Whistlers

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.

“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 looking 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.

Wrong 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 everyone,” 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 completely 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 they 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 find 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.

“Not a chance,” I told him. His face mirrored the howlers as it went from intense determination to rage. Apparently I had that effect on everyone I encountered. “John, we need to find some shelter from these things and try to figure out what they are…and more importantly, where we are.”

“What do you mean ‘where we are’, we’re right here.”

“I love New Age shit.”

John wasn’t quite ready to give up his idea of taking some snacks with him, and I wasn’t completely done reconning our immediate area. I rounded the truck to discover the couple who had fought valiantly but hopelessly. They were eaten and torn to shreds almost as if the howlers, in addition to being vociferously hungry, hated people with every fiber of their being and wanted to take it out on whomever they encountered. I turned away, glad that I hadn’t eaten more of the Phrito’s than the two John had given me, or I would have had the misfortune of getting to taste it twice.

“John, we gotta go, man,” I spoke, hoping the air flow to push the words out would hold down the gorge that threatened to rise.

I also had a fear beginning to bloom in the base of my spine that I hadn’t felt since that first day of the zombie apocalypse. We were in unfamiliar territory with a new, more deadly enemy. I had very limited ammunition, and I had no idea where my family was or how I was going to get back to them.

“John?” I asked as I rounded back around the corner. “Really, man?” He had cut out a piece of seatbelt from a nearby car and had tied it to the bottom of the pallet, his goal, I guess, being to pull it along like a sled. “John, you can only take what you can carry. We’ve got to go.”

On retrospect, I probably should have been clearer. John hopped back up onto the truck and fumbled around a bit until he had a carton resting on each shoulder. He came to the edge of the truck and was looking for help from me to help him down.

“Why can’t I get stuck in an alternate universe with Rambo? Would that be asking too much?” I asked the heavens as I grabbed each box in turn.

“Rambo, isn’t that the deer who gets stepped on by Godzilla?” He hopped down, propping himself on my shoulder as he did so.

“That’s Bambi, John, and the Godzilla thing was a joke, not the actual movie.”

The explanation was unnecessary as I’d already lost him.

“Shit, Mike, there’s Phrito’s, did you put them here?”

“Yes.” In truth I guess I had.

“Can I have some?” he asked like a little kid.

“Be my guest. And then, can we go?”

“I should probably take these with us.” He placed them on the pallet.

“Oh, I give up.”

“Were we playing Monopoly?”

I didn’t respond, by the time he figured out I hadn’t conceded a board game victory, he would be on to the next shiny distraction.

“No pallet, John, we have to move fast. Just take what you can carry,” I told him referring to the cartons. I guess I’ll never learn, he wrestled with them for a minute or two until he had them once again resting on his shoulders.

He moved surprisingly well for a Phrito-laden pack mule. I stopped at any car that looked promising in regards to supplies: namely food, water, and ammo. Not in any particular order, their importance changed with the circumstances. If howlers came, ammo rose to the top. At the moment, I would just about kill for a cheeseburger. Sadly, I was fairly certain that I wasn’t going to come across one, at least not in edible form.

It was a form of food I found first; that is, if you can call the hard granola bars food. I tore the wrapper off the bar, not even caring that it was cranberry flavored. Peanut butter would have been better. John had taken the down time to rip open another bag of his snacks, something he did at every car I went through. We were a good dozen cars checked down the road; how he didn’t have a belly ache was beyond me.

There was a trail of wrappers leading away from the truck. I felt like Hansel and Gretel, he was Gretel. Although, if I remember the tale correctly, Hansel left the trail, I guess that makes me Gretel, I did a small curtsy.

“What the hell are you doing?” John asked around a mouthful of salty corn.

“You saw that? You’re not even looking this way. Forget it.”

“Forget what?”

“Want a granola bar.”

“Never touch the stuff,” he said as if I were offering him a swig of whiskey.

“Not missing much,” I told him as I nearly chipped a tooth severing a piece off the end.

I had the wrapper in my left hand and was about to add it to our trail when I thought that maybe the wrapper itself may hold a key to our location. ‘Made proudly in New House, JL, United States of Columbia.’

I dropped the wrapper faster than if it had been on fire. It was safe to say we weren’t in Kansas anymore. And then it finally dawned on me, something that had been nagging me in the back of the neck like an overly persistent sand flea. (If you need further explanation, join the Marine Corps and make sure you go to boot camp on Parris Island, South Carolina. Then that sentence will make complete sense.)

Why I hadn’t thought to do it earlier I don’t know. Maybe whatever John the Tripper had was catching. I looked to the cars and where their license plates should have been. Now, either there was an extreme plate hoarder on the loose, or this new place we found ourselves in just didn’t mark cars like that. I checked at least four cars; none of them even had so much as a placement holder for a plate.

“What the hell?” I stood up, scratching my head.

And there it was, a cellophane-looking placard with nearly translucent numbers adhered right to the rear windshield. My guess was that it became back lit when the car was running. Some god had a hilarious sense of humor. I moved in close so I could see what the plate said. It was a vanity plate ‘SCREWD’ stared back at me.

“Take you all day to think of that!” I yelled up.

“I didn’t say anything,” John replied. “Was I supposed to?”

“You’re good,” I yelled back. I could barely make out the ‘state’; it was so small, and I also had no reference. ‘Amissus’ is what I read. “Is that in between Georgia and Alabama?” I asked.

“Man, I’m getting full.” John rubbed his belly. However, that did not deter him from opening another bag.

“John, any chance you know where Amissus is?” I figured ‘what the hell.’ Geography had never been my strong suit in school. Although, if I were truly being honest here, there were no classes in school I had been particularly great in.

“Lost.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“No…that’s what Amissus means.” He walked over, the bag now tilted up as he poured its contents into his eager mouth. “Have you found any green tea? I’m thirsty.”

“No green tea, there’s some water in this car though. Amissus means lost?”

“Latin.”

“You know Latin?”

“Nope.” He grabbed the water bottle and headed back to his stash.

“Thanks for the clarification.”

He raised his bottle up in response.

What I assumed was the expiration sticker read 14.14.13, I scratched my head again. Even if this was some sort of British thing where they put the year first (talk about strange), this date still made no sense. Any way you looked at it, there was either most likely fourteen months or thirteen; still more than the normal twelve I was used to. I could feel the deep pulses of a killer headache beginning to radiate out from the center of my taxed mind. No matter how hard I looked, the placard was not going to yield anymore knowledge except that I was ‘screwed’ and ‘lost’. I wanted to tell the gods they could kiss my ass, but apparently they already had, and hard.

I debated looking in the glove box, but I was fairly certain the registration would have a street address of Ha Ha Lane or something equally as inane, and we needed to get away from the howler’s hunting grounds. John was like a machine when it came to eating. I figured at some point he would have to yield to the limits of his stomach, but just when I figured he was getting to the breaking point, the soft sweet smell of seductive smoke would drift lazily around us. His supply of medicinal marijuana seemed to rival his Phrito hoard.

It took approximately somewhere in the neighborhood of triple digit cars ransacked before sweet Mother Mercy yielded her prize. Although ‘prize’ is grossly exaggerated. There was a box of 22s—close to fifty. Great little round, but without something to shoot them out of, they were virtually useless. I tore everything out of the car, hoping that whoever had been in here had just so happened to leave behind the projectile launcher.

“Holy sweet mother of all that is sanctimonious!” I shouted as my hand came in contact with the cold steel of gun metal. I was in an awkward position, leaning over the back seat of the car, my hand thrust out as far as it could go under the driver’s seat when I felt it. When I pulled my hand back with ‘prize’ in hand, I moaned.

“It’s a fucking Derringer.” I sighed.

“Can you eat them?” John asked, coming over quickly. He slouched back to lightening his load when he realized it was a gun.

But to call a Derringer a gun was the same as calling a Yugo a luxury car. The gun was all of three inches long, the barrel maybe half that. It had two chambers where I could put one round each and, unless a howler walked up and literally let me press this thing against its head, it was useless.

Who the fuck brings a Derringer to an apocalypse?

I’m not kidding when I say you’d be better off with John’s slingshot. Don’t get me wrong, I took it and, after loading it, I stuffed it in my pocket. Worst-case scenario, it would be my early checking-out implement. I was not going to be eaten, at least not alive. I felt somewhat better with my find. Then it dawned on me, now that I wasn’t quite so fixated on locating ammo. Where were all the people from the cars? They had left in a hurry, but not in an outright panic. The supplies left over looked mostly to be what was too heavy or unimportant. I’d been in enough situations that I could tell the subtle difference. When you and your family’s lives were in danger, nothing else mattered, not even fire engine red Jeeps.

We passed cars in various stages of disarray. The pull was strong to check each of them, but the odds seemed less than worthwhile of finding anything of note, and that big, giant, uncaring survival clock was ticking in the back of my head. The howlers seemed a creature of the night, I had a couple of points to validate my argument. The first being that we hadn’t heard or seen one in the day and second they headed for parts unknown at the first hint of daylight. We needed to take more advantage of the howler free hours.

We came across a turned over RV which reminded me of Little Turtle, my fallen community. It produced an unwelcome pang in my heart. It looked like a decent place to set up shop for the night, and I just may have if not for the relative proximity to our Phrito truck. Short of being on the other side of the planet, or in an underground bunker, I just wasn’t going to feel safe. There had to be something better, didn’t there? Plus…the smell, yeah that was no bargain. Picture an unwashed zombie. I don’t know how much more I need to say about it really. My eyes watered just getting near it. I wondered for a moment if anything was in it besides bodies, and then we moved on.