Jack Walker — The Smell of Twinkies
Shrieks from the fight fade as Trip and I push farther into the forest, away from the battle. Screams still occasionally echo faintly behind, but the trees block most of the sound so that it’s just an indistinct noise in the woods. The beam from Trip’s flashlight wavers across the ground as we try to extend the distance from the night runners and speeders. The dense boughs overheard prevent any star or moonlight from filtering through, making the area beyond the splash of light a blanket of darkness.
The world under the trees is cast in varying shades of gray for me, but I’m sure Trip would be living up to his name if it weren’t for the flashlight. Leaving the screams behind, hopefully for good, we slow to a walk in order to regain our wind. Trip’s heaving breaths tell me that he’s almost reached the end of his rope. He was close to it before we made this last sprint and I’m surprised he hasn’t just collapse to the ground.
Walking between the wide tree trunks, I lead along a path as straight as I can…or at least I imagine that it’s a straight one. Within the densely-packed trees, without the sun, moon, or stars to guide us, even I’m not exactly sure of our direction. I’m hoping that we don’t end up circling around and come upon the fighting or roving packs. That would be pretty fucked up.
I check the compass in an attempt to keep a fairly consistent course but it swings in large arcs each time I look at it. Something within the woods is messing with its ability to point toward whatever magnetic pole serves this world. The symbols would serve to keep a consistent direction if the needle would just hold still. As it is, we could be zig-zagging our way under the trees and not actually putting any distance between the fight and us. Eventually, the groups will finish their fight, with one either losing or fleeing. They will then spread out and resume their search. I don’t plan on being around when that happens. With that in mind, Trip and I alternate walking with jogging.
“You know, I’m not really sure that hiking is supposed to include running. You’re not really fun to hike with,” Trip says, as I ask him to jog again. “I bet Mike wouldn’t be running through the trees at night.”
“I think we can make the ride if we hurry,” I reply.
“I thought you said they beat us to it.”
“Well, there’s another one I know of that they might not,” I state.
“Why didn’t you say so to begin with?” Trip runs past me, his light splaying in large arcs on the ground and the trunks of trees.
“Whoa, slow down, bud. We have to pace ourselves or we won’t make it at all,” I comment.
With that, Trip slows and we resume a casual trot. Tree after tree moves past as we resume our trek. The screams faded to nothing a little while ago and it’s completely silent under the dark limbs; the only sounds are our feet hitting the soft ground cover and our exhalations.
Trip’s light behind casts my body in long shadows that merge with the darkness ahead. The wavering light and our movements make the shadows seem spectral. The beam pauses momentarily before resuming its arcing motions. A very distinct aroma drifts from behind. Turning, I see a flare of orange from near Trip’s face as he inhales from a joint he managed to extricate from somewhere. I’m about to say something when I think that perhaps that may be the best way to deal with this world.
“Want a toke?” he asks, extending the joint toward me.
“No thanks, but I appreciate the offer.”
He shrugs and takes another puff.
“I wish I had some of those Phrito’s,” he comments, not really talking to anyone in particular.
We plod onward. I pause every so often to listen ahead. With the denseness of the woods, we may not get much warning before running into something. There isn’t a breeze, so our scent shouldn’t carry too far, but that will also create a very definite trail for those behind if they pursue. The sounds from the fight should have garnered the attention of all those around, but we left that some time ago, and there’s no telling what may be in our area of the woods.
Slowly, a small amount of light begins to penetrate the dark forest. It’s not much, but it’s enough to know that daylight is approaching, or has already come. The trees don’t show much, if any, of the sky above, and it’s still quite dark underneath. Even though daytime may be upon us, it is still dark enough that night runners could still operate in the woods during the early and late hours of the day.
In my experience, they make for their lairs as soon as there is a hint of light. I’m not sure if that’s the case here or not, and I don’t want to assume anything. I haven’t heard anything further since we left the scene of the fight, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t out here. It’s imperative that we exit the trees. And we need to reach the road.
The light improves and I pause to try and get a sense of direction. Trip is stumbling more often as we’ve been up and on the run all night. Plus, we didn’t get any rest during the day. I’m flagging as well, having had little sleep since arriving in this fucked up place.
It’s not easy to figure out directions as I’m unable to see the sky to determine in which direction the sun is coming up. The compass still swings in wide arcs, making it more or less a paperweight. Unless the trees are made of iron, I’m not sure what is causing the interference. It’s just another aspect of this place that I can’t explain.
Having hopefully traveled in a semi-straight line during the night, I get the feeling that the highway is off to our left. That’s provided it hasn’t turned off in some random direction. There aren’t any defining landmarks and, at this point, we could travel through the trees for all of eternity and not find a way out. Looking between the trunks, I half expect to see a gingerbread house.
None of this seems to matter to Trip. He plops down by the nearest tree and pulls yet another joint out of nowhere. It’s little more than a gloom where we’ve halted and I’m not sure if it’s enough to keep the night runners in their lairs. There is, however, still a danger from the speeders. I’ve adopted Mike’s name for them in order to better differentiate between them and the night runners.
The smell from Trip’s personal little party drifts on the still air. I would be concerned over the odor if it weren’t for us reeking even worse. I haven’t changed since arriving and I’m surprised the trees aren’t picking up their roots and fleeing in outright disgust. I take out some of the bottled water that remains and watch Trip down most of it. I reach out to put a hand on the container and push it down. If I hadn’t, I think he would have actually drowned himself. He gasps as the top clears his mouth. Checking to make sure he hasn’t drooled all over, I down the rest of the little remaining, stowing the bottle. While I pack it, Trip rises and begins walking in the direction that I feel the highway is.
“Trip, where are ya going?” I ask.
“I smell Twinkies and I want one,” he answers.
“What the fuck? You smell Twinkies?” I ask, wondering if this is really happening and, if so, then how in the hell it is.
“Yeah, you can’t? Come on, they’re this way,” he states.
With a shrug, I follow. One direction is as good as another, and it’s the one I would have chosen anyway. His oddness seems to be one of those where things just work out. I don’t know, perhaps he can truly smell Twinkies. He seems to have an uncanny knack for doing the impossible, even if it does fuck things up at times.