A Shrouded World | Book 8 | Asgard

by Tufo, Mark

  The stretching effect seems infinite, the nose impossibly far and the tail end seemingly still anchored back where it all started. This spaghettification doesn’t seem like it’ll end until the ship is just one long strand of metal and glass. I stare down at the controls and wonder ever so briefly what would happen if I fired the railgun. Would the projectile zip past because it’s faster, or would it never arrive overhead with the continued elongation? Or would it rip through and twist the time/space continuum, thus tearing the ship apart into a thousand long streams of matter? I pull my finger back from the firing button. I’m grateful that I’m not turning into pasta the same way the front and back of the ship are.

  With a rush, the front of the ship races back toward me, the back catching up in a near instant. I expect to hear the ping of twisting metal and popping rivets, but there’s no sound at all. It’s like a stretch Armstrong has been pulled to its limit and released, returning to its prior condition in an instant.

  The ship, while always remaining whole, comes back together in a flash of white light. I imagine it to be lightning hitting the ship on the other side of the portal and brace myself to resume fighting for control, but there’s no resounding clang or sharp jolt. Instead, when the light clears and I’m able to see again, the three of us are standing at the edge of a town.

  And it isn’t just any town; it’s an Old West one, complete with boarded walkways in front of wooden buildings and a wide dirt avenue going through the middle. Horses are tied to posts along the main street with a couple of wagons parked along the side. People are moving in both the street and on the boardwalks, the style of dress all straight out of Bonanza.

  Some of the women are obviously wearing petticoats and holding umbrellas, walking with men in string ties. Other men are dressed a little more ruggedly in jeans and button-down shirts, all hosting sidearms strapped to their hips with some carrying lever-action rifles. It is the definitive stereotypical Wild West town.

  I look over at BT. The big man looks like some bandito with crossed bandoliers of ammo and sporting revolvers at his belt—one on the side and another strapped to the front. All he’s really lacking is a chewed cigar and sombrero. Trip, on the other hand, is wearing said sombrero and a poncho. He immediately reaches under his poncho and jams a rolled cigarette in his mouth, striking a match on the heel of his boot. Soon, exhaled clouds of pot drift among us.

  I’m wearing a black duster and jeans complete with hat. I can feel a sidearm attached at the waist and am carrying a lever-action rifle. The whole thing is so cliché that I wonder if it wasn’t plucked from one of our heads. Looking behind, the dirt road we’re coming into town on fades into a dense white fog that reveals nothing beyond. Even though a hot sun is blasting down from a blue sky, the fog doesn’t dissipate, nor is it moving. There aren’t any swirling tendrils or any sense of movement whatsoever. It’s like that part of the scene hasn’t even been drawn or was erased. Turning to look at the far side of the town, it’s the same; the road vanishes into a curtain of white.

  I wonder if we’re still on the ship, and this scene before us is in our mind. That would make sense, considering the movie set aspect of it. I still don’t know if our adventure to the platform in space was real or just a hologram of our own making. As far as that goes, this entire journey could be a figment of our imagination. The problem with being here in this Wild Western town, for real or not, is that we’re not in the same realm where I saw Mike, and the delay in getting there is frustrating.

  “Well, there’s nothing to it but to see what this is all about,” I state, entering the town and starting down the main avenue.

  I hear BT and Trip behind, a clink of spurs is an indication that they’re following. I shake my head, feeling like I should see Clint Eastwood come riding in any minute. If this was taken from anyone’s imagination, I hope to hell it isn’t mine. I hate to think that I picture it so unoriginally.

  As we walk down the street, people crossing the avenue and walking on the boardwalk pause to look at the three of us. Their expressions aren’t merely curious as to what strangers are doing in their town, but appear openly hostile. It’s to the point that I check again to make sure the rifle I’m carrying is indeed loaded and ready. And it’s not just the men, but the women as well. Even the ladies standing on balconies above the bars and hotels aren’t interested in selling their wares to us.

  In front of the Grand Hotel, a footman hoisting luggage from atop a parked stagecoach stops what he’s doing and glares at us as we pass. I swear he’s only a second away from drawing on us, but stays his hand.

  “Anyone else get the feeling we’re not exactly welcome here?” BT asks.

  “They certainly don’t seem to appreciate strangers strolling in unannounced,” I answer.

  “That’s because we’re not part of the cast,” Trip comments.

  “What?! Are you implying that we’re in the middle of a Western movie?” I inquire.

  “Oooh, I like Westerns. Is Yul Brynner in this one?”

  “What?! How would I know?”

  “I hope he is. Maybe you’ll get in a gunfight with him. Although, he was a quick draw,” Trip says, eyeing me up and down and implying that I might be lacking in that ability.

  “I’m not getting into a showdown in the middle of the street.”

  “Mmmhmm...If he does challenge you, make sure you’re in a position so that you’re looking at the sun,” Trip responds, and then rubs his chin. “Wait...that might be the other way around.”

  I ignore Trip and his mutterings to study the surroundings a little more closely. If I understand Trip’s implication, this is a scene that is played out over an eternity, kind of like Westworld. Seeing we’re not cast members, we’re taken as strangers, and thus suspect. The townspeople don’t know how to take us as an addition to the familiar script they’re used to playing out. We’re like a virus to their computer simulation.

  If there’s a purpose for our being here, I’m not sure what it’s supposed to be. Are we meant to go into a certain building? Meet someone? Find the next portal? This place feels like some sort of interim stop and not our destination. It definitely isn’t the same place where I last saw Mike.

  There’s a general background of noise that’s prevalent with any gathering of people. But everyone falls silent as we pass. The ring of our spurs and soft clop of our boots follows us as we progress through town. The hard silent stares speak volumes and carry a loud menace.

  There’s an intersection ahead, another street heading off to the right. A saloon called The Dusty Cowboy sits at one corner with the opposite corner occupied by a sheriff’s office. Two armed men, their hats pulled low over their eyes, are sitting just outside of the sheriff’s, their chairs leaning back against the wall. One raises his hat as we draw closer and sits forward. With a motion, he swats the other with his hat and says something that I’m unable to hear. The other startles forward, nearly falling out of his seat. Upon seeing us, he scrambles to his feet and runs across to the saloon, disappearing beyond two swinging doors.

  Moments later, the saloon doors again open and a man dressed in black exits. He’s followed by the man who ran in and then several others who crowd the boardwalk. Striding forward, the man in black steps into the street and folds back his duster to reveal a silver star.

  “Now hang on there, pardner. I’m the sheriff here, and we don’t take kindly to strangers. You need to just turn around and head right back to where you came from,” the man says with a slight southern drawl.

  I look around at the gathering crowd, all armed, several carrying rifles. Beyond the town, there is still the whiteness that doesn’t speak of any exit.

  “We’d like to do just that, but as you can see, there’s nowhere for us to go beyond the town,” I reply.

  “That ain’t my concern. If you don’t leave now, you’ll be gunned down in the street,” the man says, further pulling back his duster to reveal a silver-plated six shooter at his side.

 
He pulls the gun out and proceeds to do several tricks with it. His movements are fluid, quick, and sure. With a slap of leather, he deposits the gun back into his holster with practiced ease, ready to go for it.

  “That’s who I was talking about, Yack. I bet he’s faster than you,” Trip says, covering his mouth like he’s telling a secret, yet his volume is damn near shouting so the entire town is able to hear.

  I have no doubt that what Trip says is true. The man in the street before us is fast. Aside from the usual holster draws for fun, I’ve never really practiced quick draws. If I draw on the man, I’ll lose and we’ll be slaughtered. If not by him, then by the hostile townspeople. I try stalling in order to think. We’re trapped in this town with few good choices. We can’t just leave town. I don’t get a good feeling about just walking off into a land of white that looks like it was erased from existence, if it had one to begin with. Standing in the street like this, we don’t stand a chance of surviving more than a few seconds if lead starts flying.

  “If you can outdraw me, you’ll have thirty seconds to get cover,” the man in black says.

  “That doesn’t really give us much. We’ll still be gunned down,” I state.

  The man shrugs. “That’s the best I can offer.”

  “Let me have a go at it,” BT whispers.

  I look at the big man. During our adventures, he has lost some of the weight. But he doesn’t portray the speed and agility necessary to beat the man standing in front of us.

  “By all means, have the colored man draw against me. As a matter of fact, I insist on it now,” the sheriff says.

  “Oh boy! This is going to be just like the gunfight at the Good Enough Corral,” Trip says, rubbing his hands together and edging away from BT.

  It must be so scary inside the hippie’s head. Before I’m able to say another word, either in agreement or to protest, BT has cleared the leather of the holster to his front. I didn’t even see his hands move. The gunshots echo off the surrounding buildings and ring down the dusty boulevard. The man in black staggers backward as bullets slam into him, his black shirt puffing from each impact and becoming wet with blood. BT is fan-firing his revolver like some gunslinger. His final round punches into the man’s forehead.

  The silver-plated revolver never cleared the sheriff’s holster. It drops back into place as the man in black falls backward, his arms flung wide to the side. Dust flies outward from his impact. With the reverberating shots fading, a stunned silence settles over the town.

  I stare at BT, who is standing there with a wisp of smoke rising from his barrel. The bandito in the middle of the street is not the same person who was cowering in a fetal position when the whistlers and night runners were attacking. I’m sure the surprise on my face is the same expression that’s registering on his face. He fumbles as he puts the gun back into the holster, the exact opposite of the quick, smooth drawing gunslinger that stood there a moment earlier.

  The townspeople recover quickly. Guns are drawn and rifles cocked.

  “I don’t think we’re getting our thirty seconds!” I yell. “Into the store!”

  The General Merchandise store is directly behind us on the opposite the crossing avenue. Even Trip hastens as we race across the main thoroughfare and plow through the front door. Bullets smack into the doorframe and the front window pane explodes in a shower of broken glass. The clerk behind the counter turns from the tinkling glass falling to the floor to glare at us, reaching below the counter.

  I turn my rifle on him. “No, no, no. Just bring those hands out slowly. There are two ways this ends. One is you walking out unharmed. The other is not that. Your choice.”

  The man slowly raises his arms back up and sidles out from behind the counter. He then runs over to the broken window, and braving the bullets, jumps through it and scampers off out of sight.

  BT has his back to the wall near the front door. Trip is lying under the broken window, kicking shards of glass away as he tokes on a joint. Bullets continue to thud into the outer wall and into the various merchandise on the foremost shelves. I move into an aisle and peek over the shelves.

  Outside, there are heads poking above and around various obstacles, all with barrels pointed in our direction. Puffs of smoke indicate their positions as they fire. More folks are moving into other positions with some gathering on the rooftops. It won’t be much longer before the lead filling the air becomes thicker.

  I take aim and fire at ones I can see, watching with a degree of satisfaction as several pink mists form from their positions. It’s important that we return fire before we become completely pinned down. If that happens, we’re done for. BT is poking his gun around the corner and shooting without doing much aiming. At least he’s returning fire, which will help keep the people’s heads down.

  Trip is doing pretty much the same thing. Without looking and while lying down on the floor, he’s poking his slingshot over the top of the sill and firing. He and his slingshot never cease to amaze me. A ringing rises above the sound of gunfire as the projectile hits a bell hanging on the boardwalk. The slug then ricochets and hits one of the men on the rooftop across the street in the forehead. The man falls forward, toppling over the edge to slam into the roof covering the boardwalk. He then rolls off and plops onto the avenue in a cloud of dust. Every sound of the rubber snapping as a pellet is launched seems to be followed by a scream.

  We’re going to have to do something soon. BT and I can’t pull an endless supply of ammo out of our ass like Trip seems able to do. It won’t be long until we run dry and are left at the mercy of the townspeople. While firing, I scan the building on the opposite side of the street. I don’t know what I’m looking for, but there has to be something we’re working toward. I mean, unless we were just dumped here without a way out. We’re not leaving outside of town, so that leaves someplace here that we’re supposed to get to.

  There’s the saloon with the sheriff’s office across the side street. Next to the sheriff’s office is something called the Transmission Guild: Telegraph Services. Underneath it advertises “Your portal to the world beyond.” Now, if that doesn’t scream a way out, then I’m lost. The only problem is that it’s across a wide avenue with no cover and a hundred guns pointed along its length. I chose the wrong way to run when it became obvious that a fight was upon us. Of course, there’s no way to be sure that the telegraph office will provide a way out, but it’s at least something to try. It’s either that or wait here until we run out of ammo and accept our deaths.

  “Uh, Jack, you might want to see this,” BT yells above the increasing volume of gunfire.

  Oh great! What now?

  Splinters are flying from where incoming rounds are slamming into the window edges and doorframe. Bullets hitting bags of flour to form small clouds of white, and other sundry items are being torn apart. The smell of gunpowder intermixes with the other odors inside the merchandise store. Through a cloud of flying debris, I run over and pile against the wall on the opposite side of the doorway from BT.

  I quickly peek around the corner and back, playing what I saw in my mind once I’m again safely behind the wall. I don’t see much more than what I could from behind the shelf.

  “Okay, what the fuck am I supposed to be seeing?”

  “Look again, this time down the street,” BT yells, cringing as a volley of bullets race through the shredded door, some hitting the jamb.

  Daring another look, I glance in the direction we came from, quickly pulling back into cover. Playing the video in my mind, my heart jumps as I realize what it was I saw. The white that surrounded the town has encroached. Part of the town that we passed upon entering is now just gone, like a giant eraser is slowly eradicating all of reality. Not only that, but it’s still moving. The last part of the video is that of a door to a barber shop and its adjacent striped pole vanishing.

  That, then, puts us on the clock as well. Not only do we have to deal with a town full of pissed off armed townsfolk, but we have to do whatev
er we’re going to quickly. I’m assuming that once that vanishing point reaches us, we’ll be obliterated along with everything else. I see Trip quickly raise his head and look toward the oncoming nothingness. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out several pills, quickly swallowing them.

  “I hope to hell that wasn’t something that’s going to make you pass out!” I shout.

  “What better way to face the abyss,” he returns.

  “You pass out and I leave you here,” I state. “I mean it, Trip. I’ll leave without you.”

  “We’re all just about to leave…permanently.”

  “Not if I can help it,” I say, pointing across to the telegraph office.

  Pulling himself up, he peeks again over the lower edge of the splintered sill.

  “Oooh,” he responds and proceeds to take out another slew of pills.

  He pops those in his mouth. “Well, this should be interesting.”

  “What does that mean? Will you be awake and able to move?”

  “More or less,” he answers.

  I don’t really know how to take that, but as long as he can get to the other side of the street under his own power, then I don’t care much. Well, there is the caveat that we’ll have to cross quickly.

  “BT, there’s usually dynamite in these stores. Go see if you can find a box,” I yell.

  “I’ll get it,” Trip says, jumping to his feet as bullets zip past.

  “No!” I shout, much louder than necessary.

  The thought of Trip with dynamite scares the shit out of me. And especially when he’s just downed some concoction about which he isn’t sure. He’s liable to send us into the afterlife faster than the incoming void. For a brief second, I ponder letting Trip launch a stick of dynamite from his slingshot and just seeing what will happen. But then sanity returns.

  “BT, get going. We don’t have much time.”

  The people outside seem clueless to the encroaching oblivion, as the gunfire hasn’t abated by any degree that I can fathom. I round the corner, hearing angry bees zip past my head. I fire at the dark silhouettes of figures I can see on the rooftops.