Finally, I hear the first revs of the motorcycles, sounding like a gang of bikers competing to see whose bike is the loudest. With a roar, the thunderous noise fades into the distance. I release the pressure against the rails and drop to the floor, hoping that the departure wasn’t a ruse. A quick glance outside shows the tracks clear. Rubbing my shoulders and hips, I attempt to massage some life back into them. They ache like mad and I know that I won’t be tossing any kegs around for the next day or so.
However, I’m going to have to move even more cautiously from here on out, as it’s obvious they’re searching for something. I just wish there was a way I could warn Mike and Trip and tell the hippie to stop dropping his trail of breadcrumbs. I’m actually surprised that he didn’t see something like this coming as he’s been kind of omniscient about a lot of things. As it is, he’s leading the whistlers directly toward them.
The morning is spent paralleling the tracks as they start a gradual ascent. I don’t hear any further motorcycles, nor do I come across any zombies. Although tension remains an integral part of me, it’s nice not to have some kind of encounter every five minutes. Through the trees, I see the two sets of tracks I’ve been following begin to branch off into more sidings. I then run out of woods as I approach a chain-link fence surrounding a moderately sized rail yard almost completely filled with rail cars of all types. Peering from the edge, I see a wooden sign hanging over a station platform with worn lettering indicating that I’ve arrived at Indian Hill. Near the yard are a bunch of warehouses and large storage silos.
After passing through a multitude of dangers and miles of walking to get here, there’s only that worn sign to announce my arrival. It’s not much of a grand entrance. I had expected a bright beam of heavenly light to illuminate the place to the sound of trumpeting heralds and angels singing. Instead, there’s only a swaying eroded sign creaking softly in the breeze.
The town itself is spread across a plateau with trees covering the lower slopes and mostly comprises residences ranging from mansions to low-cost housing, with many of the buildings looking like they were built in a different era. The city itself isn’t large; it looks like something between a mining town and quaint mountain village. Over the tops of the houses near the edge of town, a white steeple rises. Instead of the cross I’m used to seeing, there’s an “X” sitting atop a tall post. As for the rest of the city, there are a few taller buildings marking what looks to be the downtown area, but it’s nothing like the skyline of a larger municipality.
The more interesting feature is a large military encampment of tents and temporary buildings erected between the rail yard and township. On one side, rows of military vehicles are parked in neat rows, with more strapped atop rail cars. The entire camp is as large, if not larger, than the entire town of Indian Hill.
The numerous tents and rail cars hide much from view, but I don’t see anything moving among them. Lying down to look under the train cars, I don’t see the shadowed movement of legs, but again, I can’t see very far into the yard. With the number of people who must have been here, I would have expected more than a few zombies. But, with the whistler traffic I’ve observed, perhaps they’ve already cleaned this area out. Glancing over the tops of the tents to the city beyond, it still looks like a whole big bag of nope.
Mike and Trip must be somewhere around, unless they reached the same conclusion upon their arrival. If that’s true, then there might be another note hidden somewhere. If I don’t find them around this hilltop mining town, I honestly don’t know if I’m up for trailing after them, however much I miss their companionship. I guess misery loves company.
I squat, hidden in the fringes of the trees, searching for some sign of them. I could pick up the trail of wrappers and roaches, but I’ve already exposed myself enough the past few days and I’m not sure how much luck remains in my bag. The close encounter in the box car is still too fresh in my mind to go skipping along the tracks on my way to grandma’s.
The closed rail cars and larger buildings of the military camp must hold a treasure trove of supplies, including some much needed ammo. But, that will have to wait until I decide to venture out into the open. From the experiences I’ve had so far, whistlers are found mostly along roads, night runners in darkened buildings near populated areas, and zombies—smart or otherwise—are just about anywhere. A town of any size will most likely hold all three.
I remain in my position for an hour, listening and observing…and hoping that Mike and Trip will magically appear from around one of the boxcars. Even though the city is likely to hold shit tons of nope, I really don’t see other options. Mike and Trip came this way for some reason, so they’ll most likely be found in the town. If I’m lucky, they’ll already have found the way out. If so, it would be nice if they left instructions on where and how.
Rising, I cautiously follow the tree line along the fence. I want to avoid the encampment for the time being and enter Indian Hill. If I find them, then we can explore the camp together—if they haven’t already done so. If I’m attacked, I have enough mags to last me long enough to disengage and conduct a fighting withdrawal…maybe.
Pressed against the side of a building, I glance around the corner. Along the main street is a mix of family-owned shops and cafes beside several fast food restaurants with an array of weird names. For instance, instead of a huge “M” for McDonald’s, there’s a “W” for Wilma’s with some big purple dinosaur as its mascot. There are more that I can vaguely associate with the chains that were in my world, while others are entirely alien. At the edge of the downtown area is one large megastore.
The entry into town is an easy one as I snake along yards quickly becoming overgrown from a lack of attention. Vehicles are parked in driveways and along streets, all seeming normal at first glance. However, broken windows and front doors standing ajar are clues that all wasn’t right. And the bodies…the embedded bodies are worse than at Atlantis.
Crooked elbows poking out of sidewalks, legs extending into the street from curbs. Passing one house, I see a pair of legs protruding from the upper part of a chimney as if the person were sitting in the flue and dangling their legs over the edge. At another, a pair of arms spread out from each side of a tree trunk as if they had grown there. The worst was almost stepping on a face that peered upward from a sidewalk. That was it, just a face gazing at the sky, the clear eyes and pink skin of cheeks and nose visible. Gratefully, the eyes didn’t blink or follow my passage.
Humans aren’t the only things. Dog tails and cat legs are embedded into lawns and the sides of houses. One lawn held the upright front end of a large black dog, embedded in the grass as if in the midst of begging for a treat. Another tree held the tail of a bird as if it had flown partway through the trunk. Many of the body parts appeared to have been gnawed on, a sure sign that night runners were in the area. None of the intact people or animals show an ounce of decay.
The view along Main Street is much the same, body parts poking from the pavement and sidewalks like pins from a pin cushion. The good thing is that I haven’t run into any zombies or felt the eyes of the smarter ones watching from the shadows. However, there hasn’t been any sign of Mike or Trip either. I was hoping they’d have found some way of putting up arrows to indicate which direction they’ve gone. Instead, it looked like I was going to have to play an extended game of hide and seek.
As I was about to fade back and work my way further into the city along the back streets, I felt a cold blast of air brush past, but without the rustle of clothes or feel of it against my cheeks. The air shimmered and the downtown area suddenly transformed.
Replacing the embedded bodies were real ones walking the streets. Vehicles motored along the street, some waiting in line at a stoplight. There was the background murmur of an active city, a honk from an annoyed motorist, a hiss of brakes from a bus pulling to the side of the street and disgorging passengers. The smell of food wafted on the air, mixing with that of exhaust.
Dammit! This
kind of shit needs to stop!
I remain in place, transfixed by the abrupt change and suddenly unable to cope with the concept of reality. Thoughts begin to race through my mind and I wonder if this is real.
Is this my real world? Were those other worlds merely dreams and this is where I’m really from?
But, that doesn’t make sense. Why would I be walking around armed?
Unless I’m acting out a multi-layered dream, or nightmare.
The sights, sounds, and smells seem so real.
Are there really whistlers and zombies and night runners? Do I have the kids? Is Lynn real? Did I truly step off the deep end; has all of this been my imagination?
I’m spellbound, watching normal life progress in front of me. I hear a gasp from nearby and see a woman holding a child’s hand on the sidewalk. Both of their eyes are wide with fright, seeing me armed and crouched against a building. Others turn and notice, hurrying across to the far side of the street with children or loved ones in tow and looking over their shoulders.
I can only imagine what’s going through their minds, seeing a heavily armed man clad in black fatigues. Knowing that the next thing I’m going to hear is a siren approaching, I push off the wall and turn away. I’d like to give the woman and her child some kind of reassurance, but I can’t think of a thing to say.
Walking quickly along residential streets toward the nearest edge of town, I can only watch as mothers see me approaching and gather their children to shoo them inside. I’m sure the telephones at the police station are beginning to ring off the hook, worried parents reporting an armed man prowling the streets. I just hope that some hero doesn’t emerge and challenge me. That won’t go well for either of us. If I’m going to be stuck in this reality for a while, I’d rather not do it from a jail cell accused of murder and who knows what else. Given my current situation, I’d almost rather be back with the whistlers and ten thousand other creatures. I’m really starting to hate this place more and more.
Crossing an intersection, I feel the cold, airless wind sweep through again. The air shimmers like before, this time making me feel nauseous. Mothers hurrying their kids inside homes are replaced by zombies suddenly materializing in all directions. The screams of parents are replaced by the shrieks of night runners coming from inside the darkened recesses of buildings.
“You have to be fucking kidding me!” I mutter, unshouldering my carbine.
The zombies seem nearly as confused as I am, but quickly recover. After all, they don’t really have much of a thought process.
Well, at least it isn’t nighttime so night runners could be added to the fun.
One zombie is almost close enough that there’s a strong chance of one of us getting pregnant. Without waiting to exchange numbers, I shove the decaying creature away and quickly bring my M-4 up to put a round into its head. Its time in this world is only seconds longer as its stumble turns into a fall. The moans of the others reverberate across lawns now empty of children.
With zombies all around, one direction is as good as another, so I continue in the direction I had been going. My priority is to get the fuck out of Dodge any way I can, as the groans emanating from dead throats will only draw more into the area. Three are in the street straight ahead, their arms outstretched as they stumble closer.
The muted sound of my shot faintly echoes in the street and my round impacts the middle of a forehead. The zombie’s head explodes outward from the back, a large chunk of hair and skin-covered skull smacking onto the pavement. It falls straight to the ground as if the strings holding it up were cut. Two more shots and the route is marginally clear, but I see more in the blocks ahead. The ones to the side are closing in, so I begin jogging down the middle of the boulevard.
Knowing that I don’t have limitless ammo, I leave the ones coming from side yards that I can outpace. The only ones I focus on are those on a collision course. I pause long enough to place shots into the heads of those that pose the greatest risk. One comes at me dressed in a police uniform complete with a sheriff’s hat. As its hat flies off and it falls to the side, I hear the Eric Clapton song playing in my head.
I cross several intersections, working my way toward the edge of town where I’ll hopefully be clear of this sudden infestation. From around the corner a half-block away, three speeders race through a yard at a full run, their screams echoing down the tree-lined avenue. Additional adrenaline releases in an instant, my heart pounding at the new sudden threat.
I fire two shots at the first one who is in mid-turn, seeing one slam into the side of its face. Its legs go out from underneath it and it skates across the grass like a runner sliding into second base. The other two continue at full speed.
I backpedal down the middle of the street, but I can’t go too far because I have company coming up from behind. I fire at the nearest one, watching its grungy T-shirt puff outward as rounds pepper its upper shoulders and neck, one finally impacting its head. It falls face first and grinds along the pavement, leaving a streak of dark blood and skin behind.
Firing quickly at the third one who is nearly upon me, my round glances off its skull just above the ear. Knowing I won’t have time for another shot, I drop my carbine to let it dangle on its braided sling. Stepping forward, I duck under its outstretched arms and grab its crotch and the chest of its grimy buttoned shirt. Using its momentum, I thrust upward with my legs and guide the speeder over my head. Doing a one-eighty, I slam it down to the hard surface, where it hits with a heavy thump and a sharp crack. Reaching downward, I draw my knife and plunge it into its eye, blackened liquid squirting out from its mangled socket and down its face.
On the road behind me, the zombies I left alone are drawing near, some moving faster than the others. It’s past time I left. With a quick swipe of the blade across the grimy shirt, I slide the knife back into my sheath and then rise to continue onward.
Three blocks later, I hear the unmistakable sounds of approaching motorcycles…many of them.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Of course they’d show up now.
My only cover is the houses. The backyards may keep me hidden from any whistlers out on their leisurely Sunday ride, but it won’t help me with the zombies in the area. The timing of the whistlers arrival coupled with the sudden appearance of zombies is rather suspicious, but I don’t really have time to think about that at the moment.
With the thunder of bikes quickly approaching, I pick one of the houses with its door ajar and run up the walkway. Just before entering, I open my mind to see if there are any night runners inside. I sense one, hearing its shriek a second later as it detects me. Not only do I feel this one, but many of the surrounding houses also have one or two inside.
I hesitate, but the roar filling the neighborhood gives me little choice. Shutting my mind down, I shoulder my M-4 and step inside. I think it’s a better option to face a night runner in its lair than to fight a hundred whistlers or get caught in the middle of the zombies only to find those same whistlers at my back.
Inside, radiant light illuminates a foyer with coats hanging on pegs near the entrance. Shoes lie in a semi-organized tangle underneath. Ahead, a flight of stairs leads to a second level, and to the right, through a wide, curved archway, lies a dimly lit living room. A ray of sunlight streams through a crack with motes of dust slowly dancing in its beam. Barely identifiable is the head of a woman projecting up through a couch cushion as if it were placed there and forgotten. The eyes stare straight ahead and the ends of her long brunette hair vanish into the cushion. Whatever happened seems to have had a greater impact in this area than anywhere else.
As the motorcycles grow loud enough to vibrate the walls, I edge away from the entrance and eye the stairs. That’s where the immediate danger awaits. The thunderous roars suddenly intensify as the sound becomes unimpeded by houses, fences, and trees. The whistlers have entered the street outside.
Staying in the radiant light, I edge over to the front window. Ignoring the head, I peek over the d
ivan to see the entire length of the street filled with a gang of whistlers riding their hogs. Upon seeing the zombies to their front, they dismount, and, after firing staples into the horde, it’s not long before they begin gathering their sedated prey. Continuing to watch, I see them spread out through the neighborhood and set up a couple of those thumping devices in yards. It seems like they’re going to be in the area for a while.
Again, pieces of the puzzle click into place. The whistlers seem to be in control of some kind of device that can alter reality or pierce dimensions. The sudden appearance of the normal alternate world that abruptly changed to the arrival of the zombies suggests that the whistlers might be calling food from both Mike and my worlds. At least, that’s how it appears. If it weren’t for the timely presence of the whistlers who immediately set up their devices, I might still believe that everything was a coincidence. If true, it gives the first rise of hope that there may be a way out of this hell hole.
However, I have to live long enough first. Glancing at the slightly ajar door, I ponder closing it, but it would then be the only one closed. If it were me, I would consider that very suspicious, especially if I knew there was someone else in the area. Although the ones outside aren’t actively searching for me, they can’t be oblivious to a fair number of their kind being killed by something other than the other creatures roaming around. Low throbbing vibrations come from outside and rhythmically shake the dust motes hanging in the beam of light.
Now that I have a brief moment to actually think rather than be transported between dimensions, I realize that it’s well into late afternoon. It won’t be long before the sun says goodbye and night falls. With the introduction of night runners into the area, my preference is to be far gone. However, the bikers outside on their shopping expedition may make that an impossible task. I could slip out the back, but the objects calling in zombies dramatically up the odds of my running into groups of them, no matter which direction I take. The deep rumble of the bikes fades as they’re shut off one by one.