A Shrouded World (Book 2): Atlantis (3 page)

“Someone’s outside,” Jack filled in.

I still hadn’t found my voice and I didn’t want to say anything anyway, because I was afraid it might have a quiver to its timbre. It didn’t take long to figure out who was out there—metal box or no, it could not even begin to shield us from the stench of death.

“Zombies,” I hissed.

“How is that even possible?” Jack scooted closer to us.

“I don’t think we were followed, if that’s what you’re asking. Probably just a hunting horde. They saw the train and were drawn to it. Maybe a primal or vestigial instinct.”

“Fantastic,” Jack said.

“That sarcasm?”

“We would have been better parking the bikes somewhere out there,” he said.

“And what if we were in their path as we walked here?”

“Yeah, there’s that, I guess. Any change in your legs?”

I shook my head. I immediately realized how useless that gesture was in the dark, but Jack answered with a “Shit.” I was going to ask him how he’d seen me when we heard the banging of hands on one of the train cars down the line.

“It looks like they’re ringing doorbells to see if anyone’s home,” Jack said.

“Trip, when they get here, we are most certainly not home—and no, you don’t need to tell them that. Got it?” I asked.

“What I wouldn’t do for some baklava!” was his response.

Strange request, sure—but hell, I could go for some right now, too.

We sat there in the dark for a while, hoping the zombies would just walk on by to find another food source. I wasn’t optimistic. There wasn’t a bunch of noise out there, but it didn’t go away either. Early morning light was beginning to seep in around the door. Trip had long ago fallen back to sleep. His head rested on my shoulder, a large puddle of drool soaking through my shirt.

“Come on, man.” I shook him awake.

“Did you know werewolves have names?”

How do you respond to that? Do you even bother? I let the question drift off.

“I’m going to go up and see how many there are.”

Jack rose and rolled my bike over to the center of the car, then stood atop it, his fingers just brushing the bottom of the hatch.

“Trip, can you make sure the bike doesn’t fall over when I jump?”

“Sure.” Trip didn’t move.

“He means by holding it in place, not just watching,” I clarified.

“Well, why didn’t he just say that?”

“It was implied, man.”

“Implications are like armpits: everyone has two.” He stood.

“I don’t think that’s how the saying goes, but whatever, man. Just help him.”

“Was that contrived, too?”

Jack went over to the bike.

“Don’t give me a headache, Trip.”

Jack was shaking his head in a “Can we get on with this?” motion.

“I’ve got something for that,” Trip said, and started back toward me.

“Maybe later.” I waved him off.

The fluidity and grace with which Jack jumped up and through that hatch told me more than he ever had with words. He had a secret he wasn’t telling me. I was expecting him to hit the door and potentially fall back down noisily. Then there was the chance the hatch door would slam loudly against the roof outside, the noise echoing in the car like a speaker box alerting the zombies to some tasty morsels inside a tin can. Then he would wildly grab the lip of the opening, hooking first one shoulder over the opening and then the other as his legs danced about seeking purchase, all the while grunting as he hefted himself up and through the opening.

None of that happened. He looked like he’d been launched straight up from a cannon. In fact, I don’t even remember him having to grip the side, it happened so quickly. That was not something an ordinary man could have pulled off. I wondered if I asked him directly if he’d tell me, but then I figured I’d just let that truth stay hidden. If he’d wanted to tell me, he would have. I had my own secrets that I was in no rush to share.

Trip and I looked up as we heard nearly silent footfalls above us.

“Who’s that?” Trip asked.

I wanted to ask if he was kidding, but he wasn’t. He’d already forgotten why he was standing in the center of the car holding onto the handlebars of the bike. Jack was back within two or three minutes. I think he made a show of coming back in as he dangled from the lip and tentatively reached out with his foot for the motorcycle seat. There were a few grunts for added effect.

“We’re in a bit of trouble,” he said once he was down.

“What’s a bit?” I asked.

“There are a few hundred zombies out there.”

“That’s a bit to you?”

“Well, the good news is that there aren’t too many of them outside of this car.”

“I’m not sure how that equates to good news.”

“It might be a little sporty, but we could escape. If we started the bikes and opened the door, we could beat cheeks out of here. It’s only a small drop.”

I had to whip my forearm over my mouth before I laughed out loud. When I was sure I wouldn’t, I removed my arm and spoke.

“Forget my legs for the time being. What, after yesterday’s ride, makes you think I could jump a motorcycle off a three-foot precipice over a few zombies and not dump it?”

“Sheer luck? Divine intervention? We’re due at least one of those.”

Trip moved quickly over to me and placed both of his hands tightly over my mouth. Before I could protest, a ripping pain shot down through both legs. I don’t think getting skinned alive could have hurt any worse. I think Jack thought Trip was causing the pain—he rushed over and pulled Trip roughly away from me. By then the worst of it was over, though I could still feel a residual throb.

“Are you all right?” Jack asked in alarm.

I was breathing heavily, and although it had only been a few seconds, my entire body had broken out in a soaking sweat. It had the sour stench of old cheese mixed with a healthy dose of funk, like long-forgotten gym socks found at the bottom of a locker, placed among ancient half-eaten bananas. I hadn’t regained my wits enough to respond. The synapses in my brain were popping and groaning from the overload like an engine run too long and hard.

“What did he do?”

I was able to shake my head, but I don’t know if Jack thought I was still in the throes of whatever had been afflicting me or that I was trying to exonerate Trip.

“Not… Trip,” I huffed out.

Jack looked over to Trip, who had by now risen to his feet and was rubbing his ass.

“Jack-booted thug,” he said before he moved farther away.

“What just happened, Mike?”

I just shook my head. After a few more seconds, I was able to answer. The merits of that answer could be debated, but it was how I felt at the moment.

“I don’t know, but I’d rather have hot coals shoved up my ass before whatever that was happens again.”

Jack looked at me funny before he stood and went over to apologize to Trip. Trip asked him “what for?” Jack wisely let it go.

“Okay, maybe not hot coals.” I tried to pull back, unsuccessfully.

We sat there for a while longer. I was racked with a couple more jolts. I’d like to say they dropped off in pain, but that wasn’t the case. They were consistently horrible, maybe even worse each time because I knew what to expect. Jack had tied some knots into a piece of shirt so that I could bite down on it before the pain erupted. The precursor was a little tickle right around where I had been shot, this was followed within a few seconds by the sledge-hammering of my legs. I was rapidly dehydrating and the day was getting warmer, heating up our car like a solar oven. I was in more danger from my own body right now than I was from the zombies.

“We need to get you out of here,” Jack said, looking at me.

“If we’re back to the bike thing, I don’t think anything has changed,” I told him.

“I meant through the hole. You don’t look so good. Trip, help me.”

For once, the perpetual stoner didn’t need an abundance of detail to understand what had to be done. Jack helped Trip up through the hole.

“All right, I’m going to hand him up to you and you pull him out, okay?”

“Like a sack of potatoes,” Trip said.

“Yeah, something like that,” Jack replied.

“Asshole,” was my reaction.

“Are you ready for this?” Jack said as he moved me around to get his arms under my armpits.

“I don’t think you waited the proper amount of time for me to answer!” I told him as he manhandled me over to the bike. “Jack, how are you possibly going to stand on the seat with me in your arms?”

“You let me worry about that.”

“Is that what you’re going to say when my face smashes into the floor?”

“You know, for someone knocking at death’s door, you sure do talk a lot. I’m going to get you on the bike, you just hold on to the handlebars.”

He lifted me up and swung my left leg over, which flopped like a well-cooked turkey leg—barely holding on. I grabbed the handlebars like he’d said. I couldn’t help but think that maybe the episodes were actually burning through the connective tissue in my joints, and that quite possibly my pants were the only thing holding my lower half in place. It was not a comforting thought. I could see out of the corner of my eye, Jack’s arms were pin-wheeling for balance as he stood up behind me on the seat. Trip lowered a piece of rope with a hangman’s noose tied in it. Not sure where he got the rope, the noose part seemed fitting though. Jack gripped it and stilled.

“Thanks,” he told Trip.

It was a foregone conclusion, but Trip asked “What for?”

Jack grabbed me with one arm and stood me up. More like propped me up but you get the idea. My upper body surprisingly retained a fair degree of strength, considering what my lower half was going through. I hooked my arm into Trip’s loop and held on for dear life as Jack pushed and Trip pulled. Don’t get me wrong, I was thankful for Trip’s help—but I was also concerned that he’d forget what he was doing and just let the rope go. So, when the lip of the opening came into reach, I grabbed it like a drowning man thrown a life-preserver ring. Trip, instead of justifying my fears, pulled harder, almost yanking us both off the top of the car. I was thankful the roof was flat, any curve to it and we would have rolled right over into the gathering crowd. Yeah, they’d heard us, or more likely smelled us. Trip’s shirt smelled like it had been dipped in a tincture of patchouli and hash oil. It wasn’t an altogether unpleasant smell, but it sure was strong.

It felt good to be out in the sun and I intended to bask in it for as long as I could, but first things first. I turned my head so I could watch the hatch. Trip stayed close to help Jack as he came through, though it wasn’t necessary. Much like he had last night, Jack came through like he was wearing spring-loaded boots. He caught me looking at him and quickly turned away. Well, that implied something. Guilt, maybe. Or at least the confirmation of a lie. No not that either, a withholding of information. A secret. Can’t really be held to fault for not spilling everything about yourself.

“The sun isn’t doing you any favors, Mike,” Jack said, coming over to check me out. “It’s almost like you’re a vampire.” He laughed; I shivered. “Roll over on your side so I can see your back.”

Shifting like that was surprisingly difficult without the use of my lower body. Trip, still in a surprising moment of deep understanding, came over, grabbed one of my belt loops, and pulled me closer to him, exposing my back to Jack.

“Damn,” was Jack’s only word.

“That your professional opinion?” I asked, trying to cut through the tension.

“Does this hurt?”

“I can feel pressure, that’s about it. What’s going on?”

Trip bent over to look. “Whoa! It looks like someone drew a roadmap of Ho Chi Minh City on you.” Trip was now tracing his finger, along one of the “paths” I guessed. “Over here is where I met that ladyboy...”

“Stop touching me, man,” I told him.

“He got to!” he said, pointing at Jack and looking fairly wounded.

“He was less creepy. I don’t want to know why you were in Vietnam or why in the hell you were with... well, you know.”

“Ming Lee? She made the best stir-fry and was the arm wrestling champion in her district.”

“Fuck. Jack, tell me something that doesn’t involve strong, hairy, possibly feminine chefs.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but I have to side with Trip on this one. It does look like a roadmap. The wound looks like someone dropped a bowling ball on you from three stories up. The area surrounding the impact is bruised and so dark it’s almost black. Around that are broken blood vessels radiating out in all directions. I’ll be honest with you: it doesn’t look all that good.”

“Blood poisoning?” I was referring to the lines snaking out.

“I don’t think so, or you’d be feverish by this point. If it continues to spread…,” he said, shrugging.

“That’s just fucking great.”

“Well, it could be that the paralysis is only temporary, if my zero years of medical school have taught me anything.”

“That’s the best news I’ve heard all day. I still know what you’re thinking, Jack. And, even if I was completely healthy, I still wouldn’t be able to jump that bike out of that car.”

“What would Ponch say?” Trip asked.

“I think I just answered,” I told him.

“Please, you ain’t no Ponch.”

“What are you talking about, Trip?” Jack asked him.

“Frank Poncherello would be able to get that bike out of there.”

“Oh fuck!” I said, and started laughing so hard my back began to protest—which I actually took as a good sign.

“Mike, what the hell is so funny?” Jack asked.

“Well, either you didn’t have CHiPs where you grew up or you just didn’t watch the coolest show ever—at least, it was when you were eight. It was about two motorcycle cops, Jon and Ponch, and I’m sure the real Ponch could have easily gotten his bike out of this situation.”

“I know what CHiPs is.”

“Not funny, then?”

“Not loony bin funny, no. In case you haven’t noticed, we’re still in a bit of trouble here.”

“I guess every team needs a straight man,” I said, hitting Trip’s shoulder.

“Too late,” Trip said, thinking I was referring to him. He was somehow already two puffs into a joint.