Convergence

by Mark Tufo

  Although the area between the trees is clear of underbrush and allows fairly decent sight lines, the ground is covered with dry fir needles and branches. That’s going to slow me down even further unless I want to sound like a herd of stampeding buffalo. I wonder how far ahead Mike and Trip are. They could even be sitting just around the next tree, which means that I’ll have to be cautious before shooting and hope that they’ll give me the same courtesy.

  Taking a moment to empty a water bottle and fill my mag from the near empty one, I set out using the game trails to the extent possible. As I quietly work my way through the woods, the negative feelings I had before begin to dissipate. I’m not dead yet, and where there’s a way in, there’s a way out. Of course, where that door may lead is another question altogether, but I stop myself from venturing down that long and weary path.

  Being away from any venue where people congregated, there is little chance of running into any version of zombies. The whistlers could be anywhere. They seem to enjoy traveling the open roads, but I’ll hear those hogs they ride before they come into view. And the night runners won’t appear until after the sun sets. Walking through the shadows of the forest could almost be considered peaceful.

  As the day wears on, I start looking back over my shoulder more and more. I keep getting the nagging feeling that I’m being watched, but I haven’t heard or smelled anything. Although, having stepped into the trees, the breeze that was so prevalent in the open is almost nonexistent. High overhead, I hear the rush of gusts stirring the boughs, but nothing else.

  While moving from cover to cover, I pull out the rearview mirror I took from the vehicle and hold it up. The mirror doesn’t afford the same view I’d have if I were looking directly, but it will allow me to observe without turning around. I’m nearly positive that I’m being observed, if I’m to trust my instincts, but whatever it is vanishes from sight before I can lay eyes on it.

  There, movement behind just at the edge of sight.

  Whoever or whatever it is keeps its distance for the moment. I can’t tell if it is one of those smart zombies or Trip playing some game. With the glimpse, I didn’t get the feeling that it was a whistler, and I’ve yet to see one of them without others. Of course, there could be others hidden out of sight.

  I look for any places that might afford some protection, but there are only the endless trunks. Without giving an indication that I’ve noticed my stalker, I keep on and soon hear the soft burbling of a creek ahead. Along the stream, sunlight streams along a bright path through breaks in the overhead cover.

  Cognizant of those behind, I stand on an embankment that runs beside the creek. Below, the bank descends about four feet to a small shore of sand and rocks. In the creek, the shin-deep water burbles over and around smooth rocks in an eternal dance. It’s one of those places where I could sit on the shore and stare at the waters with thoughts meandering in my head for hours on end.

  Mentally visualizing how far back the observer was, I hop down the embankment, landing with a crunch and crouching on the rounded stones and sand. Remaining low and keeping below the lip of the ledge, I immediately parallel the creek, watching my footing to make minimal noise and to avoid leaving imprints in the wet soil. With the sun almost directly overhead, I don’t have to worry about my shadow stretching across the stream and giving away my position.

  I’m fortunate that the creek turns a corner after a little way. If this is going to work, I’ll have to be out of sight before whoever is behind me rushes up to keep contact. Maybe they use other methods to track, but I need to keep out of sight regardless. The theory is that if they approach the creek, they won’t know which way I went. The whole point is the hope that by remaining casual, they’ll think I merely crossed the creek and continued on. The sunlight along the creek should obscure their vision well enough that they won’t be able to see far into the shaded woods on the other side. Looking from a bright light into shadows makes it hard to discern much of anything.

  I round the corner and raise to peer over the lip, using the scant brush along the edge as cover. There isn’t anyone standing along the embankment or rushing through the trees.

  This is where it gets interesting, I think, glancing along the creek in both directions to make sure they’re not trying to outflank me.

  Now out of sight of each, the cat and mouse game begins. I may have the advantage in that I know they’re there and they don’t know that I know. Or, maybe I was careless and they saw me.

  “Gotcha,” I breathe, seeing a flash of movement within the trees.

  With a hard look upstream, I lower myself and continue below the embankment. After traveling a short distance, I ease up and quickly find my quarry. A woman is standing behind a tree, her hands resting on the bark as she peeks around the side. Further ahead, I spot three other shadows as they dart among the trunks. Whoever this is, they’re being careful, but the three are obviously moving ahead to gain a visual or form into some kind of attack position. I’m reminded of the other woman and those smart zombies Trip and I encountered after leaving the tree line when we entered the plain.

  Slowly, I bring my carbine up over the lip and look through the magnified setting. She’s wearing stained and tattered clothing; her hands resting on the bark pale with darker stains. I also notice several deep cuts on the back of her hands, none of them bleeding when they obviously should be. Her shoulder length hair hangs in greasy clumps. All of this indicates that I’m looking at one of those smart zombies, the other three darting through the trees part of her group. I don’t know why they didn’t do an end around and assault from the side like the others, but I’m glad they haven’t.

  Hanging back like she is, I’m assuming that she is the leader. I can’t get over the idea of zombies having a leader, or even the ability to be tactical. For some reason, the night runners having that ability doesn’t faze me, but this seems eerier. Perhaps it’s because the night runners aren’t the dead coming back to life with a functioning cognizance. That seems normal from something with a heartbeat and operational synapses.

  After confirming that I’m not about to put a round into Mike or Trip, and verifying that they’re bad guys the best that I can, I place the reticle on the back of the woman’s head. Even if they aren’t bad guys, I’m not a huge fan of being followed in such a manner. Come up and introduce yourself, call out to let me know you’re a friendly, but sneaking around behind me makes my trigger finger twitchy.

  Resting on the crest of the embankment, I apply pressure on the trigger. Dried fir needles and dust vibrate under the end of my barrel as the round exits. The creek mostly covers the sound of the suppressed shot. The high-speed projectile forcefully impacts the back of the woman’s head just under the base of the skull, slams into the vertebrae, and slants upward into the brain. Hitting the inside bone at the right angle, the bullet ricochets and bounces inside the head. The zombie is thrown against the tree and slides down the rough bark.

  I crawl up the embankment and crouch run toward the fallen body. Ahead, near where I vanished down into the creek bed, the three are silhouetted against the sunshine as they stand on the ledge. Watching my step to minimize noise, I maneuver through the trees to keep the three in sight. Nearing the body, I see dark fluid leaking from the ears and the blankly staring cloudy eyes filled with the same liquid. Wanting to be sure, I place a bullet into its skull, the head jumping from the impact.

  The three ahead are still standing at the edge of the creek. Now is the time for cautious aggression. It’s not like they can shoot back, and I don’t want to give up my current advantage by losing sight of them. Crouching by a tree, I take aim on the one to the left. The muted cough reverberates off the nearby trees as the bullet closes the distance and slams into the back of its head. The zombie is thrown forward and vanishes from view down the embankment. The one that was next to it glances toward where the first one had been standing and then down to where it is presumably lying. Any realization of what happened comes too late,
as it too is thrown forward from another high-speed projectile sending it into the creek with a loud splash.

  The third turns around and begins running in my direction, its brain connecting the dots.

  “Wrong move, my friend,” I mutter, sending two quick rounds at the charging figure.

  The rounds hit with heavy thumps and cracks, the charging figure falling forward amid a flurry of fir needles, branches, and dirt. Rising, with my carbine alternating between the embankment and the fallen one in sight, I cautiously walk forward. Even through the zombie isn’t moving, I sink a round into its head. The last thing I want is for one to rise behind me while I’m focusing on the others.

  I’m not sure if the ones that fell into the creek bed are actually dead or not, so I move to come at them from a different angle. The woods carry a faint lingering odor of gunpowder and the stench of decomposition. Approaching the creek, I peek over the bank and down to where the others fell, confirming that there are two bodies. One is lying with its legs angled up the bank, facedown among the stones. The wet sand is stained darker from the black blood leaking out. The second one is mostly in the creek, the current tugging at the body, hair flowing in the stream. The two are obviously done for, but I expend two more rounds to make sure. I survey the area to confirm that these were the only ones, seeing nothing but the bodies, the flowing water, and shaded woods across the creek. Filling my water bottles upstream from the mess, I resume my march following the railroad tracks.

  As I make my way through the woods, several dirt roads and paved country lanes cut across my path. The dirt roads show signs of recent traffic, thin tread marks carved in the dust, and I can only assume the paved ones are being used as well. At each one, I pause within the bushes to make sure the route is clear, crossing in the shadows that stretch across the roadways. On the dirt paths, I step on embedded stones or hard-packed earth in order to minimize my footprints. The last thing I need is for something or someone to pick up my trail.

  Nearing one such crossing, an intersection of the tracks and a road, I hear a faint rumbling coming from behind. Easing back into the woods, I crouch behind a recently fallen tree and position myself so I can see the maintenance road beside the tracks while keeping an eye on the intersecting path. I make sure that the overhead cover is complete and that the sun heading westward won’t shine a beam through the cover and highlight my position, thus creating a silhouetted outline of a body behind bushes. I’d head further into the woods, but I want to have a visual contact of anything approaching. If I can see them and they don’t know I’m there, advantage me—and that’s the way I like it.

  The noise grows louder, turning into a deep, vibrating roar as the motorcycles close in on my position. Riders come into view, flashing past gaps in the trees and bushes. I count as whistlers zip past one opening.

  Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, but that could be off by a couple as the dust raised by their motorcycles obscures a firm count.

  The thunder of sound reaches a crescendo as they approach the intersection, their speed slowing.

  Of all the intersections, of course they’d pick the one I’m at.

  Staring through needled branches, I watch as the entire group halts, the cloud of dust they created catching up and settling over them. One by one, the bikes are shut off and kick stands pushed down. I momentarily wonder if they picked up my scent or trail coming out of Atlantis and are trying to find additional signs of my passage. If I’m spotted, the woods are my friend, but it’s me against twenty-plus. If I’m hit by even one of those staple guns, it won’t take long until the sedative they use takes hold. If that happens, I might as well strip naked and lie down in a fetal position for all the good I’ll be.

  The tall, gaunt, leather-clad creatures dismount, their white, almost translucent heads with the deep folds of skin bright in the sunlight like shining flashlights. With the sounds of their bikes gone, I hear clicks and grunts that are muffled by their gas masks. My thumb rubs over the selector switch of my carbine as I observe one of them proceed several yards down the paved country road. I can’t get over the double-jointed way they walk. That and their skinny height makes them look like some kind of praying mantis with a fucked-up head.

  The one glances into the woods and then stares down the road for several heartbeats before turning back to the group massed together at the crossroads. I’m torn between keeping an eye on them and easing deeper into the woods to make myself scarcer. With clacks and grunts, the leader points in different directions. My heart skips a beat as one of those directions is directly toward my position. If it’s pointing out patrol directions, then I’m in deep shit.

  Several head into the woods at each corner, including mine. Slowly turning my head to again ensure that my background isn’t going to create a silhouette of my body, I watch as two of them enter the tree line and stop a few yards inside. Without looking directly at the two, I keep an eye on their movements. If they make a move toward me, I’m going to send several greeting cards their way and vanish deeper into the woods. They stand, their heads turning as they survey the area. Maybe it’s my ego or paranoia talking, but I have the feeling that they’re searching for me.

  The rumble of motorcycles reverberates through the woods; my bones vibrate in sync with the deep pulses as they rev the engines. Looking past the two, I see that about half of the group have started and saddled their bikes. One by one, they motor away to the north along the paved road. Just before they vanish from sight, I notice bodies being dragged behind each bike. Other than demonstrating a form of cruelty, I just don’t get it. They obviously use the zombies and such as food, but dragging them would grind that food source down; they couldn’t have much left after a while.

  As the bikes fade away, the others remain in their positions. There are two in the woods at each corner, with two others rummaging through packs tied to the motorcycles. The clicks and grunts emanating from the whistlers sound tinny, like they’re coming from cheap microphones in their gas masks.

  Holding some object, those two at the bikes stroll down the paved road and pound something into the ground on the shoulder. Seconds later, there’s a very low rhythmic hum and vibration that seems to come from the ground itself. The two then head back to the intersection and alternate their glances down each path. I have no idea what the object they planted is for, but I’m starting to believe they aren’t after me in particular. That is, unless their plan is to drive me crazy with the constant sound until I run into their arms begging for release.

  For an hour, I remain crouched a few yards from the two whistlers keeping watch. The vibration and noise is annoying as hell, and for the hundredth time I think about edging away from the scene. But, I’m close enough to the two that any movement away from the fallen tree will be noticed. So, we all play the waiting game to see who is going to give up first.

  The clicks and grunts suddenly become a little more agitated. The two glance toward the paved road, before concentrating more intently on the woods. It’s obvious from the noise and their abrupt intensity that something is happening——or at least about to. Not knowing what is making me a bit nervous.

  Spotting movement along the road, I slowly turn my head and see a group of zombies walking on the pavement toward the intersection. The whistlers on the road raise their arms and begin firing, the zombies flinching from those staple things slamming into their bodies. A few steps later and the zombies begin falling face-first onto the pavement. The two keep firing until the entire group is down. I watch the entire scene until the sound of a branch snapping behind me sends a rush of adrenaline through my body.

  Forcing myself to remain calm and not whip around, I slowly turn to see two zombies appear among the trunks. They’re ambling toward the device on the road, which incidentally will take them right through my position. The notice has gone out: I am officially between a rock and a hard place. There are whistlers to my front and zombies behind. There’s no way I’m going to remain undiscovered by either group atte
nding this soiree.

  A thousand plans race through my mind. Okay, actually two. Take out the zombies first, then the whistlers, and run. Or, take out the whistlers, and then the zombies, and run.

  Of course, there’s also “just run,” but where’s the fun in that?

  The two whistlers sharing my neck of the woods become animated, pointing their long skinny arms in my direction. I actually hear the zing of the metal staples as they streak through the air and hit the zombies. The first one goes down after a few steps, hitting the dried needles with a thump. The other hits the side of a tree and slides down the trunk.

  Well, this is going to be interesting, I think, moving to lie along the length of the fallen tree.

  As quietly as I can, I move some of the branches to break up my outline and scoop some of the pine needles over me. My M-4 is against my body, barrel pointing at my feet, my finger near the trigger and hand wrapped around the rail system. The crackle of needles and twigs on the other side of the log lets me know that the whistlers are on their way to collect their trophies. It’s not the outbound trip that has me overly concerned, but when they turn to walk back to the road, they’ll be looking almost directly at me.

  The sound of the footsteps grows louder until I can see the gangly march of the whistlers walking past my position. It’s funny. A hundred times before, when I knew there was a strong possibility that the shit was about to hit the fan, I’d look around and wonder if this was the place where it all ends. It wasn’t fear talking, but mere curiosity. Is this the end of my story? My body lying among the ferns, or on an outcropping of rocks, or wherever I happened to be at the time. The entire journey I’ve taken so far only to end here, at this moment. Will these be my last thoughts? There was never any grandiose development, no grand revelation of the secrets of life, no shining light. It was like any other moment in time…mere existence.