Mark Tufo: Whistlers

It was a sea of cars, a grassy median, and a darkening woods line that seemed to stretch for miles. It was getting dark and slightly chilly. We were technically lost and under-supplied. To top it off, for one of the first times in my life, I didn’t have a ‘plan.’ Although, if you know anything about me from my previous journals; you might realize I was better off on this aspect anyway.

I did the only thing I could think of; I mean, for the most part, it was unthinkable…but I did it anyway.

“Any ideas, John?”

He started frantically slapping his hands against his body like he had stepped on a fire ant hill and was even now covered in them and getting bitten. He alarmed the hell out of me with his actions.

“What’s the matter, man?” I asked, trying to figure out how I could help.

His hand slapped against his chest and he visibly relaxed. “It’s all good, man.”

“What? What the fuck is all good?” I asked, looking for his unseen assailant.

John had an infectious grin as he pulled out a spun joint from his pocket.

“Are you kidding?” I asked incredulously.

Then, in one of his more lucid moments, he said, “Hey, man, you deal in your way, I’ll deal in mine. So stop harshing my high.”

“Sorry,” I told him, holding my hands up. “But we still need to get moving.”

That tree line looked foreboding. There could be zombies, rednecks, clowns or feral cats—the last making me shudder—in the darkness that oozed forth. The thought of spending the night in one of these abandoned cars held merit, but if we were to get surrounded, we would have effectively slept in what would then become our tomb.

John was a cool guy and all, (although I wished I’d met him maybe twenty years previous—scratch that, we’d both probably have long, scruffy beards and have great difficulty remembering our last Dead show) but if I was going to die soon, I wanted it to be in the loving arms of my wife Tracy who, earlier this morning, was roughly a thousand miles away. Now it appeared she was a shrouded world away.

“What did you do with my van, man?” John asked as he finally seemed to be stepping onto the same page.

Two could play his game. “What van?” It was kind of an asshole move. I’m going to blame it on the rising trepidation I was beginning to feel.

“Did you hear that?” John brushed my question aside. “It sounded like Howler Monkeys.”

I most certainly had not, but between working on an airfield and about three decades worth of rock concerts, I had an accumulated hearing loss making mine akin to a mole’s. It’s my understanding they’re deaf…shit…nope. Blind. Okay, I’m as deaf as some heretofore unmentioned almost deaf animal.

“Whoa,” I said as I caught a sound I’d never heard before. And no, Howler Monkey didn’t seem the right description.

John lit up his joint. I was jonesing for a good time, too. Right now would have been perfect. Whatever was screaming in those woods was approaching, and if I had to go, it might as well be with a smile on my face. John tapped me on the shoulder. He was sticking the joint under my nose. His cheeks were puffed out and smoke was leaking from his nostrils; his eyes were already beginning to glow a dull red.

“That some good shit?” I asked, seriously looking at his offering.

He nodded and smiled, more smoke leaking out from the edges of his grin.

“You suck, man,” I told him as I pushed it away.

I grabbed his shoulder and pulled him along. We were parallel to the tree line and the howlers (that was their name for now). I couldn’t risk the woods; for all I knew, the ones on our left could be driving us to others waiting on the right. So, down the endless line of now useless status symbols we weaved.

The noise was beginning to increase as it got darker. I didn’t know if there was a correlation, and didn’t have time to dwell on it as I pushed John along. He was of the mind to stop and look at just about every shiny object we came across.

“John, we really gotta move a little quicker,” I told him.

“I’d be inclined to agree with you if we had a destination to be gotten to.”

Again I had to agree, we were rushing to where? Away from the sounds, but they seemed to be paralleling our movements. What were they waiting for? Reinforcements? Sounded like there was already a shitload of them.

The sun was just cresting below the tree line as my dread surged. Something deep down was telling me that we needed shelter, and fast. I saw a refuge up ahead. It wasn’t ideal, but it would do.

“Come on, man,” I said as I was now full-on dragging John behind me.

“You want to get in there?” he asked me as we looked at the back of the tractor trailer.

“Yes and no.”

“You know that makes no sense, right?” he chastised me.

I hated the idea of being in the back of a darkened trailer; not being able to see our enemy and basically trapped. But as I watched, the first ‘howler’ emerged out of the woods, and I knew it was the right thing to do. At least in this instance. It was a human once, but that loping, hunchback way it ran, looked more like a werewolf in the early stages of change. Could that be possible? I’ve dealt with zombies, vampires, aliens, and spirits; why wouldn’t my vengeful god throw in a werewolf or two for good measure?

“Hey!” John shouted, raising his hand up in a waving gesture to the figure that was thankfully a few hundred yards off and hadn’t heard him.

I quickly opened the back of the trailer and helped John in. In my haste to join him, I nearly ended up in a part of his anatomy I’d rather not be. I closed the door behind me and did my best to secure the locking mechanism as we were plunged into darkness.

John clicked on a lighter, the old-school kind with the cover. “I think I’m in Heaven,” he said as he raised the lighter over his head illuminating cartons upon cartons of Phrito’s, rushing for the first box he could get to.

“No, John, we can’t chance it and what kind of cheap knock-off is this? Spelling Phrito’s with a P. H.”

He turned to look at me like I had just lost my damned mind. All I could think about was the opening of that loud cellophane bag, followed by the loud crunching of the corn snack. Then, the contented sighs of John as he ate his munchies. And to top it off, the pungent smell of the snack itself.

“What’s the matter with you?” he asked as he opened the carton. “I’m starving, and the patron saint of junk food has led us to his bounty.”

“John, there’s something out there.”

“There’s enough in here to share. I’m not THAT hungry.”

“Buddy, I don’t think they would care about the corn snacks.”

John whipped around looking wildly. “Who’s buddy?” He stopped when we heard more howling and mewls. The sounds were immediately followed by more. It sounded like a hunting party. I could only hope we weren’t the prey.

“You’d better get your slingshot ready,” I told him as I looked to make sure I had a bullet in the chamber and the safety was off.

“My what?”

“The thing that shoots marbles.”

“Well, why didn’t you just say that?” he asked.

“My mistake.”

“How about after one bag of Phrito’s,” he said, exaggerating the word.

I heard glass smash, and it wasn’t too far away. This was followed almost immediately by gunshots. It sounded like a small caliber, probably a .22. My heart was pounding. I got down into a kneeling position as far back as the cartons would allow, my rifle barrel pointed out. I was fully expecting the doors to open at any moment.

“John, put the lighter out,” I said softly as we could hear footfalls approaching.