Whistlers

Michael Talbot — Journal Entry 10

“Fuck.”

They wouldn’t leave, and the sounds of their wet eating were enough to make me want to shoot them. I dared a small look over the edge and saw one of the monsters on the ground. It was dead; the hole in the top of its skull was all the indication I needed to as confirmation. Lucy was gone. All of her clothes, bones, teeth, jewelry (if she had any) were now resting comfortably in the digestive systems of the nightmares below me. Zombies were a horrible affliction that plagued at least my reality of the world.

What had the poor bastards of this realm done to deserve this fate? Were these some ancient creature unearthed from the depths of the world by a mining exploration gone too deep?

That would explain the striation of color and their adverse feelings about the sun. They had no eyes or ears that I could see, yet they had to have some form of navigation if they were riding motorcycles around.

Echo-location maybe?

Their food was just about gone and I hoped they would be as well. When I didn’t hear the motorcycles start up, I dared another look down. Like a grandfather after Thanksgiving turkey, they were looking for places to lie down. Jack was in a world of shit. He was standing in soft grass and in the shade with a bridge support that would be ideal to rest against. His spot would soon be compromised. I thought about reaching out and letting Trip know what was going on, but I didn’t have that kind of time. I had to strike while the iron was hot. I inched my way back and felt much better when my feet touched the concrete pad. I’d never been a fan of heights. I hadn’t taken more than two steps when I heard this high pitched whistle that was almost beyond the range of my hearing. I knew the cry of an alarm, no matter what language was being used.