by Mark Tufo
I’m fucking screwed. Trip is down and with him, his slingshot. BT is down, but he is unarmed anyway. Mike is out of ammo, as am I. We came so close. I brace myself for the impacts.
“Oh no you don’t,” I hear Mike yell.
One whistler folds to the ground. Standing behind where the tall gangly form was is Mike, pulling his bayonet from the creature’s white, folded skin. Goo drips from his blade and then flies through the air as he swings for the last one. The knife sinks effortlessly through the whistler’s cranium, the blade completely disappearing. The first one hits the ground, vanishing in a flash. The ferocity and power of Mike’s swinging jab plunges the bayonet past the hilt, his hand sinking into the creature’s head as well. He withdraws it, his hand and knife dripping goo in long strings. He flicks his hand, slinging goo.
“That’s fucking disgusting,” Mike says as the last whistler falls and vanishes.
“That was too close,” I say.
“I got you,” Mike replies.
We head over to Trip, who has collapsed on the platform. Blood shows in spots where staples embedded themselves into his body.
“You take care of BT, I’ll handle Trip,” I say.
Mike nods, still trying to shake the goo from his hand.
I find the staples, which are fairly deeply embedded into the hippy. I left my fixed blades back at the waypoint, so I only have two folding knives. Thankfully, none of the staples landed in the torso. There’s no way I could cut those out without doing too much harm. Trip is snoring, deep in slumber. I toss one knife to Mike and flick the second one open. I cut Trip’s skin where the ends of the staples are. Knowing they’re barbed, it’s not going to be easy to take them out, but I also can’t leave them in.
I rock the first staple, embedded in his shoulder, back and forth, slowly drawing it out. Blood runs from the wounds, soaking into his shirt. Trip moans in his sleep with each movement. With help from the knife, I work the large staple out and start on the next, removing three staples altogether. I then bandage the wounds as best I can. I don’t know how long Trip will be out, but experience has shown that it could be a day or more. And I seriously doubt that we have that long.
BT only had one staple, and Mike easily removed that one, the ricochet not embedding it deeply. But we have two unconscious members, one who will be next to impossible to move.
“We have to get them out of here,” I say to Mike.
“Yeah, but how are we going to move the big guy? It’s like a quarter mile to the edge, where, I assume, the portal is. And then, who knows what’s waiting for us on the other side?” he responds.
“Well, if there was anything there, I would assume they’d have already come through. My concern is Overseers coming. So, we throw Trip on top of BT and drag them both,” I reply.
“What about dragging them individually?” Mike suggests.
“I’m not leaving Trip alone for any reason,” I say. “If they get him, this is all over. We’ve had to rescue him once, even though he claims it was part of his plan. The Overseers aren’t going to ignore us like they did last time.”
“This is going to suck more than the battle with the whistlers.”
“That’s no joke. Well, sooner started, sooner done.”
“You might have to do something about that tunnel first.”
“Oh yeah,” I say. “I forgot about that.”
I take a snapshot like before, this time visualizing a tunnel in place. The ankh heats up and I open my eyes only to see the wall is still solid.
“We probably have to get closer,” Mike suggests, noticing my confusion.
I step forward just to test Mike’s theory and sure enough, the tunnel appears. Inside, it’s clear of bodies, clothing, and everything else. It’s as if the whistlers never existed in the first place. Beyond is a portal shimmering at the end of the platform.
“It’s smaller,” Mike comments, stepping to my side.
“Yeah, there are all kinds of parameters you can set,” I reply.
We return to Trip and BT; the tunnel again vanishes. Piling Trip on top of the big guy, Mike and I each take one of BT’s arms and start pulling. The platform surface isn’t as slippery as its clearness might indicate, but it doesn’t hold us back, either. We have to adjust Trip several times as he threatens to roll off BT and pause several times to catch our breath, but we eventually manage to emerge from the far end of the archway.
We tug our human sled across the platform with the cosmos surrounding us. The setting is more than a little strange, and I can’t imagine how we must look to some alien who might be flying past. It reminds me of one of my favorite Bugs Bunny cartoons with Marvin the Martian where they chase each other across platforms in space. As we haul our load toward the portal, I tell Mike how I used both the relic and control stations in the complex.
Nearing the portal, we drop BT’s arms to catch our breath and stretch. The gateway looks the same as it did before, except that it’s smaller. We’re completely out of ammo. I have two folding knives, and Mike’s carrying a blunt bayonet. It’s really not much to head into our next adventure with, especially considering what might be waiting on the other side.
11
Jack Walker — Chapter Two
“Do you think Overseers or whistlers are on the other side of that?” Mike asks, nodding toward the portal.
“I’m not sure. I moved it as far as I could away from the waypoint and made it smaller, so maybe they can’t see it, if they’re still there,” I answer.
“How far is far?”
“I really don’t know. They were just numbers without any real meaning attached to them. But I think I recognized the hill where I initially parked the helo, so I’m guessing a mile…mile and a half.”
Mike stares at the portal, which is about seven feet tall. “Is it the same size on the other side?”
“I set the same numbers into both, so I would guess so. It would really suck if it was the inverse and was, like, seven hundred feet tall. That would kind of remove the stealth aspect,” I reply.
“I’m picturing walking into a hundred Overseers backed by as many demons. Do you think we should wait here until these two sleepyheads wake up?”
“I’m not sure. This is kind of a central point, and I feel like we’re running out of time before someone else shows up. They may or may not sense the demise of their own kind, but I get the feeling that the Overseers know where we are. I personally think we should get moving.”
“Once more into the breach,” Mike comments.
“Yeah, something like that.”
With that, we drag our two unconscious partners and haul them onto the portal. As with our journey to the control point, I lose all sensory perception and am alone with my thoughts. The time seems endless, but when I emerge on the other side, it seems like the transition was instantaneous.
Instead of facing off with a ton of Overseers or whistlers, we emerge into an empty plain, the heat of the desert slamming into us. It’s then that I realize that the control point was neither warm nor cold. I still don’t know if our consciousness was trapped, and our time spent at the control point was only a hologram of our bodies, but the effects were certainly real. Trip and BT are still out of it, with blood showing from where the staples were removed.
In the distance, I’m able to see the outline of the bluff under which the waypoint sits. The good news is that there isn’t a cloud of dust rising from whistlers powering toward us. The bad, well, we have no real way of defending ourselves, should any enemies show up. It’s mid-morning by the positioning of the sun. The temperature is only going to rise as it climbs higher into the sky. The gateway winks out of existence. We’re now on this world without an exit, unless we create another one at the waypoint.
“You stay here with them. I’m going to scout closer to the waypoint to see if anyone’s home,” I say.
“Is that such a good idea?” Mike questions.
“Probably not. But we need to know what’s in
the area if we’re going to be here while they sleep it off. With luck, the rest of the whistlers went through the portal and there’s only dead ones remaining,” I answer.
“How did they do that, though? That thing was a hundred feet in the air.”
“God only knows. They did have the firetruck ladders, but how they managed it is beyond me.”
“Well, be safe.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be home soon, sweetheart.”
“You know, you can be a real ass sometimes,” Mike says.
“So I’ve heard.”
I hand Mike the relic, telling him that he might need it more than me, seeing as he’s staying with Trip. I feel that it’s important to have it close in case Trip manages one of his lucid moments. With that, I set off across the desert plain.
I take a circuitous route, coming at the waypoint from the side. I still have my binoculars and glance over the scene, once I draw closer. I don’t see any movement around the structure. The debris from the landslide is still in place at the front, the firetrucks partially buried. It does look like the ladders are missing. How they arranged that is beyond me, but it’s a clue as to how they managed to get to the portal.
There’s a large gathering of parked bikes a distance from the waypoint, the chrome sparkling in the sun. Bodies lie across the plain, some dressed in black with their pale heads visible. Others are zombies, their lifeless forms spread over the rocky debris. I pan across the top, looking for any sign of the Overseers without seeing any. I suppose there’s a chance they managed to get the door open and went inside while the whistlers went about their business, but that really doesn’t make much sense. I saw the Overseers blast away some of the Melanforms when they arrived, so why would they have left with any still around?
The fact remains that the whistlers made it to the control point, and there’s no visible indication that the Overseers are here. Staying low, I creep slowly across the plain, the sun blazing down on my back. The door to the waypoint is still closed, but I keep an eye on it. If it opens, I’ll drop to the ground and pretend I’m just another body lying out here on the plain.
I reach the first dead whistler; the folds of pale flesh on its head look deflated like a tire with low air pressure. The smell is atrocious, like someone placed on open can of tuna inside a dead fish and left it lying in a hot trunk for a week. I can taste it. Holding my breath as well as I can, I remove the staple gun attached to the wrist. Reaching inside the leather jacket, which is filled with a viscous goo, I find cartridges of ammo for the weapon. There are also vials of what I assume are the paralyzing solution the staples carry.
I rub my hand in the warm sand, attempting to wipe away the mess. I scuttle over to others to obtain a second and third weapon, along with more ammo. They’re not the best solution, but at least we’re not completely unarmed. Without checking the rest of the structure, I make a circle around where Mike and the others wait, finding no sign of anyone else in the area.
I return, handing Mike one of my finds. We attach them and practice the wrist flick that engages the weapons, sending volleys of staples into the sand. The heat blazes down as the day progresses, our water supply getting low. There’s also the issue of food, with little left in either of our packs. But water is the most crucial.
Late in the day, our two fearless sleepyheads begin to stir. BT is first, moaning as consciousness returns. He finally rolls over, squinting in the bright sun, and tries to put his arm over his eyes. Thought and action are worlds apart as his arm keeps flopping like a fish out of water. Mike takes BT’s big arm and places it over the man’s eyes.
“Thanks,” he says, the words coming out like a child trying to say a word for the first time.
Mike gives him a slow pour of water, which BT slurps down. “What happened? I feel like I was hit by a bus.”
“You were hit with one the whistler weapons, man. They’re not fun,” Mike answers.
“I feel like I partied all weekend and I’m late for work on Monday. Where are we?”
“Back on the planet.”
“I take it we made it and aren’t being held captive.”
“Yeah.”
“How’d you get me away from there?”
“We carried your sorry ass.”
“I won’t lie,” I add, “it was like competing in a tractor pull contest.”
“Fuck you,” BT says.
“Your gratitude is overwhelming,” I reply.
“Hey, I saved your ass in the control room,” BT counters.
“Yes, and thank you for that. See, that’s how that’s done.”
I hand the third staple gun to BT, and Mike shows him how to attach it to his forearm. The fun begins when Mike attempts to show him how to arm and fire it with certain wrist motions. At first, BT looks like someone in the throes of some kind of fit, his hand and arm flitting about as if he’s attempting to mimic a Michael Jackson dance move.
He finally gets the weapon to fire; the large, two-pronged staple whizzes past my head.
“Goddamn! Have some muzzle control,” I say, dodging the projectile.
Another staple fires, embedding itself an inch away from Mike’s boot. He dances back, swearing.
“Great, it’s fucking amateur hour,” I mumble, deciding the best place to be is behind the big man.
“I think I finally have it,” BT says, his arm doing some form of a robot dance.
“No, no you don’t,” Mike shouts. “Stop…just stop trying.”
Mike is doing his best to duck and dodge to keep from where BT’s arm is pointing. I continue to stay behind, stepping from one side to the other as BT turns, playing with his new toy.
“BT! Stop moving!” Mike yells.
“What? Why?” he responds, lowering his arm with a confused expression.
“Because you’re a fucking menace with that thing,” Mike answers. “I think it’s best for everyone if we just hold on to that for you.”
“Why? I was just getting the hang of it.”
“Well, you nearly shot both Jack and me with the first two staples and it doesn’t look as if your aim is improving.”
Mike removes the weapon and stows it in his pack, much to my relief.
The aroma of pot drifts over. Turning, there’s Trip inhaling deeply. “Whew, did I need this!”
I’m glad he’s up and around because that means we can get moving. Every minute we remain in one place, especially one so close to the waypoint, makes my anxiety worse. But now we have a choice of another kind to make. It’s late afternoon, and night isn’t far away. So far, we haven’t been troubled by night runners, but that doesn’t mean they won’t start again. I suppose my fear could be from time spent in my world, where the setting sun meant the nighttime hunters would come screaming from their darkened lairs. But, better to prepare and them not come, than have them come shrieking into the night and blindsiding us.
“Mike, we need to move somewhere more defensible.”
Mike looks toward the lowering sun. “They haven’t been around for more than a year.”
“That doesn’t mean they’re gone forever.”
“True. So, where? The only thing I can think of is head back to the waypoint. They shouldn’t be able to get inside. But, well, Overseers.”
“Yeah, I thought about that as well. There’s no good option here. The night runners may or may not show, and there may or may not be Overseers inside.”
“I see a greater chance of there being Overseers inside than of night runners showing. And we’re here with only staples. These won’t get inside an Overseer’s mouth, even if I tried to manually jam one in.”
“Good point. I guess we pick a direction. Luckily, we have several motorcycles to choose from, so we won’t have to walk out of here,” I say.
“Where’s Trip going?” BT chimes in.
Mike and I turn to see Trip walking off across the desert, away from the waypoint.
“I swear to God I’m going to put one of those child leashes on hi
m,” I mumble.
“Hey Trip! We have motorcycles,” Mike calls.
Trip stops and turns. “Harleys?”
“Yeah man, Harleys,” Mike shouts.
Trip starts back.
“It won’t be the same without Stephanie, but I’ll ride bitch behind you, Ponch. Not Yack. He doesn’t have nice curves.”
“What in the fuck are you talking about? I don’t have curves like that.”
I can tell Mike is nervous about having anyone ride with him. I’ve seen him ride, and the concern is warranted.
“Come on, Trip. You can ride with me and whisper your sweet nothings in my ear,” I say.
“Why would I do that? You’re not Stephanie. And no, I’m riding with Ponch. He knows how to ride.”
“He knows how to ri…never mind. Are you good with that, Mike?”
“No, I’m not! I can barely keep it upright as it is.”
I feel like I should offer Trip some Scooby snacks in order to get him to ride behind someone else. And I don’t trust that Trip can handle one of the bikes himself.
“BT, can you ride?” I ask.
“Better than Mike it sounds like.”
“Trip, how about riding behind BT?”
Trip takes a look at the big man and shakes his head.
“Fine, you can ride with me,” Mike says.
“I’ll help you keep it upright,” Trip remarks.
“Oh great! This will be fun.”
We work back to where the motorcycles are parked, and soon the plain is filled with the husky roar of three bikes rumbling. Trip climbs behind a nervous-looking Mike.
“Let her rip,” Trip shouts.
“I’m not ripping anywhere,” Mike yells back.
The journey of Trip and Mike lasts about ten feet. Mike slowly lets go of the clutch and the bike starts to move. Beginning to pick up speed, the front wheel wobbles as Mike attempts to keep the bike upright. The promise of Trip helping fails miserably when Trip leans way over to the side. Both riders spill onto the ground as the motorcycle goes down.
“You leaned to the wrong side, Ponch,” Trip explains, picking himself up.