A Shrouded World - Whistlers (4 page)

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.

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,” h
e 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—!”

“Sh
hh, 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.

“Good idea!” John shouted, “Now we’ll have
Phrito’s all around us. Won’t have to ever move far to get some.”

“Yeah
, that’s what I was thinking, too. You should get your marble shooter out,” I said to him as I heard the rapid approach of many footfalls.

“You mean my slingshot? Why wouldn’t you just call it that?”

“You give me a headache sometimes.”

“I’ve got something for that.”

I knew what he was reaching for before he ever got to that pocket. “I don’t need any leafy aspirins.”

It took
him a few moments to think on my words. “I get it, man!” he laughed.

The truck began to shake as something(s) outside began to look for a weakness, a way in. Then slams began as they started hammering away. I turned on
my rifle’s tactical light, pretty much wishing I hadn’t as I watched the thin metal of the truck siding begin to dent inwards from the heavy ministrations outside.

“Why don’t they just use the door?” John asked.

“You’re really not giving them ideas, are you?”

“Are they vacuum cleaner salesmen? They can be pretty pushy. I’ve already bought three of them and they still keep coming.”

“Yeah, well we’re not going to buy a fourth. You need to be really convincing this time. You ready, buddy?”

“I
am, not sure about Buddy, though,” John said as he held his slingshot aloft.

“Well
, hopefully he gets on board, too.”

The fist blows continued on the side of the truck and began to move towards the rear where I figured they’d get to eventually. The surprise came when I saw the locking rod start to slide upwards. I’d known all along on some level these weren’t zombies
; this just rushed the thought to the fore. Something was manipulating the lock. If it got open, we were screwed. I placed a shot right around where I figured its head was.

A sliver of murky light filtered through the resultant hole and
, for a blessed moment, the truck hammering ceased along with the lock being moved.

“Did I do that?” John asked as he looked at his slingshot.

The shot only stopped them for a moment, and they seemed to redouble their efforts when they realized there was canned meat available. The meat being us. The sides of the truck were being relentlessly pushed in. This was sort of like the first
Star Wars
flick with Luke and company in the trash compactor. It would only be a matter of time before the metal failed and then, unless they were really into corn treats, we were screwed.

I was startled as I heard beings on the roof looki
ng for a way in, and Santa Claus they weren’t. I thought about peppering some holes up there like I’d seen in so many movies, but I kept focused on our most obvious breech point.

The lock on the back door began to move again. “Light
‘em up,” I told my wingman.

Wro
ng phraseology, I know this now. As I was busy sending rounds downrange, John, in his infinite wisdom, lit up a little of God’s greenery. I put at least ten or twelve rounds through the door, hoping that at least half had struck targets. Our enemy shared something with zombies, instead of running from the hot lead, they seemed to congregate to it. The doors shook and rattled as they struggled to get in.

“I don’t have enough for eve
ryone,” John said in a near panic as he let out a large sigh of smoke.

At least one of us was going to die happy. I put both magazines on the box next to me. I was complet
ely convinced this was now a do-or-die mission, and we had drawn the short straw. I should have been ready, but when that door swung open, I was caught completely off guard. The first of the howlers jumped in with a grace and power that evaporated any lingering doubt I may have still had that they might be zombies.

I did controlled bursts, sending the first of the invaders into the abyss of whatever hell they had originated but
, even as I did so, I knew it was a lost cause. Unless they all lined up nice and pretty and let me shoot them in the heads, so I could take down two or three at a time, I was going to run severely short of bullets before the coalescing mass outside of the truck was wiped out.

“What’re the
y so mad about?” John asked me.

I didn’t know, but there was an etched mask of rage
on all of them as they entered. That was also something different about the zombies that I knew. They were usually indifferent. Whether they were chasing you, eating you, or just plain ambling around, they seemed detached from the world—much like John. These things, though, not so much, they hated us.

Must have known me previously
, I thought as my rifle kicked in to my shoulder. Maybe I dated one of their old girlfriends.

They had not yet established residency in the truck as I dropped the expended magazine and fumbled for a moment with the new one. I had taken my eyes off it for less than a fraction of a second and I had tried to jam it in upside down. That was the only opening they needed, a basketball team’s worth of them were advancing quickly. Fuck the controlled bursts, I held that trigger down, blasting them backwards into those that tried to come in behind. I was thrilled to at least know these beings could be stopped without a head shot. Head shots are
hard under normal circumstances and are exceedingly difficult under stressful conditions, I laid waste to them; chest cavities exploded open as I blew holes through the transgressors. Arcs of blood and bone spewed out like a deep underground fissure had finally broken through the surface of the earth.

Casings tinkled to the ground;
within a few seconds I would have dry-fired had not my bolt stayed open when I shot the last round, I had won back a few feet at the expense of half my ammunition. The third magazine went in much easier; I pressed in the bolt release button, the first shot blasted out in a somewhat muffled tone. I don’t know if it was old or defective ammo, but the resultant blowback didn’t have enough power to eject the brass from my rifle. I turned the rifle sideways to discover the brass jammed in the ejection port. My fingers sizzled as I pulled hard on it. I was finally able to wiggle it free and slam hard on the forward assist, placing the next round in the chamber.

A howler
was within handshaking distance. I wouldn’t be able to get my rifle between us to fire. I brought my gun up to place it between us like a barrier. Large drops of saliva fell from his open mouth, his lips pulled back in a menacing growl. He was screaming in what I would imagine to be a triumphant sound, which was immediately silenced as I watched in awe. A steel ball was propelled into his eye, giving him a slightly robotic look for a moment before the bearing disintegrated the creature’s eyeball. I don’t know what kind of force John had put behind that shot, but all that was left of the right eye was a hole where it once resided. The thing fell to the ground, shook once, and was still.

I don’t know if that one was their leader or
if they were just out of fight. There was a sound that I will now associate with their retreat signal. They all looked to the sky as if on cue and headed out. Even the ones that were in the truck and were mere feet away from their desired goals, they left, every last one of them. At least those that could, a few were on the ground outside the truck too injured to move.

I poked my head out cautiously
, expecting this to be some kind of ruse, although that made no sense, they had us dead to rights. John might be deadly accurate with a weapon he barely knew he was holding, but he would not have been able to hold off this new adversary. Their actions and movements made it abundantly clear they were not zombies. I dropped down out of the truck, fingers of light from the oncoming dawn beginning to spread.

There were some dead howlers littered on the ground. I can’t even begin to tell you how relieved I was to learn that they could die. Nothing worse than fighting an enemy that
seemed virtually indestructible; the name ‘Eliza’ seemed to strike that chord.

I noticed movement on only one
. It looked like it was trying to crawl by use of its chin, a bullet had caught it right under the jaw and exited the back of its neck, blowing out the creature’s spine. The thing was of human form, that it was
not
human was easy to determine because it was still trying to move after a fatal wound had been delivered. With my rifle at my shoulder, I placed my boot under its shoulder and flipped it over. A face fraught with determination suddenly turned to intense rage like maybe I owed her a bar tab.

“Whoa
, did you piss her off?” John asked as he sat down on the bed of the truck and hopped off. “She sure looks like she could use some SPF.”

“What?” I asked
, thinking the man had once again lost his mind, but that would mean he’d once had it.

But now that he said something
, I noticed that the woman was rapidly reddening and even beginning to blister. I backed away. I’d seen this movie; eventually she was going to burst and spray body juices in a three hundred and sixty degree radius. I was determined not to catch any.

It wasn’t quite dramatic as Hollywood would have led me to believe
, but it still wasn’t any fun to watch. What was once a vibrant young woman was dying by some unnatural cause. When she had finally stilled after burning to a golden crispness, I approached.

“Her blood is red.” I really said
that bit mostly to myself. It was not the congealed, clotted mess that the zombies generally leaked out. It was the red of humanity, but of that trait, she had none. “What the fuck is going on? John, we’ve got to get going.”

Whatever the howlers were, sunlight had devastating effects on them
, and we had to use that to our advantage. Another night in the truck was not an option. They’d figured the doors out easily enough and, even if they hadn’t, I could tell by the way the walls were caving in that they would have been through them in another ten minutes at the most. We had once again barely dodged death. I wondered how long our luck could hold. If I was in Vegas, I wouldn’t bet on our odds. I was thrust out of my reverie by the crashing of a wooden pallet on the pavement.

“Shit
, John, what are you doing?”

“Grabbing some Phrito
’s, man.”

“What?” And then it dawned on me, he was going to pile this pallet high with cartons and then fi
nd some way to push or pull it.

That would be great
; we’d probably make a good mile or two away from the truck before nightfall. I was positive that would not be nearly far enough away from the howlers.