Tearing The Shroud (2 page)

Heavy mist diffused the late afternoon light, making it impossible to know what direction he traveled. Coleman knew the outpost was west, but finding it would have to come later. Now, it was time to survive. He tried to calm his pounding heart, but his efforts were futile.
Put it to use.
The land he crossed was rolling open grass, with scattered trees. While it gave him no place to hide, he was able to open some distance on his pursuers. If he could get far enough ahead, perhaps he could lose them. Coleman put on a burst of speed.

A scrub oak rose up in the gloom, then another. Short, dull green shrubs dotted the landscape, and golden sandstone rocks started to show, partially immersed in the soil like sprouted crops ready for harvest. Scattered, monolithic boulders appeared, and faded as he passed. He wove his way through them, looking for a place to hide. Finding none, he kept moving. The shrubs and trees thickened, marking the end of the huge meadow. The dense wall of plants made him think he might have to stand and fight, but as he neared them, he noticed a small game trail off to the right, and angled toward it. Darting between two prickly waist-high bushes, he pounded down the path without breaking stride.

Coleman’s tall muscular frame ached with wounds and fatigue. He wiped at the gore and blood dripping from his short hair onto his face. Fog further limited his view, and running became a thing of chance. The trail opened on a short clearing, with a stream crossing the center. It was just a few strides wide; not enough to lose his tracks in, and too risky to follow. A broken ankle was as deadly as a taloned claw, so he leapt over it and scrambled up the small bank on the opposite side. At the top, he glanced back, only to see a misshapen form emerge like an apparition from the haze.

The tan soil was firm beneath his boots, and he was thankful for the traction it provided as the slope he climbed became a hill. He heard a grunting beast closing in. Still moving uphill, he drew his longknives then spun quickly to attack. He caught the beast off guard, as it thought to bring him to ground. The keen blade sliced into its leathery neck, and the force of Coleman’s spin lopped its head completely off, sending a dark fountain of blood into the air. Coleman never paused, but let his momentum carry him around, and set off from the beasts once again. He could hear them pounding through the brush toward him. The one he killed must have been a scout, or more fleet of foot.

Just as the incline became too steep to maintain decent speed, he came across a trail that angled to the left. He turned onto it, increasing his pace. A short distance ahead, it made a switchback to the right. Once again, the path continued for several hundred strides and cut to the left. Onward he climbed, his lungs, legs, and heart working in harmony. The path held out, and he kept pace against the fiends; while he had not lost them, at least they were no closer. He rose above the dense layer of mist into a clear night, awash with stars and illuminated by Lunos at its fullest.
Thank you, dear Orb, for light to run.
The path branched and without pause, he went right, heading deeper into the forest.

Time lost any meaning. Night slowly gave way to day. Light came and went. Hills led to plateaus, with deep ravines crisscrossing them. Coleman tried to lose himself in the mountains that emerged before him, his feet finding paths along their steep sides. He skirted a large lake, and wondered if the creatures that hounded his steps could swim. In the end, he reconsidered, knowing that though The Run powered his legs, his arms might not keep him afloat. He tucked his head and ran on. The scenery became a blur. Conscious thought slipped from his grasp. His entire universe condensed to gliding another stride over the ground.

Coleman forced every resource into his effort, yet he still heard the beasts close behind. His legs were done in, and he knew his heart was near its bursting point. In the end, his sight failed him, not his legs, when he caught his foot on an unseen root and fell headlong down a steep embankment. As he rolled and bounced off rocks and trees, he knew it might be the last few moments of his life. Either the fall would kill him, or one of the monstrosities that pursued. Then, in one of his unstoppable rotations, he caught a glimpse of a small building dug into the bottom of the hill. ‘
Help me end up near it,’
he mumbled-thought-prayed, ‘
or they’ll tear me apart before I can get inside.’
He came to a stop, yards away from the door, and crawled to it. Coleman pushed against the thick iron with feeble hands and it swung open easily. Once inside, he shut the stout ironbound door, and dropped the bar in place, before collapsing to the floor. Moments later, the creatures arrived and threw themselves against the barricade, mindlessly trying to reach their prey. With each blow the door shivered but held. A mighty karoom reverberated into the room. Coleman murmured his thanks in the direction of the roof. The Divine must have heard him and decided he was worth saving. As he slipped into unconsciousness, the pounding beat into his exhausted mind, a deep sound, like a tree falling at his feet.

Karroom...

Karroom...

Knock, knock.

Knock, knock.

‘Hey Vincent,’ Flea yelled. ‘It’s time to go to dinner.’

Vincent opened the door with a dazed look.

‘Sorry, forgot my key. What’s wrong?’ Flea asked, while punching him on the shoulder lightly. ‘I wake ya up?’

‘Ah...no. I was kinda zoning.’

‘Well, you scared me pretty bad.’

Vincent blinked to clear his head. ‘What?’

Flea gave one of his patented terrified faces, an ability that made him a standout drama major, and said, ‘I thought I’d have to face the cafeteria food alone.’

‘Right, like you don’t have anybody else to sit with.’

‘Nobody like youuu, Vinieee.’

‘All right, don’t get your G-string in a wad.’

‘Ouch, low blow.’ Flea winced.

It was a long-standing joke from their sophomore year as roommates. To meet his major’s requirements, Flea had to take a dance class. This meant stuffing his six-foot, four-inch frame into a G-string-style jock strap and dancer’s tights. With Flea’s rawboned, broncobuster physique and wiry shock of red-blond hair, he’d looked like a psychotic clown. Vincent had nearly wet himself laughing as Flea went from pirouetting to striking bodybuilder poses.

As they stepped out into the fog, Flea shivered, ‘Man, I hate this stuff.’

‘Yeah? Why?’

‘I don’t know. I guess it’s okay for the first day or so, but it’s been seven — ’

‘Six.’

‘Fine,
six
days since we’ve been able to see more than thirty feet,’ Flea went on, slightly irritated. ‘Anyhow, it’s been too stinkin’ long for my taste.’

‘I didn’t know it upset you so much.’

‘It doesn’t really,’ Flea said. ‘It’s just starting to make me feel claustrophobic. Plus, it’s kinda spooky. I keep expecting zombies to come shuffling out of it, trailing their intestines, saying — ’

At that moment, the lighthouse foghorn sounded and they jumped as if stabbed with pins. They laughed in astonishment, though Flea sounded a little unnerved as well. ‘I can’t believe it. Did you hear that? It was timed perfectly.’

‘Yeah it was...wait...you planned that, didn’t you.’

‘Right. I’ve been counting in my head since we left the dorm.’

‘Knowing your flair for the dramatic, you probably paid someone to sound it at...’ Vincent glanced at his watch, ‘...five forty-eight and fifteen seconds.’

They rounded the end of the track and followed the path alongside the tennis courts. Walking in comfortable silence, they turned to climb the steps in front of the gym. Flea cleared his throat. ‘Hey, what are you doing tonight after dinner?’

‘I dunno, the usual exciting stuff, I guess. Go back to the dorm, crack the books, maybe watch some TV. Why?’

‘I wanted to hit a shop in Old Town before it closes, and wondered if you’d give me a ride?’

‘Sure, why not, what are you shopping for?’

‘I need to pick up some stuff for gaming tomorrow night.’

‘Are you playing man-barbies again?’

‘It’s not man-barbies,’ Flea said.

Vincent fought back a smile. ‘Sure it is. You have your little statues and paint them up all — ’

‘Vincent,’ Flea said. ‘It’s not like that at all.’

‘Well then, enlighten me.’ Vincent looked over at Flea as they stopped at the top of the stairs. Flea cleared his throat, and he figured he was in for a speech. He wasn’t disappointed. But this one was out of character; there was no fake British accent, no extemporaneous poses. For once, Flea actually sounded passionate, like an educated college student speaking earnestly about a subject.

‘
Oral
storytelling is as ancient as humankind, and still the most intimate form. Why, you ask?’ Flea raised a finger. ‘Because, as a person tells the story, the listener’s whole person is engaged. It stirs their minds and emotions. The storyteller is sharing himself through telling his tale, and the listeners share themselves through receiving it. And don’t miss a key element.’ His index finger waved again and he started pacing. ‘Each listener actually hears something different, because what is said is interpreted through their own life experiences. Plus, an oral story can be adjusted according to the needs of the people in the audience, their situation or...’ He gestured to the beautiful campus. ‘Even the location where it’s told. They don’t just experience the creative process; they’re empowered by being a part of it. Now, consider this: in a good gaming session, each person acts as both the storyteller
and
the listener. So, what do you have?’ He raised both hands like a conductor finishing a symphony. ‘The process is amplified and the experience heightened as each person adds their narrative to the whole.’

As he finished speaking, his pacing slowed until he came to a stop. Flea stood staring into the fog, while his arms slowly lowered. Vincent paused in stunned silence. He set a hand on Flea’s shoulder, and said, ‘Who are you, and what have you done with Flea?’

Flea came to himself with a slight shake. ‘Come hang with us tomorrow night and see for your own bad self.’

‘After a speech like that, maybe I better,’ Vincent said as he pulled out his ID and followed Flea into the cafeteria.

They worked their way through the line and piled their plates with what the placard claimed was, ‘Chicken Noodle Casserole topped with “delicious” — albeit slightly green — “gravy”’. Flea headed toward the south side of the building.

‘Hey, isn’t this area for the cafeteria workers or something?’

Flea stopped. ‘You’re kidding, right?’

Vincent dipped his chin. ‘No, I...just figured — ’

‘C’mon bud.’ Flea walked away.

Vincent noticed how much quieter it was in the smaller area and commented on it.

Flea said, ‘I figure if you can’t get good food, at least you don’t have to eat with five hundred people.’

‘I never thought about it; I just went where everybody else did.’

Flea shook his head. ‘That’s exactly what I was saying to you yesterday; you’ve got to start making your own decisions. Last year I was okay living with reclusive-roommate guy, but that stops as of tonight.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Now stop doing what people tell you...and follow me.’

Vincent got his usual three glasses of water while Flea filled his with soda then headed toward a table surrounded by five people Vincent didn’t know. His mouth went dry but he took a breath and followed Flea.

Vincent glanced at his tablemates. The guy on his left was out of shape, wore horn-rimmed glasses, and had greasy hair. He looked like a cross between a rocket scientist and a mechanic. Next to him were a guy with bad acne and frizzy blond hair and a girl with glasses who resembled the wicked witch of the west. Beside her was a cute brunette with elfin features and hair a little longer than Vincent’s. Her almond-shaped light brown eyes tilted up at the corners. An intense guy with a five o’clock shadow, thin hair and a mustache completed the group. The whole procedure had taken only a few seconds, and went unnoticed by everyone except mustache guy, who nodded as if to say, ‘Nice move.’

That guy doesn’t miss a thing.

‘Vincent, let me introduce you to the gang.’ Flea gestured like a circus ringleader. ‘The guy on your left is Mike Goodall.’ Mike looked up from his food and smiled. Vincent noticed the unwashed look also applied to his teeth.