Whistlers

Michael Talbot — Journal Entry 12

I never was a fan of pistols. I always liked the comforting feel of a butt stock firmly entrenched in my shoulder for control. Right now, I didn’t have an option as I fire my unwieldy weapon. The 5.56 isn’t a heavy round by any stretch of the imagination, but when you’re firing on fully automatic without proper technique…well…enough said. Although, my first spray did disintegrate the leader’s head into a fountain of gelatinous mass. I held down the trigger, blasting through my magazine in a couple of seconds at most. I had scattered all my rounds into as many whistlers as I could. I’d fallen several short. It was nice to have back-up as Jack moved among the whistler survivors like a black plague, dispatching unmitigated justice until they all lay on the ground unmoving. My head was pounding, and I felt light-headed. I reached a hand behind me and pulled it back in front to find it coated in blood, and not of the black variety.

“I’m hit,” I said.

Jack put a couple more rounds into a few of the whistlers that were still moving before coming over. He skidded to a stop behind me.

“Yeah, you’re shot. I’m going to need to take this damn poncho off so I can see what I’m dealing with. Does it hurt much?” Jack asked.

“Did you really just ask me that question?” I responded, disbelievingly.

“Sorry, I’m just trying to figure out what in the hell the monsters are shooting.”

“Whistlers.”

“What?”

“I’m calling them whistlers.”

“Fair enough. What is that?” he asked as he carefully pulled my garments over my head.

“Please tell me it isn’t moving,” I said.

“Why would it be moving? No, it looks kind of like an industrial staple, or something like it.”

“I got shot with a staple gun. Are you kidding me?”

“That staple gun would have killed you if not for a lucky hit on your rifle. I mean, look at it. It’s completely sheared through.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“I’m going to have to pry it out. There a part that’s sticking out. Hang on.”

“Jack, just give me a sec…OWWWWWW…motherfucker!!!!!”

“Fuck me! And here I was about to call you a baby until I realized this thing has two prongs, and they’re each about two and a half inches long. That’s a nasty little bit of business,” he said as he handed me what did look like a staple. Albeit maybe the world’s largest staple ever created. That I’d survived the attack was a miracle, and I told him as much.

“You getting a tattoo?” Trip asked. He was a few feet away, stretching and yawning. “Looks like a rager of a party. What’d I miss?”

“It’s not a tattoo, Trip, I’ve been shot.”

“Cops?” He looked around.

“Sometimes, Trip, I don’t know if I wish I viewed the world like you or not,” I told him.

“You should put something on that so it doesn’t get infected.” Trip pulled out a small first aid kit. I didn’t even question the fact that he had one.

Jack did some field dressing and proclaimed me fit for duty. I stood gingerly. My back ached, but I hadn’t suffered any lasting damage.