by Mark Tufo
I called it a “fucking jerk” as I tossed it. Slammed my new magazine in and was back in business. By this time, the zombies were well within our comfort zone. Our main priority had to remain the short wall. Some of the zombies had made it to various parts of our wall; these Trip could deal with as they attempted to climb up. It was somehow more sickening to watch a slower, bigger projectile strike a human head. Due to the size and speed, it would break so many of the facial bones and cave-in such a large portion of it as to make humans almost unrecognizable.
“This is just a game.” Trip was repeating this mantra; some part of him must have known this wasn’t true, but was trying to protect the other from the cold stark reality of what was actually happening.
Wish my other self wasn’t so fucking selfish. The one good thing about an enemy being so close was the ability to eliminate it quickly. Trip and I were whirling dervishes of destruction. We shifted like a well-oiled machine, a lethal practiced assassin team. It was the very last zombie standing that almost did me in. I had my back to him when I was slammed into; I lost my grip on my rifle as I was attempting to reload. As I was falling over, I did my best to shift so I wouldn’t land on my face, and was more than half expecting a bite on the shoulder, neck, or top of my head.
Weird how luck can sometimes intercede on your behalf: the only reason the zombie hadn’t bitten me was reach. Not that he didn’t have plenty of it—;poor bastard had been asked how the weather was up there since the day he began to walk. Easily seven and a half feet tall, we were entirely too close for him to effectively bend over and get a snack. My back crashed into the rock, a decent amount but not all of the air was expelled from my lungs; the pain was tolerable but it hurt like fucking hell. Least of my problems at the moment; Stretch was readjusting, I had my hands wrapped tightly on his shirt up by the shoulders. He was trying to dig his clawed and dirty hands into my neck and face, he wasn’t too particular where. Not only was this one tall, he was strong as well. He was winning the battle; he’d grabbed hold of my shirt much like I had his, though instead of trying to hold me back, he was trying to pull me forward, and having remarkably good luck.
I could make Trip out standing over us, I expected him to be pulling up on my attacker; instead, and for the better he shot it in the back of the head. The marble rattled around in his skull like a pinball and then it rolled out of his mouth and tapped me on the head. I pushed the tall zombie off of me, thankful he had not gotten a taste.
“Holy shit Trip, thank you,” I said as he extended a hand down to help me up.
“Did we win?”
Don’t know exactly what game he was playing, but this battle for our lives we most definitely had. Zombies were strewn all over the small field. I picked up my rifle, did a quick check to make sure the drop hadn’t damaged any major components, and then looked for more threats. If they were out there, they weren’t in any rush to test our resolve. I caught my breath, did my best to calm down, and then reluctantly made the decision to go and find Jack. Not reluctant to find him, rather I was hesitant to leave our fairly defendable position. If this had taken place in the woods, I’m not sure the results would have been the same. Just like real estate, battles are all determined by location. But we left our position and headed parallel to the hill; it wasn’t long before we stumbled upon some train tracks. To me, this looked like the small ridge where Jack had told us to meet. If it wasn’t, it seemed like the perfect place and easy to find, plus I needed to get my nerves under control. I sat next to a tree, Trip dealt in his own way and lit a fatty. It wasn’t too long before Trip fired a marble missile—seemed he was a little jumpy himself; luckily the projectile sailed over Jack’s head. Got to admit I was pretty happy to see him again. Probably wouldn’t tell him though—guy code.
Mike tells his story while we plant the calling device, leaving it turned off. On our return, I tell a condensed version of my own. By the time I finish, we’re back at the tracks with the sun sinking near the horizon. I’m beat, and Mike looks it as well, but we both force ourselves to stay on our feet to go through the supplies, looking for explosives. Anything that goes boom gets set to the side. I’m not sure what the soldiers here were trying to do, but whatever it was included quite a few claymores, blocks of what looks like C-4, and mines. It looks as if they planned on creating a large defensive blockade before events caught up with them. I’m glad that whatever happened occurred before they had a chance to plant anything, or we might not still be around to dig through the crates.
As we labor, we keep an ear tuned for the sound of approaching whistlers or zombies, our gazes frequently coming up from our work to survey our surroundings. Twilight subdues the light as we rise to stretch the kinks out of our backs and walk into one of the vehicles to seal ourselves in. Night is almost upon us, but we all need to rest and have something to eat. It’s going to take us a while to get everything placed, and the last thing we need is for fumbling fingers to do something unintended. Things unexpectedly go boom when that occurs.
As we dig into the food packages, we exchange a few words, but mostly we dine in silence, having too little energy for conversation. I don’t know how Trip eats 24/7 and can still be such a skinny dude. I don’t want to think of the bomb he’s going to lay after eating Phritos for an entire day and then these FTEs. I contemplate making him stay outside, but he may hold the key to working the devices in the facility. Although I don’t have definitive proof that anything is actually there, the circumstantial evidence of the large solar farm and gathering of whistlers is enough for me.
As nighttime closes in around us and the explosives are loaded aboard the two vehicles, we head off through town. I keep my senses open for night runners, but don’t detect any. I don’t want to extend my senses any further for fear that it may draw them to us, which is the exact opposite of what we want to happen, though I’ll remain open as we set up our zone in the dark. Mike has the NVGs and I can see fine, so at least that won’t be a hindrance.
Driving one behind the other, we motor along the main street. The soft roar of the diesel engines reverberates off the walls of the family shops and the occasional chain restaurant. With the dim light from a half moon just risen, the townscape is cast in silver and deep shadows. Broken windows and body parts protruding from buildings and sidewalks makes it appear as if we’re driving through a war zone. All that’s missing are the crumbling buildings, rubble-strewn streets, and the occasional chatter of machine guns.
At the top of the hill on the edge of town, the road descends to the vast plain bathed in a pearly glow. The moonlight vanishes behind scattered clouds as they drift across the starry sky. In the distance, the facility is barely noticeable. However, beams of moving headlights illuminate the road leading into it from the return of several whistlers. Although sound carries well across the open valley, the facility is too far for them to hear us, unless we begin blaring air horns. That’s assuming the whistlers don’t have some kind of super hearing, but I haven’t seen any sign of that.
With their continued presence in a central location, I don’t see how they aren’t constantly surrounded by zombies. The only thing I can figure out is that they patrol the area to keep it clear. If they have another way, that would be helpful for Mike when he returns to his world. But, that’s neither here nor there. Right now, we have to descend and set up our ambush.
The onboard equipment has thermal imaging technology, which won’t do us any good against zombies, but will help us to identify anything else. Gazing at the monitor, I don’t see anything hot enough to register partway out into the plain. The rest is too far for the thermal to pick up. Starting the armored vehicle forward, I begin the descent, with Mike following.
At first, we thought about using one vehicle and leaving the other one nearby, but there were more explosives than we imagined, so both are required. Even so, we’ll have to make two trips if we want to set up something effective enough to obliterate a mass of whistlers.
Parking past th
e bottom of the hill, the darkened shadows of the tree line behind us, I stand atop the vehicle next to the fifty-caliber turret. Seeing things in the dark is so much different than observing them during daylight hours. I mentally visualize everything from prior observations; where the zombies will gather and how the whistlers will approach, how they will spread out in a combat line.
I tell Trip to remain inside his vehicle, and that if I see him outside, I’ll tie him up and use him for bait. With so much explosive potential around, if he decides to get curious and does the wrong thing, we’ll just be a mass of subatomic particles floating in the ether. With positioning in mind, we begin offloading the supplies and dragging the contents to hide them among the shrubs. The contacts are placed and wire strung between the explosives with the strands hidden deep enough under the soil so the accidental boot doesn’t dig them up. Small groups of the explosives are wired back to a central location. That way, if one set is compromised, it won’t affect the entire package.
Claymores are hidden under bushes and concealed by nearby branches, set at a very slight upward angle. Mines are dug and covered, the surrounding area smoothed over. There are other devices we set in an overall rectangular pattern where we expect the whistlers to engage the gathered zombies. All of the strand ends are hooked to two long wires that extend up to where we’ll be parked and hidden. That will give us a backup system in case the primary fails.
I’m fucking beat by the time we finish, my back aching and fingers worn from twisting wire. Trudging back to the vehicles, we stop to place one of the thumping devices, which we’ve wired with a small explosive. The whistlers may not be able to feel or hear the device from their position miles out onto the plain, but they certainly will when they draw close. The plan is to destroy the device when they start their approach with a small charge, the resulting minor explosion hopefully hidden in a mass of zombies. Activating the device, we drive part of the way up the incline and park off each side of the road, hidden within the trees but with good lines of fire.
Mike and Trip hole up in one vehicle while I remain in the other. Once the zombies begin to gather, we won’t be able to transition. Luckily, we have working radios within the vehicles to communicate. We had searched the compound for portable radios, but weren’t able to locate any, for some odd reason. They should have had spares, but I’ll be damned if I could find any. It could be that the whistlers took them, but they sure don’t seem to be using them. For one, those at the crossroads would have been quickly reinforced. And, scanning the frequencies, I don’t hear a single thing. So, if they did take them, they’re being used for some decorative purpose.
With the entryways latched, we’re each inside our own little fortress. I hear and feel the constant thumping from the device down the hill. This whole thing relies on timing and a shit ton of luck. If the device is discovered too soon, then we won’t be able to spring the trap. Plus, the whistlers will almost certainly know we’re in the area. I can’t imagine they’d think some other group of their kind planted the thing and then just left. That luck thing also goes for hoping that a significant number of zombies reply to the call. I’m sure the whistlers will only send out what is needed to clean up the numbers gathered. If there are only a few of them, I won’t spring the ambush and alert them of our presence. We’ll just have to figure out something else. I clean my weapons in the darkness until exhaustion overcomes me. As much as I’d like to remain awake, the long day surpasses my ability to do so.
I’m wakened from my slumber, my consciousness slowly rising from the depths. Outside, I hear a low moaning coming from a multitude of throats as if the very air is vibrating. Above the odor of grease and oil from the machinery, there’s an overriding stench of death that penetrates my steel cage. Felt deep in my bones is the low frequency hum and thumping. I peek through the small driver’s slot to note that it is still nighttime and the moon has nearly vanished beyond the distant hills.
Below, silver rays play across a multitude of pale-skinned creatures. Their constant low moans create a chorus to the steady beat of the device in the background. More appear as they shuffle between the vehicles. Although I can’t see well to the sides, I do notice several coming from the trees to join the growing circle. Glancing past the increasing crowd, I look toward the facility to see if they’ve been noticed. There aren’t any lights that appear across the plain; no headlights from approaching motorcycles. So far, it looks like our luck is holding.
The moon lowers, or rather the rotation of this world raises the hills so that the moon vanishes behind their silhouettes. The land below is plunged into darkness, starlight casting a faint illumination. I only note the changed lighting by how the grays change in my vision. Sitting back in the driver’s seat, I feel eager, tired, and anxious. Those are not comfortable emotions when mixed together. I want nothing more than for time to move quicker, to be at the point when we get to return home. I have no idea how that will happen, and I’m putting a tremendous amount of faith in Trip. It seems that only he may know something about how to set things right and get us back to our loved ones. That’s where the anxiety comes from.
I take several deep breaths to restore myself. There’s a task ahead and I don’t have room for riotous emotions to run rampant. The next thing in front is what I need to be focusing on, while making sure we take steps in the right direction…whatever that might be. Right now, the overall goal is to get into the facility and locate what is serving as a control room. That means thinning the herd of whistlers currently occupying the place. I calm the emotions within and steel myself for the coming day.
The bluish light of pre-dawn stretches across the land, slowly replacing the darkness. The sun will rise behind us, giving us an advantage. The number of zombies gathered around the device surmounts my expectations. So much so that they may become a hindrance rather than help. There may be a chance that the whistlers won’t respond directly, although I can’t see them doing that as this is apparently their main base, or one of them. The smell of decaying flesh is strong enough that I can barely hold down each bite from the Food To Eat package.
I check my weapons, ensuring that rounds are chambered and the mags in my vest are secured. I turn on the electrical power and dials swing in their gauges. Hauling boxes of heavy caliber ammo, I link belts together so I won’t have to reload often. The system looks like it has a pretty decent setup to prevent kinks and feed the rounds in a line, but I’d still feel better if I had had someone guiding them as well.
I call Mike on the radio and hear that he’s up and ready. If the whistlers arrive and the explosives are blown, then we’ll send rounds into any remaining. The zombies may or may not become a problem during the operation, depending on how long we decide to remain. I’d actually like for a majority of them to be kept as a blockade of sorts for any pursuit. But, I’ll take what I can get. First, we have to actually get the whistlers to respond.
Sunlight streams against the far hills like a distant flame, working its way down the slopes. Slowly, the valley is filled with warm light, high clouds drifting slowly across an azure sky. Opening an upper hatch as quietly as I can, the moans from below grow in volume, along with the incredible stench. I work my way out of the armored vehicle, the sun’s rays striking my shoulder as I sit on the edge with my legs dangling into the cabin. Taking out my signal mirror, I orient it until I am able to place the concentrated reflected light on my hand. I then make a “V” with my fingers and direct the light toward the whistler facility, moving the mirror back and forth to send bright flashes of light in their direction.
It isn’t long before I detect a measure of activity from the distant location. Sliding the mirror into a pocket, I raise a pair of binoculars. A number of whistlers are moving through the huge parking lot, the strides of their backward knees making it appear as if bugs are marching through lines of motorcycles. Smoke billows out from several bikes and soon a group of twenty whistlers motor through the surrounding security fencing and out onto the roa
d, turning onto the pavement leading directly toward us.
The group halts at a distance, standing astride their bikes in a line four abreast and five deep. Making sure to keep my hands extended over the lens to prevent reflection, even though the sun is behind me, I watch as several whistlers ride away from the group and back to the facility. After a short while, a vast number of whistlers emerge and ride out to the others.
I reach inside and rapidly squeeze the clacker attached to the small explosive charge on the calling device. I don’t see a wisp of smoke or explosion from within the densely packed gathering of zombies, so there’s that going for us. The only indication I have that it worked is a sudden cessation of the low rhythmic hum and thumping. Without the device to keep the zombies gathered, the edges begin to disperse, some heading toward the parked whistlers. The rumble of groans has a vibration of its own as the multitude slowly drifts outward. With an unseen signal, the whistlers motor forward and then park their bikes to disperse among the brush on both sides of the pavement.
I wait until the whistlers spread out and begin engaging the leading edge of zombies. Sliding back inside, I open another hatch and move to take position behind the heavy caliber turret. I see that the positioning of the whistlers isn’t exactly how I envisioned it, but it’s close enough. Holding the mic on its long cord, I radio Mike.
“Ready?”
“Good to go here,” he replies.
With that, I lay the mic to the side, remove the safety on the clacker, and squeeze rapidly. The plain erupts, a wave of orange and yellow fire within roiling black and gray smoke, engulfing the line of whistlers and the leading edge of zombies. The ground shakes and more than a few zombies are thrown to the soil. From within the rising, boiling plumes of dark smoke, bodies emerge, having been catapulted high and outward with several trailing smoke behind them. I watch as a motorcycle rises straight up into the air, trailing fire as it shoots through the growing cloud of black smoke. It slows as it nears its apex, tumbling end over end. The war of gravity and momentum reach an even keel and it seems to hang in the air for just a moment, before plummeting back to earth. Before it falls back into the fray, the tank explodes in a flash of white and yellow.
