A Shrouded World (Book 2): Atlantis (20 page)

My first instinct was to go grab Trip and leave, but where would we go? Running around the city was out of the question. Best bet was just hunkering down here for the night. Nobody had tried to eat us in the last hour or so, so I assumed we were relatively safe. Of course, that could all change in an instant. I crept back toward Trip, scared I was going to step on bubble wrap or something equally as asinine and the night runners below would hear. Fortunately there were no stepping hazards as I got back to Trip, who was now lying on his back with one hand on his belly, moving it in lazy circles as he moaned softly about how much his stomach hurt. Of course, he only spoke while he wasn’t busy trying to fit more down an already topped-off tank.

“Trip, why don’t you take a break?”

“I have been working hard,” he said, letting his cupcake-laden hand fall back to the floor.

“There are night runners out there. They don’t know we’re here, I think, but we need to be able to run if they come.”

“Is it night out?”

“Yeah.”

“So if we run now, does that make us night runners, too?”

“Runners in the night, Trip; big difference. Pretty sure that Krinkie Kake you’re eating doesn’t mind too much that you’re consuming it.”

“That makes sense.” He sat up. “What now?”

“Well, I guess I’m going to eat and drink some more and get some rest if possible. Tomorrow we’re going to try to find a way out of here.”

“These are mine,” Trip said as he began to pull snacks in close to his body.

“Why don’t you just tell me what isn’t; that might be easier.” I thought we were going to have words as he pushed out a half-eaten bag of black licorice. Nobody likes black licorice, not even the guy that invented it; probably thought he was making an inexpensive tire or something. He looked up at me and must have sensed that wasn’t going to cut it. I don’t know if he was intentionally trying to push my buttons, but the next thing was a black cherry burst-tart.

“Yeah, we’re done playing this game.” I reached down and grabbed six of the things closest to me; his mouth dropped open like I’d just slapped his mother in church. He then started counting what he had left, I guess to keep an inventory. I would have preferred some meat protein to the nuts and candy I had, but it was fuel and I was thankful for it. It was the juices and water that gave me the biggest lift. Trip was like a horse: just because you led him to water didn’t mean he was going to drink it. After his sixth can of something called “bark extract ale,” I had to pull them away. I don’t know if he thought they were beer or not, and it didn’t matter—I needed to get him properly hydrated whether he wanted to or not. After we were done, I moved us to one of the offices and out of the stairwell exit. If the runners did come, we’d at least have some warning.

I checked the busted-out window again: the night runners were gone. By the time I got back to the office, Trip was snoring softly in a large chair. I grabbed the two less-than-comfortable chairs that had been facing the desk and arranged them so I could prop my feet up on one as I sat in the other. I didn’t think it was a position conducive to falling asleep—until I was awoken some hours later by the sound of howls, engines revving, and a couple of rifle shots.

“Jack?” I sat up straight and swung my feet onto the floor. I did not hear any more blasts, which could either be good or bad. No sense in dwelling on it. The motorcycle engines seemed to be heading away; the howls were not. In fact, they were drawing nearer. I hoped that it was just the runners returning to their rally point. I got up quickly and snuck out of the office, past Trip’s loud snoring. I closed the door behind me, lest the runners hear him as he chopped down a forest. More of the beasties were coming as I neared the window. I poked my head out to see at least a dozen below me; a couple had their noses in the air as if they were sampling the scents. I uneasily noticed that a couple were looking directly at the face of the building, sometimes looking up; one even seemed to pause as he scanned by my exact location. I felt like the damn granola I’d eaten earlier was now firmly lodged in my throat. Stomach acid started churning like an extra wash and rinse cycle. What I wouldn’t have done for some Pepcid AC.

Then the worst of it happened as they started vanishing—not like Jack had, but rather they were coming inside the building.

“Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck,” I muttered. This was indeed a nesting place for them, or we’d been sniffed out. I went back to the office. Trip was awake, and shocker, he was eating.

“Hey Ponch,” he said as he shined the flashlight in my face.

“We’ve got to get ready to move, Trip; we might be having guests.”

He looked at me. “Right! We don’t want them taking any of our food.”

“Yeah, something like that. Shut the light off.” I poked my head out of the door, trying to hear any sort of approach. If they were like every other predator anywhere, they would be coming stealthily. Trip was shuffling cellophane bags behind me so loudly that I could barely hear myself think.

“Trip, stop, man; just for a minute.” I felt like I was getting a little extra help from above as Trip did as I asked without any further haranguing.

Then, not more than five seconds later, I heard the scuffing of feet on stairs. They were in the stairwell and must have been relatively close if I could hear them through the steel door. I repeated my earlier cuss mantra. I heard a door shut maybe a floor below, tough to tell with the echo. I was stuck in indecision—were they doing a floor-by-floor search or were they finding a good place to hunker down? There was the faintest hint of light in the sky; dawn was not far off. Where we were, though, the night runners were not in danger of being exposed to direct sunlight. Move or stay? Both could get us killed.

“Trip, we have to go.” I’d never been one to wait patiently. Now, was it up or down? Definitely up. I thanked the maintenance personnel of the building when the fire door opened up without protest. Best bet was the roof, although what the hell we were going to do once we got there was anyone’s guess. We’d be trapped up there, unable to reenter for fear of the waiting runners. Knowing how high Trip usually got he could probably fly away—at least one of us would escape. Trip got on the landing with me and I let the door close as slowly and quietly as I could. I turned Trip so he was facing upwards. The early light that had started to leak into the offices had not and could not penetrate our current location—the darkness was absolute. I don’t remember exactly when I’d lost my NVGs, but that had been a big blow in a world gone dark, both literally and figuratively. A tactical error on my part.

“I need the flashlight, Trip.” I cringed as he moved a bag of chips or something equally loud in his attempt to get at the light. When he handed it to me, I stuck it under my shirt to mute it.

“Let’s go.” I barely exhaled, pointing up.

Once we made it to the seventh floor, I grabbed his shoulder to make him stop; I also clicked off the light. Something had entered the stairwell below us: a door had pounded open, there were running footsteps from multiple feet, and then another door slammed against the wall. After I was certain we were alone again, I clicked the light back on.

“I’m dying of thirst,” Trip breathed in my ear, the smell of meat sticks and liquid ass assaulting my nose. Either Trip was having a small bout of halitosis from his dehydration or we were about to be descended on by a horde of zombies.

“I told you to stop drinking the damn soda; we need to get out of here.”

“Just a little drink.” He turned away from me, I turned to see what the hell he was doing. There was a huge fire hose all coiled up on a large red spindle, recessed into the wall and behind a glass door. Unlike the stairwell doors, this sounded like a long-forgotten rusted-out factory door as it squealed, moaned, and creaked in protest as he forced it open.

“Fuck, Trip, just send up a flare.”

“I don’t have one.” He put the large brass spigot up by his lips and started reaching for the brass wheel that would send some ungodly amount of water force into his face, I’m sure stripping his skin like a high pressure washer to melted gum on hot pavement. A door popped open, hitting the concrete walls hard enough to send shock waves up to us.

“Let’s go.” I pulled Trip onto the seventh floor. It was a mistake: there was nothing, as if it had been gutted for complete renovations. There were no cubicles, the offices did not even possess doors—it was a wide-open blank slate, with just the giant supporting pillars to hide behind. The only thing we had going for us was that the sun was trying really hard to make an appearance.

“Trip, toward the windows.” I’d gripped his shoulder and was basically pulling him with me. I was so focused on the windows that I hadn’t even noticed him dragging the hose behind us. I only had a couple of seconds to be surprised at his new possession before a night runner came onto the floor with us. The hatred in his eyes was easy enough to see, even from this far away. He screamed that shrieking noise, and within a minute he had all his buddies in their inglorious selves with him. Two made a run for us, moving faster than anything that had once been human had a right to. My first shot was completely off-target as they moved from side to side, apparently abundantly aware of the dangers imposed on them by firearms. My second shot was in the general neighborhood, the third hit the closest runner square in the chest. He screamed in rage even as all the air was wetly expelled from his lungs, making a sucking sound as it vacated.

The next runner I hit high up on his forearm; the bones shattered as they absorbed the force of the projectile. White bits the size of dimes blew back, his arm bent at an unnatural angle, and then he veered off to the side in obvious distress; he also let loose a barrage of shrieks that I’m sure were his version of curses. The remaining runners, which had swelled in numbers since the skirmish had started, fanned out to make a line spanning fifty feet. A signal I could not detect started them forward; by the time they’d halved the distance they were at full speed. This was it: I had both guns out and was firing. I’d like to say I was hitting everything I shot at, but that wasn’t the case; the impacts I made were just because of the sheer numbers, but it wasn’t going to be enough by a long shot.

Time, the bending of space, blind fucking luck, I don’t know; but whatever it was, it worked perfectly. The night runners were within ten feet when the sun crested the horizon and blazed right through those windows. I know, I absolutely know that more than one of those things pulled a hamstring or tore a ligament in their knees as they either stopped short, took off in another direction, or started backpedaling as fast as their bodies would allow. If I thought my earlier shooting victim had spewed a litany of swear shrieks, it was absolutely deafening as the chorus line of assholes let loose. We’d been granted a reprieve.

“Dead crowds aren’t usually so aggressive,” Trip said as he lit up a joint.

“Must be a college town, those kids are always assholes at concerts,” I tried to assuage his concern.

“Want a hit?” Trip was stepping forward and looking at one of the night runners, I guess in an attempt to bridge the gap between potential food and friend.

The runners started going crazy as Trip got closer. I had to take a few steps, grab his shoulder, and reel him back in.

“What’s the matter with them?” Trip was confused.

“Nancy Reagan got to them first.”

“That was a good thing she did.”

“Really? I wouldn’t think her ‘just say no’ stance would have sat well with you.”

“More for me, man.”

“Oh, there’s the Trip I know.”

The runners had regrouped and were just about toeing the line between sunlight and shadow. They would move slivers of an inch backwards as the sun made its journey. Damn near had a coronary when a large cloud took out the sun for about fifteen seconds. They’d spent most of that time debating if they could get to us and drag us down and away; by the time they were starting to come to a conclusion, the blessed sun made a return.

“Wish I’d turned this thing on.” Trip was looking down at the fire hose.

I agreed, not because I was thirsty but because I would have loved to blast these things in the face. For a long time I stood and stared—there was not much else to do. Finally, after the immediate fear abated, I sat and dug through my pockets for some food. Trip sidled up so close to me he could have been in my lap.

“Whatcha got there?” he asked.

“You’re worse than a puppy! Here, take this and give me some space.” I sat and ate in relative peace. I mean, I guess if the near-orgasmic sounds Trip was making as he ate a cupcake and the angry stares of a platoon of night runners were peaceful. They were still moving back, but soon their creep forward would begin and there was no hope we’d make it through another night like this. I looked over to the stairwell—would it be possible to fight our way there and down? We had about as much chance of that as we did Trip passing up a chance to take a tour in a Phrito factory.

Our choices were fairly limited: wait and die, or fight and die. I was pissed off as I tossed my wrapper away from me. I put enough force behind the throw that, if it had any weight whatsoever, it would have bounced off the head of one of the runners. Instead, it traveled five feet and harmlessly drifted to the floor. Well, not quite the floor—it landed on the heavy canvas of the fire hose. A dim bulb clicked on in the far corner of my mind, then, as if someone applied more current to it, it grew in brightness.

“The fire hose?” I straddled the line between question and statement.

“Is it on?” Trip was looking at the end of it. Seems he could have answered that question easily enough himself.

“How long is this thing?” I asked, reaching over and pulling it toward me.

“Hey man, don’t hog it all. There’s plenty enough for everyone.”

“How much plenty?”

“Like a hundred feet, man.”

I stood up quickly. I started laughing. Trip had absolutely no clue what the hell I was going on about, but that didn’t stop him from joining in. Within a minute he was laughing so hard tears were coming from his eyes.