Mark Tufo - Whistlers

I was looking around as I came closer to the leg. I lightly touched it with the toe of my boot. When it didn’t immediately fall over, I applied a little more pressure. It didn’t budge. I did a quick three-sixty around my perimeter. If anyone was around, they were doing a damn good job of hiding themselves.

I got down on my haunches to get a closer look at the leg. It was seamless where the pavement met the leg; it was not broken up or dug out. I looked completely around the leg. There was no reason this thing should be standing like this; at least, none that I could discern. I poked it with my barrel. Besides disturbing a squadron of flies, it did not move.

“Super Glue?” Was all I could come up with as I stood. “For what purpose?” I was going to stick with the glue theory for a little while longer. My alternative was that it was imbedded in the ground. That just wasn’t going to fly.

Getting to the military vehicles was not as easy a task as one might assume. There had to be two or three inches of brass casings on the ground. I wasn’t a fan of making so much noise, but I had no choice other than to kick them away, giving me a relatively clear spot to put my foot down. Falling over with a twisted ankle would have been worse. The civilians had fought back. The truck I was heading for was peppered with ineffectual divots in its armored hull.

Hunting rifles and handguns versus machineguns and armored transport is not much of a fight. That they’d even tried showed just how desperate they’d been. What was on the other side of this that made it worthwhile, or worse, what was behind that drove them to it? If I looked hard enough, I could still see smoke from a distant burning city.

How long could a metropolis burn? A few weeks I guess.

Yet I’d seen no living humans besides the ones that had been dragged into this mess for some reason. I could only hope I would get some answers, but right now, I was preoccupied with survival as I rooted around the trucks. I found a little more ammunition, which I gladly took, and more water than I could possibly drink, although I did my best as I bloated my belly with the wonderful wet substance.

Then I hit pay dirt, sort of. A brown, nondescript box was in the back of one of the Hummer-like vehicles. It was stamped with ‘FTE’ and then, in typical military fashion, it felt the need to spell out the acronym.

Why bother with the acronym to begin with?

No time to question it. Now that I’d slaked my raw thirst, I had another powerful need to take care of. My stomach was twisted in knots from lack of food. Two force-fed Phrito’s from Trip nearly two days ago and the sickly sweet Pop-Tarts knock-offs wasn’t going to cut it.

FTE stood for ‘Food To Eat.’

I tore open the package like I was expecting filet mignon. The heavy plastic was gray. My guess, it mirrored the food. Right now, I didn’t care. As I tore into something called Protein Mass, I discovered that it was like beef stew, but without the catchy name, actual flavor, or taste. I ate that one and one just like it. I then grabbed a couple more and stuffed them in my pockets. I wasn’t full of hope and confidence, but I felt better. I’d eaten and drank. Taking care of those base needs had greatly improved my disposition.

“Time to follow the yellow brick road I suppose.”

I shielded my eyes to look at the grand openness ahead of me.

“Lucy, you coming?” I shouted behind me. “Maybe I should have called you Dorothy. What’s that make me?” I asked, looking down at my pink sneakers and poncho. “I’m guessing I’m the Scarecrow. My geometry teacher was always saying how I was lacking in the brains department. Betcha that fat fucker got eaten on day one. This one is for you, Mrs. Weinstedder.” I looked up and flipped her the bird.

I maybe should have turned that gesture towards myself as I brought my gaze down, I saw a giant blue road sign:

Atlantis 25 miles

“You have got to be kidding me. Right?”

Was this where the fabled city had gone? Had ancient visitors from my world somehow found a portal that had brought them to this strange place?

“What is going on? And can I make twenty-five miles before dusk?”

I didn’t think so, but I was going to Atlantis. How could I not? That would be like someone asking if you wanted to see the center of the earth. I mean, you were sort of compelled to go, weren’t you?

I was a good half mile away from the tangle of cars. The day was beautiful; a deep blue canopy overhead with some wispy clouds. The sun was bright but not hot. A stirring breeze kept it cool enough that I was in no rush to shed my heavy-knit poncho. My guess was that, wherever I was, the fall season had just started. Birds were chirping, and some of the more industrious ones were migrating. Bugs were minimal to non-existent. If I had some beer and some decent company, it would altogether be a really great day. I turned to look back to Lucy, who was just emerging from the line of trucks.

“I was wondering where you’ve been,” I said.

She paused when she saw me. I raised my rifle. Five hundred yards with iron sights for a head shot was not mathematically impossible. Highly improbable, though. I was a fairly decent shot, and if I had unlimited ammo and time, I think I’d set myself up to take a crack at it. She was not an immediate threat, and time was definitely not on my side. The sun had already made its apex and was on the decline. That meant my other buddies would be coming to the party soon enough and I was about as much in the open as one could get. My priority was now going to be to find a place to hole up for the night.

Easier said than done , I thought as I looked around.

I walked another mile or so and I’d seen nothing bigger than a grassy knoll as a means of defendable position for the evening. It was looking a lot like Kansas, minus the corn stalks and billboards proclaiming that ‘I’m loved.’ If you’ve ever been to Kansas, that would make way more sense.

With a shrieking twist of metal, the tower leans farther. The support structure snaps with a loud clang. I wrap my legs and arms tightly around the rungs as the list becomes a tumble toward the ground.

I’m thankful the tower twists and begins falling away. If it were falling in our direction, this little escape plan would be over before it really started. Of course, this isn’t exactly the plan. It might be John’s, but I’m pretty sure the plan Mike and I came up with didn’t involve riding a crashing water tower to the ground. Huddled close to the rungs, I feel the tower begin a free fall.

I’m glad we decided to climb lower down before attempting our escape. If we were still on the walkway above, we’d either be thrown for a mile, or hit the ground like we were being beaten against the side of the cliff. As it is, this isn’t a fun theme-park ride and will more than likely leave a mark when the tower smacks into the ground.

My worry is that we’ll be stunned, and this is the exact wrong time for that with zombies and night runners about. I’m sure they’ll forget their differences in order to get to us. I hear John above me shouting in glee like he’s enjoying himself. I wish I could partake in his enthusiasm and still can’t believe he shot the C-4 down like that. Not only because of his uncanny accuracy, but that he even did it in the first place. I just hope his angels are close by on this one.

I hear the top of the tower rushing through open space. It sounds like a heavy wind blowing across the treetops of a densely packed forest. I grip the rungs tighter as the angle steepens and the speed of the fall increases. Above the rush of the tower dropping and the groaning of thick metal being twisted in ways it wasn’t designed for, there is the groaning of the zombies and shriek of the night runners only scant feet away.