A Shrouded World (Book 2): Atlantis (13 page)

“How about a vampire?”

“Stop yanking my chain, Mike.”

“Really? Vampire is where you draw the line? We’re dealing with night runners, zombies, and whistlers, but vampires are off the table?”

“I’m sorry, man. I guess that maybe I don’t want to believe in them. There’s already so much going on. Tell me.”

“I was bitten by one.”

“Wait! What the hell? You’re a vampire?” I subconsciously move away.

“Half-vamp, I guess. Let me get the common myths out of the way. I can obviously deal with sunlight, I can see myself in a mirror, and I’m perfectly fine with garlic.”

“You suffering from heat stroke?” I try to joke with him. I guess it didn’t go over very well, as he pulls out his knife and hands me the hilt.

“Cut my arm. Not down to the bone, just enough to draw blood.”

“Mike, I’m not going to do that.”

“Either you do or I do, and I’d rather it was you so you don’t think I pulled a fast one.”

“Fine. I’ll do it, but it proves nothing.”

I pull the blade along his skin, gently at first, and then with a little more force until I see the skin part and blood starts bubbling up. For a minute or so nothing happens, except blood sluicing from his wound. The blood running from the cut slows, becomes a dribble, and then quickly stops. Mike wipes the blood away with his sleeve. There is only a thin red line where I cut him. As I continue to watch, the line fades until the slice is fully healed.

“What the fuck, Mike?” I look at the blade, wondering if I’m being played somehow—but to what end?

“It’s not all it’s cracked up to be. I’m stronger than I was. I can control a zombie or two from close range, and the kicker is, I get to watch my family and friends die of old age as I wander the earth, much like Longinus.”

“Fuck, Mike, I thought I had it bad.”

“I’d say we both have a case of shitty sickness symptoms.”

We may have stayed in place like that forever, both staring at each other, if it weren’t for Trip waking and rejoining the living, coming back from whatever world he dreamed up. He comes down in between us, plunges his hands into his pants, and scratches his balls with a fury. And, like that, the spell is broken.

“I was hungry,” he says.

“Jack, have you noticed anything odd about some of the zombies that we’ve come into contact with? I mean, like they were enhanced somehow?”

“I’m not from your world, so I’m perhaps not the right person to ask. To me, it seems like some of them have been a little too intelligent for zombies—at least the way I think of them.”

“Well, where I come from, there are smarter ones, but not to the extent that we’ve seen here. The ability to react in a rational way, to preserve their own life—that’s not like anything I’ve ever seen.”

I let the words settle in my mind, trying to come up with a reason. It could be that the smarter ones were native to this place; folks who lived here and were turned. Maybe their genetics were different enough for them to retain that part of themselves.

“Mike, what do you think would happen if a zombie bit a night runner?” I ask, merely speaking my thoughts out loud.

From the corner of my eye, I see Mike turn his head sharply toward me, staring. A moment passes.

“Fuck you, Jack!” he mutters, and walks back into the engine cab.

I stay there, barely feeling the rays of the sun. On a normal day, not that I remember what those are like, I would be enjoying the warmth of the sun, watching nature with a sense of peace. The day has that lazy feeling to it. However, other than keeping an eye out for movement and tuning one ear to listen for the sound of approaching footfalls, I barely notice my surroundings. I’m lost in my own mind, thoughts running through it like a film on high speed. There’s one image on the screen for a split second before another replaces it. None of them linger long enough to really see, but taken together, they give way to a story. One with ugly consequences, no matter which way it’s played.

After reflecting for a little while longer, I follow Mike into the cab.

“Don’t be following me in here after putting an image like that in my head. I have a hard enough time with shit the way it is without you making the way for zombie-night runner hybrids. That’s just fucked up.”

“Well, it might just explain some of what we’re seeing. They can move faster than your zombies, perhaps even the speeders. They seem to have the ability to rationalize things and have a sense of self-preservation. I mean, there are other things that could account for that. The native population here could have been genetically different enough that, upon being turned, they retained some of their abilities. If we take that road to its conclusion, then perhaps there are even zombie whistlers running about. Although I doubt their genetics would make that possible. Shit, for all I know, the whistlers could be the result of zombies biting night runners. That doesn’t really make sense, but it just shows how much we really don’t know about this place. I think we need to keep some of that kind of shit in mind, though.”

“I bet you’re the life of the party,” Mike says.

“Well, I don’t get invited to many, that’s for sure. And certainly not twice,” I comment, smiling.

“Shocker that is,” Mike smiles. “Our assumption so far is that the powers that be in this forsaken place had a situation in which the whistlers arrived, and then they called for help through means we don’t understand.”

“Right. And they pull in your zombies and my night runners in the process, hoping that they’ll mutually annihilate each other, or at least bring their numbers down enough to be manageable.”

“Okay, so it’s obvious that they didn’t warn the local populace or take them into hiding. Perhaps they just saved a chosen few.”

“That’s one possibility. Maybe they didn’t have time, and considered the total extinction of their kind versus saving a few and starting over a fair trade-off.”

“Right. Then, they’ll emerge and clean up the remaining mess.”

“Perhaps.”

“So where are these chosen few?” Mike asks.

“That’s a good question. It could be that they didn’t make it through the hell they created. They could have planned it that way, but events overtook them and they, too, fell. We may be dealing with a world bereft of humankind.”

“Which would leave us…”

“Exactly, and without the proverbial paddle.”

“I don’t like that scenario much. That doesn’t bode well for us getting back to our own worlds. And neither of you two look like Eve, if we need to repopulate this place.”

“We have to find some answers and somehow figure out how to reverse the process—and please, give me a heads up if I do start to look like her in your eyes.”

“You got it. If we assume a situation where the natives found themselves being overwhelmed by whistlers, then that would imply that there are more whistlers,” Mike states.

“I would say many more. And, we have to assume this covers more than just a small area. I would say we’re looking at a worldwide event.”

“So, where do we go from here?” Mike asks.

“You and your unanswerable questions. Frankly, I’m kind of at a loss. This city of Atlantis seems to be a convergence point of sorts. It’s where night runners, whistlers, and zombies all seem to be co-located. And the military was attempting to blockade the place from outsiders for whatever reason,” I answer.

“That sounds exactly like a place that we don’t want to be.”

“Perhaps,” I say, staring in the direction of the city.

“Sounds to me like you don’t agree.”

“I think a place like that bears a further look,” I say.

“You’re saying that you want to go back? We barely made it out of there the first time.”

“Given that our path seems to have led us there, and the apparent convergence, I’d like to look around. I’m not sure that any answers can be found directly in the city, but we might find a clue as to our next move. Or, where those who might have hidden are located.”

“Maybe, at the very least, where the facility might be, I guess.”

“Exactly.”

“You know, given everything we’re assuming about our arrival, I’m glad we weren’t beamed into their version of China or something. Can you imagine trying to make sense of this world if everything were written in another language? Kind of like putting together furniture without English instructions?”

“I hadn’t thought of that. And, can you imagine if
we
spoke different languages? I mean, Trip already does, but not understanding each other would make things…interesting.”

“So, we’re heading back?”

“The idea doesn’t give me warm fuzzies, but I don’t think we really have a choice…unless we want to accept the fact that we’re here for the duration and find a place to call home.”

“I don’t fancy that at all—not one fucking bit.”

“Nor I. Given that, I think we need to backtrack this train, so to speak, and carefully explore the city as much as we can.”

“What are we looking for?”

“I have no idea.”

“I think we should go in during daylight hours, given that night runners probably rule the streets after dark.”

“Agreed. And we should split up to cover more ground.”

“You’re kidding, right? Split up? Do you not have horror movies where you come from, Jack?”

“I don’t like the idea, Mike. I’m saying I think it’s paramount that we get back to our own worlds, and if this is even a few hours quicker, then we’re better off for it.”

“Fuck.” Mike sweeps his hand through his hair. “So, who does Trip go with?”

“You!” I say without hesitation.

“Sweet! I usually get picked last in gym class!” Trip says, then pulls a sweatband out of his pocket and places it on his head.

Although I appreciate how he can change events for the better in the long run and how useful his random serendipities can be, the thought of enduring the larger machinations that are “Trip” for another day exhausts me. This will be an excursion into unknown territory, without even understanding what we’re there for. Having Trip yell down a street just to hear his echo isn’t something I want to endure. My heart just can’t take more of it. My thinking is that his vague hints will just as readily lead us where we need to be if he accompanies Mike as they will if he’s with me. Me? I plan on finding a hammock somewhere secluded and lying in the sun all day.

We backtrack our route toward the city, passing the lone branch of tracks we passed the night before. They stretch out across the plain in a nearly straight line, the track becoming smaller as it recedes into the distance and the two rails draw together. It eventually becomes a single line before fading entirely.

I look at the top of the rails on all of the tracks. Each shows silver with use. Unused tracks will show oxidization on the tops. I don’t know if this means anything other than the obvious, but it’s information that I log into the fog that is my memory. On our return journey, I load the empty mags from the cache in my pack. I’ll need to find more eventually, as I barely have enough for a modest engagement. Ammo disappears quickly in a firefight—so I can’t afford to get involved in one. If one ensues, I’ll have to disengage immediately. Besides, I’m one person, and that’s never a good thing in a firefight.

Stopping the train just as the rail yard comes into view, I climb on top of the engine and pull out a pair of binoculars. The upper surface is warm from the sun and the massive diesel engines that are housed within. Plumes of heat rise from the exhaust ports, blurring everything behind the heated air. Those columns waver as light gusts of wind sweep past. The idling engines vibrate the steel under my boots, but not enough so that I have trouble focusing the eyeglasses on the distant rail yard.

The view is much the same as I remember it from the night before: long lines of various types of rail cars sitting silently on a myriad of sidings; linked engines waiting quietly for a call to action that will probably never arrive. The large covered maintenance shed stands silent, overlooking the area where the whistlers, zombies, and night runners had fought each other. The entire area is hushed, as if the events of the prior day and night had sucked the energy from it.

However, there is something missing that I had expected to see, and the lack of it is unsettling. I remove the binoculars, rub my eyes, and look again. Nothing changes, and I feel dread settle deep within.

“Mike, tell me what you see?” I ask, handing him the binoculars.

“Whoa! Fucking A,” Mike states. “There’s not a single body in sight. I mean, there had to be hundreds, if not thousands on the ground. Why aren’t they there?”

“If the whistlers needed food…” I comment, leaving the obvious unsaid.

“Do you realize how many whistlers that amount of bodies would feed? And how many whistlers it would take to clear them all out?”

“A lot,” I respond. “That also means that they won, or came back after the sun rose. I don’t see a single zombie in sight, and I assume the night runners retreated back to the city. With all of the tumult from the fight, it may be difficult to find out where the whistlers went. There are a couple of motorcycles lying on their sides, but that’s about it.”

“I think you’re right, though; they made a stand here for a reason. That really doesn’t make sense, though, because they came from the same direction we did. Were they chasing the zombie horde for food and merely happened to converge here? If so, why didn’t they retreat when the night runners appeared? Maybe they couldn’t disengage safely, or maybe I’m making too much of it and it was just happenstance,” Mike muses, echoing thoughts similar to my own.

“I have no idea. It’s like everything else in this place—it doesn’t make sense. But, it’s something we’ll have to keep in mind while exploring the city.”

The area around the battleground is a tumultuous mess. Gravel is strewn about, heaped into piles in places. Strips of clothing lie against railings or embedded within the rocks, their ends fluttering slightly in the light breeze. Dark stains cover the ground where blood was spilt, creating a definite outline of the large-scale fight. I’m still amazed that there isn’t a single body, not so much as a fingernail in sight. If it weren’t for the pieces of clothing and stains covering the entire area, it would be difficult to imagine that anything of that magnitude ever took place.