A Shrouded World 6

by Mark Tufo

  Kneeling just at the edge of the steam, I scan the terrain in front. The steam is hot, but it’s something I can tolerate for a few minutes. The whistlers are still in the same positions, their heads searching the length of the cold front. The sudden changes in temperature have done a number on my body. I’m still shivering from the cold with sweat streaming down my face from the heat. I have to say that it’s not an overly comfortable feeling.

  I pull back the charging handle and check the round in the chamber to make sure it hasn’t been warped by the extreme cold and abrupt transition to heat. Satisfied that it won’t blow up in my face, I bring the carbine to my shoulder.

  The caliber of the weapon given to me by the soldiers from another land looks similar to the 6.5mm rounds I’ve fired from a modified M-4, but is perhaps a touch larger…maybe around 6.8mm. I have no idea about the ballistic characteristics, and only roughly sighted it in to around a hundred yards when we were first given them. The whistlers are further out, perhaps four hundred yards away, so I’ll have to wing the first few shots.

  The thermals rising from the desert will effectively cause the bullet to hang in the air longer. I sighted in when it was hot, so the heat here won’t be much of a factor. From what I remember, the 6.5mm and 5.56mm rounds had similar drop characteristics out to four hundred yards. The smaller bullet dropped perhaps a couple of inches more at that range.

  I place the reticle about a foot and a half over the lead whistler’s head and fire. The retort echoes over the vast plain. A spark issues from one of the raised handlebars just in front of the whistler with the ricochet carving a deep furrow across its white, wrinkled head. I think I may have taken out one of its last tufts of hair. But giving it a shave doesn’t do me a lick of good in my current situation…or any circumstance I can imagine, for that matter.

  I center my sight another two inches and fire as deep-throated rumbles from their motorcycles carry across the sands. Firing again, I’m rewarded by a whistler falling backward with its bike tumbling onto its side, throwing up a cloud of dust. The creatures gun their engines and roar down the road. Those off to the side start moving forward as well, but their speed isn’t as fast because they have to negotiate the uneven, sandy terrain.

  Focusing on the middle group, I fire again and watch with satisfaction as a whistler spills from its seat and the bike skids along the roadway in a shower of sparks. I keep placing rounds into the group. Several times, I only see sparks as the bullets slam into metal and ricochet. The whistlers are at speed now and quickly closing in. I hit another one. Its bike slams into the ground and then becomes airborne, somersaulting through the air. Each time it hits the pavement, pieces fly off.

  Another bullet finds its mark, the whistler’s motorcycle spinning and careening into a nearby rider. Both bikes slide in showers of sparks. That’s five down out of the original middle group of ten. I hit a sixth, its bike rising up on the front wheel as if the rider slammed on its front brake. The whistler is catapulted forward, hitting the hard surface and bouncing several times before becoming nothing more than a lump in the road.

  That’s six down, but they’ve rapidly closed the distance, and I’m certain they know exactly where I’m firing from. The groups to the side are also quickly angling in on my position. It’s past time to go. Turning, I run through the steam barrier and hit the cold zone. The sweat which had been running down my face freezes almost instantaneously. I hear the patter of the freezing rain as I quickly work around the car blockade.

  The sound of the idling truck is just ahead when the rumble of the bikes intrudes into the cold zone. I hear several hard thuds and the sounds of crashing metal behind. In the gloom of the storm, two dark shapes rush in the air past my head to collide forcefully against the truck and flop to the ground. Hoping the intense cold hasn’t shrunk my barrel, I fire into each of the unmoving shapes. My bullets sink into their flesh like it is Jello.

  A swishing sound captures my attention. Looking down, a whistler slides past me, its arms and legs flailing awkwardly to gain purchase on the slippery surface. I fire into its body just before he skids under the truck. I hop onto the step, open the door, and clamber into the driver’s seat. Shutting the door, my fingers start to burn in the warmth of the cab.

  I jam the truck into gear and start forward, going down the icy shoulder of the road. The rear wheels ride up and over what I presume is the whistler who slid under the truck. Then I’m down the embankment and driving across the ice-covered sand, parallel to the boundary. I wasn’t able to account for the tenth rider of the middle group, but a third of the whistlers are taken care of.

  I didn’t see the two groups enter the cold zone, but they were definitely angling toward my former position when last I saw them. Where they are now is anyone’s guess. I would like to drive in the storm for a few miles and then exit in the hopes that the whistlers remain focused on the road. However, there’s a chance that they’ll just head back to their former positions and wait for my eventual emergence.

  Again, I don’t have the fuel to drive far without getting out and refueling, but I’d like to take advantage of the chaos and confusion they must certainly be experiencing. Their bikes are much faster and more maneuverable than the boat I’m driving, so I hope to create some distance by emerging away from where they were converging. Maybe they entered and are floundering around in the storm searching for me. I’d like to be well away before they come to their senses and realize that all they have to do is wait like they did before.

  I start angling toward the barrier, soon emerging through the steam and out onto the desert plain. Looking toward the road, there are about ten bikes racing back and forth, creating a dust cloud, which partially hides those within. Hastily glancing around the area, I don’t see any sign of the other ten, which means they have to be inside the storm.

  The truck jostles and bounces over the terrain as I take a long angle back toward the road. I carry no illusion that I won’t be spotted soon as I’m leaving a trail of dust in my wake. I decide to make for the road as I’m quite sure the highway travels through the gap in the mountains ahead. I would be best served by remaining on the sand, as the truck will do better than motorcycles on the plain, but seeing as the gap is my destination, I might as well be on the road. Otherwise, the whistlers can just travel along it, pass me by, and wait for me there. Plus, I seriously doubt they can force me off the road or get by me if I play it smart. Stopping to refuel is my biggest concern, aside from making it to the road without being intercepted.

  The dust cloud they’ve created now hides the whistlers from sight. Dividing my attention between the desert and the whistlers, I periodically see a flash of glinting metal or a dark object within. I hit the road, angling up the embankment.

  It’s hotter than fuck and I have to watch that I don’t melt the tires. Although, how I’m going to achieve that is anyone’s guess. The sun is near setting below the line of mountains so the temperatures should be dropping soon. I keep my speed down, even though speed is what I want right now. I have to wonder how in the hell the whistler bikes are able to endure the heat without melting, as I also wonder how they’re able to endure the temperature extremes themselves.

  As the last of the sun’s rays flash over the mountains, the sky ahead cast in deep oranges and reds, I catch a sharp glint through my rearview, then another. The whistlers have figured out that I’m no longer in the storm and are in pursuit.

  The opening in the mountains is not far, but it will be a close thing. Of course, the deep valley doesn’t mean really much of anything. It certainly doesn’t mean sanctuary. It’s just a destination. Glancing nervously at the fuel gauge, I see it won’t be long until I’m forced to deal with those following. As the sun sets, the land quickly fades to gloom and then total darkness.

  Through the side mirror, the flashes from the sun glinting on metal is replaced by the glow of headlights. I’m not sure if headlights are required for the whistlers. Maybe they can’t see in the dark,
although I thought they were able to. Or did I? I wrack my brain trying to remember, but can’t think of a single memory which denotes that it’s one way or the other. I keep my lights off because I don’t want to make it any easier for them.

  The darkness is replaced by a silver radiance which spreads across the desert and highlights the encroaching mountainsides. A nearly full moon has risen above the storm clouds to bathe the land in its glow. The gap through the tall ridgeline is approaching, but so are the lights to the rear. To one side, a dry gully begins to form, becoming deeper the further I travel. Silver glow from the moonbeams illuminate the steepening sides, but the bottom is hidden in darkness.

  Sweat pours down my face and back, but air is cooler with the sun setting. The speedometer creeps up as I press the accelerator, the hum of the tires on the pavement increasing. The pass is just up ahead and it looks like I’ll reach it before the whistlers catch up. Of course, that’s not the endgame, but it’s another step. I glance again at the fuel gauge for the hundredth time and am reminded that I’ll have to come up with something to rid myself of the whistlers damn soon.

  There should be twenty or so of them remaining, so I’ll have to position myself with a tremendous advantage. I study the mountainside features, looking for that edge. They’re mostly stone and sand with sharp ridges descending from the tops. Deep cut ravines, carved over eons, are hidden in shadow. The problem will lie with the heat, as I won’t be able to endure it for too long without it affecting my mental capacity. At least it’s night, so that will help.

  The road begins to climb at a shallow angle, steepening as I draw closer to the pass. The wadi to the side grows deeper until it becomes a chasm with a sharp drop-off next to the road. As I enter the pass, it feels like I’m entering a tunnel. Steep hillsides of loose stone, sand, and boulders tower over the roadway. The highway is really just a two-lane ledge between the deep chasm and steep hills. Across the gulch, the hillsides rise just as sharply.

  The thing that becomes most noticeable is the decrease in temperature. It’s like walking in from a hot summer day into an air-conditioned house. The relief is almost immediate. I’ve been worried about the fuel barrels in back, suspecting that I’ve been driving on a ticking bomb, expecting to be launched into the next life at any moment. I didn’t dare think of that for long as I might bring the possibility into existence.

  I slow as I come to a sharp curve, easing the big vehicle around the ninety-degree bend. Once around, I stop and glance up the hillside. It’s steep but it can be scaled. Several boulders are perched along the slope, having fallen from the top but without enough momentum to reach the bottom.

  I haven’t seen nor heard any sign of night runners, the first time I haven’t had the pleasure of their company when night fell. I open up my mind and catch a faint reflection of them far out on the desert. In the past, they’ve appeared near my location. They must have shown up near my previous spot when night fell and I had outdistanced them. I wish I'd come up with a plan to incorporate them to destroy the remaining whistlers, but my heat-addled mind just hadn’t thought of it.

  “Well, I guess there’s not going to be a more ideal location,” I breathe, parking the truck angled across the road.

  Hopping out of the still-running vehicle, I clamber up the slope. Rocks and loose sand roll downward with each step, but I scale the side and perch behind one of the smaller stones, which will allow me a view of the entire road. The hillside I’m on is deep in shadow, the darkness across the chasm still bathed in silver from the moonlight. Jagged ridgelines carve the night sky, a narrow band of stars crisply twinkling from other worlds, suns, and galaxies.

  The cool night air is a relief. I still have no idea how the whistlers are able to endure such extremes, but perhaps their ability to adapt is how they’ve managed the things they have. Below, I faintly hear the low rumble of the idling truck, but otherwise, the gorge is soundless.

  That doesn’t last very long though as the night air becomes filled with the faint roar of Harleys echoing off the steep canyon walls. The sound increases and soon the sharp corner becomes illuminated with the headlights of the approaching whistlers. I double check my weapons, feeling a little naked without two of my six-inch blades. I have several mags to fill the carbine, which should be enough as long as I don’t engage in an extended firefight or have night runners suddenly appear.

  The faint roar grows and becomes thunder reverberating through the gorge as the bikers round the corner, the motorcycles leaning over near the ground as the whistlers negotiate the turn at high speeds. The rumble abruptly becomes the screech of brakes as the truck blocking the highway is suddenly illuminated by headlights. Sparks fly as the leading groups of bikes are dumped and slide along the road. Sharp metallic clangs fill the night air as bikes and riders plow both into and under the truck. One of the motorcycles hits the truck head on, the bike rising up and flinging its rider over the cargo bed. The whistler bounces and skips across the road, disappearing over the edge.

  Also launched are the remains of something that had been towed in chains behind the bike. I had forgotten that nasty aspect about the whistlers, that they have a tendency to drag the bodies of their prey behind their bikes.

  One rider, its bike skidding in a shower of sparks, slides right over the embankment to plummet down the deep ravine. Another skids into one who managed to stop their bike on the very edge of the road, sending that unfortunate whistler over the edge. I regret that I don’t have any grenades, as two or three would make short work of the chaotic entanglement below.

  Taking aim, I begin firing single shots at the whistlers attempting to extricate themselves from the wreckage. With their weird limbs, it looks like a bunch of chickens strutting around. My first shot hits the top of a whistler’s wrinkled and folded white head. As before, the bullet seems to be more absorbed than impacting. The rider slumps to the ground amid the wreckage of bikes.

  All heads turn in my direction as a second shot takes down yet another one, the reports echoing off the steep canyon walls. Those who managed to stop in time are still astride their bikes. As one, their arms raise toward my position. Near my shoulder, a spark pings off the rock, and a whine fades into the night. A sharp tink sounds from the front of the boulder and a heavy thud comes from near the base. The whistlers have sent a volley of the paralytic staples. I’ve fought them before but never realized they had this kind of range. More sparks appear from the rock, along with the dying whine of ricochets as the others amid the wreckage add their own.

  I trade fire, taking down two more until the sheer number of staples hitting too closely forces me to take cover. I hit the ground and crawl to the edge of the boulder to give me a little more protection. The sparks and pings against the stone multiply as the whistlers keep my position under constant fire.

  Lying at the corner, I edge around and again fire single shots downward. Sparks fly from the road and bikes from a couple of my better shots, but I manage to take down two more. Thuds of staples hitting and embedding into the ground send dirt splattering into my face. Aiming at another, I’m suddenly struck by a high-pitched whistling which seems to come from inside my head. My skull vibrates painfully from the sound which nearly threatens to split it apart. Tears come to my eyes from the agony, and I’m unable to focus on anything else.

  I clasp my hands on both sides of my head, trying to both hold my head together and press the stinging pain from it. It’s so painful that I become nauseous. My eyes are tightly closed but I grope for the carbine in front. I know I have to do something or they’ll just be able to stroll right up to me. Staples continue to hit around me. Through tightly squinting eyes, I’m barely able to make out the shapes of five whistlers walking up the slope in front.

  That’s a mistake, I think through the pain.

  Shakily sighting in on the first figure, the white head seeming to glow in the surrounding darkness, I fire. A small cloud of dust rises from below my barrel, but I see the blurred image of the whist
ler tumble backward and roll all of the way down the slope. Ignoring both the pain and the staples hitting inches away, I sight in on the next in line and send it following after its pack mate.

  The whistlers are sliding back as much as they are climbing. I hear the zip of staples passing over my shoulder to thud into the dirt just a couple of inches from my side. Shards of rock fall into my hair as another hits the stone just above my head and ricochets. They’re getting the range down. I fire again, hitting a third attempting to scale the hillside. With that, the two remaining turn to run back down, their backward knees making the whole thing look extremely awkward.

  Oh no. You’re not getting away that easily.

  I fire two quick shots and watch as they both pitch forward and slide down the hill. The agony in my head has lifted a little, but it’s still excruciating. If I have my count right, that should be eleven down with at least nine remaining. However, this position is quickly becoming untenable. I push backward, and, apparently just in time as a staple heavily impacts the ground where I had just lain. Several more follow, the ground becoming stitched with them, the thuds registering one after another.

  Nestled behind the boulder, I replace my mag with a full one. I stow the nearly empty one with only a couple of bullets remaining. I’d hate to be out of ammo when two rounds might see me through. Risking a peek above the rock, I see that five are climbing up the slope off to the side in an attempt to flank. Four are standing at the edge of the road, firing into my position to keep my head down.

  All of a sudden, I’m released from the agony inside my head. I guess they decided it wasn’t doing any good. The relief is so abrupt that I stumble backward, tripping on the slope. The memory of the pain persists, a phantom pain, almost as real as if it was continuing.

  Hastily scrambling to my feet, I lean back across the stone. I opt to engage those on the roadway. That way, I won’t have to deal with two sides at once. The ones climbing may make for easier targets, but I don’t want the hazard of flanking fire. It’s really six of one, half dozen of the other, but I want a free lane to the truck in case this shit really turns south.