by Tufo, Mark
It’s time to take a look into the ceiling. However, with the small amount of sunlight filtering into the room, if I was to open just one of the tiles and someone was keeping watch on the plenum spaces, it would be like I turned on a flashlight and screamed, “Here I come.” Opening the filing cabinets, I dump reports and loose files onto the floor. I quickly assemble a host of file folders and I tape the tops and bottoms together. I visually measure the distance from the drop ceiling to the top of the filing cabinets and create appropriate lengths of folders. Climbing to the top of the cabinets, I tape the lengths to the framework, screening off the rest of the room from one of the ceiling tiles. Kneeling inside of this screen, it’s almost completely dark.
I silently lift the tile above me, my handgun at the ready. Rising through the opening, I quickly scan the upper levels. My line of sight isn’t the greatest with all of the pipes and ducts, but I can’t mistake the outline of a whistler squatting near where I fell. I can’t see the entire body, but with the odd angle of its joints and tall, thin body, it looks much like a praying mantis standing on a stalk.
The shot, if I was to take one, is a little too far for my 9mm. The whistler is looking toward the room, but not directly at me. I slowly holster my handgun and bring my carbine up. While I’d rather sneak past them and exit quietly, that doesn’t look like it’s going to happen; they have the exit pretty well covered. If I’m going to make my way out before dark, it looks like I’ll have to fight my way through. It’s that or wait for the night runners. The odds of my living through that are nil, whereas this way, the odds rise by about .01%.
Well, Jack, if we’re going to do this, let’s get it started, I think, bringing my red dot to bear on the whistler.
The dot centers firmly on one lens of the gas mask covering the whistler’s face. My heart beats rapidly, knowing the game is about to begin. I’ve won the toss and have elected to kick off. I momentarily have the advantage, but that will be lost with the first shot. After that, I’ll be on the defensive.
The plenum space flashes as I send a round out. A soft clap, the metallic sound of the bolt chambering another round, and the delicate tinkle of the cartridge bouncing against the edge of the aluminum framework are the only noises. The bullet speeds out of the suppressor, races across the tops of the conduits, and through the lens of the gas mask. Blood immediately coats the inside of the shattered lens as the whistler’s head snaps backward. Without uttering a sound, the whistler falls forward. A crash of twisting aluminum tells of the body plummeting through the ceiling, widening the hole I had made on my own journey from the upper levels.
Score one for the defense, I think, scrambling on top of the wall.
One of the remaining whistlers emits an ear-piercing whistle-shriek, so loud and intense that it vibrates my skull and damn near incapacitates me. If they knew the effect it had on me, they’d use that as their primary weapon; have a couple of them emit that sound while the others calmly walk up and disarm me.
Well, they know where I am now. Time to apply that part of the “don’t be where they expect you to be” axiom.
I move across the top of the wall, stepping over smaller conduits as quietly and quickly as I can. Alternating my vision between my path and where the whistler fell through the ceiling, I keep my M-4 pointed in that direction as much as possible. I move down the corridor, running to the side of the main hall, and halt at a firewall that cordons off this section of building.
An arm and masked head quickly pop up through the hole in the ceiling, looking and aiming toward the operations room I left behind. The sides of the pipes and ducts light up as I send a special delivery its way—I wonder if they even have genders. The round strikes the side of the whistler’s head where mask meets flesh—or at least where I suspect it should. It’s hard to tell in the varying shades of gray that define my night vision. Plus, the black mask and blackness of their lower faces seem to blend together.
There isn’t the distinctive thud of a round impacting flesh and bone, rather, it sounds more like a plop. Regardless, the whistler’s head rocks to the side and vanishes below my line of sight as quickly as it appeared. A following crash and heavy thud tells of its body falling to the room below.
Score two. Time to move again.
My idea is to make the upper levels uncomfortable for them to enter. If I can make this my domain, then I have a chance of escaping. It will cause them to spread out in order to keep a larger area under surveillance. That is, if they stay within the building. They could exit and keep all of the entrances under surveillance. But, that will also give me room to operate. There are two of three down, but I’m sure that whistle was one of alarm: a call for help.
I now have two options: Stay in the ceiling and keep them at bay while I try to work my way around them, or emerge, take down the remaining one before the others show up—they have to climb three stories first—and make myself scarce.
Staying in the ceiling is about the same as staying in the room. The sun will set, or come close to it, the whistlers will leave, and again I’ll be stuck in the midst of a massive night runner emergence. Exiting my little lair and engaging the remaining whistler, or whistlers, is an iffy situation. I have no idea where it is, or when its compadres will arrive… and how many of them are coming. So, that really leaves keeping their heads out of the ceiling and trying to work my way around them.
The larger pipes running down the center of the hallway all hang by long, thick bolts attached to wide brackets. The brackets are positioned close to one another and give the appearance of being sturdy. The nearest of the tight grouping of four and six-inch conduits are positioned above the level of the wall about an arm’s reach away. Balancing my M-4 across my outstretched forearms, I lean forward until my palms connect with the pipes. Holding my position with one hand, I carefully place my carbine on a level section of pipes. I then grip one of the holding bracket bolts and swing a leg across, planting my foot firmly on a conduit near the concrete firewall. Even though the entire structure seems firm enough to support me, I opt to cross near the firewall where it will be even stronger.
Lying on the steel conduits, I edge under the narrow space between them and the aluminum HVAC ducts. On the other side, using the firewall for support, I’m able to step across the space and place a boot down onto the top of the office wall. I crouch in silence for a quick moment, listening to see if I have drawn any attention. Nothing. The building seems to have reverted to its tomb-like silence. The feeling, however, isn’t one of emptiness, but one of tense waiting—a held breath waiting to be expelled.
The office walls continue along the firewall without interruption to meet an intersection. It’s a tight fit, and I have to twist my torso so that I can slide along with my back to the wall. That suits me just fine, as it’s a more comfortable position. And, I’m able to keep most of the section within view, should the whistlers attempt to climb into the upper levels from another entry point.
There aren’t any overhead pipes along my path now, so I’m able to stand fully upright. I sidle along, one slow and careful step at a time. I can tell when I come to the first branching hall because of the way the pipes separate. Plus, it’s easy to see the shredded tiles where the whistlers initially bombarded me with staples. My pack, leaning against one of the pipes, offers an additional clue to my current location. Dust motes hover in the air where the whistler and I fell. Holding my M-4 across my body, I slowly edge past the T-junction located on the other side of the office above which I’m currently traversing.
Noise, coming from the one of the halls, catches my attention. It’s definitely the clicking and soft trills of the whistlers. I imagine the lone whistler left behind is attempting to explain why two of their company are lying on the ground:
“What happened here?”
“I’m not really sure. Clyde here just fell out of the ceiling. Butch went to take a look and also fell.”
“And what did you do about it?”
“Well,
nothing. With the two of them falling from up there, the best idea seemed to be to stay down here. Besides, someone had to watch over them so we could eat them later.”
“Okay, fair enough. But you just lost your share. Where is the creature we’ve cornered?”
“I have no idea. Up there, I imagine,” pointing at the ceiling.
With that bouncing in my skull, I ready my carbine for heads to start poking up in places, like some kind of lethal whack-a-mole game. No one appears, but I do hear sounds like something heavy being dragged down the hall, fading into the distance. Silence returns.
I assume that the others returned only to cart off the remaining bodies. The zombie night runner group, if that’s what they were, has been effectively removed from the game, although I can’t verify that. I heard gargling screams, and imagine that was from the whistlers engaging the remainder of the group that entered behind me. I almost wish I was back at the windows to count the bodies, but I don’t really know how many there were to begin with, so that would actually be useless.
What I would like to count is the number of whistlers outside so I can know how many are remaining within. But that’s just another of those unfulfilled wishes.
Keep with the plan, Jack.
Nervous tension causes beads of sweat to run down my forehead and trickle down my cheeks. Grit from the dusty environment and from the shattered ceiling tiles grates on my neck and down my back. I take a moment to dab more water inside of my nostrils and take a drink to soothe my dry throat before moving on.
I imagine it’s getting closer to dusk, and I’m stuck between the need to move faster and the need to move quietly. I opt for slowness—if I’m caught now, the sun setting won’t matter one whit. Listening and looking intently, I slowly make my way to the next firewall.
The stairwell is on the other side, so it’s here that I’ll have to drop down and try to make my way to the other side down the main hall. That thought isn’t an especially appealing one, but it’s the only choice I have. Crouching, I ease one of the tiles upward and peek into the office space below, fully expecting to see a whistler staring directly up at me. I’m relieved to see that it appears empty. There aren’t any cabinets that I can use to ease into the office, so I lift the tile completely clear of the framework and lower myself down as quietly as I can. It’s unfortunate that I won’t be able to replace the tile, but the odds of a whistler randomly walking into the office are relatively low. Of course, my luck hasn’t been all that great lately.
A quick glance shows a hand sticking up from the surface of the desk. Considering my situation, it doesn’t really faze me as much as it should. It’s still creepy as fuck, but I have other matters occupying my mind. I’m sure the images I’ve witnessed will come back to haunt me once my mind is free to wheel about on its own.
The door opens inward. Carefully lifting on the knob, I crack it open a couple of inches and look down into the main hall toward the central operations office. I can also see the hallway junction, but not more than a foot or so down the branching hall. However, it’s enough to see a whistler standing at the corner, barely peering around it toward the operations lobby. The tall, lean frame of the creature has its back mostly toward me, its focus on the lobby. It alters its view from the room to the torn-up overhead ceiling, occasionally cocking its head as if listening. The lanky body with the fleshy head, complete with gas mask, is just flat out eerie, especially with the dramatic change of its head coloration from nearly white to black.
Keeping an eye on the whistler only several feet away, I very slowly open the door wider and poke my mirror out to see in the other direction. I hold it there, looking for any indication that whistlers are covering every corner. It seems clear, but nothing is ever assured. Other than my tracks showing in the hall directly outside, the floor seems relatively undisturbed. My heart is beating rapidly; it would be too easy for the whistler to turn slightly and spot me immediately. I purposefully control my breathing, but it does little to ease the tension. My nerves are quivering like a tightly drawn cable.
Stowing the mirror, I open the door wider and am thankful for the maintenance staff that kept the hinges well oiled. I hope that, if anyone made it through this mess, it was them. I slither through the opening and into the hall. A whisper of leather rubbing leather comes from the whistler guarding the corner as it shifts position. My attention is almost entirely focused on it, as I’m in the open a few scant feet away. I make sure not to look directly at it. Who knows how the energy works in this place, but I’m not taking any chances that it will sense my gaze. With my red dot poised over its creepy-looking head, but looking at it in kind of a sideways fashion, I inch down the hall.
Movement from the creature causes me to halt in my tracks and slowly crouch lower. My stomach tenses and I have to force the rest of my body to remain relaxed. I can’t be jerking around if the call to action comes. I have to be fluid and quick. The whistler looks upward toward the ceiling and then over its shoulder down the branching hall.
Don’t look my way, don’t look my way, I mentally chant.
Looking through the scope, I watch, ready and nervous, with my middle finger putting a little pressure on the trigger. If I’m spotted, I’ll fire and run. But that will be fucked up, as I’ll then potentially have whistlers ahead and behind. Unless I go up—but that would be equally fucked up.
Its head turns back, its eyes behind the mask sliding over my position. I put a little more pressure on the trigger, just up to the breaking point. Any indication that it sees me, crouched against the wall, any tensing of its body, and I’ll send a few rounds in its direction. Every muscle in my body is vibrating, every nerve electrified. While the whistler’s movements are at normal speed, they seem slowed to me, as though everything has to move through a thick liquid. I’m about to ease the trigger past its snapping point when the whistler’s gaze passes over me and back to the far room. I guess it didn’t expect to see me there, so in its mind, I wasn’t there.
I mentally breathe a sigh of relief, but I’m not out of the fire yet. Easing the pressure off the trigger, I keep my reticle on its head, rise a few inches, and begin creeping down the hall again. Slowly, step by agonizing step, I make my way closer to the next office door, which I hope is in the same firewall section as the door to the stairwell. I reach it, take a last glance at the whistler, ease the door open, and slide inside.
Climbing on a filing cabinet, I quickly check the upper ceiling structure and, finding it empty, climb upward. This time, I make my way along the top of the wall closest to the hallway. It’s easy to see where the stairwell is by a rectangular section of concrete sticking out from the main wall. I make my way to an adjoining room, as indicated by the top of the wall structure.
This room seems a lot smaller than the others and a quick peek through the tiles indicates that it’s a storage space for office supplies. This will make it trickier to get down quietly, as the aluminum shelves holding the supplies are flimsier than filing cabinets. There’s no way I’ll be able to step on any of them without squeaking or outright falling over. Instead of using them to get down, I opt to drop from the ceiling near the door. With my back screaming in protest, I manage to drop to the floor, not quite sounding like a herd of stampeding buffalo.
I pause at the door, listening for any indication of whistlers approaching. I’m still not positive that the zombie night runners are out of the equation, but the whistlers are my most immediate concern. After a moment, I crack open the door and peek outside. The whistler at the far branching corridor isn’t in sight. I’m not sure whether that’s a good or bad thing. The good is that I will hopefully be unseen as I head to the stairwell. The bad? I haven’t the faintest clue where it could be. A quick check in the other direction shows that it, too, is empty. A small measure of panic ensues.
Hold it together, Jack, nearly there.
About to slip into the hall, I hear a faint rumbling that quickly grows. The whistlers outside have started their bikes. N
ow, is it just the ones outside, or all of them? There’s no way to tell. The sound rises and falls as engines are revved. The sound then fades as some, or all, of the whistlers ride away.
My immediate thought is that this is a trap. That the whistlers are attempting to put me at ease by seeming to drive away, leaving a few behind to ambush me as I carelessly leave. My other thought is that nighttime is approaching faster than I thought and I’m only walking out into a night runner breakfast. With another look in both directions, I ease into the hall. I can’t afford to be careless now, but I need to move. Perhaps that’s their intention.
With a quick check into the stairwell, I ease inside. It’s difficult to make out whether the disturbance in the overlying grit is only from me, or from others. I aim my carbine ahead of me as I start down, keeping to the outside wall. On the intermediate landing, I ease around the corner to the next flight of steps.
The body rushing upward is startling to say the least. I heard nothing; didn’t see anything. I didn’t even smell anything, which is odd. It is just there, in less than a heartbeat. My mind registers few facts other than I’m being attacked. One thing I do register is that the creature assaulting me isn’t overly tall or thin. With outstretched arms reaching for me, the grayish-skinned creature issues a gurgling scream past stained teeth. There’s no time to shoot, as it’s past the end of my barrel before I know it.
With no room to step back and still startled, I duck under the creature’s arms and move to one side. Putting my shoulder into it, I swing my M-4 in a reverse motion, slamming the adjustable stock against the side of its head. The creature staggers past me from the blow. I step behind it and slam the butt against the back of its head. I feel the jarring up my arms as I force its head into the concrete brick wall. Dark liquid splatters outward from the impact of its nose smashing against the hard surface.