Mark Tufo: Whistlers

Well, I guess from the title of my journal entry, you’ve figured out my name. I, at least, know that much, other than that, I’m at a loss. I was on my way back to Maine to stop a sociopath (Or is it psychopath? Probably both. I should have paid more attention in my sociology classes, but Betsy Hoegler, who sat two rows up and one over, was oh-so-pretty—wow, there’s a digression—focus, Talbot! That’s probably why you’re in this fucking predicament). Okay, let me try to make my thoughts cohesive.

My name is Michael Talbot (we’ve established that). I am heading back to my brother Ron’s house in Maine to head off Eliza, an evil bitch of a vampire who, for some unfathomable reason, has decided that my family and I should be wiped from the planet like a plague. (Does that make sense? It does in my head, and since I’m writing it, I guess that makes it okay.) I nearly met my end in a house I lit on fire, taking out some potentially misguided vengeance on some cats (the caretakers of the underworld). PETA would probably have my balls in a sling if they knew what I did, but if any of you were there, you’d know why I did it. I laid the whole thing out in my fifth journal, and I have no desire to revisit it; the wound is still too fresh.

While I was recuperating from my wounds, I came across one of the most unique individuals I have ever had the…what…pleasure? (not sure if that’s the right word)…of coming across. His name is John the Tripper, and NOT because he’s clumsy. He makes Timothy Leary seem like a daycare teacher.

We were evacuating his house when he thought it would be a good idea to dose on acid. Now, I’m a full decade (or close to it) from my last journey into the center of my mind, and he broke the cardinal rule: he slipped it to me without my knowledge or consent. Hey, I’m always up for a good time, but definitely not in the middle of a zombie apocalypse.

So there we are, I had just driven his 1970s VW van out of his garage, zombies had come up to the driver’s side window, and I’m laughing—I’m talking gut hurting, tears flowing, mouth stuck in a perpetual smile, laughing. Apparently, zombies are some seriously funny shit when you’re as high as a kite. Fortunately, somewhere inside of me, survival mode kicked in and I punched down on the gas pedal. I clipped a curb, and almost made one hell of a fiery exit from this world when I narrowly missed a propane truck that had the audacity to be parked on the side of the street I was barreling down.

I had swerved hard, maybe I smacked my head against the driver’s window, I don’t remember, but I could have, and then…I’m not sure. In a flash, John and I are on foot, the van is gone. I’m thankfully straight (and not so, thankfully, scared). We’re out of the town and on a desolate highway. Well…I guess if you define a highway jammed with the world’s largest exodus of cars as desolate, then that’s where we were.

Thankfully I had a gun—again, not sure where it came from—it was an old school AR. Nope…hold that. Holy shit! It was an old school M-16 A1, fully-fantastically-automatic. It even came with a mod package that I couldn’t have afforded if I didn’t have three kids. If this was a dream, it was of the wet variety. Too graphic? Sorry, as a gun enthusiast we always adore things that shoot rapidly. I’m talking guns, get your head out of the gutter.

I turned to John the Tripper, his first words to me, “Who are you?”

Wonderful , I thought.

“Mike Talbot,” I told him. “Remember? You helped me in your living room?” I could see random thoughts swinging around on the vines his brain used as synapses.

“That’s a nice poncho,” he told me.

Quick back fill: I had pretty much destroyed all my clothing in the fire, and John had seen fit to give me some of his, which included a poncho that a Mexican with a sense of humor must have made specifically for some gringo tourist. Probably laughed his ass off the day he sold that thing. I also had some size thirteen-ish boat shoes that were presumably from John’s wife that I’m assuming was either from a lost Amazonian tribe or male. Either way was fine with me. Luckily, it didn’t appear that anyone living was here to judge me. A six year old with reasonable fashion sense would have known not to wear the ensemble I had on.

So that really brought us back to reality, or at least this skewed version of it. Something had happened, and I had to assume it was zombies. What else did I have to go on? There were empty cars everywhere, and a city behind us was burning. These folks had left in a hurry, but to what end? Where were they?

“John, stay close.”

I would have liked to split up a little and check some of the cars for supplies. I had my blessed rifle, three full magazines, and nothing else. We needed water, and I’d take a little food, too, as long as it wasn’t a cherry Pop-Tart. But John on his own was a scary thought, although, if I really stopped to ponder, he had fared way better than me since this whole shit-fest began.

“Look what I’ve got!” John exclaimed, pulling a slingshot out of his pocket. “What the hell is it?” He handed it to me.

“It’s a slingshot,” I said, handing it back. There was not a hint of recognition on his features. “Look in your other pocket.” I didn’t know the rules to this new place, but I was willing to bet he had some projectiles there. He pulled out a clear bag of steel ball bearings.

“Marbles!” he exclaimed happily.

“Sort of…can I see them?” He handed them over. I held my hand out for the slingshot. After a moment of realizing what I was asking for, he handed that over as well. I put a ball bearing in the leather pouch, pulled back, aimed valiantly, and missed wildly.

“Whoa! That thing shoots?” he asked, grabbing them back. He put a ball in, stretched the damn thing as far back as it would go, and then looked over at me.

I was like, “John, you need to aim.” My words were immediately followed by the shattering of a driver’s side rearview mirror about twenty yards away.

“Did I get it?” he asked, never taking his eyes from mine.

“Umm…that depends on what you were aiming for.”

“There was a mirror on the red car.”

“You’re kidding right?” I looked back to the shattered mirror on the red sedan.

“It’s only bad luck to break a mirror if you’re looking at it,” he told me as if he had just looked it up on Wikipedia or made it up on the spot. Tough to say with John.

The noise was extremely loud in a world devoid of human sound; and, now that I thought about it, all sound. There wasn’t so much as a bird chirping or a cricket cricketing. Never a good sign, animals always know when the shit is about to hit the fan.

“We’ve gotta go.”

“Funky people?” John asked, looking around. That was his take on zombies. As accurate a description as any, I suppose.

“Not sure, buddy, but it got awfully quiet.”

“Who’s buddy?” he asked as he placed his ammo and slingshot away.

I stepped onto the hood of a car and then the roof. The nearest cover I saw was a burning city a good five miles away. Other than that, there were about a billion trees, and since I wasn’t a botanist, I couldn’t even identify what part of the country, or which country, I was even in, but considering that the vast majority of cars looked familiar, I figured we were still in the good old US of A.