A Shrouded World - Whistlers

by Mark Tufo

  I’ll definitely have to find more ammo if I’m here for long.

  Movement among the tangle of cars ahead catches my attention. Someone is walking in my direction. They are moving slowly and staggering much like I’m sure I have after a night in the O-club. I stop, bringing my M-4 into a ready position. Whoever it is stumbles their way into the lane between the cars through which I’m negotiating. My experience in recent months has made me doubly cautious, so I’m not about to run up and throw my arms around whoever it is, professing a long-lasting friendship. The man or woman turns in my direction and trudges onward, bumping against the cars as they draw closer.

  As they near, I notice they’re wearing tattered clothing covered with dark stains. This sends chills up my spine as I remember others with stained, shredded clothing. But this is no night runner. It’s light out and they aren’t running like a track star. I hear a moaning sound, similar to the one that I heard earlier. I guess it could be coming from someone who is famished and on their last legs. Another gust of wind blows from behind me. It’s taking the person forever to get near, and I’m not about to close the distance on my end. I have cover where I’m at and a quick escape route over the grass and into the trees if I need. The person doesn’t appear to be carrying any weapons, but that doesn’t mean anything. I check behind and to the sides to find it’s clear.

  “That’s close enough,” I call out.

  They aren’t that close, but I see no reason why they should get any nearer without formal introductions being made. I’m not able to see their features very well, but as far as I’m concerned, they are already too close. Any nearer and I want a ring – or at least dinner. Whoever it is completely ignores my shout and continues their drunken walk toward me. It’s like I’m talking to my kids – not that they have a drunken walk mind you, I’m just referring to their listening skills.

  “Alright, numbnuts. I’m not fucking around here,” I yell, with the same result.

  I flip the sight over to the four-power setting and am taken aback by what I see. While not as magnified as if through a higher-powered scope, the facial details come into view, and it’s not pretty. The face is pale to the point of being ashen with old sores and cuts covering most of it. Part of the upper lip is missing, showing stained teeth beneath. If I didn’t know any better, and odds are that I don’t, I would say it was chewed off. I’ve seen a few bodies in the past that have been out for a while and have had rats have a go at it. The face I am staring at through the scope has a similar look. Short, dark hair hangs limply and looks like it hasn’t been introduced to shampoo in some time. Although it’s hard to tell with the pasty color, dried blood, and part of the face missing, the stumbling person appears to be a man. Whatever it is gives me the creeps.

  The man is staring directly at me but without any form of recognition as he draws closer. I don’t really want to drop a person who may just be looking for help, but I’m also not in a real trusting mood at the moment. The alien aspect of suddenly finding myself in this weird place hasn’t diminished, and seeing this person making their way along the line of cars toward me only adds to the feeling. I still hear moaning coming from him and it’s not a pleasant sound.

  What’s his problem? I think, watching him bump into another car door.

  I know if it was me, I’d be very hesitant about closing on someone who told me to stop and was pointing a weapon in my direction. However, he seems quite ignorant of the situation. It’s time to change that and get his attention.

  I shift my aimpoint to the windshield of the vehicle next to him. A slight kick against my shoulder and my round streaks out, closing the distance quickly – the only sound that of a muted cough. The bullet strikes the glass, starring it, and whines off into the distance. Now I know this isn’t a dream. Anytime I’ve fired before in one, the bullets never behaved the way they were supposed to. The man doesn’t even flinch, but turns his head slowly toward the impact point and then back to me. He shuffles his foot forward and once again begins his slow, plodding progression toward me.

  Okay, I’m done with this shit, I think, centering the small crosshair of my scope onto his chest, adjusting for the range with the bullet drop reticle.

  Another kick and I watch his torn and tattered shirt puff up from the impact of my jacketed round with the middle of his chest. He jerks backward from the force of the strike, but then continues his slow march.

  What the fuck? Is this guy on drugs? I think, putting another round into his chest.

  The usual flow of blood is missing as this round has the same effect as the previous one – which is nothing.

  Now, this is behaving more like a dream. I send a third greeting his way with the same result.

  Lifting my crosshair a touch, I squeeze the trigger again. The bullet flies out, intersecting with his face to the right of his pale and dirt-encrusted nose. Gouging the skin, the round’s path alters and tears through the soft tissue of the eye. Unencumbered, it races through the brain and forcefully collides with the skull. The cranium gives way and the bullet exits, leaving a large hole just above his ear. Chunks of hair, skin, and brain follow in the bullet’s path, but there is a distinct lack of the pink mist I’ve seen in the past. The man’s legs buckle and he drops to his knees before falling to the ground face first.

  Okay, well, at least head shots seem to work.

  Although the moaning from the man stops with his tumble to the pavement, I pick up other faint sounds of the same being carried on the wind. Checking out the area, I discern no movement. I keep my M-4 trained on the downed man as I hesitantly step forward. So far, I’m not overly thrilled with this place, dream or not. If I was going to have a dream, I’d rather have one that…well, let’s just say that this wouldn’t be it.

  I walk along the avenue between the cars noticing that a few more of them have blood streaks under the grime covering them. Drawing close to the figure lying on the highway, I pick up the stench of something dead – I mean long dead – and there isn’t the usual iron scent of blood that’s been spilled. Dark liquid slowly trickles out of the newly created hole in the man’s head, forming a small, oil-like pool just below it. Avoiding the mess, I roll the body over with my foot. The disgusting odor roils upward, gagging me. Looking down at the ruined face, my previous sight of him wasn’t anywhere near what it is like seeing it up close.

  The man, if that’s what I can call him, looks like he’s been dead for longer than the scant moments it took to reach him. It’s what I’d expect to see if I came upon someone that has been dead for a lot longer. The blue-gray skin is covered in old sores and cuts that never healed. The missing lips reveal darkly stained and chipped teeth; the remainder of his mouth and lower chin are coated with old blood. The clothes covering the putrid body are shredded and covered with dark blemishes to the point that the original coloration isn’t apparent. Long-dead-yet-mobile equates to ‘zombie’ in my book. I’d laugh at this idea if my last few months hadn’t included night runners. I’m at least thankful it was this, whatever it is, instead of them. Night runners on the prowl in the light would definitely ruin my already grand day.

  A scream erupts from nearby. Several others quickly follow. Turning, I see five figures emerge from the tree line and begin running in my direction. It’s not the drunken stupor walk of the previous one, but a flat out run. They appear in better shape than the sickening decay of flesh lying at my feet, but they still have a ghostly complexion. To all appearances, they look like night runners, although they’re not as fast. And now, my day that started off so well appears to be heading downhill in a hurry. Let’s call it as it is – it has become majorly fucked up.

  I’d like to wake up and go back to my other world now.

  That one may not have been full of puffy clouds and pearly gates, but at least I didn’t have night runners streaking out of wood lines during the day. Yeah, I’m done with this place.

  Raising my M-4, I center on the chest of one that is slightly ahead of the others. A k
ick against my shoulder lets me know that a round is streaking outward. I send a second one on its heels. The first bullet hits just off center of the sternum staggering the pale figure racing across the grass. Another dark spot appears on the light t-shirt which indicates my second round has found its mark, causing it stumble. The figure recovers and presses on with the four others catching up.

  Head shots, you idiot, the thought penetrates.

  I raise my small crosshair a notch, placing it on the bridge of the creature’s nose. It bobs and weaves as it streaks toward my position, making the shot difficult, but I send another projectile out to greet it. Dark liquid sprays outward from the impact with its head, and the running figure flops forward into the grass as if it hit a trip wire. Quickly shifting my aim to the next, it spins to the right and drops to the ground. The other three have closed the distance and have reached the ditch separating the highway from the grass along the side.

  Their advance is slowed by the tangle of cars. Two go around one of the vehicles while the third leaps onto the hood. I turn quickly, looking to see that I have room behind me, and begin stepping backward. I line up my sight with the creature on the hood. A muted cough, with a puff of smoke emitting from the end of my carbine, signals yet another round exiting my barrel. The figure on the hood takes my greeting card in the middle of its forehead. Its feet slip out from under it and its head hits the windshield with a loud crack, starring the grimy glass.

  Two remaining.

  Rounding the car, they are attempting to navigate around another one. They dart through small openings, trying to find way through. The tops of the vehicles are interfering with my ability to get a clean shot, so I continue backpedaling to gain a little extra distance. Adrenaline is flowing through my system. I can’t believe I have to deal with fucking night runners in the middle of the day. I do not like this one bit.

  I finally manage to keep my crosshair centered on one long enough to squeeze the trigger. Sending two shots out, I see it drop and disappear behind the car next to me. The screams have diminished to the single remaining one. Not that it really diminishes. A screaming figure running directly at me, with the intent of causing harm, isn’t my idea of lessening anything. I’d really prefer drinking a Long Island Ice Tea while sitting on a warm beach somewhere. That, however, isn’t where I’ve landed.

  The roof of the car is blocking any shot at the one remaining. It’s getting a little too close for comfort so I thumb the selector switch to auto. At this range, taking my time to get a well-aimed shot just isn’t going to happen. If I can’t get a couple well-aimed shots off, I want the ‘lots of not so well-aimed shots’ option.

  With a loud scream, the figure leaps onto the hood of the car next to me. It hits the hood with one foot and springs into the air. I raise my M-4 and squeeze the trigger. My laser walks up the body to the head with rounds hitting along its path, finally connecting with the head of the leaping figure. I sidestep as the creature begins its fall, impacting against the side of a car next to me with a heavy thud. Its head snaps back sharply and its body slams into the pavement.

  I scan the area to see if there are any more ‘friends’. Although the intense screams have vanished, I still hear groans floating on the air. They are coming from the direction of the burning city and seem distant, but they are still there. Looking down, I study the figure that almost ruined my delightful morning stroll. On closer examination, it doesn’t look much like a night runner at all. It has the same pale skin but without the darker gray blotches. Also missing is the redness that appears with the previous night runners I’ve encountered that have come into contact with the light of day. Whereas the night runners bleed red when shot, this one has dark liquid slowly leaking from its wounds. And, as with the other rotting corpse, the body lying on the pavement is covered with unhealed cuts and gouges.

  I look to the forests lining the highway. I’ve always felt comfortable in the woods and look at them as my friend. They provide cover and concealment in addition to just being great places to be. Being in their midst has always provided a sense of security and lifted me. Now, for one of the first times ever in my life, the trees look foreboding. They are packed tightly together and light only penetrates a few feet into the thick, wooded mass, turning the interior into a dark unknown. The woods take on an appearance much as I would imagine the look and feel of the Mirkwood Forest in The Hobbit would be.

  “Well, they aren’t bloody night runners. I don’t know what they are, but at least I’m not dealing with that,” I whisper to myself, looking once again at the body and feeling a little relieved.

  The relieved feeling is short-lived. Even if these aren’t night runners, they are much faster than the first creature I encountered. And, even more importantly, they are not seeking my friendship, but to do harm.

  Running dead people wanting to see me join their ranks… fucking wonderful!

  Even more delightful is the fact that the once distant screams and moans are increasing in volume. Changing my half empty mag with a fresh one, I turn toward the sound.

  In the distance, I see movement amongst the jammed cars. Being far away, it’s more of something shifting than anything I can actually see, but there is definitely something. Whatever it is, it’s causing the sounds drifting in the air. Climbing onto one of the hoods, I look through my optics on its 4x setting in order to get a better idea of what I am dealing with.

  At the limit of my vision, I see heads bobbing above the roofs of the distant vehicles. The bodies stretch from one side of the highway to the other. If there was ever a definition of a horde, it is this that I’m looking at. Wherever there is space among the packed cars, the zombie-like creatures fill it. They aren’t speeding this way like the ones who emerged from the woods, but they are undeniably heading in my direction. I don’t have a limitless supply of ammo – it’s definitely time to go. If I didn’t have a certain direction in mind before, the horde behind me, coupled with the fact that runners appeared from the woods beside me, limits my options.

  I’m about to lower my carbine when movement from the mass catches my eye. Several figures break away and begin running toward me. Even from this distance, I can tell that I’m their goal. There’s no time to lose. If I stay here and wait for them, the horde will be close when they arrive. My best option is to create some distance so there will be space between the runners and the mass behind.

  God, I hope they aren’t all runners, I think, counting approximately twenty creatures racing away from the main group. The intervening vehicles prevent a true tally of their numbers.

  Hopping off the hood, I begin jogging, keeping an eye behind to watch the closure rate. When the runners get within range, I’ll stop to take a couple out, move on for a ways, and attempt to take a few more down. With luck, I’ll be able to whittle down their numbers as I don’t really want to tackle twenty at once. That is not how I want to spend this already fantastic morning.

  My pace is to conserve energy while creating distance. I’m not sure of their endurance but, with my experience from the night runners, I don’t really want to test it. If I was to take off at a run, they may still catch me, and I’d rather not engage them winded. It appears as though energy is something I’ll need for the remainder of the day – if not longer. I’m fairly sure I’ll be able to keep ahead of the rest as long as they continue their slow shuffle. What I’ll do later is another question, but right now, I just to take out the track stars on my tail and keep ahead of the multitude following. Yeah, this is shaping up to be a marvelous day.

  Michael Talbot – Journal Entry 2

  At sporadic intervals I would awaken during the night, hearing far off cries; sometimes there were shots, but nothing overly close. I had just started to doze off again when something made me sit up. It was difficult to hear anything over John’s light snoring, but there was something going on. It was the damned sniffing again. I was fully awake as a burst of adrenaline slammed through my system. I gently put a hand over John’s mouth
, a whistling sound began to come from his nose. I was convinced if I covered his nose he would start farting.

  “John,” I said softly, shaking him slightly.

  If he awoke with a start and yelled out, we would definitely be found out. The whistling thankfully ceased as I strained to listen for what was looking for us. I pulled my hand back quickly, John had licked it. And then I was blinded as his lighter flicked on.

  “You’re not my wife,” he said as he peered at me.

  “What? No, I’m not your wife.” I vigorously wiped my hand on my pants. Then I had to wonder; did she often place her hand over his mouth? Was this some strange mating ritual between them?

  “Why would you put your hand over my mouth, then?” he asked.

  “We’ll talk about that later…or maybe never I hope. Be quiet for a second, there’s something outside.”

  “Where are we?”

  “Same place we were when you went to sleep.”

  “If I knew that, I wouldn’t have asked,” he grumbled a little peevishly.

  “Sorry, man, we’re in a Phrito truck.”

  I had to cover his mouth quickly when he began to shout out happily. “PHRIT—!”

  “Shhh, man. I just told you there’s something outside.”

  “Right, right, I heard you. It’s just that I love Phrito’s. They’re my favorite, I think. Maybe it’s cheese puffs, but I definitely love Phrito’s.”

  “John, please.”

  “Alright, I’ll get you a bag.” He stood up, but even he stopped when he heard something drag against the side of the truck.

  Trip was certifiable for sure, but then who amongst us didn’t have some sort of hang-ups? Some more than others, I suppose, thinking back on my laundry list of issues. The howling started. He, she, or it, was calling for reinforcements; we’d been found out.

  “You ready for this?” I asked Trip as I pulled him further back into the truck, moving boxes aside as I did so. The noise of that was not a problem at the moment.