by Tufo, Mark
The blobby creature moves closer in a threatening manner. It appears that Mike and it? Her? have become friends.
I’m finally able to see some clarity come to Mike’s eyes. “Fuck, Jack, sorry. I’ve been so lost in my…in my head for so long.”
“Can you tell your, um, friend here to move?” I say, attempting to peer around the massive bulk of the alien.
“Bob, it’s okay,” Mike says.
“Bob?” I question.
“Yeah, it’s Bob. Long story. Pretty sure we’re long lost kin. Fourth cousin, twice removed; he’s probably from the South.”
The alien now known as Bob moves away and I lean down to get into Mike’s face. It’s imperative that he understand what I’m about to tell him and he seems to be fading away again. “Mike! This is fucking important.”
“I’m listening, I’m listening,” Mike replies, but his expression says differently.
“I hope you are, man, because this is crucial and I have to leave. Soon, you’ll be coming up on multiple forks on your pathway. There are seven tunnels. The first two you go to the far right, the third the far left, the fourth you go through the second to the right, and the fifth one is dead center. Are you with me so far?”
Mike’s eyes glaze over from exhaustion. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was stoned. But he nods as if he understands.
“The sixth is the pathway immediately to the right of center and the last is again to the far right. Fuck, I have to go. Don’t fuck this up,” I say, grabbing his head between my hands. “This is for your life, Mike.”
“Got it, got it.”
“Okay, and I’m sorry. I have to go.”
19
Jack Walker — Chapter Five
I feel terrible about leaving Mike there, especially as he doesn’t seem to be doing well. I know that kind of exhaustion. It’s the people around you that help you through those times, and here I am leaving, just like Trip stranded us. Looking across the vast plain with the hordes of gathered creatures, a plan comes to mind. In the distance, yet another group has formed. I start working my way through the current group, attempting to get at the back.
A warning comes for the group to move, the aliens slowly rising to carry on their trudging march. I push my way through the oncoming masses, some parting and others allowing themselves to be moved out of the way. Others are too tired to move and I have to scoot around them. Careful not to get pushed into a hole, I get close enough to one in order to look into it.
The sides are nearly vertical, the top ten to fifteen feet comprised of packed dirt. The remaining thirty-five to forty feet is roughly-hewn bedstone. Lying down quickly, I take out my knife and stab it into the dirt. The blade sinks in, but without causing an avalanche of dirt or carving away big chunks. It’s possible that I might be able to stab into the dirt at an angle and hold on to the knife while creating small footholds with my boots. If I can do that, then I should be able to remain in position for a period of time.
The oxygen requirement for that much activity may not allow it, but it’s the only idea I have at the moment. Climbing out is going to be a bitch as well, and then there’s the possibility of being discovered. Well, that’s what I get the big bucks for. Oh yeah, that’s right, I don’t get paid to do any of this shit. And I can’t quite call myself a volunteer. So, I’m an unpaid conscript. That’s just fucking lovely and really puts a nice frosting on the cake. Fucking Trip! Why couldn’t he have chosen that asshole who cut me off on the freeway? I’d be all for that.
I work my way back to near the end of the group. Leaning over one of the holes, making sure it’s empty, I thrust my blade into the soil a foot below the lip. I want to make sure I’m on the wall nearest the groups moving through the area. I chuckle internally thinking about me being on the far wall and looking back at the passing groups and whistlers. That would make a good Far Side comic. Perhaps I’m truly going insane.
Being at the close wall will minimize the line of sight to me, although I’ll be easily seen should a whistler peer over the edge. However, the guards don’t appear very attentive. It seems like they’re using the lower levels of whistlers and didn’t even bother training them. Those minding the prisoners are more bullies than guards. They just need to know where the shooty end of the barrel is. I imagine that those assigned here must have really pissed someone off. Perhaps the outer boundary guards, the ones who captured us, have a little more training. After all, they’re allowed to play with bigger toys.
The ground has been flattened and hard-packed from the unending groups of aliens passing over it. I ease over the edge as the last of the group is passing by, hoping that the blade holds and I don’t plummet fifty feet down to the hard rock below. It would be just my luck that I’d break a leg and starve to death at the bottom of the pit.
The angled blade holds as I dig my boots into the soil to gain footrests. The action leaves me breathless, but I manage to catch my wind while hanging on the wall. The solid footfalls (or whatever else the creatures use to move) fade, and I’m left in silence with only the glare of the sun sweeping down on me.
My arms grow tired and I have to constantly switch my weight from one foot to the other. I perhaps didn’t think this all of the way through. Before much longer, with my shoulders aching, the ground begins to tremble. The next group of aliens is approaching. I wonder just how many the whistlers take on any given day. Is this normal, or did we catch a mass movement in time? Did some of these creatures first hang out in the holes for days or weeks on end?
My arms are shaking by the time the first aliens begin to appear above me. I’m only able to make out some of the taller ones’ heads and hope to hell one of them doesn’t fall into the hole and knock me from my perch. I saw enough of them do it when I was marching along. The trembling ground slows and then halts as a break is called. Tired, I use my waning strength to hoist myself out of the pit to lay on the ground, panting.
One of the food drones comes to hover over me and the feeding process begins. I think that’s rather fortunate. It seems that the drones merely look for a helmet that hasn’t been fed and latch on to it. There must be an internal switch that says one has been fed that is either reset after a period of time or slowly works back to the “feed me” setting.
Feeling a little refreshed, I rise and start moving toward the rear of the line again, making sure to keep away from any roaming whistlers. When I see one draw near, I pause and take a seat. There are enough standing, or whatever it is they do, that allow me to move carefully to the rear. Slowly, at last, I find myself near the back of the pack just as the warning to move rings out.
One of the suns has set, casting a greater dimness over the land. It’s not night; I haven’t seen anything like that before, but the dimmer of the two suns is out, making it more like dusk. From what I can tell, the two suns are moving at differing speeds in the sky, which makes sense, considering they’re probably orbiting each other. I wonder how the rotation of this world fits in with an orbit that must go around both of them. With it always being light out, the rotation of this planet mustn’t be in line with the orbital path. Would that bring about long periods of darkness as the planet orbited? If so, how cold would it get?
I can’t help these random thoughts that occur as I work my way further out into the plain. The groups arriving have slowed, and it probably won’t be long until I’m a solitary figure standing in the open just screaming for the whistlers to come and get me. I guess I’ll just figure it out when I get to that point, although I’m wondering what in the hell Trip was talking about when he mentioned meeting him at the Grand Central Station clock at 5pm. That just doesn’t make any sense whatsoever.
I know the clock is a landmark; people in New York may tell arriving guests to meet them there. Travelers? Trip is a Traveler, at least that’s what I believe. Does it have something to do with that? But where would I find a clock in this god-forsaken place? It’s in a wide-open area in the main concourse. I stare back at the inverted pyramid. Did
Trip mean to meet in some place inside and I’m just wasting my time out here? Is there a clock tower inside? Fuck me and his ridiculous riddles.
I know several movies portrayed the landmark. Men in Black, which dealt with aliens, had a scene there…at least I think it did. But now I know I’m grasping at straws. And how in the hell am I supposed to know when it’s 5pm? This is worse than him whispering “One year.”
Okay, let’s take this a step at a time. The clock is a landmark, so I’ll go along with generally accepted definitions. The pyramid, which I just fled from, is a landmark. Am I fucking supposed to be inside? Maybe there’s another landmark, but I certainly don’t see one from here. As a matter of fact, there’s only one distinguishable feature, aside from the pyramid, and that’s a mountain that rises in the distance. Its dark steep slopes rise almost vertically with a plateau on top, reminding me of the Devil’s Tower in Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Could that be what the lame-ass hippy is referring to? It had aliens in it as well.
Fuck it! That’s where I’m headed. Call it a “pull,” like those in the movie felt, or maybe it’s just something to latch onto. If I was supposed to be inside, then so be it. I’m too tired to really have any rational thought at this stage and I’m definitely not headed back into that pyramid. Now that I have a goal in mind, the only question is, how am I going to get there? My cover of alien masses is coming to an end, and I’ll stand out like a sore thumb if I venture off across the plain. With the perimeter forces spouting railguns and hover cars, I’ll never make it.
If our trek in was any indication, there are likely other dangers as well. There were those thorny plants which devastated the bottom of my boots. Any trip and fall there would result in my bleeding out; it makes sense that the whistlers would have modes of transportation that hovered.
Perched in an empty hole, I watch as mechanical arms appear overhead. They’re apparently lifting another group of aliens out of holes and gathering them for the long march. My legs are tired and aching from the walk both there and back. I haven’t slept in god knows how long, adding to my delirium. I crawl out of the pit, my legs wavering and reach down to grab my knife. With my hand around the handle, I hear the familiar voice say: “Move.”
I’m at the edge of the hole-filled plain. This is likely the last time I’ll be able to use groups as cover to backtrack through. Withdrawing the blade from the wall and hiding it with my body, I start to wearily stand. Glancing over my shoulder, I see a whistler standing not a foot away, his hand clutching one of the box-like devices.
Faking a stumble, I lurch toward it. The whistler, with its gangly and oddly oriented joints, starts backward. Reaching out in an attempt to stabilize myself, I clutch the creature’s leather jacket and pull it toward me. In the same motion, I plunge my dagger up and into the lower chest, driving the blade upward. I hope to hell it has some vital organ placed similarly to ours or this isn’t going to end well.
That thick oily substance again oozes over my hand. Breath is forcefully expelled, droplets of the same splattering across my face. The stench is awful, but I push harder and twist the blade inside. Dropping the black box, the whistler sags into my arms. I turn with the whistler, still hanging on my knife, and shove it into the hole, my blade coming clear, dripping with ooze. Bouncing off the walls, the body hits the bottom with a soft thud.
Glancing around, I expect to see more whistlers converging on me, but I only observe the aliens standing around, staring at me. At least, I think most of them are. Some I just can’t fucking tell. I shrug, hoping that the move isn’t some offensive gesture. Bending down, I scrape my knife clean as best I can on the hard-packed ground.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see quick movement. Looking up in time, I see another alien, a brute who looks like a rhino mated with a rock, shove another whistler into a pit. It starts off small, confined to the area around me, but more aliens attack the whistlers unfortunate enough to be positioned within the group. Soon, bedlam takes over.
Aliens start running off into the vast plains beyond. Well, running isn’t quite accurate. I should say moving quickly, but they’re also limited by the available air, water, or whatever they use. They move a distance and then pause to rest before starting out again. The few whistlers on the outer margins begin pressing on the black boxes they hold, sending alien after alien to the ground.
Jerking the hidden weapon I confiscated, I start firing at the whistlers in sight. The accuracy of the device is lacking, but the distances aren’t great. I manage to hit a few, eventually sending them off to dreamland. Looking around, there are a lot of this group writhing on the ground, but an equal number are still heading off into the plain. Interestingly, a few are still standing in their original places, perhaps confused as to what they should do. Using them as cover, I move around the area to fire at any whistler I encounter.
With the aliens breaking free, I know it can’t be long until the surrounding guards arrive en masse and subdue the fleeing crowds. It’s time I was gone. Those heading across the wide-open plains are completely exposed. The mop up operation to round them up will take some time, so I may have a chance to create some distance. With the perimeter guards being pulled in, I may be able to squeak through their lines.
I start off toward the mountain towering in the distance. There are a few creatures heading close to the same direction, so I opt to take a path toward my target that is free of any aliens. I’m going with the mindset that the whistlers will involve themselves where the fleeing creatures are the thickest. Although, if they have some sort of orbital surveillance, I could be screwed. My goal is to make it to the mountain before I’m picked up…obviously. I’m still not sure what Trip meant by being there at 5pm, but I’ll get there when I get there. In all probability, I’m heading in the exact opposition direction from where I need to be.
The hard-packed ground gives way to a grassy prairie once I’m away from the pits. I would like to say that the stalks sway under a soft breeze, reminiscent of a summer day. But that’s so far from the truth. There is no breeze in this air-deprived world. And a summer day it is not. Perhaps if I could get enough air, I’d rethink that. The dim light from the now solitary sun in the bleached sky only adds to the misery.
Behind and to the sides, aliens are still fleeing, albeit slowly, across the fields. However, I notice a few black dots farther away that are growing larger. Luckily, they’re not coming from the direction I’m headed, but I’ll still be spotted soon as the grass is only about knee-high. I watch as they draw closer to the larger groups, who fan out as the whistlers approach. One by one, the captive aliens go down and are loaded aboard the numerous hovercraft.
I’ve made it far enough away that they’re only tiny stick figures, but with even the grass bleached to a straw color, any creature can be easily spotted. More hovercraft appear on the horizon with a larger ship flying within the armada, this grouping coming from a different direction. Again, I’m fortunate; this new sighting isn’t coming from ahead. Even though there’s a fair distance, the bigger vessel looks like the one that fired the railgun earlier.
Speaking of which, would the night runners appear here? I mean, it’s eternally daylight, so they wouldn’t last long. Even if the sun isn’t putting out the gamma rays that instantly fry them, they’d quickly succumb to the lack of air. Shit, I’m struggling just to keep going. I’m exhausted, hungry, thirsty, and every effort to pull in more air seems thwarted. I wonder if there’s a built-in limiter in this mask. It seems that it compresses the thin air into something breathable. I’d like to be able to turbo-charge the thing.
The black dots of the whistler ships grow larger and are busy chasing down the still fleeing aliens. But those groups have grown significantly smaller. It won’t be long until they’re picking off the stragglers like myself. Beyond spent, I lie down in the grass to minimize my signature. The knee-high stalks rise above me, hopefully hiding me enough that the whistlers don’t venture my way. I listen, but exhaustion blurs m
y senses.
I wake gagging. I fight against the horrible sensation, terrified that my mask has fallen off. I then realize that it’s the feeding tube rising into my throat.
Oh fucking great! I fell asleep and I’ve been captured again.
I leave my eyes closed as the sludge is poured into my stomach. I feel the energy almost immediately, but am somewhat taken aback by not hearing the command to move. Feeling a tickle against my forehead, I open my eyes to see straw-colored stalks directly in front of me. I rise up slowly to peek over the top of the grass. The plain is mostly empty. In the far distance are groups of aliens slowly wending their way toward the inverted pyramid. Closer in is the thermos-looking food tube flying back in the same direction.
“Well I’ll be damned,” I whisper, not only in amazement that I’m still free, but also that the feeding thing sought me out.
That is both a boon and a danger. I don’t know the range of those things, but it appears that, for now at least, I won’t starve or become overly dehydrated. The thin air wicks away my moisture a lot faster here, but not to the point where I’ve worried. The danger lies with a whistler observing a feeding apparatus heading far out into the plain. That means the helmet has some sort of tracking system on it, and if the whistlers care to, they could more than likely track me using that signal. I’m also assuming that the helmet won’t signal if I’m dead, so they’ll know that a live creature exists and will hunt me down.
I don’t know how they knew we were there to begin with when we arrived. We did make it quite a ways before being found, so perhaps we triggered some proximity device. I can only hope that’s not the case and I activate one now. The lighting is still dim and I guess I’m thankful for the rest as I feel more energized, both physically and mentally. I remain still and carefully search the area for any sign of the whistlers. The stink of the whistler blood is still upon me, but I ignore that as much as I can.