Mark Tufo - Whistlers

He looks at me quizzically. “It’s the highway.”

I have no idea how he would know this, but I’ve stopped questioning whatever goes on inside his head. On one hand, completely blinded by darkness, he saved my life by shooting one of the creatures. On the other, he shot a block of thrown C-4 out of the air and damn near killed us. In the end, we managed to survive, so I can’t really say it was a bad plan. Who knows, maybe we would have all met our end if we would have followed through with our original one.

“Yeah, but there could be creatures out there and we don’t want to stride into the middle of a group of them.”

“Oh, yeah…those. I completely forgot about them,” he says, worriedly looking in all directions.

I shake my head, which I seem to be doing a lot whenever he says something. I mean, with what we’ve been through, even just the past night, how could you forget about that? I tell Trip to stay in place and make my way closer to whatever lies ahead. Approaching the end of the trees, the line of sight improves, allowing me to make out the shapes of vehicles.

How in the fuck does he do that? I think, pausing to listen and watch for movement.

I don’t see, hear, or smell anything, so I creep closer, moving slowly so I don’t bring any attention to myself. Near the very edge of the trees, I look up and down the highway. There is nothing out of the ordinary that I notice — of course, ordinary here is a matter for discussion — except for the same tangle of vehicles that was prevalent earlier.

“Are there any out there?” I hear a whisper in my ear.

I come as close as I ever have to having a heart attack. Jumping at the sound, I turn quickly, barely noticing the knife that appears in my hand. My mind recognizes Trip’s startled face just before the point of my blade enters his neck.

“Whoa, bud. It was just a question,” he states.

“Don’t ever do that again,” I state.

“What? You don’t like questions?”

“No, I mean sneak up on me like that.”

Trip tilts his head to the side and looks at me in askance. “I wasn’t sneaking.”

I’m still not sure how, even with my enhanced senses, that he managed to steal right up behind me. If it weren’t for him being with Mike, I would take him for one of the strange things of this world. There are very few people who can sneak up on me like that. I wonder, truly, if he’s real at all.

Replacing my knife, I turn to scan the area again. Seeing nothing and eager to be out of the woods, I rise and make my way across the strip of grass that separates the tree line from the tangle of cars. Smoke still stains the sky overheard, being whipped along with stronger winds aloft. It’s fainter than when I first appeared, but I’ve also been moving away from its source — the burning city. The movement is in direct contrast to the stillness surrounding the log jam of vehicles. The morning sun, casting its rays along the highway and cutting through the forest, is painted with a tinge of orange-ish-brown.

Curious, I take the compass out. The needle steadies immediately toward the magnetic pole.

What in the fuck is it in those trees? I think, wondering if it’s only local or something more widespread and having to do with the forest.

A metallic squeaking sound draws my attention. Trip has opened one of the doors and leans into the vehicle. Making sure the area is clear, I walk over.

“A-ha! I knew it,” he says, backing out of the car.

I look and see that he has pulled a wrapped Twinkie from inside. I look on, stunned.

How did he smell a friggin’ Twinkie? And a sealed one at that?

I would ask, but I’m afraid of the answer. Looking closer at what he has in his hand, it looks like a Twinkie. However, the name on the wrapper identifies it as a Spongie.

I shake my head. Of course .

Turning, I conduct my own search of nearby vehicles, looking for water, food, and ammo. I come across a couple of water bottles and a few snack items, but no ammo. I still have some remaining, but the close calls over the past couple of days have depleted the little I had to start with. I’m most likely good for one firefight, but after that, I’ll be down to making spears. Of course, there’s always Trip’s slingshot of magic.

Trip opens the wrapper and his expression betrays his ecstasy as he bites into the cream-filled cake. Chewing, and with half a Spongie in his hand, he looks to me. I can tell he’s hesitant to offer me any as he wants to enjoy it himself, yet he doesn’t want to be rude.

“I’m good. It’s all yours,” I say, forestalling his having to make a decision.

He smiles and crams the rest of the goody into his mouth. Seeing the area clear, I think about holing up in one of the vehicles to get some rest. There’s no way we’ll be able to keep going without it. My concern is that we’ll become surrounded should any of the zombies or speeders show up. I’m out of grenades which could clear a path, but we’ll also be no use in our current condition if we should run into any up the road.

Spying another motor home a short distance away, this one upright, I guide Trip to it, telling him we need to rest and for us to trade off keeping watch. I’m not overly confident with his ability to stay focused and not forget what he’s supposed to be doing, but fuck, I’m just flat worn out. I don’t see any alternative.

The side door is unlocked and swings open. Stepping into the interior, wrappers, food containers, and dishes are scattered everywhere. Whoever left did so in a hurry. There’s a slight odor of decayed food but it’s otherwise clear of anyone — dead or alive. I tell Trip that we’ll hold up for a few hours and get some rest, further stating that I’ll take the first watch.

“Good. I’m kind of burnt out, man,” he says.

Lying on a couch against one wall, he’s instantly asleep; his soft snores filling the interior. After locking the doors, I settle into the driver’s seat, leaning my M-4 against the dash. I prop my feet on the console and survey the area, using the rearview mirrors to keep an eye behind. The elevated position of the motor home gives a decent view over the surroundings. At the first sight of movement, we’re out of here.

The sun slowly climbs higher into a sky devoid of clouds. I feel my eyes begin closing on their own and have to move several times to stay awake. Two hours pass and I wake Trip, telling him it’s his turn. He rises slowly and stumbles to my former seat. Lying down, I catch a whiff of a joint being enjoyed. I would rise and say something, but I fade into dreams before another thought comes.

Two hours later, the alarm on my watch chimes. I jerk out of a deep sleep, the sudden waking causing my heart to jump start. Momentarily confused, I’m not sure what I’ve woken into, nor where I am. Slowly, consciousness clears and I hear snores emanating from the front of our hideaway. A measure of panic takes hold envisioning zombies surrounding us while Trip slumbered. I don’t hear any of the groans that usually accompany a horde but, in my tired state, my mind doesn’t take that into account.

Rising, I peel back the curtains a touch. It’s the same as when we began our rest; cars stretching to the sides, front, and back, for as far as I can see but no movement. Feeling a little better about our situation, I head to the front to wake Trip. I knew deep down that he would sleep, but I was exhausted and had reached my limit. Trip jumps into wakefulness at my touch.

“Dude, why did you have to wake me? I was with my wife on a peaceful motorcycle ride.”

“It’s time we get going,” I state.

“Where are we going? I kinda like it here,” he replies.

“Mike is still out there somewhere, and I assume that he’ll make for the highway. Regardless, though, we have to keep moving. It’s only a matter of time before zombies show and we need to find a more secure location before nightfall,” I answer.