Read Online A Shrouded World - Whistlers by Mark Tufo, John O'Brien - Free Book Online Page A

continuation of the government. People merely became an obstacle, or a way and means for that end.
    It’s funny how depth pe rception works on the open road. The waves of heat that emanated off the pavement somehow magnified the military vehicles, or maybe that was just how everything was in this new place. What seemed like half a mile, was taking us close to an hour to traverse. Even going as slow as we were, we would have been traveling at a three-mile-an-hour clip. We were burning through daylight like Deneaux burns through cigarettes. (If you are new to my journals, she is one of the most cantankerous old women that ever walked the face of the planet. She has the blood of Calamity Jane and the steady aim of Annie Oakley coursing through her veins.)
    We were finally within a hundred yards, I had yet to see any movement or have that sense I was being watched through crosshairs. It was John that nearly gave me a heart attack. I was crouched low, trying to keep as small a profile as I could on my approach, when he dropped one of his boxes.
    “Done,” h e said as he stretched.
    The convoy completely forgotten , I walked back towards him. “Bullshit.”
    He proudly held the cardboard flap back.
    “You ate an entire carton of Phrito’s?”
    He smiled, his teeth most likely permanently stained corn yellow.
    “Tonight, when we finally hunker down, you make sure you’re down wind. You ready, or do you need a few minutes to say good bye?”
    “I’m good,” he replied as he put the still full box on his shoulder and marched on.
    “Not sick of those? Really?”
    “Why would I be?”
    “Just stay low…let’s see what this is all about,” I told him.
    We came up slowly. As the wind shifted, it was not difficult to ascertain that there was nothing living in the general vicinity. The oh-so-ever-present reek of death assailed at least my nostrils, John didn’t seem to care. Then again maybe it did.
    “Stink weed?” he asked me.
    I didn’t reply. To open my mouth would have sent jets of throat lubricating water to spray from my mouth. A fierce battle had been waged, and my more normal friends (zombies) were the opponent in this drama. A good number of civilians had been ripped apart as they approached the military blockade. I wondered if the zombies had come out of the woods much like our howlers.
    Did they co-exist? From all I’d ever learned, predators don’t play well together. So, if not the woods, where then?
    Zombies by nature were nomadic, roaming to where the food was. So , in all likelihood, zombies had migrated to this spot en masse. Zombies, people, and spent shells littered the ground; in some places, a few feet thick. It made traveling the roadway impossible, stepping on to the shoulder was far from my favorite idea as it brought us closer to the howlers and whatever other fucking nightmare lingered in there; my guess is there was a Bigfoot or two just for good measure.
    John was openly weeping as we passed family after family ; either ravaged or hewn in half by excessive crossfire—caught in the middle of an uncaring machinegun nest. If I ever found the puke that had manned that gun, I’d put the Derringer to his temple.
    I understand panic, I do . I get it; in spades as a matter of fact. But to just mow civilians down; at that point, what are you saving? Certainly not your soul, because I’m sure Saint Peter will have something to say about that. I checked out a couple of the people, only to get an idea of how long ago this travesty had taken place; rigor mortis had come and gone, the bodies had not quite bloated. The ones that had not been infected were covered in flies and the beginnings of maggots. The insidious little bastards hadn’t taken up root yet.
    It was no picnic to watch as human skin shifted underneath the movements of the fly larvae. Three days at the most, this had happened three days ago. Half a week ago, these people were concerned about their mortgages, car payments, whether Timmy