A Shrouded World - Whistlers (7 page)

“
Just great,” I said as got down on my haunches. I placed the muzzle of my barrel against her head. I moved my hand closer to her face. “This sucks.”

Everyone has watched enough horror flicks t
o realize this is when the dumbass gets bitten. We’re all sitting in our seats at the movie theater shoving popcorn in our maws, telling our significant others ‘we’d never do that, he’s a dumbass.’ Yup I was the dumbass, but at least this time the monster’s seemingly dead eyes didn’t fly open as it latched onto my hand, ripping my thumb off.

“Thank God for small miracles,
” I said aloud after examining her entire face and head for any sign of trauma.

Nothing, not a scratch
on her face except for some minor burning on the left side that must have been exposed as she was dying. When I was done looking at her, I stood. “Hey, God, I really appreciate the small miracle, but a big one would really be fucking appreciated!” I said to the heavens. That was pretty much going to get me sent to the disciplinary division of Heaven. I’d deal with that problem after this one.

Back to the task at hand and what was going to keep us alive. God was going to have to wait his (or her) turn. It seemed zombies, howlers
, and even my wife Tracy had staked a claim at meting out some justice. I found a fair amount of dropped bullets and mags, and I hastily filled a couple to make sure I had adequate firepower in case something arose. I don’t know where the day went. I was just noticing that it was getting more difficult to see into the far back of the troop transports. The canvas coverings were hiding any treasure and the sun on its downward path was making it more difficult. I had enough ammo for a sustained battle, but nothing even remotely akin to finding a safe place from which to wage this battle. I was just looking into the back of my tenth (thirtieth?) troop transport truck when I heard the slow dying bleat of a truck horn on its last legs. Too many descriptors, dying implied last legs, oh well, hopefully this journal entry won’t be scooped up by an English professor (or basically anyone with a rudimentary hold on the language).

I popped my head out of
a truck I, odds were good that John was just playing with the horn. The beauty of his condition (primarily stoned) was that his short-term memory was really only good for about three breaths or one deep inhalation; that should be clear enough, knowing John the way I do. The bleat came again, this one not much more than a goose hiccup. I walked back over to where I had left him. He was downing bags of Phrito’s and pointing out the front windshield. I couldn’t see from my location, at least not until I stepped on the running board of the truck he was in. It was a zombie hoard, and they were coming at a decent clip. Runners seemed to be intermingled with the shufflers, I could tell because they usually looked less dead if that makes sense, fresher corpses may be a better explanation. But they weren’t running…so far.

I had yet to figure out the relationship wit
h the runners and the shufflers…why they hung out together. I can’t imagine it was any sort of symbiotic relationship. I very much doubt that the runners tracked and trapped the food, and then patiently waited for the shufflers to catch up so they could eat. I could see some benefit for the runners to stay with the slow ones, safety in numbers, less likely to get shot if you’re in a group of a couple of hundred. That implied thinking, and I for one was not yet at the point where I wanted to believe that was an option. My zombies were going to stay stupid eating-machines right up until they caught and ate me. I began to scan the area, nothing worth a damn stood out as a viable defense.

“I’m thinki
ng maybe you should have yelled,” I told him. I rested the barrel of my rifle on the hood of the truck. “My old boss always told me to be proactive in the face of a crisis.”

“I hope you don’t mind,
” John said before I pulled the trigger.

I looked up at him. “Mind about what
, John?” I asked.

“I didn’t tell you?”

“No, man, you didn’t tell me. What should I be minding about?”

“When I get nervous
, my fingers tend to work on their own.”

“John
, what the hell are you talking about? We’ve got some funkies coming, and I’d really like to drop some of the faster ones.”

“The bullets
, man, the bullets.”

My heart was sinking. “Oh
, John, what about the bullets?” I asked, figuring he had somehow pulled all the lead tips off. I was about to get John out of the truck and make a run for it. It didn’t look like we’d have enough for a firefight.

He tossed all the metal clips out the window. I started laughing. He had removed the connectors that had held the individual bullets together so that they could be fired through a light machinegun.

“I’d kiss you right now if I thought my man-card could take that kind of serious hit.”

“Man-card?”

“Do you know how to load a magazine?” I asked hopefully, handing him up six of the ones I had pilfered.

“Like
Sports Illustrated
?” he asked back. I put the magazines back in my pockets.

“Worth a shot I suppose. Just make sure all the bullets are back in the box and the lid is latched
, okay? We’re going to have to leave here soon.”

“Can I keep the truck?”

“I wish.”

The dying horn bleat
was an indicator of the good odds that this behemoth would not start. Although, in retrospect, why I didn’t try some of the other trucks eludes me; time had expired on that option, no sense on dwelling on it. Just as I lined up my shot again, I heard the clatter of brass into steel. I would have shaken my head if it wouldn’t have messed up my targeting.

“Boom
,” I whispered as I sent a high-speed projectile down range.

The speeder
’s head exploded in a splintered shower of bone and blood. He dropped and was immediately trampled underfoot. That was a hard thing to watch, the loss of any sign of humanity. That, more than anything, attested to their savagery and how far they would go to attain their goals.

I’d been to combat in some of the most inhospitable places o
n the planet. I’ve fought Iraqis, Afghanis, insurgents, and a half dozen other enemies I can’t remember the names of. They all hated us as much as, if not more than, we hated them. We were fighting to keep our friends alive and to get back home to Mom and apple pie. (Not
my
mom’s apple pie mind you, but someone’s mom’s apple pie.) The people we were fighting were generally fighting for their country or the way in which they chose to live their lives. They had every right to fight like demons, and often times, they did…performing atrocity after atrocity. But as I write here today, I will tell you—be it Taliban, Rebel, or Usurper—that fighting force would stop and pause with whatever the fuck they were doing when one of their own took a head shot.

There is something so
primal when you watch the man next to you have his hopes, dreams, thoughts, and beliefs literally destroyed in an instant; his brains torn from the rest of his body. Advances would halt, retreats would move back quicker, planning shifted to survival. Whatever it was, the enemy would stop and alter course.

Nothing is more demoralizing to an enemy than a sniper wiping out a comrade with a head shot. It took the fight out of them and that’s why we aimed for that particularly part of the anatomy. The
point? The point is that zombies didn’t give a fuck; didn’t concern them in the least. Maybe on some level they were happy because it meant one less mouth to feed; less competition when they did get a hold of their prey. Those were my thoughts as I sent a magazine of bullets scorching towards their targets.

Most hit, because with this many of them
, it would have been harder to miss. Chests caved in as impacts shattered rib cages and sternums; legs were sheared off from the ferocity of the bullets. Arms became little better than T-Rex appendages as I pulverized them. And then, on occasion, I was rewarded with the assassination shot. Heads snapped back, necks recoiled from the shock of taking in something with so much force. I popped in a second magazine. When I was fairly confident I had done a good number on the speeders, I told John it was time to go. I was thankful he had grabbed the ammo case, I could only hope and pray it was full of bullets and not of Phrito’s. Speaking of which, where were they?

He hopped down from the truck,
I followed suit. “Where are your snacks?” I asked.

“
Almost done.”

“Are you kidding me? How long
have I been gone?” Seemed like an hour, two at the most.

Was the world in which we now found ourselves different? Were the rules altered? Were days twelve hours instead of the standard twenty-four, or had I been looking for supplies lon
ger than I’d originally thought?

He showed me his yellow tongue, his teeth coated with damn near a half inch of corn paste. That was fucking grosser than watching the zombie’s head explode.

“We going to the water tower?” John asked.

“Where?” I asked
, coming up next to him. I reached out and pulled on the arm that was carrying the ammo. It was heavy, I breathed a sigh of relief.

John was pointing to a green structure maybe a mile off from our present location.

“How in the hell did I miss that?” I asked.

“Saw it since we
rested by the trucks.”

“You didn’t think to say anything?”

“Why?”

Fair enough answer
, I suppose. I just couldn’t figure out how I spent the entire day missing the giant monolith. Ahead, I saw more zombies. We were going to have to take another way and cut through the trees. It was going to be a mile through woods, fences and a neighborhood. With zombies in tow, and others ahead, this was not going to be an easy endeavor.

“You ready?”

“I was born ready,” he answered proudly. Then, as an aside, he asked. “Ready for what?”

“Let’s go get some water.”

“Great, because for some reason I’m thirsty as all get out.”

“Can’t imagine why,
” I told him as we started off with a slight jog.

Then
, what I feared even more than the zombies reared its ugly head. Entering the trees, I heard the howlers in the forest in the distance. Seems we were coming into their time zone.

“This ought
ta be rich,” I said aloud.

Farther down the road, I see several of the slower zombies shuffling aimlessly next to a semi-trailer with its rear door open. Ensuring they are my only company, I raise my carbine. There’s really no other way around as I’m still not overly fond of finding out what the woods to either side holds. There’s only three that I can see
, so it shouldn’t be too difficult making my way through them. I still have a few mags, but those can disappear in a hurry.

Using a car for support, I steady my aim and
fire; the suppressed round barely heard. The scalp of one lifts from the impact of my bullet to the side of its head and the shambling figure drops straight to the pavement. The other two turn toward the one that fell, perhaps drawn by the sound of its body hitting the ground. They then continue their slow meanderings. I fire twice more, causing them to join their
compadre
in whatever afterlife zombies go to.

The slight gusts of wind bring the smell of smoke. Checking to see that all is still clear, I notice the dark plume of smoke rising in the distance where the cars are still presumably burning. Far into the distance, the smudge of smoke from the burning city is still faintly visible.

I cautiously slink up to the semi where the shamblers were skulking about. Drawing nearer, I notice numerous holes in the doors of the trailer. From the shape and pattern, it’s pretty obvious that someone was shooting out from within the tractor trailer. From a couple of cars away, through a gap, I see two bodies on the pavement near the truck. I check quickly on the three I just took down to ensure they stay that way and aren’t about to rise up to take a bite out of me. I’m assuming that’s what they do, but hell, I’m not positive of anything in this place. For all I know, they had jobs and went zip-lining on the weekends. The three aren’t moving and have presumably settled in for their long winter’s night.

This is the case with the two other bodies as well; a man and a woman who appear relatively young. Of course, most everyone appears relatively young to me. Blood and gore cover the dark gray of the asphalt. The bodies are both badly mauled and it looks to have happened recently. The man is holding a handgun with several shell casings scattered nearby, which leads me to believe they weren’t these zombie-like creatures, although I guess the spent cartridges could have been from someone else defending themselves. The bullet holes in the door certainly show that someone was shooting a lot.

Stepping around the intervening vehicles, with silence all around, I see other bodies lying on the pavement. Most are at the rear of the semi with a couple lying near one side. Bullet holes appear along the side of the trailer as well. Someone definitely fought a battle here and, from initial appearances, they defended themselves from inside the enclosed trailer.

Looking closer at the other bodies, my heart stops and my breath catches. I most certainly recognize what these are. The red mottled skin is definitely that of a night runner left out in the daylight. The mauled bodies of the two become clear. They were caught in the open by night runners.

Fucking great! Night runners and these zombie-like creatures! Now my day is complete! What the fuck have I stepped into?

That still doesn’t explain the multitude of holes in the trailer. The patterns show automatic fire
, but I don’t see a weapon like that lying about. It could have been from a different time, but the freshness of the bodies indicates that whatever happened did so within the last day or two. And the wounds on the night runners are consistent with the gunfire from the truck.

Looking in the truck, I notice several bags of opened
Phrito’s lying on the floor. An unmistakable odor of gunpowder lingers within. Just underneath, there is another scent. At first it’s hard to identify, but then, like a flash, I know what it is. Someone had been enjoying one of nature’s herbs. At least I still retain a semblance of the ability to pick up faint scents. I hope the ability to see in the dark is still there.

Shell casings litter the bed of the trailer. I climb in
side to search for a weapon and/or additional bodies. The casings are definitely 5.56mm. It would be nice to find a small cache of them as you can never have enough ammo.

Pencil beams of light stream into the trailer from the holes along one side. The indentions of the bullet holes show that they were created from inside. Searching quickly, I
only find more open Phrito bags and a couple of roaches left from whoever was enjoying their little respite. Having partaken, the Phrito’s must have made whoever was here feel like they were in heaven. I stare at the bodies surrounding the trailer, the bullet holes, and the remains of an interrupted pot party. Yeah, there must have been an interesting story here.

Not finding a secret cache of ammo, I hop out of the gunpowder,
Phrito, and pot-infused trailer. The dark smoke is still rising in the distance from the burning cars. I’m hoping I’ve gained some distance between myself and the mass of zombies that were heading this direction. I’m also hoping the way ahead is clear, as I’m not overly fond of being trapped, but what choice do I really have. I don’t understand this place, but staying alive is the only way I’ll be able to figure it out. Hopefully, there is a roadside sign or flashing beacon that will point out what in the fuck is going on. I’d like nothing better than to know where my kids are and how to exit this place. With nothing else to find, I continue on my walkabout.

The road plows forward with no end in sight. It has a couple of turns
, but it is straight for the most part. There aren’t any signs, mileposts, ramps, or openings. The wrappers and shell casings are the only evidence that someone else is around and it’s my hope that, if I manage to find them, they can shed some light on what is going on. Until then, it’s stay alive and try to figure this out. Hopefully, I’ll just wake up and chalk this up to a bad dream. I don’t even want to think of the alternative. My heart aches for my kids and Lynn.

The snarl of vehicles is relentless. There are a few semis and motor homes that limit my view but, for as far as I can see, the massive traffic jam continues. I make my way through, having to slide over and around the vehicles. I’m
wary of the ones I can’t see into and give them as wide a berth as possible without venturing too close to the neighboring trees. Every once in a while, I spot a Phrito wrapper caught against the wheel of a car, and once, I spot another almost-finished joint on the ground. I’m at least following the one, or however many, that left the truck and, from all appearances, he, she, or they are enjoying their stroll.

The farther I get, the more the cars become entangled. The avenue
, with the center stripe running down the middle, is no longer an open aisle, which slows my progress. There are more than a few accidents where vehicles collided; either hitting each other in the mass exodus or while trying to clear a way through.

I snack and drink on the go. I don’t want to stop and allow the ones behind me to gain
ground. The day is getting on and it won’t be long before I have to find some place to hold out for the night. There’s no way I want to be out in the open when the night runners emerge from their lairs. The problem will be finding a location that’s secure enough to stay safe from the night runners without becoming surrounded by the zombie-like creatures. I don’t have enough ammo to clear a path if that horde behind shows up and encircles me. In essence, I’ll be trapped.

I notice that the farther I walk, the greater the number of darkened streaks of dried blood there
are on the sides and windows of cars. I can’t even imagine the panic that must have been prevalent. People fleeing from whatever cleared out their city only to become stalled and unable to proceed any farther. Desperate families trying to decide what to take and knowing they are at the mercy of the elements and those around them. The mass of people taking to the road with their meager possessions on their back. Kids wailing from fear of the unknown, and the parents trying to figure out what to do. Mayhem and crowded roads. I wonder if they even had a destination in mind, or whether it was just blind panic. With that massive horde of zombies trailing me, I can guess what must have been the cause of their exodus. This entire roadway must have been the scene of a tremendous amount of terror.

The places between the cars
are filled with debris of all kinds: Bags, papers, boxes, clothes, empty water bottles, and other goods. Open and partially open doors attest to the fear that must have prevailed. It is what I always thought a post-apocalyptic scene should look like. I search a few random vehicles looking for ammo, food, and water bottles, replenishing my consumption of the latter two.

Besides the entirety of this place being off, there is something else amiss that I can’t quite put my finger on. It’s one of those things where you know something is not quite right
, but it’s not readily apparent. As I haul myself across yet another grime-covered trunk, it comes to me – the license plates. I could have checked early on to determine where I’m at, but there aren’t any plates. Looking at the rear of the cars around, they are absent.

An idea forms that I could check the registrations. That will show where in the hell I’ve landed. Opening the nearest vehicle, I check the glove box. Sure enough, there is a paper with a name and address. However, it makes no sense at all. The state listed is ‘Amissus’. Now, I’m not a genius at geography, but I’m pretty sure there isn’t a state named that. It just adds to the mystery of what I’ve fallen into.

What the fuck? Where the hell is this place?
I think, looking around at the cars again.

The
fact that the driver’s wheel is located on the left says that I could be in my world, but the registration says differently. As if this place couldn’t get any stranger. Everything is so tangible – the smells and feel – and seems like reality, but it isn’t the one that I know. The bumps and bruises I have certainly indicate this place is the real deal. It’s all rather confusing and this brings my kids and Lynn to mind once more. The ache in my heart returns. I need to find them or at least know they are okay.

Taking a drink from one of the water bottles, I notice another difference – minor, but one nonetheless. The water is labeled “Arcadia”, from the pure springs located high in the Arcadia Mountains. Again, I don’t have a master’s degree in geography but I’ve never heard of any Arcadia Mountains.

“Well, it is what it is,” I say softly, taking a last swig and moving on.

As I make my way through the tangle of cars,
I pass several decaying bodies…or what is left of them. They have all been ravaged to the point that mostly only their skeletal remains are left. It’s reminiscent of the bodies I found at McChord and elsewhere. Small, dried pieces of tendons, ligaments and tissue remain attached to bone, but the rest has been picked clean. This could be from wildlife in the area, but my guess is that night runners were here. It could also be from the zombies, but I’m not sure if they pick their kills clean. Whatever it is from, the bodies become more numerous the farther I go which isn’t giving me that warm glow of comfort.