A Shrouded World 6

by Mark Tufo

  “Trip, if we get close to that thing or brush up against it, will we vaporize or become radiated or some other shit?” I ask, pointing to the structure.

  Trip walks over and places his hand near the dull black wall, shying away a couple of times before touching it.

  “No,” he answers confidently, looking back toward us.

  “Well, that’s one way of finding out, I guess,” Mike comments.

  “Okay, we’re moving along the side of this thing. Try to stay under the falling water as much as possible. That will make you harder to see, but that also means that you won’t be able to see out. I’ll follow a little way behind to keep an eye out for enemies,” I state. “Mike, you lead.”

  Mike, Trip, and BT enter the cascading waterfalls and fade from sight. The water flowing over the box-like protuberances higher up creates a small space between the water and structure. I start forward after a few seconds, hoping our paces match.

  The steps come into sight. Several shapes are poised at the stairs, some looking upward and others staring into the debris field. With the amount of dirt piled up near the base of the structure, it’s hard to tell just how deep the cube actually is. As I inch closer, hoping the others don’t just run into the midst of those gathered near the stairs, I’m able to make out two taller forms clad in black. The other six are shorter and lighter in color.

  Take out the whistlers first, then the zombies. Headshots, Jack.

  I take a knee and bring my carbine up, centering my crosshair on the nearest whistler. Remembering how quickly the whistlers can turn and fire, I know I need to hit them fast. I fire into one, the single round rapidly closing the distance. I hit the whistler in the white, fleshy folds of its head, the bullet, as usual, being absorbed. The creature falls like a bag of meat dropped from a second story window.

  Before the first has fully fallen, my sight is on the second. The alien being is already turning when my round slams into the side of its face. Chunks of flesh and dark liquid burst from the other side of its head, blending with the steady downpour. The heads of the zombies quickly rotate in my direction. With barely heard shrieks, they turn and begin racing away from the steps toward me, their feet leaving the solid surface to churn through the mud.

  Rain splashes on the top rail, making the sight picture difficult. It wasn’t so bad when I was firing at the blur of figures, as they presented larger targets. Now, having to be more precise, makes it more difficult—especially with their heads bouncing up and down like some boxer looking for an opening.

  I fire. The lead zombie does a backflip as my round connects neatly in the center of its forehead. Black viscous fluid explodes out from the back of its head, splashing on those behind. The next one in line shoves past the one falling. Its gray skin is shredded near the cheek, torn so wide that I can see a line of stained teeth past a clump of hanging skin. I fire, my round slamming into its face just below its half-torn nose. Shards of teeth and dark fluid fly out and its head rocks backward hard. It goes down like a player sliding into second base.

  The third one leaps over the first, its gray face sagging like a melted candle. Droopy eyes look like a few Saturday mornings I’ve had in the past. Its ashen lips are peeled back in a snarl. I fire a third time, watching as the right side of its face peels off like moldy newspaper. My round ricochets off the cheek bone to race around the side of its skull, carving a wide furrow. I fire again; its eyeball explodes like a paint gun pellet. It spins around and drops nearly atop the second one. However, the others have closed in, and I have to rise and quickly backpedal.

  I take aim at one only a few feet away when I see its skull explode like a rotten pumpkin. Viscous liquid splashes on my face and chunks of brain stick in my hair. Another goes down behind that one, and I’m able to see that Mike has stepped out from the waterfall to place shots at an angle into the rapidly closing zombies. Moving my reticle, I take aim at the final one. Our rounds hit at almost the same time and the skull explodes in two directions. The nearly decapitated zombie continues walking in short steps, the legs not aware that there’s no longer a captain steering the ship. After four halting steps, it drops.

  The stairs are clear and we race across the remaining distance. Well, three of us speed across, the fourth kind of shambles. It’s likely that BT will be in marathon-shape before long.

  The flight of steps leads to a wide panel, like the many decorating the surface of the structure. To one side is a large silver inlay inset into the wall. Embedded into it is a variety of what I presume are handprints at varying heights. The tallest one has three huge fingers that looks like a T-Rex’s footprint with another digit extending out on the opposite end. Another has webbing between the fingers and set a little lower. It’s kind of like a who’s who of alien species.

  “I believe that’s yours,” I say to Trip, pointing at a human hand outline.

  “Oooh. Is this like having a star on Hollywood Boulevard?”

  “Exactly that. To complete your mark on the Walk of Fame, all you have to do is put your hand on it,” I respond.

  “Uh, Jack. You might want to hurry,” Mike says as he fires a shot.

  Turning quickly, I see figures emerging through the rain. Sparks fly from the walls as whistler staples hit. Mike continues firing single shots toward the encroaching figures, some whistlers and the other zombies.

  “I’m not sure about this,” Trip says, his hand wavering in front of the human imprint.

  Mike has switched to burst firing, his shots now continuous.

  “Your choice in this matter is not an option,” I reply, grabbing hold of his hand and thrusting it into the handprint indention.

  The print glows and Trip lets out a yelp of pain, trying to pull his hand free. Staples hit all around and I look over his body, expecting to see that he’s been hit by one. He tries to pull his hand back, but I hold it there. The large panel beside us slides down without a sound, revealing a dark corridor beyond.

  “Mike, time to go,” I shout, letting Trip’s hand go. “Everyone in now!”

  Huddled against the panel, BT basically falls through the doorway. Mike rises and fires a few more shots, then bolts inside. Trip is holding his forefinger, and I push him inside, but not before noticing a small trickle of blood where the finger was in the imprint. I fire a few more times, wincing as staples impact all around.

  All of a sudden, an overpowering fear envelops. The staples stop clanging against the wall and steps. I know what this means; the Overseers have made their appearance. I’m rooted in place, my bowels turning watery. A wave of energy powers through the dim gray shapes of the whistlers, who are also fixed in place. The blast looks like a concussive wave flowing out from a giant explosion, the force of it pushing the rain ahead of its path. I find the ability to move from somewhere, and by move somewhere, I mean nothing under my conscious control. I dive through the opening.

  The door slides closed as I land on top of a scurrying BT. Something hard slams against the panel, the sound clanging down the immense hallway. Lights come alive at the top and bottom of the walls, racing down the corridor along its length. As the door remains shut, the oppressing fear dissipates. However, the fact that Overseers are on the other side brings its own dread.

  Rolling off BT, I grab several knives. I step to the entryway door, and cram two blades into the slot the door drops into, one near each end. I only have one more knife, and jam it near the middle. With the butt of my carbine, I hammer on them to wedge them more firmly.

  “Mike, do you have a knife?” I yell.

  There’s no response, so I turn around to see an opaque figure wavering in the hallway. All three are staring at the ghostly shape. Moving forward, the figure takes on more definition.

  “Welcome, Traveler. This is the waystation of World Two Five Four, residing in iteration five one two,” the apparition says, directing its gaze toward Trip. “The control room is ahead, and refreshments are available when you desire them.”

  “Ask it if it c
an seal the door?” I whisper to Trip.

  “Uh, can you, well, keep the door closed?” Trip asks.

  “I cannot, traveler. I am merely a greeter for all who arrive. All are welcome who possess the code to enter,” the apparition replies. “Proceed at your leisure.”

  The ghostly shape dissolves, leaving four dripping wet humans standing in the hallway.

  “Mike, I’m going to need that knife,” I say.

  Mike turns and pats down his body, withdrawing one and handing it over. I walk back to the doorway and wedge it next to the other one in the middle. The knives may or may not hold the door closed, but the idea is that the door moving will only tighten the knives wedged into the gap. If they don’t hold, well, then we’re about to get a face full of pissed off Overseers.

  “What did that ghost mean by having a code?” BT asks.

  I grab the finger Trip is still holding. Sure enough, there’s a red dot of blood on the pad.

  “I’m guessing some kind of DNA sequencing,” I answer, holding up the finger.

  “So, I’m guessing we don’t have that,” Mike says.

  “More than likely not. Probably why the whistlers wanted him. I’m also assuming the Overseers will be able to access this place,” I respond.

  The door screeches as it attempts to lower, grinding against the blades I wedged into place. The Overseers are trying to get inside. A small gap appears at the top and the door shudders to a halt. We all turn, seeing a thin line of gray showing from outside.

  “How long do you think that’ll hold?” Mike asks.

  “Anywhere from the next three seconds to an eternity,” I comment.

  The door shudders and then doesn’t move anymore.

  “Well, it looks like we might have some time to figure this shit out,” Mike says.

  “Who knows how much, but yes, it looks like we may have a little reprieve.”

  “Well then, to the —”

  “If you say Bat Cave, I’m throwing you out there with them.”

  Mike closes his mouth so quickly that I think I hear his lips smack together. Without completing his sentence, he turns and starts down the hall, muttering to himself. Unlike the exterior, the corridor is smoothly lined with satin-black walls, floor, and ceiling. From how deep this establishment is buried, this waystation, as the apparition stated, it’s been here for some time. Possibly since life formed on the planet. I wonder if Atlantis had a structure like this one buried somewhere and whether it had the same look. Was it possible that the portal we found there was that planet’s version of a waystation? It didn’t have a greeter, like this one, but I suppose every one of them could be different. Or was the one we found a structure the whistlers created? Does every planet with life have one? If so, I wonder where the one in my world is buried.

  The most amazing thing, if this place is ancient, is that there isn’t a speck of dust to be seen anywhere. Even when I look back toward the door, there are no splashes of water from where the rain had to have fallen in. As a matter of fact, we aren’t leaving a trail of water behind us either. It’s like the floor is absorbing everything, other than us beings.

  For kicks and science, I take out one of the few bullets I have remaining and toss it on the floor behind. It clinks and bounces before coming to a stop where it spins in a circle. Nothing out of the ordinary happens to it, but I watch as water droplets, still falling from my soaked clothing, are immediately absorbed into the floor.

  “Huh,” I mutter, walking back to pick up the shell. “Maybe it’s just organic material?”

  Or maybe there’s a waiting period for manmade objects.

  I’m rather relieved to see that the bullet wasn’t absorbed, because that would mean the knives would be as well. The hallway ends at another, this one arcing to the left and right. Straight across is a closed door panel inset into the wall. As we walk forward, the door begins to shimmer, going from solid to translucent, and then to clear.

  Inside is a brightly lit room. We step through and the door returns to being solid again. There’s an amazing collage of screens embedded into the walls and set all around the room. A continual stream of work lines form at the bottom of most, the lines scrolling so that the ones on top vanish. Other monitors have images which are replaced every few seconds.

  In the middle is a round table of sorts, its surface concave and brightly lit. Rotating above it is a six-foot hologram that is quite unique. It looks like a giant, fiber optic lamp. You know, like the kind you wanted as a kid. The base is a bright orb of light with thousands of strands arcing out from it. Just like the lamp, the ends of each strand are brightly lit. Looking closer, I see there are tiny annotations along each, denoting which iteration each stand represents. And along each strand sits a single, attached, tiny bulb of light.

  I cautiously reach my hand closer, expecting the hologram to either shock me or vanish at my touch. It doesn’t, and I touch one of the tiny bulbs along one of the iteration strands. Nothing happens.

  “Trip, touch this,” I say,

  Cramming the rest of a Slender Joe into his mouth and chewing loudly, he reaches over and does as I ask. The bulb brightens and an annotation appears in the midst of the strands—“Iteration 941 control point.”

  One of the screens changes. On top, it says: “Iteration 941,” with some information below it.

  Iteration 941

  Health – 94.3%

  943 viable worlds

  847 hosting life forms

  Advancement level 10 - 0

  Advancement level 9 - 16

  Advancement level 8 - 37

  Advancement level 7 - 119

  Advancement level 6 - 46

  Advancement level 5 - 52

  Advancement level 4 - 213

  Advancement level 3 - 18

  Advancement level 2 - 196

  Advancement level 1 - 150

  51 infected worlds

  49 hosting life forms

  Advancement level 10 – 0

  Advancement level 9 – 2 Average Decay percentage 32%

  Advancement level 8 – 4 Average Decay percentage 94%

  Advancement level 7 – 7 Average Decay percentage 23%

  Advancement level 6 – 1 Average Decay percentage 73%

  Advancement level 5 – 9 Average Decay percentage 51%

  Advancement level 4 – 3 Average Decay percentage 16%

  Advancement level 3 – 8 Average Decay percentage 79%

  Advancement level 2 – 12 Average Decay percentage 57%

  Advancement level 1 – 3 Average Decay percentage 6%

  6 worlds lost

  The screen then scrolls though the numbered worlds, the ones I’m assuming are in some stage of what it’s calling “decay” highlighted in red. I’m at a loss for words. What I’m seeing is so overwhelming that my mind is about to shut down. I’ve always thought about parallel universes, but seeing the actual existence of them is way, way too much. So many thoughts and questions are cycling that I can’t catch hold of a single one.

  Like, who made this shit originally? Is it organically grown, meaning, is this scripted? Or can worlds join and develop life forms on their own within an iteration,,,or are they manufactured and set in stone? Is an iteration a single universe with the viable worlds within it all attached back to whatever the source of the light is? How do black holes figure into this? Are they the attachment points, waiting for a viable world to form in the galaxy and then provide the attachment back? Some scholars might be onto something when they say that the human mind would go crazy if we were ever to hear the voice of God. Seeing this whole thing makes me want to get back to my world and forget this shit even exists, just run along on my day to day life happily unaware.

  “Trip, see if you can bring up iteration 512, the one we’re on,” Mike says.

  “Bobaflexa, show iteration 512,” Trip says, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

  Bobaflexa? What the hell is a bobaflexa? I think, about to ask when the image starts altering.

 
; The hologram vanishes and is replaced by a single strand bearing the iteration number. Just like the fiber lamp before, this image shows the worlds arcing off from the strand. Most are brilliantly lit, but there are a few showing varying shades of red.

  “Holy shit!” Mike breathes. “Get it to show this world.”

  “What world?” Trip inquires.

  “Two five four,” I state.

  “Bobaflexa, play a Grateful Dead mix,” Trip says, taking a toke inside his jacket, trying to hide it from Mike.

  The hologram vanishes altogether.

  “Yeah, this isn’t frustrating,” I comment. “Trip, do you want to try that again without asking Alexa for anything else?”

  “Ah, come on, Yack. What better music is there to watch the cosmos with?”

  “Pink Floyd, for one.”

  “Zeppelin,” Mike interjects.

  “So, can we get back to the task at hand? Those Overseers aren’t being idle, and it would be nice to have some answers before they figure out a way in. Do you want to go back to their gentle ministrations?”

  Trip pinches his joint out and stuffs it into an inside pocket. Before long, we have the planet depicted as a hologram again. It apparently has a population determined to be an advancement level 8, and has decayed by 95%, which would explain the weird environmental shit we’ve come across. It also means that we don’t have a lot of time. As I’m looking at one of the readouts, the number clicks over to 96%. Now, I don’t know how fast a world decays, but it can’t be good that we’re near the planet’s demise. And I’m assuming the whistlers are responsible for all of the worlds decaying.

  “These are all pretty pictures and everything, but what are we supposed to do with it?” I ask, more muttering to myself than trying to elicit any dialogue.

  “I’m guessing each world has one of these waystation on it,” Mike says. “Maybe we can bounce from one to the other somehow.”

  “You think we can go to any world from this one?” I ask, somehow hoping there’s a way home from this structure.

  I’m kind of excited finding this thing, and that was one of the first thoughts I had upon seeing the hologram and worlds listed. That this place is some kind of portal generator, and Mike and I could bounce to our respective worlds. Of course, which iteration and number those are is up for question, but the hope is there nonetheless. This place recognizes Trip as a traveler, so presumably he knows how to operate it, somewhere inside that scrambled mind of his.