A Shrouded World (Book 7): Hvergelmir

by Tufo, Mark

  Keeping my gear with me, I scramble up the slope, my legs seriously filing complaints. If that wave was going to refresh things, why couldn’t it do it physically? I mean, there’s your cure for cancer. Shit, I would appreciate just a little ease. But, that’s not to be.

  As I’m moving upward, I wonder if my memories are the same as they were a minute ago. But there’s no use going down that path again; there’s no way to tell one way or the other. At the crest, I notice that the base and all of the people associated with it are gone. There’s just the flat plain of the desert.

  “Well shit. I guess there’s that,” I murmur. “It looks like I get a boon after all.”

  With hours left in the day, I’m now faced with two choices. Move out and try to cross now or hunker back into my little fortress and wait for the appearance of the night runners. They’re going to show, so it’s really a matter of where I choose to meet them. Glassing the plain, I search for some mode of transportation but come up empty.

  “I guess it’s here, then,” I mutter, stowing the binoculars and crawling from the crest.

  My legs inform me that this had better be my last time up, and I give them some vague promise. On my way down, I freeze as I catch a glimpse of red showing above the next crest over. This place is all shades of brown, so the color catches my eye. I watch for the color to move, but it remains steady. I don’t know what other horrors might await me on the planet, but I can’t very well ignore it and wait for whatever it is to find me unguarded.

  Putting on my stealth mode, I carefully work my way over and up, ensuring that I don’t dislodge a single stone. I take some time, and the sun moves further across the sky. I even lose sight of the color as I lower into a ravine and scale the opposite side. Gripping my carbine, I crawl the last few feet. My breath catches as I peek over the crest; I study the object from one end to the other, making absolutely sure that what I’m seeing is, in fact, real.

  I rise, standing on the crest.

  “Kalandar, you old fuck. I was wondering where you ran off to.”

  The red demon, lying prone on his back, resting, apparently, opens one eye.

  21

  Mike Journal Entry 6

  It started like all these things generally do…. Naw, that’s bullshit. It wasn’t a dark and stormy night like, I wasn’t wandering a forest and met by a mystical woman of magic, I’d not found some secret garden doorway to pixieland. This was a straight-up survival. I was sleeping because I was exhausted. Exhausted from the grind of the long day pretending I was a slave, exhaustion from a night of inaction, that truly fucks with you. A small break in the of soul-sucking work should have been welcome but when you’re running flat-out for so long, and then you pull up and do nothing, that’s its own form of torture. And I was weary of being wary. Warty still wanted his pound of flesh, and I had to keep pretending that when the whistlers pressed buttons on their little control boxes, that I followed suit. But I was like a beginning dancer among an experienced troupe: always a step or two behind. Sooner or later, I was going to get noticed.

  I kept figuring Jack was going to show up again, tell me he had a plan; I was good with acting on other people’s plans. But that was looking less and less likely as the days passed by, and the routine remained unbroken. Bob didn’t seem to be in any particular rush; maybe he was like an Ent from The Lord of the Rings mythology, opposed to being hasty. Sure, everything would happen in due time, but due time to him could be a year or five. I was a creature of impulse; no way I was waiting that long. Then Warty gave me the opening I needed, though I’m not sure that was his intention. I’d been doing the seemingly needless work of sending pulses into the ground; my arms were jelly-like by the time our shift came to an end when I got a wonderful meal of mushed and juiced alien directly injected into my stomach, then hit the rack. Bob himself looked pooped as he slumped down nearby, calling it a night.

  If Warty had waited another five minutes he could have killed me, but apparently he was getting impatient as well. I’d just closed my eyes, hoping to dream of a much better place, a field, my wife, a blanket, a basket full of sandwiches and a cooler of beer. I gave myself the imagery as vividly as I could, believing I could bring that realm into my subconscious. Might have worked, too, if I’d not heard a small grunt and the stealthy shuffling of feet. Almost didn’t care enough to bother looking; thought it might be Bob readjusting in his sleep. I got the start of my life when I half opened my right eye to see Warty standing above me with a rock that weighed more than I did. Suffice it to say, he wasn’t there to fluff my pillow. Can’t imagine what I would have felt if I’d been in the midst of a deep sleep. Or even if I had been awakened from a deep slumber and needed to burn the cobwebs away.

  I rolled like my life depended on it because it did. The rock slammed down not two inches from my skull as I barreled into the shin and knee region of Warty. He stumbled forward as I hit hard enough to lock up his left leg, if only for a moment. His forehead and horn smacked down onto the top of the rock, a spray of blood erupted from the contact. It would have been nice if that was the end of it. There was a loud crack as he forced the bent, maybe broken, parts in his knee to flex. He was rearing back with his good leg to punt me like a football. I did the only thing afforded to me...maybe I should have felt bad, but that’s the shit one gets when they try to kill another in their sleep. I punched up into what I hoped was his nether region. Don’t know if that was where he housed his alien genitalia, but regardless, it was a sensitive spot. Again, he doubled over before standing upright, his oversized hands came down to protect the area.

  I’d planned on hoisting myself to my feet by any appendage I could find there. I came away empty. Luckily, he was still in the throes of that stomach-seizing ache as I moved to find my feet.

  “Well, you’re either a Wartella or a super pissed off male with a serious case of micro-dick, or…what’s the term? A grower not shower? I get it, man, it’s all right.” I was on my feet, crouched, and ready this time for an attack, though without a weapon of any sort, the advantage was Warty’s on sheer size alone.

  “Bob! Could use some help!” I yelled without looking his way, I didn’t dare take my eyes off Warty. He feinted a move; outwardly, the beast looked like I’d done some damage to the leg, but I wasn’t taking the chance of an injury ruse to lower my guard. Then, as if the fun-o-meter pegged at eleven, a whistler came over to quell the disturbance. Only I didn’t know it. Warty went down in a heap, spasming, leg’s twitching, mouth clenched tight, hatred and pain in its eyes. I was left wondering with what I had done to elicit the reaction when an open hand slapped the back of my head, causing me to stumble forward.

  I was about to give Bob shit when I turned to see a whistler, pressing a combination of buttons that I’d yet to react to. Did I go into acting mode, or was it far too late for that? I decided the asshole cat was out of the bag, and he wasn’t going back in. The whistler was reaching for his office supply weapon, and just because the skull cap was off didn’t mean the toxin from the staple wouldn’t drop me on my ass. Then, no doubt, they would check to find out the cap had been altered, and I’d be fitted with another—or just made into porridge. I didn’t like either of those options.

  If he got his weapon out or called for more help, I was toast, and, whereas I liked cooked bread, I had no desire to be it. I lowered my head and pretended he was an opposing football player trying to head into the end zone on the last play of the game and steal my victory. I heard the loud puff of air blow out from whatever he used like lungs. Whistlers are tall and wiry and freakishly strong, but so was I, and I’d had the element of surprise. He folded in half like an oft-used book with a cracked spine. I brought my knee up, the tight, seal-like skin splitting wide. A disgusting stink wafted forth with more force than the blood that followed. He was dazed and out of the fight, but I was far from finished with him. This was a life or death struggle, not an officiated cage match. The whistler gurgled as blood filled its face and it fell over with a
thud. I brought the heel of my boot down a few times on its skull. It shook as it died, then became still. I had two things now: its weapon and a dead body. Waiting for Jack, Trip, or some mythical opportunity was over.

  “Bob!” I placed a hand against the jiggly mass and rubbed. It did exactly what you would expect; ripples formed and spread out from the contact. His eyes snapped forward, and an arm seized me. I could tell by the action that I’d startled the hell out of him.

  “Me, Bob, just me.” But he didn’t let go. There was a moment where I figured this had all gone south; the being I thought was my friend was going to eat me, or at least try. His grip began to loosen as he came to wakefulness.

  “Milk?”

  “Yeah, Bob, it’s me. We have a problem,” I said, although that was pretty selfish of me, sharing my issues. I moved out of the way so he could see my kill. Warty was still down but beginning to stir.

  “Milk?”

  “I know, Bob, I didn’t set out for this to happen. Warty attacked me and the whistler came up behind and tried to stop us. He found out the box didn’t work.”

  “Milk.”

  “Thank you for understanding, but we need to get out of here.”

  “Milk.”

  “Not yet? What do you mean not yet? Even if they can’t prove this was me, they’re going to make us all suffer.”

  Bob shuffled over to the body and then enshrouded the entire being. I got a distinct feeling he wasn’t overly thrilled about disintegrating the whistler; if I had to give a word, I’d say he looked constipated. That, of course, was until he began to relieve himself...I suppose that’s what you’d call it. He was dropping square shapes, pellets not much bigger than rabbit shit. If I thought the whistler blood stank, it had nothing on their waste product. This crap was so rancid that it made zombies smell like lemon-scented furniture cleaner, not the most unpleasant of smells, I just don’t particularly care for it.

  He kept moving so they wouldn’t pile up. It was working, but the area he was fouling up was expanding, as were his circles. Aliens that had previously been sleeping were waking as their senses were assailed. There was grumbling and shouting, plenty of grunts, but not one would face Bob directly. Got to admit, it was nice being the bitch of the baddest mofo in the prison. Now though, I had to wonder how many cartons of cigarettes this was going to cost me. By this time, Warty had stood, and he looked at me with a look I’d seen entirely too many times. He wanted to kill me in the worst way possible. His gaze crept to my hand and then to Bob. This day was not his, and he realized it. The problem I had now was, did I let him go. Would he tell a whistler what had happened here? Possible, but doubtful. I knew this guy; he would not want to be denied his measure. Had to figure the next time he came for me, he would be more careful, and how many times did I want to do this dance? Try to kill me once shame on you, try to kill me twice, and I’m the idiot for letting you go.

  Bob looked pooped, fitting descriptor. He’d forced his digestive system to shit out an entire being in record time. Whistlers might be skinny, but a hundred and twenty-pound log was going to hurt anybody. There was a joke in there somewhere; I just didn’t want to make it.

  “Milk.”

  “Really? You want to sleep now?” I was hopped up on adrenaline, taking on two opponents that had only your worst interests in mind tended to do that to you. We moved away from the circle of shit, as did everyone in the area. Where we walked, aliens moved away. By now, word had to have passed that we’d killed a whistler. This didn’t look like the type of place that would house sympathizers, brown-nosers, or those looking to curry favor. The whistlers had made it clear they were friends of no one. As near as I could tell, there was no one here with preferential treatment. What would that even entail? More gruel? That sounded like cruel and unusual punishment.

  Bob moved just far enough away that the odor had stepped down from putrid to pungent, then he was done. Not sure if jelly can snore, but he was making some weird vibrating squishy noise. As much as I wanted to get moving, to do something, I found myself exhausted. I made sure to find out where Warty was going to call it a night before I closed my eyes. He was far enough off right now, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t move within striking distance once I closed my eyes. Right now, shut eye was what I craved most—well, that, a field of roses and maybe a steak, toss a beer or seven in there, and all would be better. I stayed close to Bob for obvious reasons, and, just far enough away, again, for obvious reasons. I wouldn’t want him having a dream where he was eating a giant meat-stuffed marshmallow, confusing me with food or something.

  When I awoke again, it was to Warty standing over me. I was braced for the meat cleaver to the skull. When that didn’t immediately happen, I scurried away from his striking range.

  “Kill now.” What came from him sounded like wooden sticks being banged together as two over-zealous kids played at pirates in the midst of a hellacious sword fight. The translated English was not much better, neither the message nor the sound of it.

  “Well, let’s get on with it then. I have a date with a mining machine.” I got into a crouch. Instead of angering him and expecting a charge, he pointed over my shoulder to the tiny blobs that had once been a whistler. “Whistlers? You want to kill whistlers?”

  “Grawlix, yes.”

  “Grawlix? A good a word as any. So, you want to form an alliance? Is this a World War II, Germany / Russia alliance where we both know it’s fake and just buying time until we can put appropriate assets in place before we fight each other, or is this a US / UK alliance where we team up to fight the greater evil?”

  “Grawlix, kill.”

  “US / UK it is then.” I stood from my defensive posture. Bob had yet to awake; I wasn’t thrilled that my bodyguard took those moments off when I could most assuredly use his assistance. “Jack, where the fuck are you? I could use someone I trust.” I was now in league with two verifiable monsters, either of which could cause multiple nightmares. It was impossible to know their ulterior motives and how I would play into this at the end. What was I to either? I could be a sacrificial pawn for Bob and/or a future meal to both.

  Bob singling me out over the vast horde we’d been a part of made about as much sense as the rest of this world turned on its head. Could I be that lucky? Let’s see, I’d never won the lottery, so that was a strike against. I had married an incredible woman, leagues above my station, who was able to see past or through my many issues and foibles, so that’s one in the win column. I’d never won the Publisher’s Clearinghouse prize, even after I’d ordered enough magazines to stock a doctor’s office, so another against. I had kids that I loved and felt the same for me, and I had animals I adored, even though they didn’t always listen and made sure to puke on the carpet instead of the linoleum floor…(that night I ran out of treats and was handing out baloney like it was going out of style, so that one’s on me; not much in this world that isn’t more disgusting than regurgitated half-digested meat-like substances; it rivals whistler turds.)

  I thought I was homing in on an answer that would inform my decision. I was plentiful on the relationship side of life, the odds I was ever going to have been financially wealthy from a scratch ticket, much less so. Bob was somewhere in the middle; I felt like we’d connected on some level, but had it been a pure chance lottery that landed him in my lap, or had he rigged the system, and, if so, for what reason? I was back to square one. I made up my mind to trust Warty, until I didn’t. Not the way I liked to view my liaisons; if you are shaking one hand while waiting for the other to smack you upside the head, it eventually makes you a paranoid person or, in my case, more paranoid. I was from a big city; things done for you weren’t without strings. No one did anything for free; what could I possibly offer Bob?

  “Milk.” Bob nudged me.

  “No, no problem, we’re apparently friends now. I think I’ll call him Churchill. Seems fitting; I’ll pretend the horn is a cigar.”

  The sound that I now hated more than my alarm
clock when I was tied to a menial job, earning just enough to keep my family off the streets, had been replaced by a flat bleating sound that signified it was time to go to my menial job that paid nothing except in gruel.

  “Kill now.” Again, Warty, newly named Churchill, pointed over my shoulder. A platoon's worth of whistlers were walking amongst the crowd, roughly rousing those that had not gotten up quickly enough. That was more whistlers together than I had seen the entire time I had been here. It wasn’t a coincidence. They were looking for their newly de-pooped comrade. If ever we were in extreme danger, now was the time. The whistlers were smacking people, sometimes shooting them with staples for no apparent reason and even dialing up some skull scrambling fun with their little boxes—the same small box and staple gun I was holding redhandedly.

  Once in a while, a quick, inadvertent gaze from one of the aliens nearby would come our way. It was no secret among them we’d killed our overlord; the question was, would they keep that secret. Did snitches be bitches apply to this scenario?

  One of the whistlers stepped in the remains of its brethren, it slipped and fell directly onto another pile. It was both hilarious and terrifying at the same time. If, at any point, the whistler thought he was rolling around in the by-product of another, it did not show. Rather it seemed that they could be embarrassed, and he let that show by sending those closest into grand-mal seizures.

  The whistlers were sweeping closer, and I was thinking about sticking my ill-gotten booty down the front of my pants. I didn’t think it was going to fit, but if it did, if I got even more than a cursory glance, it would be discovered. Although, who knows? Maybe they would think it was part of my physiology.