A Shrouded World - Whistlers

by Mark Tufo

  He had completely tuned me out and was like a guided missile that had already locked onto its target and nothing was going to dissuade it from its course of action. I looked back at the doublewide before picking up my pace to catch up with John. The thing would have caved in within hours with zombies pressing in, and I didn’t even want to dwell on what howlers could do to the tin can.

  Would they work together? Would they even acknowledge each other?

  If howlers were as mindless as zombies, they really wouldn’t give two shits about each other…only us.

  “I guess the pink flamingos will have to wait,” I told John when I caught up.

  “If I wasn’t so thirsty, I’d get them,” he said in all seriousness.

  “They’ll be fine.”

  I followed John for a couple of reasons. Primarily because I wasn’t going to let him wander too far off, and secondly, he had that luck. You know…that crazy fucking luck that some people are just born with. Like the baby that fell out of the third story window onto concrete only to land on a urine-soaked diaper. The gel material exploded like an over ripe melon under a car tire. The baby, however, besides trying to figure out how it had got to where it was, was completely unharmed. That’s the luck John had, and I wanted to be around him. It was going to be luck and a healthy dosing of lead injections that was going to get us out of this mess.

  The fence leading into the water tower complex was down, it looked like someone had come in and stolen one of the maintenance trucks and, not having a key for the locked gate, had decided to just run the damn thing over.

  Works for me, I thought.

  We were on a concrete slab some hundred feet by hundred feet square, big enough to support the huge metal tank’s legs. I glanced quickly over to the ladder that led up, it was a good ten feet high. An NBA star would have a difficult time jumping high enough to grab the bottom-most rung. We were now in the world’s largest boxing ring, and this was a one round affair to the death.

  “Shit,” I said, skidding to a halt past the downed fence.

  I turned, got down on one knee, and started to drop our nearest and most immediate threat. Zombies were in high gear, having found another speed when they realized food was so near. Cracked lips were pulled back to reveal brown and black chipped teeth. Outstretched hands with fingernails caked in gore and blood reached out. Old, young, fat, slim, women, children, men—they all were coming towards us. Some dressed in business suits, others gym outfits, in a few cases there were pajama clad zombies and they were all headed our way. I rocked slightly as I fired; the beauty of the M-16 is its minimal kick. I was able to bring the barrel back down quickly to reacquire targets as I drenched the ground in gray gristle.

  “Hold,” I told myself like a Revolutionary War sergeant would tell his ranks of green, unproven militia men. Much like then, to leave now meant death. “Hold,” I said as I dropped my empty magazine and shoved a new one in.

  I lost precious seconds as I fumbled to find the bolt catch release. A quick tap on the forward assist and I was back in business. The zombies were close enough, I could hear them as their broken bodies collided with the ground and each other. I stood while I kept firing. They were close enough now that what I lost in my shooting stance was more than made up for in their proximity. I sincerely hoped John was going to make it as I held my ground…mostly. I found myself involuntarily stepping back at just about every shot. I dropped dozens with kill shots and a couple of scores more were hindered with devastating wounds. Those that didn’t get out of the way fast enough became stepping stones, the zombies merely finishing off what I had started.

  “You coming?” John asked in between shots.

  I didn’t have the luxury to answer or even turn around. He sounded like he was behind me by the base of the water tower. I had hoped he had bugged out or at least found somewhere to enjoy his last few moments.

  “Screw it might as well die together,” I said as I turned and ran for it.

  My surprise came when I didn’t immediately see John. It was entirely possible that his voice had echoed off of something and I hadn’t triangulated him correctly. Even more likely, I was so deaf from the shots that I couldn’t hear-place him at all. I elevated my gaze. I practically stopped when I realized he was fifteen feet up the side of the structure.

  He had gotten up the ladder. How was that possible?

  It was then that I saw it, like a desert mirage, a telescoping ladder was placed against the housing structure of the water tower ladder. I had a bunch of questions, but now was not the time to ask them as I sprinted for sanctuary. My heart was slamming in my chest, adrenaline burning through my muscles as I sought a speed I hadn’t felt since my high school football glory days. Provided I didn’t turn an ankle (errant fucking thought) I’d make that fucking ladder in all its height-defying glory.

  “They’re right behind you!” John shouted.

  If I dared divert any energy to anything other than my legs, I would have shouted, ‘Really? I would have never figured that out considering I can smell the stench of death and decay coming from their mouths they’re so fucking close.’ Instead, I wisely kept pumping my legs on for a ladder that would not get close quick enough. I hit it so hard that I almost toppled the damn thing. That would have been rich with safety so close. I was halfway up, or five feet in the air, when zombies slammed into the ladder as well. I reached up a couple of rungs from the top, and with my trailing leg, I jumped. I knew how this was going to play out. The ladder was falling away from me as I was launching myself skyward. Unfortunately, I was more like a North Korean rocket than an American missile. I was going to fall inches short of my desired destination.

  I had resigned my fate. As my skyward arc began to peter out, a hand shot out from above. John clutched my forearm. My mind was reeling, between, “Is this possible?” to “Get me the fuck up there!”

  I looked up at him. His face was a grimace of grit and determination. Zombies had clutched my dangling feet and where even now trying to sink their teeth into me; more than one got a piece of boot sole to round out their nutrients. I think rubber is on their food pyramid. It goes something like, brain, meat, fat, bone, plastic, leather, rubber. I was just doing my part to help with their general well-being.

  I didn’t know if I wanted to tell John not to let go, or to let go so I wouldn’t drag him down with me. He must roll some heavy damn marijuana cigarettes, because the bastard hoisted me up to the first attached rung. He let go of me when I pulled up to the third or fourth. I was right below him and I had gotten my leg up onto the bottom most one.

  “Holy fuck, John, thank you,” I told him, tears of relief in my eyes. Maybe it was sweat, because that was pouring off both of us.

  He looked at me, a twinkle in his eyes. “Dead shows wouldn’t be the same without you, Ponch,” he told me as he headed up the long climb.

  I looked down once at the upturned faces of the zombies. If it was possible, they looked more pissed than normal. I was thankful for the shell housing that surrounded the ladder. It allowed a view out and a place to lean against as I tired during my ascent. I was halfway up the two hundred and fifty feet-plus before the shakes subsided. I kept drawing death as my dance partner, and eventually he was going to be able to dip me before the music stopped.

  “Another close call, Talbot,” I said aloud.

  “Swear to me now, you will never tell Tracy about this,” I admonished myself.

  “I swear it,” I answered back.

  The adrenaline flow had finally come under control, and my muscles were beginning to feel like wet noodles, deprived as they were of the go-go juice that had been careening around my veins. Now I had another problem to deal with. I was deathly afraid of heights. It stems from an older brother who had dangled me by my feet from an old ranger’s station. He thought it was the funniest thing in the world while I begged him not to drop me.

  “You tell mom about this,” he had said while I stayed motionless, “and I’ll bring you bac
k up here.”

  The threat was implied and understood, even if I was only seven, I knew better than to test his sanity. He hauled me back in, making a big show about almost dropping me. I’ll never forget that view of the world as I hung precariously from the perch some fifty feet in the air upside down. One gains a certain perspective when you’re looking straight at the ground. I had never truly gotten over that fear. Even as I jumped out of planes during my Marine Corps days, the panic always threatened to overwhelm me. I had learned certain breathing techniques that could bring it under some semblance of control, but it was always there, rippling in the undercurrents of my thoughts like a sea serpent ready to strike at the most inopportune time. It seemed this was one of those times, I didn’t have the energy to fight back the heavy flood of hysteria that wanted to render me incapable of moving.

  “How bad could sleeping on a ladder be?” I asked myself, trying to rationalize my present predicament. John had already completed the climb. “Shit…how long have I been stuck here?”

  He was looking down the open chute at me. I couldn’t make out features, but I’ve got to imagine he was wondering what in the hell I was doing. “You alright?” he shouted down with some concern.

  “I hate heights,” I told him, gripping the rung with my right arm draped over it like I was going for a choke hold.

  “It’s not high, not much more than two, maybe three hundred feet,” he shouted back down as if that was going to help.

  I could count the number of times in my adult life I had been on a ladder higher than ten feet—seven. I won’t go into what I was doing, but that I catalogued each endeavor should be proof enough of my sincerity.

  “Want me to come down there with you?” he asked.

  “I’ll get there…just going to take a minute.”

  That minute was somewhere closer to a half an hour, and John never moved, every once in a while alternating between offering a word of encouragement or terrifying the hell out of me. With phrases like “I think the air is thinner up here” or my personal favorite “Can God hear us better because we’re closer to Heaven?”

  By the time I pulled myself up onto the top, I was coated in a sheen of sweat. I was better, but only marginally. John had pushed back on the three foot wide parapet. He had his back against the tower and his legs extended out into space. He was alternating between smoking a joint and shoving Phrito’s in his mouth.

  When I got up there, I stepped over his legs and slid down the cool metal to sit next to him. I didn’t even hesitate when he passed the joint. I took a long hit, reveling in the feel of the tickle it left in my throat and chest as I exhaled. I was alive, still alive. We finished off the smoke, I got my emotions in check, and luxuriated in the high. It was long moments before I spoke. My eyes were closed and my head was against the tower.

  “I don’t have words, John,” I started.

  “Where’d they go?” he asked, looking at me. I opened my eyes when I heard him shift.

  “I think somewhere underneath that haze; you know what I’m talking about.”

  “Want some Phrito’s?”

  “Of course.”

  Jack Walker – Living the Life

  The day wears on, well into what I determine to be late afternoon. I’ve walked by a few severely mauled bodies along the way. Those have become more numerous the farther I proceed along the highway. I passed a military blockade that was surrounded by decaying bodies and spent cartridges. A search of the vehicles revealed nothing. The only worth noting was an empty box with Phrito wrappers nearby.

  Nothing has stuck out with regards to a good place to hole up, but it’s also a little too early to stop. I want to put as much distance from the multitude of zombies behind me as I can before nightfall. My worry is that I haven’t seen much of anything that could withstand a determined assault from night runners. The best that I’ve seen so far is pretty much what the other one or others ahead of me found – an enclosed semi-trailer. That may end up being my best bet. The darkening sky, as it unyieldingly heads toward evening, tells me that I had better find something soon.

  I begin to pick out a now familiar stench – that of those long dead. A motor home lies on its side across the lanes, blocking any view I have ahead. It’s obvious what it is that’s causing the atrocious smell, but I can’t see where they are or if they are the shambling or runner type. My preference is for neither, but I’ll take the slow-movers as a second choice. I’m tired of being chased by anything that can move as fast as, or faster, than me. As a matter of fact, I’m quite tired of this whole thing.

  The odor of decaying flesh is accompanied by a low groaning sound. The blocking motor home is still some distance ahead, but my increased sense of smell and hearing picks up these indications far in advance, even with the wind blowing in the other direction. The way back is a no go, and I do not really want to try the trees, although they may be the only option. I want to see what is ahead before making a decision. If there are only a few, I can hopefully shoot my way through. I need to find some place soon, though. On the open road or in the woods at night with night runners about is not my idea of a good time.

  Edging over to the far side of the road, over and around the myriad of vehicles, I glimpse the creatures ambling aimlessly amongst the cars near the motor home. They appear to be the shambling type, but perhaps runners behave that way before their prey is sighted. There are only about ten of them, so it should be a fairly simple process of picking them off as long as they don’t turn into track stars. I creep along the edges of the stalled cars to get closer and therefore have better shots. They don’t seem to notice me, even though my scent has to be carrying in their direction. Perhaps they don’t hunt by scent, or the hint of smoke still in the air is masking me.

  I don’t really want to waste additional ammo as this may be all that I have…for like ever…but I really don’t see much of a choice. The area is absolutely still except for the moaning coming from the shuffling figures as I line up my first shot. I’m ready to run for the woods if any runners appear from the group. A puff of smoke from my barrel and my shot is on the way. One of the creatures disappears in a thick, dark mist, dropping out of my line of sight. Lining quickly up on another, I send out another speeding projectile. It impacts with the side of its head just before it lurches behind a pickup truck. It too drops out of sight. The groaning from the group is loud, echoing off the trees and metal skins of the vehicles. Dropping a third, a fourth comes into clear view. I line up my next shot when I hear the distinct sound of metal crunching behind me. And I mean right behind me.

  Turning quickly, I see a figure vaulting directly at me in the air. Time slows, freezing this particular moment. The runner is leaping with outstretched arms and mouth open in a silent scream. The ash gray skin of its face has several bloodless cuts across both cheeks and its milky, cloudy eyes are locked onto me. Its tattered and torn red plaid shirt, hanging loosely over darkly stained jeans, billows with its leap. My heart explodes into action with the sight, sending a surge of fear-filled adrenaline through my body.

  Reaction takes over. I sweep my M-4 around and step to the side. Using the momentum of my turn, I catch the diving figure under the arms with my carbine in mid leap. Continuing my turn, I slam it heavily into an adjacent car with a solid thump. The creature begins to slump to the ground while trying to get up at the same time. Reversing my weapon, I fire a single shot into its head, splattering the front wheel and fender with dark liquid and dead tissue. My mind’s eye reminds me of what I saw during the brief glimpse to my rear. Other runners are close by.

  I also notice the remaining shamblers have become aware of me and are slowly making their way in my direction. Another crunch of metal lets me know my next visitor is right behind me. I duck and turn not knowing what to expect, but when I heard that same sound a moment ago, a runner was already in the air behind me. I’m not disappointed as yet another one is leaping off a hood toward me. My quick bend down causes its aim to be too high, s
ending it almost over me. I rise quickly as it passes overhead, catching it in its legs. It somersaults over and lands heavily on the hood of the car on its back. It’s then that the screams of the runners begin to punctuate the air.

  Looking around, other runners are making their way around the vehicles, and another is about to vault onto the hood, following its compadre. I’m in a death trap between these cars. There aren’t many of them, but I’m at a distinct disadvantage in my current location. I need room to act instead of react. I hear the one that just slammed onto the hood just behind me scrambling to rise. It’s time to move.

  The stench of the dead is almost overpowering and comes close to making me hesitate. I move toward the trunk of the car that has absorbed two runner bodies so far, aiming to get onto the roof to gain a little leverage. If my red cape was a little brighter and not so tattered, I’d just leap onto it but, alas, the days of performing major feats like that are long gone. A runner rounds the bumper of the car next to my intended destination, cutting me off. I raise my M-4.

  An old master sergeant taught me a little trick of using my middle finger as the trigger finger and aligning my pointer finger with the barrel. The pointer finger will track with the eyes better and, if aligned with the barrel, will provide a better aim when firing in a reactionary manner – where your eyes are focused, your barrel will be pointing. It’s also easier to eject the mag. You just have to be careful that your finger isn’t resting on the slide or over the ejection port– self-explanatory.

  I pump two quick rounds into it. The first hits its throat, spraying the viscous matter outward. The second hits on the upper front teeth and continues unimpeded into the upper palate, smashing into the lower skull. The force of the impact causes the back of its head to explode outward, sending chunks of dead flesh onto the vehicles, pavement, and the scattered debris. It falls forward onto its face almost at my feet. I leap over the fallen figure, hearing the runners closing in from the side and behind.