Whistlers

Jack Walker — The Smell of Twinkies

Shrieks from the fight fade as Trip and I push farther into the forest, away from the battle. Screams still occasionally echo faintly behind, but the trees block most of the sound so that it’s just an indistinct noise in the woods. The beam from Trip’s flashlight wavers across the ground as we try to extend the distance from the night runners and speeders. The dense boughs overheard prevent any star or moonlight from filtering through, making the area beyond the splash of light a blanket of darkness.

The world under the trees is cast in varying shades of gray for me, but I’m sure Trip would be living up to his name if it weren’t for the flashlight. Leaving the screams behind, hopefully for good, we slow to a walk in order to regain our wind. Trip’s heaving breaths tell me that he’s almost reached the end of his rope. He was close to it before we made this last sprint and I’m surprised he hasn’t just collapse to the ground.

Walking between the wide tree trunks, I lead along a path as straight as I can…or at least I imagine that it’s a straight one. Within the densely-packed trees, without the sun, moon, or stars to guide us, even I’m not exactly sure of our direction. I’m hoping that we don’t end up circling around and come upon the fighting or roving packs. That would be pretty fucked up.

I check the compass in an attempt to keep a fairly consistent course but it swings in large arcs each time I look at it. Something within the woods is messing with its ability to point toward whatever magnetic pole serves this world. The symbols would serve to keep a consistent direction if the needle would just hold still. As it is, we could be zig-zagging our way under the trees and not actually putting any distance between the fight and us. Eventually, the groups will finish their fight, with one either losing or fleeing. They will then spread out and resume their search. I don’t plan on being around when that happens. With that in mind, Trip and I alternate walking with jogging.

“You know, I’m not really sure that hiking is supposed to include running. You’re not really fun to hike with,” Trip says, as I ask him to jog again. “I bet Mike wouldn’t be running through the trees at night.”

“I think we can make the ride if we hurry,” I reply.

“I thought you said they beat us to it.”

“Well, there’s another one I know of that they might not,” I state.

“Why didn’t you say so to begin with?” Trip runs past me, his light splaying in large arcs on the ground and the trunks of trees.

“Whoa, slow down, bud. We have to pace ourselves or we won’t make it at all,” I comment.

With that, Trip slows and we resume a casual trot. Tree after tree moves past as we resume our trek. The screams faded to nothing a little while ago and it’s completely silent under the dark limbs; the only sounds are our feet hitting the soft ground cover and our exhalations.

Trip’s light behind casts my body in long shadows that merge with the darkness ahead. The wavering light and our movements make the shadows seem spectral. The beam pauses momentarily before resuming its arcing motions. A very distinct aroma drifts from behind. Turning, I see a flare of orange from near Trip’s face as he inhales from a joint he managed to extricate from somewhere. I’m about to say something when I think that perhaps that may be the best way to deal with this world.

“Want a toke?” he asks, extending the joint toward me.

“No thanks, but I appreciate the offer.”

He shrugs and takes another puff.

“I wish I had some of those Phrito’s,” he comments, not really talking to anyone in particular.

We plod onward. I pause every so often to listen ahead. With the denseness of the woods, we may not get much warning before running into something. There isn’t a breeze, so our scent shouldn’t carry too far, but that will also create a very definite trail for those behind if they pursue. The sounds from the fight should have garnered the attention of all those around, but we left that some time ago, and there’s no telling what may be in our area of the woods.

Slowly, a small amount of light begins to penetrate the dark forest. It’s not much, but it’s enough to know that daylight is approaching, or has already come. The trees don’t show much, if any, of the sky above, and it’s still quite dark underneath. Even though daytime may be upon us, it is still dark enough that night runners could still operate in the woods during the early and late hours of the day.

In my experience, they make for their lairs as soon as there is a hint of light. I’m not sure if that’s the case here or not, and I don’t want to assume anything. I haven’t heard anything further since we left the scene of the fight, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t out here. It’s imperative that we exit the trees. And we need to reach the road.

The light improves and I pause to try and get a sense of direction. Trip is stumbling more often as we’ve been up and on the run all night. Plus, we didn’t get any rest during the day. I’m flagging as well, having had little sleep since arriving in this fucked up place.

It’s not easy to figure out directions as I’m unable to see the sky to determine in which direction the sun is coming up. The compass still swings in wide arcs, making it more or less a paperweight. Unless the trees are made of iron, I’m not sure what is causing the interference. It’s just another aspect of this place that I can’t explain.

Having hopefully traveled in a semi-straight line during the night, I get the feeling that the highway is off to our left. That’s provided it hasn’t turned off in some random direction. There aren’t any defining landmarks and, at this point, we could travel through the trees for all of eternity and not find a way out. Looking between the trunks, I half expect to see a gingerbread house.

None of this seems to matter to Trip. He plops down by the nearest tree and pulls yet another joint out of nowhere. It’s little more than a gloom where we’ve halted and I’m not sure if it’s enough to keep the night runners in their lairs. There is, however, still a danger from the speeders. I’ve adopted Mike’s name for them in order to better differentiate between them and the night runners.

The smell from Trip’s personal little party drifts on the still air. I would be concerned over the odor if it weren’t for us reeking even worse. I haven’t changed since arriving and I’m surprised the trees aren’t picking up their roots and fleeing in outright disgust. I take out some of the bottled water that remains and watch Trip down most of it. I reach out to put a hand on the container and push it down. If I hadn’t, I think he would have actually drowned himself. He gasps as the top clears his mouth. Checking to make sure he hasn’t drooled all over, I down the rest of the little remaining, stowing the bottle. While I pack it, Trip rises and begins walking in the direction that I feel the highway is.

“Trip, where are ya going?” I ask.

“I smell Twinkies and I want one,” he answers.

“What the fuck? You smell Twinkies?” I ask, wondering if this is really happening and, if so, then how in the hell it is.

“Yeah, you can’t? Come on, they’re this way,” he states.

With a shrug, I follow. One direction is as good as another, and it’s the one I would have chosen anyway. His oddness seems to be one of those where things just work out. I don’t know, perhaps he can truly smell Twinkies. He seems to have an uncanny knack for doing the impossible, even if it does fuck things up at times.

My senses are dulled from the lack of sleep. There’s nothing I’d like more than to lie on the forest floor and get some rest. It looks so inviting. My head feels like it’s filled with cotton, but I try to stay alert for any sound or movement. Trip plunges ahead, stumbling over the occasional root rising out of the forest floor. He’s on a mission and making a beeline for whatever it is that he identifies. Now, I have a good sense of smell, especially since the changes came over me, but I’ll be damned if I can catch a whiff of whatever he claims to detect.

As we march through the forest, I start to catch an occasional movement of things scurrying in the branches overhead. The lighting improves as the sun rises higher and there is a periodic chirping of alarm from small animals.

I start to worry about our direction when I notice lighter patches ahead and blue sky appearing through the trees. It looks like we are coming to the edge of the tree line. It could be the highway or just a clearing.

“Trip, slow up,” I say, catching up to him. “We don’t know what’s ahead.”

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.

“If you say so. I still like it here better.”

Without another word, we make our way outside. The sun is almost directly overhead and the tangle of cars stretches beyond our line of sight. I cram a few food items that hadn’t spoiled into my pack. As Trip chews down some of his food, I notice that he found another shirt from somewhere. I don’t bother asking. After downing a water bottle between us, we set out.

Maneuvering through the vehicles is more difficult as they are parked every which way without clear lanes between them. We clamber over and around the stalled cars, slowly making our way along the highway. I keep an eye out for anything that might serve as a safe haven for us, but there’s nothing more than a lengthy line of traffic with trees marching along the sides. The couple of hours rest we gathered wears off, and it’s with a numb mind and body that we traipse forward. I would like to find someplace soon that would allow us to get some true rest before the sun sinks below the horizon.

I only notice a few bodies scattered here and there, some in the vehicles, with others on the little pavement that shows. They all show signs of being mauled and are in a state of decay. Not like the zombies or speeders, but they have obviously dead for some time. As we progress, the remains become more numerous.

Trudging is the best way to describe our progress. With our lack of sleep, I’m surprised we haven’t collapsed, but there’s always one more car to climb. Scaling one vehicle, I notice a starred windshield under a covering of grime. Wiping some of the dirt away, it looks suspiciously like a strike from a bullet. It could have been from anything, even a thrown rock or maybe it occurred before the car’s arrival, but a bullet is what immediately comes to mind.

More alert, I scramble over the next vehicle and there are more starred windshields and a few broken out windows. I tell Trip, who has been mostly silent during our trek, and hasn’t lit up another of his seemingly endless supply of joints, to stay put. He sits on the hood of one car and collapses against the windshield. Climbing to the roof of the car, I look in the direction we’ve been traveling. I’m not feeling great about exposing myself like this but, with what appears to have been gunplay, I need to get a better picture of what we’re venturing into.

From my higher vantage point, I see several military-style vehicles ahead that are surrounded by the mass of cars. Pulling out my binoculars, I scope out the scene. In the magnified view, I note that the vehicles closer to the military unit in the middle are riddled with bullet holes. Bodies are draped over and lying around the vehicles. Many of the cars are missing windshields along with their side and rear windows. Past the concentration of military vehicles that look a lot like Humvees, with subtle differences, the log jam continues.

It looks very much like whatever served as the military here attempted a blockade to stem the flow of cars out of the city miles behind. The panicked people attempted to run through the blockade and the soldiers opened up. From the sight of the vehicles stretching past the barricade, it is apparent that the flow of people was too much for the soldiers to contain. They people managed to overrun them, but not before suffering more than a few casualties.

I continue to scan the area, but there’s nothing moving. Gathering Trip, we move through the wreckage. Bullet-ridden cars line the area in front of the military ones with bodies lying everywhere. The forms have been dead long enough that there’s only a faint, lingering smell of death. Some are decayed, but many have been torn apart and eaten — a sure sign that night runners are around. All of them have indications of injuries from bullets — bones shattered from the forceful impacts and more than a few with shattered craniums.

The thing I notice as we maneuver through the wreckage of vehicles and bodies is that none of the figures lying in cars, across hoods, or on the ground, have uniforms on. Perhaps the soldiers withdrew when they found they couldn’t stem the tide and saw the futility of their actions. Although, why they didn’t drive away is anyone’s guess. At first, Trip stares at the bodies, shaking his head. He then purposely looks away, maintaining silence as we continue past the blockade. It may be that he, like me, is too tired for conversation.

I keep expecting to run into Mike as we make our way along the highway and wonder what happened to him. He seemed, or seems, like a good man, and I hope that nothing bad happened to him…that he was able to make good his escape from the tower.

A short time later, we are confronted by the burnt out remains of vehicles. The traffic jam turns into burnt hulks as if a line was drawn. Inside of the cars, bones lie scattered. And then, the wreckage of cars just ends. That’s it — a snarled mess of cars, then burnt ones, and then it ends. A hundred yards away from where the traffic jam terminates, there’s another barricade of military vehicles. These are different from the other ones we passed in that they are a combination of the Humvee-style vehicles and armored ones.

Scanning the blockade, I don’t see any signs of the soldiers that once manned the position. The windshields are covered in the same grime as the miles of cars we’ve passed. It becomes apparent that this line stemmed the tide of people pouring out of the city.

But then what? Did they abandon their positions afterward? Where did they go?

The trees that have lined the road since the beginning begin to widen out, and then, they too, end. Beyond the barricade, the highway remains clear and begins a descent to a plain with fields of tall grass stretching to either side. In the far distance, across the wide plain, there is a barely visible, purplish line of mountains.

Trip and I carefully walk past the last of the cars to the military vehicles. At the first one we come to, Trip steps up and opens the door. Reaching under the seat, he pulls out yet another wrapped Spongie.

“I thought I smelled another one,” he says, opening the wrapper.

Shaking my head, I walk around and through the blockade, checking the vehicles for any signs of life…or death, whichever. There is no indication of what happened to the soldiers. Just behind the barricade, I see a helmet stuck in the pavement. Looking closer, I find no indication that it was hammered into it or forced into the road. It really looks like it just grew out of the asphalt.

Turning to see what trouble Trip might be stirring up, or really, more interested to see what he’ll come up with next, I notice a boot sticking out of the tread of one of the vehicles. Shaking my head to clear my mind, I look again. Sure enough, there is the bottom part of a boot growing out of the tire.

What in the serious fuck!? I think, giving the boot a tug. It remains firmly embedded.

Unsure of what is going on, as if this place couldn’t get more weird, I cautiously make my way to the far side of the blockade. A blue road sign, partially covered in soot, sits beside one of the last vehicles. On it reads:

Atlantis 25 miles

Of course there would be a town with that name.

Looking off to one side, along the tree line where they halt abruptly and give way to plains below, I see a thin, dark ribbon that may indicate another highway emerging from the forest. I haven’t found any sign of Mike and, given that he fled the water tower ahead of us, I should have. Assuming he lived through the night, that is. The road isn’t that far away, perhaps a little over a mile away.

“Hey, Trip,” I call out, finally locating him.

He turns, his cheeks full from yet another Spongie that he found. White cream is smeared across his upper lip and yellow cake crumbles fall from his lips as he chews.

“Whas uh?” he mumbles, more cake falling out.

“There’s another road off to the side we should check out.”

“Wha? I’s lie ih her,” he states, well, I think he does.

His mouth is so crammed full that I can’t tell what he’s saying. It’s not like I can really understand him any other time, though. So, we’re kind of about even with our communication.

“There might be more Twinkies hidden over there,” I reply.

Without another word, he starts marching in the direction I indicated. I pause only a moment to write a quick note and leave it weighted, but plainly visible should Mike happen down our path.