A Shrouded World 6

by Mark Tufo

  Mike is panting and shivers. “Time for talk is over. We need to get some cover, even if that means going partway down the slope. I don’t care if I have to stand under a waterfall.”

  He’s not wrong. It’s only a matter of time until one of those strikes lands too close.

  “Okay, we’ll move a little ways down the slope and hide behind a rock. You get BT up and moving. I’ll scout a way down and some place to hold up. I hope the Whistlers aim is shit,” I shout.

  “Trip, you stay here,” Mike says.

  We both start crouch walking in opposite directions, freezing when the ground begins to tremble.

  Oh shit, that’s not good.

  “That’s them! The alien ship is here,” Trip yells, standing.

  The ground shifts a little more under my boots and I notice the surface of the waters beginning to quiver.

  “Mike, the whole cliff is about to go,” I shout.

  I turn and run toward Trip as a giant crack appears on the surface of the mesa a few feet behind where he’s standing. It grows wider and longer, traversing along the length of the plateau. Splashing through the water, I tackle him, hearing his surprised “oomph!” and leap. I see the crack growing wider underneath. We land in a splash, Trip bearing the brunt of our collision with the ground.

  My feet are hanging over the edge of the widening crack. Water rushes over and around the two of us and pours into the split. With a sudden lurch, the entire face of the bluff gives way and an avalanche of dirt and rocks sweeps down the steep hillside. The water surges against both of us, threatening to send us over the side.

  The gigantic landslide roars downward, leaving my boots dangling in space. Torrential waves of water cascade over the new edge. With one hand, I attempt to hold onto the ground, water rippling over it. With the other, I’m hanging onto Trip’s belt, pushing him forward. Water rushes against my face and it’s difficult to lift my head high enough to get a breath.

  I feel a hand grasp the drag handle of my vest and another close over the hold I have on Trip’s belt. We’re both pulled from the ledge and deposited. I look up to see water pouring from Mike’s head. I rise to my knees, giving him a nod of thanks.

  After checking that Trip is okay as well, I reach for my carbine, relieved to find that it’s still attached to its lanyard and didn’t tumble over the side. Even though I’m out of ammo, I’d feel even worse if I were to lose it.

  “Mike, can I open my eyes now?” Trip asks.

  “What?” Mike responds.

  “You told me to keep my eyes closed,” Trip says.

  “I said to keep them closed for a couple of minutes.”

  “Well, has it been that long? I want to see the aliens.”

  “Yes, Trip, you can open them.”

  Trips pops open his eyes, twisting his head around to look for his light show and spaceships.

  “Can you see?” Mike asks.

  “Of course I can. Well, there’s a jagged streak of light in my vision. Do you think lightning hit my eyes?”

  “Yeah, Trip, that’s what happened,” I say. “I bet you can even shoot lasers out of them now.”

  “Don’t be silly. I don’t have the right kind of crystals behind them,” Trip counters.

  I have so many questions about that, but he’s already moving toward the edge of the plateau. I lunge forward, grabbing his upper arm and bringing him spinning back around.

  “Easy there, bud. I love your enthusiasm but this isn’t Christmas morning.”

  Trip’s expression is eager as he glances from me to the edge and back. He then leans forward to whisper, “Yack, we have to hurry.”

  Now, hurry isn’t really in my vocabulary. There are basically only two times that word applies: when I’m shopping, and when I wake up and there are things to get done. Other than that, I like to feel my way around situations before leaping into them. With rain pouring down and lightning striking all around, the fact that nearly a quarter of the mesa just fell victim to gravity, a horde of zombies and whistlers wait below, and us nearly out of ammo, I feel that “hurry” is the last thing I want to do. However, this is Trip, and even though he drives me nuts half of the time, I’ve grudgingly learned to listen to his rantings.

  “Okay, but we’re doing this at my pace,” I reply, releasing his arm.

  Mike comes to my side with a reluctant BT. Together, we creep to the edge and peer down. Rain pours over the side in numerous waterfalls, the streams turning to droplets as they plummet further down, eventually hitting the debris of the landslide nearly forty feet below. The cliff face sheared off for the entirety of its length, like a calving glacier. It had apparently fallen and then tipped over, spreading earth and rock for a great distance across the desert plain.

  The firetrucks, which I have no idea where the whistlers obtained them from in the first place, lay shoved aside, two of them tipped onto their sides. The remains of the other two are canted, their raised ladders angled crookedly upward. Of the zombies, very few can be seen, the rest buried under tons of dirt and rock. I have no doubt that they’re still alive, but with the weight they’re under, they won’t be moving anytime soon, if ever. Several are scrambling out from under piles of debris closer to the edge of the landslide; the whistlers stand farther out on the plain.

  I take all of that in at a glance, as there’s something else that the landslide revealed that has most of my attention. Partially uncovered below is some kind of structure that looks similar to the Borg cube ship from Star Trek. It’s mostly black, and the part I can see is nearly vertical with odd cubical sections extending outward like rooms added to an apartment complex after the fact. Silver tubes run in and out of the surfaces, seemingly placed at random. The top and sides of the structure that are visible must have been buried under approximately ten feet of dirt. The building itself isn’t that tall, but if the structure holds to shape with the rest of the mesa, it’s incredible wide and thick. At the bottom near the middle is a set of wide steps leading up to the main part of the gigantic cube-shaped structure.

  “I’ll be damned,” I mutter, looking over at Trip, who is dancing around with glee, jumping up and down with his arms raised in the air like he won an Olympic Gold Medal. He then transitions to running rapidly in place with his fists pumping up and down.

  “Yack, I told you the aliens were coming!” he yells.

  I have no words and merely nod.

  Reaching over to grab hold of my sleeve, he points down toward the steps. “We have to get there.”

  I look to where the whistlers and few zombies are in the midst of recovering.

  “Mike, Trip says we have to get to the steps.”

  He glances in that direction and then down the nearly sheer sides of the alien cube.

  “We’re not getting down from here.”

  “Let’s head to the side and see if there’s a way. We’ll have to contend with the remaining whistlers and zombies…. Split your ammo with me.”

  Mike reaches to his vest and hands me two mags.

  “That’s it, huh?” I ask, checking one mag and placing it in the receiver.

  He shrugs and we start off toward the nearest side of the plateau. BT is doing his best to plod along, but barely manages more than a quick walk. Mike slows to cajole BT along. I leave them behind because it will take time to eyeball a route down if one exists, preferably one out of sight of the whistlers below so they can’t see what we’re attempting to do. I wonder if their plan all along was to have Trip lead them to the cube. It doesn’t really matter as we’ll have to face the remainder of them, and in all likelihood, by the time we scale down the cliff, they’ll have fully recovered.

  With nearly a hundred and twenty rounds between us, plus Trip’s slingshot, that should be enough for what remains of the once numerous zombies and whistlers, as long as we don’t blaze away at them like Rambo. The continuing rain smacks into my face and already soaked clothing. Flashes of lightning and rolling thunder echo across the desert. It’s not quite
the torrential downpour it was, but it’s still heavy. I run, not caring that I’m currently the tallest object. If I get struck, well, I won’t have to worry about the upcoming battle.

  Minutes later, I reach the side and lean over to catch my breath. Water pours past my boots to cascade over the ledge. Creeping toward the edge, I see that the sheering of the cliff has left a steeply angled path down. It’s slick with water sluicing down it, but with care, we can make it. Trip skids to a halt near me, and I have to grab him to prevent him from starting down.

  “It’s you they want. If you go first and they capture you, we’re fucked. So, you’re going last,” I tell him.

  Water runs down his face and through his beard, his hair stringy and pasted to his head. He crouches in place and looks up.

  “You know, Yack, you’re the tallest thing around.”

  I grumble, but he’s not wrong. I crouch next to him. Together we look through the driving rain for BT and Mike to appear. Every minute allows the whistlers to recover and gain back the advantage. The two finally appear as dark shapes coming out of the downpour. Mike is dragging a stumbling BT by a sleeve. I can tell from his face that he’s both sympathetic and frustrated. The big man is like dragging along an anchor in everything we do.

  BT reaches where Trip and I are crouched, out of breath, and looks down at the path I show Mike.

  “I’m not going down that,” BT says.

  I rise and stand in front of him, inches from his face.

  “Now look here. We’re going down. If you follow, fine. If you choose not to, that’s also fine. I get that you’re not in shape for what life is currently throwing at you, but you’re here. I don’t like it anymore than you do, but we’re here as well. You’re giving up without even trying, and that puts the rest of us in danger.

  “So, you have a choice to make. You can stay up here and be struck by lightning or wait until the whistlers get you, if not the zombies. Do you know what whistlers do to their food? They drag it in chains behind those bikes of theirs. Sounds like fun, doesn’t it? Or, you can go down with us. Yes, there’s a chance you’ll fall, but if you take care, then maybe you won’t. So, you weigh those options and take a look at that path again.”

  BT deflates like a flat tire. “I’ll try.”

  “Okay, that’s the spirit. You go first and I’ll hang onto the back of your collar to help with your balance.”

  “I know why you want me to go first. If I fall, I won’t take the rest of you out,” BT says.

  “Nooo, that’s not it at all. Okay, yes, that’s exactly why,” I reply.

  We start down the slippery surface. It’s a narrow path with room for only one at a time. His feet sliding with nearly every step, BT inches down. I have a grip on his collar and catch him from slipping each time. About two-thirds of the way down, he steps on an embedded rock. The dirt around it crumbles and it shoots out. BT’s feet lose traction and I’m unable to keep hold of him, his collar slipping out of my fingers. He falls on his rear, his hands clawing for purchase. Unable to grasp onto anything, he bounces his way down, his butt slamming into the ground with each one until he pitches forward. He lands face first on the landslide debris with a thud.

  I scramble down and kneel beside him, lifting his arm and rolling his mass over to his back. Yeah, I should have checked for neck injuries and such, but my fear was that he was drowning in the muck. Water streams down his muddy face as he gasps for breath.

  “Now see, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” I say.

  “Fuck you!”

  “Not even on a drunken dare,” I reply.

  Mike and Trip land beside us. “Mike, you and I will go take care of the whistlers and Zs. Trip, you stay with BT. We’ll come back for you.”

  “What if you don’t?” BT asks.

  “Then start praying,” I answer.

  “What if I don’t believe in god?” he questions.

  “You will.”

  The soaked debris pile tapers down to the plain. Water splashes down on it from the heights, creating curtains of water near the exposed structure. The driving rain limits visibility, turning anything far into unfocussed shadows. The roar of the downpour and echoes of thunder make hearing anything next to impossible.

  “So, we can try inching along under the water falling from the top or take a wide flank out into the plain and hopefully come up on them from behind. Your choice,” I yell to Mike, trying to be heard above the tumultuous noise.

  “Is the goal to take out the whistlers or to get to the steps?”

  “My guess is that they already have some stationed near the steps, expecting us to go there. We can take them out and maybe find a door inside,” I say, shrugging, “or take the flank. Hell, they may even be moving to the sides in anticipation of us coming down or finding their own way up.”

  “If that’s the case, then they’ll find Trip and BT,” Mike says.

  “Then we’ll have to move fast,” I reply.

  “Flank, then.”

  “Okay. It’ll be disorienting when we lose sight of the cliff and structure. Stay within sight of each other.”

  Mike and I spread apart until he’s almost a shadow. We move across the debris field, angling away from the building. Together, we advance with our carbines shouldered and aiming ahead, our heads and barrels sweeping left and right. Reaching the end of the landslide, we alter our direction to move deeper into the plain, hoping to move behind where I picture the group of whistlers to be. The tall mesa quickly fades from view until it’s just us and the rain.

  After a while, we turn on a parallel course to the structure, or as near to it as we can with the visibility. The idea is to get behind the whistlers and then move back toward the structure. Anything we come across is considered to be an enemy, so we’ll shoot anything that moves.

  Working forward, we search for any target. Six dark smears appear in the falling rain, which has again thickened to a torrential downpour. Lightning flashes in the skies above, highlighting tall lanky forms dressed in black. Without hesitation, Mike and I fire single shots into the nearest ones, watching them drop.

  The other four whirl rapidly around, filling the air with staples. Mike and I dive for the ground, placing two more rounds into bodies which vanish from view. More dark shapes materialize through the driving rain. Staples whiz close overhead, only heard above the roar of the storm when they pass within inches. Several impact the muddy ground nearby as the whistlers start finding their range.

  I signal to Mike, and we move quickly away until the dark shapes are lost from view. Staples continue to pierce the air and thunk into the ground, the whistlers firing blindly. We roll to the left, rising again to move further to the side. We then again start a slow creep forward, coming at them from a different angle.

  Again, we encounter dark smears through the rain. Crouched, I sidle to Mike. “We’ll hit two and run.”

  He nods and we inch a step or two closer. Firing at two objects, we watch them drop out of sight and run away at an angle. We move to yet another position and again start forward, taking down two more before moving out of sight. Closing in for a fourth time, we notice that the dark objects we encounter are moving differently.

  “Zombies,” Mike mouths.

  I nod and point for us to fall back. Head shots will be difficult with this visibility. If we were to get closer to get a better shot, the zombies would be upon us before we’re able to take them all out.

  “They’ve brought the zombies up. That means the whistlers have moved,” Mike says.

  “Most likely. They may be trying to flank our flank. But, the zombies out here is a good sign as it means fewer at the structure. I think it’s time we head back and try for the entry, if there is one.”

  “Why else would there be steps in front?” Mike questions.

  “Exactly. But, if it merely swung open like a pair of saloon doors, the whistlers wouldn’t be out here,” I reply. “There has to be some kind of mechanism, and who knows how long that will tak
e to figure out.”

  “Are we taking bets that Trip knows how?” Mike says.

  “He’s liable to stand in front and scream ‘friend’ in every language he knows, even some he doesn’t,” I respond.

  “So, we get there and buy him time.”

  “I guess. Fuck, that’s as good a plan as any, I suppose.”

  “To the Batmobile,” Mike says.

  “Oh Jesus! Trip gave you a pill and you took it, didn’t you?”

  “As a matter of fact, he did. But, I still have it. I should have given it to BT before he bronco rode down that path.”

  I chuckle as we make a wide circle back into the plain, watching for any sign of the whistlers moving against us. Above the deep rumbles of thunder and roar of the rain, both Mike and I hear another sound.

  “Are those their bikes?” Mike inquires.

  “Sounds like it. I bet they’re using them to move more quickly around the area in the hopes of catching us.”

  “That means we should kind of hurry then. They get here too quickly and there won’t be a thing we can do about it,” Mike says.

  There’s my favorite word again, but this time it’s highly appropriate. With our weapons still held ready, we start running in a wide circle back toward Trip and BT. They won’t be able to effectively follow us, as the rain immediately washes away our tracks. Without a reference point, I’m not sure if we’re heading in the right direction, so I’m relieved when the shadowy outline of the structure looms into sight.

  “More to the right,” Mike shouts.

  We angle back and come upon the others only to face a drawn slingshot.

  “Easy, Trip, it’s us,” Mike shouts, diving away.

  “Are you sure? The whistlers could have eaten you and stolen your voice,” Trip responds.

  “They can do that?” Mike questions.

  “It could be possible.”

  “Put that thing down before you take an eye out,” I yell.

  “That may be you, Yack, or another decoy. What is it that you hate the worst?” Trip hollers.

  “At the moment, you!” I reply.

  “It’s him,” Trip says, lowering his slingshot.