A Shrouded World - Whistlers (9 page)

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

“Swear to me now, you w
ill 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,” h
e had said while I stayed motionless, “and I’ll bring you back 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 th
ere 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?” h
e 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.”

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, sending 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.

Climbing onto the trunk, my feet slip on
an oily residue covering it. Barely keeping my balance, I see the runner that slammed onto the hood has gained its feet and is coming across the roof, eager to get me in its grasp. Rather than attempt to recover from my slip, I go with the momentum and sink to my knees. It’s the quicker solution and time isn’t something I have a lot of at the moment.

I raise my carbine. I feel the shock of my old knees as they hit the hard metal. It’s not the most graceful maneuver
, but it’s the only thing I have. Flipping the selector switch to auto, I fire a burst into its head. It spins from the multiple forceful blows and falls from the roof to the pavement below. There’s no time to admire its ballerina precision, which is much more graceful than mine. I gain my feet, not having time to make for the roof as another runner is climbing onto the hood ahead. Two others are in the gap where I just was and closing quickly – only feet away. This will have to do…like I have a choice.

I put a quick burst into the top of the nearest one’s head. It drops to its knees before falling forward onto its previous companion – both of them now dead for the second time. Time slows again. The two remaining are equal distances apart
. I won’t be able to take both out before one or the other is upon me. The one on the ground is the easier shot, but the one now coming over the roof is the biggest threat.

I decide to fire a burst at the one at my feet
, putting it down for good. In my peripheral, I see the one on the roof leap. I don’t have time to turn or perform any other neat tricks. Without thinking, I dive into the air sideways toward what I hope is the hood of a car right behind. Turning slightly while in the air, I see the vaulting runner almost upon me. We are both sailing slowly through the air. It has its arms stretched out and lips peeled back, revealing darkly stained teeth. Its open mouth is emitting a shrill, piercing scream. That, and its close proximity, rocks my brain. I blind fire and am rewarded with the sight of bullets striking its face, which vanishes momentarily behind a splash of viscous liquid. That good news is over quickly as I meet the terminus of my dive. I slam into a car’s hood on my back, my head thudding hard into the windshield.

The collision stuns me immediately, sending a blinding white flash through my head. I feel another heavy object land on me and barely have the presence of mind to push it off to the side. My brain is screaming to become more alert as I know deep down
that I’m still in trouble, but I’m have a hard time responding. I don’t really know who I am, let alone why the red alert is going off in my head. Slowly, and it seems like an eternity, consciousness returns. The ability to think in simple terms returns. My mind is screaming that danger is close and the signal finally reaches my shattered consciousness.

I raise my head off the starred windshield to see the remaining zombie-like creatures closing in. The pain from rising isn’t the most pleasant
, but the sight of the stinking creatures takes priority. I roll to my side, away from the runner lying next to me. Forcing myself up through a now throbbing headache, I steady my carbine on the nearest zombie, thankful that there aren’t any more runners about. Steady is a very relative world as my barrel is creating arcs through the air. My full consciousness returns but that doesn’t help my aim one whit. I squeeze the trigger and am surprised by the multiple recoils spraying bullets everywhere.

When did I move
the selector switch to auto?
I think, moving it back to semi.
Oh yeah, that’s right
.

The moaning figures are still making their way closer.

Focus, Jack. Focus
.

With
careful deliberateness, I center the scope on the nearest one. This time a hit registers and the figure drops to the pavement. It’s hard to stay focused, but I manage to drop the remaining ones before they get much closer. The stench, combined with the piercing headache, is too much at this point. Standing on the hood of the car, I lean over my knees and expel the remains of my snacks and water onto the pavement below.

My head feels a little better afterward. I search for any others
in the vicinity, but for the moment, the area seems empty. The sky overhead has taken on the darker gray of the impending sunset. There still isn’t anything that looks remotely secure, and time isn’t standing still.

Think, Jack. You have to push through this and think
.

I have two hours at best until the time of the night runners is at hand. Far into the distance, I see the top of a water tower poking above the near tree line. That would be better than anywhere else
, but there is no way I will make that before nightfall. Under normal conditions I could, but wading through this tangle makes that nearly impossible. I most likely won’t find any place if I trudge onward. I eye the overturned motor home.

Yeah, that will have to do. It’s not much and won’t withstand a determined night runner assault, but my choices are very limited at this point
.

I’m just going to have to make it so I’m not detected – sight, smell, and hearing. Sight and hearing are relatively easy. Smell, yeah, different story. Especially after that adrenaline rush. That is fading and my heartbeat is about back to normal
, which is alleviating the pounding in my head. The putrid odor of the dead is still making my stomach turn over, but it’s manageable. I walk past the rotting corpses to the overturned motor home, and, using a car next to it, haul myself up to its side. Thankfully, the entrance is on this side. I pull the door open.

The interior is in
shambles. Everything spilled out of cupboards and drawers when it turned over. Seat cushions lie amongst shining silverware, pans, and paper, along with broken plates and cups. It’s a long drop inside and, once there, it will be tough to get back out without shattering the windows in the front or back. Walking on top to the rear, I notice a ladder bolted to the side where the previous owners could climb up to the roof.

That will do nicely
, I think, placing a shot into each of the places where it’s bolted in. I manage to wrest the ladder free and place it by the door.

The inside should be fairly easy to seal up against the night with regards to being seen. With the vehicle turned over, that eliminates one side that needs to be taken care of from a defensive point of view. If I can find some duct tape or something similar, I will be able to block the windows with blankets and anything else I find. The night runners will only be able to get in through the front windshield, the back window, and the side facing up. Those are the weak points. It’s awful hard to pound through the windshield of a motor home as they’re made a little thicker than
that of a normal car. However, I wouldn’t put it past a night runner to be able to do so.