Convergence

by Mark Tufo

  Well, the thought occurs that it might end here, away from my kids, away from Lynn, in an entirely different world. My body dragged behind the bike of a creature out of my nightmares with no one the wiser as to what happened to me.

  Oh well, it all ends sometime.

  I smell the scent of the firs, the aroma of the earth I piled against me. Between the steady thumps of the object by the road, I hear the soft whisper of the wind blowing through the tops of the trees. Looking up, I see the gentle swaying of boughs overhead, the blue sky showing through the small gaps. I feel both at peace and saddened, although it would be nice to have seen my kids and Lynn one more time.

  I am just a lonely traveler of worlds.

  With the clicks and grunts of what passes for speech, the whistlers grab the limp forms and begin dragging them through the woods. The folded skin with wispy hair above their gas masks makes me cringe. Folded into the niche of the tree, I watch as they near, waiting for any sign that I’ve been spotted. I don’t gaze directly at them, as that’s a sure way to be discovered. Whatever energy is exchanged by a direct gaze will cause the one being watched to react. I keep my breaths shallow in order not to disturb the dried needles or cause any movement.

  My heart is pounding as they draw closer. There it is, that look of confusion a split-second before recognition.

  Nope.

  I’m not sure whether the registered surprise that replaces the confused expression is from seeing me or from the dark hole of a barrel pointed directly at it. Or, perhaps it’s from the sudden flash of light.

  Surprise!

  My suppressed shot echoes off the trunks in the immediate area, the round slamming under the whistler’s chin with a wet, mushy smack. It sounds more like I’m shooting a bowl of Jell-O than solid flesh and bone. The whistler stands motionless, the body it’s carrying falling to the ground. In slow motion, the creature sinks to its knees, then falls to the side with a crash of broken twigs.

  The second whistler looks at his buddy, confused. That is short-lived as I fire a shot in nearly the same place, the round streaking through its soft head and exiting out of the top in a fountain of black blood and gore. The zombie drops from its lifeless grip and the whistler falls beside the first one. Inching out of my spot, I peer over the log toward the intersection. So far, it doesn’t appear that my one-sided conversation was noticed, but it won’t be long before the absence of the two will be discovered. I put a round into each whistler and one into each zombie for good measure. The thrumming and vibration stop, the object they placed at the side of the road having been turned off.

  The choice is either to get clear or to engage the remaining whistlers. If I leave, they’ll soon know I was here, or that someone was. I’ll be tracked, with others possibly being called in, and then I’ll be hunted for the foreseeable future. If I take the rest of them on, well, anything can happen. But, if I manage to eliminate them and get away, then I’ll at least have a head start and a chance to cover my tracks before the vanguard returns. It’s not like they don’t know we’re in this world, having taken down a few of their number already.

  Now, the game begins.

  With the possibility of the others in the forest looking outward, there’s little chance that I can cross any of the roads and enter the trees without being seen. Each of the two in the other corners of the woods are either looking deeper into the trees, or collecting their trophies and returning. The ones on the road have already dragged theirs back and are in the process of tying them to the back of their bikes.

  I check to make sure that other zombies haven’t been drawn to my corner of the woods before moving away from the fallen log and easing closer to the corner of the intersection. Knowing that I don’t have all the time in the world, I crouch behind a bush at the edge of the trees. The two whistlers in the open are mere yards away, their gangly bodies bent over their tasks. Once I start, I’m going to have to move quickly, before any others appear. My hope is that I can separately engage each of the groups of two.

  Okay, Jack. Don’t think, move.

  Slowly poking my barrel through the bush, making sure the suppressor doesn’t protrude, I center the crosshair on the back of the nearest one’s head. The second whistler is close to the first; I’ll be able to get another shot off before the first one hits the ground. The way they’re positioned, there’s little chance of their fall knocking over any of the parked bikes.

  Tightening on the trigger, I feel the recoil and see a splatter of black fluid splash on the pavement in front of the first whistler. It rocks forward as if punched and slams into the road. The second one begins turning its head as my round strikes it at the base of its weird skull over the left side of its neck. The flesh seems to absorb the round rather than be hit by it. The result is the same, and the whistler crashes to the ground, viscous dark fluid pooling around both of their heads.

  Without pausing, I spring from behind the bush and streak across the paved road. The transition from light to shadow is a little disorienting, but my enhanced vision quickly adapts. I see two whistlers dragging a body several yards away. The surprise each shows at my sudden appearance gives me a momentary advantage.

  It’s easier for a right-handed person to traverse right to left when firing, so I immediately fire on the whistler to the right. My round streaks through the shadowed woods, smashing through the gas mask lens and impacting just below the eye. The folds of flesh wobble like disturbed Jell-OO, the back of the head erupting in gooey clumps of gore and fluid. Sweeping left, I fire again, hitting the second one nearly in the middle of the forehead. Both whistlers drop, their legs folding in grotesque positions.

  The whistlers twitch on the ground, but neither makes a move to rise. Like I did with the first two, I sacrifice three more rounds: one for the zombie and one each for the whistlers. Moving back to the intersection and standing behind a tree, I see two emerge from the woods across from the tracks. They’ll spot their two fallen comrades in the open within seconds. I had hoped to be able to take each by surprise in their wooded corners, but that little wish is now a thing of the past.

  Taking aim, I send two rounds toward the first one, watching as the tree next to it is coated with a dark, viscous fluid. My crosshair centers on the other one, my greeting cards slamming into its neck and the side of its head.

  Whack!

  The bark next to my head erupts and sends splinters across my cheek and forehead. I immediately dive away, hearing the zip of something passing close by my head. Rolling, I come up with my carbine aimed toward the far corner, but see nothing moving. Embedded in the shredded bark where I was standing is one of those large staples. My little game of surprise the whistlers is over.

  Well, this just became more interesting, I think, scanning the tree lines.

  A loud screech overrides every other sense, the sound penetrating my brain and becoming nearly paralyzing. I grimace under the attack of noise, pressing my temples to keep my skull from flying apart. Panting, I ease deeper into the woods. Across the way, nothing is moving.

  The two whistlers and I are both catty-corner, each side pondering the next move. I don’t have a visual, and hopefully the same holds true for them. Now it becomes a game of cat-and-mouse. Of course, they could have opted to run away. However, unless they’ve gone for help, I think they’re doing the same as me: staying out of sight.

  I crawl across the ground, easing branches and needles out of my way as I work back toward the intersection. If I were them, I’d attempt to flank, splitting up to come at me from different angles. Of course, they may opt to remain together for the additional firepower. Given that, I want to be able to keep an eye up each road to observe any crossing they may attempt.

  The shadows lengthen as the sun heads west. As yet, there hasn’t been sight or sound of anything. I’m concerned that the sedated zombies may rise again soon. If that happens, I’ll be forced to leave and reveal my position. There’s also the chance that the others could return at any time. As much
as I’d like to cover my tracks from the outset, it’s beginning to look like I’ll just have to depart and worry about hiding my trail later.

  Movement along the paved road far away catches my attention. A fast but gangly whistler crosses, vanishing into the woods on my side. It must have crossed the tracks out of my sight somehow, but now that I know where one of them is, I can envision the movements it’s likely to take. Looking up the road in the other direction, I see a flash of the second whistler entering the trees after crossing.

  Very well, I think, easing back from the intersection.

  I know this is the tricky part. There are two parties in the woods, each wanting to see the other before being spotted themselves. However, I know the whistler crossed and will most likely head deeper into the woods and then advance toward the intersection, hoping to come upon me from behind. My job is to turn the hunter into the hunted before the second one makes its appearance.

  Staying back from the edge of the trees, I head parallel to the tracks to avoid a head-on meeting with the first one. After a ways, I turn deeper into the woods, walking a few steps before looking and listening, then advancing a few more. My movements are slow and fluid so I don’t draw attention. Finding another fallen log, this one crumbled and rotting, I crouch behind and wait, keeping an eye on my surroundings.

  The faint snap of a twig from the left draws my attention. Through the trunks and shadows, I spot the silhouette of the first whistler inching through the woods with its gangly steps. If it keeps to its current line of travel, it will pass well in front of me. With one in sight, my worry moves to the second one. With the sense of tactics they’re showing, the second one will either hole up in the trees across the tracks in the hopes that I’ll be flushed into the open, or it will attempt come up behind me from a different direction. I doubt they have any form of radio comms, or I’d be facing a company of ten-plus others rather than just the remaining two.

  The first one snakes through the woods, creeping forward. Passing in front, it turns toward the intersection. Inching to the side to get a better angle, I aim through a pair of trunks growing close together. The whistler is holding its arms up in front, looking for me so it can launch those staples into me. My crosshair is firmly imprinted on the back of its skull. The muffled cough sounds loud as I send a round between the trunks and into the folds of its head. The whistler lurches forward as the bullet penetrates with a sloshy wet sound. It stumbles forward two more steps as my second and third rounds hit. It then crashes into a tree and slides down the bark, leaving a black smear.

  Looking to the side toward the tracks, I see the last whistler enter the trees at a run and look to the left and right. It must have heard its buddy scrape down the tree. Catching my movement as I round on it, its arms come up. Firing twice without truly aiming, I catch it in the shoulder with one round, the other bullet going wide. The bark of the tree beside me splinters from its errant shot. Walking forward, I keep firing, putting round after round into its chest. Black fluid sprays the air behind it as my bullets exit. It isn’t driven backward, but suddenly slumps to the ground as if deflated.

  After making sure it’s dead, I walk to the other and ensure that it won’t be dragging bodies anymore. I’d hide the bodies against the return of the others, assuming they’re going to come back, but that would take ages. My plan is to be long gone by the time they’re discovered, even though I’m leaving behind evidence of my presence. Exchanging mags, I glance at the few full remaining ones.

  Wanting to get away, but intrigued by the device the Whistlers planted, I head down the country road and pluck it from the ground. The device is about eight inches across and rounded on top like a thick version of a flying saucer. Grates set into the sides surround the object and a long stake protrudes from underneath that ends with a flattened bottom. On top is a dial with odd symbols in a circle, and a button in the middle.

  I stare at the button, contemplating whether to push it or not. I figure it will either work and make those throbbing pulses, or it will explode. With the button being on top and therefore requiring the person activating it to be rather close, the odds of it actually exploding are relatively low. That is, unless the whistlers have some kind of suicide thing going on. With a shrug and thinking that perhaps it isn’t my greatest decision in life, I push the button.

  The object jumps in my hand as a steel rod punches downward from the spike. The device then begins a pulsing throb emitting a low-frequency hum. The air around the steel rod shimmers to the same rhythm. Figuring I’m already in, I twist the dial and the pulse intensity increase. Pressing the button again, the steel rod retracts and the hum stops. With what I’ve witnessed at the tracks, it appears that the whistlers are calling their food.

  Noticing that the protruding spike folds, I place the device in my pack. A quick rummage through the packs on the bikes reveals another one, which I also take. I’d like to go through them more thoroughly, but the longer I linger in the area, the greater chance of the others showing up. Plus, the zombies are going to eventually wake from their naps. Without further ado, I head down the tracks, using the rails and railroad ties to keep from leaving prints. If those behind are discovered, then the paved roads and tracks will leave four choices as to which direction I went.

  Being in the open isn’t my first choice as I jog down the rail line, making sure each step is on a cross tie. However, there aren’t any other options if I’m to leave the area without dropping a trail of brightly strobing arrows pointing to where I went. My chief concern is encountering a number of zombies that might have responded to the signal but didn’t quite make it before it was shut down.

  I keep to the tracks for the next hour and arrive at a bridge crossing a small stream. Hopping up on the short rail, I descend the outside of the bridge to a point where I can drop into the creek. Following the narrow waterway for a short length, I then reenter the woods, feeling very relieved to be out of the open.

  As the day passes, the woods begin to thin, with farmland and distant houses becoming visible. More country roads appear and I have the feeling that my protective covering is about to become scarcer. It isn’t long before I pick up the smell of stagnation, and then the trees end at the edge of a wide marshy area. Reeds and grassy clumps rise amid stagnant pools and sluggish streams. The tracks and maintenance road continue across atop trestles of thick poles and lumber. I visually search for another way across, but the marsh continues for some distance on both sides. Across the mile-plus of track, trees mark the far end of the wetland.

  The idea of walking in the open and being silhouetted for any length of time is disconcerting. Finding a large stone, I toss it out into the swamp and hear it hit with a wet, mushy plop. There’s no way I’m going to meander through that mess. I’ve waded in swamps before and hated every minute of it. This one looks impassable anyway, the mud too deep. I could poke and prod with a long stick, but there’s a chance of whistlers appearing. It would be just my luck to hear the rumble of bikes just as I sank thigh-deep in the thick bog. If I were stuck in the open like that, all I would be able to do would be to wave and hope that they had a sense of sportsmanship.

  So, the trestle it is.

  Descending the embankment, I walk along the edge of the marsh. Due to the single crossing point, the span is an ideal place to search for the tracks of anyone who has entered or exited the trees. Under the bridge, I look along the bottom at the cross members to find, to my relief, that it looks like I’ll be able to walk on them. I may have to jump in a few places, but it should be doable. Adjusting my pack, I begin, walking across one of the middle beams to stay within the shadows.

  Halfway across, after hopping to a large beam extending to the side, I ready myself for the jump to another when I hear a familiar low rumbling. Crouching in the shadows next to a wide pole, I look upward. The railroad ties have gaps between, but the roadside is covered with planks. I ease over to make sure I’m under the solid cover. Immersed in shadow, I’m not concerned that I
will cast one where it can be seen, but I check anyway.

  The growl of the bikes grows louder, and it isn’t long before I feel the trestle timbers vibrating. Glancing out into the marsh, I see the shadows of the riders undulate across the clumps of grass and stagnant waters. They’re coming from the far side, and if they continue their line of travel, they’ll come to the intersection where I had the altercation with their buddies. Hopefully, since they will have just traveled from this direction, they’ll discount this path when they start to look for me, them. That’s assuming they don’t suddenly become fascinated by the fine workmanship of the trestle.

  The timber’s vibrations increase as the motorcycles and their accompanying shadows pass directly overhead with a roar of noise. The thunder shakes dust and fine debris from the underside that drifts onto my shoulders and into my hair, and then they’re past. I watch the shadows across the swamp until they go up the embankment and vanish, the rumble fading into the distance. The land settles back to the occasional bird winging its way through the reeds. I wait a few more minutes before continuing in case there are any stragglers or a second group.

  With the delays I’ve encountered, there’s no way I’ll make it to Indian Hill by nightfall, so it’s time to begin searching for a secure place to spend the night. If it weren’t for night runners, I’d just remain under the bridge. Zombies wouldn’t be able get to me and I’d be hidden from whistlers. The smarter version-two zombies could possibly be a threat, but they seem to run in smaller packs and are more easily taken care of. On the far side of the marsh, I hop off the beams and head along the swamp’s edge before ascending back into the trees.

  After a short distance, I see a vehicle near the tracks. Approaching cautiously, it turns out to be one of those pickups with attachments that allow them to drive on rails. In front of the truck, a pair of legs from the knees down extend vertically. From where I’m crouched, I see some pink skin showing between the hem of the jeans and where a pair of socks disappear into boots. The intact legs indicate a lack of night runners in the area. Also of note is that the whistlers don’t seem to like body parts sticking out of objects.