A Shrouded World (Book 2): Atlantis (27 page)

Keeping an eye on the whistler only several feet away, I very slowly open the door wider and poke my mirror out to see in the other direction. I hold it there, looking for any indication that whistlers are covering every corner. It seems clear, but nothing is ever assured. Other than my tracks showing in the hall directly outside, the floor seems relatively undisturbed. My heart is beating rapidly; it would be too easy for the whistler to turn slightly and spot me immediately. I purposefully control my breathing, but it does little to ease the tension. My nerves are quivering like a tightly drawn cable.

Stowing the mirror, I open the door wider and am thankful for the maintenance staff that kept the hinges well oiled. I hope that, if anyone made it through this mess, it was them. I slither through the opening and into the hall. A whisper of leather rubbing leather comes from the whistler guarding the corner as it shifts position. My attention is almost entirely focused on it, as I’m in the open a few scant feet away. I make sure not to look directly at it. Who knows how the energy works in this place, but I’m not taking any chances that it will sense my gaze. With my red dot poised over its creepy-looking head, but looking at it in kind of a sideways fashion, I inch down the hall.

Movement from the creature causes me to halt in my tracks and slowly crouch lower. My stomach tenses and I have to force the rest of my body to remain relaxed. I can’t be jerking around if the call to action comes. I have to be fluid and quick. The whistler looks upward toward the ceiling and then over its shoulder down the branching hall.

Don’t look my way, don’t look my way
, I mentally chant.

Looking through the scope, I watch, ready and nervous, with my middle finger putting a little pressure on the trigger. If I’m spotted, I’ll fire and run. But that will be fucked up, as I’ll then potentially have whistlers ahead and behind. Unless I go up—but that would be equally fucked up.

Its head turns back, its eyes behind the mask sliding over my position. I put a little more pressure on the trigger, just up to the breaking point. Any indication that it sees me, crouched against the wall, any tensing of its body, and I’ll send a few rounds in its direction. Every muscle in my body is vibrating, every nerve electrified. While the whistler’s movements are at normal speed, they seem slowed to me, as though everything has to move through a thick liquid. I’m about to ease the trigger past its snapping point when the whistler’s gaze passes over me and back to the far room. I guess it didn’t expect to see me there, so in its mind, I wasn’t there.

I mentally breathe a sigh of relief, but I’m not out of the fire yet. Easing the pressure off the trigger, I keep my reticle on its head, rise a few inches, and begin creeping down the hall again. Slowly, step by agonizing step, I make my way closer to the next office door, which I hope is in the same firewall section as the door to the stairwell. I reach it, take a last glance at the whistler, ease the door open, and slide inside.

Climbing on a filing cabinet, I quickly check the upper ceiling structure and, finding it empty, climb upward. This time, I make my way along the top of the wall closest to the hallway. It’s easy to see where the stairwell is by a rectangular section of concrete sticking out from the main wall. I make my way to an adjoining room, as indicated by the top of the wall structure.

This room seems a lot smaller than the others and a quick peek through the tiles indicates that it’s a storage space for office supplies. This will make it trickier to get down quietly, as the aluminum shelves holding the supplies are flimsier than filing cabinets. There’s no way I’ll be able to step on any of them without squeaking or outright falling over. Instead of using them to get down, I opt to drop from the ceiling near the door. With my back screaming in protest, I manage to drop to the floor, not quite sounding like a herd of stampeding buffalo.

I pause at the door, listening for any indication of whistlers approaching. I’m still not positive that the zombie night runners are out of the equation, but the whistlers are my most immediate concern. After a moment, I crack open the door and peek outside. The whistler at the far branching corridor isn’t in sight. I’m not sure whether that’s a good or bad thing. The good is that I will hopefully be unseen as I head to the stairwell. The bad? I haven’t the faintest clue where it could be. A quick check in the other direction shows that it, too, is empty. A small measure of panic ensues.

Hold it together, Jack, nearly there
.

About to slip into the hall, I hear a faint rumbling that quickly grows. The whistlers outside have started their bikes. Now, is it just the ones outside, or all of them? There’s no way to tell. The sound rises and falls as engines are revved. The sound then fades as some, or all, of the whistlers ride away.

My immediate thought is that this is a trap. That the whistlers are attempting to put me at ease by seeming to drive away, leaving a few behind to ambush me as I carelessly leave. My other thought is that nighttime is approaching faster than I thought and I’m only walking out into a night runner breakfast. With another look in both directions, I ease into the hall. I can’t afford to be careless now, but I need to move. Perhaps that’s their intention.

With a quick check into the stairwell, I ease inside. It’s difficult to make out whether the disturbance in the overlying grit is only from me, or from others. I aim my carbine ahead of me as I start down, keeping to the outside wall. On the intermediate landing, I ease around the corner to the next flight of steps.

The body rushing upward is startling to say the least. I heard nothing; didn’t see anything. I didn’t even smell anything, which is odd. It is just there, in less than a heartbeat. My mind registers few facts other than I’m being attacked. One thing I do register is that the creature assaulting me isn’t overly tall or thin. With outstretched arms reaching for me, the grayish-skinned creature issues a gurgling scream past stained teeth. There’s no time to shoot, as it’s past the end of my barrel before I know it.

With no room to step back and still startled, I duck under the creature’s arms and move to one side. Putting my shoulder into it, I swing my M-4 in a reverse motion, slamming the adjustable stock against the side of its head. The creature staggers past me from the blow. I step behind it and slam the butt against the back of its head. I feel the jarring up my arms as I force its head into the concrete brick wall. Dark liquid splatters outward from the impact of its nose smashing against the hard surface.

Stepping backward, mindful of the steps to my rear, I reverse my carbine and fire a round at an angle into the back of its head. The bullet enters, passes through the brain, and crashes into the interior of the skull just below the far temple. Blood sprays out darkly and thickly, splashing along the wall. Brain matter and small pieces of flesh, some with bits of hair still attached, ooze down the bricks, the larger pieces falling to the floor with soft plopping sounds. The creature slithers straight down the wall, leaving behind a thick smear.

“Fuck me!” I whisper through panting breaths.

Expecting more of them, I quickly duck and turn. The steps downward are clear, but it takes a moment for that to register. I’m still geared to for an attack. Once my brain catches up with the reality that there isn’t another attack coming, I begin to shake. Adrenaline, which was suddenly unleashed in copious amounts, is pumping through my system.

Okay, we’ll have no more of that shit, thanks
.

A few breaths later and I start to feel a little calmer. I don’t know if the creature I just encountered was lying in wait or hiding from the whistlers. Honestly, I don’t give one fuck about the why. It damn near got me. Just fuck this; I need to be out of here quickly but have to go slow. I look to the second floor door, seeing that my alarm system is still in place.

So, no one came through that way
.

That doesn’t really mean much now. They could have come through the first floor, but I’ll have no way of knowing that until I get there. And, it was only a primitive measure to notify me of someone coming through that way. At the moment, there’s no way of telling if the stairs are clear, as was just evidenced. That still means a slow egress, even with the supposed departure of the whistlers.

Proceeding quietly, I make it to the first floor without further interruption. So far, so good. With a check of the hallway, I ease out and peer toward the lobby. Radiant sunlight still pours in through the glass window structure, although the cast of it suggests late afternoon edging toward sunset. Barring any meet-ups with whistlers, or this new kind of creature, I should still have time to make my way out of the city before darkness hits…but only barely.

The light layer of dust covering the lobby has been disturbed a great deal and looks like the aftermath of a fresh blanket of snow after kids have discovered it. Although I had originally opted for the rear door, I have to know what’s going on outside with the whistlers first—or at least lay a visual on the front. Easing around the outside wall, I climb a ways up the curved stairway, crouching below the enclosed banister. Outside, three motorcycles are parked on the street directly in front.

“Well, isn’t that fucking convenient,” I breathe.

I scan the buildings across the wide avenue, looking for signs of movement or a gas mask staring at me from within one of the windows. Nothing. It’s beginning to truly look like the whistlers have moved on. They could have driven up the street and backtracked on foot, but that would be quite a stroll, judging their distance by the fade of their loud, Harley-style engines. Especially within the confines of an inner city, where sounds echo for great distances off the tall concrete and glass structures.

The motorcycles parked outside are tempting. From the cast of the shadows and sunlight, I know that I don’t have a lot of time, and taking one of the bikes will aid my exit tremendously. However, I’m a little nervous about leaving through the front door. And the keys may not be in any of the ignitions, but in fact residing within whatever pockets the whistlers might have.

Well, it’s not like I’ve made any correct decisions to this point
, I think, conducting an internal debate.

Even though I’ve only fired a few rounds from my current mag, I change it out for a full one. It will totally suck to only have twenty-four rounds when I need twenty-eight. Alternating my attention between the hallways and the outside, I creep down the stairs and across the foyer.

At the entrance, I check down the street and across to the buildings one more time. There’s nothing in sight that sets off any alarm bells. On the avenue, wide swaths from the whistlers’ departure are carved through the overlying dirt, obviously drag marks from the bodies tied behind the bikes. For the first several feet, the pathways show clear pavement, but quickly change to trails of skin and blood as the bodies scraped across the pavement. Within the gory mess, streaks of white appear where flesh gave way to bone. Although I’d be dead if it were to happen to me, the thought of being dragged behind the whistlers in that fashion makes me ill.

Well, once I exit, I don’t think I’ll be following that path
, I think, bracing myself for a mad dash to the bikes.

I grab hold of one of door handles and pull it open. A strong, chilled gust of wind sweeps past. That’s to be expected when you open a door, but this is much stronger than anticipated ─ it feels different, somehow. There isn’t the slightest rustle of clothing as the gust blows by. It’s as if I felt a draft that wasn’t there. That’s not exactly true, though. I did feel it on my cheeks and through my sleeves and pants. I felt it, but it moved nothing. It didn’t even stir the dust at my feet. A shiver rolls up my spine with an electrical tingle.

Holding the door, I check the environment again. Nothing has changed. Preparing to run to the motorcycles, I walk through the door—and step into total darkness.

It’s as sudden as if a light switch were thrown. One moment I’m in the fading light of late afternoon, the next, I’m standing under the black velvet nighttime sky. It takes time for my eyes to adjust to the sudden change. They, however, do so much quicker than my mind. To say that I’m startled is the understatement of the century… or perhaps ever.

I have somehow stepped from day to night, like I was held in place while the sun set. In what I judge to be the eastern sky, there are the first hints of dawn approaching. But, that matters little. I’m in the middle of a city filled with swarms of night runners.

Well, fuck a duck! This is way messed up!

I’m not sure who is more surprised: me or the three night runners in the street directly in front. I’m going to guess it’s a tie by the way we both stare at each other, mouths open and eyes wide. I’ll take the tie on the surprise factor, but I need to win the reaction phase. I bring my M-4 up and quickly fire a burst into the nearest one. Sparkles from across the avenue enter my vision as my muzzle flash reflects off windows.

The two remaining night runners recover and send familiar shrieks racing down the streets. Answering calls come from seemingly everywhere as I alter my barrel and send another burst at about the same time as the first one slumps to the ground. I see the hits impact the second one from the puffs in its clothing. It falls backward at an angle across one of the motorcycles, knocking it to the side and off its kickstand. Sliding beside the metal carriage, the night runner hits the ground just before the bike tips over and falls directly on top of it.

The third night runner takes two steps and is nearly at a full run. Their speed never ceases to amaze me. In the darkness, its eyes glow silver and it sends another blood-chilling scream. I know that I’m truly fucked, even if I manage to drop this third one. Shrieks resound off building walls from multitudes of night runners. My stomach drops from the thought of being hunted through the city streets, attempting to elude the hordes. I stink, and it wouldn’t be difficult to locate my scent.

I fire at the closing night runner, stitching three rounds from its torso upward. With the speed that it has built up, it falls forward, crashing hard against the concrete steps. Its head bounces once off one of the steps and it skids another foot before coming to rest.