Mark Tufo - Whistlers

“You think they’re still around? I mean, I found this box fair and square.”

Exasperated, I run my hand down my face. “Let me see if I can explain this in ‘Trip’ terms. We’ve been here a couple of days and we’ve seen no one else except Mike.”

“Who?”

“Ponch.”

“Oh yeah. Where is he by the way?”

Talking to Trip is like throwing a Super Ball against a wall and watching it bounce around at high speed. You never know where it’s going to land, and it’s hard to keep up with it, but you know it’s going to be interesting whatever it does.

“I’m trying to get to that. I’m thinking that he may have been here and ate those packages,” I say, hoping something I say sinks in.

“Ponch took my food? That’s not cool, man. I’ll have to talk to him. It’s clearly labeled as mine.”

“What in the hell are you talking about?” I ask, watching as the ball bounces randomly.

“FTE. It stands for Food Trip Enjoys.”

I just shake my head, wondering how he’s managed to live alone this long. I set down the liver and onions Trip handed me and grab the package I originally opened. It’s shepherd’s pie which is only marginally better. Spooning the food into my mouth, I walk around looking for any other clues that Mike may have been here. It’s good to find some sign that he might have lived through the night, but I’m still not positive it was him. It really could have been anyone. I search the tangled wreckage of cars and then look out into the wide open expanse.

“Whoever it was, they had to have gone that way. I just hope there’s a place where we can find shelter before night hits,” I murmur, looking into the sun.

Something catches my eye. It’s one of those things that is out of place, but I can’t put my finger on it. Then, I see what it is. There’s a leg sticking straight out of the pavement with a boot in the air. It’s embedded into the asphalt; as if the helmet and boot at the last blockade weren’t enough. I nudge it with my toe and it stays in place. The pant legs have fallen down slightly and it looks like I can see the healthy pink skin of a shin underneath.

Nope. Just nope. There’s no way I’m checking that out , I think. I’m not sure my psyche can handle it .

The sun winding its way across the sky into early afternoon, and the fact that I don’t see anywhere that we can shelter when night falls, is reason enough to leave this place. The leg seals the deal.

Whatever forces are at work here which could cause that is beyond me. Perhaps they did something here that bent space and time. It could have been the same thing that yanked the three of us, along with our lovely zombies and night runners, into this place.

“What in the fuck happened here?” I mutter.

The odd thought arises of placing a baseball on the bottom of the boot and playing T-ball. Yes, my mind goes in strange directions at the oddest of times.

“You ray romething?” Trip says, squeezing bags of food into his mouth.

Trip is eating squished bags of spaghetti-like paste. I turn away, not wanting to see anymore. I’ve seen awful things in war but this is somehow a lot worse.

“Are you about ready?” I ask, checking my gear.

“One, maybe two more,” Trip answers.

“How many have you eaten, Trip?”

“Five or eight. Tough to say.”

“You may have eaten eight FTEs? Trip, that’s like thirty-two thousand calories. You’re going to be in a fucking food coma soon. We have to get on the move and see if we can catch Mi…Ponch.”

“Ponch is here?”

We leave the carnage and mystery leg behind, striking out on the open road. Although I don’t like being in the open, I like being in the confines of the snarled mass of cars and surrounded by the trees even less. There’s something liberating about no longer feeling constrained.

I would like to put some distance behind us, but all Trip can manage is something similar to a pregnant waddle after his record-breaking eating marathon. After a couple of miles, I take a few steps along the pavement before I realize that Trip has stopped. I’m feeling a little irritated at our pace. After all, night will be upon us at some point and I still don’t see anywhere that we could hole up in for the evening that would provide for a margin of safety.

Turning to see what the hell he is up to now, I ask, “Trip, what are you doing? We need to push on.”

“I need to make a food baby,” Trip answers.

“You need to fucking what?”

“Food baby. It’s gonna happen soon. I can feel the contractions! I’m going to need some hot water.”

“No…no…no! Oh, fuck no!” I say, watching Trip begin undoing his belt.

I do know the feeling, when you gotta go, you gotta go. But he brought this on himself. And, besides, feces are the one thing I could never really handle well. I did, but I didn’t like it one bit. I walk a few more steps and turn my back, giving him some privacy, and myself some as well.

“This is NOT happening. Lynn and my kids are God knows where, and I’m babysitting a stoned out hippie who hasn’t had a real thought since Jimmy Carter was in office,” I mutter.

Behind me, I could hear Trip grunting heavily. “Can you keep me steady, man? I’m going to fall over.”

“Fuck no!”

“Not cool, man,” Trip says, panting heavily. “Ooooh, it’s coming!”

There’s a fifty-fifty chance I end up with Mike or Trip and I get Trip. Fucking Mike must be a saint that he hasn’t left this one behind yet , I think, trying to ignore the sounds Trip is making.

“It’s twins!” Trip shouts.

“For fuck’s sake, Trip, just hurry up. You’re going to attract every night runner and zombie in the area.”

“You can’t rush the miracle of food-child birth,” Trip puffs.

There are a few moments of silence before Trip speaks again. “Good thing I saved those moist towelettes from the food packages. Hey, Flack, can you come over here. Their color isn’t right.”

“It’s Jack!” I declare, and, in a moment of not thinking, look back while replying.

On the pavement, there is impossibly colored offal lying in a huge pile.

“What’s the matter with you?” I ask, more than a little alarmed. “They’re mustard yellow. Are you sick?”

Trip sat down on his haunches, his face not more than a foot from his release. “Smells like feet and Phrito’s. Feetos!”

“Fuck me. You are one sick bastard and get stranger by the minute,” I say, turning to continue our journey down the road. “And we’re picking up the pace.”

My hope is to try and catch Mike by nightfall, assuming he is the one ahead of us. I open up my mind in an attempt to see if there are night runners about. Where they would hide from the sun in this open expanse is beyond me, but I check to see if there are any lairs in the area. I sense a few some distance behind us in the forest. We’re not out of danger at the moment. Although, having their company is almost preferable to Trip’s road-hazard nightmare.

I begin alternating jogging with quick-paced walking. We start making better time with Trip having lightened up a bit. However, I don’t think it will be enough to catch up. Mike is unencumbered — in more ways than one — and can make better time. But, Mike also has to realize that he needs to find a place for the night and may hole up if he finds one. That may give us a chance.

“It’s true what they say,” Trip states, looking a little morose.

We’d been walking for a little more than an hour, and Trip hadn’t said more than a handful of words, which was more than fine with me.

“I know I shouldn’t, but I’ll bite. What’s true, Trip?” I ask, cringing for what the answer might be.