A Shrouded World (Book 2): Atlantis (11 page)

“Fuck me. What now?” Mike asks, staring at the approaching horde of night runners.

Many of the whistlers turn and reform their lines to take on the new group of attackers. The transition is smooth, accompanied by their high-pitched whistling. That sound is more felt than heard, as if I am processing it internally. I notice the entire line shifting away, toward their parked motorcycles. It appears they are organizing an escape, but in an orderly fashion. I would like to pull up a chair and watch the show, but we have to organize our own getaway.

“I guess we see if we can get this beast started and head on down the tracks,” I answer.

“I’m for that. Any ideas where?” Mike asks.

“Wherever the tracks lead, I guess. It may end up being a short trip, but at least it’s away from here.”

“We’re in a... What do you call it?

“Siding?”

“Yeah, siding. Won’t we have to switch tracks? And can we do that from here?”

“No way—it’s a manual procedure. We’ll have to go outside to do that,” I answer, interrupting. “But which way to set the tracks will be a guess.”

“Puzzles! Awesome! I’m great at puzzles, especially when they’re timed! All right, maybe we should figure this out. We’re on the right-hand side of the yard. I imagine that for any switch we come to, left would be the right answer.”

“That sounds like my kind of answer.”

“You drive. I’ll be the side seat driver and nag you, just like my wife.”

“You don’t honestly say these things when your wife is around, do you?”

“I’m still alive. I think that answers your question.”

“So, you’re just getting it out of your system while you can, then?”

“Something like that. And you know, guy-code forbids you from ever mentioning this conversation should you two meet.”

“No worries on that—I’d be left to clean up the mess afterward.”

I see his shoulders relax, as if my actually telling her was a distinct possibility. I’m sure he was already mentally forming the required backpedaling maneuver. I know I’ve had to do that from time to time—okay, frequently. I am well acquainted with the taste of sock.

I reach over and press the starter button, holding it down until the engine instruments rise. At least, I assume they’re engine instruments, as they flare to life shortly after pressing the button. The floor and walls of the cab vibrate as the diesel engines, encompassing most of the actual train, come alive, breathing life into the beast.

Looking out the nearest window on my side, I see those fighting nearby pause in mid-swipe, bite, or fire to stare at the engine that suddenly roared to life in their midst. Well, at least the whistlers and night runners do. The zombies don’t seem to give one shit, and continue to focus on the nearest source of food. The whistlers have formed a cordon around their motorcycles and appear to be ready to mount up and leave the shit storm they’ve stirred up. I give them kudos for making the right decision, although I would have left much sooner. I still can’t get over the feeling that they’re protecting something nearby. Or maybe this is just the way they harvest food. Perhaps the city is a hunting range for them. Who in the fuck knows, but I’m not sticking around to find out. At least, not for now.

Like a scene from the movie
300
, the halted motion of the fight resumes normal speed and the melee feast continues unabated. Looking out the door leading to the walkway surrounding the train, I see that several night runners have climbed aboard.

“Great! We have passengers,” I state, putting the train in gear.

“Oooh. Puzzles with deadly consequences now. Perfect. Sounds like a Japanese game show,” Mike responds.

“Pretty much.”

The engine lurches forward with a metallic clang that reverberates along its length. We’re on the move, but where to is yet to be seen. We’ll have to go slowly in order to see the position of each switch. We need to make our way to the main track, not further into the yard sidings. And, I’m hoping this engine wasn’t in this particular maintenance shed for, well, maintenance. Hopefully, it was only in for a scheduled maintenance and we don’t break down ten yards out, or have a fuel leak and we’re travelling on a ticking fireball. Then, there is the problem of our small group of night runner stowaways. They’ll have to be taken care of before Mike can even think of venturing outside.

I think over the preposterous situation in which I’ve found myself. I’m slowly rolling down the track in an engine, after earlier being rear-ended by released train cars that caught up to us in a rather unpleasant manner. Behind, a battle is in process between zombies, whistlers, and night runners, some of which are currently hitching a ride on our engine. Oh yeah, as if it couldn’t get any worse, it’s the middle of the night. This has to be a dream, although I seriously doubt I have the imagination to make up any of this. “Stay alive” is my motto at this point. Of course, that has always been my motto, but if I’m ever to see my kids and Lynn again, I have to keep moving forward. The deep-seated anxiety about them is always present. Everything I do is focused on getting back to them.

We pull out of the station. It slowly recedes until it’s no longer in view. The first switch on our track appears. It looks like it leads to the left, which is a good thing…I think. Rail cars line the other sidings to our front and my hope is that we aren’t guided directly behind them with no path to the central lines. The engine jostles to the side as the wheels catch the switch rail. Another rocking of the train and we turn onto a new set of lines.

“Jack…Jack…JACK!?”

Mike calling my name intrudes into my tired thoughts. I was so intent on the switch that I totally blanked out the rest of the world.

“Yeah, I’m here,” I reply, turning toward him.

“Our company is knocking on the door,” he states, pointing to the small doors on either side.

Pale faces are pressed against each of the thick glass panels, their mouths open and emitting their terrible shrieks. They are being pressed hard against the glass by the others behind; lips and tongues leave smears on the gritty surface. Their feral eyes send shivers up my spine, and fear settles deep within my stomach. I’ve only experienced night runners this close a couple of times before, and the experience is unsettling to say the least. My preference, if I have to see them at all, is from a distance and through a scope.

“Fuck. We have to take care of this before we go any further. And we have to stop the train to do it,” I say.

“Really?” Mike comments.

“We can’t watch for track switches and deal with them at the same time.”

“What about waiting until we have to go outside? That way, we’ll put more distance between us and the others behind.”

“Well, that does sound like a better idea. And it may prevent others from jumping on.”

The night runners are blocking any view to the rear, so I can’t tell if we’re being pursued. For that matter, I can’t tell just how many night runners are catching a free ride. Some…several on each side; that’s all I really know. I look toward Mike, who is alternately looking from the night runners to the train’s front. Trip? Well, Trip is soundly sleeping again on the steel flooring. I shake my head wondering what he’s all about—and how he can do that.

“That’s the end of the line, for now,” I comment, pointing to the next switch.

The current setting will take us into the back end of a line of parked rail cars. We’ll need to get out and manually move it if we want to continue. I apply the brakes, and the engine lurches to a stop. We weren’t going very fast, so we come to an almost instant halt.

“This sucks. How do you want to do this?” Mike asks.

“One door at a time. You stay low, open it, and back away. I’ll pour rounds through the doorway. I’ll try to keep them at bay. Hopefully they won’t get through and take a chunk out of your hide,” I reply.

“Hopefully? Hopefully they won’t take a chunk? Nice of you to think of me,” Mike comments sarcastically.

“No worries, bud. Any time.”

I look to the doors and wonder if it’s even close to a good plan. The night runners in front are pressed against the windows. It’s not quite a mosh pit, but close. My fear is that they’ll immediately spill inside and swarm over us.

Mike crouches and slinks toward the right-hand door. I check my mag and ensure that I’m on auto. His hand reaches for the handle and he looks back. I open up mentally and am immediately hit by a barrage of images, all directed toward us and feeding. I have trouble shutting that part down all of the way, but it quiets. I project the mental image equivalent of “STOP,” including an image of a sun burning brightly in a blue sky. Their reaction is immediate and they jump back. Quickly turning to Mike, I nod.

He jerks on the handle and scrambles backward, stumbling and tripping over the sleeping form of… wait for it… wait for it… Trip.

The shrieks from the night runners fill our small enclosure, overriding the sound of the idling diesel engines. Moonbeams highlight greasy hair, eyes blaze in the light like pure mercury, screams punctuate the chilled night air. My red dot centers on the forehead of the nearest night runner, who is just recovering. Flashes of light strobe the cab’s interior as a burst of rounds leave the barrel and streak toward their intended target, impacting with solid, meaty smacks. The first night runner’s head is thrown backward as the back of its skull showers those behind with bone, chunks of brain, and pieces of hair-covered flesh. Blood, catching the light of the moon, sprays out from the cavity.

The body, trying to fall, is thrown forward by the press of those behind, who are also recovering from the sharp mental image I gave them. Seeing one down, I focus on my next target. My aim point only slightly shifts before my finger tightens to give a quick pull on the trigger. The stock pushes against my shoulder as I send three more speeding projectiles toward my second target. The bullets don’t care what the target is; they only do as they’re directed. The first round hits the second night runner square on the front tooth, shattering it before slamming into the back of the throat. Blood erupts from the nose and mouth as the second and third rounds forcefully impact just under the nostrils and into the bridge of the nose. The night runner slumps straight down to its knees before falling face forward.

I’m able to take the next in line quickly, but then the falling bodies begin blocking my subsequent shots. I have to wait until a lane is cleared before downing the fourth one.

Four down, twelve rounds expended
.

The ones behind scramble over and around the falling and fallen bodies, their only focus is reaching us by any means possible. The entrance is effectively blocked, so there’s no way to close the door if this goes sour. Perhaps this wasn’t the greatest idea, but I’m in it now. The night runners at the other door are going ape shit trying to get in. Food, namely us, is only a couple of feet away, and the fact that their brethren are vanishing from their minds at a rapid rate isn’t helping things. Anger and hunger—two very powerful motivating forces.

“Jack, there are some leaving the door on this side,” Mike yells, referring to those trying to press in from the opposite side.

“Copy that,” I reply, continuing to fire through the opening.

Great! Well, hopefully I’ll have time to reload or we’ll end up seeing what the other side holds firsthand.

The few remaining night runners on my side are closing the distance. They are constantly moving over and around bodies, and my line of sight is periodically blocked by those who haven’t quite realized that they’ve died and remain upright. Due to their movement, some of my shots go wide of the mark, causing only injuries or grazing wounds—which doesn’t seem to faze them in the least. A shot to the shoulder only jerks them back for a split second before they continue their relentless press.

Click.

The bolt locks into the rear position. The mag has run dry. I knew it was coming, but there hasn’t been time to reload. It was really a matter of choosing between two very poor options. Reload and let them in, or fire until I run out of ammo and let them in. The result ends up being the same, and I’m not a big fan of it. I’d be cool with any choice that didn’t let night runners in. However, wishes at this point are about as useful as the mag in my M-4.

The concussions of Mike’s heavier weapon tear through the small enclosure. Night runners are pushed backwards as the large rounds mushroom inside their bodies and, like a physical entity, shove them away. His shots buy us time, but as there are only five of them, it is a short reprieve.

Two night runners leap across the bodies lying in the doorway and lunge inside. Their shrieks, which were loud enough pouring in through the opening, fill the interior and vibrate the steel walls and floor. Arms reach out with bodies thrust forward, their glowing eyes reflecting their eagerness. Faces are twisted with an anger that I have never before witnessed.

I reverse my M-4 and slam the buttstock into the bridge of the first one’s nose, hearing a resounding crack that I hope is bone and not my weapon. Blood spurts downward from its nostrils, coating its upper lips and lower jaw. The night runner’s head rocks back, momentarily halting its momentum. I quickly pull back the carbine and thrust forward, jabbing the stock into its throat. I concentrate on not only hitting the neck, but thrusting through to the spine. With blood pouring out of its broken nose, the night runner’s eyes transition from a mix of anger and zeal to shock and fear. Its outthrust hands clamp immediately on its throat as it slumps to its knees.

A blur of motion behind the falling night runner catches my attention. There’s a solid thump of bodies smacking into each other and the train rocks slightly as hundreds of pounds of flesh and bone slam into the interior of the cab.

Amidst the din of groans, bodies colliding, and shrieks from night runners outside, I hear a voice rise above it all.

“Quit kicking me,” Trip calls out. “I didn’t do anything.”

I ignore the voice, but in a small part of my mind, I shake my head. Dropping my carbine to let it hang by the lanyard, I pull out my knife and plunge it under the jaw of the kneeling night runner, aiming for the cortex. Blood gushes from its mouth and I feel warm liquid gush out and cover my gloves. I remove my blade as the night runner slumps forward and hits the steel decking with a wet, meaty thump. Looking to the second night runner, I see that the blur I noticed earlier was Mike slamming into its side. He rises to his knees and removes the knife he had plunged into its ribs, wiping it on the night runner’s tattered clothing.