddy, you’re coming with us. No posthumous medals being passed out today.” I grunted as I tried to move him, he might as well have been rooted in place. I knew enough about Bob to know if he didn’t want to go somewhere, there was little anyone could do about it. Where Church and I were continually losing contact with the ground, Bob had become a giant suction cup. I looked over to the trundles; I had no idea how they processed vision, but I figured it wouldn’t be long before us tiny specks begin to fill it.

  “Milk.”

  I didn’t like it one bit that we were back to the one word, and I didn’t think he was doing it to mess with me but rather, he didn’t have the strength to speak in full sentences.

  “Get the corpus? Bob, I’m a Marine. I don’t know what that is.” I could only hope he wasn’t losing his rationality as he approached his end. Because that’s what it was. I’d been on enough battlefields and seen enough of the specter’s handiwork to realize it was close, clicking off the seconds until it collected its due.

  “Milk.”

  “The light? You’re seeing the light? Please, Bob, stay away from it, stay with us!” I was crying, an emotion I thought that this planet might have burned out of me.

  Church smacked my shoulder hard enough to spin me, I was looking directly at the carved-up trundle and the pulsating glow emanating from the giant wound. “Oh, that’s a corpus.” I understood now. Well, I realized what I needed to get; what I was supposed to do with it had yet to be determined. I hoped that whatever the corpus was, that it would magically make Bob better, but he was above that. He would not be thinking about himself, not with extreme danger bearing down on us as fast as trundles can run. Which is surprisingly pretty fast, and they didn’t look like they were going to get tired anytime soon. Unless the corpus was some sort of directed thermonuclear device, I had no idea how we were going to get out of this situation. I went back to work and dug in earnest, ripping chunks of unidentifiable substances out of my way. I was coated in all manner of organic goop. The smell was rancid, and I barely noticed it.

  The corpus was dead center in the belly of the beast. I was halfway there; it was unlikely I’d make it in time. Digging in the trundle’s body was like trying to dig a tunnel in mud. No matter how much of the stuff I pulled away, the walls and ceiling kept collapsing in on me. I was more like a tick burrowing deep than a spelunker. I was as much in danger of suffocation as I was anything else. I’d not known just how much trouble I was in until I tried to look behind me. I was encased. I had an inkling of what Jonah had gone through, but even he had more room than I did. I had a moment of panic when I realized that I only had a small bubble of air around my head and that was rapidly beginning to stale. If I headed back out to make the hole wider, I’d never make it back in time, but if I kept going, it was likely I would suffocate. Life is usually about choosing between less than great options, but those typically involve visiting the in-laws or painting the house.

  I plowed on. If I was going to die, it was going to be on my terms and not at the end of a tentacle or being scraped off a foot the size of a house. A blinding headache was forming at the base of my skull as my oxygen intake dropped off and was replaced by my lung’s byproducts. Where’s Groot when you need him? I got a Church, which was a pretty good stand-in. His meat cleaver hands came up behind me and swept to the side. I was greeted with sunlight and an oh-so-welcome, relatively cool breeze of fresh air. Could have walked back with my arms out and my fingertips trailing on the trundle walls, if I so desired, his path so wide. The corpus was near; I had to squint to keep from being blinded by its brightness. I was close and so were the trundles. The carcass I was immersed in was shaking wildly—like the worst carnival funhouse ever.

  “Few more feet, Church!” I had to yell to be heard over the stampede. There was a loud trumpeting noise; Gabriel had come to tear down the walls or the trundles, to avenge the death of one of their own. Church and I were side by side, never stopping in our quest to get at the corpus. We hoped it would save us, but it could just as easily be our demise. I was now working with my eyes closed, the light far too intense to stare at. I could feel my corneas searing through my lids. Inches, inches away when the beast we were in was flung violently to the side. My body was pushed deep into the folds of flesh. Church flew into me, sending me even deeper. I was completely engulfed; I struggled to get air. A tentacle whipped through a massive portion of the trundle; it had given me the air I desired but also a view of the new monster. My entire field of vision was taken up by its immensity. I was like a cockroach when the homeowner turned on the kitchen lights. Not those crazy hissing Madagascar ones that hold their ground, but the more normal kind that seek darkness to get away from the gigantic creature of light.

  I can’t say I redoubled my efforts, that would mean I’d been half-assing to begin with, but I was burrowing like a maddened botfly, with my teeth, my hands—anything to get me further into the relative hidden safety. Another tentacle whip—this time the trundle we were in was halved. The beast above…so immense I had to figure the one we killed was a juvenile, and a young one, by the size disparity. I was as exposed as one can be, like that bug, my back pressed up against the cupboard and staring down
the muzzle of a loaded can of Raid. I could only watch as the tentacle swept down toward me. Church came out of seemingly nowhere to move in front of me; he took the brunt of the swipe. His body folded around the appendage before he was flung high up into the air and snatched by another tentacle. I couldn’t tell if he’d survived the first hit. If I lived for another minute or two, I would grieve. Right now, I went back in to get what all the fuss seemed to be about.

  I scraped through the final layer, my fingertips barely touching the corpus. I felt a current blaze along the surface of my skin. If my hair hadn’t been so matted down by gore, it would have stood on end. I pushed further, wrapping my entire hand around it. It was like grabbing a nitrogen frozen piece of lava. I could feel the bones in my hand melting at the same time they were hardening. I had it, but it was all I could do to hold on to it. My teeth were gritted in pain as I waited for the thing to tell me what to do with it. The pain was so intense, I wasn’t even aware when a tentacle wrapped around my midsection; it was the rush of air as I was yanked high up that got my attention. The trundle pulled me in close to its face, maybe to watch me die as it tightened its grip. Air was forced from my lungs as first one rib, then another cracked. This was it; I would die with the unused key in my hand. I tried to scream out as a third rib burst—there was no air to make it happen. I threw my head back in time to see a gash of light form above me; I hoped that this was my ticket to the promised land, the chariot swinging low, come to take me away from this nightmare. It wasn’t.

  “Jack?” I hissed, just like a snake, if they had the ability of speech. He outstretched his hand; I knew what to do. I was the sacrificial runner taking a hit as I lateraled the ball to the person who was going to take it to the end zone. And like the “Creation of Adam,” I reached out to hand it off, right before I…

  11

  Jack Walker — Chapter Five

  Circling around toward the hovercraft, there isn’t any movement. The hope of coming to the right decision doesn’t materialize by the time I arrive. I had hoped for some bright revelation to magically appear, some mystical sign pointing me in the right direction. None of that happened.

  I still feel the pull toward where the lights high overhead are arriving and departing from, but the pyramids are also calling. I can’t be sure that the structures in the distance are even the ones that Mike might be in. Perhaps I’ll just flip a coin once I take a look at these machines and determine if I’m able to fly them.

  Clambering inside the larger of the two, the one with the attached railgun, a short hallway extends inside from the outer door and opens into a large chamber. Windows look out in three directions, the rear of the vessel a blindspot. An oddly shaped chair, tall and thin and formed to fit the strangely jointed whistler physique, sits in the middle of the room. On each arm is a partial orb, like some kind of large trackball mouse with buttons lining the front half. It’s not overly difficult to grasp how this ship operates, providing there’s a logic to what I’m observing.

  The seat is more comfortable than what it initially looked, the covering adapting like it is some kind of memory foam. The armrests are a little tall, but I’m able to adjust them by pushing down. I kind of feel like I’m in charge of the Enterprise and the urge to say “Make it so” is strong. Maybe if there was anyone else with me, I might have done so.

  Once seated, a panel in the floor by my feet opens up and two foot pedals rise from it. I wonder if this thing is driven like a car. Between the two pedals is a button, like an old-fashioned bright light adjustment in a vehicle. I press down on the button and a white crosshair is superimposed on one of the large panes in front. Pressing on one pedal moves the cursor up and down, while the other moves it side to side. I figure this must be the aiming system for the railgun. I press the button again and the crosshair vanishes. I hope that means the railgun is disarmed as well. I’d hate to inadvertently shoot a hole in the vessel as I start attempting to figure out the controls.

  The trackball-like devices don’t actually roll, so I’m assuming you just move your hands over the surface—as if they’re crystal balls, and I’m trying to read the future. The buttons I’ll figure out, providing I don’t immediately end up a flaming wreck. One such button is set apart from the others, and I figure that’s a good one to start my experimentations with. Pressing it with a wince, the outer door snaps shut and a low-pitched whine starts. The entire hovercraft begins a low-grade vibration which can be felt mostly through my boots. Once the whine settles to a constant, the craft jostles as it rises a few feet off the ground.

  With careful movements, I’m able to determine that the left orb raises and lowers the ship by moving my hand back and forward. There is a limit to how low I can descend, and I wonder if there’s also a limit on height. I may find out at a later point, but there’s no use in determining the limits now. Moving my hand left and right rotates the vessel left and right. The right orb increases and reduces speed and slips the craft left and right.

  Moving away from the campsite and other hovercraft, I practice maneuvering. It takes some getting used to, but all in all, it’s not really that much different from flying a helicopter. I keep trying to use the pedals in conjunction with the orbs on the armrests. I become a little more accustomed to it, but I can see why the strange joints of the whistlers are an advantage.

  The buttons are interesting. One locks the craft in a hover, but I’m still able to rotate it left and right. Another auto-lands the vessel. There’s an additional one that’s set off to the side like the starter button but doesn’t seem to do anything when pressed. That is, until I engage the weapon system, and then its purpose becomes readily apparent. The ship shudders and the ground in front of me erupts in a towering column of dirt and grasses as a projectile slams into the surface at a tremendously high rate of speed. The white cursor momentarily changes to red and back to white; I’m assuming meaning that the weapon is reloaded and ready to fire.

  Experimenting with it, I’m able to fire two shots almost back to back, and then I have to wait about thirty seconds before I’m able to fire again. As far as I can tell, there’s no way to determine how many rounds I have remaining. Hopefully I won’t have to engage in any lengthy fight to where ammo will become a factor. If that happens, I’ve probably lost anyway, considering that I’m on a whistler home world. After a little longer spent getting used to the vessel, I land a short distance from the whistler camp to contemplate my next move.

  Sitting in the hovercraft, I ponder the situation. Our little group is separated, some of us possibly universes away. Mike is god knows where. Trip is off on some barren world, grieving. At least I assume that’s what he is doing. Poor BT is just along for whatever ride the hippie is on. And here I am. I may have more information about what’s going on, but it feels like everything is unraveling. If not that, then certainly being stretched very thin.

  That relic is important but is in the possession of a half-crazed, stoned hippie. I probably should have snagged the thing when I had half a chance. If Trip is going to remain on that other planet, moping, and we need that thing for whatever reason, then we’ll be even more screwed than we already are. I don’t know what I can do solo. I may be able to find Mike and even free him, but what then? We’re somehow supposed to shut down an entire civilization that encompasses worlds and then deal with beings that are nearly god-like. At least we figured out a way to kill them, but that method is iffy at best.

  One thing at a time, Jack.

  My priority should be to figure out where Mike is so we can rejoin forces. When we’ve managed to do that in the past, things have come together. Perhaps not in the way we planned, but they worked out. Figuring out where he is will be the tricky part. Without a frame of reference, I have no idea which pyramid he’s being kept in. So, I need to get back to the only reference point that I truly know, and that is the towering black mountain. If I can find that, then I should be able to backtrack and locate the pyramid where we were both captured.

&nb
sp; Now, that is easier said than done. The flat grassy terrain is empty of any landmarks, and the massive tower could lie in any direction. At least I have transportation and won’t have to walk. Seeing there’s a pull from where the lights are heading, I choose to head off in that direction. If I don’t find anything within a day or so, I’ll set up a grid search pattern to see if I can locate the distinct landmark.

  Zipping across the grassy plain reminds me of the Luke Skywalker scene of him zooming across Tatooine on his speeder. Of course, I’m not in a convertible, nor am I being chased by an empire. Well, not really, although it kind of feels like it. Under a bleached sky with its twin suns, I race above the tall motionless grass.

  The hovercraft can move relatively quickly but isn’t a race car, by any means. Following the streaks of light moving overhead, which I’m pretty sure are aircraft or spaceships of some kind, I leave the sight of the pyramids behind. I can only hope that I’m taking the right direction and not moving farther away from Mike. After all, I have a weapon to deliver.

  Soon, the flat terrain changes, becoming a series of rolling hills. I try to keep the hovercraft low in the valleys, maneuvering past the taller hills in order to keep a lower profile. If I see any other whistler craft, they may or may not think I’m just another one of them crossing the plain, but I don’t want to advertise my presence by silhouetting myself atop the hills.

  The vehicle is actually rather nice to drive, and I wouldn’t mind taking this one home with me. I wonder where they manufacture these things or where they obtained the technology. Perhaps that’s part of what the massive pyramids are about; maybe the technology was obtained from one of the alien races they’re capturing. The whistlers I’ve run across don’t seem capable of designing, or really building, anything like this. They seem like true scavengers, using others’ inventions for their own purpose and discarding them when they break down.