by Tufo, Mark
Stepping backward, mindful of the steps to my rear, I reverse my carbine and fire a round at an angle into the back of its head. The bullet enters, passes through the brain, and crashes into the interior of the skull just below the far temple. Blood sprays out darkly and thickly, splashing along the wall. Brain matter and small pieces of flesh, some with bits of hair still attached, ooze down the bricks, the larger pieces falling to the floor with soft plopping sounds. The creature slithers straight down the wall, leaving behind a thick smear.
“Fuck me!” I whisper through panting breaths.
Expecting more of them, I quickly duck and turn. The steps downward are clear, but it takes a moment for that to register. I’m still geared to for an attack. Once my brain catches up with the reality that there isn’t another attack coming, I begin to shake. Adrenaline, which was suddenly unleashed in copious amounts, is pumping through my system.
Okay, we’ll have no more of that shit, thanks.
A few breaths later and I start to feel a little calmer. I don’t know if the creature I just encountered was lying in wait or hiding from the whistlers. Honestly, I don’t give one fuck about the why. It damn near got me. Just fuck this; I need to be out of here quickly but have to go slow. I look to the second floor door, seeing that my alarm system is still in place.
So, no one came through that way.
That doesn’t really mean much now. They could have come through the first floor, but I’ll have no way of knowing that until I get there. And, it was only a primitive measure to notify me of someone coming through that way. At the moment, there’s no way of telling if the stairs are clear, as was just evidenced. That still means a slow egress, even with the supposed departure of the whistlers.
Proceeding quietly, I make it to the first floor without further interruption. So far, so good. With a check of the hallway, I ease out and peer toward the lobby. Radiant sunlight still pours in through the glass window structure, although the cast of it suggests late afternoon edging toward sunset. Barring any meet-ups with whistlers, or this new kind of creature, I should still have time to make my way out of the city before darkness hits…but only barely.
The light layer of dust covering the lobby has been disturbed a great deal and looks like the aftermath of a fresh blanket of snow after kids have discovered it. Although I had originally opted for the rear door, I have to know what’s going on outside with the whistlers first—or at least lay a visual on the front. Easing around the outside wall, I climb a ways up the curved stairway, crouching below the enclosed banister. Outside, three motorcycles are parked on the street directly in front.
“Well, isn’t that fucking convenient,” I breathe.
I scan the buildings across the wide avenue, looking for signs of movement or a gas mask staring at me from within one of the windows. Nothing. It’s beginning to truly look like the whistlers have moved on. They could have driven up the street and backtracked on foot, but that would be quite a stroll, judging their distance by the fade of their loud, Harley-style engines. Especially within the confines of an inner city, where sounds echo for great distances off the tall concrete and glass structures.
The motorcycles parked outside are tempting. From the cast of the shadows and sunlight, I know that I don’t have a lot of time, and taking one of the bikes will aid my exit tremendously. However, I’m a little nervous about leaving through the front door. And the keys may not be in any of the ignitions, but in fact residing within whatever pockets the whistlers might have.
Well, it’s not like I’ve made any correct decisions to this point, I think, conducting an internal debate.
Even though I’ve only fired a few rounds from my current mag, I change it out for a full one. It will totally suck to only have twenty-four rounds when I need twenty-eight. Alternating my attention between the hallways and the outside, I creep down the stairs and across the foyer.
At the entrance, I check down the street and across to the buildings one more time. There’s nothing in sight that sets off any alarm bells. On the avenue, wide swaths from the whistlers’ departure are carved through the overlying dirt, obviously drag marks from the bodies tied behind the bikes. For the first several feet, the pathways show clear pavement, but quickly change to trails of skin and blood as the bodies scraped across the pavement. Within the gory mess, streaks of white appear where flesh gave way to bone. Although I’d be dead if it were to happen to me, the thought of being dragged behind the whistlers in that fashion makes me ill.
Well, once I exit, I don’t think I’ll be following that path, I think, bracing myself for a mad dash to the bikes.
I grab hold of one of door handles and pull it open. A strong, chilled gust of wind sweeps past. That’s to be expected when you open a door, but this is much stronger than anticipated ─ it feels different, somehow. There isn’t the slightest rustle of clothing as the gust blows by. It’s as if I felt a draft that wasn’t there. That’s not exactly true, though. I did feel it on my cheeks and through my sleeves and pants. I felt it, but it moved nothing. It didn’t even stir the dust at my feet. A shiver rolls up my spine with an electrical tingle.
Holding the door, I check the environment again. Nothing has changed. Preparing to run to the motorcycles, I walk through the door—and step into total darkness.
It’s as sudden as if a light switch were thrown. One moment I’m in the fading light of late afternoon, the next, I’m standing under the black velvet nighttime sky. It takes time for my eyes to adjust to the sudden change. They, however, do so much quicker than my mind. To say that I’m startled is the understatement of the century… or perhaps ever.
I have somehow stepped from day to night, like I was held in place while the sun set. In what I judge to be the eastern sky, there are the first hints of dawn approaching. But, that matters little. I’m in the middle of a city filled with swarms of night runners.
Well, fuck a duck! This is way messed up!
I’m not sure who is more surprised: me or the three night runners in the street directly in front. I’m going to guess it’s a tie by the way we both stare at each other, mouths open and eyes wide. I’ll take the tie on the surprise factor, but I need to win the reaction phase. I bring my M-4 up and quickly fire a burst into the nearest one. Sparkles from across the avenue enter my vision as my muzzle flash reflects off windows.
The two remaining night runners recover and send familiar shrieks racing down the streets. Answering calls come from seemingly everywhere as I alter my barrel and send another burst at about the same time as the first one slumps to the ground. I see the hits impact the second one from the puffs in its clothing. It falls backward at an angle across one of the motorcycles, knocking it to the side and off its kickstand. Sliding beside the metal carriage, the night runner hits the ground just before the bike tips over and falls directly on top of it.
The third night runner takes two steps and is nearly at a full run. Their speed never ceases to amaze me. In the darkness, its eyes glow silver and it sends another blood-chilling scream. I know that I’m truly fucked, even if I manage to drop this third one. Shrieks resound off building walls from multitudes of night runners. My stomach drops from the thought of being hunted through the city streets, attempting to elude the hordes. I stink, and it wouldn’t be difficult to locate my scent.
I fire at the closing night runner, stitching three rounds from its torso upward. With the speed that it has built up, it falls forward, crashing hard against the concrete steps. Its head bounces once off one of the steps and it skids another foot before coming to rest.
Inside and to the roof, or to the two remaining upright bikes?
I don’t have time for an extended internal debate, nor can I make any mistakes. I have time for one choice, and I hope that it’s the correct one. Along with the shrieks echoing down the city streets from night runners drawing rapidly closer, I hear several muted cries coming from the building I just exited.
Night runners in the building behind me? What
in the serious fuck? How did they get in there…and when? Well, I guess that way is out of the question.
I want to thank whatever spirits this place has for providing me direction, but I think they could have come up with a better sign. Like, maybe a bright neon arrow pointing at the bikes. Yeah, that would have been much better than putting night runners behind me.
Keep that in mind next time, please.
I quickly open up to assess just how seriously I’m fucked. There are numerous packs of night runners in the area, and closing. And by numerous, I mean a fucking lot of them. Images flash through my mind, originating from within the building behind me. Some of the night runners are intent on eating the various appendages sticking out of the walls. I suppose finding that is like walking into a stocked buffet. I sure hope the people trapped within the walls can’t feel anything. That would truly suck.
Many of the images change from their dining pleasure to one of confusion upon sensing me. A lot of night runners on the lower floors leave the buffet line and head in my direction, the thought of live food nearby driving them from their meals. I shut down. For perhaps the hundredth time in the past few hours, it’s time for me to be somewhere else.
I run down the stairs, passing one of the fallen night runners. Dark fluid leaks out from under it and runs in rivulets into and down the cracks in the steps. Blocks away, both avenues are filled with screaming night runners racing in my direction. Upon seeing me, they shriek louder, if that’s even possible. The buildings are almost literally vibrating from their screams. I don’t know how the nearby windows aren’t shattering.
Need to make this fucking quick, Jack!
Even if I make it to the motorcycles, and even if they start, I could still be trapped if I don’t make it to one of the side streets before the night runners close in. And, there’s a great possibility that those routes will be closed. I make it to one of the bikes, hearing the pinned night runner cry out and try to push the bike off of it. I guess my shots were a little off target and only injured it.
Straddling one of the bikes, I reach down and fumble for the key. Nothing.
“Where the fuck is it?” I mutter, fear beginning to take greater hold as I lean forward and reach further down.
As I lean forward, the top of the key damn near hits me in the face. I’m used to some of the older bikes where the ignition is on the side. But, thank goodness there’s a key already set in the ignition. Pulling in the clutch, I turn the key and am rewarded by a vibrating, throaty roar after a few cranks. I hope silently that the motorcycles here use the same configuration that I’m used to. Placing my carbine across my arms, I slam my foot down on the gearshift and am rewarding by a chunk as the gears engage. Releasing the clutch and turning the throttle, I race away.
The night runners have greatly closed the distance. Even on the bike, it’s even odds whether I make the next intersection or not. And then, I’ll probably just run into another horde coming from that direction. I shift rapidly through gears, intent on being the first one to the corner. The leading edges of the night runners are halfway through the intersection before I arrive. Round two goes to them.
Almost glowingly pale faces grow larger as we close toward each other. Gleams of silver flash from many of their eyes. That still has to be one of the eeriest sights ever, including the bodies within the buildings. Still gaining speed, I angle the bike toward the curb at the corner, trying to squeak past the closing hordes. I feel my tire barely scrape the concrete edge and a hand brush against my sleeve—gone just as quickly as I felt it.
Some of those behind the leading edge, seeing me divert my direction, alter theirs in order to close. Screams from hundreds, if not thousands only several feet away, hammer my eardrums. My skull feels as if it will come apart. Even with my speed, several are still on a converging path that will intersect with mine. I open up and scream an image of “NO!” coupled with an image of the sun. That makes them pause long enough for me to squirt through and past the packs. Glancing from the glowing eyes to the street that I’ve turned down, I’m rewarded with a seemingly clear path. Relief pours through me. I’m not out of the city yet, but I’m not trapped anymore either.
I still don’t have the faintest fucking idea what happened; how I went from daylight to the depths of night, but that’s a thought for later. Or, maybe not. I’d rather not think on that at all, as it brings the chilling thought that something like that could happen at any time. Right now, though, it’s time to get the fuck out of Dodge…or Atlantis, in this case.
Racing through the darkened streets, dodging a few packs of night runners, I find signs directing me to what I hope is a main highway. I don’t care where it leads, just as long as it’s away from here. Before long, with the sky to the east lighting up as dawn approaches, I make my way out of the city. I pull over along a stretch of prairie, not caring if whistlers come by or not. I park the bike, get off, and sit on the gravel of the shoulder. I need to just chill a moment. My mind and body are overloaded.
Thoughts race, but none linger. It isn’t time for contemplation; it’s time to empty my brain. It’s also time for my body to rest. I still feel the pain in my back, but it is getting marginally better. And, it’s time for pent-up emotions to break clear. The ups and down—mostly downs—of the emotional rollercoaster, the tension held within for so long: that all needs to be released if I’m going to move on. There’s only so much one person can take.
This world is too much. I barely escaped, and have a bit of information to go on, but I feel like it’s only a matter of time before I’m caught. There are just too many enemies, and intelligent ones at that. Hopelessness sets in with the thought that I’ll never see my kids or Lynn again. A part of my mind knows that this depression is my mind and body coming down from the sustained tension, but it’s there nonetheless. I just sit on the side of the road, holding my head in my hands.
Light breaks over me. Looking up, I see the sun crest a range of mountains far to the east. Sunlight rolls across the prairie, bringing warmth and a small measure of hope. I would go on about how as long as there’s light, there’s hope, but that’s not really me. I’ve lived to see another day, and that’s good enough.
“Okay, Jack. Enough feeling sorry for yourself. It’s time to push on,” I say, rising from the gravel with only a twinge in my lower back.
So, what in the fuck now? I obviously transitioned into and out of something. Perhaps I was in some kind of stasis, but lived on and came out of it. Maybe those within the walls of the buildings are in that same stasis…perhaps currently living experiences that they’ll emerge from. If that’s the case, I certainly feel for them, as they’ll emerge without limbs and in intense pain. No, maybe it’s better for them to stay where they are.
I have no idea what happened to Mike and Trip, but maybe they are still in this world. Again, I hope they made it back to their own, but I need to make at least an effort to look for them. The train yard and engine we came in on seems the most likely place to search. I hope we can meet up again. Going this shit alone sucks, even if company means Trip is thrown into the mix. I usually operate better alone, but that isn’t the case here. Deeply planted within my brain back in past times, I knew I would reemerge to be around friends and family. Here, not so much.
Looking around, the area seems familiar. At least, the size and shape of the skyline rising above the valley does. With the vast plain, most everything looks the same, and the lack of any defining landmarks makes it easy to become lost. This has to be close to the place Mike, Trip, and I stopped on our way to the city before turning back to the railway trestle. Talk about going in circles. Rather than go through town, where there are far too many hunters, I decide to retrace our previous route to the rail yard.
I mount the bike, following the highway and keeping an eye out for whistlers. I know full well that I now sound like a thundering herd, but it’s the fastest way to travel. The wind in my face is refreshing and carries some of the nightmare away. At the tre
stle, I turn onto the dirt path, eventually coming to and following the tracks.
As the tangled mass of cars slewed sideways and upended comes into sight, the aftermath of our physics lesson, I park the bike and make my way on foot. With all that I’ve seen, there can be no doubt that whistlers are amassed somewhere in the area, and I don’t want to announce my arrival. Plus, there are others about that I’d rather not say hi to either. I check my mags and, although I have a few remaining, I know that I’ll have to find more before too long. The best bet will be the troop locations marked on my map. I’ll also have to scavenge for more food and water soon, having left my meager supplies tucked into the ceiling of the defence building.
Skirting around the tangled wreckage, I head closer to the rail yard, my head on a constant swivel and my ears peeled for the sound of approaching motorcycles. I have no desire for any further encounters—last night was enough excitement to last me several lifetimes. Keeping to the outer edges, I spy the locomotive that we rode in on parked on the far side of the yard. Surrounding it is a small horde of about fifteen zombies, many of them milling aimlessly, but some of them clawing at the wheels and reaching for the floor of the walkway.
Oh, for fuck’s sake! Of course they’d be here.
Why are they gathered by the engine? I mean, it has seemed that zombies only gather for a reason. Otherwise, they wander about searching for their next meal. Something must have drawn them to the engine. Perhaps Mike and Trip are trapped inside? I discount that almost immediately. If that were true, they’d all be clawing to get in. Plus, Mike would have taken care of them. He’s pretty savvy with regards to getting out of situations. I’m quite sure he would have extricated himself last night much better than I did. No, something drew them here and departed. Whistlers, maybe? Again, doubtful, as the zombies I see ahead of me would be tied behind bikes instead of tripping over the rails.