A Shrouded World (Book 2): Atlantis (6 page)

I hop down—the term “hop” being relative. If I was to truly do such a thing, my knees would leave my body at close to the speed of light. I can see them now, shooting away from my body, leaving ragged holes in my fatigues. They’d bounce across the sandy soil, coming to rest some distance away. Then, rise and race across the uneven ground in an attempt to get farther away. No, by hopping down, I mean that I slowly lowered myself down the ladder, one careful step at a time.

Even with my body’s physical changes, the climb through the hole last night wasn’t a pleasant one. Sure, I made the jump, to my surprise, but the landing was anything but pleasant. My body rebelled, mostly my knees and ankles, and I put a note in the suggestion box not to do that again.

Near the rolling side doors, Trip is shifting his weight from side to side. It almost looks like a trance-induced dance at high speed. His eagerness to explore the contents is more than apparent. I’m surprised he isn’t actually dancing and clapping his hands, although that would entail dropping his joint.

“What’s so special about this one?”

He shrugs before turning his attention to the doors.

“Okay, I promised you one. Are you sure this is the one you want? Because we aren’t stopping again.”

He nods. I feel like a parent with a kid in the candy aisle, telling them that they can choose one, but only one.

“We aren’t staying long, so make this quick,” I say, grabbing hold of one of the doors.

I’m surprised the rail car isn’t locked, which tells me that there may not be much in it. Opening up my senses, I don’t get any indication that there are night runners inside, but that’s never a sure thing. I feel the heat of the door through my gloves as I take hold and pull. The door opens slightly, then sticks. Moving my position, I wedge my hand inside and push. The door rolls backward in a groaning, metal-shrieking protest. I stop as soon as there is enough room to get inside for fear of making more noise, which might attract unwanted guests. Although I would expect the interior to be like an oven, cooler air seeps out of the opening. It feels good against the heat that I’ve soaked up, so I stand for a moment, relishing the fresh feeling it brings. But, like many things, that passes.

There isn’t an instant scream, which would indicate night runners on board. That doesn’t mean that it isn’t occupied—just not by them. I wait for a moment, sensing Trip’s eager anticipation behind. The air currents don’t carry the scent of any threats, and I don’t hear shuffling or anything else that might indicate someone else is aboard. The interior only smells dry and musty.

“Trip, like I said, we’re not staying long, but this one seems okay. I’ll be on top keeping watch,” I say, removing my flashlight and handing it to him.

Trip takes it and jumps on board, vanishing quickly into the dark, almost as if he hadn’t just been standing next to me. I hear him giggle a couple of times among the sound of items being shifted. I climb to the top of the boxcar and sit on the edge above the door. The heat from the steel is uncomfortable at first, but it eventually fades to become bearable. Looking around, there isn’t anything except scrub brush and a few stunted trees. The city still stands tall in the distance, sunlight reflecting off glass panels. The heat, combined with my fatigue and stress, makes me want to take a nap. I know I can’t, but damn, I sure would like to lay my head down and drift off.

I hear a commotion below me. Looking between my dangling legs, I see a carton edge out of the doorway, slowly being pushed outside. The balance shifts and the box falls to the ground. Trip’s hands barely show before being whisked back inside. More shuffling and another box appears, landing on top of the previous one before falling to the side.

What in the fuck is he up to?
I think, watching more boxes appear.

Before long, Trip jumps down and begins opening the boxes.

“Did you find what you wanted? Anything interesting?” I call from above.

“Come look, Yack.”

With a last look around, I climb down.

Damn if he hasn’t found more Phritos
, I think, looking at the contents he’s scattered and is currently eating.

Loose flakes dribble from his mouth and chin as he stuffs the contents of bag after bag in his face.

I’m guessing that he has the munchies
.

I open some of the unopened crates. Insides some are packs of ham jerky—ewww, but food is food. Others contain cherry juice. Now, that’s a good thing, but liable to make you sprint for the woods if you have too much. I pocket a few of the packages and stow more in my pack. Trip begins hoisting a box of Phritos onto his shoulder.

“Uh-uh,” I say. “After we check out the engines, we’ll pass by here on our way back to Mike; you can pick up more then.”

With Trip eating loudly by my side, we leave behind the opened boxes scattered on the ground next to the boxcar. Trip pours through the Phritos, leaving empty wrapper after empty wrapper on the ground. Now, I’m not much for littering, and prefer to bury any waste, but fuck it. I know we’re leaving a trail, but at the rate he’s going through what he brought, I’d be spending the rest of the day digging holes. I just don’t want a repeat of that…episode…on the highway. If that happens again, I’ll just shoot him and tell Mike he got lost. Of course, that would mean digging a much larger hole, but I’m not sure I can tolerate having to go through something like that again.

Heat emanates from the sides of the steel cars as Trip and I resume our journey. The crunch of gravel under our feet is the only sound accompanying us. That plus walking beside a rail line in the middle of nowhere lends a feeling of loneliness; much like a train whistle in the middle of the night or a distant coyote howl.

At first, we don’t seem to be getting any closer to the engines, but then, all of a sudden, we’re at the foot of the first steel behemoth. It stands tall and silent, a lonely sentinel on the prairie, not knowing if it would ever be noticed again. The four engines, besides maintaining their lonely vigil, also look ready to pounce. Looking at each one, I sense the power held silently within, ready to come to life and rumble down the tracks. I look on, almost in awe.

The heat and stress must be getting to me
, I think, grabbing a handrail on the lead engine.
Nothing to it but to get to it
.

The sun is slowly wending its way west, or what I think of as west. I still carry the compass I found with the strange markings at its cardinal points. I leap onto the stairs and stride along an outer walkway that extends the length of the locomotive. The door to the cab is unlocked, and I step inside. Expecting a cooler atmosphere, like the one that poured out of the boxcar, I am disappointed to find that it’s just as warm as outside, if not stuffier. The odor of grease and a myriad of other scents that one associates with machinery permeate the interior, all blending into one smell.

“Never thought I’d see another one of those,” Trip says, standing in the doorway.

“Another what?” I ask, wary of asking Trip anything.

“An auto itinerary and decoupler,” he replies, then takes on a faraway look while staring at the ceiling. “Shanghai…yeah, that’s where it was. I was Shanghaied. Or, maybe it was on the Siberian rail.”

I have no idea what the hell he is talking about, as if that’s something new. It seems he’s been everywhere and done everything, or maybe he’s just read a lot and superimposed himself into the stories. I’d think the odds of that were better if I hadn’t watched him do things that would validate his stories—or rather, his nonsensical statements.

He enters and begins pointing at objects and naming them, not at all minding that the placards on some of them read something completely different. I don’t pay much attention to him, even though I’ve told myself that I need to do that very thing. But, well, it’s easier said than done. I rummage through several lockers until I find something that looks like a manual. Flipping randomly through the pages, I am fairly certain that’s exactly what I’ve found, as it looks very much like the aircraft manuals I had to memorize in the past. Satisfied, I place the manual on a small counter by the engineer’s station.

Trip is still looking at the dials and levers. He reaches over and turns a knob. The instruments jump, indicating that there’s power. One dial swings over to the right, reading barely in the limits of a green arc.

I guess that’s the electrical readout. Fortunate
.

The journey to the front of the train took longer than I anticipated. I would like to sit down and begin studying the manual, but we’ve been gone for a while. Given Mike’s condition, I don’t want to leave him alone any longer than necessary. All it would take is for one zombie to figure out how to climb a ladder and that would be it for Mike. It would truly suck to return only to find him just another zombie in the horde. Yeah, I don’t even want to think about that one. We’ve found what we were looking for, there’s a manual, and we’ll be able to use the train. It’s time to return to Mike and bring him a few supplies before we get this train rolling—so to speak.

T
he timing
of our arrival back to Mike was, well, rather awkward to say the least. After leaving Mike with some ham jerky and cherry juice, Trip and I make our way back up the long length of rail cars, heading across the top of the train until I’m reasonably sure that the zombies have given up any pursuit. I’m wary of the smart ones we keep coming across. They have a rudimentary sense of tactics—maybe more than rudimentary, as I’ve watched them attempt flanking maneuvers. I really wonder about those ones, as they don’t fit the mold. Sure, there are some zombies displaying above average intelligence for a zombie, but that isn’t really saying much. These…well, these are just different, and light-years beyond zombies. They are on par with night runners, if not actually smarter in some areas. Intelligence and firepower are two things that have kept us alive so far in both worlds. If we lose that advantage, then it is merely a matter of numbers, and we’re on the wrong end there.

The whistlers are also a different story. They appear to have intelligence, speed, firepower of sorts, and the ability to interact more deeply with their surroundings. I mean, motorcycles—really?! We are far behind in our understanding of them, something we need to rectify soon if we are going to be able to deal with them. I highly doubt that the ones we dealt with at the overpass are the only ones about. Unfortunately, our path is directing us toward the city—which puts all of us on a converging path.

As Trip and I take our afternoon stroll alongside the train, with part of my attention directed on our surroundings, my thoughts cycle back to the three of us being brought into this world. I can’t imagine what we are supposed to accomplish or help with. It just doesn’t make sense. I can see bringing in such a small number if we’re supposed to bypass all of the shit we’ve run into—a stealth mission and sneak into somewhere. Perhaps that’s just my mentality. But so far, all we’ve managed to do is walk down the middle of highways and run into every imaginable creature…the exact opposite of what sneaking in is supposed to accomplish. Although, I can’t even begin to imagine sneaking through what this world has to offer. Zombies scattered in small groups and hordes like the one encircling Mike, night runners after dark, smart zombies managing small forces, and now whistlers. At least they haven’t all teamed together. In fact, they seem to fight each other as much as they chase us.

No, assuming this all wasn’t just some kind of accident, bringing in the three of us just doesn’t hold water. There has to be something else. However much I try to look at it from different perspectives, I keep circling back around and I end up at the same place: none of this makes any sense.

Without coming any closer to a revelation, Trip and I arrive at the engines. I shake my head to clear the endless circle of thoughts. Grabbing a handrail, I climb aboard. It took us longer to get back. Trip kept wandering off, wanting to look in boxcars. Apparently, our terms of agreement had been met with our return to Mike. There were times I wanted to put a leash on him.

Well, we made it and we’re here, so at least there’s that
, I think, stepping into the cab.

I take a seat and begin poring over the manual, skipping all of the schematic breakdowns and technical details of the systems. I don’t need to know the fuel or hydraulic system routing or the parameters at this time; I just need to know how to start it and get it motoring along the tracks without turning us into a fireball. All the while, I keep an eye on Trip, watching him from the corner of my eye. He keeps himself busy looking over the controls, either lost in thought or trying to fathom their functions. It appears that he knows what they are and that he’s just trying to put the pieces together or translate the various symbols. I would skip the tedious manual and ask him, but I have the feeling that would only lead to frustration. I leave him to his, well, whatever he’s doing. At least he isn’t running off and forcing me to track him down. The sun is settling into latish afternoon and I don’t have time to babysit. There’s a horde of zombies encircling part of the train, making their way along it, and I get the feeling that there are whistlers somewhere in the vicinity. With night approaching and the city in the near distance, the odds are that night runners will put in an appearance. I pause and reach out with my mind, sensing packs within the metropolis.

If there are whistlers in the city, I bet it gets interesting at night
.

I abruptly close down, sensing that a few of the resting packs have taken interest. I wish that I could open up one-way, but as much as I try, I haven’t found a method to do that.

As I close back down, I glimpse Trip make a sharp motion toward the power switch. The dials, as before, come alive. Anxiety fills me instantly, as it does anytime I see Trip do something unexpected. He then glances upward and, before I can utter a word, pulls on a cord.

The sound of the immense bank of air horns overhead blast out across the countryside. Inside the cab, the thick steel plating mutes the sound to a degree, but for me, it’s still deafening. Like a foghorn, the noise sweeps across the expanse, leaving an echo in its path.

I’m stunned. I can’t, for the life of me, figure out why he did that. It’s just another, well, “Trip thing,” and infuriating to say the least. Here we are, trying to maintain a low profile, surrounded by enemies, and he does something like this. I swear that I’m going to duct tape him to a chair and move everything out of his reach. As the lonely sound fades into the distance, I am already picturing how to rig up a harness for him.

“You realize that you just rang the dinner bell, right!?” I state. “And take your hand off that.”

He looks from his hand, still holding the suspended cord, to me. Removing his hand, he glances outside at the shadows cast by the afternoon sun.

“Is it dinner time already? I’m famished. Can we go back and get another box of Phritos?”

“No, we can’t. And now, it will be dinner time shortly, although not in the manner you’re thinking of.”

Trip turns his head and tilts it like a dog trying to understand what’s being said.

“Don’t fucking do that again. Good God, man! You’re like a fucking five-year-old. Do you have to fuck with everything you come across? I mean, what in the world made you think that was an okay thing to do? Seriously, why did you do that?” I rant as quietly as possible.

I’m fuming inside. After what he just did, there’s no need for silence anymore, but I keep my voice low anyway. Possibly because if I don’t maintain at least a semblance of control, our threesome may become a twosome.

Fucking blows an air horn in the middle of this shit? And not just any air horn—oh, no. A fucking
train
horn. Really?!

“Wouldn’t you?” Trip replies, in all seriousness.

Well, he does have a point there. The child in each of us would. I’m reminded of the time we turned off our path in the 130 for a little low-level fun over Puget Sound. Yeah, I just might, but not in our current situation.

“No, no I wouldn’t, Trip. In case you’ve forgotten, we have a horde encircling Mike behind us, and who knows what else lies in the city.”

Trip stares hard into my eyes: a deep, penetrating gaze.

“Maybe, Jack, I was ringing the dinner bell to bring guests. And maybe, just maybe, we aren’t the meal.”

The focused and clear look, held for just a moment, vanishes. Trip’s eyes return to their usual, blurred, I’m-living-in-fantasyland look.

I’m taken aback, speechless. That’s the clearest I’ve ever heard Trip speak. And so direct, as opposed to his usual vague off-hand references. I’m so stunned that all other thoughts vanish. What he said implies so many consequences that my mind basically shuts down trying to fathom all of them. Once again, I’m left with the feeling that I should never doubt him, regardless of what he does. I can’t help it sometimes, though. I mean, who would even consider blowing an air horn with so many enemies about? It takes a Trip to realize that they are also enemies of each other. Damn…my mind shuts down again and I return to the task of getting this train moving.

“Sorry, man,” I comment.

“For what, Yack?” Trip replies.

“Never mind,” I say, returning to the manual.