Whistlers

Jack Walker — Prime Real Estate

I’m half a step from following Mike and Trip up the embankment when I glance over at the riders. They are coming down the road, and coming fast. Mike is looking down at me, and I wave him off. My options at this point are extremely limited. I hope that the bikers just drive on through, but my gut tells me that it isn’t going to be that easy.

Glancing from Mike to rapidly approaching motorcycles, I wonder if Mike will help if I’m discovered. Do I really even want him to? We’re grossly outnumbered, and the only thing we have going for us is that I didn’t see them carrying any weapons. Again, that doesn’t mean that they don’t have any, only that I didn’t see them. If I am to die in this God-forsaken place, I want Mike to survive in the off chance that he could somehow get a message to Lynn and the kids. At the very least, that would give them some closure. How he would do that is beyond me, but then again, so many things are. And having spent days in this world, I’ve come to realize that anything is possible. If I do manage to make it through these next few moments, I’m going to make sure that I trade more information with him in the unlikely event that he can let them know.

I angle around the stanchion to try and stay out of sight as they draw nearer.

Keep moving, you bastards, I think. The ground trembles from the sound of their approach.

As much as I would like to keep them in sight, I don’t dare show any of myself. However, if I do get discovered, the leader is going to be the first to go down. That’s always a risky move as it could either throw them into disarray or spur them on. It’s been my experience, however, that it will cause a measure of fear in the ones following. After all, they’re the leader for a reason.

The thunder of their approach is damn near deafening, especially with my hearing. I’ve learned to tune that down to an extent, but there is only so much you can do about a volume of noise such as they are creating. The sound of advance changes. Even without seeing them, I know they are slowing down. This is the absolute worst thing that could be happening.

Fuck you, world, I think. I hate this miserable, rat-infested cesspool.

Sure enough, they come to a stop not more than twenty feet from where I’m standing, their bikes idling in the underpass, echoing off its concrete and metallic structure. Then, all goes quiet as they shut down their bikes, leaving only the faint whisper of wind above as it blows through the bridge’s superstructure.

Did they spot us? If so, they don’t seem overly cautious with their approach.

It could just be a coincidence. After all, it is a shady place to rest. I wait to see what transpires, hoping to hell that Mike can keep Trip under control. It would be just like him to yell “hi” from his overhead perch.

Holding my M-4, my finger resting on the trigger guard, stroking the selector switch with my thumb, I risk a peek. The leader quickly comes into view. He’s pulls off his mask and my finger tightens at what is revealed. I’ve been dealing with night runners for seemingly ever, and even zombies for the past few days. Dealing with those aberrations couldn’t prepare me for what I’m seeing; and I think it would be preferable to dealing with either or both of them. At least I knew them.

He has the skin the color of copier paper, with huge folds of skin from his head to partway down his face. It almost completely covers where his eyes should be. The thing’s nose is pushed flat against his face, leaving only a small opening in the center. The ears are non-existent, the skin pulled tight where they should have been, leaving nothing to indicate it ever had them.

As if that isn’t enough, below those changes, the skin turns from an alabaster white to a charcoal black. Looking at him, I think shooting him would be the most humane thing I ever did.

Is this creature this world’s equivalent of the night runners or zombies? Did something happen across all worlds to create creatures of their own?

Pulling back out of sight, with my pulse racing and my heart pounding, I take a deep breath to ward off the panic threatening to rise up. Here is yet another creature, and I sincerely doubt they’d want to buy the first round, or any round thereafter; unless it was as a toast over my dead body. I’m not overly enthusiastic about the thought of meeting my end only to be strapped to the ass end of a bike and pulled down the highway. Of course, I guess I wouldn’t care a whole lot — I’d be dead — but the thought of it sickens my stomach.

If the things on the other side of the pillar were once human, they certainly aren’t anymore. The disjointed way they move argues against their ever being human.

Shit, I bet they’re faster than a snake as well. That would just be par for the course.

I sneak another look. As if things couldn’t become more surreal, the thing’s black maw of a mouth opens, revealing rows of tiny, yellow, serrated teeth. It picks up the zombie Mike had killed with ease. That lets me know that, even though the creature looks sickly, that isn’t necessarily the case. It has strength. The zombie must weigh somewhere in the neighborhood of a hundred pounds, but he picks her up like she was some kid’s discarded toy.

Great! They’re strong, too. This just gets better and better.

I should probably have guessed what was going to happen, but I wasn’t prepared for it. The leader’s mouth opens even wider, like a snake unhinging its jaw. It brings the dead creature closer, covers half of the zombie’s face with its mouth, and rips the flesh and muscle off. The sight and sound of the flesh being torn off is enough to almost empty my, what was it, oh yeah, ‘Food Trip Enjoys’ onto the ground.

Fuck me! Did they drag those torsos as a form of tenderizing the meat?

I’m pressing hard on the trigger guard with enough force to damn near bend it. The leader is eating this zombie’s face as if he might be eating a lollipop. I mean, aside from all of the weird shit going on just a few feet from me, who in the hell eats zombies? I mean, fuck! Really!? I swear that if Mike hadn’t carted off the RPG, I would use it and take my chances.

Of course, they’re probably shrapnel-proof.

The rest of the things begin clamoring for position as they tear into the zombie. Some of the others retrieve the carcasses they had been dragging behind. Watching them tear into the bodies, it isn’t hard thinking they are some kind of land shark that has been whipped into a feeding frenzy. Several times, one of the creatures is shoved or punched away from what they must consider a succulent portion. The snarling and sick sound of flesh being stripped from bone is almost too much to bear. But, I have to endure it. I mean, it’s not like I really have a choice.

I still haven’t seen any weapons, which is a good thing. These things already know how to operate machinery, or at least a motorcycle. That means they have coordination. Those teeth and their apparent strength mean close quarters is a no-go. Feeling the weight of my M-4 is a comfort. I still have the advantage of range. Of course, I still don’t know how they would react to a bullet tearing into them. The night runners go down easily enough, and the zombies do with a head shot.

What will it take to put one of these things down? I have no clue.

Two of the things start fighting over a zombie calf. I watch as this will be a learning lesson; giving me a clue of how they fight, their strengths and weaknesses. Ribbons of muscle hang down from a larger creature, his slightly smaller adversary just recovering from a punch that sent him sprawling to the pavement. The rest of the group isn’t paying any attention to the brawl happening just a few feet away.

The larger one suddenly folds over as if it had been punched in the stomach. The smaller one, upon rising, hadn’t moved a muscle. An impossibly darker stain forms and runs down the front of the larger one’s jacket.

Blood? Is it bleeding?

I quickly glance at the others, expecting to see one of them holding a weapon. They are continuing to feast on the corpses, growling and tearing flesh. I hadn’t heard a thing and, slowly moving my head so I don’t attract attention from a sudden movement, begin searching the bridge and surrounding area. There isn’t a sign of anyone around or a tell-tale wisp of smoke that would indicate a weapon had been fired.

Looking back to the two brawlers, I see the smaller one’s hand is upraised. I don’t see it holding anything, yet it must have shot. I don’t have the slightest clue how. The larger one collapses to the ground after being struck in the head with some kind of projectile.

Is it possible these things have the ability to produce a projectile like that? That’s some scary shit if they can.

The smaller one steps over the fallen one, pulls the calf from its chattering teeth, and begins eating. Twenty minutes later, having finished with the food they brought with them, they turn and begin tearing into the remains of their traveling companion. That’s worse than the night runners or zombies, neither of which eats their own. My only hope at this point is that lunch is over and they’ll continue on their way. Nope.

Of course not, I think, watching them move about to find spots to settle into. Is it nap time?

Looking around at the sparse cover, my position looks to be one of the more prime locations for a nap.

Dammit! I think, not relishing the idea of going into a fight without having a clue about my adversary.

I had to learn about night runners the hard way, the different kinds of zombies as well. I’m just not in the learning mood at the moment.