Rambler Retread (part. 2)

We sat in the gas station parking lot, feeling like total idiots.

“What do you want me to do now?” Peter snapped. “We just can’t sit here, you know; they’re going to tell us to get lost.”

“I’ll go buy a deck of smokes,” Wimp said, getting out of the backseat and going into the station. 

While we were waiting for him, I said: “I’ve got an idea.”

“I was afraid you might.”

“When Wimpy gets back, drive on and pull into the parking lot at Jelinek’s. There’s nobody around, so we can park the car there.”

“And then what?”

“We walk.”

“Shit.”

Image: Bentham Forest-Haunted Dark Forest by Torley Linden

The Buick could only have driven over to the Silo. After a brief discussion, we decided to cut through the woods, rather than approach by the train tracks, where we’d be much more visible (and in danger of any passing trains). It was still cool in the woods, with a few clumps of snow on the ground, so I was glad of my windbreaker – and figured that Wimpy was probably SOL for his “or-gee.”

“What’s that?” Peter said, reaching out and grabbing my arm so suddenly, I had to force myself not to yell. We stood like statues, listening; we could hear a whistling sound, which faded out the longer we harkened to it.

“It’s just the wind,” I said quietly, although I wondered if it might be something else.

We stopped at the edge of the trees, where we were under cover of darkness. We could clearly see the Silo and the remains of the concrete foundation in the reflected glare of the low cloud ceiling; we could also see the base was surrounded by a trio of black vehicles, a big pick-up truck, the 51 Buick and an even larger and longer oldie.

“What the hell is that,” whispered Peter. “That’s not a frickin hearse, is it?”

“That’s exactly what it is?”

“Caddy?” Wimp asked.

“I think not.”

We didn’t see any people around, nor could we hear any voices or any other sounds. After waiting two or three minutes in tense expectation, I motioned the others to step forward – while also gesturing for them to try and be quiet.

We had almost reached the parking area when I caught a whiff of smoke – cigarette smoke.

Whirling around, I saw the Wimpy had a lit fag hanging from his hanging overbite.

“Put it out,” I hissed.

“Why, there’s nobody here,” he answered in a fairly normal tone of voice.

I didn’t argue, I just knocked it out of his mouth and turned around before he could start a fight.

We gathered around the vehicles, which we quickly determined to be empty. The hearse turned out to be a Packard and of even older vintage than the venerable Buick; the truck was a giant Ford F-350, an enormous brute on humungous wheels. A large tarpaulin was stretched over the flatbed at the back and when we walked around, we saw several pairs of feet – bare feet – sticking out from under it.

We stood there stunned for half a minute, then Peter whispered “You think they’re dead?”

“I dunno,” I said, “but I think we’d better get out of here. Now”

But even as I said it, Wimp was reaching for the tarp. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I sputtered.

“I wanna see,” Wimp said defensively. 

“We gotta get out of here now!”

Peter had wandered off and was peering into the back of the hearse: “There’s some more in here; you think any more of them are hiding in the foundation?”

“Alright, you guys,” I said, “I’m leaving before they come back.”

“You think somebody killed them?” Peter asked nervously.

“They’re Floaters.”

Peter’s eyes went wide: “Oh shit.”

We took off back to the woods, double-time, but we hadn’t quite made the safety of the trees when we heard the droning sound of something approaching:

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEENNNNNNNNNNNNNNN

NNNNNNN…………….

It was too late; way too late.