Mark Tufo - Whistlers

“Well, there are plenty who wouldn’t have. You could have just sat up in the girders and never been seen. Then you could have climbed down after they left, my body being towed behind one of the bikes, skipping along the pavement. No one would ever have known.”

“I would have. The guilt would have killed me. Besides, who would buy me that first beer?” Mike responds.

“Thank goodness for beer, then.”

“Amen, brother.”

“Look, I made myself a promise that I’d share everything with you should I live through this last fight,” I start.

Mike’s expression is priceless. I guess he’s been with Trip too long for a statement like that to be remotely comfortable.

“Wipe the look of horror off your face. I’m not going to share everything. I’m not Trip. You won’t hear about the masterpiece of my last bowel movement. Although, I have to say, what he did back there on the road can’t even remotely be classified as human,” I state, the horror of what I saw coming fresh to my mind.

I shake my head of the image as Mike chuckles.

“He’s something else,” Mike says, turning to look back at Trip, who is currently sitting on one of the girders smoking a joint.

“What I mean is, if I don’t make it out of here, and you are somehow afforded the opportunity to tell my kids and Lynn what happened here, then you’re going to need something that will prove you were with me. Plus, there are some things you should know. I haven’t been entirely forthcoming.”

“Dude, are we going steady?”

“No, and you can quit puckering up. I’m not going to kiss you either.”

“I don’t know, man. It sounds like you’re about ready to ask me out on a date.”

“You have Trip, and he seems be the jealous type.”

“Well, you couldn’t afford me anyway.”

“That, I’m pretty sure of.”

I proceed to tell Mike of my being scratched, the subsequent coma, and how I came out on the other end. I mention how I can hear better; although how Trip heard the bikers before me still has me amazed. I let him know about my night vision and how I can see better in the dark than if I were wearing night vision goggles.

“And here’s the doozy, I can sense and talk with night runners,” I say, wondering about his reaction to that.

“Wait, you can talk with them? Like, they can still speak?” he asks.

“No, not quite like you would think. They communicate telepathically through the use of imagery. Like…well…picture messages. I can understand that to an extent, and even send them messages,” I answer.

“That’s…well…I don’t know what to say, other than, if they can communicate telepathically, that’s kind of fucked up. I guess that explains how they were able to coordinate their attacks. Why don’t you tell them to just back off, then?”

“I’ve tried. They don’t seem to like me much and won’t listen. It confuses them, but just for a moment. Then it’s all, like, dinnertime again.”

“So, you can tell where they are at all times?”

“Pretty much. It depends. For some reason, I have a hard time while airborne. And, in the area where we’re based at, it’s kind of sporadic,” I explain. “The problem is, they can sense me as well. So, it’s not quite the advantage it seems. I’ve learned to shut it down and do so for the most part. They really don’t have much to share other than what prey they’re after. Oh yeah, there’s also the chance that I may be a little stronger and perhaps a touch faster, although I’ve yet to experiment around with those and don’t feel any different.”

“It seems you could use that communication thing to your advantage somehow,” Mike comments, pondering.

“Maybe. If there is, I haven’t figured it out,” I say. “Besides, I haven’t had these abilities that long and haven’t worked with it much. The ability to see in the dark seems to be the most helpful. And the hearing thing, that’s kind of a break even deal. That fucking noise those assholes put out just about drove me into the ground,” I state.

“That was messed up, man.”

“I’m also going to also have to alter what my idea of thirty yards looks like,” I say, smiling.

Mike chuckles. “I would say that bike was exactly twenty-nine yards away. I think the rocket pushed it a yard, and then, when it fell over, that made it thirty.”

“Luckily, or we’d be having this conversation floating on a cloud and holding harps,” I comment.

“I seriously doubt I’ll be going there,” Mike says, his face clouding over.

“Well, with some of the things I’ve done in life, I’m not sure I have a ticket either.”

“So, what do you think happened here?” Mike says.

“I don’t have a clue. I’m thinking some space-time experiment that didn’t go as well as they planned. Other than that, I couldn’t hazard a guess,” I answer.

“What the fuck was up with that leg? I kicked it, but the fucker didn’t move.” Mike shakes his head.

“Fucking oddest thing I’ve ever come across. Did it seem fused into the road to you?”

“It seemed like the road was growing a leg, it was that embedded. I almost felt like watering it,” Mike says.

“Did you see the actual leg part?”

“No, did you actually touch it? I couldn’t bring myself to.”

“No way. Who knows what would have happened? The pant leg was down a little bit. Just enough to see part of the shin…although it was hidden in shadow. Man, I tell you, the skin seemed healthy,” I reply.

“You mean, like…”

“Yeah, like healthy. It was pinkish like it was still…well…fuck…living. It wasn’t the gray of someone who died.”

“Whoa! I’ll just pretend I didn’t hear that.”

“I think I’ll do the same…pretend I didn’t see it.”

We fall into silence, each of us fading into our own thoughts.

After a few moments of sitting in silence, we both know that we should to be moving on. The day wasn’t getting any younger, and we still hadn’t found a place to hole up when night came around. Without a word, we both rose and walked down to the road.

“What are these fucking things?” I could barely look at them to formulate the question.

“I’m not sure, but I can’t help believing that they’re the reason this place is screwed up.”

Jack was kneeling by the one I was looking at. He had pulled off a glove and its jacket. Skinny wasn’t even the word that I would have used to describe the thing I was looking at. Its forearm wasn’t much more than two of my fingers wide. I knew immediately what Jack had been looking for; we were both looking at the weapon strapped to its arm. It appeared that the triggering mechanism was activated when the wrist bent upwards. Kind of like Spider-Man. There was a black box about the size and shape of a pack of cigarettes attached right below its wrist. Protruding from one end, and running up the length of its arm, was a piece of what looked like aluminum shaped exactly like the staple that had been yanked from my back.

“Is that a rail gun?” I asked him.

He surprised me when he picked up the whistler’s arm. Personally I wouldn’t have touched it. He aimed it to the far side of the bridge and then moved its wrist. We could hear the whine of the ricochet as the round struck concrete.

“I have got to have me one of those!” Trip was heading towards another whistler.

It took twenty minutes of cajoling and promising that we would get him one once we could eventually figure out a safer way to use them.

“You’ll send shots down range every time you make a toking action.” He seemed alright with that explanation.

There were four motorcycles that were still serviceable. I had not ridden anything with two wheels since I was twelve and rode my friend’s mini-bike — which I had blown the engine of not a half mile into my tour. I had two options. Ride double-bitch (Trip did not know how to ride) or take a crash course, I hope the ‘crash’ part was just a saying. I put it on the ground a couple of times until I felt more comfortable.