A Shrouded World (Book 7): Hvergelmir

by Tufo, Mark

  I move from my current position and struggle against the flowing crowd. I don’t know if it makes a difference, but if it does, then I’d hate to find out that fact afterward. I push and shove my way through, most of the aliens parting to allow me past due to their exhaustion, until I’m in the line forming at the right-hand tunnel. I move with the others through, the light dimming as we enter.

  The tunnel leads into another large area much like the last one. I notice that the helmets of the ones that passed through with me now have a purple light lit on the sides. Looking past the crowd, I see that the those who passed through the other tunnels have a yellow light.

  Oh shit! Did I fuck up somehow and go through the wrong one?

  If we’re being segregated somehow, I’d think they weed out the fewer and keep the many. Seeing most of the aliens have yellow lights, I’m convinced I fucked up royally. Perhaps this is how they determine who is to become food, or sex slaves, or something equally horrible.

  The crowd has come together again, herded toward another set of tunnels. As we begin to part, I see the same inverted pyramid on the right-side tunnel.

  In for a penny, in for a pound, I think, remaining on the right to enter it.

  Some of those that went through the first tunnel with me have moved to head through a different one. Exiting, I notice that some now have two purple lights while others have one purple and one yellow. It’s the same with several others exiting. However, the majority have two yellow lights. I’m pretty sure I have two purple ones, but can’t really tell without removing my helmet, and I’m not about to do that in the presence of the whistlers moving through the area.

  Again we enter a large area with yet more tunnels ahead. This time, I see the inverted pyramid on the far left and have to shuffle through the crowd. Perhaps when all of this is said and done, I’ll have all purple lights; I’ll win the lottery and be set free. In any case, I’ve chosen a path and I’ll see it through.

  Before we’re moved through the third tunnel, we’re given a rest and food. Most are too exhausted to eat, so they simply collapse on the ground. There are some who shuffle around, but not many. After putting the sludge in my stomach, I feel a little more energetic. And by a little more, I mean I’m not stumbling around with barely a thought. I’m mostly just focused on heading through the right tunnel. Or the wrong one. I’ll find out eventually, as long as this isn’t my life now, trudging around in one big circle. Honestly, if it is, I’d rather go back to the hole in the ground.

  It’s not long until the warning comes and we’re moving again. I head through the corresponding tunnel. Again, upon exit and regathering, the beings are wearing a mixture of yellow and purple lights or solid yellow. But a few with me have three purples; I look around at them, wondering if they also noticed the markings and are scurrying to the same tunnels. Maybe this entire exercise is to see if you can figure out the puzzle. Could also be just to flow along like sheep.

  Time moves on, and I arrive at a seventh tunnel. This one is different. The others were about two hundred yards long, but this one is longer; I can’t see light at the end. I’m again fed and then ushered in. The others with me all have six purple lights, and there doesn’t appear to be much room on the side of their helmets for many more. As a matter of fact, if they are kept in order, there’s only room for one more.

  The seventh tunnel winds its way around. I suppose it could be considered picturesque if there were anything to look at. But I’m weary of this trudge and the fact that I’m captured. My mind has been in a fog. I’ve tried to focus on escape, but any thoughts along that avenue faded nearly as soon as they began due to my not being able to really hold much of any coherent thought.

  The tunnel ends at a translucent blue-shielded barrier. I’m near the front and have a good view of the chaos ahead. Beings are running, sliding, and oozing everywhere in a panic. I only observe those with either a mix of the purple and yellow lights or full yellow, the aliens having entered a mix of tunnels. The odd thing is, something is flinging them violently around. In their panicked flight, some are suddenly shoved to the side by nothing that I can see. Those that have solid limb structures, meaning bones or carapaces, have those broken by the abrupt flights and possibly by whatever force is causing them to be thrown. At the sides of what I now see as a ramp is a deep pit leading into something unseen, and that’s where the aliens end up. Some invisible force is violently throwing these creatures over the side and into each other. I can damn near hear the snaps of bone and shell.

  My only solace is that I seemed to have chosen correctly, that the symbols actually meant something. Of course, the blockade could release, and we’ll be subjected to the same thing. With several of the other aliens still running or sliding and being picked off, the opaque door vanishes. The push from behind forces those at the very front to be shoved onto the ramp.

  They aren’t thrown by the invisible force, but rather stand unaffected in the midst of the violence. I stand against the wall, doing my best not to get shoved out of the tunnel. I watch as long mechanical arms reach down to begin plucking up those with all purple lights. The aliens are rapidly carried upward and out of sight. I assume they aren’t outright killed like the other ones are, but I can’t imagine they’re to be given a royal banquet either.

  I have to warn Mike about the tunnels; I start shoving my way back the way I came. I don’t know yet how I’m going to get back through the other tunnels, but I have to make it to him before he starts through the passages. The group I saw him in wasn’t that far away, but not close enough that I can take a leisurely stroll.

  With the crowd pushed along the tunnel, it’s not easy winding my way back. Luckily, I don’t have to contend with whistlers as they are only posted at the entrances, at least from what I saw. All manner of creatures march past, but I bob and weave around appendages and bodies of all types. Keeping near the tunnel wall makes this a little easier. However, the exertion required has me breathing heavily after a short distance.

  I finally stumble out of the entrance, thankful for the breathing room. Panting with my hands on my knees, I look up to see a whistler pointing a device my way. I can’t determine an expression, due to the white folds that dimple its face, its beady eyes staring out from folds of flesh. But from what I can tell, the whistler is puzzled, and it probably has to do with me not having any kind of reaction to the box it’s aiming at me.

  I contemplate folding over as if in pain from the electrical jolt I’m supposed to be experiencing, but I believe that train has already left the station. Taking out a weapon attached to its belt, the whistler advances toward me. Not only is it about to be discovered that my helmet needs reattaching, but I have a feeling that I’m about to experience a lot more pain.

  With nothing really to lose at this point, I reach around behind me. Taking out the knife I have stashed at my back, I lunge forward to thrust the blade up under the creature’s neck. The knife slides through the folds of flesh easily, encountering a little resistance as the tip hits something solid. A viscous black substance oozes over my hand. I punch the blade further, putting my weight behind the thrust. The solid barrier gives with a crackle and my knife embeds deeper. The folds of skin are clammy and cold as haft and hand meet the flabby underside of the creature’s chin.

  The stench from the ooze is almost worse than that of the zombies. It’s as if something died days ago under a humid, scorching sun, fell into a pile of offal from someone coming off the bad end of a Taco Bell experience, and then someone decided to throw two dozen rotten eggs onto the heap.

  I gag, but hold the remains of the slurry I’ve been fed because I don’t want to drown in my own vomit. Who knows if the mask and apparatus inside of me will allow for that. The whistler’s beady eyes roll back into its head and I’m left holding dead weight with my knife embedded in the thing’s head.

  I pull my blade out and the whistler tumbles down, hitting the floor with a loud splat. My eyes are watering from the odor, my knife
dripping the foul substance. I stagger back, able to see, albeit a little blurrily, the other aliens look up from their tired march. They halt in place. One by one, they begin dropping to the floor, their limbs and bodies twitching. I know there’s a whistler posted nearby, attempting to bring order.

  Before they’re all down, I move into the crowd, knowing the other whistler is on the other side. Using the bodies as cover, I close to the outer edge of the formed line. One alien in front of me drops, allowing me to see the second whistler not far away.

  I fall to the ground, twitching my limbs as if I’m in the throes of the electrical charge. It won’t be difficult to determine what happened once they all fall, nor can I hide the smell that’s enveloping me. Glancing quickly, I determine that if any other whistlers were posted at the tunnel entrances, they are no longer around. Considering the number of aliens, I’m a little surprised at the few whistlers attending them. But perhaps they’re relying on exhaustion, lack of energy, and the ability to control them all with the helmets.

  The remaining whistler focuses on another section of the line, and I rise to my hands and knees. Moving out into the more open area and keeping out of its line of sight, I rise to my feet and creep around behind the whistler. I’ve not thought much beyond trying to get to Mike, what I’m going to do afterward, I don’t know; I’m kind of on autopilot at this point.

  I have no idea of a whistler’s anatomy, but I do know they die from headshots and from knives to the brain. Or at least, I think that was its brain. I don’t know if it was the smell that alerted the other whistler, but it suddenly turns around when I’m near its back.

  I move quickly, thrusting my blade right into one of its beady little eyes. The eyeball pops and my blade plunges deep. The same stinky ooze dribbles from the socket. I give a twist, as much as the orbit of the eye socket will allow and almost before it can react, the whistler abruptly sags. Taking the knife out, I wipe it and my hand as much as I can on its leather clothing. The smell is atrocious, but I still manage to hold back the gag reflex that keeps wanting to empty my stomach.

  Honestly, the adrenaline rush, and even that little exercise, has winded me. Still, I’m able to think clearly enough to pull the whistler’s weapon and control box thing. I have a brief urge about placing the helmet on Trip and pressing the button that sends the electrical charge; considering that he left both Mike and me in the lurch, I’d derive some satisfaction just sitting there watching him twitch. I’m sure he has this grand master plan, but I’m fucking tired of being someone’s pawn in this whole mess.

  However, that thought aside, I’m now faced with the repercussions of my actions. I need to get back to Mike, but I imagine more whistlers will be showing up any second. The aliens start rousing from being subjugated to the electrical storms raging through their bodies. They glance at the downed whistlers, then at me wiping my knife, and all hell breaks loose.

  Aliens start pushing into the tunnel while others turn to come out and everyone else is rushing about the vast enclosure. Soon enough, whistlers storm into the area, chasing down and subduing the rampaging aliens. I inch back through the stampeding mess. Although, stampeding is kind of a misnomer; the aliens race about for a little bit, but then stop due to becoming overexerted. Using the distraction, I ease back to the previous tunnels, doing my best to keep away from the few whistlers in the area.

  Before heading into the next tunnel, I look at the seventh ones. The markings that were above each of them have now changed. The one I went through is a diamond shape, the others just squiggly marks as before. It looks like the same tunnels may retain their functionality, but the symbols change. If I'd found Mike, I would have told him to just find the inverted pyramid, but now have to revise that to where the tunnels lie in relation to each other. It takes a moment, but, with intense focus, I fix the pattern firmly in mind. I duck into the dimly lit tunnel and proceed to trace my route back.

  Exiting into the next room, it’s completely empty. There aren’t any alien captives or whistlers. I find that rather odd, but maybe there aren’t a lot of them available. They could be off doing whistler things. You know, invading planets, destroying civilizations, killing puppies, that kind of thing. However, I’m more than good with that at the moment. Like the previous section, there’s a diamond where the inverted pyramid was. At least I know I’m on track with the idea of the tunnel markings. I walk through the room, enter the tunnel, and head toward the structure’s entrance, wary that I could run into Mike and the crowd he’s with any minute. I just hope I’m in time to catch him before he enters one of the wrong tunnels. Who knows? Maybe he can break free and we can escape from this hellish place.

  I make it to the final tunnel, the first one upon entering the complex, when I see a figure ahead, silhouetted against the light at the far end. I’m immediately wary and pull out the whistler weapon I secured. The being, looking much like a human form, doesn’t move. I advance cautiously.

  “Yack,” the figure whispers as I draw closer.

  “Trip?”

  I’m able to make out features and see that it is indeed him. An edge of anger materializes inside because of him leaving Mike and me at the mercy of the whistlers, and I’m about to give him a piece of my mind, when he whispers: “You need to get away.”

  No shit, I think, but I say, “We wouldn’t have to if you had allowed us to escape through the portal with you.”

  “That couldn’t be helped,” Trip replies.

  “Fine, whatever. I’ll do my best to get us away, but you’ve made that prospect rather difficult,” I respond.

  Trip looks back with a pained expression. “Only you, Yack. I’m afraid Mike has to stay here. Someone needs to be on the inside.”

  “So, let me get this straight. You left us, and now you’re expecting me to escape, and leave Mike to fend for himself? If I’m not supposed to be here, then why didn’t you take me with you?”

  “Because you need to be somewhere else.”

  “And you couldn’t have done that with the relic. That sounds like bullshit to me.”

  “You needed to figure out the tunnel system and tell Mike.”

  “Why couldn’t you have just materialized like this and told him yourself?”

  Trip gets a serious look on his face and clarity folds over his expression. “Jack, I didn’t know if I would be able to return. As it is, I have to go.”

  “Okay, fine. So, how do I get out of here and get to wherever it is I’m supposed to be?”

  The clarity vanishes. “Meet me at the clock in Grand Central Station…5pm.”

  “What in the fuck are you talking about, old man?”

  “I have to go,” Trip says, his form fading to a dense mist and then vanishing.

  “Fuck I hate this shit,” I mutter, the tunnel now again empty.

  I feel like someone is just picking me up and placing me on different parts of a chess board. I’m not sure if I’m a pawn or knight, but I hope that I’m not being set up for a sacrifice in a larger scheme. I carry the weapon, ready for any sighting of a whistler, but the first room is as empty as the last. Perhaps all were called away to the fracas near the seventh tunnel. The whistlers have to have discovered their dead compatriots by now, and I wonder what their response will be. As far as I can tell, they haven’t initiated a wide search, so perhaps they believe the culprit was one of the aliens in line.

  At the front entrance, I peek outside. The next group destined for the passages has gathered on one of the clear platforms, all portraying some stage of exhaustion. It’s odd seeing them on the see-through plateaus. It appears as if they’re all hovering mid-air. I search through the throng, looking for Mike. It’s so difficult to identify anyone in particular, one because there are so many of them that shapes and faces blend in with the rest of the crowd, and, two, the differing species’ appearances fuck with my mind. It’s like watching a Dr. Seuss nightmare with the varying shapes and colors.

  I see a red blob in the midst of the creatures. My
eyes begin to move past the creature when I catch sight of Mike lying next to it. Looking quickly to see where the whistler guards are, I see that, with haste, I might be able to make it to him without being noticed. Putting my weapon away, I start down the ramp.

  There’s a part of me that feels a little guilty about what I’m about to do. I’m going to give Mike information to help him through the tunnels and then leave him on his own. Of course, I haven’t figured out my own plan as yet, so maybe he’ll be the one who winds up in a better place. That’s assuming those lifted away from the end room are still alive. The one thing I do know is that those who passed through the wrong tunnels aren’t.

  Drawing nearer, I see that Mike is lying down with his eyes closed. The skin that I’m able to see looks pale and I’m not sure if he’s just resting or has passed out. Regrettably, I’m kind of glad that Trip said Mike has to remain, as he doesn’t appear to be in any condition to escape. But it’s not like I’m in the greatest shape, either.

  I kneel down and shake Mike’s shoulder.

  “Mike…Mike.”

  The red blob next to me grumbles. I ignore the rumblings. I don’t have time for some protective nature, as I won’t have much time here before the group starts moving again. I need to be close to the rear when it does start moving, if I’m to make my way out of here.

  “Mike! Wake up—I don’t have much time!”

  “Milk,” the creature says.

  Mike stirs, his eyes finally opening. He doesn’t seem very focused as his gaze travels to me and past.

  “Mike, man, it’s me, Jack. I need you alert.”

  “Milk,” the red blob says again.

  “Jack in the Bean Stalk Jack or Jack Frost or that Jack from the Titanic?” Mike mumbles.

  “Jack Walker!” I exclaim, slapping the side of his head.