A Shrouded World 4

by Mark Tufo

  To which I reply, “I can’t believe you were asleep at the switch.”

  “I was over there dealing with your last fuc…never mind. Okay, let’s take care of this. Don’t say another thing. Get up and walk away if you have to.”

  The delayed lever pull has led to many interesting situations and ensuing conversations. I’ve lived through them all so far, but there have been a few that were close. Usually it’s a verbal thing and I try backpedaling, with the little man in the control room leaning over with a hand to his forehead and shaking his head. Grabbing the mic, he says, “Just stop. You’re making it worse…please stop talking.”

  Yep, that’s the shit that goes on in my head. Fun times.

  I knew it was too good to be true, I think, wondering if I’ll able to get through the bubble that keeps turning me around.

  But, the little man upstairs is right: I shouldn’t push it. As it is, I’m only being turned around, preventing any forward progress. It could get a lot worse. I’ll try again in the morning, working around the town to see if there is some kind of passage past whatever is keeping me here. For now, I’ll head back to my little alcove and rest up for the night. I’m still tired from my last escapade and I have nothing to set up as a warning system, so I’ll have to remain awake if possible.

  Trudging back to my spot and sitting down after leaving my water a distance away, I pull out binoculars to view the town. I’m hoping that they’ll have an information center for lost world travelers, but I’m quite sure that’s not a thing. And, if it were, I’d probably walk in and see Trip smiling behind a desk. I’m not sure that would be helpful.

  Flashes of silver light appear deeper within and all along the trees, drawing my attention away from the town proper. The flares wink on and off for fractions of seconds, silhouetting the intervening trunks for brief moments. I hunker behind the rocks, quickly patting the mags on my vest. With the experiences in my world and the one I just left, everything out of the ordinary is classified in the “not good” category. If something comes out of those woods, unless they’re carrying banners clearly marking them as rescuers, I’m shooting first and will accept whatever ramifications follow.

  The flashing along the breadth of trees comes to a halt. The chimes of bells and boiling rock are the only sounds and it appears as if nothing has changed. There is, however, a certain tension in the air, which could be attributed to my own nervousness. I’m on the side of a lava-filled hill, next to a bubbling cauldron with a peaceful-looking town that I can’t get to nestled below, and lights that flash like giant fireflies. This is after fighting my way through a horde of mantis-like beings, in a world that was disappearing, only to step through a portal and be delivered here. That’s aside from my true world and the night runner infestation there. Yeah, life has become just one huge castle of fun.

  Under the gloomy night skies, the clouds glowing as they race past the cauldron, a sudden flurry of movement all along the tree line makes my trigger finger tighten. A closer look shows animals of all kinds running out of the trees and up the slope. Rabbits bound into the air in continuous arcs, squirrels mimic the movements on a smaller scale. A pack of coyote-like dogs emerge on the run and turn to the side to race up the slopes. A large cougar becomes a streak of fur as it outruns everything else, not even giving the rabbits a second glance.

  Well, that can’t be good, I think, watching the mass exodus from within the woods.

  Whatever those flashes of light were, the forest animals don’t like them very much, even the larger predators. There’s a chance that these animals appeared with those flares of light, but I don’t get that sense. That pretty much narrows it down: somewhere in the trunks below is some kind of larger threat. The hairs on my arms and the back of my neck rise with that realization. The sight of the exodus is something frightening to behold.

  Aiming at the tree line to my front, I watch as the animals turn away from the lava pit and frantically run, hop, and leap over the rocks as they seek to separate themselves from whatever is in the woods. And, from the looks of things, whatever spawned in there is coming this way. I begin thinking perhaps I should join the exodus and get the fuck out of dodge. However, I’d be the slowest among them, and it would be akin to being the slowest friend during a zombie apocalypse. For some reason, the man in the control room is silent and offers zero commentary.

  I hold my position, hoping that if there is any kind of pursuit, then it will continue after the creatures covering the lava field. I have an inkling that night runners might be out and about, but I don’t dare open up to verify. Perhaps it’s a biased thought coming from my experiences in my world. If there are any, opening up will only attract them to my position, and that’s something I’d like to avoid.

  A familiar ear-piercing shriek drifts out of the woods, answered by others still hidden within the trees. My heart both races and sinks with the sound. Night runners have somehow followed me to this place, and it’s dark out. So, yay me! I can’t help but feel a little responsible for their presence, but I’m not sure how I could have avoided it—or what I could have done to bring them here. Looking to the warm glows emanating from the town below, scenes enter my mind of night runners descending upon the populace. Without any kind of warning, there’s no way those people will live through the night.

  “Oh, fuck me!” I mutter, opening my mind up to the night runners.

  If there’s going to be a party, there’s no use in the villagers having all of the fun.

  My mind is instantly flooded with the picture-images of the night runners communicating, which I force into the background. Their locations are scattered throughout the woods below, some chasing after animals darting among the trunks, while others are heading toward the town. Having opened up, I’m immediately visible to them as well. Shrieks echo off the trunks as they sense me and turn in my direction.

  Glancing to the side, most of the fleeing animals have cleared the area, vanishing over the crest. I’d join them, but that would leave the townspeople vulnerable. I have a fairly decent vantage point and I’m uphill with a lot of open ground they’ll have to cross. Placing mags on the rocks beside, I wait for the ones I sense closing in. While this place looked peaceful when I first arrived, it has since drastically turned a one-eighty and it doesn’t appear as if my stay will be long.

  Why in the hell can’t I just teleport to a resort instead of constantly materializing into piles of bullshit?

  Shapes dart just inside the edge of the trees as the first of the night runners become visible. Pale bodies flash into the open, some halting to open their mouths and emit shrieks, adding to the chorus of bubbling lava and obsidian. It’s like being in the middle of an opera gone horribly wrong. My finger tightens on the trigger, my thumb pushing the selector switch to semi. I may have a full loadout of ammo, but that can disappear quickly. With the numbers I sense approaching, I’ll need every bullet. My goal is to try and slow those nearer, keeping the night runners as a whole at a distance. The terrain isn’t well-suited to be wrestling around and if I allow them to get close, I’ll be swallowed up.

  More night runners appear from the far edges, all converging on my location. I don’t sense any still heading toward town, but I’m not sure that’s really a positive thing. Sure, the people below may be safe for the moment, but that means more that will try and make me a midnight snack. Once they’ve finished dining, they will almost certainly head to town, proving my efforts futile. As my carbine is suppressed, the townspeople won’t be warned by the sound of gunfire, so my hope is that the shrieks will be heard and some sort of defense established, or at least they’ll be alerted. I could remove my suppressor, but having it on will provide me with a small advantage, and I need all of that I can get. The night runners won’t be able to hone in on the sound of gunfire if I move positions. So, as it stands, I’m just here to buy those below a little time.

  Legs pump as the night runners climb the slope, digging into the rocks and pushing upward. Several slip on
the wet surfaces only to rise again and clamber over the stones, at times crawling on all fours. Taking stock of those farther away coming from the sides, I place my cheek to the stock and look through the scope. The curtain has risen; the show is about to begin.

  I center the small crosshair on the nearest night runner scrambling over the porous surfaces below. Leaping over a mound of cooled molten rock, its eyes catch just right and flare silver. Keeping the fact that I’m shooting downhill in mind, I feel the hard metal of the trigger through my gloves as I begin to squeeze.

  The carbine kicks against my shoulder as the bullet is launched from its casing and starts spinning from the rifling. The round exits the barrel ahead of the compressed gasses and streaks across the barren surface. It has no concept of good or evil, it doesn’t make decisions based on morality, it only goes where it’s told to go. It’s the brain attached to the finger on the trigger that makes those kinds of ethical choices.

  The bullet impacts the night runner in mid-leap, slamming into the chest below the collarbone and adjacent the sternum. Nicking a rib, it angles into the chest cavity, its mushroomed shape tumbling and tearing through the soft tissue of a lung. Continuing on, the tumbling round conforms to the realm of physics, arcing through mid-section organs, through the coils of intestines, and slams into the pelvic bone. Blood sprays from the night runner’s mouth and nostrils, the impact of the bullet to its pelvis turning it in midair. The creature hits the top of a rocky mound and rolls once to stare at the overhead clouds. Its chest rises and falls in shallow gasps, blood bubbling out of its mouth with each exhalation. It then lies still, raindrops hitting lifeless eyes.

  Only registering the hit on the first, I move my reticle to another clambering over stone. The gusty wind is creating havoc with my aim; I hit the next night runner in the shoulder and have to send a second bullet downrange, this one hitting the chest. The night runner becomes wedged into a deeper crevice and vanishes from view. I’m thankful I’m not dealing with zombies, where I’d have to make picture-perfect headshots.

  Mindful of the ones climbing from the sides, I take aim at a third night runner clambering over the remains of the first. The cauldron is to my side, which will give me some protection against my right flank, but it will also hinder my ability to move in that direction should I need to relocate.

  I feel the kick of another shot, my target slipping at that exact moment. The round goes its head to spark off the rocks much further downslope. The night runner had fallen mostly out of sight behind one of the mounds with the top of its head is barely visible. Adjusting for the gusty conditions, I keep the aim point just above its position and stay ready to fire at the first hint of movement. The moving of the night runner’s head and the pull of my trigger come as one. It rises above the stone just as my round arrives. I’ve become used to the gusty conditions and better at judging the new aim points. The creature’s head snaps backward as the high-speed projectile crashes into the top of its forehead. The splintered and tumbling round rips through the gray brain tissue, all fragments hitting the back of the skull at different points. The resulting force cracks the cranium in a circular pattern, the bone flopping down and hanging by a flap of hair-filled skin. Blood filled with clumps of brain tissue ooze from the horrendous wound.

  Three down, fifty plus to go; I’m making progress, I think sarcastically.

  If it weren’t for the steep slope and the night runners having to climb, they would have significantly closed the distance and I’d be firing on automatic. I take shots one after the other, mostly connecting and slowing the rush from the front. However, with their speed and strength, the night runners are still able to get closer. And, I have those to the side to keep track of.

  Under the scudding skies, I keep firing downhill at the pale bodies closing in. While they aren’t all kill shots, slowing them will hopefully make them wary and prevent a sudden rush from all of them. Glancing to the side, I notice several have almost reached my level and are starting to turn in my direction. Others are still climbing straight up; it appears that they’ll also try to come at me from behind and from higher up.

  Classic pincer move.

  I won’t be able to hold them off from three different directions. I really wish these were mindless creatures that didn’t have any concept of tactics.

  More night runners fall among the rocks to my front and below. Spent cartridges tinkle off the hard surfaces to my side. The night runners have closed the distance below, but I don’t have any choice but to start on the ones moving in from the side. My position, which once felt fairly secure, is becoming less tenable. I slam a fresh mag into the receiver and flick the bolt release, the nearly spent mag clattering on the rocks.

  The night runners are closing in, forcing me to move the selector switch to auto. Taking aim at the nearest gathering, their shrieks rolling across the barren hillside, I fire quick bursts into their midst. One is in midair, leaping over a rise of rocks. My burst stiches upward across its chest, the creature falling head first to slam its chin into the stone with a loud crack. Another falls to the side and rolls a little ways down the hill.

  I try to stem the tide heading my way, sending burst after burst into the night runners. The oncoming wave is relentless, slowly forcing its way forward through the fire. The slope is littered with bodies, several wounded crawling over the rocks. Shrieks of pain and rage reverberate over the roar of the lava pit. Slowly, the mass of night runners closes in on my position.

  Stashing mags in my pockets, I rise and begin to slowly backpedal. The uneven terrain forces me to feel for each footing as I deliver bursts into my old nemeses. I feel the heat against my back, steam rising from my wet clothes. A quick glance over my shoulder shows that I don’t have much more wiggle room. I could make a break for the crest, but that won’t gain me much. Plus, I don’t know the location of the ones that continued up the slope. I do, however, angle to the side in an attempt to create a single front, herding together the ones still coming from below and those to the side.

  I’ve made a significant dent in the night runner numbers, but not enough to slow their relentless approach. The intensity of the heat on my back tells me that I’ve nearly backpedaled as far as I can to and feels as if I’m about to become immolated in a tower of flame. The orange glow is reflected off the bodies of the closing night runners, those below having joined with the few remaining to the sides. I worry about the ones who climbed above me, but I have enough on my plate at the moment and can only pray that I won’t get blindsided.

  As if knowing that they’ve cornered their prey, several pause to emit horrific screams before racing forward. The roar and plop of the molten lava behind is loud and I’ll have to keep the location of the pit in my mind if quarters become close. One misstep, forgetting where the edge is, and that will be it. I keep a steady stream of fire into the leaping and running figures, all bathed in a reddish-orange glow like vacationers sitting around a campfire. Blood sprays into the air, highlighted in the radiant illumination. Bodies drop onto the warm rocks, some still while others attempt to rise or crawl away from their pain. Shrieks roll through the night, overriding the sound from the cauldron and the tinkle of spent cartridges.

  Even though bodies are strewn across the slope from the tree line to the pit, I’m finding it hard to keep them at a distance. Their speed and agility is just too great. Few remain, but it will be a close thing to see who falters first. On this hill, a battle rages as people in the town below sit at their tables, eating from plates with wisps of steam rising from vegetables and cutting into juicy steaks. In the warmth of their homes, they are unaware of what is transpiring on the heights above.

  Near the edge of the cauldron, with my neck almost blistering from the heat, night runners bound over the rough terrain. I fire a burst into one, blood blossoming on a stained T-shirt from multiple hits. The creature spins from the impacts and stumbles to the side, its foot becoming wedged in a crevice. Off-balance and severely wounded, it falls to the
side, the loud snap of its tibia breaking clearly audible.

  I carefully step to the side, attempting to navigate the edge of the lava pit in order to gain an extra foot of separation. I’m breathing hard from the fight, both from the energy expelled and the adrenaline. Each inhalation is like breathing fire, my throat dry from the heat. Sweat rolls out of my forehead and down my face, occasionally stinging my eyes when I blink, but evaporates before falling all of the way down my cheeks. My side and neck fiercely ache from wounds that haven’t wholly healed.

  About to fire another burst into a closing night runner, I hear the slap of a foot hit a rock nearby. Instantly dropping my carbine to let it hang on the lanyard, I take a step forward and start rotating. A night runner is in the air, its arms reaching out for me. The flanking group has arrived.

  Continuing to turn, I reach out and grab the front of its torn shirt. I’m now out of the direct path of its lunge. With my other hand, I grab at its beltline. From the pitch of its ensuing shriek, I may not have exactly grabbed its belt. Guiding the night runner past me, I give a push and launch the creature over the edge of the cliff. Still shrieking, its arms and legs frantically waving to reach any kind of hold to stop its fall, it tumbles into the lava.

  Hitting with the slap of a heavy splash, the night runner becomes engulfed in flame. The surface undulates, pushing several partially hardened chunks of rock to the side. The creature vanishes below the surface. A second later, the surface surrounding where the night runner hit begins boiling with increased activity. Fountains of lava start spurting skyward, the surface of the cauldron churning. The activity increases, sending fountains higher and higher, several plops of molten rock landing on the ledge near where I’m standing.

  Knowing that others have to be close, I quickly duck and turn back uphill. Another night runner is in the air, its pale face reflecting orange, mouth open in a soundless scream, eyes locked onto mine. The fire churning below is reflected off the orbs. Its expression changes as it realizes it’s going to pass over the top of me, my duck taking me under its leap. I don’t even bother assisting it as the creature seems to be doing fine all on its own. It makes a last ditch effort to reach me, one arm extending downward. I feel the brush of a hand across the top of my head, the body and then legs leaving my field of vision. A trailing shriek follows the creature’s path as it goes over the edge.