Whistlers

Jack Walker — Signs

Farther down the road, I see several of the slower zombies shuffling aimlessly next to a semi-trailer with its rear door open. Ensuring they are my only company, I raise my carbine. There’s really no other way around as I’m still not overly fond of finding out what the woods to either side holds. There’s only three that I can see, so it shouldn’t be too difficult making my way through them. I still have a few mags, but those can disappear in a hurry.

Using a car for support, I steady my aim and fire; the suppressed round barely heard. The scalp of one lifts from the impact of my bullet to the side of its head and the shambling figure drops straight to the pavement. The other two turn toward the one that fell, perhaps drawn by the sound of its body hitting the ground. They then continue their slow meanderings. I fire twice more, causing them to join their compadre in whatever afterlife zombies go to.

The slight gusts of wind bring the smell of smoke. Checking to see that all is still clear, I notice the dark plume of smoke rising in the distance where the cars are still presumably burning. Far into the distance, the smudge of smoke from the burning city is still faintly visible.

I cautiously slink up to the semi where the shamblers were skulking about. Drawing nearer, I notice numerous holes in the doors of the trailer. From the shape and pattern, it’s pretty obvious that someone was shooting out from within the tractor trailer. From a couple of cars away, through a gap, I see two bodies on the pavement near the truck. I check quickly on the three I just took down to ensure they stay that way and aren’t about to rise up to take a bite out of me. I’m assuming that’s what they do, but hell, I’m not positive of anything in this place. For all I know, they had jobs and went zip-lining on the weekends. The three aren’t moving and have presumably settled in for their long winter’s night.

This is the case with the two other bodies as well; a man and a woman who appear relatively young. Of course, most everyone appears relatively young to me. Blood and gore cover the dark gray of the asphalt. The bodies are both badly mauled and it looks to have happened recently. The man is holding a handgun with several shell casings scattered nearby, which leads me to believe they weren’t these zombie-like creatures, although I guess the spent cartridges could have been from someone else defending themselves. The bullet holes in the door certainly show that someone was shooting a lot.

Stepping around the intervening vehicles, with silence all around, I see other bodies lying on the pavement. Most are at the rear of the semi with a couple lying near one side. Bullet holes appear along the side of the trailer as well. Someone definitely fought a battle here and, from initial appearances, they defended themselves from inside the enclosed trailer.

Looking closer at the other bodies, my heart stops and my breath catches. I most certainly recognize what these are. The red mottled skin is definitely that of a night runner left out in the daylight. The mauled bodies of the two become clear. They were caught in the open by night runners.

Fucking great! Night runners and these zombie-like creatures! Now my day is complete! What the fuck have I stepped into?

That still doesn’t explain the multitude of holes in the trailer. The patterns show automatic fire, but I don’t see a weapon like that lying about. It could have been from a different time, but the freshness of the bodies indicates that whatever happened did so within the last day or two. And the wounds on the night runners are consistent with the gunfire from the truck.

Looking in the truck, I notice several bags of opened Phrito’s lying on the floor. An unmistakable odor of gunpowder lingers within. Just underneath, there is another scent. At first it’s hard to identify, but then, like a flash, I know what it is. Someone had been enjoying one of nature’s herbs. At least I still retain a semblance of the ability to pick up faint scents. I hope the ability to see in the dark is still there.

Shell casings litter the bed of the trailer. I climb inside to search for a weapon and/or additional bodies. The casings are definitely 5.56mm. It would be nice to find a small cache of them as you can never have enough ammo.

Pencil beams of light stream into the trailer from the holes along one side. The indentions of the bullet holes show that they were created from inside. Searching quickly, I only find more open Phrito bags and a couple of roaches left from whoever was enjoying their little respite. Having partaken, the Phrito’s must have made whoever was here feel like they were in heaven. I stare at the bodies surrounding the trailer, the bullet holes, and the remains of an interrupted pot party. Yeah, there must have been an interesting story here.

Not finding a secret cache of ammo, I hop out of the gunpowder, Phrito, and pot-infused trailer. The dark smoke is still rising in the distance from the burning cars. I’m hoping I’ve gained some distance between myself and the mass of zombies that were heading this direction. I’m also hoping the way ahead is clear, as I’m not overly fond of being trapped, but what choice do I really have. I don’t understand this place, but staying alive is the only way I’ll be able to figure it out. Hopefully, there is a roadside sign or flashing beacon that will point out what in the fuck is going on. I’d like nothing better than to know where my kids are and how to exit this place. With nothing else to find, I continue on my walkabout.

The road plows forward with no end in sight. It has a couple of turns, but it is straight for the most part. There aren’t any signs, mileposts, ramps, or openings. The wrappers and shell casings are the only evidence that someone else is around and it’s my hope that, if I manage to find them, they can shed some light on what is going on. Until then, it’s stay alive and try to figure this out. Hopefully, I’ll just wake up and chalk this up to a bad dream. I don’t even want to think of the alternative. My heart aches for my kids and Lynn.

The snarl of vehicles is relentless. There are a few semis and motor homes that limit my view but, for as far as I can see, the massive traffic jam continues. I make my way through, having to slide over and around the vehicles. I’m wary of the ones I can’t see into and give them as wide a berth as possible without venturing too close to the neighboring trees. Every once in a while, I spot a Phrito wrapper caught against the wheel of a car, and once, I spot another almost-finished joint on the ground. I’m at least following the one, or however many, that left the truck and, from all appearances, he, she, or they are enjoying their stroll.

The farther I get, the more the cars become entangled. The avenue, with the center stripe running down the middle, is no longer an open aisle, which slows my progress. There are more than a few accidents where vehicles collided; either hitting each other in the mass exodus or while trying to clear a way through.

I snack and drink on the go. I don’t want to stop and allow the ones behind me to gain ground. The day is getting on and it won’t be long before I have to find some place to hold out for the night. There’s no way I want to be out in the open when the night runners emerge from their lairs. The problem will be finding a location that’s secure enough to stay safe from the night runners without becoming surrounded by the zombie-like creatures. I don’t have enough ammo to clear a path if that horde behind shows up and encircles me. In essence, I’ll be trapped.

I notice that the farther I walk, the greater the number of darkened streaks of dried blood there are on the sides and windows of cars. I can’t even imagine the panic that must have been prevalent. People fleeing from whatever cleared out their city only to become stalled and unable to proceed any farther. Desperate families trying to decide what to take and knowing they are at the mercy of the elements and those around them. The mass of people taking to the road with their meager possessions on their back. Kids wailing from fear of the unknown, and the parents trying to figure out what to do. Mayhem and crowded roads. I wonder if they even had a destination in mind, or whether it was just blind panic. With that massive horde of zombies trailing me, I can guess what must have been the cause of their exodus. This entire roadway must have been the scene of a tremendous amount of terror.

The places between the cars are filled with debris of all kinds: Bags, papers, boxes, clothes, empty water bottles, and other goods. Open and partially open doors attest to the fear that must have prevailed. It is what I always thought a post-apocalyptic scene should look like. I search a few random vehicles looking for ammo, food, and water bottles, replenishing my consumption of the latter two.

Besides the entirety of this place being off, there is something else amiss that I can’t quite put my finger on. It’s one of those things where you know something is not quite right, but it’s not readily apparent. As I haul myself across yet another grime-covered trunk, it comes to me — the license plates. I could have checked early on to determine where I’m at, but there aren’t any plates. Looking at the rear of the cars around, they are absent.

An idea forms that I could check the registrations. That will show where in the hell I’ve landed. Opening the nearest vehicle, I check the glove box. Sure enough, there is a paper with a name and address. However, it makes no sense at all. The state listed is ‘Amissus’. Now, I’m not a genius at geography, but I’m pretty sure there isn’t a state named that. It just adds to the mystery of what I’ve fallen into.

What the fuck? Where the hell is this place? I think, looking around at the cars again.

The fact that the driver’s wheel is located on the left says that I could be in my world, but the registration says differently. As if this place couldn’t get any stranger. Everything is so tangible — the smells and feel — and seems like reality, but it isn’t the one that I know. The bumps and bruises I have certainly indicate this place is the real deal. It’s all rather confusing and this brings my kids and Lynn to mind once more. The ache in my heart returns. I need to find them or at least know they are okay.

Taking a drink from one of the water bottles, I notice another difference — minor, but one nonetheless. The water is labeled “Arcadia”, from the pure springs located high in the Arcadia Mountains. Again, I don’t have a master’s degree in geography but I’ve never heard of any Arcadia Mountains.

“Well, it is what it is,” I say softly, taking a last swig and moving on.

As I make my way through the tangle of cars, I pass several decaying bodies…or what is left of them. They have all been ravaged to the point that mostly only their skeletal remains are left. It’s reminiscent of the bodies I found at McChord and elsewhere. Small, dried pieces of tendons, ligaments and tissue remain attached to bone, but the rest has been picked clean. This could be from wildlife in the area, but my guess is that night runners were here. It could also be from the zombies, but I’m not sure if they pick their kills clean. Whatever it is from, the bodies become more numerous the farther I go which isn’t giving me that warm glow of comfort.