A Shrouded World - Whistlers (26 page)

“Fuck.”

They wouldn’t leave, and the sounds of their wet eating were enough to make me want to shoot them. I dared a small look over the edge and saw one of the monsters on the ground. It was dead; the hole in the top of its skull was all the indication I needed to as confirmation. Lucy was gone. All of her clothes, bones, teeth, jewelry (if she had any) were now resting comfortably in the digestive systems of the nightmares below me. Zombies were a horrible affliction that plagued at least my reality of the world.

What had the poor bastards of this realm done to deserve this fate? Were these some ancient creature unearthed from the depths of the world by a mining exploration gone too deep?

That would explain the striation of color and their adverse feelings about the sun. They had no eyes or ears that I could see, yet they had to have some form of navigation if they were riding motorcycles around.

Echo-location maybe?

Their food was just about gone and I hoped they would be as well. When I didn’t hear the motorcycles start up, I dared another look down. Like a grandfather after Thanksgiving turkey, they were looking for places to lie down. Jack was in a world of shit. He was standing in soft grass and in the shade with a bridge support that would be ideal to rest against. His spot would soon be compromised. I thought about reaching out and letting Trip know what was going on, but I didn’t have that kind of time. I had to strike while the iron was hot. I inched my way back and felt much better when my feet touched the concrete pad. I’d never been a fan of heights. I hadn’t taken more than two steps when I heard this high pitched whistle that was almost beyond the range of my hearing. I knew the cry of an alarm, no matter what language was being used.

So, if they decide that my current position is prime real estate, I only have a few choices. Remain here where there is a semblance of cover, make a run up the pad to get into the under-bridge structure, or head out into the fields. The bridge is out as that would mean that Mike and Trip would get caught. If that happens, they’re as good as dead. That leaves the fields, where I might find some concealment and the ability to maneuver freely, or here, where I’d have some cover against whatever it is they shoot.

Glancing to where I know Mike and Trip are concealed, I see Mike’s legs swing down.

What in the fuck are you doing?
I think.
Is he getting the hell out of here? I can’t say I’d blame him if he is. The least I can do is provide some cover fire for him to make his escape. Where in the hell is Trip?

My head suddenly threatens to explode as I hear a piercing whistle-like sound race through my skull.

“Thirty yards, Jack. I need thirty yards!” Mike shouts.

It takes me a moment to figure out what in the hell he means. Then it hits me harder than the whistle-like sound. The RPG he’s carrying needs thirty yards in order to arm itself and Mike needs time to gain some distance. It’s one of those idiot-proof devices meant to keep a soldier from firing into a nearby wall and blowing up his squad. Trust me, it’s there for a reason.

I whip around the corner of the stanchion, bringing my M-4 to bear. One of the things is not more than five yards away, focusing all of its attention on Mike. Not knowing what it takes to bring down one of these creatures, but also understanding that there are quite a few of them, I flip the selector switch to auto, and fire a burst. It’s hard to miss anything when my barrel is damn near in its face. The three suppressed rounds hit in quick succession. The thing’s head vibrates around the bullets like I’d fired into a bowl of Jell-O, and a black liquid sprays outward, obscuring my vision for a split-second.

Behind the creature, more of the viscous substance jets out from its head, coating another that is following closely. The creature in front drops straight to the ground like I’d cut its legs off. I don’t have to move my barrel more than a few millimeters before triggering another burst into the second one. The bullets seem to be absorbed into its head rather than actually impacting. However, it too drops to the grass. I don’t care how it happens as long as that’s the result. The black liquid, which I assume is their form of blood, soaks into the ground, leaving a mark like someone poured a bucket of oil on the spot.

Seeing the creatures can be brought down like others, I select ‘semi’ on the selector switch. I can’t imagine it’s going to take them much longer to figure out I’m here, suppressed shots or not. The underside of a bridge isn’t exactly conducive to containing noise to a minimum. Placing my small red crosshair on the third closest creature, who was looking for its napping blanket. I fire, sending a round into its head. It falls to the side as the round passes through and ricochets off the pavement.

Pieces of concrete splinter near my head as projectiles slam into the support structure, letting me know that I’ve been noticed.

“That’s thirty! That’s thirty!” I yell.

I honestly can’t spare the time to measure it correctly, but, glancing quickly, the distance looks about right. The monsters have given up their search for a place to rest and are now racing toward my location, and, as I suspected, they are doing so rapidly. It’s now or never.

The shots coming my way escalate, forcing me to duck behind cover. That’s not my favorite move as I like to keep fire superiority to keep
their
heads down. However, I don’t have much choice. When you duck behind cover, that only serves to allow the opposing forces to maneuver freely. At that point, unless you decide to run, it’s all over except for a large lady singing the final aria. My philosophy: If you’re not firing, you need to be moving. I would have kept firing in order to try and gain the upper hand had I not known Mike was about to fire an RPG into their midst.

Come on, Mike
, I think as pieces of concrete continue to be chipped away from my cover.

I wait for several long seconds and wonder if he has been hit or decided it was time to get out of Dodge. He doesn’t seem the type to run, and would hang in there until the last, sunset-filled, heroic stand, but it seems like it is taking forever. Suddenly, there is a ‘whoosh’. He fired the rocket.

Waiting for the explosion that is about to happen, and ready to round the corner to finish off those who remain, I hear only a metallic clang, followed by nothing.

Where is the earth-shattering ka
-boom? There’s supposed to be an earth-shattering ka-boom.

One of two things had happened. Either I am a horrible judge of distance and the rocket hadn’t travelled more than thirty yards, or…it was a dud. I suppose, seeing where he found it, it could have also been a prop.

Well, fuck this! I’m not going down like this
.

I round the corner, my carbine coming up, ready to take out the first target that comes into view. I’m met with a brilliant flash and percussive explosion which sends me hurtling backward. Something hard and heavy whips overhead, brushing against my forehead before it rockets past.

Something was flying past me, many of them in fact. I could see the ground tearing up where they made contact. It was obviously projectiles of some sort. I felt a searing pain in my shoulder as one scraped over the top of my arm. I heard Jack’s cry of “thirty”. It seemed too close to me, but who was I to argue? I was being shot at and, sooner rather than later, one of them was bound to catch up with me. I was getting ready to spin around when I was pushed into the ground. I’d been hit. The pain was manageable and, from what I could tell, all of my extremities still worked. Maybe it was a neurotoxin, and I only had a few seconds left. Fine, I was going out in a blaze of glory.

I spun, dropped to one knee, took a second to line up on a motorcycle, and fired. One of the beings that was closest turned to watch as the rocket shot past him. I was still thinking this was close for thirty yards as the grenade lodged itself into the chassis of the motorcycle.

“You have got to be kidding me,” I sighed.

My heart was racing and only a little bit from the run. The monster-thing was right in front of me, and I needed to deal with it before it realized I was still in front of it. Outrunning it was not going to be an option. I dropped the RPG to the ground and was just pulling my M-16 around. A couple of things happened at once. The first was that I realized why I wasn’t dead. My rifle was split in two, it had taken a shot right where my butt stock met up with the business end and severed the rifle neatly in two. The second, and this would have been hard to miss, was the massive explosion that sent me to the ground with pieces of my pursuer raining down on me. My ears were ringing from both the blast and from the scream-speak of the ‘whistlers.’ That was what I was going to call this newest beast that would forever haunt my thoughts.

When I was confident nothing more was going to crash down on me, I began to check my rifle to see if it would still shoot without exploding in my hands, finishing off what the whistlers had started. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jack getting up. He looked to be bleeding from a half dozen spots. There was no way I could tell if any of them were lethal, but he was firing his weapon, and he still needed help. Out of the forty-something whistlers, the RPG had killed more than half of them. There were still more than enough left to kill us a few times over.

Two things come to mind. The first is that Mike did it. I didn’t think it was going to work. I had hoped so, but I wasn’t really sure. The second is my incredibly bad timing. There are burning and stinging sensations all over my body. It feels like I have jumped into a nest of fire ants and am rolling around in them. I do a quick mental check and am reasonably sure most everything still works. The things that don’t…well…I’ll find and deal with those later.

Rising into a sitting position on the concrete pad where I’d been thrown, I notice scraps of metal lying about. Below, most of the monsters are dead, dying, or wandering around in a daze. It looks like the blast has taken more than half of them out. That is the good news. The bad, there are still some alive, more than enough to overwhelm us.

The concussion from the blast, magnified under the bridge, has them stumbling around like drunks at Mardi Gras. They will recover in a short period of time. I need to make sure that’s a luxury they don’t get.

I wonder if Mike knows about Mardi Gras?

Thinking of Mike, I look back. He’s on the ground covered in gore and blood; most of it is that black substance pumping through the creatures. In the midst, I see spots of red and know that he’s been hit. He sits up and grabs for his M-16, staring down at it as he realizes that he’s holding the butt stock in one hand, and the rest of it in the other.

Well, hopefully he can get the hell out of here. I’ll take down as many as I can to give him and Trip a chance.

Turning my attention back to the monsters, it is time to get to business. I rise and sight in on the nearest creature, sending two rounds out on a delivery. It stumbles one more time and falls over like a drunk trying to pass a sobriety test. I advance down the pad, firing at one target after another. There are still a lot of them on their feet and it is only a matter of time before the shooting gallery turns into a firefight.

The high-pitched scream erupts again. It is like someone dragging a needle across my eardrum. I keep moving and firing, hoping to hit whoever, or whatever, is making that god-awful noise. If I can just shut that up, I won’t care what happens afterward. I just don’t want that sound to be the last I ever hear.

I’m not going to be able to take
them all down in time,
I think, changing my mag.

The leader is rallying his troops, and they are responding in quick fashion.

Well, I just hope that I buy Mike enough time
.

I never was a fan of pistols. I always liked the comforting feel of a butt stock firmly entrenched in my shoulder for control. Right now, I didn’t have an option as I fire my unwieldy weapon. The 5.56 isn’t a heavy round by any stretch of the imagination, but when you’re firing on fully automatic without proper technique…well…enough said. Although, my first spray did disintegrate the leader’s head into a fountain of gelatinous mass. I held down the trigger, blasting through my magazine in a couple of seconds at most. I had scattered all my rounds into as many whistlers as I could. I’d fallen several short. It was nice to have back-up as Jack moved among the whistler survivors like a black plague, dispatching unmitigated justice until they all lay on the ground unmoving. My head was pounding, and I felt light-headed. I reached a hand behind me and pulled it back in front to find it coated in blood, and not of the black variety.

“I’m hit,” I said.

Jack put a couple more rounds into a few of the whistlers that were still moving before coming over. He skidded to a stop behind me.

“Yeah, you’re shot. I’m going to need to take this damn poncho off so I can see what I’m dealing with. Does it hurt much?” Jack asked.

“Did you really just ask me that question?” I responded, disbelievingly.

“Sorry, I’m just trying to figure out what in the hell the monsters are shooting.”

“Whistlers.”

“What?”

“I’m calling them whistlers.”

“Fair enough. What is that?” he asked as he carefully pulled my garments over my head.

“Please tell me it isn’t moving,” I said.

“Why would it be moving? No, it looks kind of like an industrial staple, or something like it.”

“I got shot with a staple gun. Are you kidding me?”

“That staple gun would have killed you if not for a lucky hit on your rifle. I mean, look at it. It’s completely sheared through.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“I’m going to have to pry it out. There a part that’s sticking out. Hang on.”

“Jack, just give me a sec...OWWWWWW…motherfucker!!!!!”

“Fuck me! And here I was about to call you a baby until I realized this thing has two prongs, and they’re each about two and a half inches long. That’s a nasty little bit of business,” he said as he handed me what did look like a staple. Albeit maybe the world’s largest staple ever created. That I’d survived the attack was a miracle, and I told him as much.

“You getting a tattoo?” Trip asked. He was a few feet away, stretching and yawning. “Looks like a rager of a party. What’d I miss?”

“It’s not a tattoo, Trip, I’ve been shot.”

“Cops?” He looked around.

“Sometimes, Trip, I don’t know if I wish I viewed the world like you or not,” I told him.

“You should put something on that so it doesn’t get infected.” Trip pulled out a small first aid kit. I didn’t even question the fact that he had one.

Jack did some field dressing and proclaimed me fit for duty. I stood gingerly. My back ached, but I hadn’t suffered any lasting damage.