Mark Tufo - Whistlers

“Cops?” He looked around.

“Sometimes, Trip, I don’t know if I wish I viewed the world like you or not,” I told him.

“You should put something on that so it doesn’t get infected.” Trip pulled out a small first aid kit. I didn’t even question the fact that he had one.

Jack did some field dressing and proclaimed me fit for duty. I stood gingerly. My back ached, but I hadn’t suffered any lasting damage.

I finish with bandaging Mike’s wounds and make sure that he’ll live to see another day. Well, he wasn’t hit that hard, so perhaps that’s a bit of an over-exaggeration. Of course, I can say that. I wasn’t the one hit with a king-sized staple. But, I’m making it sound like I brought him back from the dead. There are enough of those around without my adding to it. He stands with some groaning, which I can surely relate to.

The fight and events over the last days have taken their toll on me. I can feel the post-adrenaline sensation settling in, and along with it, an incredible tiredness. My face, neck, shoulders, and forearms are stinging from the blast and accompanying debris. The grass nearby looks inviting. Perhaps the whistlers — as Mike started calling them — had the best idea. I can certainly use a nap. I rise and seat myself on the turf, relishing the feel of sitting on the soft ground.

Refilling my empty and partially empty mag with rounds I found at the blockades, I look down to the wreckage. Tendrils of smoke still rise from the heaps of scrap metal that were once motorcycles. A few to the sides appear relatively unharmed and look like they can be ridden. That will be a help. I can’t help but wonder where the group of monsters was able to get so many bikes. I didn’t check every vehicle along the way, but those I did wouldn’t even turn over.

Perhaps they always had them , I think, feeling the coolness of a soft breeze flow past.

That brings far too many other questions to mind. Were these creatures, these whistlers, were they always around? Did they start this mess or come afterwards? Were they a by-product of a disaster like the night runners were?

Staring at the bodies of the whistlers, some lying in the open road in the sunlight, some lying in the shade of the bridge, I’m amazed that we came through it relatively unscathed. They were fast and strong, and whatever they were shooting isn’t anything I’d like to feel the full force of. I’ll have to search them before we leave and see what that’s about. Right now, I don’t have the energy to move. Looking up at the afternoon sun, I know we’ll have to move out shortly, but right now, I’m good.

It’s not the night runners that I’m overly worried about. The packs that I felt are miles away and back in the woods, and I haven’t seen a thing that even remotely looks like it would serve as a lair out here on the plains. Sure, there’s some town named Atlantis about twenty more miles up the road, but night runners don’t travel that far in a night. The zombies…yes. Those are always a worry. These whistlers now, they seem the greater threat. I know I shouldn’t be lazing around near the scene of a battle, and we’ll move on shortly, but I need a moment to collect my thoughts and rest. Who the fuck knows what we’ll find up the road? I’ve pretty much found my limit of learning new things for the day.

I think on my newfound comrades, Mike and Trip. The world is a very strange place. Well, this one specifically, but I mean in general. Both Mike and I aren’t really the trusting types, yet here we are, doing just that. Our recent encounter dispelled any remaining doubts I might have harbored, and I actually feel closer to him than some of those I have known for years. We’d probably be sitting around a bonfire, having drinks and sharing lies if we lived in the same world. Well, not either of our worlds as they exist today, if they still do.

I wonder how that works? Is time the same for us all? Is time passing in the world I come from…in the world Mike and Trip are from? Is it even the same time? Have I been born yet, or have I already died in my world?

Fucking random thoughts. I’m tired and my mind is wandering. I wonder if we would have even met. For some reason, if we lived in the same world, I don’t doubt that we would have crossed paths.

Mike didn’t have to climb down off the beams in order to help. He could have stayed up there, remained unseen while I was discovered, and carried on afterward. What did he owe me after all? I would just have been another stranger whose path he crossed, and I came out on a losing end. He could have pushed on afterward and no one would have been the wiser. Yeah, he’s one of the good guys. And in this world…well…any world, that’s rare.

And Trip, wow, he is still something else. I haven’t figured him out, like anyone could. I don’t know where my trust lies with him. He’s just as apt to take off, or shout something at the wrong moment. He hasn’t yet, but he definitely possesses the ability. Of course, his uncanny abilities have saved us as well…and me personally. A shot in the dark, so to speak. I still can’t fathom him shooting the zombie in the head in the complete dark as if he were standing in a lit room. And his shooting, expecting me to duck…perhaps knowing that I would.

What if I hadn’t? Did he know with a certainty that I would? If so, how did he know? Was his surety so complete that he actually caused me to duck?

And again, here. I have exceptional hearing and I didn’t hear the motorcycles coming until after he mentioned something. The tower thing, I’m calling that a wash. We came out of it alive, but had to ride a falling water tower in order to do so. Yeah, that’s a wash in my book.

And this place. I mean, fuck! A motorcycle gang from outer space. No, I don’t think they actually are, but it sounds kind of cool. Their weapons, though? I didn’t see anything like those in the wreckage of cars, or near the roadblocks where gunfire was exchanged. Everything I found, both there and in the automobiles, was something I knew. And I can’t even begin to explain their features. The two-toned skin, their double-jointed nature, their…shit, I don’t want to go any farther. They die, that’s what really counts.

I hear footsteps behind me. Mike takes a seat on the grass next to me where we sit in silence. He is still carrying the broken M-16.

We’re going to have to find something else for him , I think, staring for a moment at the broken pieces.

Another breeze floats by. If it weren’t for the stench of the dead below, it would be a rather nice day. I can picture sitting on my back deck, having a beer or glass of wine, doing nothing but staring off into the trees and letting my mind wander to wherever it wants to go. Kind of like it is now.

“How’s your shoulder?” I ask, breaking the silence.

“Sore as shit,” he answers, rolling his arm and wincing.

“You don’t feel like there’s poison coursing through your system and about to turn you into one of those, do you?”

“You’re funny as shit, Jack.”

“Not many people think so,” I reply.

“Do you know what would go down real well and be perfect? A beer. I could really use one about now,” Mike states, his face taking on a dreamy expression.

“You’re not shitting. And why settle for just one,” I comment.

“Now you’re talking. I wonder if this town of Atlantis has any stores,” he muses.

“I don’t know, but if they do, the first one is on me.”

“You have yourself a deal.”

“Thanks for helping, yet again,” I say.

He pauses, looking sideways at me with an expression I can’t read very well. “Why wouldn’t I?’